Theodore Dreiser Jennie Gerhardt; a novel

 
 

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CHAPTER XLII 
The fact that Lester had seen this page was made perfectly clear to Jennie 
that evening, for he brought it home himself, having concluded, after mature 
deliberation, that he ought to. He had told her once that there was to be no 
concealment between them, and this thing, coming so brutally to disturb 
their peace, was nevertheless a case in point. He had decided to tell her not 
to think anything of it—that it did not make much difference, though to him 
it made all the difference in the world. The effect of this chill history could 
never be undone. The wise—and they included all his social world and many 
who were not of it—could see just how he had been living. The article which 
accompanied the pictures told how he had followed Jennie from Cleveland to 
Chicago, how she had been coy and distant and that he had to court her a 
long time to win her consent. This was to explain their living together on the 
North Side. Lester realized that this was an asinine attempt to sugar-coat 
the true story and it made him angry. Still he preferred to have it that way 
rather than in some more brutal vein. He took the paper out of his pocket 
when he arrived at the house, spreading it on the library table. Jennie, who 
was close by, watched him, for she knew what was coming. 
"Here's something that will interest you, Jennie," he said dryly, pointing to 
the array of text and pictures. 
"I've already seen it, Lester," she said wearily. "Mrs. Stendahl showed it to 
me this afternoon. I was wondering whether you had." 
"Rather high-flown description of my attitude, isn't it? I didn't know I was 
such an ardent Romeo." 
"I'm awfully sorry, Lester," said Jennie, reading behind the dry face of 
humor the serious import of this affair to him. She had long since learned 
that Lester did not express his real feeling, his big ills in words. He was 
inclined to jest and make light of the inevitable, the inexorable. This light 
comment merely meant "this matter cannot be helped, so we will make the 
best of it." 
"Oh, don't feel badly about it," he went on. "It isn't anything which can be 
adjusted now. They probably meant well enough. We just happen to be in 
the limelight." 
"I understand," said Jennie, coming over to him. "I'm sorry, though, 
anyway." Dinner was announced a moment later and the incident was 
closed. 
But Lester could not dismiss the thought that matters were getting in a bad 
way. His father had pointed it out to him rather plainly at the last interview, 
and now this newspaper notoriety had capped the climax. He might as well 
abandon his pretension to intimacy with his old world. It would have none of 

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him, or at least the more conservative part of it would not. There were a few 
bachelors, a few gay married men, some sophisticated women, single and 
married, who saw through it all and liked him just the same, but they did 
not make society. He was virtually an outcast, and nothing could save him 
but to reform his ways; in other words, he must give up Jennie once and for 
all. 
But he did not want to do this. The thought was painful to him—
objectionable in every way. Jennie was growing in mental acumen. She was 
beginning to see things quite as clearly as he did. She was not a cheap, 
ambitious, climbing creature. She was a big woman and a good one. It 
would be a shame to throw her down, and besides she was good-looking. He 
was forty-six and she was twenty-nine; and she looked twenty-four or five. It 
is an exceptional thing to find beauty, youth, compatibility, intelligence, 
your own point of view—softened and charmingly emotionalized—in another. 
He had made his bed, as his father had said. He had better lie on it. 
It was only a little while after this disagreeable newspaper incident that 
Lester had word that his father was quite ill and failing; it might be 
necessary for him to go to Cincinnati at any moment. Pressure of work was 
holding him pretty close when the news came that his father was dead. 
Lester, of course, was greatly shocked and grieved, and he returned to 
Cincinnati in a retrospective and sorrowful mood. His father had been a 
great character to him—a fine and interesting old gentleman entirely aside 
from his relationship to him as his son. He remembered him now dandling 
him upon his knee as a child, telling him stories of his early life in Ireland, 
and of his subsequent commercial struggle when he was a little older, 
impressing the maxims of his business career and his commercial wisdom 
on him as he grew to manhood. Old Archibald had been radically honest. It 
was to him that Lester owed his instincts for plain speech and direct 
statement of fact. "Never lie," was Archibald's constant, reiterated statement. 
"Never try to make a thing look different from what it is to you. It's the 
breath of life—truth—it's the basis of real worth, while commercial 
success—it will make a notable character of any one who will stick to it." 
Lester believed this. He admired his father intensely for his rigid insistence 
on truth, and now that he was really gone he felt sorry. He wished he might 
have been spared to be reconciled to him. He half fancied that old Archibald 
would have liked Jennie if he had known her. He did not imagine that he 
would ever have had the opportunity to straighten things out, although he 
still felt that Archibald would have liked her. 
When he reached Cincinnati it was snowing, a windy, blustery snow. The 
flakes were coming down thick and fast. The traffic of the city had a muffled 
sound. When he stepped down from the train he was met by Amy, who was 

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glad to see him in spite of all their past differences. Of all the girls she was 
the most tolerant. Lester put his arms about her, and kissed her. 
"It seems like old times to see you, Amy," he said, "your coming to meet me 
this way. How's the family? I suppose they're all here. Well, poor father, his 
time had to come. Still, he lived to see everything that he wanted to see. I 
guess he was pretty well satisfied with the outcome of his efforts." 
"Yes," replied Amy, "and since mother died he was very lonely." 
They rode up to the house in kindly good feeling, chatting of old times and 
places. All the members of the immediate family, and the various relatives, 
were gathered in the old family mansion. Lester exchanged the customary 
condolences with the others, realizing all the while that his father had lived 
long enough. He had had a successful life, and had fallen like a ripe apple 
from the tree. Lester looked at him where he lay in the great parlor, in his 
black coffin, and a feeling of the old-time affection swept over him. He 
smiled at the clean-cut, determined, conscientious face. 
"The old gentleman was a big man all the way through," he said to Robert, 
who was present. "We won't find a better figure of a man soon." 
"We will not," said his brother, solemnly. 
After the funeral it was decided to read the will at once. Louise's husband 
was anxious to return to Buffalo; Lester was compelled to be in Chicago. A 
conference of the various members of the family was called for the second 
day after the funeral, to be held at the offices of Messrs. Knight, Keatley & 
O'Brien, counselors of the late manufacturer. 
As Lester rode to the meeting he had the feeling that his father had not 
acted in any way prejudicial to his interests. It had not been so very long 
since they had had their last conversation; he had been taking his time to 
think about things, and his father had given him time. He always felt that 
he had stood well with the old gentleman, except for his alliance with 
Jennie. His business judgment had been valuable to the company. Why 
should there be any discrimination against him? He really did not think it 
possible. 
When they reached the offices of the law firm, Mr. O'Brien, a short, fussy, 
albeit comfortable-looking little person, greeted all the members of the family 
and the various heirs and assigns with a hearty handshake. He had been 
personal counsel to Archibald Kane for twenty years. He knew his whims 
and idiosyncrasies, and considered himself very much in the light of a father 
confessor. He liked all the children, Lester especially. 
"Now I believe we are all here," he said, finally, extracting a pair of large horn 
reading-glasses from his coat pocket and looking sagely about. "Very well. 

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We might as well proceed to business. I will just read the will without any 
preliminary remarks." 
He turned to his desk, picked up a paper lying upon it, cleared his throat, 
and began. 
It was a peculiar document, in some respects, for it began with all the minor 
bequests; first, small sums to old employees, servants, and friends. It then 
took up a few institutional bequests, and finally came to the immediate 
family, beginning with the girls. Imogene, as a faithful and loving daughter 
was left a sixth of the stock of the carriage company and a fourth of the 
remaining properties of the deceased, which roughly aggregated (the estate—
not her share) about eight hundred thousand dollars. Amy and Louise were 
provided for in exactly the same proportion. The grandchildren were given 
certain little bonuses for good conduct, when they should come of age. Then 
it took up the cases of Robert and Lester. 
"Owing to certain complications which have arisen in the affairs of my son 
Lester," it began, "I deem it my duty to make certain conditions which shall 
govern the distribution of the remainder of my property, to wit: One-fourth 
of the stock of the Kane Manufacturing Company and one-fourth of the 
remainder of my various properties, real, personal, moneys, stocks and 
bonds, to go to my beloved son Robert, in recognition of the faithful 
performance of his duty, and one-fourth of the stock of the Kane 
Manufacturing Company and the remaining fourth of my various properties, 
real, personal, moneys, stocks and bonds, to be held in trust by him for the 
benefit of his brother Lester, until such time as such conditions as may 
hereinafter be set forth shall have been complied with. And it is my wish and 
desire that my children shall concur in his direction of the Kane 
Manufacturing Company, and of such other interests as are entrusted to 
him, until such time as he shall voluntarily relinquish such control, or shall 
indicate another arrangement which shall be better." 
Lester swore under his breath. His cheeks changed color, but he did not 
move. He was not inclined to make a show. It appeared that he was not even 
mentioned separately. 
The conditions "hereinafter set forth" dealt very fully with his case, however, 
though they were not read aloud to the family at the time, Mr. O'Brien 
stating that this was in accordance with their father's wish. Lester learned 
immediately afterward that he was to have ten thousand a year for three 
years, during which time he had the choice of doing either one of two things: 
First, he was to leave Jennie, if he had not already married her, and so bring 
his life into moral conformity with the wishes of his father. In this event 
Lester's share of the estate was to be immediately turned over to him. 
Secondly, he might elect to marry Jennie, if he had not already done so, in 

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which case the ten thousand a year, specifically set aside to him for three 
years, was to be continued for life—but for his life only. Jennie was not to 
have anything of it after his death. The ten thousand in question 
represented the annual interest on two hundred shares of L. S. and M. S. 
stock which were also to be held in trust until his decision had been reached 
and their final disposition effected. If Lester refused to marry Jennie, or to 
leave her, he was to have nothing at all after the three years were up. At 
Lester's death the stock on which his interest was drawn was to be divided 
pro rata among the surviving members of the family. If any heir or assign 
contested the will, his or her share was thereby forfeited entirely. 
It was astonishing to Lester to see how thoroughly his father had taken his 
case into consideration. He half suspected, on reading these conditions, that 
his brother Robert had had something to do with the framing of them, but of 
course he could not be sure. Robert had not given any direct evidence of 
enmity. 
"Who drew this will?" he demanded of O'Brien, a little later. 
"Well, we all had a hand in it," replied O'Brien, a little shamefacedly. "It was 
a very difficult document to draw up. You know, Mr. Kane, there was no 
budging your father. He was adamant. He has come very near defeating his 
own wishes in some of these clauses. Of course, you know, we had nothing 
to do with its spirit. That was between you and him. I hated very much to 
have to do it." 
"Oh, I understand all that!" said Lester. "Don't let that worry you." 
Mr. O'Brien was very grateful. 
During the reading of the will Lester had sat as stolid as an ox. 
He got up after a time, as did the others, assuming an air of nonchalance. 
Robert, Amy, Louise and Imogene all felt shocked, but not exactly, not 
unqualifiedly regretful. Certainly Lester had acted very badly. He had given 
his father great provocation. 
"I think the old gentleman has been a little rough in this," said Robert, who 
had been sitting next him. "I certainly did not expect him to go as far as 
that. So far as I am concerned some other arrangement would have been 
satisfactory." 
Lester smiled grimly. "It doesn't matter," he said. 
Imogene, Amy, and Louise were anxious to be consolatory, but they did not 
know what to say. Lester had brought it all on himself. "I don't think papa 
acted quite right, Lester," ventured Amy, but Lester waved her away almost 
gruffly. 
"I can stand it," he said. 

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He figured out, as he stood there, what his income would be in case he 
refused to comply with his father's wishes. Two hundred shares of L. S. and 
M. S., in open market, were worth a little over one thousand each. They 
yielded from five to six per cent., sometimes more, sometimes less. At this 
rate he would have ten thousand a year, not more. 
The family gathering broke up, each going his way, and Lester returned to 
his sister's house. He wanted to get out of the city quickly, gave business as 
an excuse to avoid lunching with any one, and caught the earliest train back 
to Chicago. As he rode he meditated. 
So this was how much his father really cared for him! Could it really be so? 
He, Lester Kane, ten thousand a year, for only three years, and then longer 
only on condition that he married Jennie! "Ten thousand a year," he 
thought, "and that for three years! Good Lord! Any smart clerk can earn 
that. To think he should have done that to me!"