Kitabı oku: «Jennie Gerhardt: A Novel», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XXII
The fatal Friday came, and Jennie stood face to face with this new and overwhelming complication in her modest scheme of existence. There was really no alternative, she thought. Her own life was a failure. Why go on fighting? If she could make her family happy, if she could give Vesta a good education, if she could conceal the true nature of this older story and keep Vesta in the background perhaps, perhaps – well, rich men had married poor girls before this, and Lester was very kind, he certainly liked her. At seven o'clock she went to Mrs. Bracebridge's; at noon she excused herself on the pretext of some work for her mother and left the house for the hotel.
Lester, leaving Cincinnati a few days earlier than he expected, had failed to receive her reply; he arrived at Cleveland feeling sadly out of tune with the world. He had a lingering hope that a letter from Jennie might be awaiting him at the hotel, but there was no word from her. He was a man not easily wrought up, but to-night he felt depressed, and so went gloomily up to his room and changed his linen. After supper he proceeded to drown his dissatisfaction in a game of billiards with some friends, from whom he did not part until he had taken very much more than his usual amount of alcoholic stimulant. The next morning he arose with a vague idea of abandoning the whole affair, but as the hours elapsed and the time of his appointment drew near he decided that it might not be unwise to give her one last chance. She might come. Accordingly, when it still lacked a quarter of an hour of the time, he went down into the parlor. Great was his delight when he beheld her sitting in a chair and waiting – the outcome of her acquiescence. He walked briskly up, a satisfied, gratified smile on his face.
"So you did come after all," he said, gazing at her with the look of one who has lost and recovered a prize. "What do you mean by not writing me? I thought from the way you neglected me that you had made up your mind not to come at all."
"I did write," she replied.
"Where?"
"To the address you gave me. I wrote three days ago."
"That explains it. It came too late. You should have written me before. How have you been?"
"Oh, all right," she replied.
"You don't look it!" he said. "You look worried. What's the trouble, Jennie? Nothing gone wrong out at your house, has there?"
It was a fortuitous question. He hardly knew why lie had asked it. Yet it opened the door to what she wanted to say.
"My father's sick," she replied.
"What's happened to him?"
"He burned his hands at the glass-works. We've been terribly worried. It looks as though he would not be able to use them any more."
She paused, looking the distress she felt, and he saw plainly that she was facing a crisis.
"That's too bad," he said. "That certainly is. When did this happen?"
"Oh, almost three weeks ago now."
"It certainly is bad. Come in to lunch, though. I want to talk with you. I've been wanting to get a better understanding of your family affairs ever since I left." He led the way into the dining-room and selected a secluded table. He tried to divert her mind by asking her to order the luncheon, but she was too worried and too shy to do so and he had to make out the menu by himself. Then he turned to her with a cheering air. "Now, Jennie," he said, "I want you to tell me all about your family. I got a little something of it last time, but I want to get it straight. Your father, you said, was a glass-blower by trade. Now he can't work any more at that, that's obvious."
"Yes," she said.
"How many other children are there?"
"Six."
"Are you the oldest?"
"No, my brother Sebastian is. He's twenty-two."
"And what does he do?"
"He's a clerk in a cigar store."
"Do you know how much he makes?"
"I think it's twelve dollars," she replied thoughtfully.
"And the other children?"
"Martha and Veronica don't do anything yet. They're too young. My brother George works at Wilson's. He's a cash-boy. He gets three dollars and a half."
"And how much do you make?"
"I make four."
He stopped, figuring up mentally just what they had to live on. "How much rent do you pay?" he continued.
"Twelve dollars."
"How old is your mother?"
"She's nearly fifty now."
He turned a fork in his hands back and forth; he was thinking earnestly.
"To tell you the honest truth, I fancied it was something like that, Jennie," he said. "I've been thinking about you a lot. Now, I know. There's only one answer to your problem, and it isn't such a bad one, if you'll only believe me." He paused for an inquiry, but she made none. Her mind was running on her own difficulties.
"Don't you want to know?" he inquired.
"Yes," she answered mechanically.
"It's me," he replied. "You have to let me help you. I wanted to last time. Now you have to; do you hear?"
"I thought I wouldn't," she said simply.
"I knew what you thought," he replied. "That's all over now. I'm going to 'tend to that family of yours. And I'll do it right now while I think of it."
He drew out his purse and extracted several ten and twenty-dollar bills – two hundred and fifty dollars in all. "I want you to take this," he said. "It's just the beginning. I will see that your family is provided for from now on. Here, give me your hand."
"Oh no," she said. "Not so much. Don't give me all that."
"Yes," he replied. "Don't argue. Here. Give me your hand."
She put it out in answer to the summons of his eyes, and he shut her fingers on the money, pressing them gently at the same time. "I want you to have it, sweet. I love you, little girl. I'm not going to see you suffer, nor any one belonging to you."
Her eyes looked a dumb thankfulness, and she bit her lips.
"I don't know how to thank you," she said.
"You don't need to," he replied. "The thanks are all the other way – believe me."
He paused and looked at her, the beauty of her face holding him. She looked at the table, wondering what would come next.
"How would you like to leave what you're doing and stay at home?" he asked. "That would give you your freedom day times."
"I couldn't do that," she replied. "Papa wouldn't allow it. He knows I ought to work."
"That's true enough," he said. "But there's so little in what you're doing. Good heavens! Four dollars a week! I would be glad to give you fifty times that sum if I thought there was any way in which you could use it." He idly thrummed the cloth with his fingers.
"I couldn't," she said. "I hardly know how to use this. They'll suspect. I'll have to tell mamma."
From the way she said it he judged there must be some bond of sympathy between her and her mother which would permit of a confidence such as this. He was by no means a hard man, and the thought touched him. But he would not relinquish his purpose.
"There's only one thing to be done, as far as I can see," he went on very gently. "You're not suited for the kind of work you're doing. You're too refined. I object to it. Give it up and come with me down to New York; I'll take good care of you. I love you and want you. As far as your family is concerned, you won't have to worry about them any more. You can take a nice home for them and furnish it in any style you please. Wouldn't you like that?"
He paused, and Jennie's thoughts reverted quickly to her mother, her dear mother. All her life long Mrs. Gerhardt had been talking of this very thing – a nice home. If they could just have a larger house, with good furniture and a yard filled with trees, how happy she would be. In such a home she would be free of the care of rent, the discomfort of poor furniture, the wretchedness of poverty; she would be so happy. She hesitated there while his keen eye followed her in spirit, and he saw what a power he had set in motion. It had been a happy inspiration – the suggestion of a decent home for the family. He waited a few minutes longer, and then said:
"Well, wouldn't you better let me do that?"
"It would be very nice," she said, "but it can't be done now. I couldn't leave home. Papa would want to know all about where I was going. I wouldn't know what to say."
"Why couldn't you pretend that you are going down to New York with Mrs. Bracebridge?" he suggested. "There couldn't be any objection to that, could there?"
"Not if they didn't find out," she said, her eyes opening in amazement. "But if they should!"
"They won't," he replied calmly. "They're not watching Mrs. Bracebridge's affairs. Plenty of mistresses take their maids on long trips. Why not simply tell them you're invited to go – have to go – and then go?"
"Do you think I could?" she inquired.
"Certainly," he replied. "What is there peculiar about that?"
She thought it over, and the plan did seem feasible. Then she looked at this man and realized that relationship with him meant possible motherhood for her again. The tragedy of giving birth to a child – ah, she could not go through that a second time, at least under the same conditions. She could not bring herself to tell him about Vesta, but she must voice this insurmountable objection.
"I – " she said, formulating the first word of her sentence, and then stopping.
"Yes," he said. "I – what?"
"I – " She paused again.
He loved her shy ways, her sweet, hesitating lips.
"What is it, Jennie?" he asked helpfully. "You're so delicious. Can't you tell me?"
Her hand was on the table. He reached over and laid his strong brown one on top of it.
"I couldn't have a baby," she said, finally, and looked down.
He gazed at her, and the charm of her frankness, her innate decency under conditions so anomalous, her simple unaffected recognition of the primal facts of life lifted her to a plane in his esteem which she had not occupied until that moment.
"You're a great girl, Jennie," he said. "You're wonderful. But don't worry about that. It can be arranged. You don't need to have a child unless you want to, and I don't want you to."
He saw the question written in her wondering, shamed face.
"It's so," he said. "You believe me, don't you? You think I know, don't you?"
"Yes," she faltered.
"Well, I do. But anyway, I wouldn't let any trouble come to you. I'll take you away. Besides, I don't want any children. There wouldn't be any satisfaction in that proposition for me at this time. I'd rather wait. But there won't be – don't worry."
"Yes," she said faintly. Not for worlds could she have met his eyes.
"Look here, Jennie," he said, after a time. "You care for me, don't you? You don't think I'd sit here and plead with you if I didn't care for you? I'm crazy about you, and that's the literal truth. You're like wine to me. I want you to come with me. I want you to do it quickly. I know how difficult this family business is, but you can arrange it. Come with me down to New York. We'll work out something later. I'll meet your family. We'll pretend a courtship, anything you like – only come now."
"You don't mean right away, do you?" she asked, startled.
"Yes, to-morrow if possible. Monday sure. You can arrange it. Why, if Mrs. Bracebridge asked you you'd go fast enough, and no one would think anything about it. Isn't that so?"
"Yes," she admitted slowly.
"Well, then, why not now?"
"It's always so much harder to work out a falsehood," she replied thoughtfully.
"I know it, but you can come. Won't you?"
"Won't you wait a little while?" she pleaded. "It's so very sudden. I'm afraid."
"Not a day, sweet, that I can help. Can't you see how I feel? Look in my eyes. Will you?"
"Yes," she replied sorrowfully, and yet with a strange thrill of affection. "I will."
CHAPTER XXIII
The business of arranging for this sudden departure was really not so difficult as it first appeared. Jennie proposed to tell her mother the whole truth, and there was nothing to say to her father except that she was going with Mrs. Bracebridge at the latter's request. He might question her, but he really could not doubt Before going home that afternoon she accompanied Lester to a department store, where she was fitted out with a trunk, a suit-case, and a traveling suit and hat. Lester was very proud of his prize. "When we get to New York I am going to get you some real things," he told her. "I am going to show you what you can be made to look like." He had all the purchased articles packed in the trunk and sent to his hotel. Then he arranged to have Jennie come there and dress Monday for the trip which began in the afternoon.
When she came home Mrs. Gerhardt, who was in the kitchen, received her with her usual affectionate greeting. "Have you been working very hard?" she asked. "You look tired."
"No," she said, "I'm not tired. It isn't that. I just don't feel good."
"What's the trouble?"
"Oh, I have to tell you something, mamma. It's so hard." She paused, looking inquiringly at her mother, and then away.
"Why, what is it?" asked her mother nervously. So many things had happened in the past that she was always on the alert for some new calamity. "You haven't lost your place, have you?"
"No," replied Jennie, with an effort to maintain her mental poise, "but I'm going to leave it."
"No!" exclaimed her mother. "Why?"
"I'm going to New York."
Her mother's eyes opened widely. "Why, when did you decide to do that?" she inquired.
"To-day."
"You don't mean it!"
"Yes, I do, mamma. Listen. I've got something I want to tell you. You know how poor we are. There isn't any way we can make things come out right. I have found some one who wants to help us. He says he loves me, and he wants me to go to New York with him Monday. I've decided to go."
"Oh, Jennie!" exclaimed her mother. "Surely not! You wouldn't do anything like that after all that's happened. Think of your father."
"I've thought it all out," went on Jennie, firmly. "It's really for the best. He's a good man. I know he is. He has lots of money. He wants me to go with him, and I'd better go. He will take a new house for us when we come back and help us to get along. No one will ever have me as a wife – you know that. It might as well be this way. He loves me. And I love him. Why shouldn't I go?"
"Does he know about Vesta?" asked her mother cautiously.
"No," said Jennie guiltily. "I thought I'd better not tell him about her. She oughtn't to be brought into it if I can help it."
"I'm afraid you're storing up trouble for yourself, Jennie," said her mother. "Don't you think he is sure to find it out some time?"
"I thought maybe that she could be kept here," suggested Jennie, "until she's old enough to go to school. Then maybe I could send her somewhere."
"She might," assented her mother; "but don't you think it would be better to tell him now? He won't think any the worse of you."
"It isn't that. It's her," said Jennie passionately. "I don't want her to be brought into it."
Her mother shook her head. "Where did you meet him?" she inquired.
"At Mrs. Bracebridge's."
"How long ago?"
"Oh, it's been almost two months now."
"And you never said anything about him," protested Mrs. Gerhardt reproachfully.
"I didn't know that he cared for me this way," said Jennie defensively.
"Why didn't you wait and let him come out here first?" asked her mother. "It will make things so much easier. You can't go and not have your father find out."
"I thought I'd say I was going with Mrs. Bracebridge. Papa can't object to my going with her."
"No," agreed her mother thoughtfully.
The two looked at each other in silence. Mrs. Gerhardt, with her imaginative nature, endeavored to formulate some picture of this new and wonderful personality that had come into Jennie's life. He was wealthy; he wanted to take Jennie; he wanted to give them a good home. What a story!
"And he gave me this," put in Jennie, who, with some instinctive psychic faculty, had been following her mother's mood. She opened her dress at the neck, and took out the two hundred and fifty dollars; she placed the money in her mother's hands.
The latter stared at it wide-eyed. Here was the relief for all her woes – food, clothes, rent, coal – all done up in one small package of green and yellow bills. If there were plenty of money in the house Gerhardt need not worry about his burned hands; George and Martha and Veronica could be clothed in comfort and made happy.
Jennie could dress better; there would be a future education for Vesta.
"Do you think he might ever want to marry you?" asked her mother finally.
"I don't know," replied Jennie "he might. I know he loves me."
"Well," said her mother after a long pause, "if you're going to tell your father you'd better do it right away. He'll think it's strange as it is."
Jennie realized that she had won. Her mother had acquiesced from sheer force of circumstances. She was sorry, but somehow it seemed to be for the best. "I'll help you out with it," her mother had concluded, with a little sigh.
The difficulty of telling this lie was very great for Mrs. Gerhardt, but she went through the falsehood with a seeming nonchalance which allayed Gerhardt's suspicions. The children were also told, and when, after the general discussion, Jennie repeated the falsehood to her father it seemed natural enough.
"How long do you think you'll be gone?" he inquired.
"About two or three weeks," she replied.
"That's a nice trip," he said. "I came through New York in 1844. It was a small place then compared to what it is now."
Secretly he was pleased that Jennie should have this fine chance. Her employer must like her.
When Monday came Jennie bade her parents good-by and left early, going straight to the Dornton, where Lester awaited her.
"So you came," he said gaily, greeting her as she entered the ladies' parlor.
"Yes," she said simply.
"You are my niece," he went on. "I have engaged H room for you near mine. I'll call for the key, and you go dress. When you're ready I'll have the trunk sent to the depot. The train leaves at one o'clock."
She went to her room and dressed, while he fidgeted about, read, smoked, and finally knocked at her door.
She replied by opening to him, fully clad.
"You look charming," he said with a smile.
She looked down, for she was nervous and distraught. The whole process of planning, lying, nerving herself to carry out her part had been hard on her. She looked tired and worried.
"Not grieving, are you?" he asked, seeing how things stood.
"No-o," she replied.
"Come now, sweet. You mustn't feel this way. It's coming out all right." He took her in his arms and kissed her, and they strolled down the hall. He was astonished to see how well she looked in even these simple clothes – the best she had ever had.
They reached the depot after a short carriage ride. The accommodations had been arranged for before hand, and Kane had allowed just enough time to make the train. When they settled themselves in a Pullman state-room it was with a keen sense of satisfaction on his part. Life looked rosy. Jennie was beside him. He had succeeded in what he had started out to do. So might it always be.
As the train rolled out of the depot and the long reaches of the fields succeeded Jennie studied them wistfully. There were the forests, leafless and bare; the wide, brown fields, wet with the rains of winter; the low farm-houses sitting amid flat stretches of prairie, their low roofs making them look as if they were hugging the ground. The train roared past little hamlets, with cottages of white and yellow and drab, their roofs blackened by frost and rain. Jennie noted one in particular which seemed to recall the old neighborhood where they used to live at Columbus; she put her handkerchief to her eyes and began silently to cry.
"I hope you're not crying, are you, Jennie?" said Lester, looking up suddenly from the letter he had been reading. "Come, come," he went on as he saw a faint tremor shaking her. "This won't do. You have to do better than this. You'll never get along if you act that way."
She made no reply, and the depth of her silent grief filled him with strange sympathies.
"Don't cry," he continued soothingly; "everything will be all right. I told you that. You needn't worry about anything."
Jennie made a great effort to recover herself, and began to dry her eyes.
"You don't want to give way like that," he continued. "It doesn't do you any good. I know how you feel about leaving home, but tears won't help it any. It isn't as if you were going away for good, you know. Besides, you'll be going back shortly. You care for me, don't you, sweet? I'm something?"
"Yes," she said, and managed to smile back at him.
Lester returned to his correspondence and Jennie fell to thinking of Vesta. It troubled her to realize that she was keeping this secret from one who was already very dear to her. She knew that she ought to tell Lester about the child, but she shrank from the painful necessity. Perhaps later on she might find the courage to do it.
"I'll have to tell him something," she thought with a sudden upwelling of feeling as regarded the seriousness of this duty. "If I don't do it soon and I should go and live with him and he should find it out he would never forgive me. He might turn me out, and then where would I go? I have no home now. What would I do with Vesta?"
She turned to contemplate him, a premonitory wave of terror sweeping over her, but she only saw that imposing and comfort-loving soul quietly reading his letters, his smoothly shaved red cheek and comfortable head and body looking anything but militant or like an avenging Nemesis. She was just withdrawing her gaze when he looked up.
"Well, have you washed all your sins away?" he inquired merrily.
She smiled faintly at the allusion. The touch of fact in it made it slightly piquant.
"I expect so," she replied.
He turned to some other topic, while she looked out of the window, the realization that one impulse to tell him had proved unavailing dwelling in her mind. "I'll have to do it shortly," she thought, and consoled herself with the idea that she would surely find courage before long.
Their arrival in New York the next day raised the important question in Lester's mind as to where he should stop. New York was a very large place, and he was not in much danger of encountering people who would know him, but he thought it just as well not to take chances. Accordingly he had the cabman drive them to one of the more exclusive apartment hotels, where he engaged a suite of rooms; and they settled themselves for a stay of two or three weeks.
This atmosphere into which Jennie was now plunged was so wonderful, so illuminating, that she could scarcely believe this was the same world that she had inhabited before. Kane was no lover of vulgar display. The appointments with which he surrounded himself were always simple and elegant. He knew at a glance what Jennie needed, and bought for her with discrimination and care. And Jennie, a woman, took a keen pleasure in the handsome gowns and pretty fripperies that he lavished upon her. Could this be really Jennie Gerhardt, the washerwoman's daughter, she asked herself, as she gazed in her mirror at the figure of a girl clad in blue velvet, with yellow French lace at her throat and upon her arms? Could these be her feet, clad in soft shapely shoes at ten dollars a pair, these her hands adorned with flashing jewels? What wonderful good fortune she was enjoying! And Lester had promised that her mother would share in it. Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought. The dear mother, how she loved her!
It was Lester's pleasure in these days to see what he could do to make her look like some one truly worthy of im. He exercised his most careful judgment, and the result surprised even himself. People turned in the halls, in the dining-rooms, and on the street to gaze at Jennie.
"A stunning woman that man has with him," was a frequent comment.
Despite her altered state Jennie did not lose her judgment of life or her sense of perspective or proportion. She felt as though life were tentatively loaning her something which would be taken away after a time. There was no pretty vanity in her bosom. Lester realized this as he watched her. "You're a big woman, in your way," he said. "You'll amount to something. Life hasn't given you much of a deal up to now."
He wondered how he could justify this new relationship to his family, should they chance to hear about it. If he should decide to take a home in Chicago or St. Louis (there was such a thought running in his mind) could he maintain it secretly? Did he want to? He was half persuaded that he really, truly loved her.
As the time drew near for their return he began to counsel her as to her future course of action. "You ought to find some way of introducing me, as an acquaintance, to your father," he said. "It will ease matters up. I think I'll call. Then if you tell him you're going to marry me he'll think nothing of it." Jennie thought of Vesta, and trembled inwardly. But perhaps her father could be induced to remain silent.
Lester had made the wise suggestion that she should retain the clothes she had worn in Cleveland in order that she might wear them home when she reached there. "There won't be any trouble about this other stuff," he said. "I'll have it cared for until we make some other arrangement." It was all very simple and easy; he was a master strategist.
Jennie had written her mother almost daily since she had been East. She had inclosed little separate notes to be read by Mrs. Gerhardt only. In one she explained Lester's desire to call, and urged her mother to prepare the way by telling her father that she had met some one who liked her. She spoke of the difficulty concerning Vesta, and her mother at once began to plan a campaign o have Gerhardt hold his peace. There must be no hitch now. Jennie must be given an opportunity to better herself. When she returned there was great rejoicing. Of course she could not go back to her work, but Mrs. Gerhardt explained that Mrs. Bracebridge had given Jennie a few weeks' vacation in order that she might look for something better, something at which he could make more money.
