บทที่ บทที่ 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 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 denouement 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 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,

was formally announced at a party given by the prospective bride on

Tuesday to a circle of her immediate friends. The wedding will take

place in April.

The paper fell from her hands. For a few minutes she sat perfectly

still, looking straight ahead of her. Could this thing be so? she

asked herself. Had it really come at last? She had known that it must

come, and yet--and yet she had always hoped that it would not.

Why had she hoped? Had not she herself sent him away? Had not she

herself suggested this very thing in a roundabout way? It had come

now. What must she do? Stay here as a pensioner? The idea was

objectionable to her. And yet he had set aside a goodly sum to be hers

absolutely. In the hands of a trust company in La Salle Street were

railway certificates aggregating seventy-five thousand dollars, which

yielded four thousand five hundred annually, the income being paid to

her direct. Could she refuse to receive this money? There was Vesta to

be considered.

Jennie felt hurt through and through by this denouement, and yet as

she sat there she realized that it was foolish to be angry. Life was

always doing this sort of a thing to her. It would go on doing so. She

was sure of it. If she went out in the world and earned her own living

what difference would it make to him? What difference would it make to

Mrs. Gerald? Here she was walled in this little place, leading an

obscure existence, and there was he out in the great world enjoying

life in its fullest and freest sense. It was too bad. But why cry?

Why?

Her eyes indeed were dry, but her very soul seemed to be torn in

pieces within her. She rose carefully, hid the newspaper at the bottom

of a trunk, and turned the key upon it.