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.