Jennie Gerhardt. Theodore Dreiser

“I like Jennie very much. I have always enjoyed her coming here. It is my intention to do well by her, but perhaps it will be better to keep her away, at least for the present.”

      After he had expressed himself somewhat further to this effect, he opened the door and saw her out, but it was only the beginning of his real mental labor in the matter.

      Again that evening the senator sat in his easy chair and brooded over this new development. Jennie was really much more precious to him than he had thought. Now that he had no hope of seeing her there any more, he began to realize how much these little visits of hers had meant. He thought the matter over very carefully, realized instantly that there was nothing to be done so far as the hotel gossip was concerned, and concluded that he had really placed the girl in a very unsatisfactory position.

      “Perhaps I had better end this little affair,” he thought. “It isn’t a wise thing to pursue.”

      On the strength of this conclusion he went to Washington and finished his term. Then he returned to Columbus to await the friendly recognition from the president which was to send him upon some ministry abroad. Jennie had not been forgotten in the least. The longer he stayed away, the more interested he was to get back. When he was again peaceably settled in his old quarters, he took up his cane one morning and strolled out in the direction of the cottage. Arriving there, he made up his mind to go in, and, knocking at the door, he was greeted by Mrs. Gerhardt and her daughter with astonished and diffident smiles. He explained vaguely that he had been away, and mentioned his laundry as if that were the object of his visit. Then, when chance gave him a few moments with Jennie alone, he said:

      “How would you like to take a drive with me tomorrow evening?”

      “I’d like it,” said Jennie, to whom the proposition was a decided novelty.

      He smiled and patted her cheek, because he was happy to see her again. Every day seemed to be adding to her beauty. Graced with her cleanly white apron this morning, and rounded in the face by the simple plaiting of her hair, she was a pleasing sight.

      He waited genially until Mrs. Gerhardt returned and then, having accomplished the purpose of his visit, arose.

      “I’m going to take your daughter out riding tomorrow evening,” he explained. “I want to talk to her about her future.”

      “Won’t that be nice?” said the mother. She saw nothing incongruous in the proposal. They parted with smiles and much handshaking.

      “That man has the best heart,” said Mrs. Gerhardt. “Doesn’t he always speak so nicely of you? He may help you to an education. You ought to be proud.”

      “I am,” said Jennie frankly.

      “I don’t know whether we had better tell your father, or not,” concluded Mrs. Gerhardt. “He doesn’t like for you to be out evenings.”

      It was for this reason that the deeply religious Gerhardt did not know of the ride.

      Jennie was ready when the ex-senator called. When she opened the door for him, that helpless sort of loveliness which rested in her eyes touched him as sharply as ever. He could see by the weak-flamed, unpretentious parlor-lamp that she was dressed for him, and that the occasion had called out the best she had. A pale lavender gingham, starched and ironed until it was a model of laundering, set off her pretty figure and gave that atmosphere of superior cleanliness which her spirit deserved. There were little lace-edged cuffs and a rather high collar attached to it. She had no gloves, nor any jewelry, nor yet a jacket good enough to wear, but her hair was done up in such a dainty way that it set off her well-shaped head better than any hat, and the few ringlets that could escape crowned her as with a halo. When Brander suggested that she wear a jacket, she hesitated a moment, but went in and borrowed her mother’s cape—a plain gray woolen one. Brander realized now that she had no jacket, and suffered keenly to think that she had contemplated going without one.

      “She would have endured the raw night air,” he thought, “and said nothing of it.”

      He looked at her and shook his head reflectively.

      Her cheeks flushed, warmly, as she looked at him. He soon made her feel as if he were delighted to have her go with him, and her many shortcomings of dress would, perhaps, never be thought of.

      On the way, he talked to her of her family, and wanted to know how her father was getting on.

      “He’s doing real well,” she said; “they like him where he’s working.”

      Brander kept silent awhile, for he was content to have this girl beside him again. The absence he had endured had made his heart grow fonder. She seemed even more delightful than when he had last seen her. Everything she did was so gentle.

      For an hour the senator thrilled with such pleasure as he had not known in years. Jennie was not silent, and every word she said showed the natural feeling and interest she took in everything in life.

      “Well, Jennie,” he said, when she asked him to notice how soft the trees looked, where outlined dimly against the new rising moon they were touched with its yellow light, “you’re a great one. I believe you would write poetry if you were schooled a little.”

      “Do you suppose I could?” she asked innocently.

      “Do I suppose, little girl?” he said, taking her hand. “Do I suppose? Why, I know. You’re the dearest little day-dreamer in the world. Of course you could write poetry. You live it. You are poetry, my dear. Don’t you worry about writing any.”

      This eulogy touched her as nothing else possibly could have. He was always saying such nice things. No one ever seemed to like or appreciate her half as much as he did. And how great he was! Everybody said that. Her own father.

      They rode still further, until suddenly remembering, he said, “I wonder what time it is. Perhaps we had better be turning back. Have you your watch?”

      Jennie started, for this watch had been the one thing of which she had hoped he would not speak. Ever since he had returned, it had been on her mind.

      In his absence, the family finances had become so strained, she had been compelled to pawn it. Martha had got to that place in the matter of apparel where she could no longer go to school unless something new were provided for her. Mrs. Gerhardt had spoken of this in her hopeless, helpless way, and Jennie had felt heart-tugs many a morning when little Martha had gone forth, her old clothes demeaning her every feature.

      “I don’t know what to do,” said her mother.

      “You might pawn my watch,” said Jennie. “I guess Bass could take it.”

      Mrs. Gerhardt objected, but need is a stem commander. She thought more calmly over it after a day or two, and finally Jennie persuaded her to let her give Bass the watch.

      “Get as much as you can,” she said. “I don’t know whether we’ll be able to get it out again.”

      Secretly Mrs. Gerhardt wept.

      Bass took it, and having argued with the local pawnbroker, was able to bring home ten dollars. Mrs. Gerhardt took the money, and, after expending it all upon her children, heaved a sigh of relief. Martha looked very much better. Naturally, Jennie was glad.

      Now, however, when the senator spoke of it, her hour of retribution seemed at hand. She actually trembled, and he noticed the quaver.

      “Why, Jennie,” he said gently, “what made you start like that?”

      “Nothing,” she answered.

      “Haven’t you your watch?”

      She paused, for it seemed impossible to tell a deliberate falsehood. There was a strained silence, in which he suspected something of the truth, and then she said, with a voice that had too much of a sob in it for him not to hear, “No, sir.”

      Seriously he weighed the matter, and then suspecting some further generosity toward her family, finally made her confess.

      “Well,”