Edward Burton

Nature never falters. The blithesome days of May are upon us. The gardens are painted with the joyful blaze of tulips, and the willow and lilac are bursting into forms of soft-toned, plume-like beauty. All nature is glowing with tender light and youthful cheer. The swelling, joyous current of inner life is expanding bud and leaf and bough, and is bursting forth into blossoms redolent with the perfumed breath of spring. The morning of the long midsummer day has dawned, and flowers and plants and trees are rejoicing in its brightness. The fresh, tender green of the turf, the powdery tip of twig and branch, and the scarlet hue of the bursting maple leaf are eloquent with gladness. The blackbird, redwing, and robin make the woods echo with social glee and jubilee. A quickening impulse of life has burst the bars of the tomb of Winter, and a resurrection has transformed the face of nature and clothed it with a wealth of forms and flush of hues. In this happy springtime the vigorous pulsation of exuberant life everywhere manifests its redundant and overflowing energy.

In the midst of a setting of green turf, flowers, blossoming plants, and clinging vines, stood a rather small but cosey cottage, a little removed from the public street. Every detail betokened a snug and comfortable home; an abode of comfort, though not of luxury, pervaded with an air of quiet rural felicity.

On a beautiful May morning, while the sun’s rays were shooting through the waving tree-tops overhead, variegating flowers, turf, and shrubbery, with trembling lights and shadows, two young ladies were busily engaged among the flower-beds in front of the cottage. One of them, with a small trowel, was setting out plants as she deftly removed them from small pots, and the other was bringing water and aiding in the process. They were the twin sisters. This vine-clad, rural cottage, located in an immediate yet quiet suburb less than four miles from the “gilded dome,” was the home of the Bonbrights.

Let us make a hasty retrospection over the few months which have sped by since Mr. Bonbright’s illness, so that scattering threads may be gathered up.

While he was passing through the early stages of his terrible struggle beneath the ruins of his collapsed physical and mental environment, some important, helpful influences were at work, of which he was unaware.

On the day following that upon which the great failure was publicly announced, Colonel Tapley visited the office of his friend to tender his sympathy and aid. Much to his regret, he found Mr. Bonbright absent on account of sudden illness, and affairs at the office in a demoralized and chaotic condition. The junior partners were almost paralyzed at the sudden and unexpected turn of affairs, and Adelbert, from lack of experience, was entirely wanting in such executive ability as was indispensable in this kind of an emergency.

Adelbert informed Colonel Tapley that his father’s condition was such that his physician had interdicted any mention of business to him, and that several weeks would probably elapse before he would be able to give any attention to financial affairs. He presented Colonel Tapley to the junior partners as a near friend of his father’s, whose advice and influence might be of value during the crisis in which they were so deeply involved.

“I shall be most happy,” said Colonel Tapley, “to be of any possible service during the enforced absence of my friend, and, if you so desire, I will confer with you every day in regard to any possible settlement, or perhaps looking to a resumption, if found to be practicable.”

“I am unable to express my sense of gratitude for your kindness,” replied Adelbert, “and if by your counsel and direction you will aid us, my father, upon his recovery, will highly appreciate your generosity.”

The junior partners gladly accepted the suggestion, and were anxious that Colonel Tapley might at once make an examination of their affairs, and advise them as to the wisest course to be pursued.

“Please make up a complete statement, in a concise form, of the business of the suspended firm, and have it in readiness when I call to-morrow,” said the colonel, “and we will give it thorough consideration.”

After further directions regarding the form and details of the proposed exhibit, he took his departure. By a rapid movement he was able to see most of the large creditors that same afternoon, and at his suggestion they arranged for an informal meeting the next morning. The rumor immediately became prevalent upon “the street” that Colonel Tapley had “taken the helm” at Mr. Bonbright’s office, and that he would render his aid to enable the firm to resume. Colonel Tapley’s sterling reputation rendered his name, of itself, “a tower of strength.” The moral effect produced by the news was important, and confidence became greatly strengthened, even before it was known whether or not he would consent to make any pecuniary advances. It resulted from the developments of the next day that all legal proceedings which had been begun against the suspended firm were withdrawn, and a proposition received from the largest creditors offering a long, voluntary extension, and continued good-will towards the establishment in the event of its resumption of business. Under Colonel Tapley’s efficient administration, order was rapidly evolved out of chaos, and in three days after he assumed direction, things looked promising for a solution of the whole problem. He made advances of a sufficient amount to pay off the smaller creditors and for other necessary immediate requirements preliminary to a continuance of the business. The arrangement by which the larger creditors were to grant an extension was put into proper form, and it turned out that in one week from the date of the suspension the house again opened its doors for business. A marked reaction and recovery in market values also took place, and confidence was restored to such a degree that there was an important advance in the prices of the securities which were held by the suspended firm. It must not be supposed that the immense losses of several months previous could be speedily recovered, but a snug amount was rescued from the great wreck, and a continuance of the business insured, though upon a diminished scale. By the time that Mr. Bonbright had sufficiently recovered to be able to receive information upon financial matters, his firm was already upon a reconstructed basis, with transactions moderate in volume but of promising magnitude.

It will be recalled that at the time of Burton’s visit to Mr. Bonbright—an account of which was given at the close of the preceding chapter—a considerable improvement was already apparent in the condition of the patient. Two or three days later, Burton called again, and found such a perceptible increase of strength that it was evident that the introduction of business topics need not longer be delayed, especially in view of the favorable character of the announcement which was to be made. The family wished Burton to break the news to him. They had gained such confidence in the young man’s discretion that they were inclined to defer every important matter to his judgment. After congratulating Mr. Bonbright upon his marked improvement, Burton at once proceeded to impart the proposed information.

“My dear Mr. Bonbright,” he began, “I have the pleasure of informing you that your affairs are reconstructed, and your firm again doing business at the old stand.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the banker. “I cannot rightly understand you.”

Burton repeated the announcement.

“What has happened? Who has done it? I gave it all up long ago.”

“It is entirely due to the aid and devotion of Colonel Tapley.”

The invalid covered his face with his hands, and his breast heaved with violent emotion.

“What a wonderful man! Is it possible that he again came to my rescue? He was under no obligation to me. In behalf of my dear family I can never thank him enough.”

“He finds pleasure in doing you this favor. He did not wait to ascertain if you owed him any obligation. His nature is so noble that such an opportunity for service comes to him in the light of a boon. Your adversity gave his friendly devotion and generosity a field for exercise, which, a failure to improve, would have been a loss to him.”

“That brings to light a grand principle,” replied Mr. Bonbright, “which the world is slow to learn. My apparent calamity has been a blessing to me, and also to him. That is a wonderful law, by which a seeming evil works good at the same time in two directions. In the economy of humanity, it seems almost necessary that some cups should be empty to make room for the overflow of others, and for the development of sweetness in both. I assure you, however, that my gratitude will be none the less hearty because of his obligation to me for an ‘opportunity.’ Please invite him to call at his earliest convenience.”

Burton took his leave and conveyed the message as desired.

The next day Colonel Tapley paid a visit to the stately mansion on Commonwealth Avenue. The measure of gratitude poured upon him by Mrs. Bonbright, Helen, and Rosamond seemed boundless. He modestly disclaimed any special credit, and assured them that he had called only at Mr. Bonbright’s urgent invitation. He was shown to the room of his friend.

“My noble benefactor,” exclaimed the invalid, as he grasped Colonel Tapley’s hands and shook them with much earnestness, “I am unable to express my thanks and my gratitude.”

“My dear friend,” replied the genial visitor, “quiet yourself; that would be wholly unnecessary.”

“I have discovered the principle which you work upon,” enthusiastically observed the banker, “and will give you an assurance which I think will be the most acceptable thanks which I can offer. When opportunity is given to me, I will do likewise. I have but just found the ‘Philosopher’s Stone’ with which you have had a long acquaintance. I have wasted my past life in the pursuit of wealth as an end, and have been in bondage to ambition and selfish acquirement.”

“I rejoice with you, Mr. Bonbright, that you have freed yourself from the servitude of the masters which you mention, and are now a free man. Wealth is a blessing, but that peculiar passion in the human mind which looks past it as a means, and fastens it around self, is slavery and idolatry.”

The two were in unison. The fire upon the altar of Mr. Bonbright’s inmost being had not long been kindled, but it burned brightly, and its flame lighted up the whole apartment.

Burton found his time and energies taxed to their utmost, in the discharge of his duties as editor of the new magazine, which was unexpectedly successful from the beginning, as it supplied a great want. The materialistic trend of the times, and the sullen atheism, agnosticism, and scepticism, which, like a flood, had come as a reaction from an unreasonable, scholastic, and dogmatic theology, imperatively demanded the use of such an agency. Nothing but the white light of spiritual truth and harmony could cheer and illumine the souls of men when saturated with prevailing chilliness and pessimism. The lofty and helpful tone of the new periodical had touched a responsive chord in thousands of longing, weary hearts. The illuminating power of its clear-cut and loving spirituality disclosed on the left the sharp slimy reefs of the “Scylla” of materialism, and on the right the shoal quicksands of the “Charybdis” of a ceremonial literalism, while between flowed the warm divine current of spiritual truth through which its course was set.

The rapidly growing influence and success of the magazine induced Tapley, also, to actively engage himself upon it, as being the most promising channel through which he could reach the hearts of the people. His devotion to Burton seemed deeper than ever before, and it was reciprocated with equal earnestness. Upon Tapley’s solicitation, seconded earnestly by his father and mother, Burton was induced to leave his boarding-place and become one of the family at Colonel Tapley’s. Among their familiar friends the two young men were often jocosely referred to as “David and Jonathan.”

Mr. Bonbright rapidly recovered from his illness, and in five weeks from the time of the failure he was able to go to his office and again resume the charge of affairs. A week later the family removed from their palatial residence to the snug little home just outside the city, which has already been described. On the day of their removal Mr. Bonbright was in his happiest mood. As the family gathered for the first time around the fireside in the comfortable parlor, he expressed himself as delighted with the change.

“In this quiet little haven,” he exclaimed, “the cares of business shall never enter. I have been emancipated from its servitude. It no longer owns my soul and body, and its province is subordinate.” He now enjoyed his family, and they enjoyed him. Before his failure he was scarcely acquainted with them. Lofty meditation, choice reading, conversation, flowers, nature, everything which tended to lift him out of his lower self and stimulate his higher nature, was what he sought. Things were delightful to him which before had no attractiveness. He had removed from the damp unwholesome basement to the warm sunny upper story of his nature. That part which comprises all that is substantial in man had assumed its prerogative, while the incidental in life had settled to its legitimate level.

Since the re-establishment of Mr. Bonbright’s affairs he had been prosperous, and his business, while healthy and legitimate, was steadily on the increase. Speculative enterprises were avoided. Old customers returned, and new ones gradually came in. The fine property on Commonwealth Avenue was disposed of at an excellent advantage, and Colonel Tapley, among their other transactions, purchased the cottage at Bar Harbor. On the first of May following the suspension, Mr. Bonbright made a final settlement with his benefactor, and fully repaid him for moneys advanced during the troublesome days which succeeded the failure.

On the evening preceding the May morning when the sisters were engaged among the flowers, Adelbert brought home an important piece of news. He confidentially informed Rosamond of the fact that an apparently well authenticated report was in circulation that Burton had become engaged to Miss Tapley. “There is but little doubt,” said he, “that in the not distant future Burton will become the colonel’s son-in-law. A variety of reasons all combine to render the correctness of the report exceedingly probable. The fact that Burton has left his boarding-place and is received into the family, is very suggestive; and then the well-known intense intimacy between him and Tapley adds to the probability of such a situation.”

“Yes,” replied Rosamond, “and I believe that Burton has not visited us quite as often of late as formerly, and, now that I recall it, I fancy that his manner has been a little constrained. Everything considered, I am convinced that the report is correct.”

“Do you think there has been any sort of understanding between Burton and Helen?” inquired Adelbert. “You know that we have always fancied they were fond of each other.”

“She has never told me of any understanding,” replied Rosamond, “and I do not believe that a word has ever passed between them; but I am certain that Helen greatly admires him. Whether or not her feeling is anything deeper than admiration, she and a higher power only know. I never saw two people before whose interests and opinions were so much in unison as theirs.”

“I think you had better break the news to her, Rosamond, for it is preferable that it should come from you, rather than that she should learn of it accidentally outside. Of course there is no announced engagement yet; otherwise Helen, being one of his best friends, would be early informed, but that makes little difference so long as everything points to the substantial fact. I think you should acquaint Helen with the true state of affairs without delay, so that when the announcement comes she may not be taken by surprise.”

“Yes,” replied Rosamond, “I think that to be the best course, but I will consult mother about it first, and, at any rate, will not mention the matter to Helen before to-morrow morning.”

Mrs. Bonbright was surprised at the report, but, from all the circumstances, concluded that it must be true.

“He always seemed very fond of Helen,” said she confidentially to Rosamond, “and I am not prepared to believe that the change in our circumstances could have had any effect upon him, for there is nothing of a mercenary spirit in his nature. It may be that his fondness for her society has been occasioned by the remarkable agreement of their views and principles. Their sentiments regarding theology, metaphysics, sociology, and, indeed, every subject, so perfectly coincide, that his apparent devotion may have been for that reason only. Do you imagine that Helen will be depressed by this sudden announcement, which, though unofficial, seems well founded?”

“You can judge as well as I can, mother. My own opinion is that she cares more for him than she herself is probably aware.”

The next morning, while the sisters were engaged among the flowers, after an unusually long pause, Rosamond observed,—

“Helen, there is a piece of news which I hope will not startle you, though I fear it may prove unwelcome and depressing.”

The serious and formal tone was so unlike Rosamond’s that Helen awaited the unexpected information with breathless attention.

“Bert came home last night with a report, which is apparently truthful, that Edward Burton is engaged to Miss Tapley.”

Helen made no immediate response, and nothing but a sudden paleness revealed the depth of her emotion. At length she rather quietly suggested,—“I should scarcely think it possible that there has been any announcement to that effect, for I think Mr. Burton would have informed us. What is the source of Bert’s information?”

“He had it from some one employed in the office of the magazine, and there are many circumstances which tend to confirm its truthfulness.”

Helen Bonbright never lost her self-control, for her soul habitually dwelt above the incidental in life, yet as her conviction grasped the momentous import of the information, it must be admitted that the May sun suddenly lost its brightness, and the flowers their gorgeous hues. She had never formally admitted even to herself that she loved Edward Burton, but had been conscious of an intense admiration for his character, spirit, and opinions. While well aware of her deep affection for all these qualities, she had drawn a line separating them in her own mind from his personality. On one side of this boundary she had disported with great freedom, but had not consciously peeped over upon the other. Perhaps Burton had not been quite as frequent in his visits of late, but he had been unusually occupied with the magazine. She could recall no change in his manner, and, indeed, if the report were true she knew of no reason why there should be. She had felt a peculiar delight in his society, but it was entirely based upon its quality. She had not, perhaps, paused to ask herself whether it could be solely admiration for abstract quality, or if much did not depend upon his peculiar expression of it in the concrete. The various strands of the cord which she was deeply conscious had bound her, had never been untwisted and put under inspection.

She left the trowel sticking in the ground, and seated herself upon the steps, as past experiences and impressions were called up and passed in procession before her. She had lived so entirely outside of self that only upon some rare occasion like the present were her thoughts turned inward.

The hours of that bright May day dragged more slowly than they were wont, and she felt the influence of an indefinable shadow which had obscured the brightness of the morning. Could it be that she had loved Edward Burton for months, and all the time been unaware of the fact? It became evident to her own mind that this unexpected shock had awakened certain unconscious impulses of her nature, which had existence, but had been dormant or sleeping.

That evening, after she had retired to her apartment, she seated herself to indulge in a searching personal examination and “taking of bearings.” She would be judicial and unsparing. Why had the information which had come to her been unwelcome? The conviction came over her strongly that she was not in love with Edward Burton; but yet, before dismissing that issue, love must be intelligently and clearly defined. In a deep sense, she was conscious of loving everybody. She could not be blind to the fact that the ruling forces of her nature operated from the centre outwards. What was love? All souls in themselves were lovely, notwithstanding unlovable qualities which might temporarily have fastened themselves upon them. If she loved all, she must love Burton. As to his qualities, they were more lovable than those of any other person she had ever met. She put herself on the witness-stand to respond to self-propounded queries. Is there necessarily selfishness in love? Does love really involve a desire to possess the idealized object? Do we not possess an object in the proportion in which we hold it in our thought? Do we love a person, quality, or thing, in the degree in which the thought of them gives us pleasure? These were some of the problems presented to the witness for solution. The main issue, and the lesser ones which clustered around it, did not clear up with the well-defined sharpness of a mathematical proposition. There were unknown quantities, the value of which could not be determined. There was fog mingled with the dark shadow, which would not lift at the bidding. There was a strongly intrenched enemy which made frequent sallies. Past midnight! More than two hours of retrospection and introspection, and the atmosphere still murky and uncertain. A desperate charge must be made. She summoned all her moral forces in solid phalanx, and with an irresistible rush the shining weapons of the advance line swept the field. The smoke cleared away, the shadow had lifted, and light filled her soul. Not a cloud remained in the horizon. The outward current from her spiritual nature, which for the past few hours had been diverted into an eddy, again set in with its usual momentum.

Almost a July temperature prevailed on the following day, and the quickening pulse of spring beat with feverish vigor, unfolding the leaves and buds and flowers, and hurrying them onward towards the robustness of summer. During the early morning and late afternoon hours, Helen and Rosamond were again among the flowers, which under their deft management made rapid progress. They closed their labors as the brightness of the sun’s rays faded out, and was replaced by the over-spreading gray twilight. The full moon arose in her splendor, as if ambitious to institute a comparison between herself and the vanishing god of day.

The sultriness of the evening drew every one out-of-doors, and the whole family gathered upon their cosey piazza to enjoy the rare beauty of the scene. Mr. Bonbright was very happy, and pleasantly contrasted the quiet homelike atmosphere of their snug rural cottage, with the ostentatious formality which characterized the great house which they had left behind. The moon, whose silvery lustre fell softly upon the little group, had witnessed many changes in the hopes, plans, and aspirations of its members during the few months which had rapidly flown by. The orb of night in its changing phases, week by week, is no more inconstant than the great dark earth. As Rosamond looked up at its bright and frank face, her thoughts flew back to visions of old castles, baronial halls, and queen’s drawing-rooms, now as attenuated as the sheen before her; and of an aristocratic and manly form, now no more to be seen. She could not resist the impression that Fate, in its allotments bearing upon her own destiny, had been fickle and unkind. What a wealth of associations is clustered around the Queen of Night! Her mild effulgence recalls familiar forms and loving companionships, and restores past situations and scenes, investing them with romantic hues, and fastening them in a tender and mellowed setting.

To Helen, a perceptible haze overspread the brightness where two nights before all had been clear. Had her victory not, then, been final? Hardly, perhaps, for during the day some of her outposts had suffered from the attacks of persistent skirmishers, and the placidity of her spirit had not been entirely unruffled.

For some moments all were silent, each apparently absorbed in the beauty of the scene, or wrapped in thoughts and associations suggested by it. At length the stillness was broken by the swinging of the front gate on its hinges, and the footsteps of two persons who approached side by side along the narrow path. As they drew near, the moonlight revealed the forms of Edward Burton and Miss Tapley. After the interchange of the usual salutations, the visitors were shown to seats among the group already there assembled.

“What a beautiful evening to be out,” said Helen. “The moonlight is simply perfect.”

“Oh, yes, the walk has been delightful,” replied Miss Tapley. “What an ideal place you have here, embowered in vines, bushes, and flowers. Mr. Burton has told me of it, but I think it exceeds his description.”

“It is pleasant,” remarked Helen, “although every place seems clothed with beauty such an evening as this, but even by prosy daylight we find it very enjoyable.” The conversation then became general, and included pleasant and amusing reminiscences of Bar Harbor, Anemone Cave, and Green Mountain.

Before departing, Miss Tapley said that she brought an invitation for all to come and dine with them, designating an evening during the following week. The invitation was accepted, and, after a call of moderate length, the visitors took their departure. As the two passed down the path through the gateway, and disappeared arm in arm in the dim distance, Helen Bonbright discovered that it was possible that a problem might be brought to a settlement, and yet not remain settled. Visions of the two, as they passed out of sight along the moonlit walk, flitted before her, and far into the night they would dissolve, and again reappear like dark and ominous shadows, which would not take their departure at the bidding.

More battles must be fought and more Victories won.