Jennie Gerhardt. Theodore Dreiser

close, she put her arms about his neck, and laid her cheek in gratitude against his own. This was the quintessence of pleasure for him. He felt as he had been longing to feel for years.

      This affectional progress suffered a change when the great senatorial fight came on in the legislature. Attacked by a combination of rivals, Brander was given the fight of his life. To his amazement he discovered that a great railroad corporation, which had always been friendly, was secretly throwing its strength in behalf of an already too powerful candidate. Shocked by this defection, he was thrown into the deepest gloom, and next, into a paroxysm of wrath. These slings of fortune, however well he pretended to know them, never failed to lacerate him. It had been too long since he had endured one.

      During this period, Jennie received her earliest lesson in the vagaries of men. For two weeks she did not even get to see him, and one evening, after an extremely comfortless conference with his leader, he met her with the most chilling formality. When she knocked at his door he only troubled to open it a foot and exclaimed almost harshly, “I can’t bother about the clothes to-night! Come tomorrow.”

      Jennie turned, shocked and surprised by this reception. She did not know what to think of it. He was restored on the instant to his far-off, mighty throne, and left to rule in peace. Why should he not cut her off shortly if he pleased? But why—

      A day or two later he repented mildly, but had no time to readjust things. His washing was taken and delivered with considerable formality, and he went on toiling forgetfully until at last he was miserably defeated by two votes. Astounded by this result, he lapsed into gloom, and brooded mightily, wondering what move he could now make that would be of value to him.

      Into this atmosphere came Jennie, bringing with her the lightness and fascination of her own hopeful disposition. Nagged to desperation by his thoughts, Brander first talked to her to amuse himself, but soon got caught by the relief which she supplied. Looking at her, his distress vanished, and he found himself observing that youth was best. Was not this human exhilaration which he found in her presence the greatest thing in the world?

      “Ah, Jennie,” he said, talking to her as he might have to a child, “youth is on your side. You have the most valuable thing in life.”

      “Do I?”

      “Yes, but you don’t realize it. You never will, until it is too late.”

      Finding himself wonderfully relieved, he now leaned toward her slightly, and, in these bitter days, waited for her coming. If he should go away now, as minister, to a foreign country, he wondered what he should do.

      “I love that girl,” he thought. “I wish I could have her with me.”

      Fortune had another fling for him to endure. It got about the hotel that Jennie was, to use the mildest expression, conducting herself strangely. A girl who carries washing must expect criticism if anything not befitting her station is observed in her apparel. Jennie was seen wearing the gold watch. Her mother was informed by the housekeeper of the state of things.

      “I thought I’d speak to you about it,” she said. “People are talking. You’d better not let your daughter go to his room for the laundry.”

      Mrs. Gerhardt was too astonished and hurt for utterance. Jennie had told her nothing, but even now she did not believe there was anything to tell. The watch had been both approved of and admired by her. She had not thought that it was endangering her daughter’s reputation.

      Going home she worried almost incessantly, and talked with Jennie about it. The latter did not admit the implication that things had gone too far. In fact, she did not look at it in that light. She did not own, it is true, what really had happened while she was visiting the senator.

      “It’s so terrible that people should begin to talk!” said her mother. “Did you really stay so long in the room?”

      “I don’t know,” returned Jennie, compelled by her conscience and the dire import people attach to such things to admit at least part of the truth. “Perhaps I did.”

      “He has never said anything out of the way to you, has he?”

      “No,” answered her daughter, who did not attach any suspicion of evil to what had passed between them.

      If the mother had only gone a little bit further, she might have learned more, but she was only too glad, for her own peace of mind, to hush the matter up. People were slandering a good man, that she knew. Jennie had been the least bit indiscreet. People were always so ready to talk. How could the poor girl, amid such unfortunate circumstances, do otherwise than she did. It made her cry to think of it.

      The result of it all was that she decided to get the washing herself.

      She came to his door the next Monday after this decision. Brander, who was expecting Jennie, was both surprised and disappointed.

      “Why,” he said to her, “what has become of Jennie?”

      Having hoped that he would not notice, or, at least, not comment upon the change, Mrs. Gerhardt did not know what to say. She looked up at him weakly in her innocent, motherly way, and said, “She couldn’t come tonight, very well.”

      “Not ill, is she?” he inquired.

      “No,” she said.

      “I’m glad to hear that,” he said resignedly. “How have you been?”

      Mrs. Gerhardt explained to him, in answer to his pleasant question, the condition of the family, and then went away. After she had gone, he got to thinking the matter over, and wondered at the change. Something had happened, he felt, but he was in no position to say what. It seemed rather odd that he should be wondering over it.

      On Saturday, however, when she returned the clothes, he felt that there must be something wrong.

      “What’s the matter, Mrs. Gerhardt?” he inquired. “Has anything happened to your daughter?”

      “No, sir,” she returned, too troubled to wish to deceive him.

      “Isn’t she coming for the laundry any more?”

      “I,—I,—” ventured the mother, stammering in her perturbation—“she—they have been talking about her,” she at last forced herself to say.

      The senator looked down upon her with considerable gravity, and said:

      “Who has been talking?”

      “The people here in the hotel.”

      “Who, what people?” he interrupted, a touch of the choler that was in him showing itself.

      “The housekeeper.”

      “The housekeeper, eh!” he exclaimed. “What has she got to say?”

      The mother related to him her experience.

      “And she told you that, did she?” he remarked in wrath. “She ventures to trouble herself about my affairs. I wonder people can’t mind their own business without interfering with mine. Your daughter, Mrs. Gerhardt, is perfectly safe with me. I have no intention of doing her an injury. It’s a shame,” he added, though in almost a classic manner, “that a girl can’t come to my room in this hotel without having her motive questioned. I’ll look into this matter.”

      “I hope you don’t think that I have anything to do with it,” said the mother apologetically. “I know you like Jennie and wouldn’t injure her. You’ve done so much for her and all of us, Mr. Brander, I feel ashamed to keep her away.”

      “That’s all right, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said, quietly. “You did perfectly right. I don’t blame you in the least. It is the lying accusation passed about in this hotel that I object to. We’ll see about that.”

      Mrs. Gerhardt stood there, pale with excitement. She was afraid she had deeply offended this man who had done so much for them. If she could only say something, she thought, that would clear this matter up, and make him feel that she was no tattler. Scandal was awful to her.