§ 19
There was the question of Sadie to be settled. There was a certain
severe look that sometimes came about Sadie's lips, and that caused
Peter to feel absolutely certain that Comrade Sadie had no sympathy with
"free love," and very little sympathy with any love save her own for
Jennie. She had nursed her "little sister" and tended her like a mother
for many years; she took the food out of her mouth to give to
Jennie — and Jennie in turn gave it to any wandering agitator who came
along and hung around until mealtime. Peter didn't want Sadie to know
what had been going on in her absence, and yet he was afraid to suggest
to Jennie that she should deceive her sister.
He managed it very tactfully. Jennie began pleading again: "We
ought not to do this, Comrade Peter!" And so Peter agreed, perhaps they
oughtn't, and they wouldn't any more. So Jennie put her hair in order,
and straightened her blouse, and her lover could see that she wasn't
going to tell Sadie.
And the next day they were kissing again and agreeing again that
they mustn't do it; and so once more Jennie didn't tell Sadie. Before
long Peter had managed to whisper the suggestion that their love was
their own affair, and they ought not to tell anybody for the present;
they would keep the delicious secret, and it would do no one any harm.
Jennie had read somewhere about a woman poet by the name of Mrs.
Browning, who had been an invalid all her life, and whose health had
been completely restored by a great and wonderful love. Such a love had
now come to her; only Sadie might not understand, Sadie might think they
did not know each other well enough, and that they ought to wait. They
knew, of course, that they really did
know each other perfectly, so there was no reason for uncertainty
or fear. Peter managed deftly to put these suggestions
into Jennie's mind as if they were her own.
And all the time he was making ardent love to her; all day long,
while he was helping her address envelopes and mail out circulars for
the Goober Defense Committee. He really did work hard; he didn't mind
working, when he had Jennie at the table beside him, and could reach
over and hold her hand every now and then, or catch her in his arms and
murmur passionate words. Delicious thrills and raptures possessed him;
his hopes would rise like a flood-tide — but then, alas, only to ebb
again! He would get so far, and every time it would be as if he had run
into a stone wall. No farther!
Peter realized that McGivney's "free love" talk had been a cruel
mistake. Little Jennie was like all the other women — her love wasn't
going to be "free." Little Jennie wanted a husband, and every time you
kissed her, she began right away to talk about marriage, and you dared
not hint at anything else because you knew it would spoil everything. So
Peter was thrown back upon devices older than the teachings of any
"Reds." He went after little Jennie, not in the way of "free lovers,"
but in the way of a man alone in the house with a girl of seventeen, and
wishing to seduce her. He vowed that he loved her with an overwhelming
and eternal love. He vowed that he would get a job and take care of her.
And then he let her discover that he was suffering torments; he could
not live without her. He played upon her sympathy, he played upon her
childish innocence, he played upon that pitiful, weak sentimentality
which caused her to believe in pacifism
and altruism and socialism and all the other "isms"
that were jumbled up in her head.
And so in a couple of weeks Peter had succeeded in his purpose of
carrying little Jennie by storm. And then, how enraptured he was! Peter,
with his first girl, decided that being a detective was the job for him!
Peter knew that he was a real detective now, using the real inside
methods, and on the trail of the real secrets of the Goober case!
And sure enough, he began at once to get them. Jennie was in
love; Jennie was, as you might say, "drunk with love," and so she
fulfilled both the conditions which Guffey had laid down. So Jennie told
the truth! Sitting on Peter's knee, with her arms clasped about him, and
talking about her girlhood, the happy days before her mother and father
had been killed in the factory where they worked, little Jennie
mentioned the name of a young man, Ibbetts.
"Ibbetts?" said Peter. It was a peculiar name, and
sounded familiar.
"A cousin of ours," said Jennie.
"Have I met him?" asked Peter, groping in his mind.
"No, he hasn't been here."
"Ibbetts?" he repeated, still groping; and suddenly he
remembered. "Isn't his name Jack?"
Jennie did not answer for a moment. He looked at her, and their
eyes met, and he saw that she was frightened. "Oh, Peter!" she
whispered. "I wasn't to tell! I wasn't to tell a soul!"
Inside Peter, something was shouting with delight. To
hide his emotion he had to bury his face in the soft white
throat. "Sweetheart!" he whispered. "Darling!"
"Uh, Peter!" she cried. "You know — don't you?"
"Of course!" he laughed. "But I won't tell. You needn't mind
trusting me."
"Oh, but Mr. Andrews was so insistent!" said Jennie, "He made
Sadie and me swear that we wouldn't breathe it to a soul."
"Well, you didn't tell," said Peter. "I found it out by accident.
Don't mention it, and nobody will be any the wiser. If they should find
out that I know, they wouldn't blame you; they'd understand that I know
Jack Ibbetts — me being in jail so long."
So Jennie forgot all about the matter, and Peter went on with the
kisses, making her happy, as a means of concealing his own exultation.
He had done the job for which Guffey had sent him! He had solved the
first great mystery of the Goober case! The spy in the jail of American
City, who was carrying out news to the Defense Committee, was Jack
Ibbetts, one of the keepers in the jail, and a cousin of the Todd
sisters!
