Jennie Gerhardt Part 54

"There is just one other point which I wish to make in this connection, Mrs. Kane," he went on softly and easily. "I see now that it will not make any difference to you, but I am commissioned and in a way constrained to make it. I hope you will take it in the manner in which it is given. I don't know whether you are familiar with your husband's commercial interests or not?"

"No," said Jennie simply.

"Well, in order to simplify matters, and to make it easier for you, should you decide to a.s.sist your husband to a solution of this very difficult situation--frankly, in case you might possibly decide to leave on your own account, and maintain a separate establishment of your own I am delighted to say that--ah--any sum, say--ah--"

Jennie rose and walked dazedly to one of the windows, clasping her hands as she went. Mr. O'Brien rose also.

"Well, be that as it may. In the event of your deciding to end the connection it has been suggested that any reasonable sum you might name, fifty, seventy-five, a hundred thousand dollars"--Mr.

O'Brien was feeling very generous toward her--"would be gladly set aside for your benefit--put in trust, as it were, so that you would have it whenever you needed it. You would never want for anything."

"Please don't," said Jennie, hurt beyond the power to express herself, unable mentally and physically to listen to another word.

"Please don't say any more. Please go away. Let me alone now, please.

I can go away. I will. It will be arranged. But please don't talk to me any more, will you?"

"I understand how you feel, Mrs. Kane," went on Mr. O'Brien, coming to a keen realization of her sufferings. "I know exactly, believe me.

I have said all I intend to say. It has been very hard for me to do this--very hard. I regret the necessity. You have my card. Please note the name. I will come any time you suggest, or you can write me.

I will not detain you any longer. I am sorry. I hope you will see fit to say nothing to your husband of my visit--it will be advisable that you should keep your own counsel in the matter. I value his friendship very highly, and I am sincerely sorry."

Jennie only stared at the floor.

Mr. O'Brien went out into the hall to get his coat. Jennie touched the electric b.u.t.ton to summon the maid, and Jeannette came. Jennie went back into the library, and Mr. O'Brien paced briskly down the front walk. When she was really alone she put her doubled hands to her chin, and stared at the floor, the queer design of the silken Turkish rug resolving itself into some curious picture. She saw herself in a small cottage somewhere, alone with Vesta; she saw Lester living in another world, and beside him Mrs. Gerald. She saw this house vacant, and then a long stretch of time, and then--

"Oh," she sighed, choking back a desire to cry. With her hands she brushed away a hot tear from each eye. Then she got up.

"It must be," she said to herself in thought. "It must be. It should have been so long ago." And then--"Oh, thank G.o.d that papa is dead Anyhow, he did not live to see this."

CHAPTER LIII

The explanation which Lester had concluded to be inevitable, whether it led to separation or legalization of their hitherto ba.n.a.l condition, followed quickly upon the appearance of Mr. O'Brien. On the day Mr. O'Brien called he had gone on a journey to Hegewisch, a small manufacturing town in Wisconsin, where he had been invited to witness the trial of a new motor intended to operate elevators--with a view to possible investment. When he came out to the house, interested to tell Jennie something about it even in spite of the fact that he was thinking of leaving her, he felt a sense of depression everywhere, for Jennie, in spite of the serious and sensible conclusion she had reached, was not one who could conceal her feelings easily. She was brooding sadly over her proposed action, realizing that it was best to leave but finding it hard to summon the courage which would let her talk to him about it. She could not go without telling him what she thought. He ought to want to leave her. She was absolutely convinced that this one course of action--separation--was necessary and advisable. She could not think of him as daring to make a sacrifice of such proportions for her sake even if he wanted to. It was impossible. It was astonishing to her that he had let things go along as dangerously and silently as he had.

When he came in Jennie did her best to greet him with her accustomed smile, but it was a pretty poor imitation.

"Everything all right?" she asked, using her customary phrase of inquiry.

"Quite," he answered. "How are things with you?"

"Oh, just the same." She walked with him to the library, and he poked at the open fire with a long-handled poker before turning around to survey the room generally. It was five o'clock of a January afternoon. Jennie had gone to one of the windows to lower the shade.

As she came back he looked at her critically. "You're not quite your usual self, are you?" he asked, sensing something out of the common in her att.i.tude.

"Why, yes, I feel all right," she replied, but there was a peculiar uneven motion to the movement of her lips--a rippling tremor which was unmistakable to him.

"I think I know better than that," he said, still gazing at her steadily. "What's the trouble? Anything happened?"

She turned away from him a moment to get her breath and collect her senses. Then she faced him again. "There is something," she managed to say. "I have to tell you something."

"I know you have," he agreed, half smiling, but with a feeling that there was much of grave import back of this. "What is it?"

She was silent for a moment, biting her lips. She did not quite know how to begin. Finally she broke the spell with: "There was a man here yesterday--a Mr. O'Brien, of Cincinnati. Do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him. What did he want?"

"He came to talk to me about you and your father's will."

She paused, for his face clouded immediately. "Why the devil should he be talking to you about my father's will!" he exclaimed. "What did he have to say?"

"Please don't get angry, Lester," said Jennie calmly, for she realized that she must remain absolute mistress of herself if anything were to be accomplished toward the resolution of her problem. "He wanted to tell me what a sacrifice you are making," she went on. "He wished to show me that there was only a little time left before you would lose your inheritance. Don't you want to act pretty soon? Don't you want to leave me."

"d.a.m.n him!" said Lester fiercely. "What the devil does he mean by putting his nose in my private affairs? Can't they let me alone?" He shook himself angrily. "d.a.m.n them!" he exclaimed again. "This is some of Robert's work. Why should Knight, Keatley & O'Brien be meddling in my affairs? This whole business is getting to be a nuisance!" He was in a boiling rage in a moment, as was shown by his darkening skin and sulphurous eyes.

Jennie trembled before his anger. She did not know what to say.

He came to himself sufficiently after a time to add:

"Well. Just what did he tell you?"

"He said that if you married me you would only get ten thousand a year. That if you didn't and still lived with me you would get nothing at all. If you would leave me, or I would leave you, you would get all of a million and a half. Don't you think you had better leave me now?"

She had not intended to propound this leading question so quickly, but it came out as a natural climax to the situation. She realized instantly that if he were really in love with her he would answer with an emphatic "no." If he didn't care, he would hesitate, he would delay, he would seek to put off the evil day of reckoning.

"I don't see that," he retorted irritably. "I don't see that there's any need for either interference or hasty action. What I object to is their coming here and mixing in my private affairs."

Jennie was cut to the quick by his indifference, his wrath instead of affection. To her the main point at issue was her leaving him or his leaving her. To him this recent interference was obviously the chief matter for discussion and consideration. The meddling of others before he was ready to act was the terrible thing. She had hoped, in spite of what she had seen, that possibly, because of the long time they had lived together and the things which (in a way) they had endured together, he might have come to care for her deeply--that she had stirred some emotion in him which would never brook real separation, though some seeming separation might be necessary. He had not married her, of course, but then there had been so many things against them. Now, in this final hour, anyhow, he might have shown that he cared deeply, even if he had deemed it necessary to let her go. She felt for the time being as if, for all that she had lived with him so long, she did not understand him, and yet, in spite of this feeling, she knew also that she did. He cared, in his way. He could not care for any one enthusiastically and demonstratively. He could care enough to seize her and take her to himself as he had, but he could not care enough to keep her if something more important appeared. He was debating her fate now. She was in a quandary, hurt, bleeding, but for once in her life, determined. Whether he wanted to or not, she must not let him make this sacrifice. She must leave him--if he would not leave her. It was not important enough that she should stay. There might be but one answer. But might he not show affection?

"Don't you think you had better act soon?" she continued, hoping that some word of feeling would come from him. "There is only a little time left, isn't there?"

Jennie nervously pushed a book to and fro on the table, her fear that she would not be able to keep up appearances troubling her greatly. It was hard for her to know what to do or say. Lester was so terrible when he became angry. Still it ought not to be so hard for him to go, now that he had Mrs. Gerald, if he only wished to do so--and he ought to. His fortune was so much more important to him than anything she could be.

"Don't worry about that," he replied stubbornly, his wrath at his brother, and his family, and O'Brien still holding him. "There's time enough. I don't know what I want to do yet. I like the effrontery of these people! But I won't talk any more about it; isn't dinner nearly ready?" He was so injured in his pride that he scarcely took the trouble to be civil. He was forgetting all about her and what she was feeling. He hated his brother Robert for this affront. He would have enjoyed wringing the necks of Messrs. Knight, Keatley & O'Brien, singly and collectively.

The question could not be dropped for good and all, and it came up again at dinner, after Jennie had done her best to collect her thoughts and quiet her nerves. They could not talk very freely because of Vesta and Jeannette, but she managed to get in a word or two.

"I could take a little cottage somewhere," she suggested softly, hoping to find him in a modified mood. "I would not want to stay here.

I would not know what to do with a big house like this alone."

"I wish you wouldn't discuss this business any longer, Jennie," he persisted. "I'm in no mood for it. I don't know that I'm going to do anything of the sort. I don't know what I'm going to do." He was so sour and obstinate, because of O'Brien, that she finally gave it up.

Vesta was astonished to see her stepfather, usually so courteous, in so grim a mood.

Jennie felt a curious sense that she might hold him if she would, for he was doubting; but she knew also that she should not wish. It was not fair to him. It was not fair to herself, or kind, or decent.

"Oh yes, Lester, you must," she pleaded, at a later time. "I won't talk about it any more, but you must. I won't let you do anything else."

There were hours when it came up afterward--every day, in fact--in their boudoir, in the library, in the dining-room, at breakfast, but not always in words. Jennie was worried. She was looking the worry she felt. She was sure that he should be made to act. Since he was showing more kindly consideration for her, she was all the more certain that he should act soon. Just how to go about it she did not know, but she looked at him longingly, trying to help him make up his mind. She would be happy, she a.s.sured herself--she would be happy thinking that he was happy once she was away from him.

He was a good man, most delightful in everything, perhaps, save his gift of love. He really did not love her--could not perhaps, after all that had happened, even though she loved him most earnestly.

But his family had been most brutal in their opposition, and this had affected his att.i.tude. She could understand that, too. She could see now how his big, strong brain might be working in a circle. He was too decent to be absolutely brutal about this thing and leave her, too really considerate to look sharply after his own interests as he should, or hers--but he ought to.