الفصل الفصل 38 · Gerhardt, having become an inmate of the Hyde Park home, at once

bestirred himself about the labors which he felt instinctively

concerned him. He took charge of the furnace and the yard, outraged at

the thought that good money should be paid to any outsider when he had

nothing to do. The trees, he declared to Jennie, were in a dreadful

condition. If Lester would get him a pruning knife and a saw he would

attend to them in the spring. In Germany they knew how to care for

such things, but these Americans were so shiftless. Then he wanted

tools and nails, and in time all the closets and shelves were put in

order. He found a Lutheran Church almost two miles away, and declared

that it was better than the one in Cleveland. The pastor, of course,

was a heaven-sent son of divinity. And nothing would do but that Vesta

must go to church with him regularly.

Jennie and Lester settled down into the new order of living with

some misgivings; certain difficulties were sure to arise. On the North

Side it had been easy for Jennie to shun neighbors and say nothing.

Now they were occupying a house of some pretensions; their immediate

neighbors would feel it their duty to call, and Jennie would have to

play the part of an experienced hostess. She and Lester had talked

this situation over. It might as well be understood here, he said,

that they were husband and wife. Vesta was to be introduced as

Jennie's daughter by her first marriage, her husband, a Mr. Stover

(her mother's maiden name), having died immediately after the child's

birth. Lester, of course, was the stepfather. This particular

neighborhood was so far from the fashionable heart of Chicago that

Lester did not expect to run into many of his friends. He explained to

Jennie the ordinary formalities of social intercourse, so that when

the first visitor called Jennie might be prepared to receive her.

Within a fortnight this first visitor arrived in the person of Mrs.

Jacob Stendahl, a woman of considerable importance in this particular

section. She lived five doors from Jennie--the houses of the

neighborhood were all set in spacious lawns--and drove up in her

carriage, on her return from her shopping, one afternoon.

"Is Mrs. Kane in?" she asked of Jeannette, the new maid.

"I think so, mam," answered the girl. "Won't you let me have your

card?"

The card was given and taken to Jennie, who looked at it

curiously.

When Jennie came into the parlor Mrs. Stendahl, a tall dark,

inquisitive-looking woman, greeted her most cordially.

"I thought I would take the liberty of intruding on you," she said

most winningly. "I am one of your neighbors. I live on the other side

of the street, some few doors up. Perhaps you have seen the

house--the one with the white stone gate-posts."

"Oh, yes indeed," replied Jennie. "I know it well. Mr. Kane and I

were admiring it the first day we came out here."

"I know of your husband, of course, by reputation. My husband is

connected with the Wilkes Frog and Switch Company."

Jennie bowed her head. She knew that the latter concern must be

something important and profitable from the way in which Mrs. Stendahl

spoke of it.

"We have lived here quite a number of years, and I know how you

must feel coming as a total stranger to a new section of the city. I

hope you will find time to come in and see me some afternoon. I shall

be most pleased. My regular reception day is Thursday."

"Indeed I shall," answered Jennie, a little nervously, for the

ordeal was a trying one. "I appreciate your goodness in calling. Mr.

Kane is very busy as a rule, but when he is at home I am sure he would

be most pleased to meet you and your husband."

"You must both come over some evening," replied Mrs. Stendahl. "We

lead a very quiet life. My husband is not much for social gatherings.

But we enjoy our neighborhood friends."

Jennie smiled her assurances of good-will. She accompanied Mrs.

Stendahl to the door, and shook hands with her. "I'm so glad to find

you so charming," observed Mrs. Stendahl frankly.

"Oh, thank you," said Jennie flushing a little. "I'm sure I don't

deserve so much praise."

"Well, now I will expect you some afternoon. Good-by," and she

waved a gracious farewell.

"That wasn't so bad," thought Jennie as she watched Mrs. Stendahl

drive away. "She is very nice, I think. I'll tell Lester about

her."

Among the other callers were a Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael Burke, a

Mrs. Hanson Field, and a Mrs. Timothy Ballinger--all of whom left

cards, or stayed to chat a few minutes. Jennie found herself taken

quite seriously as a woman of importance, and she did her best to

support the dignity of her position. And, indeed, she did

exceptionally well. She was most hospitable and gracious. She had a

kindly smile and a manner wholly natural; she succeeded in making a

most favorable impression. She explained to her guests that she had

been living on the North Side until recently, that her husband,

Mr. Kane, had long wanted to have a home in Hyde Park, that her father

and daughter were living here, and that Lester was the child's

stepfather. She said she hoped to repay all these nice attentions and

to be a good neighbor.

Lester heard about these calls in the evening, for he did not care

to meet these people. Jennie came to enjoy it in a mild way. She liked

making new friends, and she was hoping that something definite could

be worked out here which would make Lester look upon her as a good

wife and an ideal companion. Perhaps, some day, he might really want

to marry her.

First impressions are not always permanent, as Jennie was soon to

discover. The neighborhood had accepted her perhaps a little too

hastily, and now rumors began to fly about. A Mrs. Sommerville,

calling on Mrs. Craig, one of Jennie's near neighbors, intimated that

she knew who Lester was--"oh, yes, indeed. You know, my dear,"

she went on, "his reputation is just a little--" she raised her

eyebrows and her hand at the same time.

"You don't say!" commented her friend curiously. "He looks like

such a staid, conservative person."

"Oh, no doubt, in a way, he is," went on Mrs. Sommerville. "His

family is of the very best. There was some young woman he went

with--so my husband tells me. I don't know whether this is the

one or not, but she was introduced as a Miss Gorwood, or some such

name as that, when they were living together as husband and wife on

the North Side."

"Tst! Tst! Tst!" clicked Mrs. Craig with her tongue at this

astonishing news. "You don't tell me! Come to think of it, it must be

the same woman. Her father's name is Gerhardt."

"Gerhardt!" exclaimed Mrs. Sommerville. "Yes, that's the name. It

seems to me that there was some earlier scandal in connection with

her--at least there was a child. Whether he married her afterward

or not, I don't know. Anyhow, I understand his family will not have

anything to do with her."

"How very interesting!" exclaimed Mrs. Craig. "And to think he

should have married her afterward, if he really did. I'm sure you

can't tell with whom you're coming in contact these days, can

you?"

"It's so true. Life does get badly mixed at times. She appears to

be a charming woman."

"Delightful!" exclaimed Mrs. Craig. "Quite naive. I was really

taken with her."

"Well, it may be," went on her guest, "that this isn't the same

woman after all. I may be mistaken."

"Oh, I hardly think so. Gerhardt! She told me they had been living

on the North Side."

"Then I'm sure it's the same person. How curious that you should

speak of her!"

"It is, indeed," went on Mrs. Craig, who was speculating as to what

her attitude toward Jennie should be in the future.

Other rumors came from other sources. There were people who had

seen Jennie and Lester out driving on the North Side, who had been

introduced to her as Miss Gerhardt, who knew what the Kane family

thought. Of course her present position, the handsome house, the

wealth of Lester, the beauty of Vesta--all these things helped to

soften the situation. She was apparently too circumspect, too much the

good wife and mother, too really nice to be angry with; but she had a

past, and that had to be taken into consideration.

An opening bolt of the coming storm fell upon Jennie one day when

Vesta, returning from school, suddenly asked: "Mamma, who was my

papa?"

"His name was Stover, dear," replied her mother, struck at once by

the thought that there might have been some criticism--that some

one must have been saying something. "Why do you ask?"

"Where was I born?" continued Vesta, ignoring the last inquiry, and

interested in clearing up her own identity.

"In Columbus, Ohio, pet. Why?"

"Anita Ballinger said I didn't have any papa, and that you weren't

ever married when you had me. She said I wasn't a really, truly girl

at all--just a nobody. She made me so mad I slapped her."

Jennie's face grew rigid. She sat staring straight before her. Mrs.

Ballinger had called, and Jennie had thought her peculiarly gracious

and helpful in her offer of assistance, and now her little daughter

had said this to Vesta. Where did the child hear it?

"You mustn't pay any attention to her, dearie," said Jennie at

last. "She doesn't know. Your papa was Mr. Stover, and you were born

in Columbus. You mustn't fight other little girls. Of course they say

nasty things when they fight--sometimes things they don't really

mean. Just let her alone and don't go near her any more. Then she

won't say anything to you."

It was a lame explanation, but it satisfied Vesta for the time

being. "I'll slap her if she tries to slap me," she persisted.

"You mustn't go near her, pet, do you hear? Then she can't try to

slap you," returned her mother. "Just go about your studies, and don't

mind her. She can't quarrel with you if you don't let her."

Vesta went away leaving Jennie brooding over her words. The

neighbors were talking. Her history was becoming common gossip. How

had they found out.

It is one thing to nurse a single thrust, another to have the wound

opened from time to time by additional stabs. One day Jennie, having

gone to call on Mrs. Hanson Field, who was her immediate neighbor, met

a Mrs. Williston Baker, who was there taking tea. Mrs. Baker knew of

the Kanes, of Jennie's history on the North Side, and of the attitude

of the Kane family. She was a thin, vigorous, intellectual woman,

somewhat on the order of Mrs. Bracebridge, and very careful of her

social connections. She had always considered Mrs. Field a woman of

the same rigid circumspectness of attitude, and when she found Jennie

calling there she was outwardly calm but inwardly irritated. "This is

Mrs. Kane, Mrs. Baker," said Mrs. Field, introducing her guests with a

smiling countenance. Mrs. Baker looked at Jennie ominously.

"Mrs. Lester Kane?" she inquired.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Fields.

"Indeed," she went on freezingly. "I've heard a great deal about

Mrs.--" accenting the word "Mrs.--Lester Kane."

She turned to Mrs. Field, ignoring Jennie completely, and started

an intimate conversation in which Jennie could have no possible share.

Jennie stood helplessly by, unable to formulate a thought which would

be suitable to so trying a situation. Mrs. Baker soon announced her

departure, although she had intended to stay longer. "I can't remain

another minute," she said; "I promised Mrs. Neil that I would stop in

to see her to-day. I'm sure I've bored you enough already as it

is."

She walked to the door, not troubling to look at Jennie until she

was nearly out of the room. Then she looked in her direction, and gave

her a frigid nod.

"We meet such curious people now and again," she observed finally

to her hostess as she swept away.

Mrs. Field did not feel able to defend Jennie, for she herself was

in no notable social position, and was endeavoring, like every other

middle-class woman of means, to get along. She did not care to offend

Mrs. Williston Baker, who was socially so much more important than

Jennie. She came back to where Jennie was sitting, smiling

apologetically, but she was a little bit flustered. Jennie was out of

countenance, of course. Presently she excused herself and went home.

She had been cut deeply by the slight offered her, and she felt that

Mrs. Field realized that she had made a mistake in ever taking her up.

There would be no additional exchange of visits there--that she

knew. The old hopeless feeling came over her that her life was a

failure. It couldn't be made right, or, if it could, it wouldn't be.

Lester was not inclined to marry her and put her right.

Time went on and matters remained very much as they were. To look

at this large house, with its smooth lawn and well grown trees, its

vines clambering about the pillars of the veranda and interlacing

themselves into a transparent veil of green; to see Gerhardt pottering

about the yard, Vesta coming home from school, Lester leaving in the

morning in his smart trap--one would have said that here is peace

and plenty, no shadow of unhappiness hangs over this charming

home.

And as a matter of fact existence with Lester and Jennie did run

smoothly. It is true that the neighbors did not call any more, or only

a very few of them, and there was no social life to speak of; but the

deprivation was hardly noticed; there was so much in the home life to

please and interest. Vesta was learning to play the piano, and to play

quite well. She had a good ear for music. Jennie was a charming figure

in blue, lavender, and olive-green house-gowns as she went about her

affairs, sewing, dusting, getting Vesta off to school, and seeing that

things generally were put to rights. Gerhardt busied himself about his

multitudinous duties, for he was not satisfied unless he had his hands

into all the domestic economies of the household. One of his

self-imposed tasks was to go about the house after Lester, or the

servants, turning out the gas-jets or electric-light bulbs which might

accidentally have been left burning. That was a sinful extravagance.

Again, Lester's expensive clothes, which he carelessly threw aside

after a few month's use, were a source of woe to the thrifty old

German. Moreover, he grieved over splendid shoes discarded because of

a few wrinkles in the leather or a slightly run down heel or sole.

Gerhardt was for having them repaired, but Lester answered the old

man's querulous inquiry as to what was wrong "with them shoes" by

saying that they weren't comfortable any more.

"Such extravagance!" Gerhardt complained to Jennie. "Such waste! No

good can come of anything like that, It will mean want one of these

days."

"He can't help it, papa," Jennie excused. "That's the way he was

raised."

"Ha! A fine way to be raised. These Americans, they know nothing of

economy. They ought to live in Germany awhile. Then they would know

what a dollar can do."

Lester heard something of this through Jennie, but he only smiled.

Gerhardt was amusing to him.

Another grievance was Lester's extravagant use of matches. He had

the habit of striking a match, holding it while he talked, instead of

lighting his cigar, and then throwing it away. Sometimes he would

begin to light a cigar two or three minutes before he would actually

do so, tossing aside match after match. There was a place out in one

corner of the veranda where he liked to sit of a spring or summer

evening, smoking and throwing away half-burned matches. Jennie would

sit with him, and a vast number of matches would be lit and flung out

on the lawn. At one time, while engaged in cutting the grass, Gerhardt

found, to his horror, not a handful, but literally boxes of

half-burned match-sticks lying unconsumed and decaying under the

fallen blades. He was discouraged, to say the least. He gathered up

this damning evidence in a newspaper and carried it back into the

sitting-room where Jennie was sewing.

"See here, what I find!" he demanded. "Just look at that! That man,

he has no more sense of economy than a--than a--" the right

term failed him. "He sits and smokes, and this is the way he uses

matches. Five cents a box they cost--five cents. How can a man

hope to do well and carry on like that, I like to know. Look at

them."

Jennie looked. She shook her head. "Lester is extravagant," she

said.

Gerhardt carried them to the basement. At least they should be

burned in the furnace. He would have used them as lighters for his own

pipe, sticking them in the fire to catch a blaze, only old newspapers

were better, and he had stacks of these--another evidence of his

lord and master's wretched, spendthrift disposition. It was a sad

world to work in. Almost everything was against him. Still he fought

as valiantly as he could against waste and shameless extravagance. His

own economies were rigid. He would wear the same suit of

black--cut down from one of Lester's expensive investments of

years before--every Sunday for a couple of years. Lester's shoes,

by a little stretch of the imagination, could be made to seem to fit,

and these he wore. His old ties also--the black ones--they

were fine. If he could have cut down Lester's shirts he would have

done so; he did make over the underwear, with the friendly aid of the

cook's needle. Lester's socks, of course, were just right. There was

never any expense for Gerhardt's clothing.

The remaining stock of Lester's discarded clothing--shoes,

shirts, collars, suits, ties, and what not--he would store away

for weeks and months, and then, in a sad and gloomy frame of mind, he

would call in a tailor, or an old-shoe man, or a ragman, and dispose

of the lot at the best price he could. He learned that all second-hand

clothes men were sharks; that there was no use in putting the least

faith in the protests of any rag dealer or old-shoe man. They all

lied. They all claimed to be very poor, when as a matter of fact they

were actually rolling in wealth. Gerhardt had investigated these

stories; he had followed them up; he had seen what they were doing

with the things he sold them.

"Scoundrels!" he declared. "They offer me ten cents for a pair of

shoes, and then I see them hanging out in front of their places marked

two dollars. Such robbery! My God! They could afford to give me a

dollar."

Jennie smiled. It was only to her that he complained, for he could

expect no sympathy from' Lester. So far as his own meager store of

money was concerned, he gave the most of it to his beloved church,

where he was considered to be a model of propriety, honesty,

faith--in fact, the embodiment of all the virtues.

And so, for all the ill winds that were beginning to blow socially,

Jennie was now leading the dream years of her existence. Lester, in

spite of the doubts which assailed him at times as to the wisdom of

his career, was invariably kind and considerate, and he seemed to

enjoy his home life.

"Everything all right?" she would ask when he came in of an

evening.

"Sure!" he would answer, and pinch her chin or cheek.

She would follow him in while Jeannette, always alert, would take

his coat and hat. In the winter-time they would sit in the library

before the big grate-fire. In the spring, summer, or fall Lester

preferred to walk out on the porch, one corner of which commanded a

sweeping view of the lawn and the distant street, and light his

before-dinner cigar. Jennie would sit on the side of his chair and

stroke his head. "Your hair is not getting the least bit thin, Lester;

aren't you glad?" she would say; or, "Oh, see how your brow is

wrinkled now. You mustn't do that. You didn't change your tie, mister,

this morning. Why didn't you? I laid one out for you."

"Oh, I forgot," he would answer, or he would cause the wrinkles to

disappear, or laughingly predict that he would soon be getting bald if

he wasn't so now.

In the drawing-room or library, before Vesta and Gerhardt, she was

not less loving, though a little more circumspect. She loved odd

puzzles like pigs in clover, the spider's hole, baby billiards, and

the like. Lester shared in these simple amusements. He would work by

the hour, if necessary, to make a difficult puzzle come right. Jennie

was clever at solving these mechanical problems. Sometimes she would

have to show him the right method, and then she would be immensely

pleased with herself. At other times she would stand behind him

watching, her chin on his shoulder, her arms about his neck. He seemed

not to mind--indeed, he was happy in the wealth of affection she

bestowed. Her cleverness, her gentleness, her tact created an

atmosphere which was immensely pleasing; above all her youth and

beauty appealed to him. It made him feel young, and if there was one

thing Lester objected to, it was the thought of drying up into an

aimless old age. "I want to keep young, or die young," was one of his

pet remarks; and Jennie came to understand. She was glad that she was

so much younger now for his sake.

Another pleasant feature of the home life was Lester's steadily

increasing affection for Vesta. The child would sit at the big table

in the library in the evening conning her books, while Jennie would

sew, and Gerhardt would read his interminable list of German Lutheran

papers. It grieved the old man that Vesta should not be allowed to go

to a German Lutheran parochial school, but Lester would listen to

nothing of the sort. "We'll not have any thick-headed German training

in this," he said to Jennie, when she suggested that Gerhardt had

complained. "The public schools are good enough for any child. You

tell him to let her alone."

There were really some delightful hours among the four. Lester

liked to take the little seven-year-old school-girl between his knees

and tease her. He liked to invert the so-called facts of life, to

propound its paradoxes, and watch how the child's budding mind took

them. "What's water?" he would ask; and being informed that it was

"what we drink," he would stare and say, "That's so, but what is it?

Don't they teach you any better than that?"

"Well, it is what we drink, isn't it?" persisted Vesta.

"The fact that we drink it doesn't explain what it is," he would

retort. "You ask your teacher what water is"; and then he would leave

her with this irritating problem troubling her young soul.

Food, china, her dress, anything was apt to be brought back to its

chemical constituents, and he would leave her to struggle with these

dark suggestions of something else back of the superficial appearance

of things until she was actually in awe of him. She had a way of

showing him how nice she looked before she started to school in the

morning, a habit that arose because of his constant criticism of her

appearance. He wanted her to look smart, he insisted on a big bow of

blue ribbon for her hair, he demanded that her shoes be changed from

low quarter to high boots with the changing character of the seasons'

and that her clothing be carried out on a color scheme suited to her

complexion and disposition.

"That child's light and gay by disposition. Don't put anything

somber on her," he once remarked.

Jennie had come to realize that he must be consulted in this, and

would say, "Run to your papa and show him how you look."

Vesta would come and turn briskly around before him, saying,

"See."

"Yes. You're all right. Go on"; and on she would go.

He grew so proud of her that on Sundays and some week-days when

they drove he would always have her in between them. He insisted that

Jennie send her to dancing-school, and Gerhardt was beside himself

with rage and grief. "Such irreligion!" he complained to Jennie. "Such

devil's fol-de-rol. Now she goes to dance. What for? To make a no-good

out of her--a creature to be ashamed of?"

"Oh no, papa," replied Jennie. "It isn't as bad as that. This is an

awful nice school. Lester says she has to go."

"Lester, Lester; that man! A fine lot he knows about what is good

for a child. A card-player, a whisky-drinker!"

"Now, hush, papa; I won't have you talk like that," Jennie would

reply warmly. "He's a good man, and you know it."

"Yes, yes, a good man. In some things, maybe. Not in this. No."

He went away groaning. When Lester was near he said nothing, and

Vesta could wind him around her finger.

"Oh you," she would say, pulling at his arm or rubbing his grizzled

cheek. There was no more fight in Gerhardt when Vesta did this. He

lost control of himself--something welled up and choked his

throat. "Yes, I know how you do," he would exclaim.

Vesta would tweak his ear.

"Stop now!" he would say. "That is enough."

It was noticeable, however, that she did not have to stop unless

she herself willed it. Gerhardt adored the child, and she could do

anything with him; he was always her devoted servitor.