CHAPTER XXII
The fatal Friday came, and Jennie stood face to face with this newand overwhelming complication in her modest scheme of existence. Therewas really no alternative, she thought. Her own life was a failure.Why go on fighting? If she could make her family happy, if she couldgive Vesta a good education, if she could conceal the true nature ofthis older story and keep Vesta in the background perhaps,perhaps--well, rich men had married poor girls before this, andLester was very kind, he certainly liked her. At seven o'clock shewent to Mrs. Bracebridge's; at noon she excused herself on the pretextof some work for her mother and left the house for the hotel.
Lester, leaving Cincinnati a few days earlier than he expected, hadfailed to receive her reply; he arrived at Cleveland feeling sadly outof tune with the world. He had a lingering hope that a letter fromJennie might be awaiting him at the hotel, but there was no word fromher. He was a man not easily wrought up, but to-night he feltdepressed, and so went gloomily up to his room and changed his linen.After supper he proceeded to drown his dissatisfaction in a game ofbilliards with some friends, from whom he did not part until he hadtaken very much more than his usual amount of alcoholic stimulant. Thenext morning he arose with a vague idea of abandoning the wholeaffair, but as the hours elapsed and the time of his appointment drewnear he decided that it might not be unwise to give her one lastchance. She might come. Accordingly, when it still lacked a quarter ofan hour of the time, he went down into the parlor. Great was hisdelight when he beheld her sitting in a chair and waiting--theoutcome 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 lookof one who has lost and recovered a prize. "What do you mean by notwriting me? I thought from the way you neglected me that you had madeup 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 mebefore. How have you been?"
"Oh, all right," she replied.
"You don't look it!" he said. "You look worried. What's thetrouble, 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 terriblyworried. It looks as though he would not be able to use them anymore."
She paused, looking the distress she felt, and he saw plainly thatshe was facing a crisis.
"That's too bad," he said. "That certainly is. When did thishappen?"
"Oh, almost three weeks ago now."
"It certainly is bad. Come in to lunch, though. I want to talk withyou. I've been wanting to get a better understanding of your familyaffairs ever since I left." He led the way into the dining-room andselected a secluded table. He tried to divert her mind by asking herto order the luncheon, but she was too worried and too shy to do soand he had to make out the menu by himself. Then he turned to her witha cheering air. "Now, Jennie," he said, "I want you to tell me allabout your family. I got a little something of it last time, but Iwant to get it straight. Your father, you said, was a glass-blower bytrade. 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. Mybrother George works at Wilson's. He's a cash-boy. He gets threedollars 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 thinkingearnestly.
"To tell you the honest truth, I fancied it was something likethat, Jennie," he said. "I've been thinking about you a lot. Now, Iknow. There's only one answer to your problem, and it isn't such a badone, if you'll only believe me." He paused for an inquiry, but shemade 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 tolast 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'mgoing to 'tend to that family of yours. And I'll do it right now whileI think of it."
He drew out his purse and extracted several ten and twenty-dollarbills--two hundred and fifty dollars in all. "I want you to takethis," he said. "It's just the beginning. I will see that your familyis 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 shuther fingers on the money, pressing them gently at the same time. "Iwant you to have it, sweet. I love you, little girl. I'm not going tosee 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 otherway--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. Heknows I ought to work."
"That's true enough," he said. "But there's so little in whatyou're doing. Good heavens! Four dollars a week! I would be glad togive you fifty times that sum if I thought there was any way in whichyou could use it." He idly thrummed the cloth with his fingers.
"I couldn't," she said. "I hardly know how to use this. They'llsuspect. I'll have to tell mamma."
From the way she said it he judged there must be some bond ofsympathy between her and her mother which would permit of a confidencesuch as this. He was by no means a hard man, and the thought touchedhim. But he would not relinquish his purpose.
"There's only one thing to be done, as far as I can see," he wenton 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 downto New York; I'll take good care of you. I love you and want you. Asfar as your family is concerned, you won't have to worry about themany more. You can take a nice home for them and furnish it in anystyle 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 ofthis very thing--a nice home. If they could just have a largerhouse, with good furniture and a yard filled with trees, how happy shewould be. In such a home she would be free of the care of rent, thediscomfort of poor furniture, the wretchedness of poverty; she wouldbe so happy. She hesitated there while his keen eye followed her inspirit, and he saw what a power he had set in motion. It had been ahappy inspiration--the suggestion of a decent home for thefamily. 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. Icouldn't leav
e home. Papa would want to know all about where I wasgoing. I wouldn't know what to say."
"Why couldn't you pretend that you are going down to New York withMrs. Bracebridge?" he suggested. "There couldn't be any objection tothat, could there?"
"Not if they didn't find out," she said, her eyes opening inamazement. "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 longtrips. Why not simply tell them you're invited to go--have togo--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 shelooked at this man and realized that relationship with him meantpossible motherhood for her again. The tragedy of giving birth to achild--ah, she could not go through that a second time, at leastunder the same conditions. She could not bring herself to tell himabout 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 strongbrown 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 decencyunder conditions so anomalous, her simple unaffected recognition ofthe primal facts of life lifted her to a plane in his esteem which shehad not occupied until that moment.
"You're a great girl, Jennie," he said. "You're wonderful. Butdon't worry about that. It can be arranged. You don't need to have achild 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'tbe any satisfaction in that proposition for me at this time. I'drather wait. But there won't be--don't worry."
"Yes," she said faintly. Not for worlds could she have met hiseyes.
"Look here, Jennie," he said, after a time. "You care for me, don'tyou? You don't think I'd sit here and plead with you if I didn't carefor you? I'm crazy about you, and that's the literal truth. You'relike wine to me. I want you to come with me. I want you to do itquickly. I know how difficult this family business is, but you canarrange it. Come with me down to New York. We'll work out somethinglater. I'll meet your family. We'll pretend a courtship, anything youlike--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 wouldthink 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 repliedthoughtfully.
"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? Lookin my eyes. Will you?"
"Yes," she replied sorrowfully, and yet with a strange thrill ofaffection. "I will."