Chapter 12

Every one is more apt to hear an unpleasant rumor than those whom it
immediately affects. Thus Eudosia and her mother were the only
persons at Mrs. Trotter's ball who were ignorant of what had
happened; one whispering the news to another, though no one could
presume to communicate the fact to the parties most interested. In a
commercial town, like New York, the failure of a reputed millionaire,
could not long remain a secret, and every body stared at the wife and
daughter, and me; first, as if they had never seen the wives and
daughters of bankrupts before; and second, as if they had never seen
them surrounded by the evidences of their extravagance.

But the crisis was at hand, and the truth could not long be concealed.
Eudosia was permitted to cloak and get into the carriage unaided by
any beau, a thing that had not happened to her since speculation had
brought her father into notice. The circumstance, more than any other,
attracted her attention; and the carriage no sooner started than the poor
girl gave vent to her feelings.

"What CAN be the matter, Ma?" Eudosia said, "that every person in
Mrs. Trotter's rooms should stare so at me, this evening? I am sure my
dress is as well made and proper as that of any other young lady in the
rooms, and as for the handkerchiefS, I could see envy in fifty eyes,
when their owners heard the price."

"That is all, dear--they DID envy you, and no wonder they stared--
nothing makes people stare like envy. I thought this handkerchief would
make a commotion. Oh! I used to stare myself when envious."

"Still it was odd that Morgan Morely did not ask me to dance--he
knows how fond I am of dancing, and for the credit of so beautiful a
handkerchief, he ought to have been more than usually attentive to-
night."

Mrs. Halfacre gaped, and declared that she was both tired and sleepy,
which put an end to conversation until the carriage reached her own
door.

Both Mrs. Halfacre and Eudosia were surprised to find the husband and
father still up. He was pacing the drawing-room, by the light of a single
tallow candle, obviously in great mental distress.

"Bless me!" exclaimed the wife--"YOU up at this hour?--what CAN
have happened? what HAS come to our door?"

"Nothing but beggary," answered the man, smiling with a bitterness
which showed he felt an inhuman joy, at that fierce moment, in making
others as miserable as himself. "Yes, Mrs. Henry Halfacre--yes, Miss
Eudosia Halfacre, you are both beggars--I hope that, at least, will
satisfy you."

"You mean, Henry, that you have failed?" For that was a word too
familiar in New York not to be understood even