The Shoemaker's Daughters CHAPTER 8.
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We change the scene, now, to a farmhouse in Virginia. It is small and neat, and stands on a slight eminence, overlooking, on either side, a well cultivated farm of some three hundred acres. An elderly man is walking backwards and forwards before the door of the dwelling, in the cool of the evening, and by his side is a young man in earnest conversation with him. Sometimes the elder of the two walks forward rapidly, and sometimes pauses and looks into the face of his companion with an expression of painful surprise. Let us approach them. The old man is speaking.
"How could you keep this so long from me, William?"
"I have not had the heart to mention it, father. My wrongdoings so distressed you, that I dared not mention this, until an oppressing sense of duty has forced from me the unwilling confession."
"And you have not heard from her during all the past year?"
"Never once. I left her without even an intimation of my intention to go away. She knows not whether I am dead or alive. And I am ignorant of her condition."
"O, my son! How could you find it in your heart to act thus?"
"No one knows, father, how far from right principles he may be led, until he begins to allow his feet to diverge from the ways of rectitude. I wasted the money your labor procured for me, became involved in debt, and married to obtain money to extricate myself from my difficulties. The father of my wife, displeased with our marriage, which was a secret one, would have nothing to do with us; and, heartily disliking the woman I had married — I left her to her fate. No doubt her father received her as soon as he was sure I had left the city."
"Merciful Heaven!" ejaculated the old man, clasping his hands, and lifting his eyes upwards.
"It was a wicked thing, father," responded the young man in a subdued tone, "but, if not too late, I would gladly retrace some of my steps."
"It is never too late, my son, to make an effort to repair our wrong doings. You must go to Baltimore, and bring home your wife."
"That is just what I wish to do. I cannot say that I ever had any affection for her, but duty, now, must take the place of love."
"Under any circumstances, we must do our duty," said the father. "I'm afraid this will almost break your mother's heart. In all your wandering from right, she never thought you capable of such an act. But I must break it to her this evening, for tomorrow you must leave for Baltimore. Not a day should be lost, for no one can tell what a day may bring forth."
Both now entered the house, and the mother met them at the door. Her eyes had often turned towards them, from the window, with an expression of concern, while they walked before the house, for she saw that they were conversing on some subject of painful interest; and now she looked into each face, with a glance of earnest inquiry. The young man could not withstand that look, for the tears filled his eyes, and he passed her hurriedly.
"Let me know all, John," said the mother, looking into her husband's face with an appealing expression. "It is better that I should know all."
"Perhaps it is," said the old man. "Our William married more than a year ago, and deserted his young wife in a few weeks."
"Father of mercies!" ejaculated the mother in a low, subdued tone of voice, lifting upwards her aged eyes, and clasping her hands together. The young man saw the movement from the adjoining room, and understood its meaning too well. Covering his face with his hands, he leaned against the wall, and groaned aloud. That groan of deep and heart-aching distress reached the mother's ears, and turned the tide of her feelings. Instantly she went into him, and, taking his hand, said, in a broken voice, while the tears rained down her cheeks —
"My son, the past cannot be recalled; but the present must do all that can be done to atone for the past. Who, or what, is the woman you have married."
"Not such a woman as I ought to have made the daughter of so good a mother. But she is respectable, moves in good society, and her father is rich."
"Then, William, how could you desert her?"
"Because I married her, like a villain, only for her money. Failing to get that from her prudent old father, who was displeased at the marriage, I left her."
"O, my son!" replied his mother, greatly moved, "what a world of trouble have you brought upon yourself. But, I trust it is not yet too late to repair, in some degree, the injuryyou have done. You must go for her, and bring her home, if she will return with you."
"That is just what I wish to do. But you will not find her, I fear, all that you could wish. She is the eldest of three grown up sisters, who have been brought up in idleness, are poorly educated in anything substantial, and full of false notions. They are proud and envious, and, of course, weak-minded."
"Let us hope that a year of painful disappointment may have greatly changed her. Affliction and trouble do wonders for us, sometimes."
"True, mother, for I am a living witness of their transforming ability."
"I think your father should go with you. You have deceived the family once, and her father would act wisely to put no further confidence in you," said the mother.
"She is right," responded the father. "But I cannot be ready for several days."
"Then I had better wait, father, for I fear to go alone, lest she refuse to return with me."
The reader, of course, recognizes, in this family, that of Anderson, who married Genevieve Hardamer. He had gone off to the South, and his money very soon becoming exhausted, he joined a club of gamblers, and lived upon the dishonest gains of his craft for six or seven months, when he was taken ill with a southern fever. From this he recovered, after great and protracted suffering — a changed man, at least so far as intention was concerned. He immediately returned home, and joined his father in the honest toil of a farmer. Gradually his better feelings gained strength, and he continued to bring out into action what he saw to be right, at the same time steadily resisting his wrong desires. Finally, he perceived it to be his duty to return to his wife, and, acting out the principle of obedience — he made known to his father the painful secret that was weighing upon his mind.
A single year will often work wonderful changes.
We have advanced the reader a full twelve months in the history of Anderson; let us go back and bring up the rest of our characters.
The novel serenade which had been given for the benefit of Misses Gertrude and Genevra, did not fall upon their ears alone. The air is an unselfish element, and never can be bought over to subserve purely selfish feelings; and so, on the occasion alluded to, it diffused the harsh din around, as liberally as if it had been the sweetest melody. A knowledge of the circumstance spread, and soon became known far and near, as an excellent piece of fun. Nor did the Misses Hardamer escape the annoyance of its being known, for there are always in society, those who delight in telling unpleasant news, and several of these individuals were among the young ladies' acquaintances, and took especial pains to let them know all that was said about it in connection with their names. The mortification was, to them, a terrible one.
Gertrude insisted upon it that Tom was one of the company, for it was a well-known fact, she urged, that he could imitate the squeaking of pigs to perfection.
"That may all be true enough," her father would reply, who had his own suspicions, and his own reasons for not wishing them confirmed, "But I found Tom in bed when I went up into the garret directly after. How could he have been there — and in the street at the same time?"
"But Millie says," she replied, one day, after this oft-repeated answer, "that Tom and the other boys are out until twelve o'clock almost every night, and that they climb up on the roof of the back building, and get in at the garret window when they come home. I have no doubt but that he came in that way after his outrageous conduct, and got into bed before you thought of going into the garret."
"Does Millie say that?" asked her father quickly.
"Yes, indeed, she does."
"Call her up!" he said.
Millie soon made her appearance.
"Did you say that the boys were out almost every night until twelve and one o'clock, and that they get in by climbing up over the back building?" said Hardamer, sternly.
Millie looked at Gertrude and hesitated.
"Do you hear? you black wench!" he said angrily.
"I believe I did say so," replied Millie.
"You believe you did? Don't you know that you did? ha!"
"Perhaps I did. But I only thought so," said Millie, who had no wish to become an informer against the boys.
"What right had you to think so, ha?" said her master.
"I don't, sir," responded Millie, with a most silly expression and tone.
"Clear out into the kitchen you stupid hussy, you!" said Hardamer, in a loud angry voice, assuming, at the same time, a threatening attitude.
Millie retreated in confusion to her own part of the house.
"I don't make anything out of this," resumed Hardamer; "but I'll catch them at their capers if they cut any." And so saying, he went downstairs into the shop. It was just about half-past three o'clock, and, as he entered the back door, a notary entered the front door of his shop, and presented him with a protest. It was a note of five thousand dollars, which he had endorsed for a large shoe-dealer up town, and was the first of five, all of which would become due in the course of the next sixty days.
"Have you heard the news?" asked a neighbor, stepping in at the moment; "Mr. Sutemeyer, the large shoe-dealer, has failed; and it is said to be a desperate bad affair. He won't be able to pay more than fifty cents in the dollar."
"Then I'm a ruined man!" exclaimed Hardamer, sinking back upon a chair.
The rumor was too true. Within the next two months, Hardamer's property was thrown into the market, and forced sales effected at ruinous prices. His credit was saved, but it was at the expense of nearly all he was worth. Common estimation had named his property far above its real value. His daughters had looked upon it as almost inexhaustible. But a loss of twenty-five thousand dollars, or, rather, a sacrifice of property, valued at forty thousand dollars, took nearly everything he was worth.
To be thrown back, thus, at his age, with a large family, tended in no degree to soothe a temper, naturally overbearing and irritable. All he now had left, was the house, in which was his shop and dwelling, his stock of boots, shoes, leather, etc., and about one thousand dollars in turnpike road stock, twenty percent below par. To this scrip, he had been holding on for the last three years, in hopes that it would rise to par, but, now, a pressing demand for money in his business, required him to sell, just as there was some indication of an improvement; and eight hundred dollars were received for what originally cost him one thousand.
Before selling, however, he made an effort to raise a few hundred dollars, in hopes that the stock would go up speedily. Waiting upon an old friend, between whom and himself had passed numerous business favors during the ten years previous, he asked him for the loan of a note of five hundred dollars.
"H-h-hem! Mr. Hardamer. What secu — " and the old friend paused as if unwilling to utter the word.
"Security did you mean to say, sir?" asked Hardamer, his face flushed.
"Ye-ye-yes, Mr. Hardamer, that is what I meant to say. Things have changed a little of late. We have to be cautious you know."
"I want to know sir, if you mean to say, that because I am unfortunate, I am no longer honest!" said Hardamer, placing himself before his old friend, and looking him fiercely in the face.
"No, I did not mean to say any such thing," he replied, much embarrassed. "But you are too sensitive; you cannot, reasonably, expect to get favors, now that you are reduced, such as were readily extended to you before the failure that stripped you of nearly everything."
Hardamer looked him a moment in the face with a strong expression of contempt, and turning upon his heel, left without uttering a word in reply.
Returning to his shop, he resolved to sell his scrip at once. But the necessity of losing two hundred dollars on it, was by no means a pleasant idea, and he finally concluded to call upon a certain individual who could always procure a loan, on good security, for a consideration.
"I need five hundred dollars," said Hardamer, entering the office of this certain individual, in the neighborhood of the Exchange.
"I don't know what to say, Mr. Hardamer; money's dreadful tight just now," replied the broker, who knew the real status of every business man in town.
"Well, what if it is tight?" said the applicant, pettishly, "I've good security to offer."
"Whose note is it?" asked the broker in an indifferent tone.
"It's to be my own note, with collateral in the shape of ten shares of Turnpike Road Stock."
"That stock's poor stuff!" remarked the broker, in a calm, deliberate tone.
"It is worth eighty dollars now, and is rising," said Hardamer.
"You couldn't force a sale at seventy," replied the broker.
"Why, it's quoted at eighty-one, this morning."
The broker compressed his lips, turned up his nasal protuberance a little, and gave his head a knowing toss.
"What do you mean by that," asked Hardamer, a little irritated.
"There isn't a particle of rise — in fact, the market has a downward tendency."
"Well, up or down, Mr. Centum, will you lend me five hundred dollars for sixty days on this security?" said Hardamer, decidedly.
"I'm afraid not," replied Mr. Centum.
"Then I must bid you good day," said Hardamer, rising.
As he was about leaving the door, the broker remarked, in a quiet, careless tone, that he knew a man who might probably lend on it; and that if he was particularly in need of the money, he would try and make the negotiation for him, as a personal favor.
The bait took. Hardamer expressed his gratitude for the kind offer, and promised to call in an hour. In an hour, he was again at the office of Mr. Centum.
"Well, what was the result of your application?" he asked, with evident anxiety.
"He didn't seem much inclined," replied the broker, coldly. "Has no confidence in the security."
"Why, I am sure the security is safe and ample."
"You may think so, but he don't," replied Mr. Centum. "However, I saw an old chap who does things in this line whenever he can make a good job. He's willing to make the loan, but I'm afraid the terms are too hard. The old fellow hasn't much conscience left."
"Well, what does he ask?" inquired Hardamer, with nervous impatience.
"I almost hate to name it," said the broker. "He offers to let you have four hundred and fifty dollars for sixty days, for your note of five hundred dollars, secured by a provisional transfer of the stock."
"That's five percent a month! You are not in earnest, certainly!" exclaimed Hardamer, in indignant astonishment.
"Yes, I am, I do assure you. That is the best I can do for you; but it is a ruinous discount," said Mr. Centum, sympathizingly.
"I'll sell my stock first!" responded Hardamer, warmly, "I am not going to be swindled in that way."
"Perhaps, in the course of tomorrow, I might be able to do something better for you," said the broker, who found that he had attempted to go rather too deep into his customer's pocket.
On the next day Hardamer called on him again. "Do things look any brighter today?" he said, putting on as cheerful a countenance as possible.
"I've seen several people since yesterday," replied Mr. Centum, "and the best I can do for you is four percent a month, besides my commission.
Hardamer turned upon his heel and left the office. That day he sold his stock for eight hundred dollars. The money realized on this sale was soon exhausted in the payment of sundry regular business notes. Others were still out. To meet these, now became a serious matter, for, although his business continued good, his expenses were very heavy, causing a constant and large drain of money. His ledger showed a fair balance of "good accounts," but every tradesman knows how much to calculate upon "good accounts" in a time of need.
It was about two months from the time of his first interview with the broker, that Hardamer found the day on which a note drawn for three hundred dollars was approaching with unwelcome rapidity. All that he could do in the way of pushing collections among his numerous "good" customers, availed but little in making up the desired amount. His attempt to borrow a note from an old business friend, had convinced him that his fair reputation had departed with his money, and his proud spirit turned from the idea of again asking a favorof anyone, and running the risk of refusal and insult. But time rolled on, even until the day of payment, and he was still short about one hundred and fifty dollars. All attempts to force collections farther for that day, were abandoned about twelve o'clock, and still the amount needed was no less. Having always managed his business with great prudence, he had rarely been required to raise funds when a note fell due, and in the few cases that it had occurred, he was at no loss to find plenty of people to accommodate him. Of course, he was now in a state of great uneasiness. Restless and excited, he paced the narrow avenue behind his counter, backwards and forwards, laboring in thought for some expedient by which he could rescue his note from its threatened danger. Suddenly pausing, he leaned upon the counter, with his head between his hands, and remained in that position for nearly ten minutes.
"It must be done!" he said, in a low, sad voice; and turning to his desk, he drew a check for one hundred and seventy dollars, dated fifteen days ahead, and, putting it into his pocket-book, went out, and proceeded to the office of Mr. Centum.
That individual, he found sitting in his office, with his legs upon the table, and a newspaper held before his face, as if reading; but his eyes were with his thoughts, and they had more to do with the omnipotent dollar — than with the news of the day.
"How are you today, Hardamer?" he said, with an air of importance, not even rising from his chair, or changing his position.
"Pretty well, I thank you," replied Hardamer, somewhat meekly. "Can you do anything with this for me?" presenting his check.
The broker looked at it a moment, and shook his head.
"I'm afraid not," he said, indifferently. "If it was a good business note, I could get it done for you easily, at the rate of two percent a month. But people are afraid of checks. Besides, you know your credit is not what it used to be. There was a time when anything with your name on it was as good as gold; but now it is very different. Do you need the money badly?"
"Indeed I do!" replied Hardamer, earnestly. "If I don't get it before three, it will be all over with me."
This communication was particularly gratifying to the broker.
"Don't you think you can get it for me?" asked Hardamer, appealingly. "You don't know how much you will oblige me."
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," replied Mr. Centum. "But I am somewhat doubtful. I am willing to try, however, and will do my best. Leave me the check, and call at half-past one."
"I will be here to the minute," said Hardamer, handing over the check. "Do your very best to get it for me, Mr. Centum."
"I will, most certainly. Good morning, Mr. Hardamer."
As soon as his intended victim had departed, the broker took from the drawer a long narrow piece of paper, dated upon that day, upon which were two columns of figures and a column of names. The names indicated the drawers or endorsers of notes; the first column the "face" of the notes, and the last column the amount of "shave," or exorbitant interest, obtained upon them. Without hesitation he added the name of Hardamer, entered the check, one hundred and eighty dollars, fifteen days, and in the last column extended ten dollars. Then running up this last column rapidly, he ascertained its amount to be fifty dollars.
"Pretty fair, that, by twelve o'clock!" he soliloquized, "forty of it in hand, and old Hardamer's as sure as if I had it in my fingers. Let me see how my bank account holds out."
Turning to his check book, he entered the last check on the margin, and subtracting it from the preceding amount, closed the book with a smile of satisfaction.
"Twenty thousand all safe," he said musingly, "and five thousand sure to be paid in before three o'clock. I shall be flush tomorrow. Old Hardamer's getting into trouble; but he's honest to the back-bone, and owns the property he occupies. He'd sell his coat before he'd wrong anyone out of a dollar. I must keep my eye on him. If I manage him rightly, he'll be worth to me a cool thousand, before he's all done for. I must turn him round gently, until I get him completely into my power, and then go it on him strong!" — and he laughed to himself with a low, peculiar, chuckling laugh.
At half-past one, precisely, Hardamer entered the broker's office. Just five minutes before that time, Mr. Centum stepped out, and circling the square at a quick pace, returned as Hardamer entered.
"Well, what's the word?" asked Hardamer, affecting an air of indifference, while his heart beat violently, and he felt a slight tremor all over.
"I've been running about for you," said the broker, panting as naturally, and wiping off the perspiration as earnestly, as if he were in a great heat from over-exertion and fatigue, "and found a man at last who has a little money by him. He says he will do it for you. He was somewhat fearful at first, but I told him you were as good as gold, and honest to the backbone."
"Thank you! thank you!" responded Hardamer, warmly. "How much did he charge?"
"Ten dollars. It's a good deal, I know; but the man who took it, never will do anything for less than ten dollars. I can't charge my commission on this; it would be too hard upon you."
"I can do no better now, of course," said Hardamer, who gladly accepted of one hundred and sixty dollars for his check, although the rate of discount was over one hundred percent, per annum. Still, it was only a single transaction; and the loss was but ten dollars. "And who wouldn't sacrifice ten dollars," he said to himself, as he walked towards the bank, "to have his note safely out, and his mind at ease?"
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