Chapter Chapter 4 · The desire to flee which Jennie experienced upon seeing the Senator

again was attributable to what she considered the disgrace of her

position. She was ashamed to think that he, who thought so well of

her, should discover her doing so common a thing. Girl-like, she was

inclined to imagine that his interest in her depended upon something

else than her mere personality.

When she reached home Mrs. Gerhardt had heard of her flight from

the other children.

"What was the matter with you, anyhow?" asked George, when she came

in.

"Oh, nothing," she answered, but immediately turned to her mother

and said, "Mr. Brander came by and saw us."

"Oh, did he?" softly exclaimed her mother. "He's back then. What

made you run, though, you foolish girl?"

"Well, I didn't want him to see me."

"Well, maybe he didn't know you, anyhow," she said, with a certain

sympathy for her daughter's predicament.

"Oh yes, he did, too," whispered Jennie. "He called after me three

or four times."

Mrs. Gerhardt shook her head.

"What is it?" said Gerhardt, who had been hearing the conversation

from the adjoining room, and now came out.

"Oh, nothing," said the mother, who hated to explain the

significance which the Senator's personality had come to have in their

lives. "A man frightened them when they were bringing the coal."

The arrival of the Christmas presents later in the evening threw

the household into an uproar of excitement. Neither Gerhardt nor the

mother could believe their eyes when a grocery wagon halted in front

of their cottage and a lusty clerk began to carry in the gifts. After

failing to persuade the clerk that he had made a mistake, the large

assortment of good things was looked over with very human glee.

"Just you never mind," was the clerk's authoritative words. "I know

what I'm about. Gerhardt, isn't it? Well, you're the people."

Mrs. Gerhardt moved about, rubbing her hands in her excitement, and

giving vent to an occasional "Well, isn't that nice now!"

Gerhardt himself was melted at the thought of the generosity of the

unknown benefactor, and was inclined to lay it all to the goodness of

a great local mill owner, who knew him and wished him well. Mrs.

Gerhardt tearfully suspected the source, but said nothing. Jennie

knew, by instinct, the author of it all.

The afternoon of the day after Christmas Brander encountered the

mother in the hotel, Jennie having been left at home to look after the

house.

"How do you do, Mrs. Gerhardt," he exclaimed genially extending his

hand. "How did you enjoy your Christmas?"

Poor Mrs. Gerhardt took it nervously; her eyes filled rapidly with

tears.

"There, there," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "Don't cry.

You mustn't forget to get my laundry to-day."

"Oh no, sir," she returned, and would have said more had he not

walked away.

From this on, Gerhardt heard continually of the fine Senator at the

hotel, how pleasant he was, and how much he paid for his washing. With

the simplicity of a German workingman, he was easily persuaded that

Mr. Brander must be a very great and a very good man.

Jennie, whose feelings needed no encouragement in this direction,

was more than ever prejudiced in his favor.

There was developing in her that perfection of womanhood, the full

mold of form, which could not help but attract any man. Already she

was well built, and tall for a girl. Had she been dressed in the

trailing skirts of a woman of fashion she would have made a fitting

companion for a man the height of the Senator. Her eyes were

wondrously clear and bright, her skin fair, and her teeth white and

even. She was clever, too, in a sensible way, and by no means

deficient in observation. All that she lacked was training and the

assurance of which the knowledge of utter dependency despoils one. But

the carrying of washing and the compulsion to acknowledge almost

anything as a favor put her at a disadvantage.

Nowadays when she came to the hotel upon her semi-weekly errand

Senator Brander took her presence with easy grace, and to this she

responded. He often gave her little presents for herself, or for her

brothers and sisters, and he talked to her so unaffectedly that

finally the overawing sense of the great difference between them was

brushed away, and she looked upon him more as a generous friend than

as a distinguished Senator. He asked her once how she would like to go

to a seminary, thinking all the while how attractive she would be when

she came out. Finally, one evening, he called her to his side.

"Come over here, Jennie," he said, "and stand by me."

She came, and, moved by a sudden impulse, he took her hand.

"Well, Jennie," he said, studying her face in a quizzical,

interrogative way, "what do you think of me, anyhow?"

"Oh," she answered, looking consciously away, "I don't know. What

makes you ask me that?"

"Oh yes, you do," he returned. "You have some opinion of me. Tell

me now, what is it?"

"No, I haven't," she said, innocently.

"Oh yes, you have," he went on, pleasantly, interested by her

transparent evasiveness. "You must think something of me. Now, what is

it?"

"Do you mean do I like you?" she asked, frankly, looking down at

the big mop of black hair well streaked with gray which hung about his

forehead, and gave an almost lionine cast to his fine face.

"Well, yes," he said, with a sense of disappointment. She was

barren of the art of the coquette.

"Why, of course I like you," she replied, prettily.

"Haven't you ever thought anything else about me?" he went on.

"I think you're very kind," she went on, even more bashfully; she

realized now that he was still holding her hand.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Well," she said, with fluttering eyelids, "isn't that enough?"

He looked at her, and the playful, companionable directness of her

answering gaze thrilled him through and through. He studied her face

in silence while she turned and twisted, feeling, but scarcely

understanding, the deep import of his scrutiny.

"Well," he said at last, "I think you're a fine girl. Don't you

think I'm a pretty nice man?"

"Yes," said Jennie, promptly.

He leaned back in his chair and laughed at the unconscious drollery

of her reply. She looked at him curiously, and smiled.

"What made you laugh?" she inquired.

"Oh, your answer" he returned. "I really ought not to laugh,

though. You don't appreciate me in the least. I don't believe you like

me at all."

"But I do, though," she replied, earnestly. "I think you're so

good." Her eyes showed very plainly that she felt what she was

saying.

"Well," he said, drawing her gently down to him; then, at the same

instant, he pressed his lips to her cheek.

"Oh!" she cried, straightening up, at once startled and

frightened.

It was a new note in their relationship. The senatorial quality

vanished in an instant. She recognized in him something that she had

not felt before. He seemed younger, too. She was a woman to him, and

he was playing the part of a lover. She hesitated, but not knowing

just what to do, did nothing at all.

"Well," he said, "did I frighten you?"

She looked at him, but moved by her underlying respect for this

great man, she said, with a smile, "Yes, you did."

"I did it because I like you so much."

She meditated upon this a moment, and then said, "I think I'd

better be going."

"Now then," he pleaded, "are you going to run away because of

that?"

"No," she said, moved by a curious feeling of ingratitude; "but I

ought to be going. They'll be wondering where I am."

"You're sure you're not angry about it?"

"No," she replied, and with more of a womanly air than she had ever

shown before. It was a novel experience to be in so authoritative a

position. It was so remarkable that it was somewhat confusing to both

of them.

"You're my girl, anyhow," the Senator said, rising. "I'm going to

take care of you in the future."

Jennie heard this, and it pleased her. He was so well fitted, she

thought, to do wondrous things; he was nothing less than a veritable

magician. She looked about her and the thought of coming into such a

life and such an atmosphere was heavenly. Not that she fully

understood his meaning, however. He meant to be good and generous, and

to give her fine things. Naturally she was happy. She took up the

package that she had come for, not seeing or feeling the incongruity

of her position, while he felt it as a direct reproof.

"She ought not to carry that," he thought. A great wave of sympathy

swept over him. He took her cheeks between his hands, this time in a

superior and more generous way. "Never mind, little girl," he said.

"You won't have to do this always. I'll see what I can do."

The outcome of this was simply a more sympathetic relationship

between them. He did not hesitate to ask her to sit beside him on the

arm of his chair the next time she came, and to question her

intimately about the family's condition and her own desires. Several

times he noticed that she was evading his questions, particularly in

regard to what her father was doing. She was ashamed to own that he

was sawing wood. Fearing lest something more serious was impending, he

decided to go out some day and see for himself.

This he did when a convenient morning presented itself and his

other duties did not press upon him. It was three days before the

great fight in the Legislature began which ended in his defeat.

Nothing could be done in these few remaining days. So he took his cane

and strolled forth, coming to the cottage in the course of a half

hour, and knocked boldly at the door.

Mrs. Gerhardt opened it.

"Good-morning," he said, cheerily; then, seeing her hesitate, he

added, "May I come in?"

The good mother, who was all but overcome by his astonishing

presence, wiped her hands furtively upon her much-mended apron, and,

seeing that he waited for a reply, said:

"Oh yes. Come right in."

She hurried forward, forgetting to close the door, and, offering

him a chair, asked him to be seated.

Brander, feeling sorry that he was the occasion of so much

confusion, said: "Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Gerhardt. I was passing

and thought I'd come in. How is your husband?"

"He's well, thank you," returned the mother. "He's out working

to-day."

"Then he has found employment?"

"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Gerhardt, who hesitated, like Jennie, to say

what it was.

"The children are all well now, and in school, I hope?"

"Yes," replied Mrs. Gerhardt. She had now unfastened her apron, and

was nervously turning it in her lap.

"That's good, and where is Jennie?"

The latter, who had been ironing, had abandoned the board and had

concealed herself in the bedroom, where she was busy tidying herself

in the fear that her mother would not have the forethought to say that

she was out, and so let her have a chance for escape.

"She's here," returned the mother. "I'll call her."

"What did you tell him I was here for?" said Jennie, weakly.

"What could I do?" asked the mother.

Together they hesitated while the Senator surveyed the room. He

felt sorry to think that such deserving people must suffer so; he

intended, in a vague way, to ameliorate their condition if

possible.

"Good-morning," the Senator said to Jennie, when finally she came

hesitatingly into the room. "How do you do to-day?"

Jennie came forward, extending her hand and blushing. She found

herself so much disturbed by this visit that she could hardly find

tongue to answer his questions.

"I thought," he said, "I'd come out and find where you live. This

is a quite comfortable house. How many rooms have you?"

"Five," said Jennie. "You'll have to excuse the looks this morning.

We've been ironing, and it's all upset."

"I know," said Brander, gently. "Don't you think I understand,

Jennie? You mustn't feel nervous about me."

She noticed the comforting, personal tone he always used with her

when she was at his room, and it helped to subdue her flustered

senses.

"You mustn't think it anything if I come here occasionally. I

intend to come. I want to meet your father."

"Oh," said Jennie, "he's out to-day."

While they were talking, however, the honest woodcutter was coming

in at the gate with his buck and saw. Brander saw him, and at once

recognized him by a slight resemblance to his daughter.

"There he is now, I believe," he said.

"Oh, is he?" said Jennie, looking out.

Gerhardt, who was given to speculation these days, passed by the

window without looking up. He put his wooden buck down, and, hanging

his saw on a nail on the side of the house, came in.

"Mother," he called, in German, and, then not seeing her, he came

to the door of the front room and looked in.

Brander arose and extended his hand. The knotted and weather-beaten

German came forward, and took it with a very questioning expression of

countenance.

"This is my father, Mr. Brander," said Jennie, all her diffidence

dissolved by sympathy. "This is the gentleman from the hotel, papa,

Mr. Brander."

"What's the name?" said the German, turning his head.

"Brander," said the Senator.

"Oh yes," he said, with a considerable German accent.

"Since I had the fever I don't hear good. My wife, she spoke to me

of you."

"Yes," said the Senator, "I thought I'd come out and make your

acquaintance. You have quite a family."

"Yes," said the father, who was conscious of his very poor garments

and anxious to get away. "I have six children--all young. She's

the oldest girl."

Mrs. Gerhardt now came back, and Gerhardt, seeing his chance, said

hurriedly:

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll go. I broke my saw, and so I had

to stop work."

"Certainly," said Brander, graciously, realizing now why Jennie had

never wanted to explain. He half wished that she were courageous

enough not to conceal anything.

"Well, Mrs. Gerhardt," he said, when the mother was stiffly seated,

"I want to tell you that you mustn't look on me as a stranger.

Hereafter I want you to keep me informed of how things are going with

you. Jennie won't always do it."

Jennie smiled quietly. Mrs. Gerhardt only rubbed her hands.

"Yes," she answered, humbly grateful.

They talked for a few minutes, and then the Senator rose.

"Tell your husband," he said, "to come and see me next Monday at my

office in the hotel. I want to do something for him."

"Thank you," faltered Mrs. Gerhardt.

"I'll not stay any longer now," he added. "Don't forget to have him

come."

"Oh, he'll come," she returned.

Adjusting a glove on one hand, he extended the other to Jennie.

"Here is your finest treasure, Mrs. Gerhardt," he said. "I think

I'll take her."

"Well, I don't know," said her mother, "whether I could spare her

or not."

"Well," said the Senator, going toward the door, and giving Mrs.

Gerhardt his hand, "good-morning."

He nodded and walked out, while a half-dozen neighbors, who had

observed his entrance, peeked from behind curtains and drawn blinds at

the astonishing sight.

"Who can that be, anyhow?" was the general query.

"See what he gave me," said the innocent mother to her daughter the

moment he had closed the door.

It was a ten-dollar bill. He had placed it softly in her hand as he

said good-by.