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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.

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 favourite 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 neighbours, realising 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 afterwards 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 realise

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 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 sickroom. 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."

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.

CHAPTER LIX

This added blow from inconsiderate fortune was quite enough to throw

Jennie back into that state of hyper-melancholia from which she had been

drawn with difficulty during the few years of comfort and affection which she had enjoyed with Lester in Hyde Park. It was really weeks before she

could realise that Vesta was gone. The emaciated figure which she saw

for a day or two after the end did not seem like Vesta. Where was the joy and lightness, the quickness of motion, the subtle radiance of health? All gone. Only this pale, lily-hued shell—and silence. Jennie had no tears to shed; only a deep, insistent pain to feel. If only some counsellor of eternal wisdom could have whispered to her that obvious and convincing truth—