第 五十三 章 · 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?"

She was silent for a moment, biting her lips. She did not quite

know how to begin. Finally she broke the spell with: "There was a man

here yesterday--a Mr. O'Brien, of Cincinnati. Do you know

him?"

"Yes, I know him. What did he want?"

"He came to talk to me about you and your father's will."

She paused, for his face clouded immediately. "Why the devil should

he be talking to you about my father's will!" he exclaimed. "What did

he have to say?"

"Please don't get angry, Lester," said Jennie calmly, for she

realized that she must remain absolute mistress of herself if anything

were to be accomplished toward the resolution of her problem. "He

wanted to tell me what a sacrifice you are making," she went on. "He

wished to show me that there was only a little time left before you

would lose your inheritance. Don't you want to act pretty soon? Don't

you want to leave me."

"Damn him!" said Lester fiercely. "What the devil does he mean by

putting his nose in my private affairs? Can't they let me alone?" He

shook himself angrily. "Damn them!" he exclaimed again. "This is some

of Robert's work. Why should Knight, Keatley & O'Brien be meddling

in my affairs? This whole business is getting to be a nuisance!" He

was in a boiling rage in a moment, as was shown by his darkening skin

and sulphurous eyes.

Jennie trembled before his anger. She did not know what to say.

He came to himself sufficiently after a time to add:

"Well. Just what did he tell you?"

"He said that if you married me you would only get ten thousand a

year. That if you didn't and still lived with me you would get nothing

at all. If you would leave me, or I would leave you, you would get all

of a million and a half. Don't you think you had better leave me

now?"

She had not intended to propound this leading question so quickly,

but it came out as a natural climax to the situation. She realized

instantly that if he were really in love with her he would answer with

an emphatic "no." If he didn't care, he would hesitate, he would

delay, he would seek to put off the evil day of reckoning.

"I don't see that," he retorted irritably. "I don't see that

there's any need for either interference or hasty action. What I

object to is their coming here and mixing in my private affairs."

Jennie was cut to the quick by his indifference, his wrath instead

of affection. To her the main point at issue was her leaving him or

his leaving her. To him this recent interference was obviously the

chief matter for discussion and consideration. The meddling of others

before he was ready to act was the terrible thing. She had hoped, in

spite of what she had seen, that possibly, because of the long time

they had lived together and the things which (in a way) they had

endured together, he might have come to care for her deeply--that

she had stirred some emotion in him which would never brook real

separation, though some seeming separation might be necessary. He had

not married her, of course, but then there had been so many things

against them. Now, in this final hour, anyhow, he might have shown

that he cared deeply, even if he had deemed it necessary to let her

go. She felt for the time being as if, for all that she had lived with

him so long, she did not understand him, and yet, in spite of this

feeling, she knew also that she did. He cared, in his way. He could

not care for any one enthusiastically and demonstratively. He could

care enough to seize her and take her to himself as he had, but he

could not care enough to keep her if something more important

appeared. He was debating her fate now. She was in a quandary, hurt,

bleeding, but for once in her life, determined. Whether he wanted to

or not, she must not let him make this sacrifice. She must leave

him--if he would not leave her. It was not important enough that

she should stay. There might be but one answer. But might he not show

affection?

"Don't you think you had better act soon?" she continued, hoping

that some word of feeling would come from him. "There is only a little

time left, isn't there?"

Jennie nervously pushed a book to and fro on the table, her fear

that she would not be able to keep up appearances troubling her

greatly. It was hard for her to know what to do or say. Lester was so

terrible when he became angry. Still it ought not to be so hard for

him to go, now that he had Mrs. Gerald, if he only wished to do

so--and he ought to. His fortune was so much more important to

him than anything she could be.

"Don't worry about that," he replied stubbornly, his wrath at his

brother, and his family, and O'Brien still holding him. "There's time

enough. I don't know what I want to do yet. I like the effrontery of

these people! But I won't talk any more about it; isn't dinner nearly

ready?" He was so injured in his pride that he scarcely took the

trouble to be civil. He was forgetting all about her and what she was

feeling. He hated his brother Robert for this affront. He would have

enjoyed wringing the necks of Messrs. Knight, Keatley & O'Brien,

singly and collectively.

The question could not be dropped for good and all, and it came up

again at dinner, after Jennie had done her best to collect her

thoughts and quiet her nerves. They could not talk very freely because

of Vesta and Jeannette, but she managed to get in a word or two.

"I could take a little cottage somewhere," she suggested softly,

hoping to find him in a modified mood. "I would not want to stay here.

I would not know what to do with a big house like this alone."

"I wish you wouldn't discuss this business any longer, Jennie," he

persisted. "I'm in no mood for it. I don't know that I'm going to do

anything of the sort. I don't know what I'm going to do." He was so

sour and obstinate, because of O'Brien, that she finally gave it up.

Vesta was astonished to see her stepfather, usually so courteous, in

so grim a mood.

Jennie felt a curious sense that she might hold him if she would,

for he was doubting; but she knew also that she should not wish. It

was not fair to him. It was not fair to herself, or kind, or

decent.

"Oh yes, Lester, you must," she pleaded, at a later time. "I won't

talk about it any more, but you must. I won't let you do anything

else."

There were hours when it came up afterward--every day, in

fact--in their boudoir, in the library, in the dining-room, at

breakfast, but not always in words. Jennie was worried. She was

looking the worry she felt. She was sure that he should be made to

act. Since he was showing more kindly consideration for her, she was

all the more certain that he should act soon. Just how to go about it

she did not know, but she looked at him longingly, trying to help him

make up his mind. She would be happy, she assured herself--she

would be happy thinking that he was happy once she was away from him.

He was a good man, most delightful in everything, perhaps, save his

gift of love. He really did not love her--could not perhaps,

after all that had happened, even though she loved him most earnestly.

But his family had been most brutal in their opposition, and this had

affected his attitude. She could understand that, too. She could see

now how his big, strong brain might be working in a circle. He was too

decent to be absolutely brutal about this thing and leave her, too

really considerate to look sharply after his own interests as he

should, or hers--but he ought to.

"You must decide, Lester," she kept saying to him, from time to

time. "You must let me go. What difference does it make? I will be all

right. Maybe, when this thing is all over you might want to come back

to me. If you do, I will be there."

"I'm not ready to come to a decision," was his invariable reply. "I

don't know that I want to leave you. This money is important, of

course, but money isn't everything. I can live on ten thousand a year

if necessary. I've done it in the past."

"Oh, but you're so much more placed in the world now, Lester," she

argued. "You can't do it. Look how much it costs to run this house

alone. And a million and a half of dollars--why, I wouldn't let

you think of losing that. I'll go myself first."

"Where would you think of going if it came to that?" he asked

curiously.

"Oh, I'd find some place. Do you remember that little town of

Sandwood, this side of Kenosha? I have often thought it would be a

pleasant place to live."

"I don't like to think of this," he said finally in an outburst of

frankness. "It doesn't seem fair. The conditions have all been against

this union of ours. I suppose I should have married you in the first

place. I'm sorry now that I didn't."

Jennie choked in her throat, but said nothing.

"Anyhow, this won't be the last of it, if I can help it," he

concluded. He was thinking that the storm might blow over; once he had

the money, and then--but he hated compromises and

subterfuges.

It came by degrees to be understood that, toward the end of

February, she should look around at Sandwood and see what she could

find. She was to have ample means, he told her, everything that she

wanted. After a time he might come out and visit her occasionally. And

he was determined in his heart that he would make some people pay for

the trouble they had caused him. He decided to send for Mr. O'Brien

shortly and talk things over. He wanted for his personal satisfaction

to tell him what he thought of him.

At the same time, in the background of his mind, moved the shadowy

figure of Mrs. Gerald--charming, sophisticated, well placed in

every sense of the word. He did not want to give her the broad reality

of full thought, but she was always there. He thought and thought.

"Perhaps I'd better," he half concluded. When February came he was

ready to act.