第 八 章 · The significance of the material and spiritual changes which

sometimes overtake us are not very clear at the time. A sense of

shock, a sense of danger, and then apparently we subside to old ways,

but the change has come. Never again, here or elsewhere, will we be

the same. Jennie pondering after the subtle emotional turn which her

evening's sympathetic expedition had taken, was lost in a vague

confusion of emotions. She had no definite realization of what social

and physical changes this new relationship to the Senator might

entail. She was not conscious as yet of that shock which the

possibility of maternity, even under the most favorable conditions,

must bring to the average woman. Her present attitude was one of

surprise, wonder, uncertainty; and at the same time she experienced a

genuine feeling of quiet happiness. Brander was a good man; now he was

closer to her than ever. He loved her. Because of this new

relationship a change in her social condition was to inevitably

follow. Life was to be radically different from now on--was

different at this moment. Brander assured her over and over of his

enduring affection.

"I tell you, Jennie," he repeated, as she was leaving, "I don't

want you to worry. This emotion of mine got the best of me, but I'll

marry you. I've been carried off my feet, but I'll make it up to you.

Go home and say nothing at all. Caution your brother, if it isn't too

late. Keep your own counsel, and I will marry you and take you away. I

can't do it right now. I don't want to do it here. But I'm going to

Washington, and I'll send for you. And here"--he reached for his

purse and took from it a hundred dollars, practically all he had with

him, "take that. I'll send you more tomorrow. You're my girl

now--remember that. You belong to me."

He embraced her tenderly.

She went out into the night, thinking. No doubt he would do as he

said. She dwelt, in imagination, upon the possibilities of a new and

fascinating existence. Of course he would marry her. Think of it! She

would go to Washington--that far-off place. And her father and

mother--they would not need to work so hard any more. And Bass,

and Martha--she fairly glowed as she recounted to herself the

many ways in which she could help them all.

A block away she waited for Brander, who accompanied her to her own

gate, and waited while she made a cautious reconnaissance. She slipped

up the steps and tried the door. It was open. She paused a moment to

indicate to her lover that she was safe, and entered. All was silent

within. She slipped to her own room and heard Veronica breathing. She

went quietly to where Bass slept with George. He was in bed, stretched

out as if asleep. When she entered he asked, "Is that you,

Jennie?"

"Yes."

"Where have you been?"

"Listen," she whispered. "Have you seen papa and mamma?"

"Yes."

"Did they know I had gone out?"

"Ma did. She told me not to ask after you. Where have you

been?"

"I went to see Senator Brander for you."

"Oh, that was it. They didn't say why they let me out."

"Don't tell any one," she pleaded. "I don't want any one to know.

You know how papa feels about him."

"All right," he replied. But he was curious as to what the

ex-Senator thought, what he had done, and how she had appealed to him.

She explained briefly, then she heard her mother come to the door.

"Jennie," she whispered.

Jennie went out.

"Oh, why did you go?" she asked.

"I couldn't help it, ma," she replied. "I thought I must do

something."

"Why did you stay so long?"

"He wanted to talk to me," she answered evasively.

Her mother looked at her nervously, wanly.

"I have been so afraid, oh, so afraid. Your father went to your

room, but I said you were asleep. He locked the front door, but I

opened it again. When Bass came in he wanted to call you, but I

persuaded him to wait until morning."

Again she looked wistfully at her daughter.

"I'm all right, mamma," said Jennie encouragingly. "I'll tell you

all about it to-morrow. Go to bed. How does he think Bass got

out?"

"He doesn't know. He thought maybe they just let him go because he

couldn't pay the fine."

Jennie laid her hand lovingly on her mother's shoulder.

"Go to bed," she said.

She was already years older in thought and act. She felt as though

she must help her mother now as well as herself.

The days which followed were ones of dreamy uncertainty to Jennie.

She went over in her mind these dramatic events time and time and time

and again. It was not such a difficult matter to tell her mother that

the Senator had talked again of marriage, that he proposed to come and

get her after his next trip to Washington, that he had given her a

hundred dollars and intended to give her more, but of that other

matter--the one all-important thing, she could not bring herself

to speak. It was too sacred. The balance of the money that he had

promised her arrived by messenger the following day, four hundred

dollars in bills, with the admonition that she should put it in a

local bank. The ex-Senator explained that he was already on his way to

Washington, but that he would come back or send for her. "Keep a stout

heart," he wrote. "There are better days in store for you."

Brander was gone, and Jennie's fate was really in the balance. But

her mind still retained all of the heart-innocence, and

unsophistication of her youth; a certain gentle wistfulness was the

only outward change in her demeanor. He would surely send for her.

There was the mirage of a distant country and wondrous scenes looming

up in her mind. She had a little fortune in the bank, more than she

had ever dreamed of, with which to help her mother. There were

natural, girlish anticipations of good still holding over, which made

her less apprehensive than she could otherwise possibly have been. All

nature, life, possibility was in the balance. It might turn good, or

ill, but with so inexperienced a soul it would not be entirely evil

until it was so.

How a mind under such uncertain circumstances could retain so

comparatively placid a vein is one of those marvels which find their

explanation in the inherent trustfulness of the spirit of youth. It is

not often that the minds of men retain the perceptions of their

younger days. The marvel is not that one should thus retain, but that

any should ever lose them Go the world over, and after you have put

away the wonder and tenderness of youth what is there left? The few

sprigs of green that sometimes invade the barrenness of your

materialism, the few glimpses of summer which flash past the eye of

the wintry soul, the half hours off during the long tedium of

burrowing, these reveal to the hardened earth-seeker the universe

which the youthful mind has with it always. No fear and no favor; the

open fields and the light upon the hills; morning, noon, night; stars,

the bird-calls, the water's purl--these are the natural

inheritance of the mind of the child. Men call it poetic, those who

are hardened fanciful. In the days of their youth it was natural, but

the receptiveness of youth has departed, and they cannot see.

How this worked out in her personal actions was to be seen only in

a slightly accentuated wistfulness, a touch of which was in every

task. Sometimes she would wonder that no letter came, but at the same

time she would recall the fact that he had specified a few weeks, and

hence the six that actually elapsed did not seem so long.

In the meanwhile the distinguished ex-Senator had gone

light-heartedly to his conference with the President, he had joined in

a pleasant round of social calls, and he was about to pay a short

country visit to some friends in Maryland, when he was seized with a

slight attack of fever, which confined him to his room for a few days.

He felt a little irritated that he should be laid up just at this

time, but never suspected that there was anything serious in his

indisposition. Then the doctor discovered that he was suffering from a

virulent form of typhoid, the ravages of which took away his senses

for a time and left him very weak. He was thought to be convalescing,

however, when just six weeks after he had last parted with Jennie, he

was seized with a sudden attack of heart failure and never regained

consciousness. Jennie remained blissfully ignorant of his illness and

did not even see the heavy-typed headlines of the announcement of his

death until Bass came home that evening.

"Look here, Jennie," he said excitedly, "Brander's dead!"

He held up the newspaper, on the first column of Which was printed

in heavy block type:

DEATH OF EX-SENATOR BRANDER

Sudden Passing of Ohio's Distinguished Son. Succumbs to Heart Failure

at the Arlington, in Washington.

Recent attack of typhoid, from which he was thought to be recovering,

proves fatal. Notable phases of a remarkable career.

Jennie looked at it in blank amazement. "Dead?" she exclaimed.

"There it is in the paper," returned Bass, his tone being that of

one who is imparting a very interesting piece of news. "He died at ten

o'clock this morning."