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Jennie Gerhardt

<h3 align="center">CHAPTER XXII</h3> The fatal Friday came, and Jennie stood face to face with this new and overwhelming complication in her modest scheme of existence. There was really no alternative, she thought. Her own life was a failure. Why go on fighting? If she could make her family happy, if she could give Vesta a good education, if she could conceal the true nature of this older story and keep Vesta in the background perhaps, perhaps—well, rich men had married poor girls before this, and Lester was very kind, he certainly liked her. At seven o'clock she went to Mrs. Bracebridge's; at noon she excused herself on the pretext of some work for her mother and left the house for the hotel. Lester, leaving Cincinnati a few days earlier than he expected, had failed to receive her reply; he arrived at Cleveland feeling sadly out of tune with the world. He had a lingering hope that a letter from Jennie might be awaiting him at the hotel, but there was no word from her. He was a man not easily wrought up, but to-night he felt depressed, and so went gloomily up to his room and changed his linen. After supper he proceeded to drown his dissatisfaction in a game of billiards with some friends, from whom he did not part until he had taken very much more than his usual amount of alcoholic stimulant. The next morning he arose with a vague idea of abandoning the whole affair, but as the hours elapsed and the time of his appointment drew near he decided that it might not be unwise to give her one last chance. She might come. Accordingly, when it still lacked a quarter of an hour of the time, he went down into the parlor. Great was his delight when he beheld her sitting in a chair and waiting—the outcome of her acquiescence. He walked briskly up, a satisfied, gratified smile on his face. "So you did come after all," he said, gazing at her with the look of one who has lost and recovered a prize. "What do you mean by not writing me? I thought from the way you neglected me that you had made up your mind not to come at all." "I did write," she replied. "Where?" "To the address you gave me. I wrote three days ago." "That explains it. It came too late. You should have written me before. How have you been?" "Oh, all right," she replied. "You don't look it!" he said. "You look worried. What's the trouble, Jennie? Nothing gone wrong out at your house, has there?" It was a fortuitous question. He hardly knew why lie had asked it. Yet it opened the door to what she wanted to say. "My father's sick," she replied. "What's happened to him?" "He burned his hands at the glass-works. We've been terribly worried. It looks as though he would not be able to use them any more." She paused, looking the distress she felt, and he saw plainly that she was facing a crisis. "That's too bad," he said. "That certainly is. When did this happen?" "Oh, almost three weeks ago now." "It certainly is bad. Come in to lunch, though. I want to talk with you. I've been wanting to get a better understanding of your family affairs ever since I left." He led the way into the dining-room and selected a secluded table. He tried to divert her mind by asking her to order the luncheon, but she was too worried and too shy to do so and he had to make out the menu by himself. Then he turned to her with a cheering air. "Now, Jennie," he said, "I want you to tell me all about your family. I got a little something of it last time, but I want to get it straight. Your father, you said, was a glass-blower by trade. Now he can't work any more at that, that's obvious." "Yes," she said. "How many other children are there?" "Six." "Are you the oldest?" "No, my brother Sebastian is. He's twenty-two." "And what does he do?" "He's a clerk in a cigar store." "Do you know how much he makes?" "I think it's twelve dollars," she replied thoughtfully. "And the other children?" "Martha and Veronica don't do anything yet. They're too young. My brother George works at Wilson's. He's a cash-boy. He gets three dollars and a half." "And how much do you make?" "I make four." He stopped, figuring up mentally just what they had to live on. "How much rent do you pay?" he continued. "Twelve dollars." "How old is your mother?" "She's nearly fifty now." He turned a fork in his hands back and forth; he was thinking earnestly. "To tell you the honest truth, I fancied it was something like that, Jennie," he said. "I've been thinking about you a lot. Now, I know. There's only one answer to your problem, and it isn't such a bad one, if you'll only believe me." He paused for an inquiry, but she made none. Her mind was running on her own difficulties. "Don't you want to know?" he inquired. "Yes," she answered mechanically. "It's me," he replied. "You have to let me help you. I wanted to last time. Now you have to; do you hear?" "I thought I wouldn't," she said simply. "I knew what you thought," he replied. "That's all over now. I'm going to 'tend to that family of yours. And I'll do it right now while I think of it." He drew out his purse and extracted several ten and twenty-dollar bills—two hundred and fifty dollars in all. "I want you to take this," he said. "It's just the beginning. I will see that your family is provided for from now on. Here, give me your hand." "Oh no," she said. "Not so much. Don't give me all that." "Yes," he replied. "Don't argue. Here. Give me your hand." She put it out in answer to the summons of his eyes, and he shut her fingers on the money, pressing them gently at the same time. "I want you to have it, sweet. I love you, little girl. I'm not going to see you suffer, nor any one belonging to you." Her eyes looked a dumb thankfulness, and she bit her lips. "I don't know how to thank you," she said. "You don't need to," he replied. "The thanks are all the other way—believe me." He paused and looked at her, the beauty of her face holding him. She looked at the table, wondering what would come next. "How would you like to leave what you're doing and stay at home?" he asked. "That would give you your freedom day times." "I couldn't do that," she replied. "Papa wouldn't allow it. He knows I ought to work." "That's true enough," he said. "But there's so little in what you're doing. Good heavens! Four dollars a week! I would be glad to give you fifty times that sum if I thought there was any way in which you could use it." He idly thrummed the cloth with his fingers. "I couldn't," she said. "I hardly know how to use this. They'll suspect. I'll have to tell mamma." From the way she said it he judged there must be some bond of sympathy between her and her mother which would permit of a confidence such as this. He was by no means a hard man, and the thought touched him. But he would not relinquish his purpose. "There's only one thing to be done, as far as I can see," he went on very gently. "You're not suited for the kind of work you're doing. You're too refined. I object to it. Give it up and come with me down to New York; I'll take good care of you. I love you and want you. As far as your family is concerned, you won't have to worry about them any more. You can take a nice home for them and furnish it in any style you please. Wouldn't you like that?" He paused, and Jennie's thoughts reverted quickly to her mother, her dear mother. All her life long Mrs. Gerhardt had been talking of this very thing—a nice home. If they could just have a larger house, with good furniture and a yard filled with trees, how happy she would be. In such a home she would be free of the care of rent, the discomfort of poor furniture, the wretchedness of poverty; she would be so happy. She hesitated there while his keen eye followed her in spirit, and he saw what a power he had set in motion. It had been a happy inspiration—the suggestion of a decent home for the family. He waited a few minutes longer, and then said: "Well, wouldn't you better let me do that?" "It would be very nice," she said, "but it can't be done now. I couldn't leave home. Papa would want to know all about where I was going. I wouldn't know what to say." "Why couldn't you pretend that you are going down to New York with Mrs. Bracebridge?" he suggested. "There couldn't be any objection to that, could there?" "Not if they didn't find out," she said, her eyes opening in amazement. "But if they should!" "They won't," he replied calmly. "They're not watching Mrs. Bracebridge's affairs. Plenty of mistresses take their maids on long trips. Why not simply tell them you're invited to go—have to go—and then go?" "Do you think I could?" she inquired. "Certainly," he replied. "What is there peculiar about that?" She thought it over, and the plan did seem feasible. Then she looked at this man and realized that relationship with him meant possible motherhood for her again. The tragedy of giving birth to a child—ah, she could not go through that a second time, at least under the same conditions. She could not bring herself to tell him about Vesta, but she must voice this insurmountable objection. "I—" she said, formulating the first word of her sentence, and then stopping. "Yes," he said. "I—what?" "I—" She paused again. He loved her shy ways, her sweet, hesitating lips. "What is it, Jennie?" he asked helpfully. "You're so delicious. Can't you tell me?" Her hand was on the table. He reached over and laid his strong brown one on top of it. "I couldn't have a baby," she said, finally, and looked down. He gazed at her, and the charm of her frankness, her innate decency under conditions so anomalous, her simple unaffected recognition of the primal facts of life lifted her to a plane in his esteem which she had not occupied until that moment. "You're a great girl, Jennie," he said. "You're wonderful. But don't worry about that. It can be arranged. You don't need to have a child unless you want to, and I don't want you to." He saw the question written in her wondering, shamed face. "It's so," he said. "You believe me, don't you? You think I know, don't you?" "Yes," she faltered. "Well, I do. But anyway, I wouldn't let any trouble come to you. I'll take you away. Besides, I don't want any children. There wouldn't be any satisfaction in that proposition for me at this time. I'd rather wait. But there won't be—don't worry." "Yes," she said faintly. Not for worlds could she have met his eyes. "Look here, Jennie," he said, after a time. "You care for me, don't you? You don't think I'd sit here and plead with you if I didn't care for you? I'm crazy about you, and that's the literal truth. You're like wine to me. I want you to come with me. I want you to do it quickly. I know how difficult this family business is, but you can arrange it. Come with me down to New York. We'll work out something later. I'll meet your family. We'll pretend a courtship, anything you like—only come now." "You don't mean right away, do you?" she asked, startled. "Yes, to-morrow if possible. Monday sure. You can arrange it. Why, if Mrs. Bracebridge asked you you'd go fast enough, and no one would think anything about it. Isn't that so?" "Yes," she admitted slowly. "Well, then, why not now?" "It's always so much harder to work out a falsehood," she replied thoughtfully. "I know it, but you can come. Won't you?" "Won't you wait a little while?" she pleaded. "It's so very sudden. I'm afraid." "Not a day, sweet, that I can help. Can't you see how I feel? Look in my eyes. Will you?" "Yes," she replied sorrowfully, and yet with a strange thrill of affection. "I will." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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