Chương Chương 58 · Now that his engagement to Mrs. Gerald was an accomplished, fact,

Lester found no particular difficulty in reconciling himself to the

new order of things; undoubtedly it was all for the best. He was sorry

for Jennie--very sorry. So was Mrs. Gerald; but there was a

practical unguent to her grief in the thought that it was best for

both Lester and the girl. He would be happier--was so now. And

Jennie would eventually realize that she had done a wise and kindly

thing; she would be glad in the consciousness that she had acted so

unselfishly. As for Mrs. Gerald, because of her indifference to the

late Malcolm Gerald, and because she was realizing the dreams of her

youth in getting Lester at last--even though a little

late--she was intensely happy. She could think of nothing finer

than this daily life with him--the places they would go, the

things they would see. Her first season in Chicago as Mrs. Lester Kane

the following winter was going to be something worth remembering. And

as for Japan--that was almost too good to be true.

Lester wrote to Jennie of his coming marriage to Mrs. Gerald. He

said that he had no explanation to make. It wouldn't be worth anything

if he did make it. He thought he ought to marry Mrs. Gerald. He

thought he ought to let her (Jennie) know. He hoped she was well. He

wanted her always to feel that he had her real interests at heart. He

would do anything in his power to make life as pleasant and agreeable

for her as possible. He hoped she would forgive him. And would she

remember him affectionately to Vesta? She ought to be sent to a

finishing school.

Jennie understood the situation perfectly. She knew that Lester had

been drawn to Mrs. Gerald from the time he met her at the Carlton in

London. She had been angling for him. Now she had him. It was all

right. She hoped he would be happy. She was glad to write and tell him

so, explaining that she had seen the announcement in the papers.

Lester read her letter thoughtfully; there was more between the lines

than the written words conveyed. Her fortitude was a charm to him even

in this hour. In spite of all he had done and what he was now going to

do, he realized that he still cared for Jennie in a way. She was a

noble and a charming woman. If everything else had been all right he

would not be going to marry Mrs. Gerald at all. And yet he did marry

her.

The ceremony was performed on April fifteenth, at the residence of

Mrs. Gerald, a Roman Catholic priest officiating. Lester was a poor

example of the faith he occasionally professed. He was an agnostic,

but because he had been reared in the church he felt that he might as

well be married in it. Some fifty guests, intimate friends, had been

invited. The ceremony went off with perfect smoothness. There were

jubilant congratulations and showers of rice and confetti. While the

guests were still eating and drinking Lester and Letty managed to

escape by a side entrance into a closed carriage, and were off.

Fifteen minutes later there was pursuit pell-mell on the part of the

guests to the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific depot; but by that time

the happy couple were in their private car, and the arrival of the

rice throwers made no difference. More champagne was opened; then the

starting of the train ended all excitement, and the newly wedded pair

were at last safely off.

"Well, now you have me," said Lester, cheerfully pulling Letty down

beside him into a seat, "what of it?"

"This of it," she exclaimed, and hugged him close, kissing him

fervently. In four days they were in San Francisco, and two days later

on board a fast steamship bound for the land of the Mikado.

In the meanwhile Jennie was left to brood. The original

announcement in the newspapers had said that he was to be married in

April, and she had kept close watch for additional information.

Finally she learned that the wedding would take place on April

fifteenth at the residence of the prospective bride, the hour being

high noon. In spite of her feeling of resignation, Jennie followed it

all hopelessly, like a child, hungry and forlorn, looking into a

lighted window at Christmas time.

On the day of the wedding she waited miserably for twelve o'clock

to strike; it seemed as though she were really present--and

looking on. She could see in her mind's eye the handsome residence,

the carriages, the guests, the feast, the merriment, the

ceremony--all. Telepathically and psychologically she received

impressions of the private car and of the joyous journey they were

going to take. The papers had stated that they would spend their

honeymoon in Japan. Their honeymoon! Her Lester! And Mrs. Gerald was

so attractive. She could see her now--the new Mrs. Kane--the

only Mrs. Kane that ever was, lying in his arms. He had held

her so once. He had loved her. Yes, he had! There was a solid lump in

her throat as she thought of this. Oh, dear! She sighed to herself,

and clasped her hands forcefully; but it did no good. She was just as

miserable as before.

When the day was over she was actually relieved; anyway, the deed

was done and nothing could change it. Vesta was sympathetically aware

of what was happening, but kept silent. She too had seen the report in

the newspaper. When the first and second day after had passed Jennie

was much calmer mentally, for now she was face to face with the

inevitable. But it was weeks before the sharp pain dulled to the old

familiar ache. Then there were months before they would be back again,

though, of course, that made no difference now. Only Japan seemed so

far off, and somehow she had liked the thought that Lester was near

her--somewhere in the city.

The spring and summer passed, and now it was early in October. One

chilly day Vesta came home from school complaining of a headache. When

Jennie had given her hot milk--a favorite remedy of her

mother's--and had advised a cold towel for the back of her head,

Vesta went to her room and lay down. The following morning she had a

slight fever. This lingered while the local physician, Dr. Emory,

treated her tentatively, suspecting that it might be typhoid, of which

there were several cases in the village. This doctor told Jennie that

Vesta was probably strong enough constitutionally to shake it off, but

it might be that she would have a severe siege. Mistrusting her own

skill in so delicate a situation, Jennie sent to Chicago for a trained

nurse, and then began a period of watchfulness which was a combination

of fear, longing, hope, and courage.

Now there could be no doubt; the disease was typhoid. Jennie

hesitated about communicating with Lester, who was supposed to be in

New York; the papers had said that he intended to spend the winter

there. But when the doctor, after watching the case for a week,

pronounced it severe, she thought she ought to write anyhow, for no

one could tell what would happen. Lester had been so fond of Vesta. He

would probably want to know.

The letter sent to him did not reach him, for at the time it

arrived he was on his way to the West Indies. Jennie was compelled to

watch alone by Vesta's sick-bed, for although sympathetic neighbors,

realizing the pathos of the situation were attentive, they could not

supply the spiritual consolation which only those who truly love us

can give. There was a period when Vesta appeared to be rallying, and

both the physician and the nurse were hopeful; but afterward she

became weaker. It was said by Dr. Emory that her heart and kidneys had

become affected.

There came a time when the fact had to be faced that death was

imminent. The doctor's face was grave, the nurse was non-committal in

her opinion. Jennie hovered about, praying the only prayer that is

prayer--the fervent desire of her heart concentrated on the one

issue--that Vesta should get well. The child had come so close to

her during the last few years! She understood her mother. She was

beginning to realize clearly what her life had been. And Jennie,

through her, had grown to a broad understanding of responsibility. She

knew now what it meant to be a good mother and to have children. If

Lester had not objected to it, and she had been truly married, she

would have been glad to have others. Again, she had always felt that

she owed Vesta so much--at least a long and happy life to make up

to her for the ignominy of her birth and rearing. Jennie had been so

happy during the past few years to see Vesta growing into beautiful,

graceful, intelligent womanhood. And now she was dying. Dr. Emory

finally sent to Chicago for a physician friend of his, who came to

consider the case with him. He was an old man, grave, sympathetic,

understanding. He shook his head. "The treatment has been correct," he

said. "Her system does not appear to be strong enough to endure the

strain. Some physiques are more susceptible to this malady than

others." It was agreed that if within three days a change for the

better did not come the end was close at hand.

No one can conceive the strain to which Jennie's spirit was

subjected by this intelligence, for it was deemed best that she should

know. She hovered about white-faced--feeling intensely, but

scarcely thinking. She seemed to vibrate consciously with Vesta's

altering states. If there was the least improvement she felt it

physically. If there was a decline her barometric temperament

registered the fact.

There was a Mrs. Davis, a fine, motherly soul of fifty, stout and

sympathetic, who lived four doors from Jennie, and who understood

quite well how she was feeling. She had co-operated with the nurse and

doctor from the start to keep Jennie's mental state as nearly normal

as possible.

"Now, you just go to your room and lie down, Mrs. Kane," she would

say to Jennie when she found her watching helplessly at the bedside or

wandering to and fro, wondering what to do. "I'll take charge of

everything. I'll do just what you would do. Lord bless you, don't you

think I know? I've been the mother of seven and lost three. Don't you

think I understand?" Jennie put her head on her big, warm shoulder one

day and cried. Mrs. Davis cried with her. "I understand," she said.

"There, there, you poor dear. Now you come with me." And she led her

to her sleeping-room.

Jennie could not be away long. She came back after a few minutes

unrested and unrefreshed. Finally one midnight, when the nurse had

persuaded her that all would be well until morning anyhow, there came

a hurried stirring in the sick-room. Jennie was lying down for a few

minutes on her bed in the adjoining room. She heard it and arose. Mrs.

Davis had come in, and she and the nurse were conferring as to Vesta's

condition--standing close beside her.

Jennie understood. She came up and looked at her daughter keenly.

Vesta's pale, waxen face told the story. She was breathing faintly,

her eyes closed. "She's very weak," whispered the nurse. Mrs. Davis

took Jennie's hand.

The moments passed, and after a time the clock in the hall struck

one. Miss Murfree, the nurse, moved to the medicine-table several

times, wetting a soft piece of cotton cloth with alcohol and bathing

Vesta's lips. At the striking of the half-hour there was a stir of the

weak body--a profound sigh. Jennie bent forward eagerly, but Mrs.

Davis drew her back. The nurse came and motioned them away.

Respiration had ceased.

Mrs. Davis seized Jennie firmly. "There, there, you poor dear," she

whispered when she began to shake. "It can't be helped. Don't

cry."

Jennie sank on her knees beside the bed and caressed Vesta's still

warm hand. "Oh no, Vesta," she pleaded. "Not you! Not you!"

"There, dear, come now," soothed the voice of Mrs. Davis. "Can't

you leave it all in God's hands? Can't you believe that everything is

for the best?"

Jennie felt as if the earth had fallen. All ties were broken. There

was no light anywhere in the immense darkness of her existence.