Extravagant Living CHAPTER 30.
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The new hope which sprung up in the heart of Mr. Pinkerton, on reviewing the proposition of his partner to lift some sixty thousand dollars of the obligations he had created, was soon darkened. He had little dreamed of the true state of Mr. Allen's affairs, nor was he fully aware of the extent to which he was involved therein. A few months sufficed to make all clear — to show him that he was utterly and irretrievably ruined. Gradually, but surely, the circle of his operations narrowed; and, with each contraction, it became too sadly apparent, that to struggle with his fate, only drew the cords tighter, which were binding him hand and foot.
Some months had passed since the death of Mr. Allen. Already the two families had united into one, for economical as well as other reasons. But, even this failed to accord with their decreasing means; and they had moved from the handsome house in Charles Street, to one farther from the center of the city, which they procured at the greatly reduced rent of two hundred dollars.
How quickly did the crowd of fashionable friends, for whose eyes their costly furniture had been purchased, and their elegant mansion built — recede from them, in the time of adversity! They sank beneath the waves, and the ripple caused by the disaster soon gave place to a calm and sunny surface, leaving no sign of their departure. In the cord by which they were united to the worldly-minded and self-seeking, were no heart-fibers; and it broke without causing a pang. Not a few, who had been most intimate with Mr. and Mrs. Pinkerton — who had partaken of their generous hospitalities, and basked in the brighter sunshine of their prosperity — rejoiced in heart over their fall; and now could see nothing worthy of remark in their recent elevation — but weak social ambition, upstart pride, and disgusting vulgarity.
"They carried their heads a world too high!" said one.
"I always thought of the fable of the ox and frog," said another; "and now only wonder that the catastrophe was so long delayed." [Editor's note: The fable concerns a frog that tries to inflate itself to the size of an ox — but bursts in the attempt.]
"Water is sure to find its true level," remarked a third.
"I never could tolerate them," said a fourth, who had been one of Mrs. Pinkerton's "dearest friends."
In the meantime, the unhappy objects of these ungenerous comments were suffering a degree of mental anguish, even a faint picture of which, would make the reader's heart ache. But, we are in no way inclined to draw the veil, and exhibit to curious eyes, their impotent anguish. It was too great, not to be accompanied by deforming exhibitions of pain.Crushed pride and disappointed ambition could not but cry out at the loss of all in life which seemed worth living for — could not but exhibit, in corresponding externals, the bitterness of those inward pangs which seemed as if they would palsy the very heart.
No — no; we will not lift the veil. While the seething fermentation goes on — let their anguish of spirit be a sacred thing. When the wine of life, chastened by its wild, internal conflict, is clearer, and receives the pure light into its bosom — we may bring the reader briefly, into their presence again. A little incident, however, we must not pass over.
One morning — it was when the mind of Pinkerton was almost paralyzed by a crushing sense of coming poverty — he went to the post-office, as was his daily custom, and received therefrom two letters. He did not notice the post-mark on either, until he arrived at the office where he had, for some months, transacted the small matters of business which required his attention. Then, as he threw them on a table, he saw the well-known name of his native village, clearly written out on one of them. A sigh escaped his lips, as he took this letter in his hand, and broke the seal. He had a foreshadowing of something unpleasant; and his anticipations were by no means at fault. The letter read:
"Sir: I don't know that I shall get any thanks for my pains; but, I suppose I must do my duty for all that. In a word, then, your aunt Mary Jones, who has lost, by some swindling of the lawyers, all her little property, and who has been bed-ridden all winter at the house of a poor neighbor, was yesterday sent to the poor-house, as there was no one here who was willing, who felt able, to take the burden of her support. Poor old lady! it is a hard case; and I thought it would break her heart. However, she's a Christian woman, and ifman forsakes her — I suppose God will comfort her in her old age and helplessness. But, it is a hard trial, Mr. Pinkerton, for one like her to be made a pauper of. I thought all night about it last night — it kept me awake till day-dawn. So, this morning, I said to myself: Mr. Pinkerton, her nephew in Baltimore, they tell us is as rich as a Jew. I'll just write to him all about it. So, now, sir, you know that your aunt Mary Jones, your mother's only sister, and the one who was so long a tender mother to your sick, and now dead sister Lucy, is in the poor-house. If you leave her there — why, ignorance of the fact, at least, will be no excuse. Obediently yours, John Castor."
There was scarcely the sign of an emotion visible as Pinkerton read this letter. At its conclusion, he laid it quietly aside, pressed both hands over his face, and bent forward until his forehead touched the table. It was fully ten minutes before he aroused from the painful abstraction of mind which the epistle had occasioned. As he lifted his pale face, his eyes rested on the other letter, which had been forgotten; and now, for the first time, he saw that it bore the same post-mark as this, though addressed in a different hand. The seal was broken, and the letter read in turn. It was as follows:
"Mr. Mark Pinkerton — Enclosed is a bill of twenty-five dollars, my charge for placing a tombstone over the grave of your sister Lucy. You may say that you never ordered it, and if you do, I suppose that must settle the matter. But, I thought, maybe, you wouldn't just like to have the grave-stone of an only sister remain unpaid for; and so concluded just to write you on the subject. It is more than two years since Mrs. Jones, your aunt, came to me and said, 'I want you, Mr. Carver, to put up a marble headstone and footstone to dear Lucy's grave. I thought her brother Mark would have done it long ago; but, I suppose he has forgotten all about it. He never was very apt to remember promises. I can't bear to see the weeds and briars all so choked and tangled over the ground; nor to see the grave of one so good and so loved, all neglected — while other graves are cared for properly.' And so she chose the kind of stones she wanted — and I put them up. Well, it wasn't long before poor Mrs. Jones got into more trouble with her little place. A shark of a lawyer here found out that her title wasn't just all right — and the upshot is, that she's lost everything. All winter she lay sick and helpless, and yesterday, I regret to say, was taken to the county alms-house. I never asked her about my bill while all this lawyer-work was going on, for I knew she hadn't the money, and I didn't want to increase her trouble. Of course, there's no chance for me now. But, it has seemed to me, that you wouldn't like the bill for your sister's gravestones to remain unsettled, and so I send it to you. I shall be glad if you will pay it, as I am a poor man, and can't afford to lose so much money. Respectfully, Henry Carver."
The first impulsive act of Pinkerton was to write a hurried answer to this letter, to the effect that he enclosed the amount of Mr. Carver's bill, and was sorry he had not been advised of its existence before. Then, taking out his pocket book, he unfolded a small roll of bills. Their whole sum, on counting them over, did not exceed twelve dollars. With a sigh, the money and pocket-book were replaced. A long time, the unhappy man sat musing. How painfully and constrictingly did a sense of destitution press upon his mind! He had no income whatever, and was in no business that gave promise of an income. The little he had been able to retain from the wreck of his fortunes, was nearly all expended, and his heart had already begun to feel oppressed with fears of absolute poverty. Rising, at length, he took the sheet of paper on which he had written, and deliberately tore it in to shreds. Then placing in his desk the two letters received on that morning, he went from his office, not because he had business that required his attention, but in the vain effort to get rid of thoughts whose pressure on his brain were almost maddening.
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