she whispered.
Jennie went out.
“Oh, why did you go?” she asked.
“I couldn’t help it, ma,” she replied. “I thought I must do something.”
“Why did you stay so long?”
“He wanted to talk to me,” she answered evasively.
Her mother looked at her nervously, wanly.
“I have been so afraid, oh, so afraid. Your father went to your room, but I said you were asleep. He locked the front door, but I opened it again. When Bass came in he wanted to call you, but I persuaded him to wait until morning.”
Again she looked wistfully at her daughter.
“I’m all right, mamma,” said Jennie encouragingly. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Go to bed. How does he think Bass got out?”
“He doesn’t know. He thought maybe they just let him go because he couldn’t pay the fine.”
Jennie laid her hand lovingly on her mother’s shoulder.
“Go to bed,” she said.
She was already years older in thought and act. She felt as though she must help her mother now as well as herself.
The days which followed were ones of dreamy uncertainty to Jennie. She went over in her mind these dramatic events time and time and time and again. It was not such a difficult matter to tell her mother that the Senator had talked again of marriage, that he proposed to come and get her after his next trip to Washington, that he had given her a hundred dollars and intended to give her more, but of that other matter — the one all-important thing, she could not bring herself to speak. It was too sacred. The balance of the money that he had promised her arrived by messenger the following day, four hundred dollars in bills, with the admonition that she should put it in a local bank. The ex-Senator explained that he was already on his way to Washington, but that he would come back or send for her. “Keep a stout heart,” he wrote. “There are better days in store for you.”
Brander was gone, and Jennie’s fate was really in the balance. But her mind still retained all of the heart-innocence, and unsophistication of her youth; a certain gentle wistfulness was the only outward change in her demeanour. He would surely send for her. There was the mirage of a distant country and wondrous scenes looming up in her mind. She had a little fortune in the bank, more than she had ever dreamed of, with which to help her mother. There were natural, girlish anticipations of good still holding over, which made her less apprehensive than she could otherwise possibly have been. All nature, life, possibility was in the balance. It might turn good, or ill, but with so inexperienced a soul it would not be entirely evil until it was so.
How a mind under such uncertain circumstances could retain so comparatively placid a vein is one of those marvels which find their explanation in the inherent trustfulness of the spirit of youth. It is not often that the minds of men retain the perceptions of their younger days. The marvel is not that one should thus retain, but that any should ever lose them. Go the world over, and after you have put away the wonder and tenderness of youth what is there left? The few sprigs of green that sometimes invade the barrenness of your materialism, the few glimpses of summer which flash past the eye of the wintry soul, the half hours off during the long tedium of burrowing, these reveal to the hardened earth-seeker the universe which the youthful mind has with it always. No fear and no favour; the open fields and the light upon the hills; morning, noon, night; stars, the bird-calls, the water’s purl — these are the natural inheritance of the mind of the child. Men call it poetic, those who are hardened fanciful. In the days of their youth it was natural, but the receptiveness of youth has departed, and they cannot see.
How this worked out in her personal actions was to be seen only in a slightly accentuated wistfulness, a touch of which was in every task. Sometimes she would wonder that no letter came, but at the same time she would recall the fact that he had specified a few weeks, and hence the six that actually elapsed did not seem so long.
In the meanwhile the distinguished ex-Senator had gone light-heartedly to his conference with the President, he had joined in a pleasant round of social calls, and he was about to pay a short country visit to some friends in Maryland, when he was seized with a slight attack of fever, which confined him to his room for a few days. He felt a little irritated that he should be laid up just at this time, but never suspected that there was anything serious in his indisposition. Then the doctor discovered that he was suffering from a virulent form of typhoid, the ravages of which took away his senses for a time and left him very weak. He was thought to be convalescing, however, when just six weeks after he had last parted with Jennie, he was seized with a sudden attack of heart failure and never regained consciousness. Jennie remained blissfully ignorant of his illness, and did not even see the heavy-typed headlines of the announcement of his death until Bass came home that evening.
“Look here, Jennie,” he said excitedly, “Brander’s dead!”
He held up the newspaper, on the first column of which was printed in heavy block type:
DEATH OF EX-SENATOR BRANDER
Sudden Passing of Ohio’s Distinguished Son.
Succumbs to Heart Failure at the Arlington, in
Washington.
Recent attack of typhoid, from which he was thought to be recovering, proves fatal. Notable phases of a remarkable career.
Jennie looked at it in blank amazement. “Dead?” she exclaimed.
“There it is in the paper,” returned Bass, his tone being that of one who is imparting a very interesting piece of news. “He died at ten o’clock this morning.”
Chapter IX
Jennie took the paper with but ill-concealed trembling, and went into the adjoining room. There she stood by the front window and looked at it again, a sickening sensation of dread holding her as though in a trance.
“He is dead,” was all that her mind could formulate for the time, and as she stood there the voice of Bass recounting the fact to Gerhardt in the adjoining room sounded in her ears. “Yes, he is dead,” she heard him say; and once again she tried to get some conception of what it meant to her. But her mind seemed a blank.
A moment later Mrs. Gerhardt joined her. She had heard Bass’s announcement, and had seen Jennie leave the room, but her trouble with Gerhardt over the Senator had caused her to be careful of any display of emotion. No conception of the real state of affairs ever having crossed her mind, she was only interested in seeing how Jennie would take this sudden annihilation of her hopes.
“Isn’t it too bad?” she said, with real sorrow. “To think that he should have to die just when he was going to do so much for you — for us all.”
She paused, expecting some word of agreement, but Jennie remained unwontedly dumb.
“I wouldn’t feel badly,” continued Mrs. Gerhardt. “It can’t be helped. He meant to do a good deal, but you mustn’t think of that now. It’s all over, and it can’t
