CHAPTER XII.
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?”