The arrangements completed, Jennie returned at the first opportunity to Cleveland to take Vesta away. Gerhardt, who had been brooding over his approaching loss, appeared most solicitous about her future. “She should grow up to be a fine girl,” he said. “You should give her a good education—she is so smart.” He spoke of the advisability of sending her to a Lutheran school and church, but Jennie was not so sure of that. Time and association with Lester had led her to think that perhaps the public school was better than any private institution. She had no particular objection to the church, but she no longer depended upon its teachings as a guide in the affairs of life. Why should she?
The next day it was necessary for Jennie to return to Chicago. Vesta, excited and eager, was made ready for the journey. Gerhardt had been wandering about, restless as a lost spirit, while the process of dressing was going on; now that the hour had actually struck he was doing his best to control his feelings. He could see that the five-year-old child had no conception of what it meant to him. She was happy and self-interested, chattering about the ride and the train.
“Be a good little girl,” he said, lifting her up and kissing her. “See that you study your catechism and say your prayers. And you won’t forget the grandpa—what?—” He tried to go on, but his voice failed him.
Jennie, whose heart ached for her father, choked back her emotion. “There,” she said, “if I’d thought you were going to act like that—” She stopped.
“Go,” said Gerhardt, manfully, “go. It is best this way.” And he stood solemnly by as they went out of the door. Then he turned back to his favorite haunt, the kitchen, and stood there staring at the floor. One by one they were leaving him—Mrs. Gerhardt, Bass, Martha, Jennie, Vesta. He clasped his hands together, after his old-time fashion, and shook his head again and again. “So it is! So it is!” he repeated. “They all leave me. All my life goes to pieces.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
During the three years in which Jennie and Lester had been associated there had grown up between them a strong feeling of mutual sympathy and understanding. Lester truly loved her in his own way. It was a strong, self-satisfying, determined kind of way, based solidly on a big natural foundation, but rising to a plane of genuine spiritual affinity. The yielding sweetness of her character both attracted and held him. She was true, and good, and womanly to the very center of her being; he had learned to trust her, to depend upon her, and the feeling had but deepened with the passing of the years.
On her part Jennie had sincerely, deeply, truly learned to love this man. At first when he had swept her off her feet, overawed her soul, and used her necessity as a chain wherewith to bind her to him, she was a little doubtful, a little afraid of him, although she had always liked him. Now, however, by living with him, by knowing him better, by watching his moods, she had come to love him. He was so big, so vocal, so handsome. His point of view and opinions of anything and everything were so positive. His pet motto, “Hew to the line, let the chips fall where they may,” had clung in her brain as something immensely characteristic. Apparently he was not afraid of anything—God, man, or devil. He used to look at her, holding her chin between the thumb and fingers of his big brown hand, and say: “You’re sweet, all right, but you need courage and defiance. You haven’t enough of those things.” And her eyes would meet his in dumb appeal. “Never mind,” he would add, “you have other things.” And then he would kiss her.
One of the most appealing things to Lester was the simple way in which she tried to avoid exposure of her various social and educational shortcomings. She could not write very well, and once he found a list of words he had used written out on a piece of paper with the meanings opposite. He smiled, but he liked her better for it. Another time in the Southern hotel in St. Louis he watched her pretending a loss of appetite because she thought that her lack of table manners was being observed by nearby diners. She could not always be sure of the right forks and knives, and the strange-looking dishes bothered her; how did one eat asparagus and artichokes?
“Why don’t you eat something?” he asked good-naturedly. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“Not very.”
“You must be. Listen, Jennie. I know what it is. You mustn’t feel that way. Your manners are all right. I wouldn’t bring you here if they weren’t. Your instincts are all right. Don’t be uneasy. I’d tell you quick enough when there was anything wrong.” His brown eyes held a friendly gleam.
She smiled gratefully. “I do feel a little nervous at times,” she admitted.
“Don’t,” he repeated. “You’re all right. Don’t worry. I’ll show you.” And he did.
By degrees Jennie grew into an understanding of the usages and customs of comfortable existence. All that the Gerhardt family had ever had were the bare necessities of life. Now she was surrounded with whatever she wanted—trunks, clothes, toilet articles, the whole varied equipment of comfort—and while she liked it all, it did not upset her sense of proportion and her sense of the fitness of things. There was no element of vanity in her, only a sense of joy in privilege and opportunity. She was grateful to Lester for all that he had done and was doing for her. If only she could hold him—always!
The details of getting Vesta established once adjusted, Jennie settled down into the routine of home life. Lester, busy about his multitudinous affairs, was in and out. He had a suite of rooms reserved for himself at the Grand Pacific, which was then the exclusive hotel of Chicago, and this was his ostensible residence. His luncheon and evening appointments were kept at the Union Club. An early patron of the telephone, he had one installed in the apartment, so that he could reach Jennie quickly and at any time. He was home two or three nights a week, sometimes oftener. He insisted at first on Jennie having a girl of general housework, but acquiesced in the more sensible arrangement which she suggested later of letting some one come in to do the cleaning. She liked to work around her own home. Her natural industry and love of order prompted this feeling.
Lester liked his breakfast promptly at eight in the morning. He wanted dinner served nicely at seven. Silverware, cut glass, imported china—all the little luxuries of life appealed to him. He kept his trunks and wardrobe at the apartment.
During the first few months everything went smoothly. He was in the habit of taking Jennie to the theater now and then, and if he chanced to run across an acquaintance he always introduced her as Miss Gerhardt. When he registered her as his wife it was usually under an assumed name; where there was no danger of detection he did not mind using his own signature. Thus far there had been no difficulty or unpleasantness of any kind.
The trouble with this situation was that it was criss-crossed with the danger and consequent worry which the deception in regard to Vesta had entailed, as well as with Jennie’s natural anxiety about her father and the disorganized home. Jennie feared, as Veronica hinted, that she and William would go to live with Martha, who was installed in a boarding-house in Cleveland, and that Gerhardt would be left alone. He was such a pathetic figure to her, with his injured hands and his one ability—that of being a watchman—that she was hurt to think of his being left alone. Would he come to her? She knew that he would not—feeling as he did at present. Would Lester have him—she was not sure of that. If he came Vesta would have to be accounted for. So she worried.
The situation in regard to Vesta was really complicated. Owing to the feeling that she was doing her daughter a great injustice, Jennie was particularly sensitive in regard to her, anxious to do a thousand things to make up for the one great duty that she could not perform. She daily paid a visit to the home of Mrs. Olsen, always taking with her toys, candy, or whatever came into her mind as being likely to interest and please the child. She liked to sit with Vesta and tell her stories of fairy and giant, which kept the little girl wide-eyed. At last she went so far as to bring her to the apartment, when Lester was away visiting his parents, and she soon found it possible, during his several absences, to do this regularly. After that, as time went on and she began to know his habits, she became more bold—although bold is scarcely the word to use in connection with Jennie. She became venturesome much as a mouse might; she would risk Vesta’s presence on the assurance of even short absences—two or three days. She even got into the habit of keeping a few of Vesta’s toys at the apartment, so that she could have something to play with when she came.