_MR. BONBRIGHT’S FAILURE._
Mr. Bonbright, pale, weary, and anxious, was seated at his desk in his
busy counting-room. Every few moments a messenger entered hurriedly
with a report of the fluctuations in stock values as they were recorded
by the “ticker” in an adjoining room. He scanned each item of news with
an eager intensity, which indicated fear of impending disaster. Both
the stock and the bonds of the Great Consolidated Eastern and Western
Railroad Company had declined several “points” during the morning, and
should this continue in the afternoon it would mean positive ruin. Mr.
Bonbright and his partners had been leaders in the “syndicate” which
had projected and constructed this great thoroughfare, and they had
invested heavily in its securities.
Mr. Bonbright’s wide reputation for sagacity had also been instrumental
in leading many of his friends and acquaintances outside of the firm to
follow his example. His pride and ambition in bringing this enterprise
to successful completion had induced him to violate a lifelong rule and
an old adage: “Do not put too many eggs into one basket.”
The values of his manufacturing stocks had not recovered from the heavy
shrinkage of the previous summer, and for some time everything in which
he was interested had declined and collapsed, until the end seemed to
be drawing near. Any further downward movement would precipitate a call
from the banks for more “margin,” a demand to which he could not longer
make response.
As the day wore away, rumors of Mr. Bonbright’s condition reached
the ears of a few unscrupulous “bear operators,” who at once pounced
upon the stock of the “Great Consolidated,” and at two P.M. came the
fatal demand for additional collateral. His inability to provide for
the deficiency caused an immediate realization upon his securities,
which precipitated a panic in them; and when the clock struck the hour
of three, and the clicking of the ticker ceased, the failure of Mr.
Bonbright’s firm was announced on the Stock Exchange.
With feeble and tottering steps the great financier left his office,
and, with some assistance, was able barely to get into his carriage and
be driven to his palatial home on the Back Bay. Ever since the previous
summer his health had been precarious. The steady and persistent
decline for many months in securities, of the solidity of which he had
felt so confident, kept him “sick at heart.” Those things upon which,
for many years, he had maintained a firm hold, had been gradually
slipping from his grasp. He felt deeply his financial losses, but the
ruin of his prestige, the demonstration of his faulty judgment, and
utter failure of his supposed sagacity, cut him to the quick. For
months past, insomnia and nervous prostration had harassed him, but by
the vigorous exercise of a tenacious will-power, he had persistently
held the reins, until this crowning catastrophe snatched them from his
hand.
There is a law of correspondence which makes a man dependent upon, and
almost a part of, his environment. Let him abide in affluence, luxury,
and material prosperity, and by the working of this law they become
interwoven with his personality. Remove them suddenly, and he has lost
his life. This is plain, because his life consisted of these things.
Life is made up from environment, and takes its quality from it. If one
immerse himself in a correspondence which is precarious and temporary,
by this course he fastens these conditions about him.
The world in which Mr. Bonbright had “lived, moved, and had his being,”
was a sphere of pride, luxury, and intense ambition. His world had
come to an end, and nothing could release him from the wreck. He was
fastened to his environment by “hooks of steel.” It had been wrenched
from him, and he was left naked, wounded, and bleeding.
Mrs. Bonbright was utterly unable to offer any consolation to her
husband in their great misfortune, for she was in sore need of
consolation herself. She bewailed their hard lot. The prospect that
soon they would be compelled to give up their luxurious residence,
prominence in society, and even social position in her fashionable
church, was almost a death-blow. She groaned and writhed in agony at
the outlook. Instead of any words of comfort and cheer to sustain her
husband, she indulged in sharp and uncharitable criticism.
Mr. Bonbright never had professed to be more than a man of the world.
His wife had been punctilious in church observances, and was regarded
in her own religious circle as quite exemplary. The trial which she
now was undergoing uncovered qualities of character which had been hid
far below the surface. Strong undercurrents of pride and selfishness,
which long had been buried beneath accepted creeds, observed rituals,
and even under the active machinery of missionary and charitable
associations, now broke loose and asserted themselves.
Rosamond was mortified and reproachful. The brilliant wedding which she
had looked forward to in the near future, and in which she would be the
central and important figure, now seemed shadowy and retreating, when
viewed through the mist of present chaotic conditions. To her there
was no possible “silver lining” to the black clouds which overshadowed
them in this great storm of disaster. The things to which she had given
herself had suddenly dissolved into thin air.
Helen was the only one who maintained her calmness and self-possession,
and in the present emergency the whole family instinctively leaned upon
her. The props which sustained her had not been disturbed. Conscious
of her own influence upon those around her, she appeared even more
cheerful and light-hearted than usual.
Burton had been an occasional visitor since he had taken up his
residence in the city, but except on Helen’s part there had not been
any cordiality shown him. The rest of the family displayed a polite
coolness and formality, quite in contrast with the familiarity of Bar
Harbor. Mr. Bonbright had regarded Burton’s literary venture as utterly
chimerical, though in reality he comprehended nothing of its object
or merits. Mrs. Bonbright had an impression that he had renounced a
brilliant prospect in the clerical profession in consequence of having
accepted some visionary and heretical opinions, the nature of which did
not interest her.
Rosamond had been intensely absorbed with the gayety and whirl of
society, in which Burton took no interest, so that, aside from the warm
greeting which he uniformly received from Helen, his visits at the
Bonbright mansion previous to the failure had been of a ceremonious
character. Mr. and Mrs. Bonbright had all along suspected the possible
development of an attachment between Helen and Burton, but, without
any mention of the subject, they plainly disapproved of any increase
of familiarity. They believed that Burton’s social and financial
status was below the proper standard for their family aspiration.
Burton, though an educated and refined gentleman, was to them a
“plebeian.” Rosamond had often intimated to her sister that Burton was
too visionary and unsophisticated to render his company in any degree
desirable. He was outside of the boundary line of what she called
“society.” By delicate but well-understood allusions, she often put him
into an unfavorable perspective as contrasted with Lord Percival.
That intangible tribunal called “society” is always drawing lines
and fixing limits which prove to be as flimsy as cobwebs. The only
natural aristocracy is that of character. The artificial boundaries
which wealth, pride, and “blue blood” are continually erecting are as
unceasingly swept away by the storms of adversity. They are melted also
by the sunshine of prosperity. Character is the only reality, and is,
therefore, above all circumstances and incidents, and can afford to
bide its time.
On the day of the great failure, the evening press, under sensational
headlines, gave to the world the full particulars of the startling
disaster, and the collapse of the old and respectable firm was
represented as complete and irretrievable. These accounts furnished the
first intimation of the trouble which Burton received, and his impulse
was to go that very evening and tender his sympathy and any assistance
within his power. Upon a second thought he delayed his call until the
following evening.
The next day the hours dragged slowly, and his anxiety increased
to learn of the welfare of the family which had so suddenly been
overwhelmed by adversity. As to Helen, he felt persuaded that no
disaster could affect her seriously, but for the rest it would prove to
be a severe ordeal.
Evening at last arrived, and as he set out and slowly made his
way along the broad avenue he was filled with mingled thoughts and
emotions, and as he walked on through dark shadows, so sharply defined
by the glare of electric light, the contrast seemed to illustrate the
sudden transitions in human life and conditions. The shadows were
black, but they had no substance. Such were material calamities when
viewed from the true standpoint. He felt that it was within his power
to be of service to Helen in dissipating the gloom which enveloped the
stricken family. It was not the _I_ which could accomplish this, but
the _we_. There was a peculiar sweetness about the plural personal
pronoun, which lingered with him until he bounded up the familiar
steps and gave a vigorous pull at the door-bell. He was shown into the
reception-room; and presently Helen entered and cordially greeted him,
and, after the usual salutations, Burton introduced the topic which
weighed heavily on his heart.
“Miss Bonbright,” he began, “I wish to tell you how much I am pained
to learn of the great misfortune that has befallen your father, and I
have come to inquire as to the welfare of the family, and express my
sympathy and solicitude.”
“You are extremely kind to think of us,” replied Helen. “Those whose
friendship is not cooled by our adversity we shall highly appreciate.”
“I trust that your father and mother, and also your sister, bear up
well under the severe shock.”
“My father is prostrated, and confined to his bed,” was the sad
response, “and mother and sister have felt unable to receive any one
to-day. They requested me to beg you to excuse them. Father’s intense
nervous excitement is pathetic to behold.”
“I hope that he may be able to find some intimation of a possible
‘bright side,’ even in such a time of trial as this,” said Burton.
“Thus far I have found it exceedingly difficult to make him realize
that there can be any possible consolation. He feels that all is lost,
and that nothing is left for him but to die, and his life be regarded
as a failure.”
“As a family, I suppose you have not had sufficient time in which to
consider plans for the future. Surely you will appreciate the fact that
my interest and not my curiosity prompts this inquiry?”
“Certainly,” replied Helen, “and, knowing your motive, I will be
perfectly frank with you. In the natural course of events we shall be
obliged soon to vacate this house, and find a small and inexpensive
home in a more secluded street, or possibly in the suburbs. On account
of your friendly interest, I feel at liberty to inform you that my
mother has a small property in her own right that is not involved,
which, with economy, may enable us to live in an humble manner. I shall
probably teach after everything is arranged, and we have become settled
in some cheap but I hope cosey little home.”
Helen Bonbright was well aware that she was talking to a tried friend,
otherwise she would have been less communicative.
“If father feels able to have you sit by his side for a while, I shall
regard it as a great favor if you feel so inclined.”
“I shall be most happy, in case he will not consider it to be an
intrusion.”
“You will do so upon _my_ suggestion, you know,” was Helen’s reply, as
she disappeared from the room. Soon she reappeared, observing as she
came in, “At my request he is willing to see you. I am sure that under
the circumstances you will excuse any impatience and nervousness that
he may exhibit.”
She immediately conducted Burton to the door of a capacious and
luxurious chamber, and in a sweet and subdued voice announced their
entrance, and then quietly withdrew. Burton advanced softly to the
bedside, and, taking Mr. Bonbright’s hand, gave a cordial greeting as
he seated himself near his friend.
“I thank you for your willingness to receive a short call from me,”
said Burton in a gentle and cheerful tone, “and I will try not to weary
you. I shall be glad, if possible, to be of some service.”
Mr. Bonbright looked ten years older than when Burton had last met him,
and his swollen eyes, white face, and unnatural expression were so
marked that elsewhere he scarcely would have recognized him.
“Many thanks for your kindness,” observed Mr. Bonbright, “but I assure
you that it is impossible for any one to render me aid. My fortune and
reputation for business sagacity are gone; my life-work is in ruins,
and the members of my family are thrown on their own resources. The
blow is fatal, and I see nothing before me but a lingering invalidism,
with the end not far away.”
“You speak of having lost all, Mr. Bonbright. I have seen no imputation
upon your business honor and integrity, and surely these are not
destroyed.”
“Oh, no. I did not get so low as that,” was the desponding reply. “But
mere integrity is too common and intangible to count for much, and at
any rate it cannot restore that which is gone.”
“Pardon me, but integrity is more valuable and enduring than wealth or
sagacity. The qualities of moral character belong to the real man, but
wealth, and even financial acumen, are only incidental.”
“From one point of view that may be true, but the fact is that
financiering has been the work of my life, and I have really thought
of little else; and now all is swept away from me, and I am left bare,
absolutely bare, Mr. Burton.”
It was with touching pathos that he uttered these sentiments, and his
positive despair and hopelessness found expression in every movement
and feature.
“You will, I am sure, kindly permit me to offer a few friendly
suggestions with some degree of plainness,” said Burton.
“Ah! well; nothing you will suggest can make me any more miserable, for
that would be impossible; but I am of course ready to listen to your
well-meant and kindly expressions.”
“Pardon me if it startles you to suggest that what you feel is the
loss of all, may eventually prove to be the best thing which ever has
happened. When business pursuits fill the whole horizon of life, and
are separated from their higher connections, their pleasure and profit
soon fade out. That which is material is but the lower half of an
ideal life. As subordinated, or merely _as_ the lower half, and in its
normal place, it may be well; but otherwise it ends in failure. Let us
suppose that that which has been your life had continued as long as
your _natural_ life; is it not better that such a wrenching away should
come now than later, at the end? You have time now in which to develop
_another_ life, which will be real. An exclusively material life is
veritable death, and no one finds his higher or real life until his
lower or sensuous life becomes subordinate.”
“You would not expect one to give up the active exercise of his power
of accumulation so long as he were able to employ it, would you, Mr.
Burton?”
“As an end, or a life, I would say, yes; but as a means, no. The
distinction is as wide as can exist between opposites. A man who
employs wealth as a means, while diffusing the glow of a higher
life all around him, re-enforces his own vital springs. As an _end_,
it shrivels, contracts, and finally crushes its victim who has come
into bondage to it. The vital fact to the soul, or the real man, is
the recognition of his wholeness in his Maker. If he seek to find
completeness in the incidents of material existence, the failure will
be radical. Out of our weakness may come our strength, and I feel
assured that this will be the case with you. If you will permit a
further suggestion, let me urge that while you lie here you will not
again mentally live over your past life; but rather begin laying the
foundations for the real and new. There may be deep and painful effort
at first, but the exercise will grow pleasanter as it progresses. Let
your mental resting-place be in eternal verities. This will prove
a balm to the barrenness and soreness from which you suffer, and a
spiritual glow will follow, which will also find expression in improved
physical conditions. Seek to find a new spiritual environment in such
thoughts by holding them firmly in your consciousness, and let ‘bygones
_be_ bygones.’ I trust that you will pardon the friendly liberty that I
have taken.”
“Oh, most assuredly!”
Only a few words further were said before Burton arose to take his
leave.
“I thank you sincerely for this call, Mr. Burton, and I shall be glad
if you will pay me another visit.”
“I shall be much pleased to come again whenever it will suit your
pleasure and convenience.” Burton offered his hand, and Mr. Bonbright
grasped it with much warmth, and then the former quietly retired.
“What do you think of my father’s condition?” inquired Helen, as Burton
rejoined her in the reception-room.
“I feel very sanguine that he will rally from the shock, and from
the negation of his past life. The law of compensation has broad and
wonderful applications, and, despite his present conditions, it is
indeed quite possible that the seeming disaster may prove a ‘blessing
in disguise.’”
She cordially thanked him for his kindness to her father, and for his
words of cheer, and hoped soon to see him again.
As Burton retraced his steps, the play of the lights and shadows upon
the pavement again aroused fancies, and, this time, of a delicious
nature. His thoughts flew back to the delightful presence, which since
their first meeting had ever been an inspiration. Just as always
before, she seemed utterly unconscious of herself. Scarcely a thought
had been given to the great calamity in its relations to her own
personality. Her mother, sister, and especially her father, were the
objects of her solicitude, and it did not require the poetic fancy of
Burton, as a lover, to invest her with ideal qualities. They existed.
Her rare loveliness was only soul-beauty in outward expression.
Soul-love is a unison of the divine part of two natures, which melts
down the walls which have been built around self.
Burton had always regarded Mr. Bonbright’s large wealth in the light
of an obstacle to the realization of his hopes, and had been conscious
that it rendered impossible that correspondence of outward condition
between Helen and himself which ideally should exist between lovers.
Though himself prospectively well-to-do, there had been such a chasm
between his own position and that of the daughter of a millionnaire
as to seriously complicate the situation, but that chasm had now been
closed. Not that it would have made the slightest difference with
Helen’s decision, if her heart approved; but now opposition and
criticism on the part of others had been disarmed. Helen Bonbright,
personally, had met with no loss of environment, for she had been
always above the incidental in worldly conditions. Up to the present
time, Edward Burton had made no approach to her nearer than the
boundary line of friendship; nor had she in any manner invited a closer
intimacy. He had not received the slightest external token that she
regarded him as more than a sincere friend.
On the fourth day after Mr. Bonbright’s failure, a letter, postmarked
“Chicago,” was received by Rosamond, that read as follows:
MY DEAR MISS ROSAMOND,--It is with deep pain and regret that I have
learned from the public press that your esteemed father has been
overtaken by financial ruin. It seems especially trying that such a
fate should have befallen one so long eminently successful in every
undertaking, and whose name has been a synonym for financial sagacity
and honor. Please convey to him my sincere regard, and hope that
fortune may again smile upon him, so that in time he may, in no small
measure, recover from the disaster which has overtaken him.
Now, my dear Miss Rosamond, as to our relations each to the other:
why has fate been so cruel to us? I began to be interested in
you from the first time we met, and as our intimacy increased, I
realized the remarkable congeniality of our views, tastes, and
aspirations, and, consequently, my affection for you became more
deeply established. Your fortune seemed ample to render your alliance
with one of my station suitable, and even desirable, and I looked
forward fondly to the full consummation of our plans and hopes. It
is with the utmost delicacy and consideration that I suggest, what
you have already recognized, doubtless, that the marked change in
your prospects puts a new aspect upon the arrangements which we
had planned. I know that you are sufficiently acquainted with the
world, my dear Miss Rosamond, to be well aware of what is proper
and conventional in the making-up of a matrimonial alliance. The
misfortune which has come in between us is a matter which is neither
your fault nor mine; but it is really the cruel hand of destiny,
which by a blow has dashed the cup of bliss from our lips as we were
about to quaff its nectar. The world is full of such disagreeable
experiences, and it becomes necessary for us to bring to bear all our
philosophy, that we may overcome their influence. The _consensus_
of society has formed certain positive, though perhaps unwritten,
metes and bounds, and it seems necessary that we should recognize
them rather than bid them defiance. We are neither of us responsible
for them. In England an alliance of rank with wealth is tolerated
as within conventional limits; but the absence of both in one party
renders it unsuitable.
Your personal accomplishments qualify you to grace any position,
and on this account I could wish that the requirements of social
etiquette were less exacting.
Now, my dear friend, I beg of you to regard this whole matter as a
pleasant adventure, which, though it has been of short duration, has
been enjoyable. I feel certain that your good-sense will lead you to
consider the whole affair as not at all serious.
I implore you, let us ever remain friends, and I shall be glad always
to hear of your welfare. Please forgive anything seemingly abrupt
or inconsiderate in this friendly communication, for I have great
respect for you.
With kind regards to all, I remain
Your friend and admirer,
PERCIVAL.
P.S. Letters to the care of my bankers, Grey Brothers & Co., New-York
City, will be forwarded to me, as they are kept advised of my
whereabouts.
“The heartless wretch!” exclaimed Rosamond, as she finished reading
the missive. “I don’t love him now, nor never have.” And she tore the
letter into long strips and trampled them under her feet.