Kabanata Kabanata 3 · The junior Senator, George Sylvester Brander, was a man of peculiar

mold. In him there were joined, to a remarkable degree, the wisdom of

the opportunist and the sympathetic nature of the true representative

of the people. Born a native of southern Ohio, he had been raised and

educated there, if one might except the two years in which he had

studied law at Columbia University. He knew common and criminal law,

perhaps, as well as any citizen of his State, but he had never

practised with that assiduity which makes for pre-eminent success at

the bar. He had made money, and had had splendid opportunities to make

a 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 not

been at all times proof against the claims of friendship. Only in the

last presidential election he had thrown his support to a man for

Governor who, he well knew, had no claim which a strictly honorable

conscience could have recognized.

In the same way, he had been guilty of some very questionable, and

one or two actually unsavory, appointments. Whenever his conscience

pricked him too keenly he would endeavor to hearten himself with his

pet phrase, "All in a lifetime." Thinking over things quite alone in

his easy-chair, he would sometimes rise up with these words on his

lips, and smile sheepishly as he did so. Conscience was not by any

means dead in him. His sympathies, if anything, were keener than

ever.

This man, three times Congressman from the district of which

Columbus was a part, and twice United States Senator, had never

married. In his youth he had had a serious love affair, but there was

nothing discreditable to him in the fact that it came to nothing. The

lady found it inconvenient to wait for him. He was too long in earning

a competence upon which they might subsist.

Tall, straight-shouldered, neither lean nor stout, he was to-day an

imposing figure. Having received his hard knocks and endured his

losses, there was that about him which touched and awakened the

sympathies of the imaginative. People thought him naturally agreeable,

and his senatorial peers looked upon him as not any too heavy

mentally, but personally a fine man.

His presence in Columbus at this particular time was due to the

fact that his political fences needed careful repairing. The general

election had weakened his party in the State Legislature. There were

enough votes to re-elect him, but it would require the most careful

political manipulation to hold them together. Other men were

ambitious. There were a half-dozen available candidates, any one of

whom would have rejoiced to step into his shoes. He realized the

exigencies of the occasion. They could not well beat him, he thought;

but even if this should happen, surely the President could be induced

to give him a ministry abroad.

Yes, he might be called a successful man, but for all that Senator

Brander felt that he had missed something. He had wanted to do so many

things. Here he was, fifty-two years of age, clean, honorable, highly

distinguished, as the world takes it, but single. He could not help

looking about him now and then and speculating upon the fact that he

had no one to care for him. His chamber seemed strangely hollow at

times--his own personality exceedingly disagreeable.

"Fifty!" he often thought to himself. "Alone--absolutely

alone."

Sitting in his chamber that Saturday afternoon, a rap at his door

aroused him. He had been speculating upon the futility of his

political energy in the light of the impermanence of life and

fame.

"What a great fight we make to sustain ourselves!" he thought. "How

little difference it will make to me a few years hence!"

He arose, and opening wide his door, perceived Jennie. She had

come, as she had suggested to her mother, at this time, instead of on

Monday, in order to give a more favorable impression of

promptness.

"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 the

promptitude with which the washing had been done. The Senator never

noticed 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 your

clothes to-day instead of Monday."

"Oh, that would not have made any difference," replied Brander

lightly. "Just leave them on the chair."

Jennie, without considering the fact that she had been offered no

payment for the service rendered, was about to retire, had not the

Senator 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 be

the matter with her?"

"She has the measles," returned Jennie. "We thought once that she

was going to die."

Brander studied her face as she said this, and he thought he saw

something exceedingly pathetic there. The girl's poor clothes and her

wondering admiration for his exalted station in life affected him. It

made him feel almost ashamed of the comfort and luxury that surrounded

him. How high up he was in the world, indeed!

"I am glad she is better now," he said kindly. "How old is your

father?"

"Fifty-seven."

"And is he any better?"

"Oh yes, sir; he's around now, although he can't go out just

yet."

"I believe your mother said he was a glass-blower by trade?"

"Yes, sir."

Brander well knew the depressed local conditions in this branch of

manufacture. It had been part of the political issue in the last

campaign. 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 shamefaced

to own that one of the children had been obliged to leave school for

the lack of shoes. The utterance of the falsehood troubled her.

He reflected awhile; then realizing that he had no good excuse for

further detaining her, he arose and came over to her. From his pocket

he 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 she

should use it for whatever she wants."

Jennie accepted the money with mingled feelings; it did not occur

to 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 she

scarcely realized what she was doing.

"Thank you," she said. "Is there any day you want your washing

called 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 and

beauty certainly made up an affecting combination. He sat down in his

chair and gave himself over to the pleasant speculations which her

coming 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 in

time he managed to remove from her mind that timidity and fear which

had made her feel uncomfortable in his presence. One thing which

helped toward this was his calling her by her first name. This began

with her third visit, and thereafter he used it with almost

unconscious 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 exceedingly

young as he talked to this girl, and he often wondered whether it were

not possible for her to perceive and appreciate him on his youthful

side.

As for Jennie, she was immensely taken with the comfort and luxury

surrounding this man, and subconsciously with the man himself, the

most attractive she had ever known. Everything he had was fine,

everything he did was gentle, distinguished, and considerate. From

some far source, perhaps some old German ancestors, she had inherited

an understanding and appreciation of all this. Life ought to be lived

as he lived it; the privilege of being generous particularly appealed

to her.

Part of her attitude was due to that of her mother, in whose mind

sympathy was always a more potent factor than reason. For instance,

when she brought to her the ten dollars Mrs. Gerhardt was transported

with joy.

"Oh," said Jennie, "I didn't know until I got outside that it was

so 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. Gerhardt

commented upon this wonderful treasure-trove, repeating again and

again how good he must be or how large must be his heart. When it came

to washing his clothes she almost rubbed them to pieces, feeling that

whatever she did she could scarcely do enough. Gerhardt was not to

know. He had such stern views about accepting money without earning it

that even in their distress, she would have experienced some

difficulty 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 little

way, 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 leather

picture-case from his dresser which he had observed her admiring.

Every time she came he found excuse to detain her, and soon discovered

that, for all her soft girlishness, there lay deep-seated in her a

conscious deprecation of poverty and a shame of having to own any

need. He honestly admired her for this, and, seeing that her clothes

were poor and her shoes worn, he began to wonder how he could help her

without offending.

Not infrequently he thought to follow her some evening, and see for

himself what the condition of the family might be. He was a United

States Senator, however. The neighborhood they lived in must be very

poor. He stopped to consider, and for the time the counsels of

prudence prevailed. Consequently the contemplated visit was put

off.

Early in December Senator Brander returned to Washington for three

weeks, and both Mrs. Gerhardt and Jennie were surprised to learn one

day that he had gone. Never had he given them less than two dollars a

week for his washing, and several times it had been five. He had not

realized, perhaps, what a breach his absence would make in their

finances. But there was nothing to do about it; they managed to pinch

along. Gerhardt, now better, searched for work at the various mills,

and finding nothing, procured a saw-buck and saw, and going from door

to door, sought for the privilege of sawing wood. There was not a

great deal of this to do, but he managed, by the most earnest labor to

earn two, and sometimes three, dollars a week. This added to what his

wife earned and what Sebastian gave was enough to keep bread in their

mouths, but scarcely more.

It was at the opening of the joyous Christmas-time that the

bitterness of their poverty affected them most. The Germans love to

make a great display at Christmas. It is the one season of the year

when the fullness of their large family affection manifests itself.

Warm in the appreciation of the joys of childhood, they love to see

the little ones enjoy their toys and games. Father Gerhardt at his

saw-buck during the weeks before Christmas thought of this very often.

What would little Veronica not deserve after her long illness! How he

would 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 candy

they always had had before. He hated to think of the snow-covered

Christmas morning and no table richly piled with what their young

hearts would most desire.

As for Mrs. Gerhardt, one could better imagine than describe her

feelings. She felt so keenly about it that she could hardly bring

herself to speak of the dreaded hour to her husband. She had managed

to lay aside three dollars in the hope of getting enough to buy a ton

of coal, and so put an end to poor George's daily pilgrimage to the

coal yard, but now as the Christmas week drew near she decided to use

it for gifts. Father Gerhardt was also secreting two dollars without

the knowledge of his wife, thinking that on Christmas Eve he could

produce it at a critical moment, and so relieve her maternal

anxiety.

When the actual time arrived, however, there was very little to be

said for the comfort that they got out of the occasion. The whole city

was rife with Christmas atmosphere. Grocery stores and meat markets

were strung with holly. The toy shops and candy stores were radiant

with fine displays of everything that a self-respecting Santa Claus

should have about him. Both parents and children observed it

all--the former with serious thoughts of need and anxiety, the

latter 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 to

give."

But no child, however poverty-stricken, could be made to believe

this. Every time after so saying he looked into their eyes, but in

spite 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 he

must bring enough coal from the yards to last over Christmas day. The

latter went at once with his two younger sisters, but there being a

dearth of good picking, it took them a long time to fill their

baskets, and by night they had gathered only a scanty supply.

"Did you go for the coal?" asked Mrs. Gerhardt the first thing when

she 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, they

went out into the woodshed where the coal was deposited.

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed when she saw it; "why, that isn't near

enough. You must go right off and get some more."

"Oh," said George, pouting his lips, "I don't want to go. Let Bass

go."

Bass, who had returned promptly at a quarter-past six, was already

busy in the back bedroom washing and dressing preparatory to going

down-town.

"No," said Mrs. Gerhardt. "Bass has worked hard all day. You must

go."

"I don't want to," pouted George.

"All right," said Mrs. Gerhardt, "maybe to-morrow you'll be without

a fire, and then what?"

They went back to the house, but George's conscience was too

troubled to allow him to consider the case as closed.

"Bass, you come, too," he called to his elder brother when he was

inside.

"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 his

head.

"Why didn't you get it up this afternoon?" questioned his brother

sharply; "you've had all day to do it."

"Aw, I did try," said George. "We couldn't find enough. I can't get

any 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 having

stopped at the grocer's for her mother, saw George with a solemn pout

on 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 come

along?"

"No," said the young man, indifferently, "I won't." He was

adjusting 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 go

right now before it gets too late."

The other children, who had a fondness for their big sister, got

out the implements of supply--Veronica a basket, Martha and

William buckets, and George, a big clothes-basket, which he and Jennie

were to fill and carry between them. Bass, moved by his sister's

willingness and the little regard he still maintained for her, now

made a suggestion.

"I'll tell you what you do, Jen," he said. "You go over there with

the kids to Eighth Street and wait around those cars. I'll be along in

a minute. When I come by don't any of you pretend to know me. Just you

say, 'Mister, won't you please throw us some coal down?' and then I'll

get up on the cars and pitch off enough to fill the baskets. D'ye

understand?"

"All right," said Jennie, very much pleased.

Out into the snowy night they went, and made their way to the

railroad tracks. At the intersection of the street and the broad

railroad yard were many heavily laden cars of bituminous coal newly

backed 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 the

new style drawing-room cars, the big plate-glass windows shining and

the passengers looking out from the depths of their comfortable

chairs. 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 suggestion

of travel and comfort had appealed. How beautiful life must be for the

rich!

Sebastian now appeared in the distance, a mannish spring in his

stride, and with every evidence that he took himself seriously. He was

of that peculiar stubbornness and determination that had the children

failed to carry out his plan of procedure he would have gone

deliberately by and refused to help them at all.

Martha, however, took the situation as it needed to be taken, and

piped out childishly, "Mister, won't you please throw us down some

coal?"

Sebastian stopped abruptly, and looking sharply at them as though

he were really a stranger, exclaimed, "Why, certainly," and proceeded

to climb up on the car, from whence he cast down with remarkable

celerity more than enough chunks to fill their baskets. Then as though

not caring to linger any longer amid such plebeian company, he

hastened across the network of tracks and was lost to view.

On their way home they encountered another gentleman, this time a

real one, with high hat and distinguished cape coat, whom Jennie

immediately recognized. This was the honorable Senator himself, newly

returned from Washington, and anticipating a very unprofitable

Christmas. He had arrived upon the express which had enlisted the

attention of the children, and was carrying his light grip for the

pleasure of it to the hotel. As he passed he thought that he

recognized Jennie.

"Is that you, Jennie?" he said, and paused to be more certain.

The latter, who had discovered him even more quickly than he had

her, exclaimed, "Oh, there is Mr. Brander!" Then, dropping her end of

the basket, with a caution to the children to take it right home, she

hurried away in the opposite direction.

The Senator followed, vainly calling three or four times "Jennie!

Jennie!" Losing hope of overtaking her, and suddenly recognizing, and

thereupon respecting, her simple, girlish shame, he stopped, and

turning back, decided to follow the children. Again he felt that same

sensation which he seemed always to get from this girl--the far

cry between her estate and his. It was something to be a Senator

to-night, here where these children were picking coal. What could the

joyous holiday of the morrow hold for them? He tramped along

sympathetically, an honest lightness coming into his step, and soon he

saw them enter the gateway of the low cottage. Crossing the street, he

stood in the weak shade of the snow-laden trees. The light was burning

with a yellow glow in a rear window. All about was the white snow. In

the woodshed he could hear the voices of the children, and once he

thought he detected the form of Mrs. Gerhardt. After a time another

form came shadow-like through the side gate. He knew who it was. It

touched him to the quick, and he bit his lip sharply to suppress any

further show of emotion. Then he turned vigorously on his heel and

walked away.

The chief grocery of the city was conducted by one Manning, a

stanch adherent of Brander, and one who felt honored by the Senator's

acquaintance. To him at his busy desk came the Senator this same

night.

"Manning," he said, "could I get you to undertake a little work for

me this evening?"

"Why, certainly, Senator, certainly," said the grocery-man. "When

did you get back? Glad to see you. Certainly."

"I want you to get everything together that would make a nice

Christmas for a family of eight--father and mother and six

children--Christmas tree, groceries, toys--you know what I

mean."

"Certainly, certainly, Senator."

"Never mind the cost now. Send plenty of everything. I'll give you

the address," and he picked up a note-book to write it.

"Why, I'll be delighted, Senator," went on Mr. Manning, rather

affected himself. "I'll be delighted. You always were generous."

"Here you are, Manning," said the Senator, grimly, from the mere

necessity of preserving his senatorial dignity. "Send everything at

once, and the bill to me."

"I'll be delighted," was all the astonished and approving

grocery-man could say.

The Senator passed out, but remembering the old people, visited a

clothier and shoe man, and, finding that he could only guess at what

sizes might be required, ordered the several articles with the

privilege of exchange. When his labors were over, he returned to his

room.

"Carrying coal," he thought, over and over. "Really, it was very

thoughtless in me. I mustn't forget them any more."