“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.”