Jennie Gerhardt - Драйзер Теодор (книги без регистрации бесплатно полностью сокращений .txt) 📗

a human being; but, as a matter of fact, he admitted to himself that long ago he might have forced Jennie's story out of her if he had gone about it in earnest. She would not have lied, he knew that. At the very outset he

might have demanded the history of her past. He had not done so; well,

now it was too late. The one thing it did fix in his mind was that it would be useless to ever think of marrying her. It couldn't be done, not by a man in his position. The best solution of the problem was to make reasonable

provision for Jennie and then leave her. He went to his hotel with his

mind made up, but he did not actually say to himself that he would do it

at once.

It is an easy thing for a man to theorise in a situation of this kind, quite another to act. Our comforts, appetites and passions grow with usage, and Jennie was not only a comfort, but an appetite, with him. Almost four

years of constant association had taught him so much about her and

himself that he was not prepared to let go easily or quickly. It was too

much of a wrench. He could think of it bustling about the work of a great organisation during the daytime, but when night came it was a different

matter. He could be lonely, too, he discovered much to his surprise, and it disturbed him.

One of the things that interested him in this situation was Jennie's early theory that the intermingling of Vesta with him and her in this new

relationship would injure the child. Just how did she come by that feeling, he wanted to know? His place in the world was better than hers, yet it

dawned on him after a time that there might have been something in her

point of view. She did not know who he was or what he would do with

her. He might leave her shortly. Being uncertain, she wished to protect her baby. That wasn't so bad. Then again, he was curious to know what the

child was like. The daughter of a man like Senator Brander might be

somewhat of an infant. He was a brilliant man and Jennie was a charming

woman. He thought of this, and while it irritated him, it aroused his

curiosity. He ought to go back and see the child—he was really entitled to a view of it—but he hesitated because of his own attitude in the

beginning. It seemed to him that he really ought to quit, and here he was parleying with himself.

The truth was that he couldn't. These years of living with Jennie had

made him curiously dependent upon her. Who had ever been so close to

him before? His mother loved him, but her attitude toward him had not so

much to do with real love as with ambition. His father—well, his father

was a man, like himself. All of his sisters were distinctly wrapped up in their own affairs; Robert and he were temperamentally uncongenial. With

Jennie he had really been happy, he had truly lived. She was necessary to him; the longer he stayed away from her the more he wanted her. He

finally decided to have a straight-out talk with her, to arrive at some sort of understanding. She ought to get the child and take care of it. She must understand that he might eventually want to quit. She ought to be made to feel that a definite change had taken place, though no immediate break

might occur. That same evening he went out to the apartment. Jennie

heard him enter, and her heart began to flutter. Then she took her courage in both hands, and went to meet him.

"There's just one thing to be done about this as far as I can see," began Lester, with characteristic directness. "Get the child and bring her here where you can take care of her. There's no use leaving her in the hands of strangers."

"I will, Lester," said Jennie submissively. "I always wanted to."

"Very well, then, you'd better do it at once." He took an evening newspaper out of his pocket and strolled toward one of the front

windows; then he turned to her. "You and I might as well understand each other, Jennie," he went on. "I can see how this thing came about. It was a piece of foolishness on my part not to have asked you before, and made

you tell me. It was silly for you to conceal it, even if you didn't want the child's life mixed with mine. You might have known that it couldn't be

done. That's neither here nor there, though, now. The thing that I want to point out is that one can't live and hold a relationship such as ours without confidence. You and I had that, I thought. I don't see my way clear to ever hold more than a tentative relationship with you on this basis. The thing is too tangled. There's too much cause for scandal."

"I know," said Jennie.

"Now, I don't propose to do anything hasty. For my part I don't see why things can't go on about as they are—certainly for the present—but I want you to look the facts in the face."

Jennie sighed. "I know, Lester," she said, "I know."

He went to the window and stared out. There were some trees in the yard,

where the darkness was settling. He wondered how this would really

come out, for he liked a home atmosphere. Should he leave the apartment

and go to his club?

"You'd better get the dinner," he suggested, after a time, turning toward her irritably; but he did not feel so distant as he looked. It was a shame that life could not be more decently organised. He strolled back to his

lounge, and Jennie went about her duties. She was thinking of Vesta, of

her ungrateful attitude toward Lester, of his final decision never to marry her. So that was how one dream had been wrecked by folly.

She spread the table, lighted the pretty silver candles, made his favourite biscuit, put a small leg of lamb in the oven to roast, and washed some

lettuce-leaves for a salad. She had been a diligent student of a cook-book for some time, and she had learned a good deal from her mother. All the

time she was wondering how the situation would work out. He would

leave her eventually—no doubt of that. He would go away and marry

some one else.

"Oh, well," she thought finally, "he is not going to leave me right away—

that is something. And I can bring Vesta here." She sighed as she carried the things to the table. If life would only give her Lester and Vesta

together—but that hope was over.

CHAPTER XXXI

There was peace and quiet for some time after this storm. Jennie went

the next day and brought Vesta away with her. The joy of the reunion

between mother and child made up for many other worries. "Now I can

do by her as I ought," she thought; and three or four times during the day she found herself humming a little song.

Lester came only occasionally at first. He was trying to make himself

believe that he ought to do something toward reforming his life—toward

bringing about that eventual separation which he had suggested. He did

not like the idea of a child being in this apartment—particularly that

particular child. He fought his way through a period of calculated neglect, and then began to return to the apartment more regularly. In spite of all its drawbacks, it was a place of quiet, peace, and very notable personal

comfort.

During the first days of Lester's return it was difficult for Jennie to adjust matters so as to keep the playful, nervous, almost uncontrollable child

from annoying the staid, emphatic, commercial- minded man. Jennie gave

Vesta a severe talking to the first night Lester telephoned that he was

coming, telling her that he was a very bad-tempered man who didn't like

children, and that she mustn't go near him. "You mustn't talk," she said.