CHAPTER III
The junior Senator, George Sylvester Brander, was a man of peculiarmold. In him there were joined, to a remarkable degree, the wisdom ofthe opportunist and the sympathetic nature of the true representativeof the people. Born a native of southern Ohio, he had been raised andeducated there, if one might except the two years in which he hadstudied law at Columbia University. He knew common and criminal law,perhaps, as well as any citizen of his State, but he had neverpractised with that assiduity which makes for pre-eminent success atthe bar. He had made money, and had had splendid opportunities to makea great deal more if he had been willing to stultify his conscience,but that he had never been able to do. And yet his integrity had notbeen at all times proof against the claims of friendship. Only in thelast presidential election he had thrown his support to a man forGovernor who, he well knew, had no claim which a strictly honorableconscience could have recognized.
In the same way, he had been guilty of some very questionable, andone or two actually unsavory, appointments. Whenever his consciencepricked him too keenly he would endeavor to hearten himself with hispet phrase, "All in a lifetime." Thinking over things quite alone inhis easy-chair, he would sometimes rise up with these words on hislips, and smile sheepishly as he did so. Conscience was not by anymeans dead in him. His sympathies, if anything, were keener thanever.
This man, three times Congressman from the district of whichColumbus was a part, and twice United States Senator, had nevermarried. In his youth he had had a serious love affair, but there wasnothing discreditable to him in the fact that it came to nothing. Thelady found it inconvenient to wait for him. He was too long in earninga competence upon which they might subsist.
Tall, straight-shouldered, neither lean nor stout, he was to-day animposing figure. Having received his hard knocks and endured hislosses, there was that about him which touched and awakened thesympathies of the imaginative. People thought him naturally agreeable,and his senatorial peers looked upon him as not any too heavymentally, but personally a fine man.
His presence in Columbus at this particular time was due to thefact that his political fences needed careful repairing. The generalelection had weakened his party in the State Legislature. There wereenough votes to re-elect him, but it would require the most carefulpolitical manipulation to hold them together. Other men wereambitious. There were a half-dozen available candidates, any one ofwhom would have rejoiced to step into his shoes. He realized theexigencies of the occasion. They could not well beat him, he thought;but even if this should happen, surely the President could be inducedto give him a ministry abroad.
Yes, he might be called a successful man, but for all that SenatorBrander felt that he had missed something. He had wanted to do so manythings. Here he was, fifty-two years of age, clean, honorable, highlydistinguished, as the world takes it, but single. He could not helplooking about him now and then and speculating upon the fact that hehad no one to care for him. His chamber seemed strangely hollow attimes--his own personality exceedingly disagreeable.
"Fifty!" he often thought to himself. "Alone--absolutelyalone."
Sitting in his chamber that Saturday afternoon, a rap at his dooraroused him. He had been speculating upon the futility of hispolitical energy in the light of the impermanence of life andfame.
"What a great fight we make to sustain ourselves!" he thought. "Howlittle difference it will make to me a few years hence!"
He arose, and opening wide his door, perceived Jennie. She hadcome, as she had suggested to her mother, at this time, instead of onMonday, in order to give a more favorable impression ofpromptness.
"Come right in," said the Senator; and, as on the first occasion,he graciously made way for her.
Jennie passed in, momentarily expecting some compliment upon thepromptitude with which the washing had been done. The Senator nevernoticed it at all.
"Well, my young lady," he said when she had put the bundle down,"how do you find yourself this evening?"
"Very well," replied Jennie. "We thought we'd better bring yourclothes to-day instead of Monday."
"Oh, that would not have made any difference," replied Branderlightly. "Just leave them on the chair."
Jennie, without considering the fact that she had been offered nopayment for the service rendered, was about to retire, had not theSenator detained her.
"How is your mother?" he asked pleasantly.
"She's very well," said Jennie simply.
"And your little sister? Is she any better?"
"The doctor thinks so," she replied.
"Sit down," he continued graciously. "I want to talk to you."
Moving to a near-by chair, the young girl seated herself.
"Hem!" he went on, clearing his throat lightly, "What seems to bethe matter with her?"
"She has the measles," returned Jennie. "We thought once that shewas going to die."
Brander studied her face as she said this, and he thought he sawsomething exceedingly pathetic there. The girl's poor clothes and herwondering admiration for his exalted station in life affected him. Itmade him feel almost ashamed of the comfort and luxury that surroundedhim. How high up he was in the world, indeed!
"I am glad she is better now," he said kindly. "How old is yourfather?"
"Fifty-seven."
"And is he any better?"
"Oh yes, sir; he's around now, although he can't go out justyet."
"I believe your mother said he was a glass-blower by trade?"
"Yes, sir."
Brander well knew the depressed local conditions in this branch ofmanufacture. It had been part of the political issue in the lastcampaign. They must be in a bad way truly.
"Do all of the children go to school?" he inquired.
"Why yes, sir," returned Jennie, stammering. She was too shamefacedto own that one of the children had been obliged to leave school forthe lack of shoes. The utterance of the falsehood troubled her.
He reflected awhile; then realizing that he had no good excuse forfurther detaining her, he arose and came over to her. From his pockethe took a thin layer of bills, and removing one, handed it to her.
"You take that," he said, "and tell your mother that I said sheshould use it for whatever she wants."
Jennie accepted the money with mingled feelings; it did not occurto her to look and see how much it was. The great man was so near her,the wonderful chamber in which he dwelt so impressive, that shescarcely realized what she was doing.
"Thank you," she said. "Is there any day you want your washingcalled for?" she added.
"Oh yes," he answered; "Monday--Monday evenings."
She went away, and in a half reverie he closed the door behind her.The interest that he felt in these people was unusual. Poverty andbeauty certainly made up an affecting combination. He sat down in hischair and gave himself over to the pleasant speculations which hercoming had aroused. Why should he not help them?
"I'll find out where they live," he finally resolved.
In the days that followed Jennie regularly came for the clothes.Senator Brander found himself more and more interested in her, and intime he managed to remove from her mind that timidity and fear whichhad made her feel uncomfortable in his presence. One thing whichhelped toward this was his calling her by her first name. This beganwith her third visit, and thereafter he used it with almostunconscious frequency.
It could scarcely be said that he did this in a fatherly spirit,for he had little of that attitude toward any one. He felt exceedinglyyoung as he talked to this girl, and he often wondered whether it werenot possible for her to perceive and appreciate him on his youthfulside.
As for Jennie, she was immensely taken with the comfort and luxurysurrounding this man, and subconsciously with the man himself, themost attractive she had ever known. Everything he had was fine,everything he did was gentle, distinguished, and considerate. Fromsome far source, perhaps some old German ancestors, she had inheritedan understanding and appreciation of all this. Life ought to
be livedas he lived it; the privilege of being generous particularly appealedto her.
Part of her attitude was due to that of her mother, in whose mindsympathy was always a more potent factor than reason. For instance,when she brought to her the ten dollars Mrs. Gerhardt was transportedwith joy.
"Oh," said Jennie, "I didn't know until I got outside that it wasso much. He said I should give it to you."
Mrs. Gerhardt took it, and holding it loosely in her folded hands,saw distinctly before her the tall Senator with his fine manners.
"What a fine man he is!" she said. "He has a good heart."
Frequently throughout the evening and the next day Mrs. Gerhardtcommented upon this wonderful treasure-trove, repeating again andagain how good he must be or how large must be his heart. When it cameto washing his clothes she almost rubbed them to pieces, feeling thatwhatever she did she could scarcely do enough. Gerhardt was not toknow. He had such stern views about accepting money without earning itthat even in their distress, she would have experienced somedifficulty in getting him to take it. Consequently she said nothing,but used it to buy bread and meat, and going as it did such a littleway, the sudden windfall was never noticed.
Jennie, from now on, reflected this attitude toward the Senator,and, feeling so grateful toward him, she began to talk more freely.They came to be on such good terms that he gave her a little leatherpicture-case from his dresser which he had observed her admiring.Every time she came he found excuse to detain her, and soon discoveredthat, for all her soft girlishness, there lay deep-seated in her aconscious deprecation of poverty and a shame of having to own anyneed. He honestly admired her for this, and, seeing that her clotheswere poor and her shoes worn, he began to wonder how he could help herwithout offending.
Not infrequently he thought to follow her some evening, and see forhimself what the condition of the family might be. He was a UnitedStates Senator, however. The neighborhood they lived in must be verypoor. He stopped to consider, and for the time the counsels ofprudence prevailed. Consequently the contemplated visit was putoff.
Early in December Senator Brander returned to Washington for threeweeks, and both Mrs. Gerhardt and Jennie were surprised to learn oneday that he had gone. Never had he given them less than two dollars aweek for his washing, and several times it had been five. He had notrealized, perhaps, what a breach his absence would make in theirfinances. But there was nothing to do about it; they managed to pinchalong. Gerhardt, now better, searched for work at the various mills,and finding nothing, procured a saw-buck and saw, and going from doorto door, sought for the privilege of sawing wood. There was not agreat deal of this to do, but he managed, by the most earnest labor toearn two, and sometimes three, dollars a week. This added to what hiswife earned and what Sebastian gave was enough to keep bread in theirmouths, but scarcely more.
It was at the opening of the joyous Christmas-time that thebitterness of their poverty affected them most. The Germans love tomake a great display at Christmas. It is the one season of the yearwhen the fullness of their large family affection manifests itself.Warm in the appreciation of the joys of childhood, they love to seethe little ones enjoy their toys and games. Father Gerhardt at hissaw-buck during the weeks before Christmas thought of this very often.What would little Veronica not deserve after her long illness! How hewould have liked to give each of the children a stout pair of shoes,the boys a warm cap, the girls a pretty hood. Toys and games and candythey always had had before. He hated to think of the snow-coveredChristmas morning and no table richly piled with what their younghearts would most desire.
As for Mrs. Gerhardt, one could better imagine than describe herfeelings. She felt so keenly about it that she could hardly bringherself to speak of the dreaded hour to her husband. She had managedto lay aside three dollars in the hope of getting enough to buy a tonof coal, and so put an end to poor George's daily pilgrimage to thecoal yard, but now as the Christmas week drew near she decided to useit for gifts. Father Gerhardt was also secreting two dollars withoutthe knowledge of his wife, thinking that on Christmas Eve he couldproduce it at a critical moment, and so relieve her maternalanxiety.
When the actual time arrived, however, there was very little to besaid for the comfort that they got out of the occasion. The whole citywas rife with Christmas atmosphere. Grocery stores and meat marketswere strung with holly. The toy shops and candy stores were radiantwith fine displays of everything that a self-respecting Santa Clausshould have about him. Both parents and children observed itall--the former with serious thoughts of need and anxiety, thelatter with wild fancy and only partially suppressed longings.
Frequently had Gerhardt said in their presence:
"Kriss Kringle is very poor this year. He hasn't so very much togive."
But no child, however poverty-stricken, could be made to believethis. Every time after so saying he looked into their eyes, but inspite of the warning, expectation flamed in them undiminished.
Christmas coming on Tuesday, the Monday before there was no school.Before going to the hotel Mrs. Gerhardt had cautioned George that hemust bring enough coal from the yards to last over Christmas day. Thelatter went at once with his two younger sisters, but there being adearth of good picking, it took them a long time to fill theirbaskets, and by night they had gathered only a scanty supply.
"Did you go for the coal?" asked Mrs. Gerhardt the first thing whenshe returned from the hotel that evening.
"Yes," said George.
"Did you get enough for to-morrow?"
"Yes," he replied, "I guess so."
"Well, now, I'll go and look," she replied. Taking the lamp, theywent out into the woodshed where the coal was deposited.
"Oh, my!" she exclaimed when she saw it; "why, that isn't nearenough. You must go right off and get some more."
"Oh," said George, pouting his lips, "I don't want to go. Let Bassgo."
Bass, who had returned promptly at a quarter-past six, was alreadybusy in the back bedroom washing and dressing preparatory to goingdown-town.
"No," said Mrs. Gerhardt. "Bass has worked hard all day. You mustgo."
"I don't want to," pouted George.
"All right," said Mrs. Gerhardt, "maybe to-morrow you'll be withouta fire, and then what?"
They went back to the house, but George's conscience was tootroubled to allow him to consider the case as closed.
"Bass, you come, too," he called to his elder brother when he wasinside.
"Go where?" said Bass.
"To get some coal."
"No," said the former, "I guess not. What do you take me for?"
"Well, then, I'll not," said George, with an obstinate jerk of hishead.
"Why didn't you get it up this afternoon?" questioned his brothersharply; "you've had all day to do it."
"Aw, I did try," said George. "We couldn't find enough. I can't getany when there ain't any, can I?"
"I guess you didn't try very hard," said the dandy.
"What's the matter now?" asked Jennie, who, coming in after havingstopped at the grocer's for her mother, saw George with a solemn pouton his face.
"Oh, Bass won't go with me to get any coal?"
"Didn't you get any this afternoon?"
"Yes," said George, "but ma says I didn't get enough."
"I'll go with you," said his sister. "Bass, will you comealong?"
"No," said the young man, indifferently, "I won't." He wasadjusting his necktie and felt irritated.
"There ain't any," said George, "unless we get it off the cars.There wasn't any cars where I was."
"There are, too," exclaimed Bass.
"There ain't," said George.
"Oh, don't quarrel," said Jennie. "Get the baskets and let's goright now before it gets too late."
The other children, who had a fondness for their big sister, gotout the implements of supply--Veronica a basket, Martha andWilliam buckets, and George, a big clothes-basket, which he and Jenniewere to fill and carry between them. Bass, moved by his sister'swi
llingness and the little regard he still maintained for her, nowmade a suggestion.
"I'll tell you what you do, Jen," he said. "You go over there withthe kids to Eighth Street and wait around those cars. I'll be along ina minute. When I come by don't any of you pretend to know me. Just yousay, 'Mister, won't you please throw us some coal down?' and then I'llget up on the cars and pitch off enough to fill the baskets. D'yeunderstand?"
"All right," said Jennie, very much pleased.
Out into the snowy night they went, and made their way to therailroad tracks. At the intersection of the street and the broadrailroad yard were many heavily laden cars of bituminous coal newlybacked in. All of the children gathered within the shadow of one.While they were standing there, waiting the arrival of their brother,the Washington Special arrived, a long, fine train with several of thenew style drawing-room cars, the big plate-glass windows shining andthe passengers looking out from the depths of their comfortablechairs. The children instinctively drew back as it thundered past.
"Oh, wasn't it long?" said George.
"Wouldn't I like to be a brakeman, though," sighed William.
Jennie, alone, kept silent, but to her particularly the suggestionof travel and comfort had appealed. How beautiful life must be for therich!
Sebastian now appeared in the distance, a mannish spring in hisstride, and with every evidence that he took himself seriously. He wasof that peculiar stubbornness and determination that had the childrenfailed to carry out his plan of procedure he would have gonedeliberately by and refused to help them at all.
Martha, however, took the situation as it needed to be taken, andpiped out childishly, "Mister, won't you please throw us down somecoal?"
Sebastian stopped abruptly, and looking sharply at them as thoughhe were really a stranger, exclaimed, "Why, certainly," and proceededto climb up on the car, from whence he cast down with remarkablecelerity more than enough chunks to fill their baskets. Then as thoughnot caring to linger any longer amid such plebeian company, hehastened across the network of tracks and was lost to view.
On their way home they encountered another gentleman, this time areal one, with high hat and distinguished cape coat, whom Jennieimmediately recognized. This was the honorable Senator himself, newlyreturned from Washington, and anticipating a very unprofitableChristmas. He had arrived upon the express which had enlisted theattention of the children, and was carrying his light grip for thepleasure of it to the hotel. As he passed he thought that herecognized Jennie.
"Is that you, Jennie?" he said, and paused to be more certain.
The latter, who had discovered him even more quickly than he hadher, exclaimed, "Oh, there is Mr. Brander!" Then, dropping her end ofthe basket, with a caution to the children to take it right home, shehurried away in the opposite direction.
The Senator followed, vainly calling three or four times "Jennie!Jennie!" Losing hope of overtaking her, and suddenly recognizing, andthereupon respecting, her simple, girlish shame, he stopped, andturning back, decided to follow the children. Again he felt that samesensation which he seemed always to get from this girl--the farcry between her estate and his. It was something to be a Senatorto-night, here where these children were picking coal. What could thejoyous holiday of the morrow hold for them? He tramped alongsympathetically, an honest lightness coming into his step, and soon hesaw them enter the gateway of the low cottage. Crossing the street, hestood in the weak shade of the snow-laden trees. The light was burningwith a yellow glow in a rear window. All about was the white snow. Inthe woodshed he could hear the voices of the children, and once hethought he detected the form of Mrs. Gerhardt. After a time anotherform came shadow-like through the side gate. He knew who it was. Ittouched him to the quick, and he bit his lip sharply to suppress anyfurther show of emotion. Then he turned vigorously on his heel andwalked away.
The chief grocery of the city was conducted by one Manning, astanch adherent of Brander, and one who felt honored by the Senator'sacquaintance. To him at his busy desk came the Senator this samenight.
"Manning," he said, "could I get you to undertake a little work forme this evening?"
"Why, certainly, Senator, certainly," said the grocery-man. "Whendid you get back? Glad to see you. Certainly."
"I want you to get everything together that would make a niceChristmas for a family of eight--father and mother and sixchildren--Christmas tree, groceries, toys--you know what Imean."
"Certainly, certainly, Senator."
"Never mind the cost now. Send plenty of everything. I'll give youthe address," and he picked up a note-book to write it.
"Why, I'll be delighted, Senator," went on Mr. Manning, ratheraffected himself. "I'll be delighted. You always were generous."
"Here you are, Manning," said the Senator, grimly, from the merenecessity of preserving his senatorial dignity. "Send everything atonce, and the bill to me."
"I'll be delighted," was all the astonished and approvinggrocery-man could say.
The Senator passed out, but remembering the old people, visited aclothier and shoe man, and, finding that he could only guess at whatsizes might be required, ordered the several articles with theprivilege of exchange. When his labors were over, he returned to hisroom.
"Carrying coal," he thought, over and over. "Really, it was verythoughtless in me. I mustn't forget them any more."