and showers of rice and confetti. While the guests were still eating and
drinking Lester and Letty managed to escape by a side entrance into a
closed carriage, and were off. Fifteen minutes later there was pursuit pell-mell on the part of the guests to the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific
depot; but by that time the happy couple were in their private car, and the arrival of the rice throwers made no difference. More champagne was
opened; then the starting of the train ended all excitement, and the newly wedded pair were at last safely off.
"Well, now you have me," said Lester, cheerfully pulling Letty down beside him into a seat, "what of it?"
"This of it," she exclaimed, and hugged him close, kissing him fervently.
In four days they were in San Francisco, and two days later on board a
fast steamship bound for the land of the Mikado.
In the meanwhile Jennie was left to brood. The original announcement in
the newspapers had said that he was to be married in April, and she had
kept close watch for additional information. Finally she learned that the wedding would take place on April fifteenth, at the residence of the
prospective bride, the hour being high noon. In spite of her feeling of
resignation, Jennie followed it all hopelessly, like a child, hungry and
forlorn, looking into a lighted window at Christmas time.
On the day of the wedding she waited miserably for twelve o'clock to
strike; it seemed as though she were really present—and looking on. She
could see in her mind's eye the handsome residence, the carriages, the
guests, the feast, the merriment, the ceremony—all. Telepathically and
psychologically she received impressions of the private car and of the
joyous journey they were going to take. The papers had stated that they
would spend their honeymoon in Japan. Their honeymoon! Her Lester!
And Mrs. Gerald was so attractive. She could see her now—the new Mrs.
Kane—the only MRS. Kane that ever was, lying in his arms. He had held
her so once. He had loved her. Yes, he had! There was a solid lump in her throat as she thought of this. Oh, dear! She sighed to herself, and clasped her hands forcefully; but it did no good. She was just as miserable as
before.
When the day was over she was actually relieved; anyway, the deed was
done and nothing could change it. Vesta was sympathetically aware of
what was happening, but kept silent. She too had seen the report in the
newspaper. When the first and second day after had passed Jennie was
much calmer mentally, for now she was face to face with the inevitable.
But it was weeks before the sharp pain dulled to the old familiar ache.
Then there were months before they would be back again, though, of
course, that made no difference now. Only Japan seemed so far off, and
somehow she had liked the thought that Lester was near her—somewhere
in the city.
The spring and summer passed, and now it was early in October. One
chilly day Vesta came home from school complaining of a headache.
When Jennie had given her hot milk—a favourite remedy of her mother's
—and had advised a cold towel for the back of her head, Vesta went to
her room and lay down. The following morning she had a slight fever.
This lingered while the local physician, Dr. Emory, treated her tentatively, suspecting that it might be typhoid, of which there were several cases in the village. This doctor told Jennie that Vesta was probably strong enough constitutionally to shake it off, but it might be that she would have a
severe siege. Mistrusting her own skill in so delicate a situation, Jennie sent to Chicago for a trained nurse, and then began a period of
watchfulness which was a combination of fear, longing, hope, and
courage.
Now there could be no doubt; the disease was typhoid. Jennie hesitated
about communicating with Lester, who was supposed to be in New York;
the papers had said that he intended to spend the winter there. But when
the doctor, after watching the case for a week, pronounced it severe, she thought she ought to write anyhow, for no one could tell what would
happen. Lester had been so fond of Vesta. He would probably want to
know.
The letter sent to him did not reach him, for at the time it arrived he was on his way to the West Indies. Jennie was compelled to watch alone by
Vesta's sick-bed, for although sympathetic neighbours, realising the
pathos of the situation were attentive, they could not supply the spiritual consolation which only those who truly love us can give. There was a
period when Vesta appeared to be rallying, and both the physician and the nurse were hopeful; but afterwards she became weaker. It was said by Dr.
Emory that her heart and kidneys had become affected.
There came a time when the fact had to be faced that death was
imminent. The doctor's face was grave, the nurse was non-committal in
her opinion. Jennie hovered about, praying the only prayer that is prayer
—the fervent desire of her heart concentrated on the one issue—that
Vesta should get well. The child had come so close to her during the last few years! She understood her mother. She was beginning to realise
clearly what her life had been. And Jennie, through her, had grown to a
broad understanding of responsibility. She knew now what it meant to be
a good mother and to have children. If Lester had not objected to it, and she had been truly married, she would have been glad to have others.
Again, she had always felt that she owed Vesta so much—at least a long
and happy life to make up to her for the ignominy of her birth and
rearing. Jennie had been so happy during the past few years to see Vesta
growing into beautiful, graceful, intelligent womanhood. And now she
was dying. Dr. Emory finally sent to Chicago for a physician friend of
his, who came to consider the case with him. He was an old man, grave,
sympathetic, understanding. He shook his head. "The treatment has been correct," he said. "Her system does not appear to be strong enough to endure the strain. Some physiques are more susceptible to this malady
than others." It was agreed that if within three days a change for the better did not come the end was close at hand.
No one can conceive the strain to which Jennie's spirit was subjected by
this intelligence, for it was deemed best that she should know. She
hovered about white-faced—feeling intensely, but scarcely thinking. She
seemed to vibrate consciously with Vesta's altering states. If there was the least improvement she felt it physically. If there was a decline her
barometric temperament registered the fact.
There was a Mrs. Davis, a fine, motherly soul of fifty, stout and
sympathetic, who lived four doors from Jennie, and who understood quite
well how she was feeling. She had co-operated with the nurse and doctor
from the start to keep Jennie's mental state as nearly normal as possible.
"Now, you just go to your room and lie down, Mrs. Kane," she would say to Jennie when she found her watching helplessly at the bedside or
wandering to and fro, wondering what to do. "I'll take charge of
everything. I'll do just what you would do. Lord bless you, don't you
think I know? I've been the mother of seven and lost three. Don't you
think I understand?" Jennie put her head on her big, warm shoulder one day and cried. Mrs. Davis cried with her. "I understand," she said. "There, there, you poor dear. Now you come with me." And she led her to her