Be recovering, proves fatal. Notable phases of a remarkable career. 19 страница

"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 assured 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 attitude. 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.

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"You must decide, Lester," she kept saying to him, from time to time.

"You must let me go. What difference does it make? I will be all right.

Maybe, when this thing is all over you might want to come back to me. If

you do, I will be there."

"I'm not ready to come to a decision," was his invariable reply. "I don't

know that I want to leave you. This money is important, of course, but

money isn't everything. I can live on ten thousand a year if necessary.

I've done it in the past."

"Oh, but you're so much more placed in the world now, Lester," she

argued. "You can't do it. Look how much it costs to run this house alone.

And a million and a half of dollars—why, I wouldn't let you think of losing

that. I'll go myself first."

"Where would you think of going if it came to that?" he asked

curiously.

"Oh, I'd find some place. Do you remember that little town of Sandwood,

this side of Kenosha? I have often thought it would be a pleasant

place to live."

"I don't like to think of this," he said finally in an outburst of frankness.

"It doesn't seem fair. The conditions have all been against this union of

ours. I suppose I should have married you in the first place. I'm sorry

now that I didn't."

Jennie choked in her throat, but said nothing.

"Anyhow, this won't be the last of it, if I can help it," he concluded. He

was thinking that the storm might blow over; once he had the money,

and then—but he hated compromises and subterfuges.

It came by degrees to be understood that, toward the end of February,

she should look around at Sandwood and see what she could find. She

was to have ample means, he told her, everything that she wanted. After

a time he might come out and visit her occasionally. And he was determined

in his heart that he would make some people pay for the trouble

they had caused him. He decided to send for Mr. O'Brien shortly and

talk things over. He wanted for his personal satisfaction to tell him what

he thought of him.

At the same time, in the background of his mind, moved the shadowy

figure of Mrs. Gerald—charming, sophisticated, well placed in every

sense of the word. He did not want to give her the broad reality of full

thought, but she was always there. He thought and thought. "Perhaps I'd

better," he half concluded. When February came he was ready to act.

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Chapter 54

The little town of Sandwood, "this side of Kenosha," as Jennie had expressed

it, was only a short distance from Chicago, an hour and fifteen

minutes by the local train. It had a population of some three hundred

families, dwelling in small cottages, which were scattered over a pleasant

area of lake-shore property. They were not rich people. The houses were

not worth more than from three to five thousand dollars each, but, in

most cases, they were harmoniously constructed, and the surrounding

trees, green for the entire year, gave them a pleasing summery appearance.

Jennie, at the time they had passed by there—it was an outing

taken behind a pair of fast horses—had admired the look of a little white

church steeple, set down among green trees, and the gentle rocking of

the boats upon the summer water.

"I should like to live in a place like this some time," she had said to

Lester, and he had made the comment that it was a little too peaceful for

him. "I can imagine getting to the place where I might like this, but not

now. It's too withdrawn."

Jennie thought of that expression afterward. It came to her when she

thought that the world was trying. If she had to be alone ever and could

afford it she would like to live in a place like Sandwood. There she

would have a little garden, some chickens, perhaps, a tall pole with a

pretty bird-house on it, and flowers and trees and green grass everywhere

about. If she could have a little cottage in a place like this which

commanded a view of the lake she could sit of a summer evening and

sew. Vesta could play about or come home from school. She might have

a few friends, or not any. She was beginning to think that she could do

very well living alone if it were not for Vesta's social needs. Books were

pleasant things—she was finding that out—books like Irving's Sketch

Book, Lamb's Elia, and Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales. Vesta was coming to

be quite a musician in her way, having a keen sense of the delicate and

refined in musical composition. She had a natural sense of harmony and

a love for those songs and instrumental compositions which reflect sentimental

and passionate moods; and she could sing and play quite well.

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Her voice was, of course, quite untrained—she was only fourteen—but it

was pleasant to listen to. She was beginning to show the combined traits

of her mother and father—Jennie's gentle, speculative turn of mind, combined

with Brander's vivacity of spirit and innate executive capacity. She

could talk to her mother in a sensible way about things, nature, books,

dress, love, and from her developing tendencies Jennie caught keen

glimpses of the new worlds which Vesta was to explore. The nature of

modern school life, its consideration of various divisions of knowledge,

music, science, all came to Jennie watching her daughter take up new

themes. Vesta was evidently going to be a woman of considerable ability—

not irritably aggressive, but self-constructive. She would be able to

take care of herself. All this pleased Jennie and gave her great hopes for

Vesta's future.

The cottage which was finally secured at Sandwood was only a story

and a half in height, but it was raised upon red brick piers between

which were set green lattices and about which ran a veranda. The house

was long and narrow, its full length—some five rooms in a row—facing

the lake. There was a dining-room with windows opening even with the

floor, a large library with built-in shelves for books, and a parlor whose

three large windows afforded air and sunshine at all times.

The plot of ground in which this cottage stood was one hundred feet

square and ornamented with a few trees. The former owner had laid out

flower-beds, and arranged green hardwood tubs for the reception of

various hardy plants and vines. The house was painted white, with

green shutters and green shingles.

It had been Lester's idea, since this thing must be, that Jennie might

keep the house in Hyde Park just as it was, but she did not want to do

that. She could not think of living there alone. The place was too full of

memories. At first, she did not think she would take anything much with

her, but she finally saw that it was advisable to do as Lester suggested—

to fit out the new place with a selection of silverware, hangings,

and furniture from the Hyde Park house.

"You have no idea what you will or may want," he said. "Take

everything. I certainly don't want any of it."

A lease of the cottage was taken for two years, together with an option

for an additional five years, including the privilege of purchase. So long

as he was letting her go, Lester wanted to be generous. He could not

think of her as wanting for anything, and he did not propose that she

should. His one troublesome thought was, what explanation was to be

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made to Vesta. He liked her very much and wanted her "life kept free of

complications.

"Why not send her off to a boarding-school until spring?" he suggested

once; but owing to the lateness of the season this was abandoned as inadvisable.

Later they agreed that business affairs made it necessary for

him to travel and for Jennie to move. Later Vesta could be told that Jennie

had left him for any reason she chose to give. It was a trying situation,

all the more bitter to Jennie because she realized that in spite of the

wisdom of it indifference to her was involved. He really did not care

enough, as much as he cared.

The relationship of man and woman which we study so passionately

in the hope of finding heaven knows what key to the mystery of existence

holds no more difficult or trying situation than this of mutual compatibility

broken or disrupted by untoward conditions which in themselves

have so little to do with the real force and beauty of the relationship

itself. These days of final dissolution in which this household, so

charmingly arranged, the scene of so many pleasant activities, was literally

going to pieces was a period of great trial to both Jennie and Lester.

On her part it was one of intense suffering, for she was of that stable

nature that rejoices to fix itself in a serviceable and harmonious relationship,

and then stay so. For her life was made up of those mystic chords

of sympathy and memory which bind up the transient elements of

nature into a harmonious and enduring scene. One of those chords—this

home was her home, united and made beautiful by her affection and

consideration for each person and every object. Now the time had come

when it must cease.

If she had ever had anything before in her life which had been like this

it might have been easier to part with it now, though, as she had proved,

Jennie's affections were not based in any way upon material considerations.

Her love of life and of personality were free from the taint of

selfishness. She went about among these various rooms selecting this

rug, that set of furniture, this and that ornament, wishing all the time

with all her heart and soul that it need not be. Just to think, in a little

while Lester would not come any more of an evening! She would not

need to get up first of a morning and see that coffee was made for her

lord, that the table in the dining-room looked just so. It had been a habit

of hers to arrange a bouquet for the table out of the richest blooming

flowers of the conservatory, and she had always felt in doing it that it

was particularly for him. Now it would not be necessary any more—not

for him. When one is accustomed to wait for the sound of a certain

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carriage-wheel of an evening grating upon your carriage drive, when

one is used to listen at eleven, twelve, and one, waking naturally and

joyfully to the echo of a certain step on the stair, the separation, the ending

of these things, is keen with pain. These were the thoughts that were

running through Jennie's brain hour after hour and day after day.

Lester on his part was suffering in another fashion. His was not the

sorrow of lacerated affection, of discarded and despised love, but of that

painful sense of unfairness which comes to one who knows that he is

making a sacrifice of the virtues—kindness, loyalty, affection—to policy.

Policy was dictating a very splendid course of action from one point of

view. Free of Jennie, providing for her admirably, he was free to go his

way, taking to himself the mass of affairs which come naturally with

great wealth. He could not help thinking of the thousand and one little

things which Jennie had been accustomed to do for him, the hundred

and one comfortable and pleasant and delightful things she meant to

him. The virtues which she possessed were quite dear to his mind. He

had gone over them time and again. Now he was compelled to go over

them finally, to see that she was suffering without making a sign. Her

manner and attitude toward him in these last days were quite the same

as they had always been—no more, no less. She was not indulging in

private hysterics, as another woman might have done; she was not pretending

a fortitude in suffering she did not feel, showing him one face

while wishing him to see another behind it. She was calm, gentle, considerate—

thoughtful of him—where he would go and what he would do,

without irritating him by her inquiries. He was struck quite favorably by

her ability to take a large situation largely, and he admired her. There

was something to this woman, let the world think what it might. It was a

shame that her life was passed under such a troubled star. Still a great

world was calling him. The sound of its voice was in his ears. It had on

occasion shown him its bared teeth. Did he really dare to hesitate?

The last hour came, when having made excuses to this and that neighbor,

when having spread the information that they were going abroad,

when Lester had engaged rooms at the Auditorium, and the mass of furniture

which could not be used had gone to storage, that it was necessary

to say farewell to this Hyde Park domicile. Jennie had visited Sandwood

in company with Lester several times. He had carefully examined the

character of the place. He was satisfied that it was nice but lonely. Spring

was at hand, the flowers would be something. She was going to keep a

gardener and man of all work. Vesta would be with her.

"Very well," he said, "only I want you to be comfortable."

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In the mean time Lester had been arranging his personal affairs. He

had notified Messrs. Knight, Keatley & O'Brien through his own attorney,

Mr. Watson, that he would expect them to deliver his share of his

father's securities on a given date. He had made up his mind that as long

as he was compelled by circumstances to do this thing he would do a

number of other things equally ruthless. He would probably marry Mrs.

Gerald. He would sit as a director in the United Carriage Company—

with his share of the stock it would be impossible to keep him

out. If he had Mrs. Gerald's money he would become a controlling factor

in the United Traction of Cincinnati, in which his brother was heavily interested,

and in the Western Steel Works, of which his brother was now

the leading adviser. What a different figure he would be now from that

which he had been during the past few years!

Jennie was depressed to the point of despair. She was tremendously

lonely. This home had meant so much to her. When she first came here

and neighbors had begun to drop in she had imagined herself on the

threshold of a great career, that some day, possibly, Lester would marry

her. Now, blow after blow had been delivered, and the home and dream

were a ruin. Gerhardt was gone. Jeannette, Harry Ward, and Mrs. Frissell

had been discharged, the furniture for a good part was in storage,

and for her, practically, Lester was no more. She realized clearly that he

would not come back. If he could do this thing now, even considerately,

he could do much more when he was free and away later. Immersed in

his great affairs, he would forget, of course. And why not? She did not fit

in. Had not everything—everything illustrated that to her? Love was not

enough in this world—that was so plain. One needed education, wealth,

training, the ability to fight and scheme, She did not want to do that. She

could not.

The day came when the house was finally closed and the old life was

at an end. Lester traveled with Jennie to Sandwood. He spent some little

while in the house trying to get her used to the idea of change—it was

not so bad. He intimated that he would come again soon, but he went

away, and all his words were as nothing against the fact of the actual and

spiritual separation. When Jennie saw him going down the brick walk

that afternoon, his solid, conservative figure clad in a new tweed suit, his

overcoat on his arm, self-reliance and prosperity written all over him,

she thought that she would die. She had kissed Lester good-by and had

wished him joy, prosperity, peace; then she made an excuse to go to her

bedroom. Vesta came after a time, to seek her, but now her eyes were

quite dry; everything had subsided to a dull ache. The new life was

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actually begun for her—a life without Lester, without Gerhardt, without

any one save Vesta.

"What curious things have happened to me!" she thought, as she went

into the kitchen, for she had determined to do at least some of her own

work. She needed the distraction. She did not want to think. If it were

not for Vesta she would have sought some regular outside employment.

Anything to keep from brooding, for in that direction lay madness.

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Chapter 55

The social and business worlds of Chicago, Cincinnati, Cleveland, and

other cities saw, during the year or two which followed the breaking of

his relationship with Jennie, a curious rejuvenation in the social and

business spirit of Lester Kane. He had become rather distant and indifferent

to certain personages and affairs while he was living with her, but

now he suddenly appeared again, armed with authority from a number

of sources, looking into this and that matter with the air of one who has

the privilege of power, and showing himself to be quite a personage

from the point of view of finance and commerce. He was older of course.

It must be admitted that he was in some respects a mentally altered

Lester. Up to the time he had met Jennie he was full of the assurance of

the man who has never known defeat. To have been reared in luxury as

he had been, to have seen only the pleasant side of society, which is so

persistent and so deluding where money is concerned, to have been in

the run of big affairs not because one has created them, but because one

is a part of them and because they are one's birthright, like the air one

breathes, could not help but create one of those illusions of solidarity

which is apt to befog the clearest brain. It is so hard for us to know what

we have not seen. It is so difficult for us to feel what we have not experienced.

Like this world of ours, which seems so solid and persistent solely

because we have no knowledge of the power which creates it, Lester's

world seemed solid and persistent and real enough to him. It was only

when the storms set in and the winds of adversity blew and he found

himself facing the armed forces of convention that he realized he might

be mistaken as to the value of his personality, that his private desires and

opinions were as nothing in the face of a public conviction; that he was

wrong. The race spirit, or social avatar, the "Zeitgeist" as the Germans

term it, manifested itself as something having a system in charge, and

the organization of society began to show itself to him as something

based on possibly a spiritual, or, at least, superhuman counterpart. He

could not fly in the face of it. He could not deliberately ignore its mandates.

The people of his time believed that some particular form of social

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arrangement was necessary, and unless he complied with that he could,

as he saw, readily become a social outcast. His own father and mother

had turned on him—his brother and sisters, society, his friends. Dear

heaven, what a to-do this action of his had created! Why, even the fates

seemed adverse. His real estate venture was one of the most fortuitously

unlucky things he had ever heard of. Why? Were the gods battling on

the side of a to him unimportant social arrangement? Apparently.

Anyhow, he had been compelled to quit, and here he was, vigorous, determined,

somewhat battered by the experience, but still forceful and

worth while.

And it was a part of the penalty that he had become measurably

soured by what had occurred. He was feeling that he had been compelled

to do the first ugly, brutal thing of his life. Jennie deserved better

of him. It was a shame to forsake her after all the devotion she had manifested.

Truly she had played a finer part than he. Worst of all, his deed

could not be excused on the grounds of necessity. He could have lived

on ten thousand a year; he could have done without the million and

more which was now his. He could have done without the society, the

pleasures of which had always been a lure. He could have, but he had

not, and he had complicated it all with the thought of another woman.

Was she as good as Jennie? That was a question which always rose before

him. Was she as kindly? Wasn't she deliberately scheming under his

very eyes to win him away from the woman who was as good as his

wife? Was that admirable? Was it the thing a truly big woman would

do? Was she good enough for him after all? Ought he to marry her?

Ought he to marry any one seeing that he really owed a spiritual if not a

legal allegiance to Jennie? Was it worth while for any woman to marry

him? These things turned in his brain. They haunted him. He could not

shut out the fact that he was doing a cruel and unlovely thing.

Material error in the first place was now being complicated with spiritual

error. He was attempting to right the first by committing the

second. Could it be done to his own satisfaction? Would it pay mentally

and spiritually? Would it bring him peace of mind? He was thinking,

thinking, all the while he was readjusting his life to the old (or perhaps

better yet, new) conditions, and he was not feeling any happier. As a

matter of fact he was feeling worse—grim, revengeful. If he married

Letty he thought at times it would be to use her fortune as a club to

knock other enemies over the head, and he hated to think he was marrying

her for that. He took up his abode at the Auditorium, visited Cincinnati

in a distant and aggressive spirit, sat in council with the board of

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directors, wishing that he was more at peace with himself, more interested

in life. But he did not change his policy in regard to Jennie.

Of course Mrs. Gerald had been vitally interested in Lester's rehabilitation.

She waited tactfully some little time before sending him any word;

finally she ventured to write to him at the Hyde Park address (as if she

did not know where he was), asking, "Where are you?" By this time

Lester had become slightly accustomed to the change in his life. He was

saying to himself that he needed sympathetic companionship, the companionship

of a woman, of course. Social invitations had begun to come

to him now that he was alone and that his financial connections were so

obviously restored. He had made his appearance, accompanied only by a

Japanese valet, at several country houses, the best sign that he was once

more a single man. No reference was made by any one to the past.

On receiving Mrs. Gerald's note he decided that he ought to go and see

her. He had treated her rather shabbily. For months preceding his separation

from Jennie he had not gone near her. Even now he waited until

time brought a 'phoned invitation to dinner. This he accepted.

Mrs. Gerald was at her best as a hostess at her perfectly appointed

dinner-table. Alboni, the pianist, was there on this occasion, together

with Adam Rascavage, the sculptor, a visiting scientist from England, Sir

Nelson Keyes, and, curiously enough, Mr. and Mrs. Berry Dodge, whom

Lester had not met socially in several years. Mrs. Gerald and Lester exchanged

the joyful greetings of those who understand each other thoroughly

and are happy in each other's company. "Aren't you ashamed of

yourself, sir," she said to him when he made his appearance, "to treat me

so indifferently? You are going to be punished for this."

"What's the damage?" he smiled. "I've been extremely rushed. I suppose

something like ninety stripes will serve me about right."

"Ninety stripes, indeed!" she retorted. "You're letting yourself off easy.

What is it they do to evil-doers in Siam?"

"Boil them in oil, I suppose."

"Well, anyhow, that's more like. I'm thinking of something terrible."

"Be sure and tell me when you decide," he laughed, and passed on to

be presented to distinguished strangers by Mrs. De Lincum who aided

Mrs. Gerald in receiving.

The talk was stimulating. Lester was always at his ease intellectually,

and this mental atmosphere revived him. Presently he turned to greet

Berry Dodge, who was standing at his elbow.

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Dodge was all cordiality. "Where are you now?" he asked. "We haven't

seen you in—oh, when? Mrs. Dodge is waiting to have a word with

you." Lester noticed the change in Dodge's attitude.

"Some time, that's sure," he replied easily. "I'm living at the

Auditorium."

"I was asking after you the other day. You know Jackson Du Bois? Of

course you do. We were thinking of running up into Canada for some

hunting. Why don't you join us?"

"I can't," replied Lester. "Too many things on hand just now. Later,

surely."

Dodge was anxious to continue. He had seen Lester's election as a director

of the C. H. & D. Obviously he was coming back into the world.

But dinner was announced and Lester sat at Mrs. Gerald's right hand.

"Aren't you coming to pay me a dinner call some afternoon after this?"

asked Mrs. Gerald confidentially when the conversation was brisk at the

other end of the table.

"I am, indeed," he replied, "and shortly. Seriously, I've been wanting to

look you up. You understand though how things are now?"

"I do. I've heard a great deal. That's why I want you to come. We need

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