Now that the first shock had passed, there came the vivid consciousness of ever-present danger. What would Gerhardt do if he learned the truth? He had often said that if ever one of his daughters should act like some of those he knew he would turn her out of doors. “She should not stay under my roof!” he had exclaimed.
“I’m so afraid of your father,” Mrs. Gerhardt often said to Jennie in this intermediate period. “I don’t know what he’ll say.”
“Perhaps I’d better go away,” suggested her daughter.
“No,” she said; “he needn’t know just yet. Wait awhile.” But in her heart of hearts she knew that the evil day could not be long postponed.
One day, when her own suspense had reached such a pitch that it could no longer be endured, Mrs. Gerhardt sent Jennie away with the children, hoping to be able to tell her husband before they returned. All the morning she fidgeted about, dreading the opportune moment and letting him retire to his slumber without speaking. When afternoon came she did not go out to work, because she could not leave with her painful duty unfulfilled. Gerhardt arose at four, and still she hesitated, knowing full well that Jennie would soon return and that the specially prepared occasion would then be lost. It is almost certain that she would not have had the courage to say anything if he himself had not brought up the subject of Jennie’s appearance.
“She doesn’t look well,” he said. “There seems to be something the matter with her.”
“Oh,” began Mrs. Gerhardt, visibly struggling with her fears, and moved to make an end of it at any cost, “Jennie is in trouble. I don’t know what to do. She—”
Gerhardt, who had unscrewed a door-lock and was trying to mend it, looked up sharply from his work.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Mrs. Gerhardt had her apron in her hands at the time, her nervous tendency to roll it coming upon her. She tried to summon sufficient courage to explain, but fear mastered her completely; she lifted the apron to her eyes and began to cry.