Theodore Dreiser Jennie Gerhardt; a novel

 
 

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CHAPTER LIII 
The explanation which Lester had concluded to be inevitable, whether it led 
to separation or legalization of their hitherto banal condition, followed 
quickly upon the appearance of Mr. O'Brien. On the day Mr. O'Brien called 
he had gone on a journey to Hegewisch, a small manufacturing town in 
Wisconsin, where he had been invited to witness the trial of a new motor 
intended to operate elevators—with a view to possible investment. When he 
came out to the house, interested to tell Jennie something about it even in 
spite of the fact that he was thinking of leaving her, he felt a sense of 
depression everywhere, for Jennie, in spite of the serious and sensible 
conclusion she had reached, was not one who could conceal her feelings 
easily. She was brooding sadly over her proposed action, realizing that it 
was best to leave but finding it hard to summon the courage which would let 
her talk to him about it. She could not go without telling him what she 
thought. He ought to want to leave her. She was absolutely convinced that 
this one course of action—separation—was necessary and advisable. She 
could not think of him as daring to make a sacrifice of such proportions for 
her sake even if he wanted to. It was impossible. It was astonishing to her 
that he had let things go along as dangerously and silently as he had. 
When he came in Jennie did her best to greet him with her accustomed 
smile, but it was a pretty poor imitation. 
"Everything all right?" she asked, using her customary phrase of inquiry. 
"Quite," he answered. "How are things with you?" 
"Oh, just the same." She walked with him to the library, and he poked at the 
open fire with a long-handled poker before turning around to survey the 
room generally. It was five o'clock of a January afternoon. Jennie had gone 
to one of the windows to lower the shade. As she came back he looked at her 
critically. "You're not quite your usual self, are you?" he asked, sensing 
something out of the common in her attitude. 
"Why, yes, I feel all right," she replied, but there was a peculiar uneven 
motion to the movement of her lips—a rippling tremor which was 
unmistakable to him. 
"I think I know better than that," he said, still gazing at her steadily. "What's 
the trouble? Anything happened?" 
She turned away from him a moment to get her breath and collect her 
senses. Then she faced him again. "There is something," she managed to 
say. "I have to tell you something." 
"I know you have," he agreed, half smiling, but with a feeling that there was 
much of grave import back of this. "What is it?" 

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She was silent for a moment, biting her lips. She did not quite know how to 
begin. Finally she broke the spell with: "There was a man here yesterday—a 
Mr. O'Brien, of Cincinnati. Do you know him?" 
"Yes, I know him. What did he want?" 
"He came to talk to me about you and your father's will." 
She paused, for his face clouded immediately. "Why the devil should he be 
talking to you about my father's will!" he exclaimed. "What did he have to 
say?" 
"Please don't get angry, Lester," said Jennie calmly, for she realized that she 
must remain absolute mistress of herself if anything were to be 
accomplished toward the resolution of her problem. "He wanted to tell me 
what a sacrifice you are making," she went on. "He wished to show me that 
there was only a little time left before you would lose your inheritance. Don't 
you want to act pretty soon? Don't you want to leave me." 
"Damn him!" said Lester fiercely. "What the devil does he mean by putting 
his nose in my private affairs? Can't they let me alone?" He shook himself 
angrily. "Damn them!" he exclaimed again. "This is some of Robert's work. 
Why should Knight, Keatley & O'Brien be meddling in my affairs? This whole 
business is getting to be a nuisance!" He was in a boiling rage in a moment, 
as was shown by his darkening skin and sulphurous eyes. 
Jennie trembled before his anger. She did not know what to say. 
He came to himself sufficiently after a time to add: 
"Well. Just what did he tell you?" 
"He said that if you married me you would only get ten thousand a year. 
That if you didn't and still lived with me you would get nothing at all. If you 
would leave me, or I would leave you, you would get all of a million and a 
half. Don't you think you had better leave me now?" 
She had not intended to propound this leading question so quickly, but it 
came out as a natural climax to the situation. She realized instantly that if 
he were really in love with her he would answer with an emphatic "no." If he 
didn't care, he would hesitate, he would delay, he would seek to put off the 
evil day of reckoning. 
"I don't see that," he retorted irritably. "I don't see that there's any need for 
either interference or hasty action. What I object to is their coming here and 
mixing in my private affairs." 
Jennie was cut to the quick by his indifference, his wrath instead of 
affection. To her the main point at issue was her leaving him or his leaving 
her. To him this recent interference was obviously the chief matter for 

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discussion and consideration. The meddling of others before he was ready to 
act was the terrible thing. She had hoped, in spite of what she had seen, 
that possibly, because of the long time they had lived together and the 
things which (in a way) they had endured together, he might have come to 
care for her deeply—that she had stirred some emotion in him which would 
never brook real separation, though some seeming separation might be 
necessary. He had not married her, of course, but then there had been so 
many things against them. Now, in this final hour, anyhow, he might have 
shown that he cared deeply, even if he had deemed it necessary to let her go. 
She felt for the time being as if, for all that she had lived with him so long, 
she did not understand him, and yet, in spite of this feeling, she knew also 
that she did. He cared, in his way. He could not care for any one 
enthusiastically and demonstratively. He could care enough to seize her and 
take her to himself as he had, but he could not care enough to keep her if 
something more important appeared. He was debating her fate now. She 
was in a quandary, hurt, bleeding, but for once in her life, determined. 
Whether he wanted to or not, she must not let him make this sacrifice. She 
must leave him—if he would not leave her. It was not important enough that 
she should stay. There might be but one answer. But might he not show 
affection? 
"Don't you think you had better act soon?" she continued, hoping that some 
word of feeling would come from him. "There is only a little time left, isn't 
there?" 
Jennie nervously pushed a book to and fro on the table, her fear that she 
would not be able to keep up appearances troubling her greatly. It was hard 
for her to know what to do or say. Lester was so terrible when he 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. 

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"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 

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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.