“It’s as well,” returned Mr. Townsend, suppressing any exhibition of feeling with an effort. “Circumstances have occurred that render it unnecessary to send them.”
“How providential!” was his mental ejaculation, as he turned from his clerk; and gathering up the letters, thrust them into his desk.
This was, perhaps, the first time in his life that his heart had felt and acknowledged the hand of a Divine Providence in any thing, and the acknowledgment, in this case, was more instinctive than rational. But the utterance in his mind of the word, and the involuntary acknowledgment of a “Providence,” came immediately into the perception of his thoughts, and transferred them from the incident of the letters, to that involving a matter of infinitely greater importance—no less than the salvation of his life itself. A shudder passed through every nerve, as he closed his eyes, and in the silence of a deeply thankful heart, acknowledged, rationally as well as feelingly, the Divine hand in what had occurred.
At that moment a light broke in upon his mind; a feeble light that only revealed all things that it fell upon indistinctly, but, by it he could see better than he had ever before seen, the nature of the ground upon which he was standing—the unsatisfying character of all mere natural things, and the priceless value of spiritual qualities and endowments, such as his daughter Eunice possessed. Sustained by them, a young and feeble girl, who had not been enough in the world to feel its rough contact or learn its selfish wisdom, was able to hold up the hands of a strong man, bowed down and helpless from the pressure of misfortune. Something of wonder and admiration filled his mind, for a few moments, as this truth forced itself upon him.
“Shall my child, a delicate, tender girl, be braver than I?” he said to himself. “Shall she stand up, resolutely, and with a bold front to the coming storm, and I shrink in the blast, and turn my back like a coward? No! This shall not be!”
In this better spirit did Mr. Townsend take up again his life-duties, and seek to save what could be saved in his business, rather than abandon all in impotent despair.
CHAPTER XVI.
FURTHER RETRENCHMENT.
The loss of ten thousand dollars—sweeping from his hands, at a single stroke, all he was worth, and all his means of doing any thing like a profitable business—left Mr. Townsend really in a very helpless state, and filled him with discouragement the moment he turned his thoughts upon the straitened condition of his affairs. But, after such a lesson as he had received from Eunice—after such an opening of his eyes to the true light—he could not utterly despond. He had lifted himself from the earth, stood up erect, and taken the first step. It would not do to pause now, sink again, and abandon all. He must do to the utmost of his ability, let what would come.
The greatest difficulty that presented itself to Mr. Townsend, was the universally-prevailing spirit of cupidity existing among men of business, which led almost every one to seek his own good in a heartless disregard of others. Were he to make a full exposition of his affairs, and ask for consideration and aid from those for whom he did business, instantly their confidence would cease, consignments be withheld, and the destruction of business he was seeking to avoid become inevitable. There would be no generous consideration, no sympathy for his losses, extended toward him, but censure for his want of sagacity in not perceiving the signs of weakness in the house that had failed. No longer able to advance upon consignments, or guaranty sales, those who wished advances would not send him their goods, and those who were willing to waive the guaranty, would be afraid to trust their sales to a man who had committed the mistake of selling to a house just on the eve of its failure.
That this would be the result of an exposure of his affairs, Mr. Townsend felt well assured. It was just as he had acted in his days of prosperity. He never regarded the interests of any man, and never extended the slightest sympathy toward the unfortunate. His system had been, to get out of every one who owed him and became embarrassed, all he would yield by the severest pressure, and then throw his bloodless carcass out of sight—to the dogs, for all he cared. And little more consideration than he had given, did he expect. Judging all men by his own standard, he did not believe in the existence of a particle of unselfishness in business circles; and he, therefore, expected to receive no generous consideration in his misfortunes. That this selfish disregard of others was wrong, he could now see, because it affected himself. If no other good result came from his reverses, the clear conviction and acknowledgment of this was something, and worth all he had lost and suffered to acquire.