Theodore Dreiser Jennie Gerhardt; a novel

 
 

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CHAPTER LVIII 
Now that his engagement to Mrs. Gerald was an accomplished, fact, Lester 
found no particular difficulty in reconciling himself to the new order of 
things; undoubtedly it was all for the best. He was sorry for Jennie—very 
sorry. So was Mrs. Gerald; but there was a practical unguent to her grief in 
the thought that it was best for both Lester and the girl. He would be 
happier—was so now. And Jennie would eventually realize that she had 
done a wise and kindly thing; she would be glad in the consciousness that 
she had acted so unselfishly. As for Mrs. Gerald, because of her indifference 
to the late Malcolm Gerald, and because she was realizing the dreams of her 
youth in getting Lester at last—even though a little late—she was intensely 
happy. She could think of nothing finer than this daily life with him—the 
places they would go, the things they would see. Her first season in Chicago 
as Mrs. Lester Kane the following winter was going to be something worth 
remembering. And as for Japan—that was almost too good to be true. 
Lester wrote to Jennie of his coming marriage to Mrs. Gerald. He said that 
he had no explanation to make. It wouldn't be worth anything if he did make 
it. He thought he ought to marry Mrs. Gerald. He thought he ought to let her 
(Jennie) know. He hoped she was well. He wanted her always to feel that he 
had her real interests at heart. He would do anything in his power to make 
life as pleasant and agreeable for her as possible. He hoped she would 
forgive him. And would she remember him affectionately to Vesta? She 
ought to be sent to a finishing school. 
Jennie understood the situation perfectly. She knew that Lester had been 
drawn to Mrs. Gerald from the time he met her at the Carlton in London. 
She had been angling for him. Now she had him. It was all right. She hoped 
he would be happy. She was glad to write and tell him so, explaining that 
she had seen the announcement in the papers. Lester read her letter 
thoughtfully; there was more between the lines than the written words 
conveyed. Her fortitude was a charm to him even in this hour. In spite of all 
he had done and what he was now going to do, he realized that he still cared 
for Jennie in a way. She was a noble and a charming woman. If everything 
else had been all right he would not be going to marry Mrs. Gerald at all. 
And yet he did marry her. 
The ceremony was performed on April fifteenth, at the residence of Mrs. 
Gerald, a Roman Catholic priest officiating. Lester was a poor example of the 
faith he occasionally professed. He was an agnostic, but because he had 
been reared in the church he felt that he might as well be married in it. 
Some fifty guests, intimate friends, had been invited. The ceremony went off 
with perfect smoothness. There were jubilant congratulations and showers 
of rice and confetti. While the guests were still eating and drinking Lester 

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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. 

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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 favorite 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 neighbors, realizing 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 afterward 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 realize 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 

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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 sleeping-room. 
Jennie could not be away long. She came back after a few minutes unrested 
and unrefreshed. Finally one midnight, when the nurse had persuaded her 
that all would be well until morning anyhow, there came a hurried stirring 
in the sick-room. Jennie was lying down for a few minutes on her bed in the 
adjoining room. She heard it and arose. Mrs. Davis had come in, and she 
and the nurse were conferring as to Vesta's condition—standing close beside 
her. 
Jennie understood. She came up and looked at her daughter keenly. Vesta's 
pale, waxen face told the story. She was breathing faintly, her eyes closed. 
"She's very weak," whispered the nurse. Mrs. Davis took Jennie's hand. 
The moments passed, and after a time the clock in the hall struck one. Miss 
Murfree, the nurse, moved to the medicine-table several times, wetting a soft 
piece of cotton cloth with alcohol and bathing Vesta's lips. At the striking of 
the half-hour there was a stir of the weak body—a profound sigh. Jennie 
bent forward eagerly, but Mrs. Davis drew her back. The nurse came and 
motioned them away. Respiration had ceased. 
Mrs. Davis seized Jennie firmly. "There, there, you poor dear," she 
whispered when she began to shake. "It can't be helped. Don't cry." 

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Jennie sank on her knees beside the bed and caressed Vesta's still warm 
hand. "Oh no, Vesta," she pleaded. "Not you! Not you!" 
"There, dear, come now," soothed the voice of Mrs. Davis. "Can't you leave it 
all in God's hands? Can't you believe that everything is for the best?" 
Jennie felt as if the earth had fallen. All ties were broken. There was no light 
anywhere in the immense darkness of her existence.