The Debtor's Daughter CHAPTER 5.
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"I want to see you for a little while in my room, Clara," said Mrs. Putnam, as the family arose from the tea table on the evening referred to in the last chapter.
Clara went with her mother, who said to her, when they were alone,
"I'm sorry there is any difficulty between you and Grace Wilkins just at this time. You heard what your father said about Mr. Wilkins having failed in business?"
"Yes, mother," replied Clara, "and it has made me feel so bad. I could hardly eat anything at tea time for thinking about it. Poor Grace! Will they have to take her from school?"
"I'm afraid so, dear."
"I shall be so sorry! She's one of the smartest girls there. Oh, I wish I could learn as fast as she does."
"Perhaps, Clara," said her mother, "she studies more closely than you do."
"I wouldn't wonder if she did. I know that I neglect my lessons."
"Don't you think you can forgive Grace for what she did to you yesterday."
"Oh yes mother!" returned Clara, with much feeling, "I don't think of that at all now; I can only think about the dreadful change that you said was going to happen. Poor Grace! And they will have to take her from school."
"I'm afraid they will have to do so. Your father says that Mr. Wilkins has given up everything. What his family will do, I cannot tell. Oh dear! It is dreadful to think about it."
"I'm so sorry I spoke unkindly to Grace," said Clara, the tears coming to her eyes. "I'm sure she had no thought of wounding my feelings. She tried to apologize, but I would not listen, and told her that I wished to have nothing more to do with her."
"That was neither kind nor forgiving Clara."
"I know it was not. And she looked all the afternoon so unhappy. I wonder if she has been told about her father's failure?"
"Perhaps so."
"Oh dear! And there are some girls in school who are bad enough to throw it up in her face."
"Oh no! Surely not Clara!"
"Indeed there are, mother. The first that Aggy Lee knew of her father's failure was when one of the girls refused to sit by her because she said that Aggy's father was a broken merchant."
"How cruel!"
"Yes it was cruel. Aggy burst into tears. She never came to school after that."
Mrs. Putnam sighed deeply. She was a woman of the finest sympathies; and her heart was ever going out towards others. In this, she was the opposite of her husband. In all her fellowship with her children, she sought to inspire them with her own feelings. Whatever was selfish or cruel — she strove to subdue and eradicate; and whatever was kind and generous — she watered, trained and tended as carefully as if it were the choicest plant. Thus she modified what was hereditarily in them from her husband — and often saw good fruits, the reward of her anxious care.
"You will make up with Grace," said the mother, "as soon as you see her tomorrow."
"Oh yes. But do you think she will be at school."
"I cannot tell my daughter. I hope so. If not, you must see her at her mother's."
On the next morning, Grace, who had yet to be informed of her father's misfortunes, went to school as usual.
"And so, your father has failed!" said a thoughtless, unfeeling girl to her, with a toss of the head and a curl of the lip, as she was taking her place at her desk.
"Who says so?" replied Grace quickly, a deep glow mantling her cheek.
"Why, my mother says so!" returned the girl. "And she says he's worse than nothing, and all gone to the dogs!"
"It's not true," said Grace indignantly.
"It is true. And every girl in school knows it," was retorted. "I guess you won't be coming here long."
This happened a few minutes before the time for school to open. Startled and stung by a declaration so painful and so mortifying, Grace sat for a few moments utterly confounded.Her mind was beginning to remember some things about the manner of both her father and mother that, strangely enough to her, corroborated the dreadful words just uttered, when an arm was drawn quickly about her neck and warm lips were pressed against her glowing cheek.
"Let us still be friends," said a low, but familiar voice. It was that of Clara Putnam.
Grace turned and looked at Clara for a moment or two, but did not speak. Her eyes were full of tears and her lips were quivering.
"I forgive you all; will you not forgive me?" whispered Clara.
"Yes — yes," half sobbed Grace.
"Do not feel hurt," continued Clara, glancing towards the students who sat beside Grace, "at what this unkind and thoughtless girl has said. She will be sorry for it when she is older."
Grace looked her gratitude and forgiveness; and then rising, retired to the dressing room, where Clara followed her.
"Where are you going?" asked the latter.
"Home," replied Grace in a low, choking voice.
"Do not feel so badly," urged Clara, trying to soothe her agitation.
"Clara," said Grace, pausing and looking steadily into the face of her young companion. "Is it true that my father — " She could not finish the sentence.
"It is too true — "
Grace had heard enough. Clara paused without finishing the sentence she had begun, for a low cry came from the lips of Grace, who hid her face upon her bosom and wept bitterly.
"Do not grieve so," whispered Clara, bending to her ear.
"It may not be as bad as you think. I will love you as before, yes, better than before."
"You are kind and good," sobbed Grace, as she strove to regain her self-possession.
"Do not go home," said Clara.
"Oh yes," quickly answered Grace. "I must go home now. I cannot rest until I see my mother."
She then put on her things hurriedly and went away. Clara kissed her at parting.
When Grace arrived at home, she found her mother sitting alone in her chamber, with tears upon her cheeks.
"Dear mother!" said she eagerly. "Is it true about father?"
"What about him, Grace?"
"That he has failed!"
"Who told you this?" inquired Mrs. Wilkins.
"Ada Bland threw it in my face, and said that every girl in the school knew it."
Mrs. Wilkins looked, for a few moments, into the tearful eyes and suffering face of her child; and then, without replying, drew her head down upon her bosom, and held her there for many minutes. After her own feelings, disturbed by the incident, were, in a measure, composed, she said to Grace,
"It is true, my dear child, that your father's business has failed; and that our circumstances are suddenly changed. But, the same Heavenly Father, who has watched over and guarded us from evils thus far in life, still loves and cares for us."
Grace lifted her face, and looked earnestly at her mother. Her eyes were swimming in tears.
"And the same earthly father, whom we all so love, and who is so worthy of our love," continued Mrs. Wilkins; her voice betraying more feeling than she wished to show, "is still our protector and provider. We will trust in him, and, at the same time, help to sustain him in the painful trials through which he is now passing. He is deeply troubled, and his spirits cast down because of his misfortune. Let us meet him with cheerful faces, and encourage him with hopeful words. In all the changes that come, let us not show him that we feel a single privation. When God filled his hands with plenty, he shared the bounty with us gladly; and now that he has but little, let us divide that little with him cheerfully and thankfully."
"I thought father looked troubled," said Grace, as her mother paused. "Last night at tea time, he did not eat anything, though he sipped his tea and ate a few bites all the while we were at the table. Oh! how dreadfully he must feel."
"He feels badly enough, dear. But, he will feel a great deal worse if he sees us look sad. And now that we are talking about the trouble which has come upon us, Grace, let me say a good many things to you on the subject. You are our oldest child, and the only one who can comprehend the nature of the change that is about taking place. Your father, up to this time, has enjoyed a good income, from which he has provided us with every comfort in life that we could desire. No lack has been unsupplied; no luxury withheld. But, now, his business is all broken up, and his income is cut off. A great change will consequently soon pass upon us. We must leave our pleasant home, with all its comforts, and go into one that is smaller and humbler. This beautiful furniture must be sold. Our clothing will have to be plain and less costly; and, in all probability, we may have to send away our servants."
"Oh mother!" exclaimed the child, overwhelmed by her first glance at the extent of the calamity with which they were about to be visited.
"To look at such great changes, as they approach us," continued Mrs. Wilkins, "makes the heart shrink. But, the nearer they come — the less frightful do they appear; and when the changes actually take place, we will wonder at the ease with which we can accommodate ourselves to them. You are young yet, Grace; young to enter understandingly into the life-experiences you are about to encounter. But, you are not too young, I think, to comprehend this truth; that happiness comes from within — and not from without. Do you know what I mean?"
Grace looked thoughtful, and slightly puzzled.
"A poor child may be happy — and a rich one miserable," said Mrs. Wilkins. "Why is this, where one is surrounded by every external comfort — and the other is not?"
"Some children are never happy, no matter what they have," said Grace.
"Why?" inquired her mother.
"Because they have discontented minds."
"Yes dear, that is it. It has been truthfully said, that a contented mind is a continual feast. Now, could you not be as happy, engaged in making a cup of tea or piece of toast for your father, if there were no one else to do it for him — as you could be, while sitting at a richly furnished table with a servant standing by your chair to help you to whatever you might desire?"
"Oh yes, and a great deal happier," replied Grace quickly.
"Why happier, dear, in the former situation?"
"Because, I would be doing something for my father."
"And the thought of this would make your spirits light and cheerful?"
"I always like to be doing something for father. It seems to please him so much," replied Grace.
"Suppose he were to come home, tired and hungry, and there was no one else to get his supper for him. Would you feel unhappy because you had to do it?"
"Why mother!" exclaimed Grace. The question seemed so strange to her, that she could not comprehend its meaning.
"It would not make you unhappy?"
"Oh no! I would be so pleased to think that I could do it for him."
"And if he were so poor that he could not hire a chambermaid, would you think it a hardship to make up his bed for him every morning, and put the chamber in order, so that he could sleep comfortably when he came home, weary with his day's labor, at night-fall. Would it make you feel unhappy?"
"Oh, no, no, mother! I would feel so glad that I was able to do this for him."
"You may have to do all this for your father, my dear girl," said Mrs. Wilkins, speaking more seriously, "and a great deal more. Does the thought trouble your feelings?"
"No, mother," replied Grace, calmly.
"Now that your father has lost all his property, he will have to work very hard in order to earn a little money. The more expensively we live — that is, the larger the house we have, the more servants we keep, and the richer clothing we wear — the harder he will have to work."
Mrs. Wilkins paused, in order to be sure that Grace understood her as she went along. The young girl gazed with a look of inquiry and intelligence into her face, but did not reply.
"Could you not, for his sake, that is, in order to lighten his hard labor, give up, cheerfully — this elegant house, and our many servants, and move into a smaller and poorer house?"
"Oh yes, mother!" quickly answered Grace, with much eagerness of manner.
"You would not be unhappy about it?"
"Oh no, mother! Why should I?"
"The change itself could not make you miserable. Great as it would be, you might still be happy. You see, then, my child, that it is from within that our unhappiness comes, and not from without. We may all, therefore, be as contented and cheerful in the state of poverty to which we are now descending — as when all the good things of this world were poured so freely upon us. The poorer we become — the more useful work will our hands find to do; and in doing this work — we will receive, in the cheerful spirit it brings, a recompense for what we have lost."
"I don't feel nearly so badly about it," said Grace, after thinking a little while, and striving to comprehend all that her mother wished to convey. "It hurt me dreadfully at first. But, I understand it better now. Oh, I will do anything for father."
"Shall I tell you what it is best for you to begin to do, Grace?"
"Oh yes, mother."
"To be cheerful when he comes home. Do not let him see the smallest cloud on your face; for it will distress him."
"I'm glad you have told me this, mother," replied Grace, with animation. "Oh no! He shall never see me look unhappy; at least, not on my own account. For him, I cannot help feeling troubled; and this may show itself sometimes. But, I will try and not let him see it."
"Thank you, my dear child!" said Mrs. Wilkins, with a good deal of feeling. "Thank you for the brave and womanly spirit with which you meet this trouble. We will talk more about it at another time. By shrinking closer together — we shall not feel so severely the storm which beats upon us; and by mutually seeking to sustain each other — we shall scarcely be conscious of weakness. And now, had you not better return to school again?"
"Father will not be able to send me to that school," replied Grace. "I shall have to leave it; and I might as well do so at once."
"It is one of the best schools in the city," said Mrs. Wilkins, "and we think you had better continue to go there, at least for a while longer. Your father and I have already talked about this."
"But, mother, if father is poor now, he cannot afford to send me there."
"For the present, Grace, we think it best not to change," replied Mrs. Wilkins. "In everything else, we will reduce our expenses; but, until forced to take you from this school, through absolute inability to pay the bills, your father will not have you removed."
Grace did not appear satisfied with this.
"Perhaps my child," said her mother, "you do not fully appreciate the value of a good education. It is something of which no change of fortune can deprive you; something by which you may not only secure a larger share of earthly blessings for yourself, but, for those also whom you love. It is education that gives us the ability to serve others; and the more perfect the education, the higher will be this ability."
Still Grace did not seem to acquiesce in the views of her mother.
"Do you not know, Grace," continued Mrs. Wilkins, "that the more perfect the education of anyone — the higher reward he will receive when he comes to use the knowledge he has acquired, for useful purposes in society? Let me make this plain to you. Our cook Nancy has a very poor education. She can read and write a little; but, she cannot teach either of these useful acquirements. Nor can she teach music, nor the languages, for she has never been herself instructed therein. All she can do is to cook and work about the house. For this service, she is paid only a dollar and a half a week. Now, Miss Williams, who has sewed for us occasionally, is better instructed and more skillful in a rather higher branch of domestic economy. She can sew with neatness, and make and fit dresses. In consequence, she receives three dollars a week, just twice as much as Nancy earns, and yet she does not work as many hours as the latter. But Miss Williams has not received so good an education as Miss Barker, who gives music lessons to your cousin Jane. Her ability commands a still higher price. She can earn more than five times as much in the year, as Miss Williams. Then there is Mrs. Carlton, who, by teaching French and Spanish, and also giving lessons on the guitar, is able to earn enough to support herself, three children, and a sick husband. In these cases, you see the difference between a low and a high ability — and all ability comes as the result of education."
"Oh mother!" exclaimed Grace. "I understand it all now. If I were only a young lady, with my education completed — how much help I could be to you and father! I would teach music, or French, and Spanish, and give you all I earned!"
"Thank you, my dear child! for your good intention," said the mother. "I trust, now, that you comprehend the value of a good education — at least in part, for its value is beyond computation — and that you will wisely improve every opportunity in our power to give you."
"I will, mother! I will," returned the young girl, earnestly. "I see it all very differently now; and, while I do go to school, not an hour shall pass idly. But, if you please, I will not go back today. I feel as if I would rather have a little while to myself; tomorrow I can return and go on as before."
"Just as you feel about that, Grace. But, don't mention to your father, what you heard there today. It will make him feel bad."
"Oh, no, no! I won't mention that mother. But, wasn't it unkind in Ada Bland?"
"It was, Grace, very unkind. But Ada is a young and thoughtless girl; and you must try to forgive her."
"I do forgive her mother," answered Grace. "And I hope she may never know the pain I felt, when she said what she did about father."
"That is the right spirit my child. Let us ever learn to forgive those who trespass against us. For if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses."
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