Jennie Gerhardt: A Novel

The progress of the old German's malady toward final dissolution preyed greatly on Jennie's mind; for, in spite of the fact that they had been so far apart in times past, they had now grown very close together. Gerhardt had come to realize clearly that his outcast daughter was goodness itself – at least, so far as he was concerned. She never quarreled with him, never crossed him in any way. Now that he was sick, she was in and out of his room a dozen times in an evening or an afternoon, seeing whether he was "all right," asking how he liked his breakfast, or his lunch, or his dinner. As he grew weaker she would sit by him and read, or do her sewing in his room. One day when she was straightening his pillow he took her hand and kissed it. He was feeling very weak – and despondent. She looked up in astonishment, a lump in her throat. There were tears in his eyes.

"You're a good girl, Jennie," he said brokenly. "You've been good to me. I've been hard and cross, but I'm an old man. You forgive me, don't you?"

"Oh, papa, please don't," she pleaded, tears welling from her eyes. "You know I have nothing to forgive. I'm the one who has been all wrong."

"No, no," he said; and she sank down on her knees beside him and cried. He put his thin, yellow hand on her hair. "There, there," he said brokenly, "I understand a lot of things I didn't. We get wiser as we get older."

She left the room, ostensibly to wash her face and hands, and cried her eyes out. Was he really forgiving her at last? And she had lied to him so! She tried to be more attentive, but that was impossible. But after this reconciliation he seemed happier and more contented, and they spent a number of happy hours together, just talking. Once he said to her, "You know I feel just like I did when I was a boy. If it wasn't for my bones I could get up and dance on the grass."

Jennie fairly smiled and sobbed in one breath. "You'll get stronger, papa," she said. "You're going to get well. Then I'll take you out driving." She was so glad she had been able to make him comfortable these last few years.

As for Lester, he was affectionate and considerate.

"Well, how is it to-night?" he would ask the moment he entered the house, and he would always drop in for a few minutes before dinner to see how the old man was getting along. "He looks pretty well," he would tell Jennie. "He's apt to live some time yet. I wouldn't worry."

Vesta also spent much time with her grandfather, for she had come to love him dearly. She would bring her books, if it didn't disturb him too much, and recite some of her lessons, or she would leave his door open, and play for him on the piano. Lester had bought her a handsome music-box also, which she would sometimes carry to his room and play for him. At times he wearied of everything and everybody save Jennie; he wanted to be alone with her. She would sit beside him quite still and sew. She could see plainly that the end was only a little way off.

Gerhardt, true to his nature, took into consideration all the various arrangements contingent upon his death. He wished to be buried in the little Lutheran cemetery, which was several miles farther out on the South Side, and he wanted the beloved minister of his church to officiate.

"I want everything plain," he said. "Just my black suit and those Sunday shoes of mine, and that black string tie. I don't want anything else. I will be all right."

Jennie begged him not to talk of it, but he would. One day at four o'clock he had a sudden sinking spell, and at five he was dead. Jennie held his hands, watching his labored breathing; once or twice he opened his eyes to smile at her. "I don't mind going," he said, in this final hour. "I've done what I could."

"Don't talk of dying, papa," she pleaded.

"It's the end," he said. "You've been good to me. You're a good woman."

She heard no other words from his lips.

The finish which time thus put to this troubled life affected Jennie deeply. Strong in her kindly, emotional relationships, Gerhardt had appealed to her not only as her father, but as a friend and counselor. She saw him now in his true perspective, a hard-working, honest, sincere old German, who had done his best to raise a troublesome family and lead an honest life. Truly she had been his one great burden, and she had never really dealt truthfully with him to the end. She wondered now if where he was he could see that she had lied. And would he forgive her? He had called her a good woman.

Telegrams were sent to all the children. Bass wired that he was coming, and arrived the next day. The others wired that they could not come, but asked for details, which Jennie wrote. The Lutheran minister was called in to say prayers and fix the time of the burial service. A fat, smug undertaker was commissioned to arrange all the details. Some few neighborhood friends called – those who had remained most faithful – and on the second morning following his death the services were held. Lester accompanied Jennie and Vesta and Bass to the little red brick Lutheran church, and sat stolidly through the rather dry services. He listened wearily to the long discourse on the beauties and rewards of a future life and stirred irritably when reference was made to a hell. Bass was rather bored, but considerate. He looked upon his father now much as he would on any other man. Only Jennie wept sympathetically. She saw her father in perspective, the long years of trouble he had had, the days in which he had had to saw wood for a living, the days in which he had lived in a factory loft, the little shabby house they had been compelled to live in in Thirteenth Street, the terrible days of suffering they had spent in Lorrie Street, in Cleveland, his grief over her, his grief over Mrs. Gerhardt, his love and care of Vesta, and finally these last days.

"Oh, he was a good man," she thought. "He meant so well." They sang a hymn, "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," and then she sobbed.

Lester pulled at her arm. He was moved to the danger-line himself by her grief. "You'll have to do better than this," he whispered. "My God, I can't stand it. I'll have to get up and get out." Jennie quieted a little, but the fact that the last visible ties were being broken between her and her father was almost too much.

At the grave in the Cemetery of the Redeemer, where Lester had immediately arranged to purchase a lot, they saw the plain coffin lowered and the earth shoveled in. Lester looked curiously at the bare trees, the brown dead grass, and the brown soil of the prairie turned up at this simple graveside. There was no distinction to this burial plot. It was commonplace and shabby, a working-man's resting-place, but so long as he wanted it, it was all right. He studied Bass's keen, lean face, wondering what sort of a career he was cutting out for himself. Bass looked to him like some one who would run a cigar store successfully. He watched Jennie wiping her red eyes, and then he said to himself again, "Well, there is something to her." The woman's emotion was so deep, so real. "There's no explaining a good woman," he said to himself.

On the way home, through the wind-swept, dusty streets, he talked of life in general, Bass and Vesta being present. "Jennie takes things too seriously," he said. "She's inclined to be morbid. Life isn't as bad as she makes out with her sensitive feelings. We all have our troubles, and we all have to stand them, some more, some less. We can't assume that any one is so much better or worse off than any one else. We all have our share of troubles."

"I can't help it," said Jennie. "I feel so sorry for some people."

"Jennie always was a little gloomy," put in Bass.

He was thinking what a fine figure of a man Lester was, how beautifully they lived, how Jennie had come up in the world. He was thinking that there must be a lot more to her than he had originally thought. Life surely did turn out queer. At one time he thought Jennie was a hopeless failure and no good.

"You ought to try to steel yourself to take things as they come without going to pieces this way," said Lester finally.

Bass thought so too.

Jennie stared thoughtfully out of the carriage window. There was the old house now, large and silent without Gerhardt. Just think, she would never see him any more. They finally turned into the drive and entered the library. Jeannette, nervous and sympathetic, served tea. Jennie went to look after various details. She wondered curiously where she would be when she died.

CHAPTER LII

The fact that Gerhardt was dead made no particular difference to Lester, except as it affected Jennie. He had liked the old German for his many sterling qualities, but beyond that he thought nothing of him one way or the other. He took Jennie to a watering-place for ten days to help her recover her spirits, and it was soon after this that he decided to tell her just how things stood with him; he would put the problem plainly before her. It would be easier now, for Jennie had been informed of the disastrous prospects of the real-estate deal. She was also aware of his continued interest in Mrs. Gerald. Lester did not hesitate to let Jennie know that he was on very friendly terms with her. Mrs. Gerald had, at first, formally requested him to bring Jennie to see her, but she never had called herself, and Jennie understood quite clearly that it was not to be. Now that her father was dead, she was beginning to wonder what was going to become of her; she was afraid that Lester might not marry her. Certainly he showed no signs of intending to do so.

By one of those curious coincidences of thought, Robert also had reached the conclusion that something should be done. He did not, for one moment, imagine that he could directly work upon Lester – he did not care to try – but he did think that some influence might be brought to bear on Jennie. She was probably amenable to reason. If Lester had not married her already, she must realize full well that he did not intend to do so. Suppose that some responsible third person were to approach her, and explain how things were, including, of course, the offer of an independent income? Might she not be willing to leave Lester, and end all this trouble? After all, Lester was his brother, and he ought not to lose his fortune. Robert had things very much in his own hands now, and could afford to be generous. He finally decided that Mr. O'Brien, of Knight, Keatley & O'Brien, would be the proper intermediary, for O'Brien was suave, good-natured, and well-meaning, even if he was a lawyer. He might explain to Jennie very delicately just how the family felt, and how much Lester stood to lose if he continued to maintain his connection with her. If Lester had married Jennie, O'Brien would find it out. A liberal provision would be made for her – say fifty or one hundred thousand, or even one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He sent for Mr. O'Brien and gave him his instructions. As one of the executors of Archibald Kane's estate, it was really the lawyer's duty to look into the matter of Lester's ultimate decision.

Mr. O'Brien journeyed to Chicago. On reaching the city, he called up Lester, and found out to his satisfaction that he was out of town for the day. He went out to the house in Hyde Park, and sent in his card to Jennie. She came down-stairs in a few minutes quite unconscious of the import of his message; he greeted her most blandly.

"This is Mrs. Kane?" he asked, with an interlocutory jerk of his head.

"Yes," replied Jennie.

"I am, as you see by my card, Mr. O'Brien, of Knight, Keatley & O'Brien," he began. "We are the attorneys and executors of the late Mr. Kane, your – ah – Mr. Kane's father. You'll think it's rather curious, my coming to you, but under your husband's father's will there were certain conditions stipulated which affect you and Mr. Kane very materially. These provisions are so important that I think you ought to know about them – that is if Mr. Kane hasn't already told you. I – pardon me – but the peculiar nature of them makes me conclude that – possibly – he hasn't." He paused, a very question-mark of a man – every feature of his face an interrogation.

"I don't quite understand," said Jennie. "I don't know anything about the will. If there's anything that I ought to know, I suppose Mr. Kane will tell me. He hasn't told me anything as yet."

"Ah!" breathed Mr. O'Brien, highly gratified. "Just as I thought. Now, if you will allow me I'll go into the matter briefly. Then you can judge for yourself whether you wish to hear the full particulars. Won't you sit down?" They had both been standing. Jennie seated herself, and Mr. O'Brien pulled up a chair near to hers.

"Now to begin," he said. "I need not say to you, of course, that there was considerable opposition on the part of Mr. Kane's father, to this – ah – union between yourself and his son."

"I know – " Jennie started to say, but checked herself. She was puzzled, disturbed, and a little apprehensive.

"Before Mr. Kane senior died," he went on, "he indicated to your – ah – to Mr. Lester Kane, that he felt this way. In his will he made certain conditions governing the distribution of his property which made it rather hard for his son, your – ah – husband, to come into his rightful share. Ordinarily, he would have inherited one-fourth of the Kane Manufacturing Company, worth to-day in the neighborhood of a million dollars, perhaps more; also one-fourth of the other properties, which now aggregate something like five hundred thousand dollars. I believe Mr. Kane senior was really very anxious that his son should inherit this property. But owing to the conditions which your – ah – which Mr. Kane's father made, Mr. Lester Kane cannot possibly obtain his share, except by complying with a – with a – certain wish which his father had expressed."

Mr. O'Brien paused, his eyes moving back and forth side wise in their sockets. In spite of the natural prejudice of the situation, he was considerably impressed with Jennie's pleasing appearance. He could see quite plainly why Lester might cling to her in the face of all opposition. He continued to study her furtively as he sat there waiting for her to speak.

"And what was that wish?" she finally asked, her nerves becoming just a little tense under the strain of the silence.

"I am glad you were kind enough to ask me that," he went on. "The subject is a very difficult one for me to introduce – very difficult. I come as an emissary of the estate, I might say as one of the executors under the will of Mr. Kane's father. I know how keenly your – ah – how keenly Mr. Kane feels about it. I know how keenly you will probably feel about it. But it is one of those very difficult things which cannot be helped – which must be got over somehow. And while I hesitate very much to say so, I must tell you that Mr. Kane senior stipulated in his will that unless, unless" – again his eyes were moving sidewise to and fro – "he saw fit to separate from – ah – you" he paused to get breath – "he could not inherit this or any other sum or, at least, only a very minor income of ten thousand a year; and that only on condition that he should marry you." He paused again. "I should add," he went on, "that under the will he was given three years in which to indicate his intentions. That time is now drawing to a close."

He paused, half expecting some outburst of feeling from Jennie, but she only looked at him fixedly, her eyes clouded with surprise, distress, unhappiness. Now she understood. Lester was sacrificing his fortune for her. His recent commercial venture was an effort to rehabilitate himself, to put himself in an independent position. The recent periods of preoccupation, of subtle unrest, and of dissatisfaction over which she had grieved were now explained. He was unhappy, he was brooding over this prospective loss, and he had never told her. So his father had really disinherited him!

Mr. O'Brien sat before her, troubled himself. He was very sorry for her, now that he saw the expression of her face. Still the truth had to come out. She ought to know.

"I'm sorry," he said, when he saw that she was not going to make any immediate reply, "that I have been the bearer of such unfortunate news. It is a very painful situation that I find myself in at this moment, I assure you. I bear you no ill will personally – of course you understand that. The family really bears you no ill will now – I hope you believe that. As I told your – ah – as I told Mr. Kane, at the time the will was read, I considered it most unfair, but, of course, as a mere executive under it and counsel for his father, I could do nothing. I really think it best that you should know how things stand, in order that you may help your – your husband" – he paused, significantly – "if possible, to some solution. It seems a pity to me, as it does to the various other members of his family, that he should lose all this money."

Jennie had turned her head away and was staring at the floor. She faced him now steadily. "He mustn't lose it," she said; "it isn't fair that he should."

"I am most delighted to hear you say that, Mrs. – Mrs. Kane," he went on, using for the first time her improbable title as Lester's wife, without hesitation. "I may as well be very frank with you, and say that I feared you might take this information in quite another spirit. Of course you know to begin with that the Kane family is very clannish. Mrs. Kane, your – ah – your husband's mother, was a very proud and rather distant woman, and his sisters and brothers are rather set in their notions as to what constitute proper family connections. They look upon his relationship to you as irregular, and – pardon me if I appear to be a little cruel – as not generally satisfactory. As you know, there had been so much talk in the last few years that Mr. Kane senior did not believe that the situation could ever be nicely adjusted, so far as the family was concerned. He felt that his son had not gone about it right in the first place. One of the conditions of his will was that if your husband – pardon me – if his son did not accept the proposition in regard to separating from you and taking up his rightful share of the estate, then to inherit anything at all – the mere ten thousand a year I mentioned before – he must – ah – he must pardon me, I seem a little brutal, but not intentionally so – marry you."

Jennie winced. It was such a cruel thing to say this to her face. This whole attempt to live together illegally had proved disastrous at every step. There was only one solution to the unfortunate business – she could see that plainly. She must leave him, or he must leave her. There was no other alternative. Lester living on ten thousand dollars a year! It seemed silly.

Mr. O'Brien was watching her curiously. He was thinking that Lester both had and had not made a mistake. Why had he not married her in the first place? She was charming.

"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 assist 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 button 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 God 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 banal 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 attitude.

"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?"