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 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 endeavour 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 realised 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, honourable, 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 favourable 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 realising 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
realised 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 neighbourhood 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 realised, 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 labour 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 coalyard, 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
downtown.
"No," said Mrs. Gerhardt. "Bass has worked hard all day. You must go."