“That is all right,” grumbled Gerhardt, “but he ought not to want to come around and take a girl of her age out walking. It looks bad, even if he don’t mean any harm.”
At this moment Jennie came in. She had heard the talking in the front bedroom, where she slept with one of the children, but had not suspected its import. Now her mother turned her back and bent over the table where she was making biscuit, in order that her daughter might not see her red eyes.
“What’s the matter?” she inquired, vaguely troubled by the tense stillness in the attitude of both her parents.
“Nothing,” said Gerhardt firmly.
Mrs. Gerhardt made no sign, but her very immobility told something. Jennie went over to her and quickly discovered that she had been weeping.
“What’s the matter?” she repeated wonderingly, gazing at her father.
Gerhardt only stood there, his daughter’s innocence dominating his terror of evil.
“What’s the matter?” she urged softly of her mother.
“Oh, it’s the neighbors,” returned the mother brokenly.
“They’re always ready to talk about something they don’t know anything about.”
“Is it me again?” inquired Jennie, her face flushing faintly.
“You see,” observed Gerhardt, apparently addressing the world in general, “she knows. Now, why didn’t you tell me that he was coming here? The neighbors talk, and I hear nothing about it until to-day. What kind of a way is that, anyhow?”
“Oh,” exclaimed Jennie, out of the purest sympathy for her mother, “what difference does it make?”
“What difference?” cried Gerhardt, still talking in German, although Jennie answered in English. “Is it no difference that men stop me on the street and speak of it? You should be ashamed of yourself to say that. I always thought well of this man, but now, since you don’t tell me about him, and the neighbors talk, I don’t know what to think. Must I get my knowledge of what is going on in my own home from my neighbors?”
Mother and daughter paused. Jennie had already begun to think that their error was serious.
“I didn’t keep anything from you because it was evil,” she said. “Why, he only took me out riding once.”
“Yes, but you didn’t tell me that,” answered her father.
“You know you don’t like for me to go out after dark,” replied Jennie. “That’s why I didn’t. There wasn’t anything else to hide about it.”
“He shouldn’t want you to go out after dark with him,” observed Gerhardt, always mindful of the world outside. “What can he want with you. Why does he come here? He is too old, anyhow. I don’t think you ought to have anything to do with him—such a young girl as you are.”
“He doesn’t want to do anything except help me,” murmured Jennie. “He wants to marry me.”
“Marry you? Ha! Why doesn’t he tell me that!” exclaimed Gerhardt. “I shall look into this. I won’t have him running around with my daughter, and the neighbors 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 colored 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 neighborhood 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 honorable 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 neighbors 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.