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 honourable conscience could have recognised.
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 today 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 today 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