JENNIE GERHARDT. Theodore Dreiser

tell me that!” exclaimed Gerhardt. “I shall look into this. I won’t have him running around with my daughter, and the neighbours talking. Besides, he is too old. I shall tell him that. He ought to know better than to put a girl where she gets talked about. It is better he should stay away altogether.”

      This threat of Gerhardt’s, that he would tell Brander to stay away, seemed simply terrible to Jennie and to her mother. What good could come of any such attitude? Why must they be degraded before him? Of course Brander did call again, while Gerhardt was away at work, and they trembled lest the father should hear of it. A few days later the Senator came and took Jennie for a long walk. Neither she nor her mother said anything to Gerhardt. But he was not to be put off the scent for long.

      “Has Jennie been out again with that man?” he inquired of Mrs. Gerhardt the next evening.

      “He was here last night,” returned the mother, evasively.

      “Did she tell him he shouldn’t come any more?”

      “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

      “Well, now, I will see for myself once whether this thing will be stopped or not,” said the determined father. “I shall talk with him. Wait till he comes again.”

      In accordance with this, he took occasion to come up from his factory on three different evenings, each time carefully surveying the house, in order to discover whether any visitor was being entertained. On the fourth evening Brander came, and inquiring for Jennie, who was exceedingly nervous, he took her out for a walk. She was afraid of her father, lest some unseemly things should happen, but did not know exactly what to do.

      Gerhardt, who was on his way to the house at the time, observed her departure. That was enough for him. Walking deliberately in upon his wife, he said:

      “Where is Jennie?”

      “She is out somewhere,” said her mother.

      “Yes, I know where,” said Gerhardt. “I saw her. Now wait till she comes home. I will tell him.”

      He sat down calmly, reading a German paper and keeping an eye upon his wife, until, at last, the gate clicked, and the front door opened. Then he got up.

      “Where have you been?” he exclaimed in German.

      Brander, who had not suspected that any trouble of this character was pending, felt irritated and uncomfortable. Jennie was covered with confusion. Her mother was suffering an agony of torment in the kitchen.

      “Why, I have been out for a walk,” she answered confusedly.

      “Didn’t I tell you not to go out any more after dark?” said Gerhardt, utterly ignoring Brander.

      Jennie coloured furiously, unable to speak a word.

      “What is the trouble?” inquired Brander gravely. “Why should you talk to her like that?”

      “She should not go out after dark,” returned the father rudely. “I have told her two or three times now. I don’t think you ought to come here any more, either.”

      “And why?” asked the Senator, pausing to consider and choose his words. “Isn’t this rather peculiar? What has your daughter done?”

      “What has she done!” exclaimed Gerhardt, his excitement growing under the strain he was enduring, and speaking almost unaccented English in consequence. “She is running around the streets at night when she oughtn’t to be. I don’t want my daughter taken out after dark by a man of your age. What do you want with her anyway? She is only a child yet.”

      “Want?” said the Senator, straining to regain his ruffled dignity. “I want to talk with her, of course. She is old enough to be interesting to me. I want to marry her if she will have me.”

      “I want you to go out of here and stay out of here,” returned the father losing all sense of logic, and descending to the ordinary level of parental compulsion. “I don’t want you to come around my house any more. I have enough trouble without my daughter being taken out and given a bad name.”

      “I tell you frankly,” said the Senator, drawing himself up to his full height, “that you will have to make clear your meaning. I have done nothing that I am ashamed of. Your daughter has not come to any harm through me. Now, I want to know what you mean by conducting yourself in this manner.”

      “I mean,” said Gerhardt, excitedly repeating himself, “I mean, I mean that the whole neighbourhood talks about how you come around here, and have buggy-rides and walks with my daughter when I am not here — that’s what I mean. I mean that you are no man of honourable intentions, or you would not come taking up with a little girl who is only old enough to be your daughter. People tell me well enough what you are. Just you go and leave my daughter alone.”

      “People!” said the Senator. “Well, I care nothing for your people. I love your daughter, and I am here to see her because I do love her. It is my intention to marry her, and if your neighbours have anything to say to that, let them say it. There is no reason why you should conduct yourself in this manner before you know what my intentions are.”

      Unnerved by this unexpected and terrible altercation, Jennie had backed away to the door leading out into the dining-room, and her mother, seeing her, came forward.

      “Oh,” said the latter, breathing excitedly, “he came home when you were away. What shall we do?” They clung together, as women do, and wept silently. The dispute continued.

      “Marry, eh,” exclaimed the father. “Is that it?”

      “Yes,” said the Senator, “marry, that is exactly it. Your daughter is eighteen years of age and can decide for herself. You have insulted me and outraged your daughter’s feelings. Now, I wish you to know that it cannot stop here. If you have any cause to say anything against me outside of mere hearsay I wish you to say it.”

      The Senator stood before him, a very citadel of righteousness. He was neither loud-voiced nor angry-mannered, but there was a tightness about his lips which bespoke the man of force and determination.

      “I don’t want to talk to you any more,” returned Gerhardt, who was checked but not overawed. “My daughter is my daughter. I am the one who will say whether she shall go out at night, or whether she shall marry you, either. I know what you politicians are. When I first met you I thought you were a fine man, but now, since I see the way you conduct yourself with my daughter, I don’t want anything more to do with you. Just you go and stay away from here. That’s all I ask of you.”

      “I am sorry, Mrs. Gerhardt,” said Brander, turning deliberately away from the angry father, “to have had such an argument in your home. I had no idea that your husband was opposed to my visits. However, I will leave the matter as it stands for the present. You must not take all this as badly as it seems.”

      Gerhardt looked on in astonishment at his coolness.

      “I will go now,” he said, again addressing Gerhardt, “but you mustn’t think that I am leaving this matter for good. You have made a serious mistake this evening. I hope you will realise that. I bid you good-night.” He bowed slightly and went out.

      Gerhardt closed the door firmly. “Now,” he said, turning to his daughter and wife, “we will see whether we are rid of him or not. I will show you how to go after night upon the streets when everybody is talking already.”

      In so far as words were concerned, the argument ceased, but looks and feelings ran strong and deep, and for days thereafter scarcely a word was spoken in the little cottage. Gerhardt began to brood over the fact that he had accepted his place from the Senator and decided to give it up. He made it known that no more of the Senator’s washing was to be done in their house, and if he had not been sure that Mrs. Gerhardt’s hotel work was due to her own efforts in finding it he would have stopped that. No good would come out of it, anyway. If she had never gone to the hotel all this talk would never have come upon them.

      As for the Senator, he went away decidedly ruffled