Bass walked off when he got married, and did nothing more for anybody.
Martha insisted that she needed all she made to live on.
George had contributed for a little while, but had finally refused to help out.
Veronica and William had been content to live on Jennie's money so long as he would allow it, and yet they knew it was not right.
His very existence, was it not a commentary on the selfishness of his children?
And he was getting so old.
He shook his head.
Mystery of mysteries.
Life was truly strange, and dark, and uncertain.
Still he did not want to go and live with any of his children.
Actually they were not worthy of him—none but Jennie, and she was not good.
So he grieved.
This woeful condition of affairs was not made known to Jennie for some time.
She had been sending her letters to Martha, but, on her leaving, Jennie had been writing directly to Gerhardt.
After Veronica's departure Gerhardt wrote to Jennie saying that there was no need of sending any more money.
Veronica and William were going to live with George. He himself had a good place in a factory, and would live there a little while.
He returned her a moderate sum that he had saved—one hundred and fifteen dollars—with the word that he would not need it.
Jennie did not understand, but as the others did not write, she was not sure but what it might be all right—her father was so determined.
But by degrees, however, a sense of what it really must mean overtook her—a sense of something wrong, and she worried, hesitating between leaving Lester and going to see about her father, whether she left him or not.
Would he come with her?
Not here certainly.
If she were married, yes, possibly. If she were alone—probably.
Yet if she did not get some work which paid well they would have a difficult time.
It was the same old problem. What could she do?
Nevertheless, she decided to act.
If she could get five or six dollars a week they could live.
This hundred and fifteen dollars which Gerhardt had saved would tide them over the worst difficulties perhaps.
CHAPTER XXXVI
The trouble with Jennie's plan was that it did not definitely take into consideration Lester's attitude.
He did care for her in an elemental way, but he was hedged about by the ideas of the conventional world in which he had been reared.
To say that he loved her well enough to take her for better or worse—to legalize her anomalous position and to face the world bravely with the fact that he had chosen a wife who suited him—was perhaps going a little too far, but he did really care for her, and he was not in a mood, at this particular time, to contemplate parting with her for good.
Lester was getting along to that time of life when his ideas of womanhood were fixed and not subject to change.
Thus far, on his own plane and within the circle of his own associates, he had met no one who appealed to him as did Jennie.
She was gentle, intelligent, gracious, a handmaiden to his every need; and he had taught her the little customs of polite society, until she was as agreeable a companion as he cared to have.
He was comfortable, he was satisfied—why seek further?
But Jennie's restlessness increased day by day.
She tried writing out her views, and started a half dozen letters before she finally worded one which seemed, partially at least, to express her feelings.
It was a long letter for her, and it ran as follows:
"Lester dear, When you get this I won't be here, and I want you not to think harshly of me until you have read it all.
I am taking Vesta and leaving, and I think it is really better that I should.
Lester, I ought to do it.
You know when you met me we were very poor, and my condition was such that I didn't think any good man would ever want me.
When you came along and told me you loved me I was hardly able to think just what I ought to do. You made me love you, Lester, in spite of myself.
"You know I told you that I oughtn't to do anything wrong any more and that I wasn't good, but somehow when you were near me I couldn't think just right, and I didn't see just how I was to get away from you.
Papa was sick at home that time, and there was hardly anything in the house to eat.
We were all doing so poorly.
My brother George didn't have good shoes, and mamma was so worried.
I have often thought, Lester, if mamma had not been compelled to worry so much she might be alive to-day.
I thought if you liked me and I really liked you—I love you, Lester—maybe it wouldn't make so much difference about me.
You know you told me right away you would like to help my family, and I felt that maybe that would be the right thing to do.