Читать книгу Jennie Gerhardt - Theodore Dreiser - Страница 13

CHAPTER IV

The desire to flee, which Jennie experienced upon seeing the senator again, was attributable to what she considered the disgrace of her position. She was ashamed to think that he, who thought so well of her, should discover her doing so common a thing. Girl-like, she was inclined to imagine that his interest in her depended upon things which were better than this.

When Jennie reached home, Mrs. Gerhardt had heard of her flight from the other children.

“What was the matter with you, anyhow?” asked George, when she came in.

“Oh, nothing,” she answered, but immediately turned to her mother, who was near, and said, “Mr. Brander came by and saw us.”

“Oh, did he?” softly exclaimed her mother. “He’s back then. What made you run, though, you foolish girl?”

“Well, I didn’t want him to see me.”

Mrs. Gerhardt could not help laughing at her daughter’s predicament and the children’s description of her flight, but she secretly appreciated and sympathized with her feelings. It was too bad, she thought, that the distinguished senator should know.

“Well, maybe he didn’t know you, anyhow,” she said.

“Oh, yes he did, too,” whispered Jennie. “He called after me three or four times.”

Mrs. Gerhardt shook her head.

“What is it?” said Gerhardt, who had been hearing the conversation from the adjoining room, and now came out.

“Oh, nothing,” said the mother, who hated to explain the significance which the senator’s personality had come to have in their lives. “A man frightened them when they were bringing the coal.”

Gerhardt looked the distress he felt, but could say nothing. It was all too bad that his children must be subjected to this, but what could he do? Seeing the rest of them laughing over it and looking upon it in the light of a joke, he smiled also.

“We’ll buy some coal pretty soon, maybe,” he added.

The arrival of the Christmas presents, later in the evening, threw the household into an uproar of excitement. Neither Gerhardt nor the mother could believe their eyes when a grocery wagon halted in front of their cottage, and a lusty clerk began to carry in the gifts. After failing to persuade the clerk to hesitate, or to convince him that he had made a mistake, the large assortment of things was looked into with exceedingly human glee.

“Just you never mind,” were the clerk’s authoritative words. “I know what I’m about. Gerhardt, isn’t it? Well, you’re the people.”

Mrs. Gerhardt moved about, rubbing her hands in her excitement, and giving vent to an occasional “Well, isn’t that nice now!”

Gerhardt himself was melted at the thought of the generosity of the unknown benefactor, and was inclined to lay it all to the goodness of a great local mill owner, who knew him and wished him well. Mrs. Gerhardt tearfully suspected the source, but said nothing. Jennie knew by instinct the author of it all.

The afternoon of the day after Christmas, Brander encountered the mother in the hotel, Jennie having been left at home to look after the house.

“How do you do, Mrs. Gerhardt!” he exclaimed genially, extending his hand. “How did you enjoy your Christmas?”

Poor Mrs. Gerhardt took it nervously, and tried to look at him in an appreciative way, but it was impossible. Her eyes filled rapidly with tears.

“There, there,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “Don’t cry. You mustn’t forget to get my laundry today.”

“Oh, no sir,” she returned, and would have said more, had he not walked away.

From this on, Gerhardt heard continually of the fine senator at the hotel, how pleasant he was, and how much he paid for his washing. He was inclined, with the simplicity of a German working-man, to believe that only superior qualities could exist in one so distinguished.

Jennie, whose attitude needed no encouragement in this direction, was more than ever prejudiced in his favor.

There was developing in her that perfection of womanhood, the mould of form, which could not help but attract any man. She gave evidence of much that would develop into a fine matronly bearing later in life. Already, she was nearly perfect, well-built, and tall for a girl. Had she been dressed in the trailing skirts of a woman of fashion, she would have made a fitting companion for a man the height of the senator. Her eyes were wondrously clear and bright, her skin fair, and her teeth white and even. She was clever, too, in a sensible way, and by no means deficient in observation. All that she lacked was training and that assurance of which the knowledge of utter dependency despoils one. Carrying washing, though, and being compelled to acknowledge almost anything as a favor, put her at a disadvantage.

Nowadays when she came to the hotel upon her semi-weekly errand, Senator Brander took her presence with easy grace, and to this she responded. He urged her to examine the knick-knacks of his chamber freely, gave her little presents for herself, or her brothers and sisters, and talked to her so unaffectedly, that finally the over-awing sense of the great difference between them was brushed away, and she looked upon him more as a generous friend than as a distinguished senator. He asked her once how she would like to go to a seminary, thinking all the while how attractive she would be when she came out. Finally, one evening, he called her to his side.

“Come over here, Jennie,” he said, “and stand by me.”

She came, and having her so near, he took her hand.

“Well, Jennie,” he said, studying her face in a quizzical, interrogative way, “what do you think of me anyhow?”

“Oh,” she answered, looking consciously away, “I don’t know. What makes you ask me that?”

“Oh, yes, you do,” he returned. “You have some opinion of me. Tell me now, what is it?”

“No, I haven’t,” she said innocently.

“Oh, yes, you have,” he went on pleasantly, interested because thus eluded. “You must think something of me. Now, what is it?”

“Do you mean do I like you?” she asked frankly, looking down at the big mop of black hair well streaked with gray which hung about his forehead, and gave an almost leonine cast to his fine face.

“Well, yes,” he said with a sense of disappointment. She was barren of the art of the coquette.

“Why, of course I like you,” she replied prettily.

“Haven’t you ever thought anything else about me?” he went on.

She paused a moment while he shook her hand up and down, little conscious of the peculiar advantage he was thus lightly taking.

“I think you’re very kind,” she went on, even more bashfully; she realized now that he was still holding her hand.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“Well,” she said with a blink of her big eyes, “isn’t that enough?”

He looked at her, and the playful, companionable way in which she seemed to take him, thrilled him. It was the essence of human comfort in another that he was feeling. How long had it been since the touch of a human hand had the thrill and warmth in it for him that hers did. How cold was the general material of life beside this warm, human factor, a woman dealing sympathetically with him. He studied her face in silence, while she turned and twisted, feeling, but scarcely understanding, the deep import of his scrutiny.

“Well,” he said at last, “I think you’re a fine girl. Don’t you think I’m a pretty nice man?”

“Yes,” said Jennie, promptly.

He leaned back in his chair and laughed at the unconscious drollery of her reply. She looked at him curiously, and smiled.

“What made you laugh?” she inquired.

“Oh, your answer,” he returned. “I really ought not to laugh, though. You don’t appreciate me in the least. I don’t believe you like me at all.”

“But I do, though,” she replied earnestly. “I think you’re so good.” Her eyes showed very plainly that she felt what she was saying.

“Well,” he said, drawing her gently down to him, and the same instant, he pressed his lips to her cheek.

“Oh!” she cried, straightening up, both startled and frightened.

It was a new note in their relationship. The senatorial quality vanished in an instant. She recognized in him what she had not felt before. He seemed younger, too. She was a woman to him, and he was playing the part of a lover. She hesitated, but not knowing just what to do, did nothing at all.

“Well,” he said, “did I frighten you?”

She looked at him, but moved by her underlying respect for this great man, she said with a smile, “Yes, you did.”

“I did it because I like you so much.”

She meditated upon this a moment, and then said, “I think I’d better be going.”

“My, now,” he pleaded, “are you going to run away because of that?”

“No,” she said, moved by a curious feeling of ingratitude, “but I ought to be going. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

“You’re sure you’re not angry about it?”

“No,” she replied with more of a womanish air than she had ever shown before. It was a novel experience to be in so authoritative a position. It was so remarkable that it was almost confusing to both.

“You’re my girl anyhow,” the senator said, rising. “I’m going to take care of you in the future.”

Jennie heard this, and it pleased her. He was so able, she thought, to do something wondrous—so much in the nature of a magician. She looked about her, and the thought of coming into such a life and such an atmosphere was heavenly. Not that she fully understood his meaning, however. He meant to be good and generous, and give her fine things. Naturally she was happy. She took up the package that she had come for, not seeing or feeling the incongruity of her position, while he felt it as a direct reproof.

“She ought not to carry that,” he thought. A great wave of sympathy swept over him. He took her cheeks between his hands, this time in a superior and more generous way. “Never mind, little girl,” he said. “You won’t have to do this always. I’ll see what I can do.”

The outcome of this was simply a more sympathetic relationship between them. He did not hesitate to ask her to sit beside him on the arm of his chair the next time she came, and to question her intimately about the family’s condition, and her own desires. Several times he noticed that she was evading things, particularly in regard to what her father was doing. She was ashamed to own that he was sawing wood. Fearing lest something more serious was impending, he decided to go out some day and see for himself.

This he did, when a comfortable morning presented itself, and his other duties did not press upon him. It was three days before the great fight in the legislature began, which ended in his defeat. Nothing could be done in these few remaining days. He knew he had everything as secure as such things could be made—which was never very secure. He took his cane and strolled forth, coming to the cottage in the course of a half-hour, and knocked boldly at the door.

Mrs. Gerhardt opened it.

“Good morning,” he said, cheerily; then, seeing her hesitate, he added, “May I come in?”

The good mother, who was all but overcome by his astonishing presence, wiped her hands furtively upon her much-mended apron, and seeing that he waited for a reply, said:

“Oh, yes. Come right in. Have this chair.”

She hurried forward, forgetting to close the door, and, offering one of the common chairs, asked him to be seated.

Genially, Brander looked at her, and feeling sorry that he was the occasion of so much confusion, said, “Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Gerhardt. I was passing and thought I’d come in. How is your husband?”

“He’s well, thank you,” returned the mother. “He’s out working today.”

“Then he has found employment?”

“Yes sir,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, who hesitated, like Jennie, to say what it was.

“The children are all well now, and in school, I hope?”

“Yes,” replied the mother, who had by now unfastened her apron, and was nervously turning it in her lap.

“That’s good, and where is Jennie?”

The latter, who had been ironing, had abandoned the board and concealed herself in the bedroom, where she was busy tidying herself in the fear that her mother would not have fore-thought enough to say that she was out, and so let her escape.

“She’s here,” returned her mother, who had hopes of her daughter rescuing her. “She’ll be right in soon. I’ll call her.”

Using this as an excuse, she passed out of the room and, finding Jennie, said:

“Oh, my, you go in for a moment. I must put off these old slippers, anyway.”

“What did you tell him I was here for?” said Jennie weakly.

“What could I do?” asked the mother.

Together they hesitated while the senator surveyed the room. It was nothing uncommon to him, this evidence of poverty, but they thought it was. He felt sorry to think that such deserving people must suffer so, but intended, also, in a vague way, to ameliorate their condition, if possible.

“Good morning,” the senator said to Jennie, when she came into his presence. “How do you do today?”

Jennie came forward, extending her hand and blushing. She found herself so much disturbed by this visit that she could hardly find tongue to answer his questions.

“I thought,” he said, “I’d come out and find where you live. This is a quite comfortable house. How many rooms have you?”

“Five,” said Jennie. “You’ll have to excuse their looks this morning. We’ve been ironing and it’s all upset.”

“I know,” said Brander, gently. “Don’t you think I understand, Jennie? You mustn’t feel nervous about me.”

She noticed the comforting, personal tone he always used with her when she was at his room, and it tended in a way to subdue her flustered senses.

“You mustn’t think it anything if I come here occasionally. I intend to come. I want to meet your father.”

“Oh,” said Jennie, “he’s out today.”

While they were talking, however, the honest wood-cutter was coming in at the gate with his buck and saw. Brander saw him, and at once recognized him by a slight resemblance to his daughter.

“There he is now, I believe,” he said.

“Oh, is he?” said Jennie, looking out.

Gerhardt, who was given to speculation these days, passed by the window without looking up. He put his wooden buck down, and hanging his saw on a nail on the side of the house, came in.

“Mother,” he called in German, and then not seeing her, came to the door of the front room and looked in.

Brander arose and extended his hand. The knotted and weatherbeaten German came forward, and took it with a very questioning expression of countenance.

“This is my father, Mr. Brander,” said Jennie, all her diffidence dissolved by sympathy. “This is the gentleman from the hotel, Papa—Mr. Brander.”

“What’s the name?” said the German, turning his head.

“Brander,” said the senator.

“Oh, yes,” he said with a considerable German accent. “Since I had the fever, I don’t hear good. My wife, she spoke to me of you.”

“Yes,” said the senator, “I thought I’d come out and make your acquaintance. You have quite a family.”

“Yes,” said the father, who was conscious of his very poor garments and anxious to get away. “I have six children—all young. She’s the oldest girl.”

Mrs. Gerhardt now came back and Gerhardt, seeing his chance, said:

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go. I broke my saw, and so I had to stop work.”

“Certainly,” said Brander, graciously, realizing now why Jennie never wanted to explain. He half wished that she were courageous enough not to conceal anything.

“Well, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said, when the mother was stiffly seated, “I want to tell you that you mustn’t look on me as a stranger. Hereafter I want you to keep me informed of how things are going with you. Jennie won’t always do it.”

Jennie smiled quietly. Mrs. Gerhardt only rubbed her hands.

They talked for a few minutes and then the senator said:

“Tell your husband to come and see me next Monday at my office in the hotel. I want to do something for him.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’ll not stay any longer now,” he added. “Don’t forget to have him come.”

“Oh, he’ll come,” she returned.

He arose and adjusting a glove on one hand, extended the other to Jennie.

“Here is your finest treasure, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said. “I think I’ll take her.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said her mother, “whether I could spare her or not.”

“Well,” said the senator, going toward the door, and giving Mrs. Gerhardt his hand, “good morning.”

He nodded and walked out, while a half-dozen neighbors, who had observed his entrance, peeked from behind curtains and drawn blinds at the astonishing sight.

“Who can that be, anyhow?” was the general query.

“See what he gave me,” said the innocent mother to her daughter the moment he had closed the door.

It was a ten-dollar bill. He had placed it in her hand as he said goodbye.