Chương Chương 59 · This added blow from inconsiderate fortune was quite enough to

throw Jennie back into that state of hyper-melancholia from which she

had been drawn with difficulty during the few years of comfort and

affection which she had enjoyed with Lester in Hyde Park. It was

really weeks before she could realize that Vesta was gone. The

emaciated figure which she saw for a day or two after the end did not

seem like Vesta. Where was the joy and lightness, the quickness of

motion, the subtle radiance of health? All gone. Only this pale,

lily-hued shell--and silence. Jennie had no tears to shed; only a

deep, insistent pain to feel. If only some counselor of eternal wisdom

could have whispered to her that obvious and convincing

truth--there are no dead.

Miss Murfree, Dr. Emory, Mrs. Davis, and some others among the

neighbors were most sympathetic and considerate. Mrs. Davis sent a

telegram to Lester saying that Vesta was dead, but, being absent,

there was no response. The house was looked after with scrupulous care

by others, for Jennie was incapable of attending to it herself. She

walked about looking at things which Vesta had owned or

liked--things which Lester or she had given her--sighing

over the fact that Vesta would not need or use them any more. She gave

instructions that the body should be taken to Chicago and buried in

the Cemetery of the Redeemer, for Lester, at the time of Gerhardt's

death, had purchased a small plot of ground there. She also expressed

her wish that the minister of the little Lutheran church in Cottage

Grove Avenue, where Gerhardt had attended, should be requested to say

a few words at the grave. There were the usual preliminary services at

the house. The local Methodist minister read a portion of the first

epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians, and a body of Vesta's classmates

sang "Nearer My God to Thee." There were flowers, a white coffin, a

world of sympathetic expressions, and then Vesta was taken away. The

coffin was properly incased for transportation, put on the train, and

finally delivered at the Lutheran cemetery in Chicago.

Jennie moved as one in a dream. She was dazed, almost to the point

of insensibility. Five of her neighborhood friends, at the

solicitation of Mrs. Davis, were kind enough to accompany her. At the

grave-side when the body was finally lowered she looked at it, one

might have thought indifferently, for she was numb from suffering. She

returned to Sandwood after it was all over, saying that she would not

stay long. She wanted to come back to Chicago, where she could be near

Vesta and Gerhardt.

After the funeral Jennie tried to think of her future. She fixed

her mind on the need of doing something, even though she did not need

to. She thought that she might like to try nursing, and could start at

once to obtain the training which was required. She also thought of

William. He was unmarried, and perhaps he might be willing to come and

live with her. Only she did not know where he was, and Bass was also

in ignorance of his whereabouts. She finally concluded that she would

try to get work in a store. Her disposition was against idleness. She

could not live alone here, and she could not have her neighbors

sympathetically worrying over what was to become of her. Miserable as

she was, she would be less miserable stopping in a hotel in Chicago,

and looking for something to do, or living in a cottage somewhere near

the Cemetery of the Redeemer. It also occurred to her that she might

adopt a homeless child. There were a number of orphan asylums in the

city.

Some three weeks after Vesta's death Lester returned to Chicago

with his wife, and discovered the first letter, the telegram, and an

additional note telling him that Vesta was dead. He was truly grieved,

for his affection for the girl had been real. He was very sorry for

Jennie, and he told his wife that he would have to go out and see her.

He was wondering what she would do. She could not live alone. Perhaps

he could suggest something which would help her. He took the train to

Sandwood, but Jennie had gone to the Hotel Tremont in Chicago. He went

there, but Jennie had gone to her daughter's grave; later he called

again and found her in. When the boy presented his card she suffered

an upwelling of feeling--a wave that was more intense than that

with which she had received him in the olden days, for now her need of

him was greater.

Lester, in spite of the glamor of his new affection and the

restoration of his wealth, power, and dignities, had had time to think

deeply of what he had done. His original feeling of doubt and

dissatisfaction with himself had never wholly quieted. It did not ease

him any to know that he had left Jennie comfortably fixed, for it was

always so plain to him that money was not the point at issue with her.

Affection was what she craved. Without it she was like a rudderless

boat on an endless sea, and he knew it. She needed him, and he was

ashamed to think that his charity had not outweighed his sense of

self-preservation and his desire for material advantage. To-day as the

elevator carried him up to her room he was really sorry, though he

knew now that no act of his could make things right. He had been to

blame from the very beginning, first for taking her, then for failing

to stick by a bad bargain. Well, it could not be helped now. The best

thing he could do was to be fair, to counsel with her, to give her the

best of his sympathy and advice.

"Hello, Jennie," he said familiarly as she opened the door to him

in her hotel room, his glance taking in the ravages which death and

suffering had wrought. She was thinner, her face quite drawn and

colorless, her eyes larger by contrast. "I'm awfully sorry about

Vesta," he said a little awkwardly. "I never dreamed anything like

that could happen."

It was the first word of comfort which had meant anything to her

since Vesta died--since Lester had left her, in fact. It touched

her that he had come to sympathize; for the moment she could not

speak. Tears welled over her eyelids and down upon her cheeks.

"Don't cry, Jennie," he said, putting his arm around her and

holding her head to his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I've been sorry for a

good many things that can't be helped now. I'm intensely sorry for

this. Where did you bury her?"

"Beside papa," she said, sobbing.

"Too bad," he murmured, and held her in silence. She finally gained

control of herself sufficiently to step away from him; then wiping her

eyes with her handkerchief, she asked him to sit down.

"I'm so sorry," he went on, "that this should have happened while I

was away. I would have been with you if I had been here. I suppose you

won't want to live out at Sand wood now?"

"I can't, Lester," she replied. "I couldn't stand it."

"Where are you thinking of going?"

"Oh, I don't know yet. I didn't want to be a bother to those people

out there. I thought I'd get a little house somewhere and adopt a baby

maybe, or get something to do. I don't like to be alone."

"That isn't a bad idea," he said, "that of adopting a baby. It

would be a lot of company for you. You know how to go about getting

one?"

"You just ask at one of these asylums, don't you?"

"I think there's something more than that," he replied

thoughtfully. "There are some formalities--I don't know what they

are. They try to keep control of the child in some way. You had better

consult with Watson and get him to help you. Pick out your baby, and

then let him do the rest. I'll speak to him about it."

Lester saw that she needed companionship badly. "Where is your

brother George?" he asked.

"He's in Rochester, but he couldn't come. Bass said he was

married," she added.

"There isn't any other member of the family you could persuade to

come and live with you?"

"I might get William, but I don't know where he is."

"Why not try that new section west of Jackson Park," he suggested,

"if you want a house here in Chicago? I see some nice cottages out

that way. You needn't buy. Just rent until you see how well you're

satisfied."

Jennie thought this good advice because it came from Lester. It was

good of him to take this much interest in her affairs. She wasn't

entirely separated from him after all. He cared a little. She asked

him how his wife was, whether he had had a pleasant trip, whether he

was going to stay in Chicago. All the while he was thinking that he

had treated her badly. He went to the window and looked down into

Dearborn Street, the world of traffic below holding his attention. The

great mass of trucks and vehicles, the counter streams of hurrying

pedestrians, seemed like a puzzle. So shadows march in a dream. It was

growing dusk, and lights were springing up here and there.

"I want to tell you something, Jennie," said Lester, finally

rousing himself from his fit of abstraction. "I may seem peculiar to

you, after all that has happened, but I still care for you--in my

way. I've thought of you right along since I left. I thought it good

business to leave you--the way things were. I thought I liked

Letty well enough to marry her. From one point of view it still seems

best, but I'm not so much happier. I was just as happy with you as I

ever will be. It isn't myself that's important in this transaction

apparently; the individual doesn't count much in the situation. I

don't know whether you see what I'm driving at, but all of us are more

or less pawns. We're moved about like chessmen by circumstances over

which we have no control."

"I understand, Lester," she answered. "I'm not complaining. I know

it's for the best."

"After all, life is more or less of a farce," he went on a little

bitterly. "It's a silly show. The best we can do is to hold our

personality intact. It doesn't appear that integrity has much to do

with it."

Jennie did not quite grasp what he was talking about, but she knew

it meant that he was not entirely satisfied with himself and was sorry

for her.

"Don't worry over me, Lester," she consoled. "I'm all right; I'll

get along. It did seem terrible to me for a while--getting used

to being alone. I'll be all right now. I'll get along."

"I want you to feel that my attitude hasn't changed," he continued

eagerly. "I'm interested in what concerns you. Mrs.--Letty

understands that. She knows just how I feel. When you get settled I'll

come in and see how you're fixed. I'll come around here again in a few

days. You understand how I feel, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," she said.

He took her hand, turning it sympathetically in his own. "Don't

worry," he said. "I don't want you to do that. I'll do the best I can.

You're still Jennie to me, if you don't mind. I'm pretty bad, but I'm

not all bad."

"It's all right, Lester. I wanted you to do as you did. It's for

the best. You probably are happy since--"

"Now, Jennie," he interrupted; then he pressed affectionately her

hand, her arm, her shoulder. "Want to kiss me for old times' sake?" he

smiled.

She put her hands over his shoulders, looked long into his eyes,

then kissed him. When their lips met she trembled. Lester also felt

unsteady. Jennie saw his agitation, and tried hard to speak.

"You'd better go now," she said firmly. "It's getting dark."

He went away, and yet he knew that he wanted above all things to

remain; she was still the one woman in the world for him. And Jennie

felt comforted even though the separation still existed in all its

finality. She did not endeavor to explain or adjust the moral and

ethical entanglements of the situation. She was not, like so many,

endeavoring to put the ocean into a tea-cup, or to tie up the shifting

universe in a mess of strings called law. Lester still cared for her a

little. He cared for Letty too. That was all right. She had hoped once

that he might want her only. Since he did not, was his affection worth

nothing? She could not think, she could not feel that. And neither

could he.