will. It will be arranged. But please don't talk to me any more, will you?"
"I understand how you feel, Mrs. Kane," went on Mr. O'Brien, coming to a keen realisation of her sufferings. "I know exactly, believe me. I have said all I intend to say. It has been very hard for me to do this—very hard.
I regret the necessity. You have my card. Please note the name. I will
come any time you suggest, or you can write me. I will not detain you
any longer. I am sorry. I hope you will see fit to say nothing to your
husband of my visit—it will be advisable that you should keep your own
counsel in the matter. I value his friendship very highly, and I am
sincerely sorry."
Jennie only stared at the floor.
Mr. O'Brien went out into the hall to get his coat. Jennie touched the
electric button to summon the maid, and Jeannette came. Jennie went
back into the library, and Mr. O'Brien paced briskly down the front walk.
When she was really alone she put her doubled hands to her chin, and
stared at the floor, the queer design of the silken Turkish rug resolving itself into some curious picture. She saw herself in a small cottage
somewhere, alone with Vesta; she saw Lester living in another world, and
beside him Mrs. Gerald. She saw this house vacant, and then a long
stretch of time, and then—
"Oh," she sighed, choking back a desire to cry. With her hands she brushed away a hot tear from each eye. Then she got up.
"It must be," she said to herself in thought. "It must be. It should have been so long ago." And then—"Oh, thank God that papa is dead!
Anyhow, he did not live to see this."
CHAPTER LIII
The explanation which Lester had concluded to be inevitable, whether it
led to separation or legalisation of their hitherto banal condition, followed quickly upon the appearance of Mr. O'Brien. On the day Mr. O'Brien
called he had gone on a journey to Hegewisch, a small manufacturing
town in Wisconsin, where he had been invited to witness the trial of a
new motor intended to operate elevators—with a view to possible
investment. When he came out to the house, interested to tell Jennie
something about it even in spite of the fact that he was thinking of leaving her, he felt a sense of depression everywhere, for Jennie, in spite of the serious and sensible conclusion she had reached, was not one who could
conceal her feelings easily. She was brooding sadly over her proposed
action, realising that it was best to leave but finding it hard to summon the courage which would let her talk to him about it. She could not go
without telling him what she thought. He ought to want to leave her. She
was absolutely convinced that this one course of action—separation—
was necessary and advisable. She could not think of him as daring to
make a sacrifice of such proportions for her sake even if he wanted to. It was impossible. It was astonishing to her that he had let things go along as dangerously and silently as he had. When he came in Jennie did her
best to greet him with her accustomed smile, but it was a pretty poor
imitation.
"Everything all right?" she asked, using her customary phrase of inquiry.
"Quite," he answered. "How are things with you?"
"Oh, just the same." She walked with him to the library, and he poked at the open fire with a long-handled poker before turning around to survey
the room generally. It was five o'clock of a January afternoon. Jennie had gone to one of the windows to lower the shade. As she came back he
looked at her critically. "You're not quite your usual self, are you?" he asked, sensing something out of the common in her attitude.
"Why, yes, I feel all right," she replied, but there was a peculiar uneven motion to the movement of her lips—a rippling tremor which was
unmistakable to him.
"I think I know better than that," he said, still gazing at her steadily.
"What's the trouble? Anything happened?"
She turned away from him a moment to get her breath and collect her
senses. Then she faced him again. "There is something," she managed to say. "I have to tell you something."
"I know you have," he agreed, half smiling, but with a feeling that there was much of grave import back of this. "What is it?"
She was silent for a moment, biting her lips. She did not quite know how
to begin. Finally she broke the spell with: "There was a man here
yesterday—a Mr. O'Brien, of Cincinnati. Do you know him?"
"Yes, I know him. What did he want?"
"He came to talk to me about you and your father's will."
She paused, for his face clouded immediately. "Why the devil should he be talking to you about my father's will!" he exclaimed. "What did he have to say?"
"Please don't get angry, Lester," said Jennie calmly, for she realised that she must remain absolute mistress of herself if anything were to be
accomplished toward the resolution of her problem. "He wanted to tell me what a sacrifice you are making," she went on. "He wished to show me that there was only a little time left before you would lose your
inheritance. Don't you want to act pretty soon? Don't you want to leave
me?"
"Damn him!" said Lester fiercely. "What the devil does he mean by putting his nose in my private affairs? Can't they let me alone?" He shook himself angrily. "Damn them!" he exclaimed again. "This is some of Robert's work. Why should Knight, Keatley & O'Brien be meddling in
my affairs? This whole business is getting to be a nuisance!" He was in a boiling rage in a moment, as was shown by his darkening skin and
sulphurous eyes.
Jennie trembled before his anger. She did not know what to say.
He came to himself sufficiently after a time to add:
"Well. Just what did he tell you?"
"He said that if you married me you would only get ten thousand a year.
That if you didn't and still lived with me you would get nothing at all. If you would leave me, or I would leave you, you would get all of a million
and a half. Don't you think you had better leave me now?"
She had not intended to propound this leading question so quickly, but it came out as a natural climax to the situation. She realised instantly that if he were really in love with her he would answer with an emphatic "no." If he didn't care, he would hesitate, he would delay, he would seek to put off the evil day of reckoning.
"I don't see that," he retorted irritably. "I don't see that there's any need for either interference or hasty action. What I object to is their coming here and mixing in my private affairs."
Jennie was cut to the quick by his indifference, his wrath instead of
affection. To her the main point at issue was her leaving him or his
leaving her. To him this recent interference was obviously the chief matter for discussion and consideration. The meddling of others before he was
ready to act was the terrible thing. She had hoped, in spite of what she
had seen, that possibly, because of the long time they had lived together and the things which (in a way) they had endured together, he might have
come to care for her deeply—that she had stirred some emotion in him
which would never brook real separation, though some seeming
separation might be necessary. He had not married her, of course, but then there had been so many things against them. Now, in this final hour,