Jennie Gerhardt - Драйзер Теодор - Страница 18

minutes' task to write a note to the judge asking him to revoke the fine, for the sake of the boy's character, and send it by a messenger to his

home. Another ten minutes' task to go personally to the jail and ask his

friend, the sheriff, to release the boy then and there.

"Here is the money," he said. "If the fine is revoked you can return it to me. Let him go now."

The sheriff was only too glad to comply. He hastened below to personally

supervise the task, and Bass, a very much astonished boy, was set free.

No explanations were vouchsafed him.

"That's all right now," said the turnkey. "You're at liberty. Run along home and don't let them catch you at anything like that again."

Bass went his way wondering, and the ex-Senator returned to his hotel

trying to decide just how this delicate situation should be handled.

Obviously Jennie had not told her father of her mission. She had come as

a last resource. She was now waiting for him in his room.

There are crises in all men's lives when they waver between the strict

fulfilment of justice and duty and the great possibilities for personal

happiness which another line of conduct seems to assure. And the

dividing line is not always marked and clear. He knew that the issue of

taking her, even as his wife, was made difficult by the senseless

opposition of her father. The opinion of the world brought up still another complication. Supposing he should take her openly, what would the world

say? She was a significant type emotionally, that he knew. There was

something there—artistically, temperamentally, which was far and

beyond the keenest suspicion of the herd. He did not know himself quite

what it was, but he felt a largeness of feeling not altogether squared with intellect, or perhaps better yet, experience, which was worthy of any

man's desire. "This remarkable girl," he thought, seeing her clearly in his mind's eye.

Meditating as to what he should do, he returned to his hotel, and the

room. As he entered he was struck anew with her beauty, and with the

irresistible appeal of her personality. In the glow of the shaded lamp she seemed a figure of marvellous potentiality.

"Well," he said, endeavouring to appear calm, "I have looked after your brother. He is out."

She rose.

"Oh," she exclaimed, clasping her hands and stretching her arms out toward him. There were tears of gratefulness in her eyes.

He saw them and stepped close to her. "Jennie, for heaven's sake don't cry," he entreated. "You angel! You sister of mercy! To think you should have to add tears to your other sacrifices."

He drew her to him, and then all the caution of years deserted him. There was a sense both of need and of fulfilment in his mood. At last, in spite of other losses, fate had brought him what he most desired—love, a woman

whom he could love. He took her in his arms, and kissed her again and

again.

The English Jefferies has told us that it requires a hundred and fifty years to make a perfect maiden. "From all enchanted things of earth and air, this preciousness has been drawn. From the south wind that breathed a

century and a half over the green wheat; from the perfume of the growing

grasses waving over heavy-laden clover and laughing veronica, hiding the

green-finches, baffling the bee; from rose-lined hedge, woodbine, and

cornflower, azure blue, where yellowing wheat stalks crowd up under the

shadow of green firs. All the devious brooklets' sweetness where the iris stays the sunlight; all the wild woods hold of beauty; all the broad hills of thyme and freedom—thrice a hundred years repeated.

"A hundred years of cowslips, bluebells, violets; purple spring and golden autumn; sunshine, shower, and dewy mornings; the night immortal; all

the rhythm of time unrolling. A chronicle unwritten and past all power of writing; who shall preserve a record of the petals that fell from the roses a century ago? The swallows to the house-tops three hundred times—think

of that! Thence she sprang, and the world yearns toward her beauty as to

flowers that are past. The loveliness of seventeen is centuries old. That is why passion is almost sad."

If you have understood and appreciated the beauty of harebells three

hundred times repeated; if the quality of the roses, of the music, of the ruddy mornings and evenings of the world has ever touched your heart; if

all beauty were passing, and you were given these things to hold in your

arms before the world slipped away, would you give them up?

CHAPTER VIII

The significance of the material and spiritual changes which sometimes

overtake us are not very clear at the time. A sense of shock, a sense of

danger, and then apparently we subside to old ways, but the change has

come. Never again, here or elsewhere, will we be the same. Jennie,

pondering after the subtle emotional turn which her evening's sympathetic expedition had taken, was lost in a vague confusion of emotions. She had

no definite realisation of what social and physical changes this new

relationship to the Senator might entail. She was not conscious as yet of that shock which the possibility of maternity, even under the most

favourable conditions, must bring to the average woman. Her present

attitude was one of surprise, wonder, uncertainty; and at the same time

she experienced a genuine feeling of quiet happiness. Brander was a good

man; now he was closer to her than ever. He loved her. Because of this

new relationship a change in her social condition was to inevitably

follow. Life was to be radically different from now on—was different at

this moment. Brander assured her over and over of his enduring affection.

"I tell you, Jennie," he repeated, as she was leaving, "I don't want you to worry. This emotion of mine got the best of me, but I'll marry you. I've

been carried off my feet, but I'll make it up to you. Go home and say

nothing at all. Caution your brother, if it isn't too late. Keep your own counsel, and I will marry you and take you away. I can't do it right now. I don't want to do it here. But I'm going to Washington, and I'll send for

you. And here"—he reached for his purse and took from it a hundred

dollars, practically all he had with him, "take that. I'll send you more tomorrow. You're my girl now—remember that. You belong to me."

He embraced her tenderly.

She went out into the night, thinking. No doubt he would do as he said.

She dwelt, in imagination, upon the possibilities of a new and fascinating existence. Of course he would marry her. Think of it! She would go to

Washington—that far-off place. And her father and mother—they would

not need to work so hard any more. And Bass, and Martha—she fairly

glowed as she recounted to herself the many ways in which she could

help them all.

A block away she waited for Brander, who accompanied her to her own

gate, and waited while she made a cautious reconnaissance. She slipped

up the steps and tried the door. It was open. She paused a moment to

indicate to her lover that she was safe, and entered. All was silent within.

She slipped to her own room and heard Veronica breathing. She went

quietly to where Bass slept with George. He was in bed, stretched out as

if asleep. When she entered he asked, "Is that you, Jennie?"

"Yes."

"Where have you been?"

"Listen," she whispered. "Have you seen papa and mamma?"