The Shoemaker's Daughters CHAPTER 13.
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About one week after old Mr. Anderson had left home, a neighbor stopped at the door and left a letter for his wife. He had been to the post-office, and seeing a letter there, directed to her — had brought it along with him. Retiring at once to her own room, Mrs. Anderson broke the seal, and read:
"My Dear Jane: You are painfully anxious, I know, to hear from me; and I now write to relieve your suspense, and, at the earliest moment that I can do so. I have seen the wife of our dear, erring, but repentant boy; and they have met, and been reconciled. But who is she? — and what is she? These are the first questions, to which your heart yearns for an answer. In a word, then, she seems to be all that we could desire. A few months of painful disappointments and trials, have done much for her, or her character. Her father, during the last year, has failed in business, and been much reduced in circumstances. This reverse, from all that I can see, has wrought upon him a beneficial change, and other members of his family seem also to feel a like happy influence.
"When I called upon him, alone, and announced my name, he did not, at first receive me kindly; but, in a few moments he softened down, and I saw that the man was sound at heart. His affections are warmly centered upon the child our boy has married; and this deep affection has been called out during the past year. After her desertion, as far as I can learn, she was treated with great unkindness by all of the family — and by her father, with coldness and indifference. Cut off from all hope of future distinction in society, which had been her ruling passion, and having added to this, the sorrows of a disappointed affection, and the pains of cruel persecution and neglect — she was driven into the right way.
"It seems, that, as a measure of relief from the distracting thoughts that passed through her mind, and the gloomy feelings that oppressed her — she resorted to the various domestic employments incident to a family, that had before seemed degrading in her eyes. Her father's reverses, no doubt, awakened a lively sympathy in her mind, and she, therefore, sought to alleviate his trouble in every possible way. And you know how much it is in the power of a child, by little attentions and affectionate care — to soothe the heart of a parent whose mind is not at ease.
"Once in the right way, under circumstances, too, where the only relief the mind can obtain from sad thoughts, is while walking in that way, and there is everything to hope. It seems that she never thought of looking back. The beautiful flowers that she found, ever and always, springing on her new pathway — wooed her onward. And, as she continued to move forward, the flowers became more frequent, and their perfume sweeter. The change in her, if what she once was, be truly told me — is far greater than that in our dear boy. I already love her; and I know you will take her at once to your bosom.
"I saw her before William did. Poor boy! As the moment approached for him to meet face to face the woman with whose affections he had so cruelly trifled — his heart seemed to fail him. But I took words to him from his wife, and when they met, there was an instant oblivion of the past and a world of new affection created in their hearts. They were allowed to meet alone. No eye but that of the Invisible, should look upon such an interview.
"The day after tomorrow we shall start for home; and, of course, our new found daughter-in-law will return with us. She seems overjoyed at what has happened; and I can perceive that there exists between her and our William, just such an affection, notwithstanding the past, as my heart delights to see. I trust that I am not allowing my gratified feelings to create false hopes; but it seems to me that our last days are going to be our happiest. How wonderfully is evil overruled for good! How often does true delight spring from the operations of deep afflictions! But I shall soon be with you, and then I can say to you a thousand things now crowding upon my thought. Your affectionate husband."
"Why, how do you do, Mr. Anderson? What in the world has brought you this far from home?" said an elderly man, advancing with a quick step across the deck of a steamboat, which was gliding swiftly down the Potomac, two days after the preceding letter was written.
"And how do you do, Mr. Marshall," responded the individual addressed, grasping the hand that was extended towards him.
"But what are you doing way over here? You haven't answered me that yet?" said the first speaker.
"Why, I suppose I am on some such business as you are, friend Marshall," he replied smiling.
"Oh! Yes! William has been taking a wife, then, has he? Well, that's clever. Who did he marry?"
"You jump to conclusions as rapidly as ever, I see," replied Mr. Anderson. "But I suppose you are half right, at least. The name of my new daughter was Hardamer."
At the mention of that name, a well grown boy, rather poorly dressed, who had been standing against the railing, startled and turned upon the two individuals a look of inquiring interest.
"Hardamer," repeated Mr. Marshall, musingly. "Well, I believe I never heard of that name before. I hope she's as good a girl as my boy's got, for I think your William will make a very fine man. He sowed some wild oats, it is true. But he has gathered in the troublesome harvest, and, I suppose, is tired of that kind of farming. I wish you joy, my old friend!" he added, again shaking the hand of Mr. Anderson. "The young folk are all snug in the cabin, I suppose, and have discovered each other before this," he continued. "Well, we'll let them enjoy themselves by themselves, for a while. Young blood doesn't always mix well with old blood."
"Who has Ralph married?" asked Mr. Anderson, as his old friend and neighbor paused,
"Well, I can't say that I know much about her, except that her name was Anne Webster, and that she seems to have the disposition of an angel," replied Mr. Marshall.
"And an angel she is!" murmured the boy just mentioned, whose ears were taking in every word that passed between the individuals who were talking. But they heard him not; nor, indeed, did they notice his presence.
Just at that moment, the whole party from below emerged upon deck — consisting of the wife of old Mr. Marshall, her son and his young bride, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, and Marshall's two sisters.
The two young men were old acquaintances. They had been brought up together. And the reader understands perfectly the relation which Anne and Genevieve bore to each other. A few brief, but somewhat embarrassing explanations took place, when the parties all so unexpectedly met in the cabin, upon the starting of the steamboat; and then mutual and sincere congratulations ensued.
The boy moved away as he saw them approaching, and retired to another part of the boat. A close observer could readily have perceived, that, from some cause, his mind was ill at ease. His face was pale and thin, and he seemed by no means possessed of the healthful vigor usual to boys of his age. He went far forward, upon the bow of the boat, and resting his arms upon the railing, stood looking with a vacant gaze upon the surface of the water. A heavy sigh soon told that his thoughts were busy with no pleasing subjects; and, as if to get rid of them, he got up from his half recumbent position, and commenced walking backwards and forwards. After the passage of half an hour, he moved towards the back part of the boat. His eyes rested upon Anne and Genevieve, seated alone, in earnest conversation, and he paused hesitatingly. Then, as if from a sudden resolution, he walked forward to where they were sitting, and stood before them.
"Ike, is it possible!" exclaimed at once, both Genevieve and Anne, looking with surprise and concern into the face of the pale and agitated boy.
"Yes, it is me; or at least all that is left of me," replied Ike Wilson — for it was none other than he — endeavoring to put on an unconcerned expression of countenance, as a means of controlling his feelings.
"Well, Ike, what are you doing now?" asked Genevieve, or Mrs. Anderson, in a voice of kind concern.
"I'm not doing anything just now, Miss Genevieve," he replied, and his voice trembled in spite of his efforts to seem composed, while his tone was sad and even desponding. "I've been ill for two months, and, of course, could not work much all that time. If it hadn't been that I was living with a kind-hearted, though very poor old woman, who, I believe, was good to me because she had a wild son who had gone away — I must have been sent to the poorhouse. After I got well enough to work, I could get nothing to do in Georgetown. I heard of work to be had in Fredericksburg; and the tender-hearted old woman stinted herself to lend me money enough to carry me there. But I'm afraid when I get there, that the place will be taken, and even if it is not, I may find it hard work to get in, for nobody likes to take a boy like me. I have been questioned so often and so closely, and have to tell so many downright lies about who I was and where I came from, that it makes me sick to think about it."
"Then, Ike, why don't you go home again?" said Anne, or Mrs. Marshall, as she was now to be called.
"Indeed, indeed, Miss Anne, I have wished a thousand times that I was back again into the old shop. But I'm afraid to go back. Mr. Hardamer, you know — asking your pardon, Miss Genevieve — is so cruel when he gets angry. And, if I were to go home alone, he could do anything he pleased with me."
"You needn't fear that, father will receive you back kindly," said Mrs. Anderson.
"I wish I could think so, Miss Genevieve," said the boy earnestly.
"I am sure he will," replied Mrs. Anderson. "Father, as well as some of the rest of us, you among the number, I perceive, has changed greatly in the last few months. He is besides, much reduced in circumstances, and your assistance would be a good deal to him."
The countenance of Ike brightened, and he replied —
"You almost make me feel desirous of going home. I call it home, for I have not felt as if I had any place to go to that I could really call home, since I went away."
"Be advised by us, Ike," said Mrs. Marshall, with kind concern. "Go directly back to Baltimore. Mrs. Anderson, here, will give you a letter to her father. I know, that will be all the introduction you need to give you a welcome back; for, her word, now, goes a good deal farther than it did when you were there. You will give him a letter, will you not, Genevieve?"
"That I will, right gladly — if he will go back," replied Mrs. Anderson.
"Then I'll go home," said Ike, emphatically. "That is, if I can get home."
"We'll arrange all that for you," said Mrs. Marshall.
"I shall never forget your goodness to me, Miss Anne! From the day you came into our house — I have had better desires than ever I had before. And many a time since I went away, has the good advice you gave us all, come back into my mind, and kept me from doing many things to which I was tempted. I don't know how it is; but I never resolved to do what was wrong — but I thought of you; and many a time, that thought has saved me from actions that would have brought me more troubles than any I have ever had."
Mr. Marshall, who was standing at a short distance when Ike came up, observed that he had entered into conversation with his young wife and her friend. Curiosity impelled him to draw near, and he heard, without being observed by him, the entire compliment paid by the boy to Anne. At the moment he ceased speaking, he recognized him, and extending his hand, he said —
"Why, how do you do, my young friend? This is the first time that I've seen you since the day you called to let me know where I should find this young lady," glancing at Anne, "I owe you a thousand thanks!"
"It was all for her sake," replied Ike, looking toward the person indicated. "And it was one, if the only, good action of my life."
"That's true, every word of it!" said Marshall. "Well, I like a whole-hearted friend, and Anne seemed to have no other."
"I think it almost time to dispense with compliments," remarked Anne, smiling, "and so I will give your thoughts a different direction. It is an old saying that one good turn deserves another; and as you seem to think Ike has rendered you a service, I propose, as he now stands in needs of a friend — that you hold yourself in that relation to him."
"That I will most cheerfully," replied Mr. Marshall. "And now tell me in what I can serve you?"
Ike hesitated to reply, and Anne said,
"He left Mr. Hardamer some months ago, and we have been persuading him to go back. From what he has said, I have concluded that he parted with nearly the last of his money when he paid his passage, and cannot, of course, return without aid."
"We'll soon arrange all that for him," replied Mr. Marshall, kindly. "And so you have made up your mind to go back?"
"Yes, sir. I haven't seen much peace since I went way. Somehow, or other, everything has gone wrong with me. I used to think, that if I was only my own master, and free to spend all the money I could earn — that I would be happy. But, after I went off, I was afraid to look for work in town, and had no money with which to pay for a passage to any other place. There were three of us, and we set off to walk all the way to Washington, the nearest point at which we could hope to get work. Altogether we had not above a dollar. At the end of the first day, we stopped at a house near the road, and asked for something to eat. We had been afraid to stop at the taverns for fear of being taken up for runaways; and were now very hungry and tired. At this house they gave us some bread and milk, but did not ask us to stay. We set out, after finishing our meal, with hearts something heavier than they were in the morning, for it was growing dark very fast. We had no prospect before us but that of keeping on all night, or laying down in some fence-corner to sleep. We were too much fatigued to do the former, so, after holding a consultation, we concluded to cross over an adjoining field to a haystack that was in sight, and try to rest as comfortable as possible.
"Here we made ourselves beds, and lay down, and so tired were we, that we soon fell asleep. It was broad daylight the next morning when I awoke, wet and cold. It had rained during the night, and my clothes were, in places, literally soaked with water. I was so hoarse that I could hardly speak, and so stiff that I moved myself with difficulty. Gradually, I recovered the use of my limbs, and we started on again. Not, however, until we had discussed to determine whether we should keep on — or go back and behave ourselves better, for we were already sick of our adventure. That night, at about nine o'clock, we arrived in Washington, even more tired than we were on the night previous. The whole of our dollar was gone, and we did not know a single individual in the city. For some time we wandered about the streets, hungry and fatigued, and were finally obliged to lie outside all night. We were really in a sad condition on the next morning; and so hungry that we were compelled to beg some bread. For my part, I do not ever recollect to have ever felt as wretched. My joints were so stiff that I could hardly walk. My skin was dry and hot, and a constant tickling in my throat kept me coughing all the while.
"For the greater part of that day, we strolled about the city and through the public buildings. As the day began again to decline, we agreed that it was best to separate, and each endeavor to provide some place of refuge for himself. I went over to Georgetown, and made application at a shop there for work.
"'What do you want with work, ha?' said the man I addressed, looking up at me from the bench on which he was seated, with a forbidding, half angry countenance.
"'I must have work, or I can't live!' said I, confounded and distressed at the rude reception I had received.
"'You'd better go back to your master,' he replied, looking down at his work, 'I don't harbor runaway apprentices.'
"I was confounded, and retreated hastily from the shop. 'How would he know that I had run away,' I said to myself, in alarm, as I walked on.
"I soon saw another shop, and into this I ventured. To my application for work, I was asked by a keen-looking man, where I had served my apprentice time.
"'In Washington,' I answered promptly.
"'Who with?' said the man.
"To this question, of course, I could not reply, for I did not know a single shoemaker in Washington. My hesitation and confusion betrayed the falsehood, and, suddenly turning from the man, I hurried again into the street.
"As I passed along, I observed a kind-hearted looking old woman standing in the door of a small house. 'Here is my last hope,' I thought to myself, and so, going up to her, I asked her if she could not give me something to eat, for I was very hungry. How my heart warmed under her pleasant smile and motherly voice! She at once told me to come in. It was nearly night, and her table was set, with a clean white cloth against one side of the room, ready for her supper. It contained a single plate, a knife and fork, and a cup and saucer, showing that the meal was preparing for herself alone. To her kind invitation, I seated myself, and tried to rest my wearied limbs. But I ached so all over, that freedom from motion was not rest. Very soon she brought in a large plate of toast, some cold meat, and the tea things. But when I attempted to eat, I found that my appetite craved but little food.
"'You are not well,' she said, looking me in the face with concern.
"'Indeed, ma'am, I do not feel very well,' I replied.
"She observed that I was troubled, and seemed much concerned.
"'Where are you going? Do you belong to Georgetown or the city?' she asked.
"I hesitated a moment, for my first lies had brought me off so badly; and I did not like deceiving one who was kind to me, and seemed so good.
"'I — I — am from Baltimore,' I replied.
"'Ah! indeed!' she said, brightening up. 'My boy went there a good many years ago, when he ran away from his master here,' she added, her voice sinking into a sad tone. 'Runaway apprentices never come to any good.'
"Her words smote upon my heart; and I turned my head away, so that she should not see the expression of my face. She observed the sudden movement, and, I suppose, the thought occurred to her that I might be a runaway apprentice.
"'I hope you haven't left your master?' she said, with evident concern.
"'Yes, ma'am, it is true,' I replied, my face reddening. 'But I was not well treated. If my master had been kind to me, nothing on earth could have induced me to have left him.'
"The old woman shook her head and seemed grieved.
"'You boys,' she said, 'are not good judges in these matters. And, even if you were not well treated, your condition was, I doubt not, better than it is now.'
"I could but acknowledge the truth of what she said; and she went on:
"'I have known a good many runaway apprentices in my time, and I never yet knew one that did not repent of what he had done, and wished himself back in his master's house a thousand times. It is always difficult for such a boy to get work, for he will be suspected, and few masters have any disposition to encourage runaways.'
"I did not reply to this, although I felt its truth; but rising from the table, I took off my coat, and rolled up my sleeve to exhibit to her two or three deep cuts which the cowhide of the constable had left upon my arm.
"'My back has nearly a dozen worse than those,' I said, 'and some of them clear through the skin; and, besides, I have twenty seams and scars there from previous floggings!'
"This touched the old woman's heart, and she said with much feeling —
"'Indeed, indeed, some boys have a hard time of it! But we won't talk any more about that. You want a good bed tonight; and cannot get one unless I provide it for you.'
"She then took me up into a little room, in which was a soft bed with snow white sheets. In ten minutes I was fast asleep, and did not awake until it was broad daylight. But I forget that you may not be as much interested as I am, in all this," he said, suddenly recollecting, that he was telling his story without being asked for it.
"Go on, by all means!" replied his listeners, each one of whom felt a warm interest in Ike.
"Well, on the next morning," he continued, "when I awoke long after sunrise, I found my joints so stiff that when I put my feet to the floor, I nearly fell over. My head reeled, and I ached with a sudden and dreadful pain. I was forced to get into the bed again. I cannot tell you how bad I felt. Sick and penniless, and in a strange place. After a while, the old woman came up, and as soon as she saw me, she said,
"'I am afraid you are not well!'
"'Indeed, ma'am,' I replied 'I feel very ill, and my limbs are so stiff that I cannot stand on my feet.'
"'Then you had better lie quiet for today!' she said, kindly, 'I will bring you up a cup of tea, and something to eat!' and so saying, she went downstairs.
"'I never felt so strange as I did when she left the room. Never, since my own mother died, had anyone who seemed so much like her, been kind to me. It choked me right up, and made a baby of me. In about half an hour, she came up, bringing a tub of water. She then bathed my feet with her own hands; and, after she had dried and rubbed them with a towel, she went down again and brought me a large bowl of tea. After I drank this off, she sat by me for some time, looking me all the while in the face, and seeming pleased at the kind service she was rendering me. In a little while, the perspiration broke out all over me, and I gradually sank again into sleep. When I awoke, I felt much better, and wanted to get up, but the kind old woman would not let me. On the next morning I was much better, and after I had dressed myself and eaten my breakfast, I prepared to go out again in search of work.
"The repulses I had already met, and the close questionings which I expected to meet, made me dread the task. But it had to be done, and so I went out.
"'Come back at dinner time,' said Mrs. Armor — for that was her name — as I left the door.
"After I was in the street, my heart failed me. I so dreaded to go into a boot-maker's shop, that I finally determined to walk over to Washington, and see if I could meet with Tom or Bill. I thought that, perhaps, they had been more successful than I had in looking for work. As I came along the street which runs from the bridge to the public offices, I looked through a window and saw three or four boys at work upon their benches. How I did envy them! And how I blamed myself for having so foolishly left my master. I thought, at first, that I would go into this shop and ask for work. But as I turned to enter the door, the thought of a rebuff discouraged me, and I kept on towards the city. Here I wandered about from street to street, and at last found myself at the capitol. On entering, the first people I saw were Bill and Tom.
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