The Shoemaker's Daughters CHAPTER 3.
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"What do you think of Genevieve?" said Willis to Anderson, drawing his arm within that of the latter, as they left the residence of Mr. Hardamer, after spending from two to three hours there on the night the girls had been so distressingly annoyed by Ike's hammer and lapstone.
"She's rather tough to swallow, Willis; but then the old man's got the 'gooseberries,' and I'm devilishly in need of money."
"Well, if you want her, stand up like a man, and she's yours."
"But how's the old chap? Is he at all come-at-able? Because, you see, Genevieve with the rhino and Genevieve without the rhino, are not in my eyes one and the same person."
"I understand. But I don't know exactly about that matter. He's an industrious, hard-working old fellow, and I would judge that he would not look with very favorable eyes, upon a young student of medicine, who may or may not graduate in the next twelve months; and even if he should, has no practice on which to support a wife."
"That does look a little blue; but then he needn't know all that. Its easy enough to talk of my father's splendid farm in Virginia, stocked with five hundred black workers; where we will go and live like a lord and lady."
"I suspect he's too old a head to be caught with that chaff; still, the game's worth shooting at."
"I can bring down the game easy enough. But then I don't want an empty craw, you see; that's the chief business."
"You'll have to feed Genevieve up, and trust to her stuffing the old man. She'll believe any story you may tell her."
"Yes, I see that. She almost coaxes me to deceive her. But, tell me, have you any notion of Genevra?"
"Not exactly!"
"What takes you there, then!"
"To pass the time away, of course. I have twenty young ladies that I call on every month. I would be sorry if I was suspected of having a notion to all of them."
"What do you think the old fellow is worth, Willis?"
"That's more than I can tell."
"But, what do you think? I've heard his property estimated at a hundred thousand dollars. Do you think he is worth that much?"
"Hardly. And even if he was, it wouldn't go far among six daughters."
"He hasn't that many, has he? I thought there were only three."
"Yes, he has, though. There are three younger ones."
"Wow! That alters the case. I've been calculating on a neat little plum valued at something like thirty thousand dollars. With that much I could afford to have the poetical Miss Genevieve quartered off upon me. But half that sum is too little."
"I've no idea that he's worth a hundred thousand dollars, myself," said Willis. "He may be, but I doubt it."
"What reason have you for doubting it?"
"No particular reason — It's only a notion of my own."
Anderson went home to his room that night, and found upon his table three letters, each containing an earnest demand for money. His pockets were empty; the small sum allowed him by his father for his incidental expenses having been all squandered weeks before, nothing more he knew could be expected in that quarter before the usual period, for his father was a poor farmer in Virginia, who found it as much as he could do to meet the expenses of a large family at home, and spare from his slender income, the sum of five hundred dollars a year, to carry his son through a course of medical studies in Baltimore.
That son, as may be supposed, but poorly appreciated the sacrifice which his father made to give him an honorable start in the world. Already he had spent two years and a half in Baltimore, and in the ensuing winter, he must offer for graduation. How little he had improved his time, may be known from the fact, that his preceptor had but a few weeks previous to his introduction to the reader, felt it his duty to admonish him in strong terms, and to represent it as being very doubtful whether he could get a diploma, unless he applied himself with vigorous attention for the next few months.
His own case seemed to himself to be rather a hopeless one, in view of accumulated debts and accumulated desires. And the only remedy he could hit upon, was to marry a rich wife. He had tried for some time to get introductions to rich girls, but the few he had met seemed to take but little fancy to him, until accident threw him in the way of Miss Genevieve Hardamer. The usual question, "Is she rich?" always asked by him, on being introduced to a new face, having been answered by the pleasing information that her father was worth at least a hundred thousand dollars, he determined to follow up the pursuit without delay. He was somewhat disappointed in the lady, and a little dampened in his ardor by the information that the interesting sisters were six in number. But after reading over his demands for payment, and reflecting seriously upon the prospect before him, he came to the conclusion that, as it was the first fair chance for a rich wife he had met with, he had better not let it slip.
On the third evening after his visit, he called, a second time, on Miss Genevieve, and, on leaving at eleven o'clock, proposed a walk with her on the next evening.
"I shall be most happy to walk out," she said, hardly able to keep down her exuberant feelings at the idea of having, at last, got a nice young fellow snared.
Punctual to his engagement, Anderson called, and in a few minutes, Genevieve's arm was trembling in his. They extended their walk, as it was a bright moonlight night, out Calvert Street to the Waterloo Row, and then crossed over into Belvidere Street, and out to the bridge. This was, at that time, a very fashionable evening walk, and hundreds strolled out every moonlight night.
Anderson modified his voice to the gentlest and softest tones, and talked of brooks, fountains, and green meadows, until Genevieve's poor head was almost turned. He frequently alluded to his father's beautiful place in Virginia, and spoke of it as a little paradise. His sisters, he said, were dear good girls, and were all impatient for him to return home.
"How I should like to live in Virginia," said Genevieve, as Anderson dwelt upon the lovely spot he called his home. "I have always admired the Virginian character."
"They are a fine, frank, hospitable people. Somewhat proud, it is true. But then, we have something to be proud of," said Anderson, elevating his bead, and stepping forward with a bearing as dignified as he could assume.
"Virginia's a great ways off; more than a thousand miles, isn't it?" asked Genevieve.
"Oh, no. It's not a hundred miles to some parts of it. Our place is about two hundred miles from here."
"Is that all? I always thought it was such a distance! How long does it take to go there?"
"I can easily go home in a couple of days. You go down the Potomac River in the steamboat."
"Ah, indeed! Is the Potomac a river? Why I always thought the Potomac was a tavern. I heard father say, once, when he went to Washington, that he stayed at the Potomac House."
"That tavern was called after the river. The Potomac is a splendid stream running into the Chesapeake Bay."
"I've often heard of this Chesapeake Bay; where is it, Mr. Anderson? But, perhaps I'm too inquisitive."
"Don't you really know where the Chesapeake Bay is, Miss Genevieve?" asked Anderson in astonishment.
"Indeed, I do not, sir. I never was very proficient in geography. It was such a dry study. I remember a little about the maps; and before I left school, could easily find places, when our mistress would point out on the edges of them the latitude and longitude. But I never could recollect much about it, except, that Greenland and Lapland were in the North pole; and that the Torrid Zone was situated in the Autumnal Equinox."
Anderson felt too solemn to laugh; for it was no pleasant discovery for him, that the only being who was likely to make him a rich wife, was, as near as could be — a fool.
He did not make any answer, and she ran on: "Our teacher used to tell us that Italy was shaped like a boot, and I remember tracing the red and blue lines all around with a pin one day; but I never could find it again, though I have often looked all over my old school atlas for it. Byron used to live in Italy. When I found that out, I was anxious to see it on the map. We were talking about Byron the other night. I've read the Bride of Abydos since I saw you. It is a glorious thing."
"There is no doubt of that," said Anderson, pleased that Genevieve had so promptly read the poem after his recommendation.
"You said just now that you would like to live in Virginia," continued Anderson. "Were you really in earnest?"
"Indeed I was," she replied trembling all over, and pressing closer to his side. "I've always had an idea that it was a delightful place. Pocahontas, the Indian Queen, lived there once."
"How would you like to go there?" he said, acting upon a desperate resolution to bring matters to a speedy close.
"I would like it of all things in the world," replied Genevieve, fully understanding her part.
"If I were to ask you to go there with me, what would you say?" he continued, advancing a little nearer to the point.
"How would I go with you, Mr. Anderson? I don't understand you?" she said in feigned surprise.
"Go as my wife, of course! You don't know how dear you are to me, Genevieve. I couldn't live without you. Since I first saw you, I haven't slept an hour at a time, and tonight I am determined to know my fate. Don't say no to my suit, or I shall die, dear Genevieve!" he continued, taking her hand. "Have I anything to hope?"
"Oh, sir! Oh, sir! I shall faint! Who would have thought it? Don't let me fall!" ejaculated the astonished maiden, leaning her full weight against her enamored swain. "There! Let me sit down!" she continued in a faint voice.
It so happened that they were at the bridge when this scene occurred, and Anderson gently eased her down upon one of the stone elevations that rise at each end.
"Oh, dear! — Oh, dear!" she continued to ejaculate, in an agitated manner. "It took me so suddenly!"
Gradually she recovered herself, and soon cast upon Anderson, the most loving glances.
"I have won the prize!" he said, pressing her hand to his heart, as his eyes caught her meaningful looks.
"I loved you from the moment I first saw you," she said, more calmly; "but dared not hope it was returned."
"You are as dear to me as the apple of my eye, and have been from the first," replied Anderson, in passionate tones.
But enough of this. That night, neither Genevieve nor her lover, as he had declared himself, slept much. She, from excess of delight, had no inclination to sleep, and he, from very different emotions, lay awake hour after hour. At times he repented of the rash step he had taken; but his embarrassed financial condition would then stare him in the face, and reconcile him to the revolting necessity. He could not conceal from himself, that he had the most unconquerable aversion for Genevieve, but it was quite as apparent, that he had a tender regard for her father's money. But the old man could not like him, and when he asked for his daughter, gave him a peremptory denial. He had his own reasons for this. It was useless to talk of his rich father in Virginia. He knew too much about his unpaid tailor's and bootmaker's bills.
Presuming upon the forgiving disposition of all fathers, Anderson proposed an elopement, and in two or three weeks from the time old Hardamer had refused to give the hand of his daughter to a young, idle spendthrift — that daughter, who thought herself a little wiser than her father, took the responsibility of giving herself away.
Since her father's refusal to countenance the visits of Anderson, he had ceased coming to the house. But Genevieve had contrived to meet him at a friend's, and one night, at eleven o'clock, she failed to return home as usual. Her absence, up to that hour, was thought to be nothing remarkable, for all the girls were in the habit of running about with beaux, or visiting at the houses of acquaintances, until ten or eleven o'clock, almost every night.
After sitting up until one o'clock for their sister, Gertrude and Genevra became alarmed on account of her absence, and awakened the old folks.
"Where can she be, Gertrude?" asked the mother with a strong expression of anxiety.
"Indeed, ma, I can't tell. She never stayed out so late before."
"Has she ever seen that worthless chap, Anderson, since I forbid him the house?" asked her father abruptly.
"Yes sir, I believe she has seen him pretty often since," said Genevra.
"Then the matter's explained!"
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Hardamer, in alarm.
"Why, it's as likely as not, she's run off with that idle student; she's fool enough!" replied Hardamer, angrily.
"It's impossible!" said the mother, bursting into tears.
"Don't believe the half of it! She's been crazy for a husband for five years, and has been ready, for some time, to take the first offer," responded Hardamer, bitterly. "If she really has married that fellow though, she must not expect anything from me, for I will have nothing to do with him, or her either." And so saying, the incensed father retired to his room.
For an hour longer did the mother and the two daughters sit up, in the vain hope that Genevieve would return. As the clock struck two, they all retired with heavy hearts.
About ten o'clock on the next morning, a letter was brought to Hardamer, which, upon breaking open, he found to run thus:
"Dear father and mother: Will you forgive your child for her first act of disobedience? Contrary to your wishes and commands, I have married Mr. Anderson. He is all you could desire in the husband of your daughter. Only consent to cheer us with your smiles and approval, and we shall be too happy. But if you will not forgive your child, she will never more know peace or contentment. I am at Mrs. Dudley's, and am trembling with anxiety to hear from you. Your affectionate child, Genevieve."
"It's just as I suspected!" said Hardamer, entering the room in which his wife sat sewing. "The hussy has married Anderson in spite of us!"
"You cannot be in earnest!" exclaimed the mother, dropping the work from her hands.
"Yes I am. Just listen to this!" and he read her the letter he had received from Genevieve.
"She's made her own bed — and she can lie in it!" said her mother, resuming the work that had fallen upon the floor.
"So I say! Let her eat the bread of her own baking!" and Hardamer turned away abruptly, and entered the shop.
"Have you sent the letter yet?" said Anderson to his young wife, on the morning after the marriage.
"Yes, my love, an hour ago."
"Isn't it strange that none of your family has come yet?"
"It takes the girls a good while to dress, and I suppose they're all coming along. They'll be here pretty soon, now."
"Do you think there's any danger of your father's being stiff about the matter?" he asked, in a tone indicating some concern.
"O no, my love, none in the least. He'll be quiet enough, now that it's all over."
"I hope so."
"Never fear, I know him," said Genevieve.
Another hour passed, and yet there had been neither visit nor message.
"What can it mean, Genevieve?"
"I can't exactly understand it, my love," she answered, her face indicating considerable anxiety.
"Perhaps your messenger did not deliver your letter to the right person. Suppose I call him up and question him."
The boy who was sent with the letter was now called and interrogated. He testified, that he knew Mr. Hardamer very well by sight, and that he had placed the letter in his own hands.
"Surely they will not cast you off!" said Anderson, after the boy had retired.
"Impossible!" responded Genevieve, emphatically.
"What can it mean, then?"
"Indeed I don't know," said Genevieve, bursting into tears.
Anderson shook his head, and the young couple sat for ten minutes in silence.
"We've got each other, my love," at length said the bride, looking up into the face of her husband, and entwining an arm around his neck, "They can't rob us of each other, and we will be happy in spite of their cruel neglect."
This was a view of the case that was not at all flattering to the mind of Anderson. The more intimate became his acquaintance with Genevieve, the more detestable did she appear, viewed apart from the "gooseberries." He did not, for he could not, return her fond caresses, or respond to her affectionate expressions. This coldness, so unexpected, completely turned the current of the young bride's feelings, and she burst into tears.
"You don't love me, I'm sure you don't!" she said, laying her head upon his shoulder.
"You are as dear to me as life!" he instantly replied, drawing his arm tightly around her, for he could not so suddenly give up the cherished idea of sharing with her a few of her father's hard-earned dollars.
"Then I am so happy!" she said, smiling through her tears.
The announcement in the newspapers, of his having married old Hardamer's daughter, brought down upon him all of his creditors, who, from long fasting, had become as hungry and as importunate as wolves! This state of uncertainty, therefore, could not long be endured; more particularly, as his landlady had become a little pressing about her rent.
A whole week passed, and not even an inquiry had been made after them, by any of Genevieve's family. Urged on by Anderson, she had written three letters in the interval, but they all remained unanswered. At the end of that time, Genevieve, at the suggestion of her husband, determined to go home, and try to reconcile matters. Much against her will, for Genevieve was more incensed than troubled about the neglect of her parents and sisters, did she proceed, a week after her marriage, to her father's house. Her two grown up sisters were, as usual, in the parlor, one reading a novel, and the other thrumming the piano.
"Well, Genevieve!" drawled out Gertrude, not even rising. Genevra did manage to come forward, and offer her hand.
"Where's Ma?" Genevieve asked, in considerable agitation.
"Gone to market," again drawled out Gertrude, turning over a music book and resuming her practice.
"Will she be home soon, Genevra?" Genevieve ventured to ask, her eyes filling with tears.
"I expect she will, she's been gone a good while. Won't you take off your bonnet?"
"No, I believe not. I can't stay long."
But few more words passed between the sisters for the next half hour, at the end of which time, Mrs. Hardamer returned.
"Who sent for you, my lady?" was the salutation with which she met her daughter.
Genevieve looked at her for a moment, and bursting into tears, arose and left the house, without the least effort being made to detain her.
"If ever I go back there, I wish I may die!" she exclaimed, passionately, on entering the chamber, where sat, in all impatience, her expectant husband.
"What do you mean?" he asked in alarm, rising to his feet.
"I mean what I say! They didn't treat me like a human being, and I'll never go near them again!"
"Did you see the old man?"
"No, I did not!"
"But, why didn't you see him?"
"Because, there had been no use in it!"
"But you don't know that. No man can be hard-hearted enough to turn away from his daughter, when she asks for his forgiveness."
"I've nothing to ask his forgiveness for. Besides, you don't know him as I do. He's as stubborn as a mule when he once sets his head."
"But you never said this before! You always held out the idea, that he'd be easily enough managed, after it was all over."
"Well, suppose that I did. It was only to ease your mind on the score of the great sacrifice I was making."
"The devil it was!" ejaculated Anderson, in undisguised astonishment.
Now, this was too much for any young bride to bear, before the honeymoon was over, and she very naturally gave way to a flood of tears.
A weeping wife is never a very interesting sight to a husband; more especially, if there is but a trifle of real love in the case; and this effusion of tears had but little effect upon the heart of Anderson, except to harden it towards her.
Rap, rap, rap, sounded on the door, and Anderson opened it with some misgivings.
"Mr. Wilson says that he needs that money that you owe him, today!" said a dirty little urchin, in a loud voice, pushing a bill at him.
"Tell Mr. Wilson to go to H___!" replied Anderson, slamming the door in the boy's face, and retreating to a chair, at the opposite side of the room from where his wife was sitting.
His words fell like ice upon the heart of Genevieve. A suspicion of the real truth flashed across her mind. Could it be possible that she had been deceived? But she dashed the dreadful thought from her mind.
After sitting for half an hour in silence, Anderson took his hat, and left the house without saying a word. He felt completely caught in his own trap. If she brought nothing with her, what was he to do with a disagreeable wife, especially as he had not a single dollar in the world, and was over head and ears, as the saying is, in debt?
"A fine piece of work this!" he muttered to himself, as he hurried along the street. "If that old rascal isn't brought to reason, I shall have to run away — or hang myself!"
"Good morning, Mr. Anderson! You are the very man I am looking for," said a well-known officer, smiling blandly as he addressed the young student.
"I can't say that I am much delighted at seeing you, then."
"That's hardly fair, Mr. Anderson. But, jesting aside. There's a little affair of yours down at squire Miltenberger's that I wish you'd arrange some time for today."
"Whose is it?"
"Old Lawson's, the bootmaker. He's a little impatient to share in your good fortune," replied the officer, smiling at his own humor.
"It's the last time I'll patronize the old scoundrel!" said Anderson, in an offended tone. "But never mind; I'll arrange it before night."
"Do, if you please," said the officer, bowing, and again Anderson was moving along with no companion but his own thoughts.
"A cursed fix I'm now in, aren't I!" he said, half aloud. "A rich wife, and not a penny with her. But it's folly to despair yet. The old snob will come to, by and by; he's only acting a little stiff, to show off. He ought to be proud of the connection!" And the young man walked along with a dignified pace, for the next half square, in the pride of self-importance.
But, Anderson was mistaken. Hardamer was so incensed at his daughter, and so displeased with all he could learn of Anderson, that he would take no notice of them. After two months, during which time the young couple lived in open rupture, Anderson found it impossible longer to keep free from jail. Waiting just long enough to get his quarterly remittance of one hundred and twenty-five dollars from his father, who had been kept in ignorance of his marriage — he pocketed the money, and left the city. He did not even leave a note behind for his wife.
A sad time, the poor girl had she of it afterwards. On the third day after Anderson had failed to make his appearance, his wife received notice from her landlady to leave the home, as she could not afford to keep her any longer for nothing. This communication was made in no very choice terms, and wound up as follows:
"And, if you'll take my advice, you'll go home to your father, for not much good will ever come to you of living with Mr. Anderson, let me tell you that, even if he should show himself again; though I've no notion that ever he will."
Genevieve burst into tears, and cried and sobbed as if her heart would break. This exhibition of distress touched, in some degree, the feelings of the landlady, and she said, with more kindness of manner —
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Anderson — I wouldn't do that for the world. But, I'm serious, when I tell you as a friend, that you would build on a vain hope, if you calculated much upon a return of your husband. He's over head and ears in debt to everyone, and has gone off, I have little doubt, to get clear of it."
"Don't talk to me in that way, madam! You cannot, surely, be in earnest? But even if he is gone home to Virginia, he will send for me directly."
"His father, if I am rightly informed," replied the landlady, "is a poor farmer, with a large family, who has stinted all the rest, to make a doctor of this one. Having trifled with his father's kindness, and abused his confidence, he will hardly go back to him."
"O madam! what you say cannot be true!" exclaimed Genevieve, the tears flowing afresh from her eyes.
"It is all too true, Mrs. Anderson, and sorry am I to have to tell you so. Anderson expected to get a fortune with you, but having been disappointed in this expectation, and being overwhelmed with debt — he has left you."
There was too much evidence in Genevieve's mind to enable her to reject, fully, her plainspoken landlady's statement, and, overwhelmed at the idea of her situation, she covered her face with her hands, and rocking her body backwards and forwards, murmured —
"What shall I do? What shall I do?"
"Go home at once to your father, Mrs. Anderson," said her landlady.
"But father won't see me, nor allow me to come to the house."
"Then you are in a bad way, poor thing!"
"May not I stay here a little while, ma'am," she said, meekly, looking through her tears, imploringly, into the landlady's face.
The feelings of the latter, not usually very sensitive, were touched, and wiping the moisture from her eyes, she said —
"Certainly, Mrs. Anderson, for a little while. But, you know, I can't afford to keep you long; and so you'd better make fair weather with your folks as quick as possible."
If there is anything of good remaining in the heart — circumstances of trial and affliction will develop it. It may lie hidden for years, like fire in the steel, but rough collision will reveal the spark. This is one of the principal uses of adversity.
"I have done wrong," said Mrs. Anderson, mentally, after an hour's afflicting communion with her own thoughts. Now, this simple conclusion and acknowledgment, indicated that beneath all the false pride and vain desires of Genevieve, there lay concealed, some good principles, by which she might be elevated from an evil and a false — into a good and a true character. Had these shown themselves under different circumstances, they might have been trampled upon and extinguished. But they were kept concealed and protected, until the right moment.
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