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Jennie Gerhardt

<h3 align="center">CHAPTER XXXVI</h3> The trouble with Jennie's plan was that it did not definitely take into consideration Lester's attitude. He did care for her in an elemental way, but he was hedged about by the ideas of the conventional world in which he had been reared. To say that he loved her well enough to take her for better or worse—to legalize her anomalous position and to face the world bravely with the fact that he had chosen a wife who suited him—was perhaps going a little too far, but he did really care for her, and he was not in a mood, at this particular time, to contemplate parting with her for good. Lester was getting along to that time of life when his ideas of womanhood were fixed and not subject to change. Thus far, on his own plane and within the circle of his own associates, he had met no one who appealed to him as did Jennie. She was gentle, intelligent, gracious, a handmaiden to his every need; and he had taught her the little customs of polite society, until she was as agreeable a companion as he cared to have. He was comfortable, he was satisfied—why seek further? But Jennie's restlessness increased day by day. She tried writing out her views, and started a half dozen letters before she finally worded one which seemed, partially at least, to express her feelings. It was a long letter for her, and it ran as follows: "Lester dear, When you get this I won't be here, and I want you not to think harshly of me until you have read it all. I am taking Vesta and leaving, and I think it is really better that I should. Lester, I ought to do it. You know when you met me we were very poor, and my condition was such that I didn't think any good man would ever want me. When you came along and told me you loved me I was hardly able to think just what I ought to do. You made me love you, Lester, in spite of myself. "You know I told you that I oughtn't to do anything wrong any more and that I wasn't good, but somehow when you were near me I couldn't think just right, and I didn't see just how I was to get away from you. Papa was sick at home that time, and there was hardly anything in the house to eat. We were all doing so poorly. My brother George didn't have good shoes, and mamma was so worried. I have often thought, Lester, if mamma had not been compelled to worry so much she might be alive to-day. I thought if you liked me and I really liked you—I love you, Lester—maybe it wouldn't make so much difference about me. You know you told me right away you would like to help my family, and I felt that maybe that would be the right thing to do. We were so terribly poor. "Lester, dear, I am ashamed to leave you this way; it seems so mean, but if you knew how I have been feeling these days you would forgive me. Oh, I love you, Lester, I do, I do. But for months past—ever since your sister came—I felt that I was doing wrong, and that I oughtn't to go on doing it, for I know how terribly wrong it is. It was wrong for me ever to have anything to do with Senator Brander, but I was such a girl then—I hardly knew what I was doing. It was wrong of me not to tell you about Vesta when I first met you, though I thought I was doing right when I did it. It was terribly wrong of me to keep her here all that time concealed, Lester, but I was afraid of you then—afraid of what you would say and do. When your sister Louise came it all came over me somehow, clearly, and I have never been able to think right about it since. It can't be right, Lester, but I don't blame you. I blame myself. "I don't ask you to marry me, Lester. I know how you feel about me and how you feel about your family, and I don't think it would be right. They would never want you to do it, and it isn't right that I should ask you. At the same time I know I oughtn't to go on living this way. Vesta is getting along where she understands everything. She thinks you are her really truly uncle. I have thought of it all so much. I have thought a number of times that I would try to talk to you about it, but you frighten me when you get serious, and I don't seem to be able to say what I want to. So I thought if I could just write you this and then go you would understand. You do, Lester, don't you? You won't be angry with me? I know it's for the best for you and for me. I ought to do it. Please forgive me, Lester, please; and don't think of me any more. I will get along. But I love you—oh yes, I do—and I will never be grateful enough for all you have done for me. I wish you all the luck that can come to you. Please forgive me, Lester. I love you, yes, I do. I love you. "JENNIE. "P. S. I expect to go to Cleveland with papa. He needs me. He is all alone. But don't come for me, Lester. It's best that you shouldn't." She put this in an envelope, sealed it, and, having hidden it in her bosom, for the time being, awaited the hour when she could conveniently take her departure. It was several days before she could bring herself to the actual execution of the plan, but one afternoon, Lester, having telephoned that he would not be home for a day or two, she packed some necessary garments for herself and Vesta in several trunks, and sent for an expressman. She thought of telegraphing her father that she was coming; but, seeing he had no home, she thought it would be just as well to go and find him. George and Veronica had not taken all the furniture. The major portion of it was in storage—so Gerhard t had written. She might take that and furnish a little home or flat. She was ready for the end, waiting for the expressman, when the door opened and in walked Lester. For some unforeseen reason he had changed his mind. He was not in the least psychic or intuitional, but on this occasion his feelings had served him a peculiar turn. He had thought of going for a day's duck-shooting with some friends in the Kankakee Marshes south of Chicago, but had finally changed his mind; he even decided to go out to the house early. What prompted this he could not have said. As he neared the house he felt a little peculiar about coming home so early; then at the sight of the two trunks standing in the middle of the room he stood dumfounded. What did it mean—Jennie dressed and ready to depart? And Vesta in a similar condition? He stared in amazement, his brown eyes keen in inquiry. "Where are you going?" he asked. "Why—why—" she began, falling back. "I was going away." "Where to?" "I thought I would go to Cleveland," she replied. "What for?" "Why—why—I meant to tell you, Lester, that I didn't think I ought to stay here any longer this way. I didn't think it was right. I thought I'd tell you, but I couldn't. I wrote you a letter." "A letter," he exclaimed. "What the deuce are you talking about? Where is the letter?" "There," she said, mechanically pointing to a small center-table where the letter lay conspicuous on a large book. "And you were really going to leave me, Jennie, with just a letter?" said Lester, his voice hardening a little as he spoke. "I swear to heaven you are beyond me. What's the point?" He tore open the envelope and looked at the beginning. "Better send Vesta from the room," he suggested. She obeyed. Then she came back and stood there pale and wide-eyed, looking at the wall, at the trunks, and at him. Lester read the letter thoughtfully. He shifted his position once or twice, then dropped the paper on the floor. "Well, I'll tell you, Jennie," he said finally, looking at her curiously and wondering just what he was going to say. Here again was his chance to end this relationship if he wished. He couldn't feel that he did wish it, seeing how peacefully things were running. They had gone so far together it seemed ridiculous to quit now. He truly loved her—there was no doubt of that. Still he did not want to marry her—could not very well. She knew that. Her letter said as much. "You have this thing wrong," he went on slowly. "I don't know what comes over you at times, but you don't view the situation right. I've told you before that I can't marry you—not now, anyhow. There are too many big things involved in this, which you don't know anything about. I love you, you know that. But my family has to be taken into consideration, and the business. You can't see the difficulties raised on these scores, but I can. Now I don't want you to leave me. I care too much about you. I can't prevent you, of course. You can go if you want to. But I don't think you ought to want to. You don't really, do you? Sit down a minute." Jennie, who had been counting on getting away without being seen, was now thoroughly nonplussed. To have him begin a quiet argument—a plea as it were. It hurt her. He, Lester, pleading with her, and she loved him so. She went over to him, and he took her hand. "Now, listen," he said. "There's really nothing to be gained by your leaving me at present. Where did you say you were going?" "To Cleveland," she replied. "Well, how did you expect to get along?" "I thought I'd take papa, if he'd come with me—he's alone now—and get something to do, maybe." "Well, what can you do, Jennie, different from what you ever have done? You wouldn't expect to be a lady's maid again, would you? Or clerk in a store?" "I thought I might get some place as a housekeeper," she suggested. She had been counting up her possibilities, and this was the most promising idea that had occurred to her. "No, no," he grumbled, shaking his head. "There's nothing to that. There's nothing in this whole move of yours except a notion. Why, you won't be any better off morally than you are right now. You can't undo the past. It doesn't make any difference, anyhow. I can't marry you now. I might in the future, but I can't tell anything about that, and I don't want to promise anything. You're not going to leave me though with my consent, and if you were going I wouldn't have you dropping back into any such thing as you're contemplating. I'll make some provision for you. You don't really want to leave me, do you, Jennie?" Against Lester's strong personality and vigorous protest Jennie's own conclusions and decisions went to pieces. Just the pressure of his hand was enough to upset her. Now she began to cry. "Don't cry, Jennie," he said. "This thing may work out better than you think. Let it rest for a while. Take off your things. You're not going to leave me any more, are you?" "No-o-o!" she sobbed. He took her in his lap. "Let things rest as they are," he went on. "It's a curious world. Things can't be adjusted in a minute. They may work out. I'm putting up with some things myself that I ordinarily wouldn't stand for." He finally saw her restored to comparative calmness, smiling sadly through her tears. "Now you put those things away," he said genially, pointing to the trunks. "Besides, I want you to promise me one thing." "What's that?" asked Jennie. "No more concealment of anything, do you hear? No more thinking things out for yourself, and acting without my knowing anything about it. If you have anything on your mind, I want you to come out with it. I'm not going to eat you! Talk to me about whatever is troubling you. I'll help you solve it, or, if I can't, at least there won't be any concealment between us." "I know, Lester," she said earnestly, looking him straight in the eyes. "I promise I'll never conceal anything any more—truly I won't. I've been afraid, but I won't be now. You can trust me." "That sounds like what you ought to be," he replied. "I know you will." And he let her go. A few days later, and in consequence of this agreement, the future of Gerhardt came up for discussion. Jennie had been worrying about him for several days; now it occurred to her that this was something to talk over with Lester. Accordingly, she explained one night at dinner what had happened in Cleveland. "I know he is very unhappy there all alone," she said, "and I hate to think of it. I was going to get him if I went back to Cleveland. Now I don't know what to do about it." "Why don't you send him some money?" he inquired. "He won't take any more money from me, Lester," she explained. "He thinks I'm not good—not acting right. He doesn't believe I'm married." "He has pretty good reason, hasn't he?" said Lester calmly. "I hate to think of him sleeping in a factory. He's so old and lonely." "What's the matter with the rest of the family in Cleveland? Won't they do anything for him? Where's your brother Bass?" "I think maybe they don't want him, he's so cross," she said simply. "I hardly know what to suggest in that case," smiled Lester. "The old gentleman oughtn't to be so fussy." "I know," she said, "but he's old now, and he has had so much trouble." Lester ruminated for a while, toying with his fork. "I'll tell you what I've been thinking, Jennie," he said finally. "There's no use living this way any longer, if we're going to stick it out. I've been thinking that we might take a house out in Hyde Park. It's something of a run from the office, but I'm not much for this apartment life. You and Vesta would be better off for a yard. In that case you might bring your father on to live with us. He couldn't do any harm pottering about; indeed, he might help keep things straight." "Oh, that would just suit papa, if he'd come," she replied. "He loves to fix things, and he'd cut the grass and look after the furnace. But he won't come unless he's sure I'm married." "I don't know how that could be arranged unless you could show the old gentleman a marriage certificate. He seems to want something that can't be produced very well. A steady job he'd have running the furnace of a country house," he added meditatively. Jennie did not notice the grimness of the jest. She was too busy thinking what a tangle she had made of her life. Gerhardt would not come now, even if they had a lovely home to share with him. And yet he ought to be with Vesta again. She would make him happy. She remained lost in a sad abstraction, until Lester, following the drift of her thoughts, said: "I don't see how it can be arranged. Marriage certificate blanks aren't easily procurable. It's bad business—a criminal offense to forge one, I believe. I wouldn't want to be mixed up in that sort of thing." "Oh, I don't want you to do anything like that, Lester. I'm just sorry papa is so stubborn. When he gets a notion you can't change him." "Suppose we wait until we get settled after moving," he suggested. "Then you can go to Cleveland and talk to him personally. You might be able to persuade him." He liked her attitude toward her father. It was so decent that he rather wished he could help her carry out her scheme. While not very interesting, Gerhardt was not objectionable to Lester, and if the old man wanted to do the odd jobs around a big place, why not? <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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