customs of men, could possibly be guilty of that depth of vileness which
the attitude of the world would seem to predicate so inevitably.
Jennie was now to witness the unjust interpretation of that wonder of
nature, which, but for Brander's death, might have been consecrated and
hallowed as one of the ideal functions of life. Although herself unable to distinguish the separateness of this from every other normal process of
life, yet was she made to feel, by the actions of all about her, that
degradation was her portion and sin the foundation as well as the
condition of her state. Almost, not quite, it was sought to extinguish the affection, the consideration, the care which, afterward, the world would
demand of her, for her child. Almost, not quite, was the budding and
essential love looked upon as evil. Although her punishment was neither
the gibbet nor the jail of a few hundred years before, yet the ignorance
and immobility of the human beings about her made it impossible for
them to see anything in her present condition, but a vile and premeditated infraction of the social code, the punishment of which was ostracism. All she could do now was to shun the scornful gaze of men, and to bear in
silence the great change that was coming upon her. Strangely enough, she
felt no useless remorse, no vain regrets. Her heart was pure, and she was conscious that it was filled with peace. Sorrow there was, it is true, but only a mellow phase of it, a vague uncertainty and wonder, which would
sometimes cause her eyes to fill with tears.
You have heard the wood-dove calling in the lone stillness of the
summertime; you have found the unheeded brooklet singing and babbling
where no ear comes to hear. Under dead leaves and snow- banks the
delicate arbutus unfolds its simple blossom, answering some heavenly
call for colour. So, too, this other flower of womanhood.
Jennie was left alone, but, like the wood-dove, she was a voice of
sweetness in the summertime. Going about her household duties, she was
content to wait, without a murmur, the fulfilment of that process for
which, after all, she was but the sacrificial implement. When her duties
were lightest she was content to sit in quiet meditation, the marvel of life holding her as in a trance. When she was hardest pressed to aid her
mother, she would sometimes find herself quietly singing, the pleasure of work lifting her out of herself. Always she was content to face the future with a serene and unfaltering courage. It is not so with all women. Nature is unkind in permitting the minor type to bear a child at all. The larger natures in their maturity welcome motherhood, see in it the immense
possibilities of racial fulfilment, and find joy and satisfaction in being the hand-maiden of so immense a purpose.
Jennie, a child in years, was potentially a woman physically and mentally, but not yet come into rounded conclusions as to life and her place in it.
The great situation which had forced her into this anomalous position was from one point of view a tribute to her individual capacity. It proved her courage, the largeness of her sympathy, her willingness to sacrifice for
what she considered a worthy cause. That it resulted in an unexpected
consequence which placed upon her a larger and more complicated
burden, was due to the fact that her sense of self-protection had not been commensurate with her emotions. There were times when the prospective
coming of the child gave her a sense of fear and confusion, because she
did not know, but that the child might eventually reproach her; but there was always that saving sense of eternal justice in life which would not
permit her to be utterly crushed. To her way of thinking, people were not intentionally cruel. Vague thoughts of sympathy and divine goodness
permeated her soul. Life at worst or best was beautiful—had always been
so.
These thoughts did not come to her all at once, but through the months
during which she watched and waited. It was a wonderful thing to be a
mother, even under these untoward conditions. She felt that she would
love this child, would be a good mother to it if life permitted. That was the problem—what would life permit?
There were many things to be done—clothes to be made; certain
provisions of hygiene and diet to be observed. One of her fears was that
Gerhardt might unexpectedly return, but he did not. The old family doctor who had nursed the various members of the Gerhardt family through their
multitudinous ailments—Doctor Ellwanger—was taken into consultation,
and he gave sound and practical advice. Despite his Lutheran upbringing,
the practice of medicine in a large and kindly way had led him to the
conclusion that there are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamed of in our philosophies and in our small neighbourhood
relationships. "So it is," he observed to Mrs. Gerhardt when she confided to him nervously what the trouble was. "Well, you mustn't worry. These things happen in more places than you think. If you knew as much about
life as I do, and about your neighbours, you would not cry. Your girl will be all right. She is very healthy. She can go away somewhere afterward,
and people will never know. Why should you worry about what your
neighbours think. It is not so uncommon as you imagine."
Mrs. Gerhardt marvelled. He was such a wise man. It gave her a little
courage. As for Jennie, she listened to his advice with interest and without fear. She wanted things not so much for herself as for her child, and she was anxious to do whatever she was told. The doctor was curious to know
who the father was; when informed he lifted his eyes. "Indeed," he commented. "That ought to be a bright baby."
There came the final hour when the child was ushered into the world. It
was Doctor Ellwanger who presided, assisted by the mother, who, having
brought forth six herself, knew exactly what to do. There was no
difficulty, and at the first cry of the new-born infant there awakened in Jennie a tremendous yearning toward it. This was HER child! It was weak
and feeble—a little girl, and it needed her care. She took it to her breast, when it had been bathed and swaddled, with a tremendous sense of
satisfaction and joy. This was her child, her little girl. She wanted to live to be able to work for it, and rejoiced, even in her weakness, that she was so strong. Doctor Ellwanger predicted a quick recovery. He thought two
weeks would be the outside limit of her need to stay in bed. As a matter
of fact, in ten days she was up and about, as vigorous and healthy as ever.
She had been born with strength and with that nurturing quality which
makes the ideal mother.
The great crisis had passed, and now life went on much as before. The
children, outside of Bass, were too young to understand fully, and had
been deceived by the story that Jennie was married to Senator Brander,
who had died. They did not know that a child was coming until it was
there. The neighbours were feared by Mrs. Gerhardt, for they were ever
watchful and really knew all. Jennie would never have braved this local
atmosphere except for the advice of Bass, who, having secured a place in
Cleveland some time before, had written that he thought when she was
well enough it would be advisable for the whole family to seek a new