Jennie Gerhardt

 
 
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CHAPTER LV 
The social and business worlds of Chicago, Cincinnati, Cleveland, and other 
cities saw, during the year or two which followed the breaking of his 
relationship with Jennie, a curious rejuvenation in the social and business 
spirit of Lester Kane. He had become rather distant and indifferent to 
certain personages and affairs while he was living with her, but now he 
suddenly appeared again, armed with authority from a number of sources, 
looking into this and that matter with the air of one who has the privilege of 
power, and showing himself to be quite a personage from the point of view of 
finance and commerce. He was older of course. It must be admitted that he 
was in some respects a mentally altered Lester. Up to the time he had met 
Jennie he was full of the assurance of the man who has never known defeat. 
To have been reared in luxury as he had been, to have seen only the 
pleasant side of society, which is so persistent and so deluding where money 
is concerned, to have been in the run of big affairs not because one has 
created them, but because one is a part of them and because they are one's 
birthright, like the air one breathes, could not help but create one of those 
illusions of solidarity which is apt to befog the clearest brain. It is so hard 
for us to know what we have not seen. It is so difficult for us to feel what we 
have not experienced. Like this world of ours, which seems so solid and 
persistent solely because we have no knowledge of the power which creates 
it, Lester's world seemed solid and persistent and real enough to him. It was 
only when the storms set in and the winds of adversity blew and he found 
himself facing the armed forces of convention that he realized he might be 
mistaken as to the value of his personality, that his private desires and 
opinions were as nothing in the face of a public conviction; that he was 
wrong. The race spirit, or social avatar, the "Zeitgeist" as the Germans term 
it, manifested itself as something having a system in charge, and the 
organization of society began to show itself to him as something based on 
possibly a spiritual, or, at least, superhuman counterpart. He could not fly 
in the face of it. He could not deliberately ignore its mandates. The people of 
his time believed that some particular form of social arrangement was 
necessary, and unless he complied with that he could, as he saw, readily 
become a social outcast. His own father and mother had turned on him—his 
brother and sisters, society, his friends. Dear heaven, what a to-do this 
action of his had created! Why, even the fates seemed adverse. His real 
estate venture was one of the most fortuitously unlucky things he had ever 
heard of. Why? Were the gods battling on the side of a to him unimportant 
social arrangement? Apparently. Anyhow, he had been compelled to quit, 
and here he was, vigorous, determined, somewhat battered by the 
experience, but still forceful and worth while. 
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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 
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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. 
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"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 
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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." 
"Poor Lester!" she said tenderly. "Well, I understand for one. You're lonely 
living where you are, aren't you?" 
"I am that," he replied. 
"Why not come and spend a few days down at West Baden? I'm going there." 
"When?" he inquired. 
"Next Tuesday." 
"Let me see," he replied. "I'm not sure that I can." He consulted his 
notebook. "I could come Thursday, for a few days." 
"Why not do that? You need company. We can walk and talk things out 
down there. Will you?" 
"Yes, I will," he replied. 
She came toward him, trailing a lavender lounging robe. "You're such a 
solemn philosopher, sir," she observed comfortably, "working through all the 
ramifications of things. Why do you? You were always like that." 
"I can't help it," he replied. "It's my nature to think." 
"Well, one thing I know—" and she tweaked his ear gently. "You're not going 
to make another mistake through sympathy if I can help it," she said 
daringly. "You're going to stay disentangled long enough to give yourself a 
chance to think out what you want to do. You must. And I wish for one 
thing you'd take over the management of my affairs. You could advise me so 
much better than my lawyer." 
He arose and walked to the window, turning to look back at her solemnly. "I 
know what you want," he said doggedly. 
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"And why shouldn't I?" she demanded, again approaching him. She looked 
at him pleadingly, defiantly. "Yes, why shouldn't I?" 
"You don't know what you're doing," he grumbled; but he kept on looking at 
her; she stood there, attractive as a woman of her age could be, wise, 
considerate, full of friendship and affection. 
"Letty," he said. "You ought not to want to marry me. I'm not worth it. Really 
I'm not. I'm too cynical. Too indifferent. It won't be worth anything in the 
long run." 
"It will be worth something to me," she insisted. "I know what you are. 
Anyhow, I don't care. I want you!" 
He took her hands, then her arms. Finally he drew her to him, and put his 
arms about her waist. "Poor Letty!" he said; "I'm not worth it. You'll be 
sorry." 
"No, I'll not," she replied. "I know what I'm doing. I don't care what you think 
you are worth." She laid her cheek on his shoulder. "I want you." 
"If you keep on I venture to say you'll have me," he returned. He bent and 
kissed her. 
"Oh," she exclaimed, and hid her hot face against his breast. 
"This is bad business," he thought, even as he held her within the circle of 
his arms. "It isn't what I ought to be doing." 
Still he held her, and now when she offered her lips coaxingly he kissed her 
again and again.