Edward Burton

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:

“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.