Теодор Драйзер - Jennie Gerhardt

She obeyed. Then she came back and stood there pale and wide–eyed, looking at the wall, at the trunks, and at him. Lester read the letter thoughtfully. He shifted his position once or twice, then dropped the paper on the floor.

"Well, I'll tell you, Jennie," he said finally, looking at her curiously and wondering just what he was going to say. Here again was his chance to end this relationship if he wished. He couldn't feel that he did wish it, seeing how peacefully things were running. They had gone so far together it seemed ridiculous to quit now. He truly loved her—there was no doubt of that. Still he did not want to marry her—could not very well. She knew that. Her letter said as much. "You have this thing wrong," he went on slowly. "I don't know what comes over you at times, but you don't view the situation right. I've told you before that I can't marry you—not now, anyhow. There are too many big things involved in this, which you don't know anything about. I love you, you know that. But my family has to be taken into consideration, and the business. You can't see the difficulties raised on these scores, but I can. Now I don't want you to leave me. I care too much about you. I can't prevent you, of course. You can go if you want to. But I don't think you ought to want to. You don't really, do you? Sit down a minute."

Jennie, who had been counting on getting away without being seen, was now thoroughly nonplussed. To have him begin a quiet argument—a plea as it were. It hurt her. He, Lester, pleading with her, and she loved him so.

She went over to him, and he took her hand.

"Now, listen," he said. "There's really nothing to be gained by your leaving me at present. Where did you say you were going?"

"To Cleveland," she replied.

"Well, how did you expect to get along?"

"I thought I'd take papa, if he'd come with me—he's alone now—and get something to do, maybe."

"Well, what can you do, Jennie, different from what you ever have done? You wouldn't expect to be a lady's maid again, would you? Or clerk in a store?"

"I thought I might get some place as a housekeeper," she suggested. She had been counting up her possibilities, and this was the most promising idea that had occurred to her.

"No, no," he grumbled, shaking his head. "There's nothing to that. There's nothing in this whole move of yours except a notion. Why, you won't be any better off morally than you are right now. You can't undo the past. It doesn't make any difference, anyhow. I can't marry you now. I might in the future, but I can't tell anything about that, and I don't want to promise anything. You're not going to leave me though with my consent, and if you were going I wouldn't have you dropping back into any such thing as you're contemplating. I'll make some provision for you. You don't really want to leave me, do you, Jennie?"

Against Lester's strong personality and vigorous protest Jennie's own conclusions and decisions went to pieces. Just the pressure of his hand was enough to upset her. Now she began to cry.

"Don't cry, Jennie," he said. "This thing may work out better than you think. Let it rest for a while. Take off your things. You're not going to leave me any more, are you?"

"No–o–o!" she sobbed.

He took her in his lap. "Let things rest as they are," he went on. "It's a curious world. Things can't be adjusted in a minute. They may work out. I'm putting up with some things myself that I ordinarily wouldn't stand for."

He finally saw her restored to comparative calmness, smiling sadly through her tears.

"Now you put those things away," he said genially, pointing to the trunks. "Besides, I want you to promise me one thing."

"What's that?" asked Jennie.

"No more concealment of anything, do you hear? No more thinking things out for yourself, and acting without my knowing anything about it. If you have anything on your mind, I want you to come out with it. I'm not going to eat you! Talk to me about whatever is troubling you. I'll help you solve it, or, if I can't, at least there won't be any concealment between us."

"I know, Lester," she said earnestly, looking him straight in the eyes. "I promise I'll never conceal anything any more—truly I won't. I've been afraid, but I won't be now. You can trust me."

"That sounds like what you ought to be," he replied. "I know you will." And he let her go.

A few days later, and in consequence of this agreement, the future of Gerhardt came up for discussion. Jennie had been worrying about him for several days; now it occurred to her that this was something to talk over with Lester. Accordingly, she explained one night at dinner what had happened in Cleveland. "I know he is very unhappy there all alone," she said, "and I hate to think of it. I was going to get him if I went back to Cleveland. Now I don't know what to do about it."

"Why don't you send him some money?" he inquired.

"He won't take any more money from me, Lester," she explained. "He thinks I'm not good—not acting right. He doesn't believe I'm married."

"He has pretty good reason, hasn't he?" said Lester calmly.

"I hate to think of him sleeping in a factory. He's so old and lonely."

"What's the matter with the rest of the family in Cleveland? Won't they do anything for him? Where's your brother Bass?"

"I think maybe they don't want him, he's so cross," she said simply.

"I hardly know what to suggest in that case," smiled Lester. "The old gentleman oughtn't to be so fussy."

"I know," she said, "but he's old now, and he has had so much trouble."

Lester ruminated for a while, toying with his fork. "I'll tell you what I've been thinking, Jennie," he said finally. "There's no use living this way any longer, if we're going to stick it out. I've been thinking that we might take a house out in Hyde Park. It's something of a run from the office, but I'm not much for this apartment life. You and Vesta would be better off for a yard. In that case you might bring your father on to live with us. He couldn't do any harm pottering about; indeed, he might help keep things straight."

"Oh, that would just suit papa, if he'd come," she replied. "He loves to fix things, and he'd cut the grass and look after the furnace. But he won't come unless he's sure I'm married."

"I don't know how that could be arranged unless you could show the old gentleman a marriage certificate. He seems to want something that can't be produced very well. A steady job he'd have running the furnace of a country house," he added meditatively.

Jennie did not notice the grimness of the jest. She was too busy thinking what a tangle she had made of her life. Gerhardt would not come now, even if they had a lovely home to share with him. And yet he ought to be with Vesta again. She would make him happy.

She remained lost in a sad abstraction, until Lester, following the drift of her thoughts, said: "I don't see how it can be arranged. Marriage certificate blanks aren't easily procurable. It's bad business—a criminal offense to forge one, I believe. I wouldn't want to be mixed up in that sort of thing."

"Oh, I don't want you to do anything like that, Lester. I'm just sorry papa is so stubborn. When he gets a notion you can't change him."

"Suppose we wait until we get settled after moving," he suggested. "Then you can go to Cleveland and talk to him personally. You might be able to persuade him." He liked her attitude toward her father. It was so decent that he rather wished he could help her carry out her scheme. While not very interesting, Gerhardt was not objectionable to Lester, and if the old man wanted to do the odd jobs around a big place, why not?

The plan for a residence in Hyde Park was not long in taking shape. After several weeks had passed, and things had quieted down again, Lester invited Jennie to go with him to South Hyde Park to look for a house. On the first trip they found something which seemed to suit admirably—an old–time home of eleven large rooms, set in a lawn fully two hundred feet square and shaded by trees which had been planted when the city was young. It was ornate, homelike, peaceful. Jennie was fascinated by the sense of space and country, although depressed by the reflection that she was not entering her new home under the right auspices. She had vaguely hoped that in planning to go away she was bringing about a condition under which Lester might have come after her and married her. Now all that was over. She had promised to stay, and she would have to make the best of it. She suggested that they would never know what to do with so much room, but he waved that aside. "We will very likely have people in now and then," he said. "We can furnish it up anyhow, and see how it looks." He had the agent make out a five–year lease, with an option for renewal, and set at once the forces to work to put the establishment in order.