The Shoemaker's Daughters CHAPTER 11.
Back to The Shoemaker's Daughters
"Is there anyone whom you would like to invite, Anne?" said Mrs. Flathers.
"You know, madam," said Anne Webster, in reply, "that I have few or no friends beyond this house; and yet there is one whom I would like to see here, if her presence would be agreeable to you?"
"And who is that, Anne?"
"It is Mrs. Genevieve Anderson. You have seen her here frequently, and I have often heard you speak kindly of her."
"I will invite her; and she shall be truly welcome," said Mrs. Flathers. "The more I see of her — the more she pleases me. She seems changing fast; and changing by the constant activity of good principles. Afflicting circumstances have done much for her. Would you like to have her sisters invited?"
"No, madam. Such a distinction would only inflame their false pride. Mrs. Anderson will only find encouragement from it, and it will strengthen her in the performance of her duties. I feel much interested in her, for she is struggling alone, with many oppositions, without and within. Her sisters despise her, and treat her with all manner of unkindness. An invitation from you may alter their estimation of her real character, and change their conduct towards her."
"I like your suggestion very much, Anne," replied Mrs. Flathers. "There are few precepts more binding upon us, than that which teaches us to help those who are struggling against their evils. Her father has become much reduced of late, I understand?"
"He is now," said Anne, "reduced so low as to leave his family entirely dependent upon his daily efforts for a subsistence. All his property is gone. But this, in my view, is not his only misfortune. Except in Mrs. Anderson, I doubt if he has an individual in his family who feels for him any true sympathy."
"Anne, I would think there could be few greater misfortunes than that."
"And yet, Mrs. Flathers, it is one, consequent upon his own neglect of the true interests of his family. Like too many others, he allowed his daughters to grow up in idleness, and in the vain pursuit of pleasure in dress and dissipation. Instead of teaching them, that only while in the performance of useful services to others, are we in the right sphere of action — they were left to draw the too prevailing conclusion, that others were to minister to their pleasures. Indulged in everything, is it any wonder that, in the end, aninordinate selfish desire should be formed, which could not in any degree sympathize with another, especially when their own sources of false pleasure were suddenly cut off? At present, owing to the darkness of their internal perceptions, through selfishness — they are unable to look upon their father's misfortunes in any other light than as affecting themselves; and can even censure him for mismanagement in his business, and consequent injustice to them."
"Surely," said Mrs. Flathers, in surprise, "you must be mistaken in supposing them so utterly lost to every genuine impulse of true feeling."
"I wish, for their own and for their father's sake, it were only an imaginary conclusion," replied Anne. "I have too often heard them express themselves, in reference to their father, in a way that justifies my remark."
"How true is it," remarked Mrs. Flathers, "that a wrong beginning, if not corrected — makes an evil ending. But, Anne, to change the subject; I hope you and Mr. Marshall have arranged to remain here after your marriage. I cannot part with you, at least for a time."
"I don't know what his intentions are, Mrs. Flathers," replied Anne, "for we have not conversed upon the subject. But, as far as I am concerned, nothing would gratify me more than to remain with you. We shall spend a few weeks, you know, in Virginia, with Mr. Marshall's family, and when we return, we shall, of course, be glad to find our home here, until other arrangements can be made."
"Look upon my home, my dear child, as your own home, as much as if it were your mother's house," said Mrs. Flathers, in a voice that slightly trembled. "And, after your husband, let me claim the next place in your affections."
"Never, while I live, my dear madam," replied Anne, with emotion, "can I forget your kindness and your love. In my heart, your place is next to that of my own dear mother."
"No higher place can I desire to hold, Anne. The mother, who so steadily, under privations and toil, continued to sow the seeds, and water the tender plants of good principles in your mind — should ever be first in your affections."
"O, Mrs. Flathers, she was a woman pure in heart and upright in intention! I wish you had known her." Anne's voice was broken with emotion.
"We would have been friends, Anne, had we known each other truly. But it was divine Providence that this should not occur."
"It was, Mrs. Flathers, and that Providence is wise and good."
"I need hardly tell you, my dear child, that only in such an acknowledgment, is there true happiness to be found. This lesson you have long since learned."
"I have not learned it so perfectly," replied Anne, "but that it will bear a frequent repetition. We are too much inclined to expect things to occur in a certain way, pleasing to our selfish desires; and when, in the wisdom of Providence, they take a contrary direction, for a time, our disappointed feelings obscure our affection for real good, and bring inward distrust and dissatisfaction. At such times, how merciful is the Lord to us, in not allowing this excitement of evil, to destroy the good that has been formed within us; but, in providing in the interiors of the mind, a place for it to retire and rest in safety, until the evil brought out into activity is subdued, when it again appears and rules in our affections. How profoundly do I feel, at times, Mrs. Flathers, that without Him, who is the Alpha and Omega, I am nothing!"
"And we are nothing," said Mrs. Flathers, "apart from Him. All the good that is in us — is from the Lord. Every good affection, and every good thought that we have, are from Him. And we should never forget, that to give to ourselves praise for a good act, is to take away from Him what is justly His due, and therefore indulging in spiritual robbery. It is well to fix in our minds a true understanding of things, and to call them by their right names. By so doing, we shall be less likely to run into error, through ignorance, and thus be made to feel painfully an evil, before perceiving it."
A servant coming in at the moment, interrupted the conversation; and when Mrs. Flathers left the room in a few minutes — Anne was left alone with her own pleasant thoughts. Marshall had not been long in making an impression upon her heart, and when he asked for her hand, she yielded it without hesitation, for Mrs. Flathers had borne testimony, from long acquaintance, to his pure principles.
On the day following that on which the conversation just alluded to occurred, between Mrs. Flathers and Anne — a servant knocked at the door of Mr. Hardamer's dwelling, in Vulcan Alley. He handed in a note directed to Mrs. Anderson. Gertrude and Genevra were alone in the parlor, and one of them received it.
"What is that?" asked Gertrude of her sister.
"It's a note for Genevieve, on gilt-edged note paper."
"Who's it from? Open it, and let us see what is in it," said Gertrude promptly.
Without hesitation, the note was opened, and Genevra read, "Mrs. Flathers' compliments to Mrs. Anderson; she will be pleased to have Mrs. Anderson's company on Thursday evening, at seven o'clock."
"Are you sure it's for her?" asked Gertrude, incredulously.
"Certainly! It's for Mrs. Anderson," replied Genevra.
"Maybe it's for some other Mrs. Anderson," said Gertrude. "I think we'd better not show it to her, for if we do, she'll be sure to go, and make a fool of herself. I am certain it can't mean her."
"I don't know that we should do this," responded Genevra. "I wonder what's to be done there?"
"Anne is to be married, I suppose, sure enough. Well, there's no accounting for tastes. Who could have dreamed that a man like Marshall would marry such a low-bred creatureas Anne Webster! A pretty figure she'll cut! I'd like to be at the wedding, just to see how she acts. I reckon she'll hardly know whether she's on her head — or on her heels. Humph! Isn't it too bad!" and Gertrude tossed her head disdainfully.
"If this is the way the thing works," remarked Genevra, "I see no use in trying to be something. A person might just as well take things fair and easy, and trust to its coming out right. If men will prefer such base creatures as Anne — what's the use of trying to be genteel? It makes me mad, so it does!"
"I don't reckon he's much, anyhow," said Gertrude," I always thought there was something low-lived about him. He wants to make a slave of his wife, I suppose — and has been attracted to Anne because she can work. If he had married me — I would have told him another story, the base fellow!"
"But what shall we do with this invitation?" asked Genevra, interrupting Gertrude.
"Why, burn it up! I'd never let her see it," replied Gertrude, a good deal excited.
"But maybe she'll find it out."
"Well, suppose she does? Who cares? I am sure that I don't. She's not going to crow over me in this way, I know!"
Acting out their evil intention, the sisters concealed the note in one of their drawers, intending to burn it on the first opportunity. It so happened that Genevieve had occasion to go to this very drawer about an hour after, when her eye fell upon the crumpled note, bearing her own address. She took it up and read it, and understood too well why it had not reached her. Replacing it, she determined in her own mind not to let them know that she had seen it, but to go to the wedding in accordance with the invitation. On Thursday she told her mother that she had been invited to see Anne married, and in the afternoon prepared to go. Gertrude and Genevra could not, of course, forget that this was the evening named in the invitation, and they were not a little surprised to perceive that their sister was making unusual preparations to go out.
"Where are you going, Genevieve?" asked Genevra, whose curiosity exceeded her indisposition to question her sister.
"I am going to Anne Webster's wedding," she replied, quietly.
"Not without an invitation, certainly," said Genevra, thrown off her guard.
"Of course not, Genevra," replied her sister.
"But I never saw an invitation for you! When did you receive it?" said Genevra, with unguarded warmth.
This declaration pained Genevieve exceedingly; and, after a few moment's reflection, she replied, in a serious tone:
"I am grieved, exceedingly, Genevra, that you are so unjust to yourself, as to have tried to do me a wrong — and then to say what is untrue about it, without having been asked a question. Surely, you ought to have been content with concealing my note of invitation, and not have added to your wrong action, by a voluntary denial of what you had done. No one but yourself can suffer by this. You see, it has done me no harm. I cannot understand, Genevra, why you should so perseveringly try to wound my feelings, and not even content with that, to endeavor to do me a greater wrong. Surely, your own heart must tell you that I have enough of suffering, without your adding a single pang. I have not mentioned what you have done to anyone, and do not intend mentioning it. But let me entreat of you, as you value your peace of mind — to give way no longer to the unkind feelings you entertain towards me. I have given you no cause for them, and you can only entertain them to your own injury."
Genevra, thus suddenly and unexpectedly convicted of a wrong action, was so confounded as to be unable to utter a word. She hung her head in silence. For the first time in her life, she stood consciously rebuked before her sister, and so humbled that she knew not what to say. Perceiving, instinctively, her true state of mind, Genevieve took her hand, and continued, in a low, tremulous tone:
"My dear sister, you are not happy; nor can you remember when you were last happy. In vain will you look abroad for the dear desire of your heart. It cannot thus be found, though you search for a whole lifetime. Your happiness must come from within. Your own heart, Genevra, must be rightly tuned — or it will never give forth a pleasant sound. For a long, long time, you have indulged in selfish desires. Your world has been a little circle — and yourself the center. But have you found contentment? Your trembling hand — that tear on your cheek, tell me, no!"
"O, sister, I am so unhappy," sobbed out the poor girl, leaning her head upon the shoulder of Genevieve, in sudden abandonment of feeling.
"And yet you need not be so, my dear sister," said Genevieve, in a voice of tender concern, drawing, at the same time, an arm around the waist of Genevra. "If your search after happiness has not been successful — it is because you have not discovered its true source. But there is happiness, and it is for you, if you will only accept of it. Allow me to direct your mind aright in this matter. Hitherto, you have cared only to gratify yourself. You have not thought of others as having claims upon you. But the attainment of every selfish desire — has only created new desires — too many of which you have found it impossible to realize. And thus, every time your wishes have been gratified — you have had new causes of discontent. If you would be happy, these exclusively selfish desires must be laid aside, and you must begin to consider others with feelings of kindness. You must begin to think that, as a member of society, there are duties which you are required to perform; and that if you neglect these duties, someone, or many, must suffer. The word duty may seem to you harsh and repulsive. But the more you find, by practice, its true meaning — the more pleasant will be its sound to your ear.
"And, first of all, your duties should commence at home. Consider, for a moment, our father — declining in years, ruined in business, and burdened with a large family. Can you do nothing, as his daughter, to lighten his toil? Are there no little attentions which you can render, which will make him feel his home to be a pleasant place, and cause him to think of his Genevra with a glow of heart-felt satisfaction? If nothing more, you can, at least, in his presence, seem to be cheerful, and not, by a distressed countenance — make him ever feel that his children are discontented with the best he can do for them. Forget yourself in this matter — and consider him. He has need, as your father, of all your affectionate consideration. And think, if there is anything that you can do, to make your mother's daily labors less fatiguing. Here are three of us — surely, Ma need not be the servant of us all! Rather, let us lighten her burdens, by taking them upon ourselves, and making her feel that we have for her a tender, filial regard. If each of us were to try her best to make the others happy — what a pleasant family we would make! Can you not see, my dear sister, that in so doing, you would be far happier than you have ever been?"
"I do! I do," responded Genevra, sobbing.
"Then resolve, my sister, that you will try to be more considerate of others; and that, instead of caring only for yourself — you will endeavor to add to the happiness of those around you. Your reward will be a peace far deeper and purer, than any that has ever yet filled your heart."
"O, Genevieve, how much I have wronged you!" said Genevra, lifting her head, and looking into her sister's face with an expression of deep penitence. "And yet, you have been so patient! — so kind!"
"Be not pained, Genevra, on this account. Let us be hereafter as sisters," responded Genevieve, pressing her lips to the burning cheek of the weeping girl.
"I shall never be able to lift my head, again. O, I have been so thoughtless! so wicked!" continued Genevra. "How could I have been so selfish! I never once thought that others required a performance of my duties. How shall I ever atone for my past wrongs?"
"Let good resolutions, deeply grounded, take the place of afflicting thoughts — and all will be well," said Genevieve, encouragingly.
"O, I shall never be as I have been, again," she said.
"I trust not, Genevra," replied her sister. "But you will have a hard battle to fight. Your evils are not subdued — they have only retired — and will again show themselves, and enter into combat with the good resolutions formed in your mind. Then will come the time when it will require all your strength and courage, to fight against the active evils of your heart, which have grown powerful by long indulgence. But if you look up to God for aid, whose ear is ever open — He will surely help you. In your own strength, remember, my dear sister, that you can do nothing — but trusting in the Lord, no evil can subdue you."
"I will make the effort," replied Genevra, with a serious, but calm countenance.
"In the strength of our Heavenly Father, you will come off more than conqueror," said Genevieve, tenderly.
That evening, after Genevieve had gone to the wedding, her father needed a clean shirt, as he had a society-meeting to attend.
"Where is Genevieve?" he asked, in a tone that indicated the need of something.
"She has gone out, Pa," said Genevra, rising from her chair, and advancing towards him. "Do you want anything?"
"Only a shirt," he replied. "But never mind, I can get it."
"Let me get it for you, Pa," she said, going into his chamber, and quickly returning with a white shirt, which she had neatly folded for him.
The father said nothing. But the look which he cast upon his child, was to her a sweet reward.
After he had gone out, instead of folding her hands, as usual, in gloomy idleness — Genevra sat down by her mother, and offered to assist her in sewing.
Gertrude looked up with surprise, on hearing Genevra's remark; but when she saw her actually begin to sew on one of her younger sister's frocks — her astonishment broke out into words, and she said, sneeringly —
"What's in the wind, now?"
"Nothing!" replied Genevra. "Only I begin to think it hardly right to sit in idleness — while Ma is hard at work."
"If she chooses to work her eyes out, that's no reason that I should," said Gertrude, in an irritated tone. "You've grown mighty considerate, all at once, upon my word! I thought something was wrong with you, when you pattered off so fussily after Pa's shirt. But you got no thanks for your trouble."
Now this was a pretty severe trial for Genevra, and she found her resentful feelings a good deal excited. But she only replied —
"It was not because I wanted thanks, Gertrude. But Pa wished for a shirt, and Genevieve was away."
"Fiddle-stick on Genevieve! I wish she would stay away!"
"I don't think we ought to feel so unkindly towards her," said Genevra, in an earnest tone. "She never interferes with us. We have been very much to blame for our actions towards her, Gertrude."
"You don't say so!" responded Gertrude, with a sneer. "But, in the name of wonder, what has broken loose in your mind? You were very fierce the other day, to hide her invitation, and then to burn it!"
"What invitation?" asked Mrs. Hardamer, with a look of surprise.
"Her invitation to Anne Webster's wedding, Ma," replied Genevra. "It fell into our hands, and we were so ill-natured as to conceal it from her, and then to destroy it. But, before we had burned it, she saw it by accident; and, saying nothing about it, prepared herself for the wedding-party, and went, as you know, this evening. Surprised at her knowledge of the invitation, I could not help saying something to her, when she convicted me in such mild, but strong terms, of my evil intentions towards her, that I felt rebuked and humbled. She did not get angry, and chide me with any warmth of feeling — but pictured to me, so clearly, the wrong I did to myself, as well as to her, that I could not utter a word in reply. I feel sensible that I have acted from very bad motives and feelings. And I have resolved to do better, if I can."
"Well, you are a fool!" exclaimed Gertrude, rising to her feet in utter astonishment. "I believe the whole family is going crazy!"
Genevra made no reply; for something seemed to whisper to her, that it could do no good. And, although she desired, very greatly, to make the effort to correct her sister's wrong ideas, yet she contended with this desire, and remained silent.
The great change which had become apparent in Genevieve, could not be without its effect upon her mother. For some time, it is true, Mrs. Hardamer entertained feelings of unkindness towards her, for the disgrace she had brought upon the family by her unhappy marriage; but her uniform mildness of temper, and constant efforts to lighten her mother's burdens, gradually changed her feelings; and she had now begun to feel a degree of affection for her, which she could not entertain towards Gertrude and Genevra. The unhappy temper displayed by the two latter, had, for a long time past, almost discouraged her; and, as any opposition to them, as far as she was concerned, only brought about discord, and violent exhibitions of anger and disobedience — she had been driven for quietude, if not peace, to an apparent indifference to their actions. This position of things was bringing about for her, by slow, but sure changes, a new state of mind. And this state consisted in a better perception of what should really be desired as the proper end of life.
So sudden and unlooked for a change in Genevra, struck her with surprise. But it was a surprise that sent a thrill of delight to her bosom. Up to the angry exclamation of Gertrude, she had remained silent. That Genevra did not respond to it, pleased her greatly, although she could hardly tell why, for she was no close observer of mental operations. Feeling now called upon to say something, she replied to Gertrude:
"If not disposed to do right yourself, Gertrude — at least allow others to act in a better way. Genevra is right, and, in continuing as she has begun, she will find her reward in a quiet mind. Let me beg of you, Gertrude," and the tears came into the mother's eyes, "to imitate so good an example."
"Don't preach to me, Ma!" responded Gertrude, angrily, hastily leaving the room, and slamming the door after her.
Mrs. Hardamer took off her spectacles, wiped her eyes, replaced them, and attempted to continue her sewing. But the moisture again accumulated, and threw a mist over everything. Again she removed her glasses, dried her eyes, and again replaced them. But it was no use, the tears stole out and again blinded her. Placing her arm upon the worktable, and leaning her head upon her hand, she allowed her feelings to take their course. Still plying her needle and seeming not to observe her, Genevra, ever turned an earnest look towards her mother, and not without emotion did she perceive tear after tear stealing over her hand and dropping to the floor. Were they tears of joy — or tears ofsorrow?
Back to The Shoemaker's Daughters