Jennie Gerhardt: A Novel

So the momentous question was finally decided. There was the greatest longing and impatience among the children, and Mrs. Gerhardt shared their emotions in a suppressed way. Jennie was to go first, as Bass had suggested; later on they would all follow.

When the hour came for Jennie's departure there was great excitement in the household.

"How long you going to be 'fore you send for us?" was Martha's inquiry, several times repeated.

"Tell Bass to hurry up," said the eager George.

"I want to go to Cleveland, I want to go to Cleveland," Veronica was caught singing to herself.

"Listen to her," exclaimed George, sarcastically.

"Aw, you hush up," was her displeased rejoinder.

When the final hour came, however, it required all of Jennie's strength to go through with the farewells. Though everything was being done in order to bring them together again under better conditions, she could not help feeling depressed. Her little one, now six months old, was being left behind. The great world was to her one undiscovered bourne. It frightened her.

"You mustn't worry, Ma," she found courage enough to say. "I'll be all right. I'll write you just as soon as I get there. It won't be so very long."

But when it came to bending over her baby for the last time her courage went out like a blown lamp. Stooping over the cradle in which the little one was resting, she looked into its face with passionate, motherly yearning.

"Is it going to be a good little girl?" she cooed.

Then she caught it up into her arms, and hugging it closely to her neck and bosom, she buried her face against its little body. Mrs. Gerhardt saw that she was trembling.

"Come now," she said, coaxingly, "you mustn't carry on so. She will be all right with me. I'll take care of her. If you're going to act this way, you'd better not try to go at all."

Jennie lifted her head, her blue eyes wet with tears, and handed the little one to her mother.

"I can't help it," she said, half crying, half smiling.

Quickly she kissed her mother and the children; then she hurried out.

As she went down the street with George she looked back and bravely waved her hand. Mrs. Gerhardt responded, noticing how much more like a woman she looked. It had been necessary to invest some of her money in new clothes to wear on the train. She had selected a neat, ready-made suit of brown, which fitted her nicely. She wore the skirt of this with a white shirt-waist, and a sailor hat with a white veil wound around it in such fashion that it could be easily drawn over her face. As she went farther and farther away Mrs. Gerhardt followed her lovingly with her glance; and when she disappeared from view she said tenderly, through her own tears:

"I'm glad she looked so nice, anyhow."

CHAPTER XIII

Bass met Jennie at the depot in Cleveland and talked hopefully of the prospects. "The first thing is to get work," he began, while the jingling sounds and the changing odors which the city thrust upon her were confusing and almost benumbing her senses. "Get something to do. It doesn't matter what, so long as you get something. If you don't get more than three or four dollars a week, it will pay the rent. Then, with what George can earn, when he comes, and what Pop sends, we can get along all right. It'll be better than being down in that hole," he concluded.

"Yes," said Jennie, vaguely, her mind so hypnotized by the new display of life about her that she could not bring it forcibly to bear upon the topic under discussion. "I know what you mean. I'll get something."

She was much older now, in understanding if not in years. The ordeal through which she had so recently passed had aroused in her a clearer conception of the responsibilities of life. Her mother was always in her mind, her mother and the children. In particular Martha and Veronica must have a better opportunity to do for themselves than she had had. They should be dressed better; they ought to be kept longer in school; they must have more companionship, more opportunity to broaden their lives.

Cleveland, like every other growing city at this time, was crowded with those who were seeking employment. New enterprises were constantly springing up, but those who were seeking to fulfil the duties they provided were invariably in excess of the demand. A stranger coming to the city might walk into a small position of almost any kind on the very day he arrived; and he might as readily wander in search of employment for weeks and even months. Bass suggested the shops and department stores as a first field in which to inquire. The factories and other avenues of employment were to be her second choice.

"Don't pass a place, though," he had cautioned her, "if you think there's any chance of getting anything to do. Go right in."

"What must I say?" asked Jennie, nervously.

"Tell them you want work. You don't care what you do to begin with."

In compliance with this advice, Jennie set out the very first day, and was rewarded by some very chilly experiences. Wherever she went, no one seemed to want any help. She applied at the stores, the factories, the little shops that lined the outlying thoroughfares, but was always met by a rebuff. As a last resource she turned to housework, although she had hoped to avoid that; and, studying the want columns, she selected four which seemed more promising than the others. To these she decided to apply. One had already been filled when she arrived, but the lady who came to the door was so taken by her appearance that she invited her in and questioned her as to her ability.

"I wish you had come a little earlier," she said. "I like you better than I do the girl I have taken. Leave me your address, anyhow."

Jennie went away, smiling at her reception. She was not quite so youthful looking as she had been before her recent trouble, but the thinner cheeks and the slightly deeper eyes added to the pensiveness and delicacy of her countenance. She was a model of neatness. Her clothes, all newly cleaned and ironed before leaving home, gave her a fresh and inviting appearance. There was growth coming to her in the matter of height, but already in appearance and intelligence she looked to be a young woman of twenty. Best of all, she was of that naturally sunny disposition, which, in spite of toil and privation, kept her always cheerful. Any one in need of a servant-girl or house companion would have been delighted to have had her.

The second place at which she applied was a large residence in Euclid Avenue; it seemed far too imposing for anything she might have to offer in the way of services, but having come so far she decided to make the attempt. The servant who met her at the door directed her to wait a few moments, and finally ushered her into the boudoir of the mistress of the house on the second floor. The latter, a Mrs. Bracebridge, a prepossessing brunette of the conventionally fashionable type, had a keen eye for feminine values and was impressed rather favorably with Jennie. She talked with her a little while, and finally decided to try her in the general capacity of maid.

"I will give you four dollars a week, and you can sleep here if you wish," said Mrs. Bracebridge.

Jennie explained that she was living with her brother, and would soon have her family with her.

"Oh, very well," replied her mistress. "Do as you like about that. Only I expect you to be here promptly."

She wished her to remain for the day and to begin her duties at once, and Jennie agreed. Mrs. Bracebridge provided her a dainty cap and apron, and then spent some little time in instructing her in her duties. Her principal work would be to wait on her mistress, to brush her hair and to help her dress. She was also to answer the bell, wait on the table if need be, and do any other errand which her mistress might indicate. Mrs. Bracebridge seemed a little hard and formal to her prospective servant, but for all that Jennie admired the dash and go and the obvious executive capacity of her employer.

At eight o'clock that evening Jennie was dismissed for the day. She wondered if she could be of any use in such a household, and marveled that she had got along as well as she had. Her mistress had set her to cleaning her jewelry and boudoir ornaments as an opening task, and though she had worked steadily and diligently, she had not finished by the time she left. She hurried away to her brother's apartment, delighted to be able to report that she had found a situation. Now her mother could come to Cleveland. Now she could have her baby with her. Now they could really begin that new life which was to be so much better and finer and sweeter than anything they had ever had before.

At Bass's suggestion Jennie wrote her mother to come at once, and a week or so later a suitable house was found and rented. Mrs. Gerhardt, with the aid of the children, packed up the simple belongings of the family, including a single vanload of furniture, and at the end of a fortnight they were on their way to the new home.

Mrs. Gerhardt always had had a keen desire for a really comfortable home. Solid furniture, upholstered and trimmed, a thick, soft carpet of some warm, pleasing color, plenty of chairs, settees, pictures, a lounge, and a piano she had wanted these nice things all her life, but her circumstances had never been good enough for her hopes to be realized. Still she did not despair. Some day, maybe, before she died these things would be added to her, and she would be happy. Perhaps her chance was coming now.

Arrived at Cleveland, this feeling of optimism was encouraged by the sight of Jennie's cheerful face. Bass assured her that they would get along all right. He took them out to the house, and George was shown the way to go back to the depot and have the freight looked after. Mrs. Gerhardt had still fifty dollars left out of the money which Senator Brander had sent to Jennie, and with this a way of getting a little extra furniture on the instalment plan was provided. Bass had already paid the first month's rent, and Jennie had spent her evenings for the last few days in washing the windows and floors of this new house and in getting it into a state of perfect cleanliness. Now, when the first night fell, they had two new mattresses and comfortables spread upon a clean floor; a new lamp, purchased from one of the nearby stores, a single box, borrowed by Jennie from a grocery store, for cleaning purposes, upon which Mrs. Gerhardt could sit, and some sausages and bread to stay them until morning. They talked and planned for the future until nine o'clock came, when all but Jennie and her mother retired. These two talked on, the burden of responsibilities resting on the daughter. Mrs. Gerhardt had come to feel in a way dependent upon her.

In the course of a week the entire cottage was in order, with a half-dozen pieces of new furniture, a new carpet, and some necessary kitchen utensils. The most disturbing thing was the need of a new cooking-stove, the cost of which added greatly to the bill. The younger children were entered at the public school, but it was decided that George must find some employment. Both Jennie and her mother felt the injustice of this keenly, but knew no way of preventing the sacrifice.

"We will let him go to school next year if we can," said Jennie.

Auspiciously as the new life seemed to have begun, the closeness with which their expenses were matching their income was an ever-present menace. Bass, originally very generous in his propositions, soon announced that he felt four dollars a week for his room and board to be a sufficient contribution from himself. Jennie gave everything she earned, and protested that she did not stand in need of anything, so long as the baby was properly taken care of. George secured a place as an overgrown cash-boy, and brought in two dollars and fifty cents a week, all of which, at first, he gladly contributed. Later on he was allowed the fifty cents for himself as being meet and just. Gerhardt, from his lonely post of labor, contributed five dollars by mail, always arguing that a little money ought to be saved in order that his honest debts back in Columbus might be paid. Out of this total income of fifteen dollars a week all of these individuals had to be fed and clothed, the rent paid, coal purchased, and the regular monthly instalment of three dollars paid on the outstanding furniture bill of fifty dollars.

How it was done, those comfortable individuals, who frequently discuss the social aspects of poverty, might well trouble to inform themselves. Rent, coal, and light alone consumed the goodly sum of twenty dollars a month; food, another unfortunately necessary item, used up twenty-five more; clothes, instalments, dues, occasional items of medicine and the like, were met out of the remaining eleven dollars – how, the ardent imagination of the comfortable reader can guess. It was done, however, and for a time the hopeful members considered that they were doing fairly well.

During this period the little family presented a picture of honorable and patient toil, which was interesting to contemplate. Every day Mrs. Gerhardt, who worked like a servant and who received absolutely no compensation either in clothes, amusements, or anything else, arose in the morning while the others slept, and built the fire. Then she took up the task of getting the breakfast. Often as she moved about noiselessly in her thin, worn slippers, cushioned with pieces of newspaper to make them fit, she looked in on Jennie, Bass, and George, wrapped in their heavy slumbers, and with that divine sympathy which is born in heaven she wished that they did not need to rise so early or to work so hard. Sometimes she would pause before touching her beloved Jennie, gaze at her white face, so calm in sleep, and lament that life had not dealt more kindly with her. Then she would lay her hand gently upon her shoulder and whisper, "Jennie, Jennie," until the weary sleeper would wake.

When they arose breakfast was always ready. When they returned at night supper was waiting. Each of the children received a due share of Mrs. Gerhardt's attention. The little baby was closely looked after by her. She protested that she needed neither clothes nor shoes so long as one of the children would run errands for her.

Jennie, of all the children, fully understood her mother; she alone strove, with the fullness of a perfect affection, to ease her burden.

"Ma, you let me do this."

"Now, ma, I'll 'tend to that."

"You go sit down, ma."

These were the every-day expressions of the enduring affection that existed between them. Always there was perfect understanding between Jennie and her mother, and as the days passed this naturally widened and deepened. Jennie could not bear to think of her as being always confined to the house. Daily she thought as she worked of that humble home where her mother was watching and waiting. How she longed to give her those comforts which she had always craved!

CHAPTER XIV

The days spent in the employ of the Bracebridge household were of a broadening character. This great house was a school to Jennie, not only in the matter of dress and manners, but as formulating a theory of existence. Mrs. Bracebridge and her husband were the last word in the matter of self-sufficiency, taste in the matter of appointments, care in the matter of dress, good form in the matter of reception, entertainment, and the various usages of social life. Now and then, apropos of nothing save her own mood, Mrs. Bracebridge would indicate her philosophy of life in an epigram.

"Life is a battle, my dear. If you gain anything you will have to fight for it."

"In my judgment it is silly not to take advantage of any aid which will help you to be what you want to be." (This while applying a faint suggestion of rouge.)

"Most people are born silly. They are exactly what they are capable of being. I despise lack of taste; it is the worst crime."

Most of these worldly-wise counsels were not given directly to Jennie. She overheard them, but to her quiet and reflective mind they had their import. Like seeds fallen upon good ground, they took root and grew. She began to get a faint perception of hierarchies and powers. They were not for her, perhaps, but they were in the world, and if fortune were kind one might better one's state. She worked on, wondering, however, just how better fortune might come to her. Who would have her to wife knowing her history? How could she ever explain the existence of her child?

Her child, her child, the one transcendent, gripping theme of joy and fear. If she could only do something for it – sometime, somehow!

For the first winter things went smoothly enough. By the closest economy the children were clothed and kept in school, the rent paid, and the instalments met. Once it looked as though there might be some difficulty about the continuance of the home life, and that was when Gerhardt wrote that he would be home for Christmas. The mill was to close down for a short period at that time. He was naturally anxious to see what the new life of his family at Cleveland was like.

Mrs. Gerhardt would have welcomed his return with unalloyed pleasure had it not been for the fear she entertained of his creating a scene. Jennie talked it over with her mother, and Mrs. Gerhardt in turn spoke of it to Bass, whose advice was to brave it out.

"Don't worry," he said; "he won't do anything about it. I'll talk to him if he says anything."

The scene did occur, but it was not so unpleasant as Mrs. Gerhardt had feared. Gerhardt came home during the afternoon, while Bass, Jennie, and George were at work. Two of the younger children went to the train to meet him. When he entered Mrs. Gerhardt greeted him affectionately, but she trembled for the discovery which was sure to come. Her suspense was not for long. Gerhardt opened the front bedroom door only a few minutes after he arrived. On the white counterpane of the bed was a pretty child, sleeping. He could not but know on the instant whose it was, but he pretended ignorance.

"Whose child is that?" he questioned.

"It's Jennie's," said Mrs. Gerhardt, weakly.

"When did that come here?"

"Not so very long ago," answered the mother, nervously.

"I guess she is here, too," he declared, contemptuously, refusing to pronounce her name, a fact which he had already anticipated.

"She's working in a family," returned his wife in a pleading tone. "She's doing so well now. She had no place to go. Let her alone."

Gerhardt had received a light since he had been away. Certain inexplicable thoughts and feelings had come to him in his religious meditations. In his prayers he had admitted to the All-seeing that he might have done differently by his daughter. Yet he could not make up his mind how to treat her for the future. She had committed a great sin; it was impossible to get away from that.

When Jennie came home that night a meeting was unavoidable. Gerhardt saw her coming, and pretended to be deeply engaged in a newspaper. Mrs. Gerhardt, who had begged him not to ignore Jennie entirely, trembled for fear he would say or do something which would hurt her feelings.

"She is coming now," she said, crossing to the door of the front room, where he was sitting; but Gerhardt refused to look up. "Speak to her, anyhow," was her last appeal before the door opened; but he made no reply.

When Jennie came in her mother whispered, "He is in the front room."

Jennie paled, put her thumb to her lip and stood irresolute, not knowing how to meet the situation.

"Has he seen?"

Jennie paused as she realized from her mother's face and nod that Gerhardt knew of the child's existence.

"Go ahead," said Mrs. Gerhardt; "it's all right. He won't say anything."

Jennie finally went to the door, and, seeing her father, his brow wrinkled as if in serious but not unkindly thought, she hesitated, but made her way forward.

"Papa," she said, unable to formulate a definite sentence.

Gerhardt looked up, his grayish-brown eyes a study under their heavy sandy lashes. At the sight of his daughter he weakened internally; but with the self-adjusted armor of resolve about him he showed no sign of pleasure at seeing her. All the forces of his conventional understanding of morality and his naturally sympathetic and fatherly disposition were battling within him, but, as in so many cases where the average mind is concerned, convention was temporarily the victor.

"Yes," he said.

"Won't you forgive me, Papa?"

"I do," he returned grimly.

She hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward, for what purpose he well understood.

"There," he said, pushing her gently away, as her lips barely touched his grizzled cheek.

It had been a frigid meeting.

When Jennie went out into the kitchen after this very trying ordeal she lifted her eyes to her waiting mother and tried to make it seem as though all had been well, but her emotional disposition got the better of her.

"Did he make up to you?" her mother was about to ask; but the words were only half out of her mouth before her daughter sank down into one of the chairs close to the kitchen table and, laying her head on her arm, burst forth into soft, convulsive, inaudible sobs.

"Now, now," said Mrs. Gerhardt. "There now, don't cry. What did he say?"

It was some time before Jennie recovered herself sufficiently to answer. Her mother tried to treat the situation lightly.

"I wouldn't feel bad," she said. "He'll get over it. It's his way."

CHAPTER XV

The return of Gerhardt brought forward the child question in all its bearings. He could not help considering it from the standpoint of a grandparent, particularly since it was a human being possessed of a soul. He wondered if it had been baptized. Then he inquired.

"No, not yet," said his wife, who had not forgotten this duty, but had been uncertain whether the little one would be welcome in the faith.

"No, of course not," sneered Gerhardt, whose opinion of his wife's religious devotion was not any too great. "Such carelessness! Such irreligion! That is a fine thing."

He thought it over a few moments, and felt that this evil should be corrected at once.

"It should be baptized," he said. "Why don't she take it and have it baptized?"

Mrs. Gerhardt reminded him that some one would have to stand godfather to the child, and there was no way to have the ceremony performed without confessing the fact that it was without a legitimate father.

Gerhardt listened to this, and it quieted him for a few moments, but his religion was something which he could not see put in the background by any such difficulty. How would the Lord look upon quibbling like this? It was not Christian, and it was his duty to attend to the matter. It must be taken, forthwith, to the church, Jennie, himself, and his wife accompanying it as sponsors; or, if he did not choose to condescend thus far to his daughter, he must see that it was baptized when she was not present. He brooded over this difficulty, and finally decided that the ceremony should take place on one of these week-days between Christmas and New Year's, when Jennie would be at her work. This proposal he broached to his wife, and, receiving her approval, he made his next announcement. "It has no name," he said.

Jennie and her mother had talked over this very matter, and Jennie had expressed a preference for Vesta. Now her mother made bold to suggest it as her own choice.

"How would Vesta do?"

Gerhardt heard this with indifference. Secretly he had settled the question in his own mind. He had a name in store, left over from the halcyon period of his youth, and never opportunely available in the case of his own children – Wilhelmina. Of course he had no idea of unbending in the least toward his small granddaughter. He merely liked the name, and the child ought to be grateful to get it. With a far-off, gingery air he brought forward this first offering upon the altar of natural affection, for offering it was, after all.

"That is nice," he said, forgetting his indifference. "But how would Wilhelmina do?"

Mrs. Gerhardt did not dare cross him when he was thus unconsciously weakening. Her woman's tact came to the rescue.

"We might give her both names," she compromised.

"It makes no difference to me," he replied, drawing back into the shell of opposition from which he had been inadvertently drawn. "Just so she is baptized."