Chapter Chapter 7 · Gerhardt was in despair; he did not know any one to whom he could

appeal between the hours of two and nine o'clock in the morning. He

went back to talk with his wife, and then to his post of duty. What

was to be done? He could think of only one friend who was able, or

possibly willing to do anything. This was the glass manufacturer,

Hammond; but he was not in the city. Gerhardt did not know this,

however.

When nine o'clock came, he went alone to the court, for it was

thought advisable that the others should stay away. Mrs. Gerhardt was

to hear immediately what happened. He would come right back.

When Sebastian was lined up inside the dock he had to wait a long

time, for there were several prisoners ahead of him. Finally his name

was called, and the boy was pushed forward to the bar. "Stealing coal,

Your Honor, and resisting arrest," explained the officer who had

arrested him.

The magistrate looked at Sebastian closely; he was unfavorably

impressed by the lad's scratched and wounded face.

"Well, young man," he said, "what have you to say for yourself? How

did you get your black eye?"

Sebastian looked at the judge, but did not answer.

"I arrested him," said the detective. "He was on one of the

company's cars. He tried to break away from me, and when I held him he

assaulted me. This man here was a witness," he added, turning to the

railroad hand who had helped him.

"Is that where he struck you?" asked the Court, observing the

detective's swollen jaw.

"Yes, sir," he returned, glad of an opportunity to be further

revenged.

"If you please," put in Gerhardt, leaning forward, "he is my boy.

He was sent to get the coal. He--"

"We don't mind what they pick up around the yard," interrupted the

detective, "but he was throwing it off the cars to half a dozen

others."

"Can't you earn enough to keep from taking coal off the coal cars?"

asked the Court; but before either father or son had time to answer he

added, "What is your business?"

"Car builder," said Sebastian.

"And what do you do?" he questioned, addressing Gerhardt.

"I am watchman at Miller's furniture factory."

"Um," said the court, feeling that Sebastian's attitude remained

sullen and contentious. "Well, this young man might be let off on the

coal-stealing charge, but he seems to be somewhat too free with his

fists. Columbus is altogether too rich in that sort of thing. Ten

dollars."

"If you please," began Gerhardt, but the court officer was already

pushing him away.

"I don't want to hear any more about it," said the judge. "He's

stubborn, anyhow. What's the next case?"

Gerhardt made his way over to his boy, abashed and yet very glad it

was no worse. Somehow, he thought, he could raise the money. Sebastian

looked at him solicitously as he came forward.

"It's all right," said Bass soothingly. "He didn't give me half a

chance to say anything."

"I'm only glad it wasn't more," said Gerhardt nervously. "We will

try and get the money."

Going home to his wife, Gerhardt informed the troubled household of

the result. Mrs. Gerhardt stood white and yet relieved, for ten

dollars seemed something that might be had. Jennie heard the whole

story with open mouth and wide eyes. It was a terrible blow to her.

Poor Bass! He was always so lively and good-natured. It seemed awful

that he should be in jail.

Gerhardt went hurriedly to Hammond's fine residence, but he was not

in the city. He thought then of a lawyer by the name of Jenkins, whom

he knew in a casual way, but Jenkins was not at his office. There were

several grocers and coal merchants whom he knew well enough, but he

owed them money. Pastor Wundt might let him have it, but the agony

such a disclosure to that worthy would entail held him back. He did

call on one or two acquaintances, but these, surprised at the unusual

and peculiar request, excused themselves. At four o'clock he returned

home, weary and exhausted.

"I don't know what to do," he said despairingly. "If I could only

think."

Jennie thought of Brander, but the situation had not accentuated

her desperation to the point where she could brave her father's

opposition and his terrible insult to the Senator, so keenly

remembered, to go and ask. Her watch had been pawned a second time,

and she had no other means of obtaining money.

The family council lasted until half-past ten, but still there was

nothing decided. Mrs. Gerhardt persistently and monotonously turned

one hand over in the other and stared at the floor. Gerhardt ran his

hand through his reddish brown hair distractedly. "It's no use," he

said at last. "I can't think of anything."

"Go to bed, Jennie," said her mother solicitously; "get the others

to go. There's no use their sitting up I may think of something. You

go to bed."

Jennie went to her room, but the very thought of repose was

insupportable. She had read in the paper, shortly after her father's

quarrel with the Senator, that the latter had departed for Washington.

There had been no notice of his return. Still he might be in the city.

She stood before a short, narrow mirror that surmounted a shabby

bureau, thinking. Her sister Veronica, with whom she slept, was

already composing herself to dreams. Finally a grim resolution fixed

itself in her consciousness. She would go and see Senator Brander. If

he were in town he would help Bass. Why shouldn't she--he

loved her. He had asked over and over to marry her. Why should she not

go and ask him for help?

She hesitated a little while, then hearing Veronica breathing

regularly, she put on her hat and jacket, and noiselessly opened the

door into the sitting-room to see if any one were stirring.

There was no sound save that of Gerhardt rocking nervously to and

fro in the kitchen. There was no light save that of her own small

room-lamp and a gleam from under the kitchen door. She turned and blew

the former out--then slipped quietly to the front door, opened it

and stepped out into the night.

A waning moon was shining, and a hushed sense of growing life

filled the air, for it was nearing spring again. As Jennie hurried

along the shadowy streets--the arc light had not yet been

invented--she had a sinking sense of fear; what was this rash

thing she was about to do? How would the Senator receive her? What

would he think? She stood stock-still, wavering and doubtful; then the

recollection of Bass in his night cell came over her again, and she

hurried on.

The character of the Capitol Hotel was such that it was not

difficult for a woman to find ingress through the ladies' entrance to

the various floors of the hotel at any hour of the night. The hotel,

not unlike many others of the time, was in no sense loosely conducted,

but its method of supervision in places was lax. Any person could

enter, and, by applying at a rear entrance to the lobby, gain the

attention of the clerk. Otherwise not much notice was taken of those

who came and went.

When she came to the door it was dark save for a low light burning

in the entry-way. The distance to the Senator's room was only a short

way along the hall of the second floor. She hurried up the steps,

nervous and pale, but giving no other outward sign of the storm that

was surging within her. When she came to his familiar door she paused;

she feared that she might not find him in his room; she trembled again

to think that he might be there. A light shone through the transom,

and, summoning all her courage, she knocked. A man coughed and

bestirred himself.

His surprise as he opened the door knew no bounds. "Why, Jennie!"

he exclaimed. "How delightful! I was thinking of you. Come

in--come in."

He welcomed her with an eager embrace.

"I was coming out to see you, believe me, I was. I was thinking all

along how I could straighten this matter out. And now you come. But

what's the trouble?"

He held her at arm's length and studied her distressed face. The

fresh beauty of her seemed to him like cut lilies wet with dew.

He felt a great surge of tenderness.

"I have something to ask you," she at last brought herself to say.

"My brother is in jail. We need ten dollars to get him out, and I

didn't know where else to go."

"My poor child!" he said, chafing her hands. "Where else should you

go? Haven't I told you always to come to me? Don't you know, Jennie, I

would do anything in the world for you?"

"Yes," she gasped.

"Well, then, don't worry about that any more. But won't fate ever

cease striking at you, poor child? How did your brother come to get in

jail?"

"They caught him throwing coal down from the cars," she

replied.

"Ah!" he replied, his sympathies touched and awakened. Here was

this boy arrested and fined for what fate was practically driving him

to do. Here was this girl pleading with him at night, in his room, for

what to her was a great necessity--ten dollars; to him, a mere

nothing. "I will arrange about your brother," he said quickly. "Don't

worry. I can get him out in half an hour. You sit here now and be

comfortable until I return."

He waved her to his easy-chair beside a large lamp, and hurried out

of the room.

Brander knew the sheriff who had personal supervision of the county

jail. He knew the judge who had administered the fine. It was but a

five 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 marvelous potentiality.

"Well," he said, endeavoring 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?