CHAPTER XXVI
It would be useless to chronicle the events of the three years thatfollowed--events and experiences by which the family grew from anabject condition of want to a state of comparative self-reliance,based, of course, on the obvious prosperity of Jennie and thegenerosity (through her) of her distant husband. Lester was seen nowand then, a significant figure, visiting Cleveland, and sometimescoming out to the house where he occupied with Jennie the two bestrooms of the second floor. There were hurried trips on herpart--in answer to telegraph massages--to Chicago, to St.Louis, to New York. One of his favorite pastimes was to engagequarters at the great resorts--Hot Springs, Mt. Clemens,Saratoga--and for a period of a week or two at a stretch enjoythe luxury of living with Jennie as his wife. There were other timeswhen he would pass through Cleveland only for the privilege of seeingher for a day. All the time he was aware that he was throwing on herthe real burden of a rather difficult situation, but he did not seehow he could remedy it at this time. He was not sure as yet that hereally wanted to. They were getting along fairly well.
The attitude of the Gerhardt family toward this condition ofaffairs was peculiar. At first, in spite of the irregularity of it, itseemed natural enough. Jennie said she was married. No one had seenher marriage certificate, but she said so, and she seemed to carryherself with the air of one who holds that relationship. Still, shenever went to Cincinnati, where his family lived, and none of hisrelatives ever came near her. Then, too, his attitude, in spite of themoney which had first blinded them, was peculiar. He really did notcarry himself like a married man. He was so indifferent. There wereweeks in which she appeared to receive only perfunctory notes. Therewere times when she would only go away for a few days to meet him.Then there were the long periods in which she absentedherself--the only worthwhile testimony toward a realrelationship, and that, in a way, unnatural.
Bass, who had grown to be a young man of twenty-five, with somebusiness judgment and a desire to get out in the world, wassuspicious. He had come to have a pretty keen knowledge of life, andintuitively he felt that things were not right. George, nineteen, whohad gained a slight foothold in a wall-paper factory and was lookingforward to a career in that field, was also restless. He felt thatsomething was wrong. Martha, seventeen, was still in school, as wereWilliam and Veronica. Each was offered an opportunity to studyindefinitely; but there was unrest with life. They knew about Jennie'schild. The neighbors were obviously drawing conclusions forthemselves. They had few friends. Gerhardt himself finally concludedthat there was something wrong, but he had let himself into thissituation, and was not in much of a position now to raise an argument.He wanted to ask her at times--proposed to make her do better ifhe could--but the worst had already been done. It depended on theman now, he knew that.
Things were gradually nearing a state where a general upheavalwould have taken place had not life stepped in with one of itsfortuitous solutions. Mrs. Gerhardt's health failed. Although stoutand formerly of a fairly active disposition, she had of late yearsbecome decidedly sedentary in her habits and grown weak, which,coupled with a mind naturally given to worry, and weighed upon as ithad been by a number of serious and disturbing ills, seemed now toculminate in a slow but very certain case of systemic poisoning. Shebecame decidedly sluggish in her motions, wearied more quickly at thefew tasks left for her to do, and finally complained to Jennie that itwas very hard for her to climb stairs. "I'm not feeling well," shesaid. "I think I'm going to be sick."
Jennie now took alarm and proposed to take her to some near-bywatering-place, but Mrs. Gerhardt wouldn't go. "I don't think it woulddo any good," she said. She sat about or went driving with herdaughter, but the fading autumn scenery depressed her. "I don't liketo get sick in the fall," she said. "The leaves coming down make methink I am never going to get well."
"Oh, ma, how you talk!" said Jennie; but she felt frightened,nevertheless.
How much the average home depends upon the mother was seen when itwas feared the end was near. Bass, who had thought of getting marriedand getting out of this atmosphere, abandoned the idea temporarily.Gerhardt, shocked and greatly depressed, hung about like one expectantof and greatly awed by the possibility of disaster. Jennie, tooinexperienced in death to feel that she could possibly lose hermother, felt as if somehow her living depended on her. Hoping in spiteof all opposing circumstances, she hung about, a white figure ofpatience, waiting and serving.
The end came one morning after a month of illness and several daysof unconsciousness, during which silence reigned in the house and allthe family went about on tiptoe. Mrs. Gerhardt passed away with herdying gaze fastened on Jennie's face for the last few minutes ofconsciousness that life vouchsafed her. Jennie stared into her eyeswith a yearning horror. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" she cried. "Oh no,no!"
Gerhardt came running in from the yard, and, throwing himself downby the bedside, wrung his bony hands in anguish. "I should have gonefirst!" he cried. "I should have gone first!"
The death of Mrs. Gerhardt hastened the final breaking up of thefamily. Bass was bent on getting married at once, having had a girl intown for some time. Martha, whose views of life had broadened andhardened, was anxious to get out also. She felt that a sort of stigmaattached to the home--to herself, in fact, so long as sheremained there. Martha looked to the public schools as a source ofincome; she was going to be a teacher. Gerhardt alone scarcely knewwhich way to turn. He was again at work as a night watchman. Jenniefound him crying one day alone in the kitchen, and immediately burstinto tears herself. "Now, papa!" she pleaded, "it isn't as bad asthat. You will always have a home--you know that--as long asI have anything. You can come with me."
"No, no," he protested. He really did not want to go with her. "Itisn't that," he continued. "My whole life comes to nothing."
It was some little time before Bass, George and Martha finallyleft, but, one by one, they got out, leaving Jennie, her father,Veronica, and William, and one other--Jennie's child. Of courseLester knew nothing of Vesta's parentage, and curiously enough he hadnever seen the little girl. During the short periods in which hedeigned to visit the house--two or three days at most--Mrs.Gerhardt took good care that Vesta was kept in the background. Therewas a play-room on the top floor, and also a bedroom there, andconcealment was easy. Lester rarely left his rooms, he even had hismeals served to him in what might have been called the living-room ofthe suite. He was not at all inquisitive or anxious to meet any one ofthe other members of the family. He was perfectly willing to shakehands with them or to exchange a few perfunctory words, butperfunctory words only. It was generally understood that the childmust not appear, and so it did not.
There is an inexplicable sympathy between old age and childhood, anaffinity which is as lovely as it is pathetic. During that first yearin Lorrie Street, when no one was looking, Gerhardt often carriedVesta about on his shoulders and pinched her soft, red cheeks. Whenshe got old enough to walk he it was who, with a towel fastenedsecurely under her arms, led her patiently around the room until shewas able to take a few steps of her own accord. When she actuallyreached the point where she could walk he was the one who coaxed herto the effort, shyly, grimly, but always lovingly. By some strangeleading of fate this stigma on his family's honor, this blotch onconventional morality, had twined its helpless baby fingers about thetendons of his heart. He loved this little outcast ardently,hopefully. She was the one bright ray in a narrow, gloomy life, andGerhardt early took upon himself the responsibility of her educationin religious matters. Was it not he who had insisted that the infantshould be baptized?
"Say 'Our Father,'" he used to demand of the lisping infant when hehad her alone with him.
"Ow Fowvaw," was her vowel-like interpretation of his words.
"'Who art in heaven.'"
"'Ooh ah in aven,'" repeated the child.
"Why do you teach her so early?" pleaded Mrs. Gerhardt, overhearingthe little one's struggles with stubborn consonants and vowels.
"Because I want she should lea
rn the Christian faith," returnedGerhardt determinedly. "She ought to know her prayers. If she don'tbegin now she never will know them."
Mrs. Gerhardt smiled. Many of her husband's religiousidiosyncrasies were amusing to her. At the same time she liked to seethis sympathetic interest he was taking in the child's upbringing. Ifhe were only not so hard, so narrow at times. He made himself atorment to himself and to every one else.
On the earliest bright morning of returning spring he was wont totake her for her first little journeys in the world. "Come, now," hewould say, "we will go for a little walk."
"Walk," chirped Vesta.
"Yes, walk," echoed Gerhardt.
Mrs. Gerhardt would fasten on one of her little hoods, for in thesedays Jennie kept Vesta's wardrobe beautifully replete. Taking her bythe hand, Gerhardt would issue forth, satisfied to drag first one footand then the other in order to accommodate his gait to her toddlingsteps.
One beautiful May day, when Vesta was four years old, they startedon one of their walks. Everywhere nature was budding and bourgeoning;the birds twittering their arrival from the south; the insects makingthe best of their brief span of life. Sparrows chirped in the road;robins strutted upon the grass; bluebirds built in the eaves of thecottages. Gerhardt took a keen delight in pointing out the wonders ofnature to Vesta, and she was quick to respond. Every new sight andsound interested her.
"Ooh!--ooh!" exclaimed Vesta, catching sight of a low,flashing touch of red as a robin lighted upon a twig nearby. Her handwas up, and her eyes were wide open.
"Yes," said Gerhardt, as happy as if he himself had but newlydiscovered this marvelous creature. "Robin. Bird. Robin. Sayrobin."
"Wobin," said Vesta.
"Yes, robin," he answered. "It is going to look for a worm now. Wewill see if we cannot find its nest. I think I saw a nest in one ofthese trees."
He plodded peacefully on, seeking to rediscover an old abandonednest that he had observed on a former walk. "Here it is," he said atlast, coming to a small and leafless tree, in which a winter-beatenremnant of a home was still clinging. "Here, come now, see," and helifted the baby up at arm's length.
"See," said Gerhardt, indicating the wisp of dead grasses with hisfree hand, "nest. That is a bird's nest. See!"
"Ooh!" repeated Vesta, imitating his pointing finger with one ofher own. "Ness--ooh!"
"Yes," said Gerhardt, putting her down again. "That was a wren'snest. They have all gone now. They will not come any more."
Still further they plodded, he unfolding the simple facts of life,she wondering with the wide wonder of a child. When they had gone ablock or two he turned slowly about as if the end of the world hadbeen reached.
"We must be going back!" he said.
And so she had come to her fifth year, growing in sweetness,intelligence, and vivacity. Gerhardt was fascinated by the questionsshe asked, the puzzles she pronounced. "Such a girl!" he would exclaimto his wife. "What is it she doesn't want to know? 'Where is God? Whatdoes He do? Where does He keep His feet?" she asks me. "I gotta laughsometimes." From rising in the morning, to dress her to laying herdown at night after she had said her prayers, she came to be the chiefsolace and comfort of his days. Without Vesta, Gerhardt would havefound his life hard indeed to bear.