Текст книги "Jennie Gerhardt"

Автор книги: Теодор Драйзер

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CHAPTER XXVII

For three years now Lester had been happy in the companionship of Jennie. Irregular as the connection might be in the eyes of the church and of society, it had brought him peace and comfort, and he was perfectly satisfied with the outcome of the experiment. His interest in the social affairs of Cincinnati was now practically nil, and he had consistently refused to consider any matrimonial proposition which had himself as the object. He looked on his father’s business organisation as offering a real chance for himself if he could get control of it; but he saw no way of doing so. Robert’s interests were always in the way, and, if anything, the two brothers were farther apart than ever in their ideas and aims. Lester had thought once or twice of entering some other line of business or of allying himself with another carriage company, but he did not feel that he could conscientiously do this. Lester had his salary—fifteen thousand a year as secretary and treasurer of the company (his brother was vice-president)—and about five thousand from some outside investments. He had not been so lucky or so shrewd in speculation as Robert had been; aside from the principal which yielded his five thousand, he had nothing. Robert, on the other hand, was unquestionably worth between three and four hundred thousand dollars, in addition to his future interest in the business, which both brothers shrewdly suspected would be divided somewhat in their favour. Robert and Lester would get a fourth each, they thought; their sisters a sixth. It seemed natural that Kane senior should take this view, seeing that the brothers were actually in control and doing the work. Still, there was no certainty. The old gentleman might do anything or nothing. The probabilities were that he would be very fair and liberal. At the same time, Robert was obviously beating Lester in the game of life. What did Lester intend to do about it?

There comes a time in every thinking man’s life when he pauses and “takes stock” of his condition; when he asks himself how it fares with his individuality as a whole, mental, moral, physical, material. This time comes after the first heedless flights of youth have passed, when the initiative and more powerful efforts have been made, and he begins to feel the uncertainty of results and final values which attaches itself to everything. There is a deadening thought of uselessness which creeps into many men’s minds—the thought which has been best expressed by the Preacher in Ecclesiastes.

Yet Lester strove to be philosophical. “What difference does it make?” he used to say to himself, “whether I live at the White House, or here at home, or at the Grand Pacific?” But in the very question was the implication that there were achievements in life which he had failed to realise in his own career. The White House represented the rise and success of a great public character. His home and the Grand Pacific were what had come to him without effort.

He decided for the time being—it was about the period of the death of Jennie’s mother—that he would make some effort to rehabilitate himself. He would cut out idling—these numerous trips with Jennie had cost him considerable time. He would make some outside investments. If his brother could find avenues of financial profit, so could he. He would endeavour to assert his authority— he would try to make himself of more importance in the business, rather than let Robert gradually absorb everything. Should he forsake Jennie?—that thought also came to him. She had no claim on him. She could make no protest. Somehow he did not see how it could be done. It seemed cruel, useless; above all (though he disliked to admit it) it would be uncomfortable for himself. He liked her—loved her, perhaps, in a selfish way. He didn’t see how he could desert her very well.

Just at this time he had a really serious difference with Robert. His brother wanted to sever relations with an old and well established paint company in New York, which had manufactured paints especially for the house, and invest in a new concern in Chicago, which was growing and had a promising future. Lester, knowing the members of the Eastern firm, their reliability, their long and friendly relations with the house, was in opposition. His father at first seemed to agree with Lester. But Robert argued out the question in his cold, logical way, his blue eyes fixed uncompromisingly upon his brother’s face. “We can’t go on forever,” he said, “standing by old friends, just because father here has dealt with them, or you like them. We must have a change. The business must be stiffened up; we’re going to have more and stronger competition.”

“It’s just as father feels about it,” said Lester at last. “I have no deep feeling in the matter. It won’t hurt me one way or the other. You say the house is going to profit eventually. I’ve stated the arguments on the other side.”

“I’m inclined to think Robert is right,” said Archibald Kane calmly. “Most of the things he has suggested so far have worked out.”

Lester coloured. “Well, we won’t have any more discussion about it then,” he said. He rose and strolled out of the office.

The shock of this defeat, coming at a time when he was considering pulling himself together, depressed Lester considerably. It wasn’t much but it was a straw, and his father’s remark about his brother’s business acumen was even more irritating. He was beginning to wonder whether his father would discriminate in any way in the distribution of the property. Had he heard anything about his entanglement with Jennie? Had he resented the long vacations he had taken from business? It did not appear to Lester that he could be justly chargeable with either incapacity or indifference, so far as the company was concerned. He had done his work well. He was still the investigator of propositions put up to the house, the student of contracts, the trusted adviser of his father and mother—but he was being worsted. Where would it end? He thought about this, but could reach no conclusion.

Later in this same year Robert came forward with a plan for reorganisation in the executive department of the business. He proposed that they should build an immense exhibition and storage warehouse on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, and transfer a portion of their completed stock there. Chicago was more central than Cincinnati. Buyers from the West and country merchants could be more easily reached and dealt with there. It would be a big advertisement for the house, a magnificent evidence of its standing and prosperity. Kane senior and Lester immediately approved of this. Both saw its advantages. Robert suggested that Lester should undertake the construction of the new buildings. It would probably be advisable for him to reside in Chicago a part of the time.

The idea appealed to Lester, even though it took him away from Cincinnati, largely if not entirely. It was dignified and not unrepresentative of his standing in the company. He could live in Chicago and he could have Jennie with him. The scheme he had for taking an apartment could now be arranged without difficulty. He voted yes. Robert smiled. “I’m sure we’ll get good results from this all around,” he said.

As construction work was soon to begin, Lester decided to move to Chicago immediately. He sent word for Jennie to meet him, and together they selected an apartment on the North Side, a very comfortable suite of rooms on a side street near the lake, and he had it fitted up to suit his taste. He figured that living in Chicago he could pose as a bachelor. He would never need to invite his friends to his rooms. There were his offices, where he could always be found, his clubs and the hotels. To his way of thinking the arrangement was practically ideal.

Of course Jennie’s departure from Cleveland brought the affairs of the Gerhardt family to a climax. Probably the home would be broken up, but Gerhardt himself took the matter philosophically. He was an old man, and it did not matter much where he lived. Bass, Martha, and George were already taking care of themselves. Veronica and William were still in school, but some provision could be made for boarding them with a neighbour. The one real concern of Jennie and Gerhardt was Vesta. It was Gerhardt’s natural thought that Jennie must take the child with her. What else should a mother do?

“Have you told him yet?” he asked her, when the day of her contemplated departure had been set.

“No; but I’m going to soon,” she assured him.

“Always soon,” he said.

He shook his head. His throat swelled.

“It’s too bad,” he went on. “It’s a great sin. God will punish you, I’m afraid. The child needs some one. I’m getting old— otherwise I would keep her. There is no one here all day now to look after her right, as she should be.” Again he shook his head.

“I know,” said Jennie weakly. “I’m going to fix it now. I’m going to have her live with me soon. I won’t neglect her—you know that.”

“But the child’s name,” he insisted. “She should have a name. Soon in another year she goes to school. People will want to know who she is. It can’t go on forever like this.”

Jennie understood well enough that it couldn’t. She was crazy about her baby. The heaviest cross she had to bear was the constant separations and the silence she was obliged to maintain about Vesta’s very existence. It did seem unfair to the child, and yet Jennie did not see clearly how she could have acted otherwise. Vesta had good clothes, everything she needed. She was at least comfortable. Jennie hoped to give her a good education. If only she had told the truth to Lester in the first place. Now it was almost too late, and yet she felt that she had acted for the best. Finally she decided to find some good woman or family in Chicago who would take charge of Vesta for a consideration. In a Swedish colony to the west of La Salle Avenue she came across an old lady who seemed to embody all the virtues she required—cleanliness, simplicity, honesty. She was a widow, doing work by the day, but she was glad to make an arrangement by which she should give her whole time to Vesta. The latter was to go to kindergarten when a suitable one should be found. She was to have toys and kindly attention, and Mrs. Olsen was to inform Jennie of any change in the child’s health. Jennie proposed to call every day, and she thought that sometimes, when Lester was out of town, Vesta might be brought to the apartment. She had had her with her at Cleveland, and he had never found out anything.

The arrangements completed, Jennie returned at the first opportunity to Cleveland to take Vesta away. Gerhardt, who had been brooding over his approaching loss, appeared most solicitous about her future. “She should grow up to be a fine girl,” he said. “You should give her a good education—she is so smart.” He spoke of the advisability of sending her to a Lutheran school and church, but Jennie was not so sure of that. Time and association with Lester had led her to think that perhaps the public school was better than any private institution. She had no particular objection to the church, but she no longer depended upon its teachings as a guide in the affairs of life. Why should she?

The next day it was necessary for Jennie to return to Chicago. Vesta, excited and eager, was made ready for the journey. Gerhardt had been wandering about, restless as a lost spirit, while the process of dressing was going on; now that the hour had actually struck he was doing his best to control his feelings. He could see that the five-year-old child had no conception of what it meant to him. She was happy and self-interested, chattering about the ride and the train.

“Be a good little girl,” he said, lifting her up and kissing her. “See that you study your catechism and say your prayers. And you won’t forget the grandpa—what?—” He tried to go on, but his voice failed him.

Jennie, whose heart ached for her father, choked back her emotion. “There,” she said, “if I’d thought you were going to act like that—” She stopped.

“Go,” said Gerhardt, manfully, “go. It is best this way.” And he stood solemnly by as they went out of the door. Then he turned back to his favourite haunt, the kitchen, and stood there staring at the floor. One by one they were leaving him—Mrs. Gerhardt, Bass, Martha, Jennie, Vesta. He clasped his hands together, after his old-time fashion, and shook his head again and again. “So it is! So it is!” he repeated. “They all leave me. All my life goes to pieces.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

During the three years in which Jennie and Lester had been associated there had grown up between them a strong feeling of mutual sympathy and understanding. Lester truly loved her in his own way. It was a strong, self-satisfying, determined kind of way, based solidly on a big natural foundation, but rising to a plane of genuine spiritual affinity. The yielding sweetness of her character both attracted and held him. She was true, and good, and womanly to the very centre of her being; he had learned to trust her, to depend upon her, and the feeling had but deepened with the passing of the years.

On her part Jennie had sincerely, deeply, truly learned to love this man. At first when he had swept her off her feet, overawed her soul, and used her necessity as a chain wherewith to bind her to him, she was a little doubtful, a little afraid of him, although she had always liked him. Now, however, by living with him, by knowing him better, by watching his moods, she had come to love him. He was so big, so vocal, so handsome. His point of view and opinions of anything and everything were so positive. His pet motto, “Hew to the line, let the chips fall where they may,” had clung in her brain as something immensely characteristic. Apparently he was not afraid of anything—God, man, or devil. He used to look at her, holding her chin between the thumb and fingers of his big brown hand, and say: “You’re sweet, all right, but you need courage and defiance. You haven’t enough of those things.” And her eyes would meet his in dumb appeal. “Never mind,” he would add, “you have other things.” And then he would kiss her.

One of the most appealing things to Lester was the simple way in which she tried to avoid exposure of her various social and educational shortcomings. She could not write very well, and once he found a list of words he had used written out on a piece of paper with the meanings opposite. He smiled, but he liked her better for it. Another time in the Southern hotel in St. Louis he watched her pretending a loss of appetite because she thought that her lack of table manners was being observed by near-by diners. She could not always be sure of the right forks and knives, and the strange-looking dishes bothered her; how did one eat asparagus and artichokes.

“Why don’t you eat something?” he asked good-naturedly. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Not very.”

“You must be. Listen, Jennie. I know what it is. You mustn’t feel that way. Your manners are all right. I wouldn’t bring you here if they weren’t. Your instincts are all right. Don’t be uneasy. I’d tell you quick enough when there was anything wrong.” His brown eyes held a friendly gleam.

She smiled gratefully. “I do feel a little nervous at times,” she admitted.

“Don’t,” he repeated. “You’re all right. Don’t worry. I’ll show you.” And he did.

By degrees Jennie grew into an understanding of the usages and customs of comfortable existence. All that the Gerhardt family had ever had were the bare necessities of life. Now she was surrounded with whatever she wanted—trunks, clothes, toilet articles, the whole varied equipment of comfort—and while she liked it all, it did not upset her sense of proportion and her sense of the fitness of things. There was no element of vanity in her, only a sense of joy in privilege and opportunity. She was grateful to Lester for all that he had done and was doing for her. If only she could hold him—always!

The details of getting Vesta established once adjusted, Jennie settled down into the routine of home life. Lester, busy about his multitudinous affairs, was in and out. He had a suite of rooms reserved for himself at the Grand Pacific, which was then the exclusive hotel of Chicago, and this was his ostensible residence. His luncheon and evening appointments were kept at the Union Club. An early patron of the telephone, he had one installed in the apartment, so that he could reach Jennie quickly and at any time. He was home two or three nights a week, sometimes oftener. He insisted at first on Jennie having a girl of general housework, but acquiesced in the more sensible arrangement which she suggested later of letting some one come in to do the cleaning. She liked to work around her own home. Her natural industry and love of order prompted this feeling.

Lester liked his breakfast promptly at eight in the morning. He wanted dinner served nicely at seven. Silverware, cut glass, imported china—all the little luxuries of life appealed to him. He kept his trunks and wardrobe at the apartment.

During the first few months everything went smoothly. He was in the habit of taking Jennie to the theatre now and then, and if he chanced to run across an acquaintance he always introduced her as Miss Gerhardt. When he registered her as his wife it was usually under an assumed name; where there was no danger of detection he did not mind using his own signature. Thus far there had been no difficulty or unpleasantness of any kind.

The trouble with this situation was that it was criss-crossed with the danger and consequent worry which the deception in regard to Vesta had entailed, as well as with Jennie’s natural anxiety about her father and the disorganised home. Jennie feared, as Veronica hinted, that she and William would go to live with Martha, who was installed in a boarding-house in Cleveland, and that Gerhardt would be left alone. He was such a pathetic figure to her, with his injured hands and his one ability—that of being a watchman—that she was hurt to think of his being left alone. Would he come to her? She knew that he would not—feeling as he did at present. Would Lester have him—she was not sure of that. If he came Vesta would have to be accounted for. So she worried.

The situation in regard to Vesta was really complicated. Owing to the feeling that she was doing her daughter a great injustice, Jennie was particularly sensitive in regard to her, anxious to do a thousand things to make up for the one great duty that she could not perform. She daily paid a visit to the home of Mrs. Olsen, always taking with her toys, candy, or whatever came into her mind as being likely to interest and please the child. She liked to sit with Vesta and tell her stories of fairy and giant, which kept the little girl wide-eyed. At last she went so far as to bring her to the apartment, when Lester was away visiting his parents, and she soon found it possible, during his several absences, to do this regularly. After that, as time went on and she began to know his habits, she became more bold—although bold is scarcely the word to use in connection with Jennie. She became venturesome much as a mouse might; she would risk Vesta’s presence on the assurance of even short absences—two or three days. She even got into the habit of keeping a few of Vesta’s toys at the apartment, so that she could have something to play with when she came.

During these several visits from her child Jennie could not but realise the lovely thing life would be were she only an honoured wife and a happy mother. Vesta was a most observant little girl. She could by her innocent childish questions give a hundred turns to the dagger of self-reproach which was already planted deeply in Jennie’s heart.

“Can I come to live with you?” was one of her simplest and most frequently repeated questions. Jennie would reply that mamma could not have her just yet, but that very soon now, just as soon as she possibly could, Vesta should come to stay always.

“Don’t you know just when?” Vesta would ask.

“No, dearest, not just when. Very soon now. You won’t mind waiting a little while. Don’t you like Mrs. Olsen?”

“Yes,” replied Vesta; “but then she ain’t got any nice things now. She’s just got old things.” And Jennie, stricken to the heart, would take Vesta to the toy shop, and load her down with a new assortment of playthings.

Of course Lester was not in the least suspicious. His observation of things relating to the home were rather casual. He went about his work and his pleasures believing Jennie to be the soul of sincerity and good-natured service, and it never occurred to him that there was anything underhanded in her actions. Once he did come home sick in the afternoon and found her absent—an absence which endured from two o’clock to five. He was a little irritated and grumbled on her return, but his annoyance was as nothing to her astonishment and fright when she found him there. She blanched at the thought of his suspecting something, and explained as best she could. She had gone to see her washerwoman. She was slow about her marketing. She didn’t dream he was there. She was sorry, too, that her absence had lost her an opportunity to serve him. It showed her what a mess she was likely to make of it all.

It happened that about three weeks after the above occurrence Lester had occasion to return to Cincinnati for a week, and during this time Jennie again brought Vesta to the flat; for four days there was the happiest goings on between the mother and child.

Nothing would have come of this little reunion had it not been for an oversight on Jennie’s part, the far-reaching effects of which she could only afterward regret. This was the leaving of a little toy lamb under the large leather divan in the front room, where Lester was wont to lie and smoke. A little bell held by a thread of blue ribbon was fastened about its neck, and this tinkled feebly whenever it was shaken. Vesta, with the unaccountable freakishness of children had deliberately dropped it behind the divan, an action which Jennie did not notice at the time. When she gathered up the various playthings after Vesta’s departure she overlooked it entirely, and there it rested, its innocent eyes still staring upon the sunlit regions of toyland, when Lester returned.

That same evening, when he was lying on the divan, quietly enjoying his cigar and his newspaper, he chanced to drop the former, fully lighted. Wishing to recover it before it should do any damage, he leaned over and looked under the divan. The cigar was not in sight, so he rose and pulled the lounge out, a move which revealed to him the little lamb still standing where Vesta had dropped it. He picked it up, turning it over and over, and wondering how it had come there.

A lamb! It must belong to some neighbour’s child in whom Jennie had taken an interest, he thought. He would have to go and tease her about this.

Accordingly he held the toy jovially before him, and, coming out into the dining-room, where Jennie was working at the sideboard, he exclaimed in a mock solemn voice, “Where did this come from?”

Jennie, who was totally unconscious of the existence of this evidence of her duplicity, turned, and was instantly possessed with the idea that he had suspected all and was about to visit his just wrath upon her. Instantly the blood flamed in her cheeks and as quickly left them.

“Why, why!” she stuttered, “it’s a little toy I bought.”

“I see it is,” he returned genially, her guilty tremor not escaping his observation, but having at the same time no explicable significance to him. “It’s frisking around a mighty lone sheepfold.”

He touched the little bell at its throat, while Jennie stood there, unable to speak. It tinkled feebly, and then he looked at her again. His manner was so humorous that she could tell he suspected nothing. However, it was almost impossible for her to recover her self-possession.

“What’s ailing you?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied.

“You look as though a lamb was a terrible shock to you.”

“I forgot to take it out from there, that was all,” she went on blindly.

“It looks as though it has been played with enough,” he added more seriously, and then seeing that the discussion was evidently painful to her, he dropped it. The lamb had not furnished him the amusement that he had expected.

Lester went back into the front room, stretched himself out and thought it over. Why was she nervous? What was there about a toy to make her grow pale? Surely there was no harm in her harbouring some youngster of the neighbourhood when she was alone—having it come in and play. Why should she be so nervous? He thought it over, but could come to no conclusion.

Nothing more was said about the incident of the toy lamb. Time might have wholly effaced the impression from Lester’s memory had nothing else intervened to arouse his suspicions; but a mishap of any kind seems invariably to be linked with others which follow close upon its heels.

One evening when Lester happened to be lingering about the flat later than usual the door bell rang, and, Jennie being busy in the kitchen, Lester went himself to open the door. He was greeted by a middle-aged lady, who frowned very nervously upon him, and inquired in broken Swedish accents for Jennie.

“Wait a moment,” said Lester; and stepping to the rear door he called her.

Jennie came, and seeing who the visitor was, she stepped nervously out in the hall and closed the door after her. The action instantly struck Lester as suspicious. He frowned and determined to inquire thoroughly into the matter. A moment later Jennie reappeared. Her face was white and her fingers seemed to be nervously seeking something to seize upon.

“What’s the trouble?” he inquired, the irritation he had felt the moment before giving his voice a touch of gruffness.

“I’ve to go out for a little while,” she at last managed to reply.

“Very well,” he assented unwillingly. “But you can tell me what’s the trouble with you, can’t you? Where do you have to go?”

“I—I,” began Jennie, stammering. “I—have—”

“Yes,” he said grimly.

“I have to go on an errand,” she stumbled on. “I—I can’t wait. I’ll tell you when I come back, Lester. Please don’t ask me now.”

She looked vainly at him, her troubled countenance still marked by preoccupation and anxiety to get away, and Lester, who had never seen this look of intense responsibility in her before, was moved and irritated by it.

“That’s all right,” he said, “but what’s the use of all this secrecy? Why can’t you come out and tell what’s the matter with you? What’s the use of this whispering behind doors? Where do you have to go?”

He paused, checked by his own harshness, and Jennie who was intensely wrought up by the information she had received, as well as the unwonted verbal castigation she was now enduring, rose to an emotional state never reached by her before.

“I will, Lester, I will,” she exclaimed. “Only not now. I haven’t time. I’ll tell you everything when I come back. Please don’t stop me now.”

She hurried to the adjoining chamber to get her wraps, and Lester, who had even yet no clear conception of what it all meant, followed her stubbornly to the door.

“See here,” he exclaimed in his vigorous, brutal way, “you’re not acting right. What’s the matter with you? I want to know.”

He stood in the doorway, his whole frame exhibiting the pugnacity and settled determination of a man who is bound to be obeyed. Jennie, troubled and driven to bay, turned at last.

“It’s my child, Lester,” she exclaimed. “It’s dying. I haven’t time to talk. Oh, please don’t stop me. I’ll tell you everything when I come back.”

“Your child!” he exclaimed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I couldn’t help it,” she returned. “I was afraid—I should have told you long ago. I meant to only—only—Oh, let me go now, and I’ll tell you all when I come back!”

He stared at her in amazement; then he stepped aside, unwilling to force her any further for the present. “Well, go ahead,” he said quietly. “Don’t you want some one to go along with you?”

“No,” she replied. “Mrs. Olsen is right here. I’ll go with her.”

She hurried forth, white-faced, and he stood there, pondering. Could this be the woman he had thought he knew? Why, she had been deceiving him for years. Jennie! The white-faced! The simple.

He choked a little as he muttered:

“Well, I’ll be damned!”