Jennie Gerhardt

 
 
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CHAPTER LXII 
The end came after four days during which Jennie was by his bedside 
almost constantly. The nurse in charge welcomed her at first as a relief and 
company, but the physician was inclined to object. Lester, however, was 
stubborn. "This is my death," he said, with a touch of grim humor. "If I'm 
dying I ought to be allowed to die in my own way." 
Watson smiled at the man's unfaltering courage. He had never seen 
anything like it before. 
There were cards of sympathy, calls of inquiry, notices in the newspaper. 
Robert saw an item in the Inquirer and decided to go to Chicago. Imogene 
called with her husband, and they were admitted to Lester's room for a few 
minutes after Jennie had gone to hers. Lester had little to say. The nurse 
cautioned them that he was not to be talked to much. When they were gone 
Lester said to Jennie, "Imogene has changed a good deal." He made no other 
comment. 
Mrs. Kane was on the Atlantic three days out from New York the afternoon 
Lester died. He had been meditating whether anything more could be done 
for Jennie, but he could not make up his mind about it. Certainly it was 
useless to leave her more money. She did not want it. He had been 
wondering where Letty was and how near her actual arrival might be when 
he was seized with a tremendous paroxysm of pain. Before relief could be 
administered in the shape of an anesthetic he was dead. It developed 
afterward that it was not the intestinal trouble which killed him, but a lesion 
of a major blood-vessel in the brain. 
Jennie, who had been strongly wrought up by watching and worrying, was 
beside herself with grief. He had been a part of her thought and feeling so 
long that it seemed now as though a part of herself had died. She had loved 
him as she had fancied she could never love any one, and he had always 
shown that he cared for her—at least in some degree. She could not feel the 
emotion that expresses itself in tears—only a dull ache, a numbness which 
seemed to make her insensible to pain. He looked so strong—her Lester—
lying there still in death. His expression was unchanged—defiant, 
determined, albeit peaceful. Word had come from Mrs. Kane that she would 
arrive on the Wednesday following. It was decided to hold the body. Jennie 
learned from Mr. Watson that it was to be transferred to Cincinnati, where 
the Paces had a vault. Because of the arrival of various members of the 
family, Jennie withdrew to her own home; she could do nothing more. 
The final ceremonies presented a peculiar commentary on the anomalies of 
existence. It was arranged with Mrs. Kane by wire that the body should be 
transferred to Imogene's residence, and the funeral held from there. Robert, 
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who arrived the night Lester died; Berry Dodge, Imogene's husband; Mr. 
Midgely, and three other citizens of prominence were selected as pall-
bearers. Louise and her husband came from Buffalo; Amy and her husband 
from Cincinnati. The house was full to overflowing with citizens who either 
sincerely wished or felt it expedient to call. Because of the fact that Lester 
and his family were tentatively Catholic, a Catholic priest was called in and 
the ritual of that Church was carried out. It was curious to see him lying in 
the parlor of this alien residence, candles at his head and feet, burning 
sepulchrally, a silver cross upon his breast, caressed by his waxen fingers. 
He would have smiled if he could have seen himself, but the Kane family 
was too conventional, too set in its convictions, to find anything strange in 
this. 
The Church made no objection, of course. The family was distinguished. 
What more could be desired? 
On Wednesday Mrs. Kane arrived. She was greatly distraught, for her love, 
like Jennie's, was sincere. She left her room that night when all was silent 
and leaned over the coffin, studying by the light of the burning candles 
Lester's beloved features. Tears trickled down her cheeks, for she had been 
happy with him. She caressed his cold cheeks and hands. "Poor, dear 
Lester!" she whispered. "Poor, brave soul!" No one told her that he had sent 
for Jennie. The Kane family did not know. 
Meanwhile in the house on South Park Avenue sat a woman who was 
enduring alone the pain, the anguish of an irreparable loss. Through all 
these years the subtle hope had persisted, in spite of every circumstance, 
that somehow life might bring him back to her. He had come, it is true—he 
really had in death—but he had gone again. Where? Whither her mother, 
whither Gerhardt, whither Vesta had gone? She could not hope to see him 
again, for the papers had informed her of his removal to Mrs. Midgely's 
residence, and of the fact that he was to be taken from Chicago to 
Cincinnati for burial. The last ceremonies in Chicago were to be held in one 
of the wealthy Roman Catholic churches of the South Side, St. Michael's, of 
which the Midgelys were members. 
Jennie felt deeply about this. She would have liked so much to have had 
him buried in Chicago, where she could go to the grave occasionally, but 
this was not to be. She was never a master of her fate. Others invariably 
controlled. She thought of him as being taken from her finally by the 
removal of the body to Cincinnati, as though distance made any difference. 
She decided at last to veil herself heavily and attend the funeral at the 
church. The paper had explained that the services would be at two in the 
afternoon. Then at four the body would be taken to the depot, and 
transferred to the train; the members of the family would accompany it to 
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Cincinnati. She thought of this as another opportunity. She might go to the 
depot. 
A little before the time for the funeral cortege to arrive at the church there 
appeared at one of its subsidiary entrances a woman in black, heavily veiled, 
who took a seat in an inconspicuous corner. She was a little nervous at first, 
for, seeing that the church was dark and empty, she feared lest she had 
mistaken the time and place; but after ten minutes of painful suspense a 
bell in the church tower began to toll solemnly. Shortly thereafter an acolyte 
in black gown and white surplice appeared and lighted groups of candles on 
either side of the altar. A hushed stirring of feet in the choir-loft indicated 
that the service was to be accompanied by music. Some loiterers, attracted 
by the bell, some idle strangers, a few acquaintances and citizens not 
directly invited appeared and took seats. 
Jennie watched all this with wondering eyes. Never in her life had she been 
inside a Catholic church. The gloom, the beauty of the windows, the 
whiteness of the altar, the golden flames of the candles impressed her. She 
was suffused with a sense of sorrow, loss, beauty, and mystery. Life in all its 
vagueness and uncertainty seemed typified by this scene. 
As the bell tolled there came from the sacristy a procession of altar-boys. 
The smallest, an angelic youth of eleven, came first, bearing aloft a 
magnificent silver cross. In the hands of each subsequent pair of servitors 
was held a tall, lighted candle. The priest, in black cloth and lace, attended 
by an acolyte on either hand, followed. The procession passed out the 
entrance into the vestibule of the church, and was not seen again until the 
choir began a mournful, responsive chant, the Latin supplication for mercy 
and peace. 
Then, at this sound the solemn procession made its reappearance. There 
came the silver cross, the candles, the dark-faced priest, reading 
dramatically to himself as he walked, and the body of Lester in a great black 
coffin, with silver handles, carried by the pall-bearers, who kept an even 
pace. Jennie stiffened perceptibly, her nerves responding as though to a 
shock from an electric current. She did not know any of these men. She did 
not know Robert. She had never seen Mr. Midgely. Of the long company of 
notables who followed two by two she recognized only three, whom Lester 
had pointed out to her in times past. Mrs. Kane she saw, of course, for she 
was directly behind the coffin, leaning on the arm of a stranger; behind her 
walked Mr. Watson, solemn, gracious. He gave a quick glance to either side, 
evidently expecting to see her somewhere; but not finding her, he turned his 
eyes gravely forward and walked on. Jennie looked with all her eyes, her 
heart gripped by pain. She seemed so much a part of this solemn ritual, and 
yet infinitely removed from it all. 
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The procession reached the altar rail, and the coffin was put down. A white 
shroud bearing the insignia of suffering, a black cross, was put over it, and 
the great candles were set beside it. There were the chanted invocations and 
responses, the sprinkling of the coffin with holy water, the lighting and 
swinging of the censer and then the mumbled responses of the auditors to 
the Lord's Prayer and to its Catholic addition, the invocation to the Blessed 
Virgin. Jennie was overawed and amazed, but no show of form colorful, 
impression imperial, could take away the sting of death, the sense of infinite 
loss. To Jennie the candles, the incense, the holy song were beautiful. They 
touched the deep chord of melancholy in her, and made it vibrate through 
the depths of her being. She was as a house filled with mournful melody and 
the presence of death. She cried and cried. She could see, curiously, that 
Mrs. Kane was sobbing convulsively also. 
When it was all over the carriages were entered and the body was borne to 
the station. All the guests and strangers departed, and finally, when all was 
silent, she arose. Now she would go to the depot also, for she was hopeful of 
seeing his body put on the train. They would have to bring it out on the 
platform, just as they did in Vesta's case. She took a car, and a little later 
she entered the waiting-room of the depot. She lingered about, first in the 
concourse, where the great iron fence separated the passengers from the 
tracks, and then in the waiting-room, hoping to discover the order of 
proceedings. She finally observed the group of immediate relatives waiting—
Mrs. Kane, Robert, Mrs. Midgely, Louise, Amy, Imogene, and the others. She 
actually succeeded in identifying most of them, though it was not knowledge 
in this case, but pure instinct and intuition. 
No one had noticed it in the stress of excitement, but it was Thanksgiving 
Eve. Throughout the great railroad station there was a hum of anticipation, 
that curious ebullition of fancy which springs from the thought of pleasures 
to come. People were going away for the holiday. Carriages were at the 
station entries. Announcers were calling in stentorian voices the destination 
of each new train as the time of its departure drew near. Jennie heard with 
a desperate ache the description of a route which she and Lester had taken 
more than once, slowly and melodiously emphasized. "Detroit, Toledo, 
Cleveland, Buffalo, and New York." There were cries of trains for "Fort 
Wayne, Columbus, Pittsburg, Philadelphia, and points East," and then 
finally for "Indianapolis, Louisville, Columbus, Cincinnati, and points 
South." The hour had struck. 
Several times Jennie had gone to the concourse between the waiting-room 
and the tracks to see if through the iron grating which separated her from 
her beloved she could get one last look at the coffin, or the great wooden box 
which held it, before it was put on the train. Now she saw it coming. There 
was a baggage porter pushing a truck into position near the place where the 
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baggage car would stop. On it was Lester, that last shadow of his substance, 
incased in the honors of wood, and cloth, and silver. There was no thought 
on the part of the porter of the agony of loss which was represented here. He 
could not see how wealth and position in this hour were typified to her mind 
as a great fence, a wall, which divided her eternally from her beloved. Had it 
not always been so? Was not her life a patchwork of conditions made and 
affected by these things which she saw—wealth and force—which had found 
her unfit? She had evidently been born to yield, not seek. This panoply of 
power had been paraded before her since childhood. What could she do now 
but stare vaguely after it as it marched triumphantly by? Lester had been of 
it. Him it respected. Of her it knew nothing. She looked through the grating, 
and once more there came the cry of "Indianapolis, Louisville, Columbus, 
Cincinnati, and points South." A long red train, brilliantly lighted, composed 
of baggage cars, day coaches, a dining-car, set with white linen and silver, 
and a half dozen comfortable Pullmans, rolled in and stopped. A great black 
engine, puffing and glowing, had it all safely in tow. 
As the baggage car drew near the waiting truck a train-hand in blue, looking 
out of the car, called to some one within. 
"Hey, Jack! Give us a hand here. There's a stiff outside!" 
Jennie could not hear. 
All she could see was the great box that was so soon to disappear. All she 
could feel was that this train would start presently, and then it would all be 
over. The gates opened, the passengers poured out. There were Robert, and 
Amy, and Louise, and Midgely—all making for the Pullman cars in the rear. 
They had said their farewells to their friends. No need to repeat them. A trio 
of assistants "gave a hand" at getting the great wooden case into the car. 
Jennie saw it disappear with an acute physical wrench at her heart. 
There were many trunks to be put aboard, and then the door of the baggage 
car half closed, but not before the warning bell of the engine sounded. There 
was the insistent calling of "all aboard" from this quarter and that; then 
slowly the great locomotive began to move. Its bell was ringing, its steam 
hissing, its smoke-stack throwing aloft a great black plume of smoke that 
fell back over the cars like a pall. The fireman, conscious of the heavy load 
behind, flung open a flaming furnace door to throw in coal. Its light glowed 
like a golden eye. 
Jennie stood rigid, staring into the wonder of this picture, her face white, 
her eyes wide, her hands unconsciously clasped, but one thought in her 
mind—they were taking his body away. A leaden November sky was ahead, 
almost dark. She looked, and looked until the last glimmer of the red lamp 
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on the receding sleeper disappeared in the maze of smoke and haze 
overhanging the tracks of the far-stretching yard. 
"Yes," said the voice of a passing stranger, gay with the anticipation of 
coming pleasures. "We're going to have a great time down there. Remember 
Annie? Uncle Jim is coming and Aunt Ella." 
Jennie did not hear that or anything else of the chatter and bustle around 
her. Before her was stretching a vista of lonely years down which she was 
steadily gazing. Now what? She was not so old yet. There were those two 
orphan children to raise. They would marry and leave after a while, and 
then what? Days and days in endless reiteration, and then—? 
THE END 
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