“He is dead,” was all that her mind could formulate for the time, and as she stood there the voice of Bass recounting the fact to Gerhardt in the adjoining room sounded in her ears. “Yes, he is dead,” she heard him say; and once again she tried to get some conception of what it meant to her. But her mind seemed a blank.
A moment later Mrs. Gerhardt joined her. She had heard Bass’s announcement, and had seen Jennie leave the room, but her trouble with Gerhardt over the Senator had caused her to be careful of any display of emotion. No conception of the real state of affairs ever having crossed her mind, she was only interested in seeing how Jennie would take this sudden annihilation of her hopes.
“Isn’t it too bad?” she said, with real sorrow. “To think that he should have to die just when he was going to do so much for you — for us all.”
She paused, expecting some word of agreement, but Jennie remained unwontedly dumb.
“I wouldn’t feel badly,” continued Mrs. Gerhardt. “It can’t be helped. He meant to do a good deal, but you mustn’t think of that now. It’s all over, and it can’t be helped, you know.”
She paused again, and still Jennie remained motionless and mute. Mrs. Gerhardt, seeing how useless her words were, concluded that Jennie wished to be alone, and she went away.
Still Jennie stood there, and now, as the real significance of the news began to formulate itself into consecutive thought, she began to realise the wretchedness of her position, its helplessness. She went into her bedroom and sat down upon the side of the bed, from which position she saw a very pale, distraught face staring at her from out of the small mirror. She looked at it uncertainly; could that really be her own countenance? “I’ll have to go away,” she thought, and began, with the courage of despair, to wonder what refuge would be open to her.
In the meantime the evening meal was announced, and, to maintain appearances, she went out and joined the family; the naturalness of her part was very difficult to sustain. Gerhardt observed her subdued condition without guessing the depth of emotion which it covered. Bass was too much interested in his own affairs to pay particular attention to anybody.
During the days that followed Jennie pondered over the difficulties of her position and wondered what she should do. Money she had, it was true; but no friends, no experience, no place to go. She had always lived with her family. She began to feel unaccountable sinkings of spirit, nameless and formless fears seemed to surround and haunt her. Once when she arose in the morning she felt an uncontrollable desire to cry, and frequently thereafter this feeling would seize upon her at the most inopportune times. Mrs. Gerhardt began to note her moods, and one afternoon she resolved to question her daughter.
“Now you must tell me what’s the matter with you,” she said quietly. “Jennie, you must tell your mother everything.”
Jennie, to whom confession had seemed impossible, under the sympathetic persistence of her mother, broke down at last and made the fatal confession. Mrs. Gerhardt stood there, too dumb with misery to give vent to a word.
“Oh!” she said at last, a great wave of self-accusation sweeping over her, “it is all my fault. I might have known. But we’ll do what we can.” She broke down and sobbed aloud.
After a time she went back to the washing she had to do, and stood over her tub rubbing and crying. The tears ran down her cheeks and dropped into the suds. Once in a while she stopped and tried to dry her eyes with her apron, but they soon filled again.
Now that the first shock had passed, there came the vivid consciousness of ever-present danger. What would Gerhardt do if he learned the truth? He had often said that if ever one of his daughters should act like some of those he knew he would turn her out of doors. “She should not stay under my roof!” he had exclaimed.
“I’m so afraid of your father,” Mrs. Gerhardt often said to Jennie in this intermediate period. “I don’t know what he’ll say.”
“Perhaps I’d better go away,” suggested her daughter.
“No,” she said; “he needn’t know just yet. Wait awhile.” But in her heart of hearts she knew that the evil day could not be long postponed.
One day, when her own suspense had reached such a pitch that it could no longer be endured, Mrs. Gerhardt sent Jennie away with the children, hoping to be able to tell her husband before they returned. All the morning she fidgeted about, dreading the opportune moment and letting him retire to his slumber without speaking. When afternoon came she did not go out to work, because she could not leave with her painful duty unfulfilled. Gerhardt arose at four, and still she hesitated, knowing full well that Jennie would soon return and that the specially prepared occasion would then be lost. It is almost certain that she would not have had the courage to say anything if he himself had not brought up the subject of Jennie’s appearance.
“She doesn’t look well,” he said. “There seems to be something the matter with her.”
“Oh,” began Mrs. Gerhardt, visibly struggling with her fears, and moved to make an end of it at any cost, “Jennie is in trouble. I don’t know what to do. She —”
Gerhardt, who had unscrewed a door-lock and was trying to mend it, looked up sharply from his work.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Mrs. Gerhardt had her apron in her hands at the time, her nervous tendency to roll it coming upon her. She tried to summon sufficient courage to explain, but fear mastered her completely; she lifted the apron to her eyes and began to cry.
Gerhardt looked at her and rose. He was a man with the Calvin type of face, rather spare, with skin sallow and discoloured as the result of age and work in the wind and rain. When he was surprised or angry sparks of light glittered in his eyes. He frequently pushed his hair back when he was troubled, and almost invariably walked the floor; just now he looked alert and dangerous.
“What is that you say?” he inquired in German, his voice straining to a hard note. “In trouble — has some one —” He paused and flung his hand upward. “Why don’t you speak?” he demanded.
“I never thought,” went on Mrs. Gerhardt, frightened, and yet following her own train of thought, “that anything like that would happen to her. She was such a good girl. Oh!” she concluded, “to think he should ruin Jennie.”
“By thunder!” shouted Gerhardt, giving way to a fury of feeling, “I thought so! Brander! Ha! Your fine man! That comes of letting her go running around at nights, buggy-riding, walking the streets. I thought so. God in heaven!—”
He broke from his dramatic attitude and struck out in a fierce stride across the narrow chamber, turning like a caged animal.
“Ruined!” he exclaimed. “Ruined! Ha! So he has ruined her, has he?”
Suddenly he stopped like an image jerked by a string. He was directly in front of Mrs. Gerhardt, who had retired to the table at the side of the wall, and was standing there pale with fear.
“He is dead now!” he shouted, as if this fact had now first occurred to him. “He is dead!”
He put both hands to his temples, as if he feared his brain would give way, and stood looking at her, the mocking irony of the situation seeming to burn in his brain like fire.
“Dead!” he repeated, and Mrs. Gerhardt, fearing for the reason of the man, shrank still farther away, her wits taken up rather with the tragedy of the figure he presented than with the actual substance of his woe.
“He intended to marry her,” she pleaded nervously. “He would have married her if he had not died.”
“Would have!” shouted Gerhardt, coming out of his trance at the sound of her voice. “Would have! That’s a fine thing to talk about now. Would have! The hound! May his soul burn in hell — the dog! Ah, God, I hope — I hope — If I were not a Christian —” He clenched his hands, the awfulness of his passion shaking him like a leaf.
Mrs. Gerhardt burst into tears, and her husband turned away, his own feelings far too intense for him to have any sympathy with her. He walked to and fro, his heavy step shaking the kitchen floor. After a time he came back, a new phase of the dread calamity having offered itself to his mind.
“When did this happen?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” returned Mrs. Gerhardt, too terror-stricken to tell the truth. “I only found it out the other day.”
“You lie!” he exclaimed in his excitement. “You were always shielding her. It is your fault that she is where she is. If you had let me have my way there would have been no cause for our trouble to-night.
“A fine ending,” he went on to himself. “A fine ending. My boy gets into jail; my daughter walks the streets and gets herself talked about; the neighbours come to me with open remarks about my children; and now this scoundrel ruins her. By the God in heaven, I don’t know what has got into my children!
“I don’t know how it is,” he went on, unconsciously commiserating himself. “I try, I try! Every night I pray that the Lord will let me do right, but it is no use. I might work and work. My hands — look at them — are rough with work. All my life I have tried to be an honest man. Now — now —” His voice broke, and it seemed for a moment as if he would give way to tears. Suddenly he turned on his wife, the major passion of anger possessing him.
“You are the cause of this,” he exclaimed. “You are the sole cause. If you had done as I told you to do this would not have happened. No, you wouldn’t do that. She must go out! out!! out!!! She has become a street-walker, that’s what she has become. She has set herself right to go to hell. Let her go. I wash my hands of the whole thing. This is enough for me.”
He made as if to go off to his little bedroom, but he had no sooner reached the door than he came back.
“She shall get out!” he said electrically. “She shall not stay under my roof! To-night! At once! I will not let her enter my door again. I will show her whether she will disgrace me or not!”
“You mustn’t turn her out on the streets to-night,” pleaded Mrs. Gerhardt. “She has no place to go.”
“To-night!” he repeated. “This very minute! Let her find a home. She did not want this one. Let her get out now. We will see how the world treats her.” He walked out of the room, inflexible resolution fixed upon his rugged features.
At half-past five, when Mrs. Gerhardt was tearfully going about the duty of getting supper, Jennie returned. Her mother started when she heard the door open, for now she knew the storm would burst afresh. Her father met her on the threshold.
“Get out of my sight!” he said savagely. “You shall not stay another hour in my house. I don’t want to see you any more. Get out!”
Jennie stood before him, pale, trembling a little, and silent. The children she had brought home with her crowded about in frightened amazement. Veronica and Martha, who loved her dearly, began to cry.
“What’s the matter?” George asked, his mouth open in wonder.
“She shall get out,” reiterated Gerhardt. “I don’t want her under my roof. If she wants to be a street-walker, let her be one, but she shall not stay here. Pack your things,” he added, staring at her.
Jennie had no word to say, but the children cried loudly.
“Be still,” said Gerhardt. “Go into the kitchen.”
He drove them all out and followed stubbornly himself.
Jennie went quietly to her room. She gathered up her few little belongings and began, with tears, to put them into a valise her mother brought her. The little girlish trinkets that she had accumulated from time to time she did not take. She saw them, but thought of her younger sisters, and let them stay. Martha and Veronica would have assisted her, but their father forbade them to go.
At six o’clock Bass came in, and seeing the nervous assembly in the kitchen, inquired what the trouble was.
Gerhardt looked at him grimly, but did not answer.
“What’s the trouble?” insisted Bass. “What are you all sitting around for?”
“He is driving Jennie away,” whispered Mrs. Gerhardt tearfully.
“What for?” asked Bass, opening his eyes in astonishment.
“I shall tell you what for,” broke in Gerhardt, still speaking in German. “Because she’s a street walker, that’s what for. She goes and gets herself ruined by a man thirty years older than she is, a man old enough to be her father. Let her get out of this. She shall not stay here another minute.”
Bass looked about him, and the children opened their eyes. All felt clearly that something terrible had happened, even the little ones. None but Bass understood.
“What do you want to send her out to-night for?” he inquired. “This is no time to send a girl out on the streets. Can’t she stay here until morning?”
“No,” said Gerhardt.
“He oughtn’t to do that,” put in the mother.
“She goes now,” said Gerhardt. “Let that be an end of it.”
“Where is she going to go?” insisted Bass.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Gerhardt interpolated weakly.
Bass looked around, but did nothing until Mrs. Gerhardt motioned him toward the front door when her husband was not looking.
“Go in! Go in!” was the import of her gesture.
Bass went in, and then Mrs. Gerhardt dared to leave her work and follow. The children stayed awhile, but, one by one, even they slipped away, leaving Gerhardt alone. When he thought that time enough had elapsed he arose.
In the interval Jennie had been hastily coached by her mother.
Jennie should go to a private boarding-house somewhere and send back her address. Bass should not accompany her, but she should wait a little way up the street, and he would follow. When her father was away the mother might get to see her, or Jennie could come home. All else must be postponed until they could meet again.
While the discussion was still going on, Gerhardt came in.
“Is she going?” he asked harshly.
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Gerhardt, with her first and only note of defiance.
Bass said, “What’s the hurry?” But Gerhardt frowned too mightily for him to venture on any further remonstrances.
Jennie entered, wearing her one good dress and carrying her valise. There was fear in her eyes, for she saw passing through a fiery ordeal, but she had become a woman. The strength of love was with her, the support of patience and the ruling sweetness of sacrifice. Silently she kissed her mother while tears fell fast. Then she turned, and the door closed upon her as she went forth to a new life.
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