It was a new note in their relationship. The senatorial quality vanished in an instant. She recognised in him something that 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."
"Now then," 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, and with more of a womanly 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 somewhat confusing to both of
them.
"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 well fitted, she thought, to do wondrous things; he was nothing less than a veritable 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 to 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 his questions, 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 convenient 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. So 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."
She hurried forward, forgetting to close the door, and, offering him a
chair, asked him to be seated.
Brander, 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 to- day."
"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 Mrs. Gerhardt. She had 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 had
concealed herself in the bedroom, where she was busy tidying herself in
the fear that her mother would not have the forethought to say that she
was out, and so let her have a chance for escape.
"She's here," returned the mother. "I'll call her."
"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. He felt
sorry to think that such deserving people must suffer so; he intended, in a vague way, to ameliorate their condition if possible.
"Good-morning," the Senator said to Jennie, when finally she came hesitatingly into the room. "How do you do to-day?"
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 the 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 helped 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 to-day."
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
recognised 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, he came to the door of the front room and looked in.
Brander arose and extended his hand. The knotted and weather- beaten
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
hurriedly:
"Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll go. I broke my saw, and so I had to stop work."
"Certainly," said Brander, graciously, realising now why Jennie had 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.
"Yes," she answered, humbly grateful.
They talked for a few minutes, and then the Senator rose. "Tell your husband," he said, "to come and see me next Monday at my office in the hotel. I want to do something for him."
"Thank you," faltered Mrs. Gerhardt.
"I'll not stay any longer now," he added. "Don't forget to have him come."
"Oh, he'll come," she returned.
Adjusting a glove on one hand, he 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 the 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 neighbours, who had
observe 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 softly in her hand as he said
good-bye.
now continued to do. The Senator gave her father a letter to a local mill owner, who saw that he received something to do. It was not much, to be
sure, a mere job as night-watchman, but it helped, and old Gerhardt's
gratitude was extravagant. Never was there such a great, such a good
man!
Nor was Mrs. Gerhardt overlooked. Once Brander sent her a dress, and at
another time a shawl. All these benefactions were made in a spirit of
mingled charity and self-gratification, but to Mrs. Gerhardt they glowed
with but one motive. Senator Brander was good-hearted.
As for Jennie, he drew nearer to her in every possible way, so that at last she came to see him in a light which would require considerable analysis
to make clear. This fresh, young soul, however, had too much innocence
and buoyancy to consider for a moment the world's point of view. Since
that one notable and halcyon visit upon which he had robbed her of her
original shyness, and implanted a tender kiss upon her cheek, they had
lived in a different atmosphere. Jennie was his companion now, and as he
more and more unbended, and even joyously flung aside the habiliments
of his dignity, her perception of him grew clearer. They laughed and
chatted in a natural way, and he keenly enjoyed this new entrance into the radiant world of youthful happiness.
One thing that disturbed him, however, was the occasional thought, which
he could not repress, that he was not doing right. Other people must soon discover that he was not confining himself strictly to conventional
relations, with this washer-woman's daughter. He suspected that the
housekeeper was not without knowledge that Jennie almost invariably
lingered from a quarter to three-quarters of an hour whenever she came
for or returned his laundry. He knew that it might come to the ears of the hotel clerks, and so, in a general way, get about town and work serious
injury, but the reflection did not cause him to modify his conduct.
Sometimes he consoled himself with the thought that he was not doing
her any actual harm, and at other times he would argue that he could not
put this one delightful tenderness out of his life. Did he not wish honestly to do her much good?
He thought of these things occasionally, and decided that he could not
stop. The self-approval which such a resolution might bring him was
hardly worth the inevitable pain of the abnegation. He had not so very
many more years to live. Why die unsatisfied?
One evening he put his arm around her and strained her to his breast.
Another time he drew her to his knee, and told her of his life at
Washington. Always now he had a caress and a kiss for her, but it was
still in a tentative, uncertain way. He did not want to reach for her soul too deeply.
Jennie enjoyed it all innocently. Elements of fancy and novelty entered
into her life. She was an unsophisticated creature, emotional, totally
inexperienced in the matter of the affections, and yet mature enough
mentally to enjoy the attentions of this great man who had thus bowed
from his high position to make friends with her.
One evening she pushed his hair back from his forehead as she stood by
his chair, and, finding nothing else to do, took out his watch. The great man thrilled as he looked at her pretty innocence.
"Would you like to have a watch, too?" he asked.
"Yes, indeed, I would," said Jennie with a deep breath.
The next day he stopped as he was passing a jewellery store and bought
one. It was gold, and had pretty ornamented hands.
"Jennie," he said, when she came the next time, "I want to show you something. See what time it is by my watch."
Jennie drew out the watch from his waistcoat pocket and started in
surprise.
"This isn't your watch!" she exclaimed, her face full of innocent wonder.
"No," he said, delighted with his little deception. "It's yours."
"Mine!" exclaimed Jennie. "Mine! Oh, isn't it lovely!"
"Do you think so?" he said.
Her delight touched and pleased him immensely. Her face shone with
light and her eyes fairly danced.
"That's yours," he said. "See that you wear it now, and don't lose it."
"You're so good!" she exclaimed.
"No," he said, but he held her at arm's length by the waist to make up his mind what his reward should be. Slowly he drew her toward him until,
when very 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.
The progress of his idyl suffered a check 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 alternately into the deepest
gloom and into paroxysms of wrath. These slings of fortune, however
lightly he pretended to receive them, never failed to lacerate him. It had been long since he had suffered a defeat—too long.
During this period Jennie received her earliest lesson in the vagaries of man. For two weeks she did not even 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, exclaiming almost harshly: "I can't bother about the clothes to-night. Come to- morrow."