LIGHT IN DARKNESS.
At twenty cents the stock remained only for a brief space of time, and
then kept on steadily receding in price, each new record of its decline
marking itself upon the feelings of Mr. Townsend, in darker characters.
He came in and went out, scarcely feeling the ground under him, and
with a sensation as if the earth were about opening at his feet, and
engulphing him. He tried to eat, when he sat down at the table with
his family, but the food left little or no impression of taste on his
palate. He strove, sometimes, to appear at ease and converse; but his
words were not coherent, and he did not hear what was said to him, as
was evident from his responses.
At last the price of shares fell to ten cents. Hitherto, from one cause
and another, Mr. Townsend had put off selling his stock at the ruinous
rates at which it was quoted in the market, under the fallacious hope
that an advance would take place. When it was eighty cents on the
dollar, notwithstanding his first wise determination, to sell at any
price that it would bring, the resolution to diminish his fortune,
already reduced nearly one half, by a positive sacrifice of over forty
thousand dollars--the difference between what he had paid for his stock
and the selling price--he could not bring himself to take. He looked at
this large sum, and at what would be left, and was unable to exercise
the firmness required to cut it off. The whole amount of his investment
in United States Bank stock, had been one hundred and forty thousand
dollars, at an average of ten per cent. above par. Since the failure of
the Bank, nearly every thing beyond this had been lost by the failure
of individuals; and what was still worse, notes of hand amounting to
nearly ten thousand dollars, which had been turned into cash, came back
unpaid, and in default of his immediately honoring them, had been sued
out against him as the endorser. Thus did his affairs become more and
more a tangled web, and his mind fell more and more into irresolution
and confusion.
When the stock fell to seventy, in a moment of desperation, he
determined to sell every share, and thus save a certain remnant. He
called upon a broker, and ordered him to effect a sale for him without
delay.
“At what rate?” asked the broker.
“At the last quotation--seventy cents.”
“That was but nominal,” replied the broker. “No sales, to my knowledge,
were made at that price.”
“In the name of heaven, then, what will it bring?” said Townsend, much
disturbed.
“That is hard to say. But, I should suppose, sixty-five might be
obtained.”
“Sixty-five?”
“I doubt if a cent more could be had for so large an amount as you have
to sell. Its offer would, alone, depress the market.”
“Sixty-five! sixty-five!” said Mr. Townsend, to himself, in a
distressed, irresolute voice. “No, no, I cannot think of selling for
that. The stock must get better.”
“I would not like to encourage you to hope so,” said the broker.
“If you can get sixty-nine you may sell. I made up my mind to seventy,
the quoted rates.”
“Very well; I will make the effort,” returned the broker.
On the next day, Mr. Townsend was informed that the broker had received
an offer of sixty-eight, but had refused it.
“Couldn’t you get sixty-nine?”
“No, sir. Sixty-seven was the highest offer, except in a single
quarter.”
“I don’t like to sell at that, and throw over fifty thousand dollars
into the fire.”
“It is hard, but my advice to you is, to take the offer.”
“I will think of it,” replied Mr. Townsend; and he went away to think.
In the afternoon he returned, and directed the sale to be made at
sixty-eight. On the next morning he received a note from the broker,
stating that the market had receded greatly from the rates of the last
few days, and that the party did not feel bound to take the stock, as
the offer of sixty-eight had been at first declined.
“Confusion!” ejaculated the unhappy merchant, stamping passionately
upon the floor.
“Pray, sir, what rates can be obtained?” he asked of the broker, in an
excited tone, as he entered his office ten minutes afterward.
“I do not think sales can be effected at any price to-day,” was
replied. “All is doubt and uncertainty about the stock. I should not
wonder to see it down to fifty, within a week.”
“Fifty! Good heavens! Never!”
“I hope not; but things look squally.”
“Had I better take sixty-five, if I can get it?”----
“Yes, or sixty either. My advice is, sell at the first offer.”
“Very well, get me an offer as soon as you can.”
The offer came in a few days; it was fifty-seven dollars.
“Fifty-seven!” ejaculated Mr. Townsend. “That’s out of the question!”
“It’s the best I can do for you.”
“I’m sorry; but I can’t take that. I am willing to let it go at sixty.”
And thus the downward course progressed. The unhappy merchant, by
clinging to a few hundreds in the hope of saving them, daily losing
thousands. When the price at last fell to twenty, he gave up in a kind
of despair, and awaited, in gloomy inactivity, the final result. At
length, ten dollars, for what had cost a hundred and ten, were all that
could be obtained.
Up to this time, Mr. Townsend had concealed from his family the
desperate state of his affairs. But now, the necessity for breaking to
them a knowledge of his real condition, had come; for the maintenance
of his present style of living, costing from five to six thousand
dollars, annually, was impossible. All that he now really possessed in
the world was his bank stock, which would net him less than fourteen
thousand dollars. The house in which he lived was his property, and
had cost between fifteen and sixteen thousand dollars, but judgment
had been obtained against him for the notes upon which suit had been
brought, and the house would have to go for its satisfaction.
Sadly impressed with the folly of longer delay lay in bringing to the
minds of his wife and daughters a knowledge of the great reverse he had
sustained, Mr. Townsend returned one evening from his counting-room,
to which he repaired every day; not because business called him there,
but because home was oppressive to him. He had learned from her mother,
the fact that Henry Pascal had broken off all intercourse with Eveline,
and had even passed her without notice in the street. He knew too
well the cause, and the subdued yet sad face of his daughter, and the
earnestness with which she would look at him when he came in, troubled
him deeply. He did not know what was in her heart.
As was usual with him, he entered quietly, and seating himself alone in
the parlor, took a book in his hand, not for the purpose of reading,
but to appear as if he was doing so, to any one who came in. The hour
was that of twilight, ere the shadows had fallen thickly. Only a few
minutes elapsed before Eveline and Eunice entered, and came to his
side. At the moment they opened the door, they noticed that he had
leaned his head down upon his hand, and that his book was in such a
position that his eyes could not possibly read a line. This posture was
instantly changed, and Mr. Townsend, in order to remove the impression
it was likely to make, smiled as he spoke to his daughters; a thing he
had not attempted for months to do. But it was only the faint semblance
of a smile, and did not deceive them.
“Dear papa!” said Eunice, tenderly, as she laid her hand upon him on
one side, and Eveline did the same on the other, “you are not happy,
and have not been so for a long time; tell us the reason, and let us
bear a part of the trouble which oppresses you.”
Taken thus by surprise, Mr. Townsend had great difficulty in
controlling himself. The affectionate consideration of his children,
so unexpected, touched him deeply. Many moments passed before he could
trust himself to speak. Then he said, with ill-concealed emotion:
“Why do you think I am troubled, children?”
“You have looked troubled for a great while, papa. Whatever the cause
may be, if we cannot remove it, we are sure that we can lighten the
effects. Trust us, at least, and be sure of one thing, that we are
prepared to stand by your side, cheerfully, let what will come.”
“Eunice!” said the father, speaking with sudden energy, while an
expression of pain settled upon his face, “you know not what you say!
It will take stouter hearts than beat in your bosoms to meet that
trial. Still, I thank you for this unexpected expression of your
affection, as well as for the opportunity it affords me to say what
must no longer be kept back. My children, fortune, that smiled upon me
for years, no longer smiles--all, all is changed.”
“We have believed as much,” replied the daughters, speaking together;
“do not fear for us. We are prepared for the worst.”
“Prepared to sink from affluence into poverty? To give up this home,
where all is luxury and elegance, and go down into obscurity, perhaps
privation and labor?”
“Yes, father,” said Eunice, in a calm yet earnest voice. “Of all the
good gifts which Providence placed in your hands, we have had our full
share; and shall we hesitate or repine when reverses come? No; fear not
to tell us all.”
Mr. Townsend hardly knew what to say or think at such unexpected words.
With himself the bitterness had passed; it was for his family that his
heart ached, and from the thoughts of breaking to them the dreadful
intelligence that he shrunk. But the way had been made, unexpectedly,
plain before him; so plain that he could hardly believe himself awake,
or venture to put his foot forth to walk therein.
“My children!” he said, with much emotion, “you speak to me strange
words. I can hardly believe that I hear them.”
“But they are true words,” promptly replied Eunice, “for they come from
our hearts. And now let us know the worst, that we may prepare for the
worst. Of course we must leave this house and move into a smaller one.”
“Yes, that step is inevitable,” returned the father, his voice sinking
again into sadness.
“And the more cheerfully it is taken, the less shall we feel the
change,” said Eunice.
“But, can you give up all? Can you sink down from the first circle into
obscurity? Can you give up your associations and friendships? Ah! my
children, you have not counted the cost.”
“We have, fully, and are ready,” was the firm reply.
After the silence of a few moments, Mr. Townsend said--
“What has been, perhaps, too long concealed from you, I will now
reveal. Three years ago, I was worth three hundred thousand dollars,
and believed myself beyond the danger of a reverse. At a time when
I thought myself most firmly established, losses came, and followed
each other in quick succession. I became alarmed, and my mind was
thrown into confusion. From that time every thing I have done has been
wrong--every move I have made, has been a false move. The last, and
the one that has swept from me the remainder of my shattered fortune,
was the investment of my money in United States Bank stock, which I
considered as safe as any thing in the country. That for which I paid a
hundred and forty thousand dollars, is now worth but little over ten or
twelve thousand, and, judging from the past, will not be worth half of
that in a month.”
“Then why not sell it and save that little?” said Eunice, in a tone of
decision that made Mr. Townsend lift his eyes to her face. The failing
light gave him but an indistinct view of its expression.
“I shall do it immediately,” he replied. “You understand, now, my
children,” he added, “precisely the nature of my circumstances, and
how low we have fallen. To maintain our present style of living, would
exhaust our little remnant of property in two years.”
“But of that folly we will not be guilty,” said Eunice. “Let us
withdraw quickly from our present position, and retire into one that
corresponds to our altered circumstances. We may be just as happy in
that as we have ever been in this. I am sure that Eveline and I will;
and, if you will let us, we will make you so.”
“God bless you! my children,” said the father, as he drew an arm
around each: “you have taken a mountain-weight from me. With such
true, loving-hearted, cheerful companions in adversity, I feel that it
will not be hard to bear. Why did I not know you better? Why did I not
confide in you sooner?”