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

became angry. Still it ought not to be so hard for him to go, now that he had Mrs. Gerald, if he only wished to do so—and he ought to. His fortune

was so much more important to him than anything she could be.

"Don't worry about that," he replied stubbornly, his wrath at his brother, and his family, and O'Brien still holding him. "There's time enough. I don't know what I want to do yet. I like the effrontery of these people!

But I won't talk any more about it; isn't dinner nearly ready?" He was so injured in his pride that he scarcely took the trouble to be civil. He was forgetting all about her and what she was feeling. He hated his brother

Robert for this affront. He would have enjoyed wringing the necks of

Messrs. Knight, Keatley & O'Brien, singly and collectively.

The question could not be dropped for good and all, and it came up again

at dinner, after Jennie had done her best to collect her thoughts and quiet her nerves. They could not talk very freely because of Vesta and

Jeannette, but she managed to get in a word or two.

"I could take a little cottage somewhere," she suggested softly, hoping to find him in a modified mood. "I would not want to stay here. I would not know what to do with a big house like this alone."

"I wish you wouldn't discuss this business any longer, Jennie," he persisted. "I'm in no mood for it. I don't know that I'm going to do anything of the sort. I don't know what I'm going to do." He was so sour and obstinate, because of O'Brien, that she finally gave it up. Vesta was astonished to see her stepfather, usually so courteous, in so grim a mood.

Jennie felt a curious sense that she might hold him if she would, for he

was doubting; but she knew also that she should not wish. It was not fair to him. It was not fair to herself, or kind, or decent.

"Oh yes, Lester, you must," she pleaded, at a later time. "I won't talk about it any more, but you must. I won't let you do anything else."

There were hours when it came up afterward—every day, in fact—in their

boudoir, in the library, in the dining-room, at breakfast, but not always in words. Jennie was worried. She was looking the worry she felt. She was

sure that he should be made to act. Since he was showing more kindly

consideration for her, she was all the more certain that he should act soon.

Just how to go about it she did not know, but she looked at him longingly, trying to help him make up his mind. She would be happy, she assured

herself—she would be happy thinking that he was happy once she was

away from him. He was a good man, most delightful in everything,

perhaps, save his gift of love. He really did not love her—could not

perhaps, after all that had happened, even though she loved him most

earnestly. But his family had been most brutal in their opposition, and this had affected his attitude. She could understand that, too. She could see

now how his big, strong brain might be working in a circle. He was too

decent to be absolutely brutal about this thing and leave her, too really considerate to look sharply after his own interests as he should, or hers—

but he ought to.

"You must decide, Lester," she kept saying to him, from time to time.

"You must let me go. What difference does it make? I will be all right.

Maybe, when this thing is all over you might want to come back to me. If

you do, I will be there."

"I'm not ready to come to a decision," was his invariable reply. "I don't know that I want to leave you. This money is important, of course, but

money isn't everything. I can live on ten thousand a year if necessary. I've done it in the past."

"Oh, but you're so much more placed in the world now, Lester," she argued. "You can't do it. Look how much it costs to run this house alone.

And a million and a half of dollars—why, I wouldn't let you think of

losing that. I'll go myself first."

"Where would you think of going if it came to that?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, I'd find some place. Do you remember that little town of Sandwood, this side of Kenosha? I have often thought it would be a pleasant place to live."

"I don't like to think of this," he said finally in an outburst of frankness.

"It doesn't seem fair. The conditions have all been against this union of ours. I suppose I should have married you in the first place. I'm sorry now that I didn't."

Jennie choked in her throat, but said nothing.

"Anyhow, this won't be the last of it, if I can help it," he concluded. He was thinking that the storm might blow over; once he had the money, and

then—but he hated compromises and subterfuges.

It came by degrees to be understood that, toward the end of February, she should look around at Sandwood and see what she could find. She was to

have ample means, he told her, everything that she wanted. After a time

he might come out and visit her occasionally. And he was determined in

his heart that he would make some people pay for the trouble they had

caused him. He decided to send for Mr. O'Brien shortly and talk things

over. He wanted for his personal satisfaction to tell him what he thought of him.

At the same time, in the background of his mind, moved the shadowy

figure of Mrs. Gerald—charming, sophisticated, well placed in every

sense of the word. He did not want to give her the broad reality of full

thought, but she was always there. He thought and thought. "Perhaps I'd better," he half concluded. When February came he was ready to act.

CHAPTER LIV

The little town of Sandwood, "this side of Kenosha," as Jennie had expressed it, was only a short distance from Chicago, an hour and fifteen minutes by the local train. It had a population of some three hundred

families, dwelling in small cottages, which were scattered over a pleasant area of lake-shore property. They were not rich people. The houses were

not worth more than from three to five thousand dollars each, but, in most cases, they were harmoniously constructed, and the surrounding trees,

green for the entire year, gave them a pleasing summery appearance.

Jennie, at the time they had passed by there—it was an outing taken

behind a pair of fast horses—had admired the look of a little white church steeple, set down among the green trees, and the gentle rocking of the

boats upon the summer water.

"I should like to live in a place like this some time," she had said to Lester, and he had made the comment that it was a little too peaceful for him. "I can imagine getting to the place where I might like this, but not now. It's too withdrawn."

Jennie thought of that expression afterward. It came to her when she

thought that the world was trying. If she had to be alone ever and could

afford it she would like to live in a place like Sandwood. There she would have a little garden, some chickens, perhaps, a tall pole with a pretty bird-house on it, and flowers and trees and green grass everywhere about. If

she could have a little cottage in a place like this which commanded a

view of the lake she could sit of a summer evening and sew. Vesta could

play about or come home from school. She might have a few friends, or

not any. She was beginning to think that she could do very well living

alone if it were not for Vesta's social needs. Books were pleasant things—

she was finding that out—books like Irving's Sketch Book, Lamb's Elia,

and Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales. Vesta was coming to be quite a