Be recovering, proves fatal. Notable phases of a remarkable career. 20 страница

to talk together."

Ten days later he did call. He felt as if he must talk with her; he was

feeling bored and lonely; his long home life with Jennie had made hotel

life objectionable. He felt as though he must find a sympathetic, intelligent

ear, and where better than here? Letty was all ears for his troubles.

She would have pillowed his solid head upon her breast in a moment if

that had been possible.

"Well," he said, when the usual fencing preliminaries were over, "what

will you have me say in explanation?"

"Have you burned your bridges behind you?" she asked.

"I'm not so sure," he replied gravely. "And I can't say that I'm feeling

any too joyous about the matter as a whole."

"I thought as much," she replied. "I knew how it would be with you. I

can see you wading through this mentally, Lester. I have been watching

you, every step of the way, wishing you peace of mind. These things are

always so difficult, but don't you know I am still sure it's for the best. It

never was right the other way. It never could be. You couldn't afford to

sink back into a mere shell-fish life. You are not organized temperamentally

for that any more than I am. You may regret what you are doing

now, but you would have regretted the other thing quite as much and

more. You couldn't work your life out that way—now, could you?"

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"I don't know about that, Letty. Really, I don't. I've wanted to come

and see you for a long time, but I didn't think that I ought to. The fight

was outside—you know what I mean."

"Yes, indeed, I do," she said soothingly.

"It's still inside. I haven't gotten over it. I don't know whether this financial

business binds me sufficiently or not. I'll be frank and tell you that

I can't say I love her entirely; but I'm sorry, and that's something."

"She's comfortably provided for, of course," she commented rather

than inquired.

"Everything she wants. Jennie is of a peculiar disposition. She doesn't

want much. She's retiring by nature and doesn't care for show. I've taken

a cottage for her at Sandwood, a little place north of here on the lake; and

there's plenty of money in trust, but, of course, she knows she can live

anywhere she pleases."

"I understand exactly how she feels, Lester. I know how you feel. She

is going to suffer very keenly for a while—we all do when we have to

give up the thing we love. But we can get over it, and we do. At least, we

can live. She will. It will go hard at first, but after a while she will see

how it is, and she won't feel any the worse toward you."

"Jennie will never reproach me, I know that," he replied. "I'm the one

who will do the reproaching. I'll be abusing myself for some time. The

trouble is with my particular turn of mind. I can't tell, for the life of me,

how much of this disturbing feeling of mine is habit—the condition that

I'm accustomed to—and how much is sympathy. I sometimes think I'm

the the most pointless individual in the world. I think too much."

"Poor Lester!" she said tenderly. "Well, I understand for one. You're

lonely living where you are, aren't you?"

"I am that," he replied.

"Why not come and spend a few days down at West Baden? I'm going

there."

"When?" he inquired.

"Next Tuesday."

"Let me see," he replied. "I'm not sure that I can." He consulted his

notebook. "I could come Thursday, for a few days."

"Why not do that? You need company. We can walk and talk things

out down there. Will you?"

"Yes, I will," he replied.

She came toward him, trailing a lavender lounging robe. "You're such

a solemn philosopher, sir," she observed comfortably, "working through

all the ramifications of things. Why do you? You were always like that."

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"I can't help it," he replied. "It's my nature to think."

"Well, one thing I know—" and she tweaked his ear gently. "You're not

going to make another mistake through sympathy if I can help it," she

said daringly. "You're going to stay disentangled long enough to give

yourself a chance to think out what you want to do. You must. And I

wish for one thing you'd take over the management of my affairs. You

could advise me so much better than my lawyer."

He arose and walked to the window, turning to look back at her solemnly.

"I know what you want," he said doggedly.

"And why shouldn't I?" she demanded, again approaching him. She

looked at him pleadingly, defiantly. "Yes, why shouldn't I?"

"You don't know what you're doing," he grumbled; but he kept on

looking at her; she stood there, attractive as a woman of her age could

be, wise, considerate, full of friendship and affection.

"Letty," he said. "You ought not to want to marry me. I'm not worth it.

Really I'm not. I'm too cynical. Too indifferent. It won't be worth anything

in the long run."

"It will be worth something to me," she insisted. "I know what you are.

Anyhow, I don't care. I want you!"

He took her hands, then her arms. Finally he drew her to him, and put

his arms about her waist. "Poor Letty!" he said; "I'm not worth it. You'll

be sorry."

"No, I'll not," she replied. "I know what I'm doing. I don't care what

you think you are worth." She laid her cheek on his shoulder. "I want

you."

"If you keep on I venture to say you'll have me," he returned. He bent

and kissed her.

"Oh," she exclaimed, and hid her hot face against his breast.

"This is bad business," he thought, even as he held her within the circle

of his arms. "It isn't what I ought to be doing."

Still he held her, and now when she offered her lips coaxingly he

kissed her again and again.

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Chapter 56

It is difficult to say whether Lester might not have returned to Jennie

after all but for certain influential factors. After a time, with his control of

his portion of the estate firmly settled in his hands and the storm of original

feeling forgotten, he was well aware that diplomacy—if he ignored

his natural tendency to fulfil even implied obligations—could readily

bring about an arrangement whereby he and Jennie could be together.

But he was haunted by the sense of what might be called an important

social opportunity in the form of Mrs. Gerald. He was compelled to set

over against his natural tendency toward Jennie a consciousness of what

he was ignoring in the personality and fortunes of her rival, who was

one of the most significant and interesting figures on the social horizon.

For think as he would, these two women were now persistently opposed

in his consciousness. The one polished, sympathetic, philosophic—

schooled in all the niceties of polite society, and with the means to

gratify her every wish; the other natural, sympathetic, emotional, with

no schooling in the ways of polite society, but with a feeling for the

beauty of life and the lovely things in human relationship which made

her beyond any question an exceptional woman. Mrs. Gerald saw it and

admitted it. Her criticism of Lester's relationship with Jennie was not

that she was not worth while, but that conditions made it impolitic. On

the other hand, union with her was an ideal climax for his social aspirations.

This would bring everything out right. He would be as happy with

her as he would be with Jennie—almost—and he would have the satisfaction

of knowing that this Western social and financial world held no

more significant figure than himself. It was not wise to delay either this

latter excellent solution of his material problems, and after thinking it

over long and seriously he finally concluded that he would not. He had

already done Jennie the irreparable wrong of leaving her. What difference

did it make if he did this also? She was possessed of everything she

could possibly want outside of himself. She had herself deemed it advisable

for him to leave. By such figments of the brain, in the face of

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unsettled and disturbing conditions, he was becoming used to the idea of

a new alliance.

The thing which prevented an eventual resumption of relationship in

some form with Jennie was the constant presence of Mrs. Gerald. Circumstances

conspired to make her the logical solution of his mental

quandary at this time. Alone he could do nothing save to make visits

here and there, and he did not care to do that. He was too indifferent

mentally to gather about him as a bachelor that atmosphere which he enjoyed

and which a woman like Mrs. Gerald could so readily provide. United

with her it was simple enough. Their home then, wherever it was,

would be full of clever people. He would need to do little save to appear

and enjoy it. She understood quite as well as any one how he liked to

live. She enjoyed to meet the people he enjoyed meeting. There were so

many things they could do together nicely. He visited West Baden at the

same time she did, as she suggested. He gave himself over to her in Chicago

for dinners, parties, drives. Her house was quite as much his own

as hers—she made him feel so. She talked to him about her affairs, showing

him exactly how they stood and why she wished him to intervene in

this and that matter. She did not wish him to be much alone. She did not

want him to think or regret. She came to represent to him comfort, forgetfulness,

rest from care. With the others he visited at her house occasionally,

and it gradually became rumored about that he would marry

her. Because of the fact that there had been so much discussion of his

previous relationship, Letty decided that if ever this occurred it should

be a quiet affair. She wanted a simple explanation in the papers of how it

had come about, and then afterward, when things were normal again

and gossip had subsided, she would enter on a dazzling social display

for his sake.

"Why not let us get married in April and go abroad for the summer?"

she asked once, after they had reached a silent understanding that marriage

would eventually follow. "Let's go to Japan. Then we can come

back in the fall, and take a house on the drive."

Lester had been away from Jennie so long now that the first severe

wave of self-reproach had passed. He was still doubtful, but he preferred

to stifle his misgivings. "Very well," he replied, almost jokingly. "Only

don't let there be any fuss about it."

"Do you really mean that, sweet?" she exclaimed, looking over at him;

they had been spending the evening together quietly reading and

chatting.

"I've thought about it a long while," he replied. "I don't see why not."

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She came over to him and sat on his knee, putting her arms upon his

shoulders.

"I can scarcely believe you said that," she said, looking at him

curiously.

"Shall I take it back?" he asked.

"No, no. It's agreed for April now. And we'll go to Japan. You can't

change your mind. There won't be any fuss. But my, what a trousseau I

will prepare!"

He smiled a little constrainedly as she tousled his head; there was a

missing note somewhere in this gamut of happiness; perhaps it was because

he was getting old.

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Chapter 57

In the meantime Jennie was going her way, settling herself in the

markedly different world in which henceforth she was to move. It

seemed a terrible thing at first—this life without Lester. Despite her own

strong individuality, her ways had become so involved with his that

there seemed to be no possibility of disentangling them. Constantly she

was with him in thought and action, just as though they had never separated.

Where was he now? What was he doing? What was he saying?

How was he looking? In the mornings when she woke it was with the

sense that he must be beside her. At night as if she could not go to bed

alone. He would come after a while surely—ah, no, of course he would

not come. Dear heaven, think of that! Never any more. And she wanted

him so.

Again there were so many little trying things to adjust, for a change of

this nature is too radical to be passed over lightly. The explanation she

had to make to Vesta was of all the most important. This little girl, who

was old enough now to see and think for herself, was not without her

surmises and misgivings. Vesta recalled that her mother had been accused

of not being married to her father when she was born. She had

seen the article about Jennie and Lester in the Sunday paper at the time it

had appeared—it had been shown to her at school—but she had had

sense enough to say nothing about it, feeling somehow that Jennie would

not like it. Lester's disappearance was a complete surprise; but she had

learned in the last two or three years that her mother was very sensitive,

and that she could hurt her in unexpected ways. Jennie was finally compelled

to tell Vesta that Lester's fortune had been dependent on his leaving

her, solely because she was not of his station. Vesta listened soberly

and half suspected the truth. She felt terribly sorry for her mother, and,

because of Jennie's obvious distress, she was trebly gay and courageous.

She refused outright the suggestion of going to a boarding-school and

kept as close to her mother as she could. She found interesting books to

read with her, insisted that they go to see plays together, played to her

on the piano, and asked for her mother's criticisms on her drawing and

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modeling. She found a few friends in the excellent Sand wood school,

and brought them home of an evening to add lightness and gaiety to the

cottage life. Jennie, through her growing appreciation of Vesta's fine

character, became more and more drawn toward her. Lester was gone,

but at least she had Vesta. That prop would probably sustain her in the

face of a waning existence.

There was also her history to account for to the residents of Sandwood.

In many cases where one is content to lead a secluded life it is not necessary

to say much of one's past, but as a rule something must be said.

People have the habit of inquiring—if they are no more than butchers

and bakers. By degrees one must account for this and that fact, and it

was so here. She could not say that her husband was dead. Lester might

come back. She had to say that she had left him—to give the impression

that it would be she, if any one, who would permit him to return. This

put her in an interesting and sympathetic light in the neighborhood. It

was the most sensible thing to do. She then settled down to a quiet

routine of existence, waiting what dénouement to her life she could not

guess.

Sandwood life was not without its charms for a lover of nature, and

this, with the devotion of Vesta, offered some slight solace. There was

the beauty of the lake, which, with its passing boats, was a never-ending

source of joy, and there were many charming drives in the surrounding

country. Jennie had her own horse and carryall—one of the horses of the

pair they had used in Hyde Park. Other household pets appeared in due

course of time, including a collie, that Vesta named Rats; she had

brought him from Chicago as a puppy, and he had grown to be a sterling

watch-dog, sensible and affectionate. There was also a cat, Jimmy

Woods, so called after a boy Vesta knew, and to whom she insisted the

cat bore a marked resemblance. There was a singing thrush, guarded

carefully against a roving desire for bird-food on the part of Jimmy

Woods, and a jar of goldfish. So this little household drifted along

quietly and dreamily indeed, but always with the undercurrent of feeling

which ran so still because it was so deep.

There was no word from Lester for the first few weeks following his

departure; he was too busy following up the threads of his new commercial

connections and too considerate to wish to keep Jennie in a state of

mental turmoil over communications which, under the present circumstances,

could mean nothing. He preferred to let matters rest for the time

being; then a little later he would write her sanely and calmly of how

things were going. He did this after the silence of a month, saying that he

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had been pretty well pressed by commercial affairs, that he had been in

and out of the city frequently (which was the truth), and that he would

probably be away from Chicago a large part of the time in the future. He

inquired after Vesta and the condition of affairs generally at Sandwood.

"I may get up there one of these days," he suggested, but he really did

not mean to come, and Jennie knew that he did not.

Another month passed, and then there was a second letter from him,

not so long as the first one. Jennie had written him frankly and fully,

telling him just how things stood with her. She concealed entirely her

own feelings in the matter, saying that she liked the life very much, and

that she was glad to be at Sand wood. She expressed the hope that now

everything was coming out for the best for him, and tried to show him

that she was really glad matters had been settled. "You mustn't think of

me as being unhappy," she said in one place, "for I'm not. I am sure it

ought to be just as it is, and I wouldn't be happy if it were any other way.

Lay out your life so as to give yourself the greatest happiness, Lester,"

she added. "You deserve it. Whatever you do will be just right for me. I

won't mind." She had Mrs. Gerald in mind, and he suspected as much,

but he felt that her generosity must be tinged greatly with self-sacrifice

and secret unhappiness. It was the one thing which made him hesitate

about taking that final step.

The written word and the hidden thought—how they conflict! After

six months the correspondence was more or less perfunctory on his part,

and at eight it had ceased temporarily.

One morning, as she was glancing over the daily paper, she saw

among the society notes the following item:

The engagement of Mrs. Malcolm Gerald, of 4044 Drexel Boulevard,

to Lester Kane, second son of the late Archibald Kane, of Cincinnati,

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