The Debtor's Daughter CHAPTER 4.
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Mr. Putnam had one virtue, or, rather the appearance of a virtue, for that of which we speak, was, in him, born of selfishness. He idolized his children; or, rather, worshipedhimself as reproduced in them. Had the love he felt been a genuine, God-like affection, it would not have been accompanied, as it was, by such a hardness towards others.
To Mr. Putnam, the center of the whole world — nay, of the whole universe — was his own family; and he would have taxed the universe, had it been in his power, for their good.
When Mr. Putnam thought of the wives and children of his neighbors — when his imagination pictured by some strange chance, the fireside of another — a feeling of contemptaccompanied the impression. None were so bright, none so worthy of consideration as his family. He would talk of his own children; but listened impatiently if others spoke of their home-treasures.
On the day that Mr. Wilkins' assignment was accepted, and the unhappy debtor went home, as the evening came down, gloomily enough to him — Mr. Putnam also returned to meet the bright faces of his children and to find delight in the glad music of their young voices.
"Clara, dear," said Mr. Putnam to his oldest daughter, soon after his return, "what has happened? You look as sober as if you had lost your best friend."
Clara did not make any answer to this, but looked even more serious.
"Is anything wrong?" inquired Mr. Putnam, glancing towards his wife.
"She's upset on account of something that happened at school," replied the mother.
"Ah! What is wrong there, Clara?"
"Nothing of much consequence," was answered.
"I would say, judging from the expression of your face, that it was of a good deal of consequence," said Mr. Putnam.
"Some trouble with one of the girls," said Mrs. Putnam.
"Oh! Had a little tiff." And Mr. Putnam smiled.
"Not so very little," said Clara, with something indignant in her voice.
"Well, what is the matter, dear?" Mr. Putnam spoke kindly and with evident interest. "Who has offended you."
"Grace Wilkins," replied Clara. The brow of Mr. Putnam fell instantly.
"What Grace Wilkins? Not the daughter of that Manny Wilkins?"
"Yes sir."
"Indeed! And what had she to say or do to you, I would like to know?"
"She treated me today, I think, with great rudeness."
"In what respect?"
"Because I happened to miss my French and Spanish lessons, she laughed at me; and, I heard her say, in an undertone, to Edith Barbour, that I was the most stupid girl in school."
A flush of anger went instantly over the face of Mr. Putnam.
"And what did you do?" he inquired.
"I complained of her conduct to the teacher."
"That was right. Did he reprimand her?"
"No sir. He said that it was rude in Grace; but that I ought not to mind such things."
"Indeed! Upon my word! Not mind an insult! And I suppose Grace laughed at you twice as freely as before."
"No sir. She looked upset at being informed on, and tried to make a sort of an apology; but I told her that I wanted nothing more to do with her."
"That was right. When a creature like her wantonly insults you — have nothing more to do with her. But let me tell you one thing for your comfort; you will not be troubled much longer by the presence in your school of Grace Wilkins."
"Why not, father?" asked Clara, evincing more interest than the father thought natural under the circumstances.
"Her father has gone to the dogs, and will, of course, have to remove his daughter from so expensive a school."
"Oh, father! I'm sorry for that," replied Clara, the natural kindliness of her feelings instantly returning. "I'm very sorry."
"And so am I," said the mother. "It grieves me, always, when I see children raised, as our own have been, suddenly deprived of every advantage of education. Oh! It is a loss beyond calculation."
"It will be no great loss I presume to a girl like this daughter of Wilkins," replied Mr. Putnam, "A rude, ill-mannerly creature as she seems to be, should be removed from association with genteel people."
"Oh, father! She is not rude and ill-mannerly," quickly spoke up Clara.
"Did she not insult you today?"
"Yes sir. — But — but — "
"But what, Clara?"
"I don't think she meant to do so."
"You don't."
"No sir."
"That is strange! She laughed at you, and called you the most stupid girl in the room. If that is not rude and insulting, I don't know what you call it."
"Perhaps, I saw and heard more than she intended me to see," said Clara.
"That is; she was speaking ill and making sport of you, and you happened to detect her in the act?"
"I'm afraid, father," said Clara, her tone and manner altogether changed from what it was, "that I have, in giving way, suddenly, to angry feelings, been, in some, degree unjust to Grace."
"I'm sure it must be so," said Ralph, the brother, who had not before made any remark on the subject.
"And why do you give this opinion?" retorted Mr. Putnam, turning sharply round to the lad.
"I never saw anything rude, or ill-natured in Grace," replied Ralph.
"Nor I," said Mrs. Putnam. "I must say that in her favor."
"She has grossly insulted Clara today," indignantly rejoined Mr. Putnam. "And that is enough for me. I would take Clara away instantly, only I like the school, and know that she will not be troubled much longer with Miss Wilkins."
"Do you think her father will be compelled to take her away?" asked Mrs. Putnam.
"Certainly I do. We've taken everything out of his hands, and he is now upon the world without a dollar to bless himself."
"Oh, Herman! Herman! How could men have the heart to do such a thing?" said Mrs. Putnam, with much feeling.
"It is the fate of everyone who mis-manages his business. A man who ruins himself and family, has no claim upon the world. He has marred his own fortune, and he and his family must bear the consequences."
"But," said Mrs. Putnam, "could not twenty men of wealth, by a little sacrifice in each individual case, sustain a fellow man in difficulty, instead of stripping him of everything and sending him and his family forth naked upon the world."
"If men in business," replied the husband, "were to attempt to hold up every fellow who couldn't stand upon his own legs, they would soon all be on their backs. You would make but a poor merchant, Margaret."
"Perhaps, I would," said Mrs. Putnam, in a low voice that was touched with sadness.
"Women have too much sentimental feeling," continued Mr. Putnam, "for contact with the world at the points where the strife of interest is felt. Every man, struggling to make his own way in life, comes to a certain extent in collision with those around him, and unless he is ever on the alert, will be thrown down. We must harden our hearts, if you will so call it — or we could accomplish nothing."
"If that be a truth," returned the wife, "it is a sad one, and speaks little in favor of human nature."
"As to human nature," said Mr. Putnam, "our preachers give us a very poor account of that. They say the heart is depraved and desperately wicked. This being so, what we see around us is no mystery. An honest merchant, let me tell you Margaret, has to be shrewd, watchful, and rigid in all his dealings, for there is scarcely a man with whom he has any business interactions, who does not seek to overreach him. He must harden his heart, so to speak, against his fellow men, treating all, while doing business with them, as so manyenemies who would compass his ruin to build themselves up, were it in their power to do so."
"What a picture!" ejaculated Mrs. Putnam.
"It is a true one," responded her husband.
"Ah me!" sighed Mrs. Putnam, "if only the effects of all the strife you speak of, were confined to the strong men! But it is not so. Weak women and helpless children are the greatest sufferers in the end. They feel the shock of these collisions, when someone falls and is trampled to the earth, as now in the case of Mr. Wilkins. Just as the oldest daughter has reached an age when the higher and more important part of her education begins, misfortunes come and she is suddenly deprived of every advantage. Think, how we should feel to see our Clara thus wronged — I say wronged; for that is a wrong which takes from any member of society, the privilege of mental culture."
"Let us not make ourselves unhappy, Margaret, over the misfortunes of others," said Mr. Putnam. "Rather let us enjoy the good things of life in our possession, and be thankful for them."
"I am ever thankful," returned the wife. "But, the good I enjoy does not harden my feelings towards others — does not rob me of human sympathies. When we gather together in our happy home — how frequently do I think of those who are homeless. At the full table — I often think of those who are hungry. And when the fire blazes cheerfully and the storm roars outside — my thoughts often turn to those who are homeless, or, with thin garments, crouch beside a few embers that give but little warmth."
"Margaret! Margaret! Why will you indulge such gloomy imaginations?" said Mr. Putnam, smiling, yet serious in his tone of voice. "Most people have about as much of this world's good things — as they earn and deserve. The very subjects of your pity, are more contented than you imagine. How often do we hear it said, and with great truth, that happiness is about equally divided among all classes."
"No one can be happy in poor Mrs. Wilkins position," replied the wife. "How my heart aches for her!"
The tea bell ringing at the moment, interrupted the conversation, and the family passed from the parlor into the dining room.
When Mr. Wilkins went home on that same evening, and met his wife and children, it required his utmost effort at self-control, to conceal the deep depression of his feelings. From the pleasant place in which they had gathered for years, they must all soon go out. But, where would they go? They must sink lower; but, how much lower? Such thoughts were disturbing his mind to its very depths.
"Where is Grace?" asked Mr. Wilkins, not seeing his daughter in the parlor.
"She appeared unhappy about something when she came home from school today, and has been in her room ever since," replied the mother.
"Did she say what had happened?" inquired the father, who instantly suspected that some thoughtless or ill-natured school companion had said something to her about his failure in business.
"Not particularly. It is some little misunderstanding, I believe, with Clara Putnam."
"With Clara Putnam! What has she been saying to Grace?"
Mr. Wilkins manifested considerable feeling.
"Nothing, I believe. Grace, as I understand it, made some remark about Clara, which reached her ears and caused her to be offended."
"Oh! Is that all."
Mr. Wilkins was relieved, for he had naturally supposed that his daughter, whom he tenderly loved, had already been made to feel that her father's position was changed.
"Grace, dear," he said to her, when they met at the tea table. "What is the trouble between you and Clara Putnam."
There was an instant glow on the face of Grace, who, after pausing a moment or two to collect her thoughts, said —
"I offended her by a remark that she overheard."
"Ah? What was it?'"
"Clara," replied Grace, "is one of the most inattentive girls in the class, and is reprimanded daily for her imperfect lessons. Today she did worse than ever, and blundered so shockingly, that we all smiled. One of the girls made some remark to me about Clara, to which I replied that she was a dull scholar. Unfortunately she overheard me, and became very angry, and complained of me to the teacher."
"And what did he say?"
"Nothing at all to me. As soon as I could, I went to Clara, and tried to explain and apologize. But she would not listen, and said she wanted nothing more to do with me."
"And it has made you feel very uncomfortable?" said Mr. Wilkins.
"Indeed it has father."
"Well my daughter, let it be to you a lesson. If you cannot see merit in others — then you must be as blind as possible to their defects. And above all, check yourself whenever inclined to speak of such defects."
"I shall make it a lesson of prudence father," replied Grace. "Clara is a pleasant girl and I like her. Up to this time, we have been warm friends; and it grieves me to think that I have wounded her feelings."
Finding that the unpleasant affair between Grace and the daughter of Mr. Putnam had not arisen in consequence of his misfortune, Mr. Wilkins took no further interest in the matter; other thoughts coming in to force that subject entirely from his mind. The evening was spent alone with his wife in earnest conference about the future.
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