The Debtor's Daughter CHAPTER 9.
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We pass over five years in the history of those we have introduced to the reader. Five years rarely go by, without important changes.
Mr. Wilkins is still President of the Insurance Company and in receipt of the comfortable salary of two thousand dollars. Firm in his purpose to educate his children thoroughly, he has spared no expense within the limit of his income, in seeking to obtain so important an end. Grace exhibited, early, a fine talent for music, which was developed under the care of the best teachers that could be procured. In the school of Mr. Thompson, where she continued until she completed her eighteenth year, she bore off the highest honors.
In time, her father's misfortunes were forgotten by her schoolmates, and she became a favorite with nearly all. Wherever she moved, there was sunshine; not such as sparkles and dazzles as it strikes upon the rippling water; but such as lies calm and beautiful on some peaceful landscape. Now, in her nineteenth summer, she is a lovely young woman, delighting all by her intelligence, which takes a new charm from her sweet, retiring modesty.
At home, she is the light and joy of the whole household. Abroad, in the limited circle to which she has been introduced, the favorite of everyone.
The result, in the case of Clara Putnam, it pains us to say is different. In the boarding school to which she was sent, she formed associations of a depressing, rather than elevating character, and imbibed many false views, dangerous for a rather weak-minded girl to entertain. She is in her nineteenth year, and still at school, but not long to remain there.
One evening, about this period, we find Mr. Putnam alone in the family sitting room, evidently much troubled in feeling. He remained thus alone for, perhaps, half an hour, sometimes walking about, restlessly, and sometimes so still in his chair, that he seemed like a statue. The door at length opened, and his wife came in and sat down by his side.
"How does Willy seem now?" asked Mr. Putnam, in a low anxious voice.
"He's asleep; but, I do not think him any better."
Mr. Putnam sighed heavily.
"What did the Doctor say, when he was here this afternoon?" he inquired.
"He looked grave, and said but little."
"Did you ask him what he thought about the condition of Willy?"
"Yes, but he gave some indirect answer."
Mr. Putnam sighed again.
There was silence for some time, then coughing was heard from the adjoining room.
"Oh dear! How that cough of Ralph's distresses me!" exclaimed Mrs. Putnam. "I cannot bear to hear it."
Mr. Putnam responded only by a deeper sigh than he had yet uttered.
Then followed another long period of silence, which was at length broken by Mrs. Putnam, who said —
"Don't you think we'd better take Clara home. She's getting too old to be away from us. There are dangers for one of her age and temperament, in a boarding school."
"Just what I have been thinking about all day. Yes, we had better write for her to come home. I heard something about that school this morning, which didn't just please me."
"Indeed! What was it."
"A gentleman told me that his daughter went there for ten months, when he took her away."
"For what reason?"
"There were too many visitors permitted to enter the school."
"What kind of visitors?"
"Young gentlemen."
"Why Herman! Surely the Principal would not permit a thing like this."
"The person I talked with said that he knew the practice to exist; and, moreover, said, that almost every year some young lady was enticed away into an imprudent and oftenwretched marriage."
Mrs. Putnam clasped her hands together, while an expression of anguish settled upon her face.
"Such a thing would kill me!" said she. "Oh, write for Clara to come home immediately! How often have I regretted her removal from the school of Mr. Thompson. Had she remained there, we could have protected her from the many evils to which her absence from home has doubtless exposed her."
Instantly the thought of Mr. Putnam reverted to Grace Wilkins — and his anger towards her and her father was re-kindled. Had he uttered what was in his mind, the words would have been —
"But for Wilkins, this evil would never have befallen us!"
A servant now entered the room, and said that there was a man below who wished to see Mr. Putnam.
"Who is he?" inquired the merchant.
"I do not know, sir. He looks like a messenger."
"Ask him what he wishes, John."
The servant left the room, and returned in a few moments with a letter. Mr. Putnam eagerly broke the seal, and read —
"My Dear Sir. It becomes my painful duty to inform you that your daughter has been absent since last evening, when, I am informed, that she was seen in company with agentleman who has more than once intruded himself upon the pupils in my school, and whose presence here, I have positively forbidden. As the mail does not leave until tonight, I have thought it best to despatch this information by a private messenger, in order that it may reach you as early as possible. Thus far, I am able to gain no news as to the purpose of your daughter in leaving, nor do I know in what direction she has gone. I use the utmost precaution in order to guard those under my charge, from dangers of this kind; but, I am told that Clara has been in the habit of meeting this person, daily, in her walk for exercise and recreation, during the past few months. His name is Danielson."
"Danielson!" exclaimed Mr. Putnam, as the letter fell to the floor.
"Danielson!" responded Mrs. Putnam, in a voice of agony, as she seized the letter and eagerly read the first few lines. She needed to peruse it no farther, She understood all, and her heart shrank under the sudden pressure of a great calamity. With a groan, she fell from her chair insensible!
Danielson was known to both the parents, all too well. He was an unprincipled adventurer, who had, for the past year or two, been seeking to form an advantageous alliance with some wealthy family, through false pretenses in regard to his own social standing, and worldly possessions. Twice during that time, had he nearly affected his purpose of enticinginto a marriage, some weak-minded schoolgirl. Now he was successful; and their daughter was the victim! With their family, had the alliance been made. The certainty of this fact, for Mr. Putnam did not in the least doubt that a marriage had taken place, almost drove the merchant beside himself. But the condition of his wife, whom he had caught in his arms as she fell fainting to the floor, brought back his thoughts from the calamity which had just been announced.
Nearly an hour elapsed, before the heart-stricken mother was restored to consciousness. In the mean time, Mr. Putnam had seen the messenger who brought him the letter, but gained no new light on the subject of his daughter's absence, from any questions directed to him.
On the next morning, Mr. Putnam would have started for the school from which his daughter had gone off, in order to see what information could be elicited from her companions, but, through the night, Willy, his youngest child, now about nine years of age — became worse, and by morning was so ill, that even the physician thought him in a dying condition.
When Ralph, the oldest brother, who had attained his majority a few weeks before, learned what his sister had done — which was not until the next day, the fact, from motives of prudence, being concealed from him, as he was in extremely delicate health — the excitement occasioned thereby was so great, that he ruptured a small blood vessel, and was immediately ordered into bed by the family physician, with strict injunction, as he valued his life, to keep perfectly quiet.
Oh, how wretched was the heart of Herman Putnam! Wretched beyond what can be realized, without an effort of the imagination. It was more wretched still, before the dawning of another day — for in the night that followed, the spirit of his youngest, and, if there were a difference in his affection, his best beloved — passed through the door of death into the eternal world!
"Death!" How its occurrence subdues and chastens the heart — breaking down its animosities and quieting its angry throes!
Mr. Putnam was walking the floor of the parlor on the morning that followed the departure of Willy, musing sadly over the crushing sorrow that had come suddenly upon them — when he heard the voice of his daughter Clara in the hall eagerly inquiring of the servant who had admitted her, why there was a death-shroud on the door.
"Willy!" he heard her exclaim, in a tone of anguish that found an echo deep in his own heart. Then the door of the room swung open, and she came in and throwing herself upon her father's bosom, hid her face and wept loud and passionately.
The first impulse of Mr. Putnam, was to fling his daughter from him, angrily. But grief had subdued his heart. Willy — dear Willy! — was dead. The beloved of all — the pet and play-fellow of all, had been taken away — and the spirit of the stern man was broken. Still, he did not return the embrace of his child; and, in a few moments, gradually disengaged the arms she had thrown about him, saying, as he did so, with a coldness that chilled her feelings.
"Your mother is in her own room."
The daughter receded a pace or two, and then turning from her father, glided, with swift steps, from the room. Under what distressing circumstances, had the weak and foolish girl returned to her father's house!
"Oh my child! My child!" exclaimed Mrs. Putnam, as Clara entered; unannounced, the chamber where she sat buried in a grief so overwhelming, that it almost displaced her reason. She opened her arms as she spoke, and instantly Clara was clasped to her heart in a wild, clinging embrace. As soon as the mother grew calm, she said, with her lips close to the ear of Clara.
"My daughter — a dreadful affliction has come upon us. Our darling Willy is dead!"
Sobs choked her utterance for a few moments. Then she added, in a solemn voice —
"God grant, my child, that we have not a greater affliction to bear! Where have you been? How do you return to us Clara?"
"A lawful wife," returned Clara, in a whisper.
"The wife of whom."
"Of Mr. Danielson."
A groan so deep and shuddering came from the mother's bosom, that it almost curdled the blood in her daughter's veins. A long silence followed.
Then Clara said: "Mother, Mr. Danielson is — "
"Speak not of him to me Clara," quickly answered Mrs. Putnam, with something of indignation in her voice. "At least not now."
We will not attempt to picture, further, the distressing embarrassment which marked the fellowship of Clara with her father and mother, during the three days that intervened between her return home, and the time when the beautiful remains of Willy were carried forth to the burial. It was painful in the extreme, as may well be imagined.
It was the purpose of Clara, when she came home, to avow to her parents what she had done, beg their forgiveness, and ask them to receive kindly, the man whose wife she had become. All his representations as to himself, she had fully believed; and did not, therefore, believe that any very strong objections to him as her husband would exist. Danielson assured her, that a formal application for her hand had been made by him, and that the only objection urged, was her age. This being the case, to precipitate the marriage she thought would hardly be looked upon, as an unpardonable offence. But, the shuddering groan with which her mother received the announcement that she was married, chilled her feelings. There was a meaning in it which she did not understand.
It had been the intention of Mr. Danielson, to come and ask for Clara a few hours after he left her at the door of her father's house — this was arranged between them — and then to enter, or go away as she might think was best. The mourning shroud upon the door, startling both of them, changed this purpose.
"Do not come. I will see you," said Clara hurriedly, as they parted.
Three days went by, and Clara did not return to the hotel where her husband had taken rooms; nor did he even receive a note from her. This was explained to him by the intelligence of little Willy's death, which he received immediately after parting with Clara. Still, he did not like so prolonged an absence, and felt restless in consequence. On the fourth day, Clara made her appearance, looking so changed, that he hardly recognized her.
"Why Clara!" he exclaimed, springing to meet her, as she entered the private parlor where he happened to be. "How long you have stayed away!"
Clara looked into his face for some moments, with sad eyes, and lips that tried in vain to speak.
Danielson drew his arm around her and said —
"Dear Clara! My heart has deeply sympathized with you and your family in the painful loss sustained."
The wild burst of grief to which she now gave way, made words of no avail, and Danielson became again silent. When the storm of feeling at length subsided, he said, in a voice of sympathy —
"How does your mother bear this great affliction?"
"It has almost broken her heart," sobbed Clara.
"And your father?"
Clara did not answer, for her tears flowed again, and her whole frame shook violently.
"How were you received?" Danielson at length ventured to inquire.
Clara was silent.
"Was your father angry?"
Still there was no answer. But the poor afflicted child shrank closer to the one she had chosen as her protector. The meaning of this, was partly guessed by her husband, and he said, in a voice that extorted an answer —
"You told them of our marriage?"
"Yes," murmured the unhappy bride.
"And what did they say?"
"They gave me but one choice."
"What?" This was asked in a quick, eager voice.
"Between you — and them!"
"Explain your meaning, Clara."
"My father says that you shall never cross his threshold! His anger was terrible!"
"He will get over this," said Danielson. "How does your mother feel?"
"She would not bear the utterance of your name; and has done nothing but weep, since I returned."
"All this will pass away, in time."
"No, I fear not," returned Clara. "They have imbibed a strong prejudice against you."
"What do they say?"
"Oh, dreadful things!" replied Clara in a low, choking voice.
"Dreadful things!"
"They did not call me a thief or a robber," said Danielson, indignantly.
"Oh, no, no! But I didn't believe what they said."
"And they gave you your choice between a separation from me — or them?"
"Yes, and I came to you, of course, for, you are my husband, and I will cling to you through evil and good report," replied Clara, gazing into his face with a look of love that smiled through veiling tears.
Danielson could do no less than bend down and kiss her lips; but the kiss was cold, and sent a chill to the heart of Clara.
"You will see them again?" said he, after a silence of some moments.
This question caused the tears of Clara to flow afresh. As soon as she could answer, she replied.
"I had my choice to remain — or go. 'If you remain,' said my father, 'your separation from the man you have wedded must be complete. He must never cross this threshold — and you are never to meet him except as a stranger. If you go, you are his wife — but no longer my child. Choose your own way; but, remember, that when you have entered it — there is no return.' I have chosen my way."
As Clara said this, she laid her cheek upon her husband's bosom, and looked up tenderly into his face.
"This is the first impulse of anger," replied Danielson, with more of disappointment in his voice, than he wished to exhibit.
"No — It is the expressed purpose of a man whose stern feelings never change."
"You will see him again Clara?"
"Not unless he sends for me."
"Will not this be stubbornness on your part?" asked Danielson, with something like rebuke in his manner.
"Stubbornness! You do not know my father, Mr. Danielson! If it would be of any avail, I would go on my knees to him! But, were I to do so, he would turn from me as coldly as if I were only a statue."
"Cannot your mother influence him?"
"Not in this."
"How does she feel?"
"She would not hear your name from my lips."
"What does your brother say?"
"I was not permitted to see him!"
"Why?"
"When he heard of our marriage, he was so excited that he ruptured a blood vessel, and has been very low ever since. The doctor said that a meeting with me might cause his life."
"Well! this is a nice business!" exclaimed Danielson, giving, almost involuntarily utterance to his feelings, and speaking in a tone of blended disappointment and regret.
"Do not feel grieved for me," said Clara. "I have chosen my way, and it is to go with you through life. If my parents and friends turn from you — the act will only drive me closer to your side. If all the world should reject us — we will be the world unto each other."
"A nice business indeed!" murmured Danielson, so occupied with his own thoughts, that he scarcely heard the words of Clara, for whom he did not, for he could not, feel the first motions of love. He had married her on speculation — nothing more. Too idle and extravagant to force his way to the elevated position in society he was emulous to obtain — he had deliberately purposed to effect this object through a marriage connection with some wealthy family. Foiled in two or three attempts of the kind, he had become pretty well known to parents with marriageable daughters; and he found, therefore, his efforts to accomplish the end in view, not so easy a matter.
Towards Clara Putnam, he had turned his eyes for some time, his mind all the while in debate as to the propriety of making an alliance with her family. Her father was known to be wealthy — but had the reputation of being a hard sort of a man. He was rather afraid of him. But, as his own affairs were growing more and more desperate every day, and it seemed almost impossible to continue much longer his system of swindling tradesmen and hotel keepers — he thought it best to secure the prize that he was not mistaken in believing was easily to be won. So he came to the young and foolish girl, with his false pretensions, which she was weak enough to believe. And here was the result.
Disengaging himself from Clara, who still leaned against him, Danielson arose and walked the floor with knit brows and compressed lips for many minutes, during which time, the eyes of Clara followed him steadily about the room with a surprised and troubled look. It was then that the first suspicions of an improper motive on his part in seeking an alliance with her, flashed upon her mind. Instantly she repelled the thought. But, as she continued to look upon the strangely altered face of her husband, the suspicion came stealing back again.
Conscious, at length, that he was betraying himself too far, and unable to disguise his feelings, Danielson went hurriedly from the room. For a long time, Clara sat motionless. She was not only bewildered, but startled by the strange conduct of her husband. He had been pronounced by her father — a penniless adventurer without honor, honesty, or a spark of manly feeling. Was this a mere burst of angry feeling by her father? Or, was it indeed so! These questions intruded themselves, and she could not thrust them aside. If she were willing to give up her home and parents for his sake — then why should he be so disturbed at their refusal to acknowledge him? It was too evident, that something besides a regard for her in the matter, agitated the mind of her husband.
Half an hour after, when Danielson returned, he found Clara sitting where he had left her. She lifted her head, slowly, as he entered the room, and looked at him with a strange, fixed look.
"Clara, dear Clara!" said he as he sat down by her side, taking her hand, as he spoke —
Just at that moment, two men entered the room, accompanied by the hotel keeper.
"That is the person you are in search of!" said the latter, pointing towards Danielson, who sprang to his feet.
"We arrest you!" said one of the men, advancing, and laying his hand upon Danielson, "on a charge of forgery!"
Danielson grew instantly pale, and staggering backwards, sank upon a chair.
"Oh no, no! It cannot be!" exclaimed the young wife, starting forward.
"I am sorry to say, madam," returned one of the officers, respectfully, "that the charge is altogether true."
Clara stood like one stupified with a blow for some moments, and then dropped to the floor insensible. When next her senses were unlocked, she found herself in her own chamber, in her father's house, and her mother sitting by her side, gazing upon her with weeping eyes.
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