“Isn’t it fine?” whispered Genevieve, and started nervously at the sound of her own voice.
“Yes,” returned her mother, who, upon her knees, was wringing out her cloth with earnest but clumsy hands.
“It must cost a good deal to live here, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said her mother. “Don’t forget to rub into these little corners. Look here what you’ve left.”
Jennie, mortified by this correction, fell earnestly to her task, and polished vigorously, without again daring to lift her eyes.
With painstaking diligence they worked downward until about five o’clock; it was dark outside, and all the lobby was brightly lighted. Now they were very near the bottom of the stairway.
Through the big swinging doors there entered from the chilly world without a tall, distinguished, middle-aged gentleman, whose silk hat and loose military cape-coat marked him at once, among the crowd of general idlers, as some one of importance. His face was of a dark and solemn cast, but broad and sympathetic in its lines, and his bright eyes were heavily shaded with thick, bushy, black eyebrows. Passing to the desk he picked up the key that had already been laid out for him, and coming to the staircase, started up.
The middle-aged woman, scrubbing at his feet, he acknowledged not only by walking around her, but by graciously waving his hand, as much as to say, “Don’t move for me.”
The daughter, however, caught his eye by standing up, her troubled glance showing that she feared she was in his way.
He bowed and smiled pleasantly.
“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself,” he said.
Jennie only smiled.
When he had reached the upper landing an impulsive sidewise glance assured him, more clearly than before, of her uncommonly prepossessing appearance. He noted the high, white forehead, with its smoothly parted and plaited hair. The eyes he saw were blue and the complexion fair. He had even time to admire the mouth and the full cheeks—above all, the well-rounded, graceful form, full of youth, health, and that hopeful expectancy which to the middle-aged is so suggestive of all that is worth begging of Providence. Without another look he went dignifiedly upon his way, but the impression of her charming personality went with him. This was the Hon. George Sylvester Brander, junior Senator.
“Wasn’t that a fine-looking man who went up just now?” observed Jennie a few moments later.
“Yes, he was,” said her mother.
“He had a gold-headed cane.”
“You mustn’t stare at people when they pass,” cautioned her mother, wisely. “It isn’t nice.”
“I didn’t stare at him,” returned Jennie, innocently. “He bowed to me.”
“Well, don’t you pay any attention to anybody,” said her mother. “They may not like it.”
Jennie fell to her task in silence, but the glamor of the great world was having its effect upon her senses. She could not help giving ear to the sounds, the brightness, the buzz of conversation and laughter surrounding her. In one section of the parlor floor was the dining-room, and from the clink of dishes one could tell that supper was being prepared. In another was the parlor proper, and there some one came to play on the piano. That feeling of rest and relaxation which comes before the evening meal pervaded the place. It touched the heart of the innocent working-girl with hope, for hers were the years, and poverty could not as yet fill her young mind with cares. She rubbed diligently always, and sometimes forgot the troubled mother at her side, whose kindly eyes were becoming invested with crows’ feet, and whose lips half repeated the hundred cares of the day. She could only think that all of this was very fascinating, and wish that a portion of it might come to her.
At half-past five the housekeeper, remembering them, came and told them that they might go. The fully finished stairway was relinquished by both with a sigh of relief, and, after putting their implements away, they hastened homeward, the mother, at least, pleased to think that at last she had something to do.
As they passed several fine houses Jennie was again touched by that half-defined emotion which the unwonted novelty of the hotel life had engendered in her consciousness.
“Isn’t it fine to be rich?” she said.
“Yes,” answered her mother, who was thinking of the suffering Veronica.
“Did you see what a big dining-room they had there?”
“Yes.”
They went on past the low cottages and among the dead leaves of the year.
“I wish we were rich,” murmured Jennie, half to herself.
“I don’t know just what to do,” confided her mother with a long-drawn sigh. “I don’t believe there’s a thing to eat in the house.”
“Let’s stop and see Mr. Bauman again,” exclaimed Jennie, her natural sympathies restored by the hopeless note in her mother’s voice.
“Do you think he would trust us any more?”
“Let’s tell him where we’re working. I will.”
“Well,” said her mother, wearily.
Into the small, dimly lighted grocery store, which was two blocks from their house, they ventured nervously. Mrs. Gerhardt was about to begin, but Jennie spoke first.
“Will you let us have some bread to-night, and a little bacon? We’re working now at the Columbus House, and we’ll be sure to pay you Saturday.”
“Yes,” added Mrs. Gerhardt, “I have something to do.”
Bauman, who had long supplied them before illness and trouble began, knew that they told the truth.
“How long have you been working there?” he asked.
“Just this afternoon.”
“You know, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said, “how it is with me. I don’t want to refuse you. Mr. Gerhardt is good for it, but I am poor, too. Times are hard,” he explained further, “I have my family to keep.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, weakly.
Her old shoddy shawl hid her rough hands, red from the day’s work, but they were working nervously. Jennie stood by in strained silence.
“Well,” concluded Mr. Bauman, “I guess it’s all right this time. Do what you can for me Saturday.”
He wrapped up the bread and bacon, and, handing Jennie the parcel, he added, with a touch of cynicism:
“When you get money again I guess you’ll go and trade somewhere else.”
“No,” returned Mrs. Gerhardt; “you know better than that.” But she was too nervous to parley long.
They went out into the shadowy street, and on past the low cottages to their own home.
“I wonder,” said the mother, wearily, when they neared the door, “if they’ve got any coal?”
“Don’t worry,” said Jennie. “If they haven’t I’ll go.”
“A man run us away,” was almost the first greeting that the perturbed George offered when the mother made her inquiry about the coal. “I got a little, though.” he added. “I threw it off a car.”
Mrs. Gerhardt only smiled, but Jennie laughed.
“How is Veronica?” she inquired.
“She seems to be sleeping,” said the father. “I gave her medicine again at five.”
While the scanty meal was being prepared the mother went to the sick child’s bedside, taking up another long night’s vigil quite as a matter of course.
While the supper was being eaten Sebastian offered a suggestion, and his larger experience in social and commercial matters made his proposition worth considering. Though only a car-builder’s apprentice, without any education except such as pertained to Lutheran doctrine, to which he objected very strongly, he was imbued with American color and energy. His transformed name of Bass suited him exactly. Tall, athletic, and well-featured for his age, he was a typical stripling of the town. Already he had formulated a philosophy of life. To succeed one must do something—one must associate, or at least seem to associate, with those who were foremost in the world of appearances.
For this reason the young boy loved to hang about the Columbus House. It seemed to him that this hotel was the center and circumference of all that was worth while in the social sense. He would go down-town evenings, when he first secured money enough to buy a decent suit of clothes, and stand around the hotel entrance with his friends, kicking his heels, smoking a two-for-five-cent cigar, preening himself on his stylish appearance, and looking after the girls. Others were there with him—town dandies and nobodies, young men who came there to get shaved or to drink a glass of whisky. And all of these he admired and sought to emulate. Clothes were the main touchstone. If men wore nice clothes and had rings and pins, whatever they did seemed appropriate. He wanted to be like them and to act like them, and so his experience of the more pointless forms of life rapidly broadened.
“Why don’t you get some of those hotel fellows to give you their laundry?” he asked of Jennie after she had related the afternoon’s experiences. “It would be better than scrubbing the stairs.”
“How do you get it?” she replied.
“Why, ask the clerk, of course.”