Gerhardt, his love and care of Vesta, and finally these last days.
"Oh, he was a good man," she thought. "He meant so well." They sang a hymn. "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," and then she sobbed.
Lester pulled at her arm. He was moved to the danger-line himself by her
grief. "You'll have to do better than this," he whispered. "My God, I can't stand it. I'll have to get up and get out." Jennie quieted a little, but the fact that the last visible ties were being broken between her and her father was almost too much.
At the grave in the Cemetery of the Redeemer, where Lester had
immediately arranged to purchase a lot, they saw the plain coffin lowered and the earth shovelled in. Lester looked curiously at the bare trees, the brown dead grass, and the brown soil of the prairie turned up at this
simple graveside. There was no distinction to this burial plot. It was
commonplace and shabby, a working-man's resting-place, but so long as
he wanted it, it was all right. He studied Bass's keen, lean face, wondering what sort of a career he was cutting out for himself. Bass looked to him
like some one who would run a cigar store successfully. He watched
Jennie wiping her red eyes, and then he said to himself again, "Well, there is something to her." The woman's emotion was so deep, so real. "There's no explaining a good woman," he said to himself.
On the way home, through the wind-swept, dusty streets, he talked of life in general, Bass and Vesta being present. "Jennie takes things too
seriously," he said. "She's inclined to be morbid. Life isn't as bad as she makes out with her sensitive feelings. We all have our troubles, and we all have to stand them, some more, some less. We can't assume that any one
is so much better or worse off than any one else. We all have our share of troubles."
"I can't help it," said Jennie. "I feel so sorry for some people."
"Jennie always was a little gloomy," put in Bass. He was thinking what a fine figure of a man Lester was, how beautifully they lived, how Jennie
had come up in the world. He was thinking that there must be a lot more
to her than he had originally thought. Life surely did turn out queer. At one time he thought Jennie was a hopeless failure and no good.
"You ought to try to steel yourself to take things as they come without going to pieces this way," said Lester finally.
Bass thought so too.
Jennie stared thoughtfully out of the carriage window. There was the old
house now, large and silent without Gerhardt. Just think, she would never see him any more. They finally turned into the drive and entered the
library. Jeannette, nervous and sympathetic, served tea. Jennie went to
look after various details. She wondered curiously where she would be
when she died.
CHAPTER LII
The fact that Gerhardt was dead made no particular difference to Lester,
except as it affected Jennie. He had liked the old German for his many
sterling qualities, but beyond that he thought nothing of him one way or
the other. He took Jennie to a watering-place for ten days to help her
recover her spirits, and it was soon after this that he decided to tell her just how things stood with him; he would put the problem plainly before
her. It would be easier now, for Jennie had been informed of the
disastrous prospects of the real-estate deal. She was also aware of his
continued interest in Mrs. Gerald. Lester did not hesitate to let Jennie
know that he was on very friendly terms with her. Mrs. Gerald had, at
first, formally requested him to bring Jennie to see her, but she never had called herself, and Jennie understood quite clearly that it was not to be.
Now that her father was dead, she was beginning to wonder what was
going to become of her; she was afraid that Lester might not marry her.
Certainly he showed no signs of intending to do so.
By one of those curious coincidences of thought, Robert also had reached
the conclusion that something should be done. He did not, for one
moment, imagine that he could directly work upon Lester—he did not
care to try—but he did think that some influence might be brought to bear on Jennie. She was probably amenable to reason. If Lester had not
married her already, she must realise full well that he did not intend to do so. Suppose that some responsible third person were to approach her, and
explain how things were, including, of course, the offer of an independent income? Might she not be willing to leave Lester, and end all this trouble?
After all, Lester was his brother, and he ought not to lose his fortune.
Robert had things very much in his own hands now, and could afford to
be generous. He finally decided that Mr. O'Brien, of Knight, Keatley & O'Brien, would be the proper intermediary, for O'Brien was suave, good-natured, and well-meaning, even if he was a lawyer. He might explain to
Jennie very delicately just how the family felt, and how much Lester
stood to lose if he continued to maintain his connection with her. If Lester had married Jennie, O'Brien would find it out. A liberal provision would
be made for her—say fifty or one hundred thousand, or even one hundred
and fifty thousand dollars. He sent for Mr. O'Brien and gave him his
instructions. As one of the executors of Archibald Kane's estate, it was
really the lawyer's duty to look into the matter of Lester's ultimate
decision.
Mr. O'Brien journeyed to Chicago. On reaching the city, he called up
Lester, and found out to his satisfaction that he was out of town for the day. He went out to the house in Hyde Park, and sent in his card to Jennie.
She came downstairs in a few minutes quite unconscious of the import of
his message; he greeted her most blandly.
"This is Mrs. Kane?" he asked, with an interlocutory jerk of his head.
"Yes," replied Jennie.
"I am, as you see by my card, Mr. O'Brien, of Knight, Keatley &
O'Brien," he began. "We are the attorneys and executors of the late Mr.
Kane, your—ah—Mr. Kane's father. You'll think it's rather curious, my
coming to you, but under your husband's father's will there were certain
conditions stipulated which affect you and Mr. Kane very materially.
These provisions are so important that I think you ought to know about
them—that is if Mr. Kane hasn't already told you. I—pardon me—but the
peculiar nature of them makes me conclude that—possibly—he hasn't."
He paused, a very question-mark of a man—every feature of his face an
interrogation.
"I don't quite understand," said Jennie. "I don't know anything about the will. If there's anything that I ought to know, I suppose Mr. Kane will tell me. He hasn't told me anything as yet."
"Ah!" breathed Mr. O'Brien, highly gratified. "Just as I thought. Now, if you will allow me I'll go into the matter briefly. Then you can judge for yourself whether you wish to hear the full particulars. Won't you sit
down?" They had both been standing. Jennie seated herself, and Mr.
O'Brien pulled up a chair near to hers.
"Now to begin," he said. "I need not say to you, of course, that there was considerable opposition on the part of Mr. Kane's father, to this—ah—
union between yourself and his son."
"I know—" Jennie started to say, but checked herself. She was puzzled, disturbed, and a little apprehensive.