And it was a part of the penalty that he had become measurably soured by what had occurred. He was feeling that he had been compelled to do the first ugly, brutal thing of his life. Jennie deserved better of him. It was a shame to forsake her after all the devotion she had manifested. Truly she had played a finer part than he. Worst of all, his deed could not be excused on the grounds of necessity. He could have lived on ten thousand a year; he could have done without the million and more which was now his. He could have done without the society, the pleasures of which had always been a lure. He could have, but he had not, and he had complicated it all with the thought of another woman.
Was she as good as Jennie? That was a question which always rose before him. Was she as kindly? Wasn’t she deliberately scheming under his very eyes to win him away from the woman who was as good as his wife? Was that admirable? Was it the thing a truly big woman would do? Was she good enough for him after all? Ought he to marry her? Ought he to marry any one seeing that he really owed a spiritual if not a legal allegiance to Jennie? Was it worth while for any woman to marry him? These things turned in his brain. They haunted him. He could not shut out the fact that he was doing a cruel and unlovely thing.
Material error in the first place was now being complicated with spiritual error. He was attempting to right the first by committing the second. Could it be done to his own satisfaction? Would it pay mentally and spiritually? Would it bring him peace of mind? He was thinking, thinking, all the while he was readjusting his life to the old (or perhaps better yet, new) conditions, and he was not feeling any happier. As a matter of fact he was feeling worse—grim, revengeful. If he married Letty he thought at times it would be to use her fortune as a club to knock other enemies over the head, and he hated to think he was marrying her for that. He took up his abode at the Auditorium, visited Cincinnati in a distant and aggressive spirit, sat in council with the board of directors, wishing that he was more at peace with himself, more interested in life. But he did not change his policy in regard to Jennie.
Of course Mrs. Gerald had been vitally interested in Lester’s rehabilitation. She waited tactfully some little time before sending him any word; finally she ventured to write to him at the Hyde Park address (as if she did not know where he was), asking, “Where are you?” By this time Lester had become slightly accustomed to the change in his life. He was saying to himself that he needed sympathetic companionship, the companionship of a woman, of course. Social invitations had begun to come to him now that he was alone and that his financial connections were so obviously restored. He had made his appearance, accompanied only by a Japanese valet, at several country houses, the best sign that he was once more a single man. No reference was made by any one to the past.
On receiving Mrs. Gerald’s note he decided that he ought to go and see her. He had treated her rather shabbily. For months preceding his separation from Jennie he had not gone near her. Even now he waited until time brought a ‘phoned invitation to dinner. This he accepted.
Mrs. Gerald was at her best as a hostess at her perfectly appointed dinner-table. Alboni, the pianist, was there on this occasion, together with Adam Rascavage, the sculptor, a visiting scientist from England, Sir Nelson Keyes, and, curiously enough, Mr. and Mrs. Berry Dodge, whom Lester had not met socially in several years. Mrs. Gerald and Lester exchanged the joyful greetings of those who understand each other thoroughly and are happy in each other’s company. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, sir,” she said to him when he made his appearance, “to treat me so indifferently? You are going to be punished for this.”
“What’s the damage?” he smiled. “I’ve been extremely rushed. I suppose something like ninety stripes will serve me about right.”
“Ninety stripes, indeed!” she retorted. “You’re letting yourself off easy. What is it they do to evil-doers in Siam?”
“Boil them in oil, I suppose.”
“Well, anyhow, that’s more like. I’m thinking of something terrible.”
“Be sure and tell me when you decide,” he laughed, and passed on to be presented to distinguished strangers by Mrs. De Lincum who aided Mrs. Gerald in receiving.
The talk was stimulating. Lester was always at his ease intellectually, and this mental atmosphere revived him. Presently he turned to greet Berry Dodge, who was standing at his elbow.
Dodge was all cordiality. “Where are you now?” he asked. “We haven’t seen you in—oh, when? Mrs. Dodge is waiting to have a word with you.” Lester noticed the change in Dodge’s attitude.
“Some time, that’s sure,” he replied easily. “I’m living at the Auditorium.”
“I was asking after you the other day. You know Jackson Du Bois? Of course you do. We were thinking of running up into Canada for some hunting. Why don’t you join us?”
“I can’t,” replied Lester. “Too many things on hand just now. Later, surely.”
Dodge was anxious to continue. He had seen Lester’s election as a director of the C. H. & D. Obviously he was coming back into the world. But dinner was announced and Lester sat at Mrs. Gerald’s right hand.
“Aren’t you coming to pay me a dinner call some afternoon after this?” asked Mrs. Gerald confidentially when the conversation was brisk at the other end of the table.
“I am, indeed,” he replied, “and shortly. Seriously, I’ve been wanting to look you up. You understand though how things are now?”
“I do. I’ve heard a great deal. That’s why I want you to come. We need to talk together.”
Ten days later he did call. He felt as if he must talk with her; he was feeling bored and lonely; his long home life with Jennie had made hotel life objectionable. He felt as though he must find a sympathetic, intelligent ear, and where better than here? Letty was all ears for his troubles. She would have pillowed his solid head upon her breast in a moment if that had been possible.
“Well,” he said, when the usual fencing preliminaries were over, “what will you have me say in explanation?”
“Have you burned your bridges behind you?” she asked.
“I’m not so sure,” he replied gravely. “And I can’t say that I’m feeling any too joyous about the matter as a whole.”
“I thought as much,” she replied. “I knew how it would be with you. I can see you wading through this mentally, Lester. I have been watching you, every step of the way, wishing you peace of mind. These things are always so difficult, but don’t you know I am still sure it’s for the best. It never was right the other way. It never could be. You couldn’t afford to sink back into a mere shell-fish life. You are not organized temperamentally for that any more than I am. You may regret what you are doing now, but you would have regretted the other thing quite as much and more. You couldn’t work your life out that way—now, could you?”
“I don’t know about that, Letty. Really, I don’t. I’ve wanted to come and see you for a long time, but I didn’t think that I ought to. The fight was outside—you know what I mean.”
“Yes, indeed, I do,” she said soothingly.
“It’s still inside. I haven’t gotten over it. I don’t know whether this financial business binds me sufficiently or not. I’ll be frank and tell you that I can’t say I love her entirely; but I’m sorry, and that’s something.”
“She’s comfortably provided for, of course,” she commented rather than inquired.
“Everything she wants. Jennie is of a peculiar disposition. She doesn’t want much. She’s retiring by nature and doesn’t care for show. I’ve taken a cottage for her at Sandwood, a little place north of here on the lake; and there’s plenty of money in trust, but, of course, she knows she can live anywhere she pleases.”
“I understand exactly how she feels, Lester. I know how you feel. She is going to suffer very keenly for a while—we all do when we have to give up the thing we love. But we can get over it, and we do. At least, we can live. She will. It will go hard at first, but after a while she will see how it is, and she won’t feel any the worse toward you.”
“Jennie will never reproach me, I know that,” he replied. “I’m the one who will do the reproaching. I’ll be abusing myself for some time. The trouble is with my particular turn of mind. I can’t tell, for the life of me, how much of this disturbing feeling of mine is habit—the condition that I’m accustomed to—and how much is sympathy. I sometimes think I’m the the most pointless individual in the world. I think too much.”