Chương Chương 14 · The days spent in the employ of the Bracebridge household were of a

broadening character. This great house was a school to Jennie, not

only in the matter of dress and manners, but as formulating a theory

of existence. Mrs. Bracebridge and her husband were the last word in

the matter of self-sufficiency, taste in the matter of appointments,

care in the matter of dress, good form in the matter of reception,

entertainment, and the various usages of social life. Now and then,

apropos of nothing save her own mood, Mrs. Bracebridge would indicate

her philosophy of life in an epigram.

"Life is a battle, my dear. If you gain anything you will have to

fight for it."

"In my judgment it is silly not to take advantage of any aid which

will help you to be what you want to be." (This while applying a faint

suggestion of rouge.)

"Most people are born silly. They are exactly what they are capable

of being. I despise lack of taste; it is the worst crime."

Most of these worldly-wise counsels were not given directly to

Jennie. She overheard them, but to her quiet and reflective mind they

had their import. Like seeds fallen upon good ground, they took root

and grew. She began to get a faint perception of hierarchies and

powers. They were not for her, perhaps, but they were in the world,

and if fortune were kind one might better one's state. She worked on,

wondering, however, just how better fortune might come to her. Who

would have her to wife knowing her history? How could she ever explain

the existence of her child?

Her child, her child, the one transcendent, gripping theme of joy

and fear. If she could only do something for it--sometime,

somehow!

For the first winter things went smoothly enough. By the closest

economy the children were clothed and kept in school, the rent paid,

and the instalments met. Once it looked as though there might be some

difficulty about the continuance of the home life, and that was when

Gerhardt wrote that he would be home for Christmas. The mill was to

close down for a short period at that time. He was naturally anxious

to see what the new life of his family at Cleveland was like.

Mrs. Gerhardt would have welcomed his return with unalloyed

pleasure had it not been for the fear she entertained of his creating

a scene. Jennie talked it over with her mother, and Mrs. Gerhardt in

turn spoke of it to Bass, whose advice was to brave it out.

"Don't worry," he said; "he won't do anything about it. I'll talk

to him if he says anything."

The scene did occur, but it was not so unpleasant as Mrs. Gerhardt

had feared. Gerhardt came home during the afternoon, while Bass,

Jennie, and George were at work. Two of the younger children went to

the train to meet him. When he entered Mrs. Gerhardt greeted him

affectionately, but she trembled for the discovery which was sure to

come. Her suspense was not for long. Gerhardt opened the front bedroom

door only a few minutes after he arrived. On the white counterpane of

the bed was a pretty child, sleeping. He could not but know on the

instant whose it was, but he pretended ignorance.

"Whose child is that?" he questioned.

"It's Jennie's," said Mrs. Gerhardt, weakly.

"When did that come here?"

"Not so very long ago," answered the mother, nervously.

"I guess she is here, too," he declared, contemptuously, refusing

to pronounce her name, a fact which he had already anticipated.

"She's working in a family," returned his wife in a pleading tone.

"She's doing so well now. She had no place to go. Let her alone."

Gerhardt had received a light since he had been away. Certain

inexplicable thoughts and feelings had come to him in his religious

meditations. In his prayers he had admitted to the All-seeing that he

might have done differently by his daughter. Yet he could not make up

his mind how to treat her for the future. She had committed a great

sin; it was impossible to get away from that.

When Jennie came home that night a meeting was unavoidable.

Gerhardt saw her coming, and pretended to be deeply engaged in a

newspaper. Mrs. Gerhardt, who had begged him not to ignore Jennie

entirely, trembled for fear he would say or do something which would

hurt her feelings.

"She is coming now," she said, crossing to the door of the front

room, where he was sitting; but Gerhardt refused to look up. "Speak to

her, anyhow," was her last appeal before the door opened; but he made

no reply.

When Jennie came in her mother whispered, "He is in the front

room."

Jennie paled, put her thumb to her lip and stood irresolute, not

knowing how to meet the situation.

"Has he seen?"

Jennie paused as she realized from her mother's face and nod that

Gerhardt knew of the child's existence.

"Go ahead," said Mrs. Gerhardt; "it's all right. He won't say

anything."

Jennie finally went to the door, and, seeing her father, his brow

wrinkled as if in serious but not unkindly thought, she hesitated, but

made her way forward.

"Papa," she said, unable to formulate a definite sentence.

Gerhardt looked up, his grayish-brown eyes a study under their

heavy sandy lashes. At the sight of his daughter he weakened

internally; but with the self-adjusted armor of resolve about him he

showed no sign of pleasure at seeing her. All the forces of his

conventional understanding of morality and his naturally sympathetic

and fatherly disposition were battling within him, but, as in so many

cases where the average mind is concerned, convention was temporarily

the victor.

"Yes," he said.

"Won't you forgive me, Papa?"

"I do," he returned grimly.

She hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward, for what purpose

he well understood.

"There," he said, pushing her gently away, as her lips barely

touched his grizzled cheek.

It had been a frigid meeting.

When Jennie went out into the kitchen after this very trying ordeal

she lifted her eyes to her waiting mother and tried to make it seem as

though all had been well, but her emotional disposition got the better

of her.

"Did he make up to you?" her mother was about to ask; but the words

were only half out of her mouth before her daughter sank down into one

of the chairs close to the kitchen table and, laying her head on her

arm, burst forth into soft, convulsive, inaudible sobs.

"Now, now," said Mrs. Gerhardt. "There now, don't cry. What did he

say?"

It was some time before Jennie recovered herself sufficiently to

answer. Her mother tried to treat the situation lightly.

"I wouldn't feel bad," she said. "He'll get over it. It's his

way."