Extravagant Living CHAPTER 2.
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The scene at the Holiday Street Theater, Baltimore, on that evening was brilliant and exciting. Mrs. Wood was never in better voice, and she bewitched all hearts by the power of her enchanting melody. Miss Raynor was there, and divided, with the lovely prima-donna, the attention of the more than half bewildered Pinkerton. If, from either of these objects of strong attraction, the mind of the young man wandered, it was to think of his sober friend Lofton, and to pity him for those false ideas of economy, in obedience to which, he was depriving himself of the pure and elevating delights of music wedded to scenic art.
And what of Archibald Lofton? Where was he? How did he pass the evening? Let us return to him. A small volume had been loaned to him that day by a friend, entitled "Mercantile Morals," with a recommendation to read it carefully. After Pinkerton left the house, the young Lofton drew this book from his pocket, and spent an hour in reading.
"The right doctrine," said the young man emphatically, when he at last closed the volume. "Every word of it true. The book is worth its weight in gold to anyone who will heed its precepts. Spare to spend! Yes, that is the true doctrine. If we spend money now for what we don't need — we will have nothing in the future to buy what we do need; but if we spare now — then we will be able to spend liberally in the future."
As he thus talked with himself, a servant came into the parlor to say that his washerwoman was below.
"Tell her that I would like to see her," replied Lofton.
"Well, Bridget, have you brought home my clothes?" he said, as the woman came in.
"Yes, sir. They are in your room."
"I owe you for another month, don't I"
Bridget nodded an affirmative.
"Two dollars?"
"Two dollars and a quarter, this month. You know there were some extra pieces last week."
"So there were." Lofton drew forth his purse, and while he was taking out the washerwoman's money, the latter, who had some misgivings as to whether it were just right, or politic, to charge for a few extra pieces, one who was always so prompt and cheerful in payment, said —
"I reckon we won't make any account of the few pieces over. It didn't take me long to do them, and you're always so quick in paying me. I only wish everybody I washed for, was like you."
"I'm much better able to pay for all I have washed, Bridget, than you are to do it for nothing," replied Lofton. "O no, my good woman; if there is a single piece over — let me know it. I don't like wasting money; but to the uttermost farthing, I wish to pay what is justly another's."
"Some people waste a great deal of money," remarked Bridget, "on one foolery and another; and those are generally the ones who begrudge us even the little they agree to pay. There's one young man I could mention, if I chose to call names — but that wouldn't be just right and proper, you know — who holds his head high enough, and yet it's like pulling teeth to get a dollar out of him. He owes me, now, over five dollars. I wish, instead of wasting his money as he does — he'd save it, as you do, to pay honest debts. My little boy, only eleven years old, and who ought, by good right, to be at school, if I could afford to keep him there, is earning money in a cigar store. He told me, this very evening, that the young man, of whom I am speaking, came into the store, today, and spent a dollar and a quarter for a little switch of a cane, with a pearl top, which he dropped on the floor, and broke a moment after it was paid for. It made my very blood boil when I heard it, and I said to myself — I'll not stand this any longer! As soon as supper was over, I hurried off to his boarding house, determined, if he didn't pay me what was due, to talk my mind right out to him. Well, as I was coming past the Holiday Street Theater, who should I see going up the steps but him? I was half tempted to catch hold of his arm, and ask him for my money."
"That wouldn't have been right, Bridget," said Lofton.
"I know it wouldn't. And I'm glad I held myself back. But its dreadfully aggravating, Mr. Lofton — dreadful. Him owing me for washing his clothes — for helping to make him look like a gentleman — and wasting two dollars in a single day, on fancy canes and theaters! Oh, its too much! I don't wonder my blood boils. But excuse me, Mr. Lofton, I didn't mean to annoy you. Thank you for your kindness. I think I'd rather take but two dollars. The extra pieces were small — I wasn't long doing them."
"All very generous and considerate in you, Bridget," said the young man, pleasantly. "But right is right. I have to economize. But I do it through self-denial — not by getting the labor of others for nothing."
"You're a jewel of a man, Mr. Lofton; and I'm no flatterer!" was the enthusiastic response of the half-Americanized Irish woman "And I wish the world was made up of the likes of you."
And with a low curtsey she retired.
"And this is Pinkerton!" said Lofton, as he walked to and fro, in some excitement of mind. "Spend his last dollar for a dandy cane, and then borrow the price of admission to the theater — while his washerwoman can't get from him the poor reward of her hard labor. Too bad! Too bad! I thought better of him than this!"
We must now introduce another character to the reader. About the time that Lofton was in conversation with Bridget, a young woman, plainly dressed, yet neat and tidy in her whole appearance, left one of the large houses in the upper part of Charles Street, and with slow, and apparently feeble steps, passed along as far as Lexington Street. Here she stood for some moments, as if undetermined where to go. At last she moved on again, until she reached Fayette Street, where the same indecision was manifested. A sudden thought, after a brief pause, changed her whole manner. With a somewhat quicker movement, she retraced her steps as far as Lexington Street, along which she went in the direction of Liberty Street. Half way down, she stopped at a frame house, the entrance to which was by high and narrow steps. She went in without knocking.
There was no light in the small parlor into which the street door opened.
"Who's that?" called a harsh female voice from a back room, the door of which was now thrown ajar, admitting a feeble gleam.
"Me," was faintly answered.
"Ellen. Oh! you're late tonight." There was not a single touch of womanly softness in the tones of the speaker. No response was made by the newcomer, who had removed her bonnet and shawl. The former she held in her hand by the strings, and the latter was lying across her arm, as she passed from the dark parlor into the small sitting-room that adjoined. A glass oil lamp afforded the dim light by which this "den" — if we may thus be allowed to designate it — was but partially illuminated. As she entered, an old woman lifted to her pale, thin, timid face, a pair of glittering black eyes, and fixed them on her with a cold, yet piercing gaze. Let us describe, somewhat particularly, this old woman.
No one would have pronounced her age a year below sixty. Her looks had added some ten to thirty years to her actual age. Her hair, of a dark, iron-grey, combed roughly back from her forehead, was so heavy in growth, and strong in texture, as to lift somewhat untidily her forehead from her broad temples. Her face was long, and tapered sharply towards her chin. There yet remained in her mouth a few straggling teeth, the incisors and canine projecting, when her lips were parted, very much like those of an animal. Her skinwas dark, and had something the appearance of leather. Her eyes have already been mentioned as black and glittering; they had receded far back into her head, and were restless and quick in their movements. Everything about her bespoke the hard, harsh, selfish woman, congealed into so rigid a form, in old age, that no one might press against her, without sustaining injury. In person, she was tall and thin.
The room in which this woman sat was narrow, its length being equal to the width of the small parlor, from which it was removed by a partition. In one corner was an old-fashioned cupboard, enclosed with doors above and below. A table, quite as ancient in style, was drawn a few inches from the wall. It contained a lamp, one of the wicks in which had been picked down, in order to lessen, by half, the consumption of oil. Sufficient light was obtained for all practical purposes, so far as the old woman was concerned, her occupation being that of knitting. Two or three old chairs, from which frequent scrubbing had removed every vestige of paint, a small square pine stool, cushioned with a piece of faded carpet, with two or three unimportant articles, made up the furniture of the room.
"You're late to night," repeated the old woman, drawing as she spoke, a round snuff-box from her pocket, and taking a large pinch of the powdered weed. As she returned the box to its capacious receptacle, she fixed her eyes searchingly upon the young girl.
"I had to finish the dress I was working on, before I could leave," was answered.
"Well, I hope they've paid you for your work. You've been there three weeks today!"
"I haven't finished yet. There are two or three dresses more to make for the young ladies," said the girl, with something deprecating in her voice. "I shall be engaged for at least a week longer."
"Why don't they pay you at the end of each week? The money's earned," said the old woman, sharply.
"They would, I suppose, if I were to ask them."
"Then why don't you ask them? No one should be afraid to ask for her own. I've had to do it all my life."
"It isn't usual to pay until the end of an engagement; and I'd rather not ask for my money."
"And I'd rather you would ask for it, Miss!" said the old woman, drawing herself up and looking in a very imperative mood. "I want my money!" she added, speaking very positively; "and I must have it! Your rent has now been running on for ten weeks; and I'm a poor woman, and can't afford to be without my money in this way."
"If I had not been sick, Mrs. Sly, my rent would have been paid regularly. I never was behind-hand with you before."
"Oh, well that don't matter anything!" said the old woman, impatiently. "You aren't sick now. You've been at work three weeks, and have earned six dollars."
"True," was the mild, and now firm reply of the girl, who, the sharpness of the first interview, which she had dreaded, being over — was regaining something of her native firmness and independence of character. "True, and in another week, there will be eight dollars coming to me, all of which will be paid into your hands as soon as I receive it. I've always given you your money, Mrs. Sly, the moment it was due. What more could you ask? Sickness should, at least bring some consideration."
"Highty tighty, my young lady!" exclaimed Mrs. Sly, in no feigned surprise. "What's coming over the girl? A nice way to talk to me, after I have nursed you for six weeks like a baby. Some people would have bundled you off to the poor-house. But, it's the kind of thanks I always receive."
And such nursing! The poor girl closed her eyes, and laid her hand on her heart, which grew faint at the remembrance of those six weeks of helplessness and suffering.
The simple relation of Ellen Birch to this woman, was that of a boarder. Why one so gentle, sensitive, and altogether so maidenly in all that appertained to her, as was this young girl, should have found a home with such a bitter woman as Mrs. Sly, may excite surprise. It is easily explained. Three years before, the death of her mother deprived her not only of her best friend, but left her alone in the world, and wholly dependent on her own efforts. A small life-annuity had been the mother's only income. On this, with strict economy, she had been able to support herself and child. Her death, when Ellen was just sixteen, left the afflicted girl not only alone in the world, but without any means of subsistence. For the last two years of her life, Mrs. Birch had rented a room from Mrs. Sly, who owned the poor tenement in which she lived.
As soon after her mother's death as Ellen was able to comprehend, with some clearness, her new relation to the world, her native independence, spurred, it may be, into quicker activity by some unmistakable hints on the part of Mrs. Sly, led her to select the trade of a dressmaker as a means of self-dependence. Mrs. Sly favored this, and as it was necessary for Ellen to exist during the year of her apprenticeship, proposed to board her for what service she could perform early in the morning before going to work, and in the evening after returning home. The offer Ellen accepted with thankfulness. But, what a year of toil beyond her strength, and ill-natured exaction — it proved. It seemed as if Mrs. Sly could never be satisfied with the amount of work done for her by Ellen. Before the day dawned, she was aroused from her pillow, and rarely escaped to her chamber before the midnight. Even with all this, if she could have pleased Mrs. Sly — it would have been something for her mind to rest upon. But that was hopeless, for the woman was sordid, even miserly, at heart, and her base love of money poisoned every gushing rill of human feeling in her bosom.
Slowly that year of toil and trial went by. It closed at last. The brave girl had acquired a trade — at what expense — her almost colorless face, attenuated frame, and slow, feeble steps, attested but too well. Ten hours a day, in the close work-room, for one who had taken much and frequent exercise in the open air, would of itself have tried her health severely. She came near breaking down, altogether, under the added toil imposed by her relation to Mrs. Sly. That relation, the selfish old woman had no objection to continue, for the meager fare provided for Ellen was paid for three times over by the service she rendered. The young girl, however, was too glad to be emancipated from such tyranny and labor. A new relation was, therefore, established. As she obtained work immediately, in two or three families to which she was recommended by the dress-maker with whom she served her apprenticeship — she was able to pay a sum agreed upon for boarding, which she preferred to the thankless and health-destroying service, the term of which had just expired.
Since that time, she had boarded with Mrs. Sly, who true to her natural instincts, had, besides half-starving the poor girl, rendered, in other ways, her life exceedingly uncomfortable.
Often did Ellen resolve to seek a new home; but, when she tried to make up her mind to leave the house in which her mother had lived, and the room in which she died — her heart rebelled against the decisions of her judgment. Her mother's spirit seemed to linger about the old, familiar objects, and she felt her presence in the chamber where they had slept together, as she felt it nowhere else. And so, bearing, forbearing and suffering, gaining earthly purification through many trials borne patiently — she remained in her comfortless home for nearly two years when a long and protracted sickness threw her, weak and helpless as an infant, on the tender mercies of one in whose bosom, the milk of human kindness had long since ceased to flow.
When at last, she tottered forth from her lonely chamber, it was with her mind made up in regard to the future. She was indebted for boarding from the time she was taken ill. So as soon as she was able to pay off what was due, she was fully resolved to seek another home. So greatly had Mrs. Sly annoyed her for the week or two before her introduction to the reader, and so utterly disgusted was she with her intense and cruel selfishness, that she was several times on the eve of not returning again to her house. It was a state ofindecision on this subject, that caused her hesitating movements after leaving the house in Charles Street, where she had been working through the day. A sudden thought, flashing through her mind, it will be remembered, prompted her return to the old home.
The last words of Mrs. Sly, in which allusion was made to the poor-house, and the ingratitude she had always received for her kind acts to others — were pitched in a high, shrill tone, which completely drowned the noise of footsteps in the adjoining parlor. Twice there had been a knock at the street door, and both times the loud voice of the old virago had kept the sound from reaching their ears, nor did either observe that, failing to attract attention — someone had entered. Not until the door of the little room was pushed open, and the voice of a man said, somewhat sternly —
"Mrs. Sly! Is it possible! What does all this mean?"
"Mr. Lofton!" exclaimed Ellen, in surprise, yet with something of joy in her tone, while her pale cheeks flushed, and her eyes brightened and filled with tears. The young man grasped her hand and drew her into the parlor. Mrs. Sly followed with the dim oil lamp that had burned upon her table, and setting it upon the mantelpiece, passed from the room without a word, and left the young couple alone.
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