Extravagant Living CHAPTER 4.
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"You don't know what you missed last night, young man," said Pinkerton in a tone of triumph as he met Lofton on the following morning.
"Nor you either," replied the latter, rather coldly. He had, in his thought, Pinkerton's narrow escape at the theater-door, from the anger of his neglected washerwoman.
"Mrs. Wood never sang so well. That everyone says. Oh! It was glorious. And you lost it all for the sake of a paltry half-dollar. Archie! Archie! You are unjust to yourself — and, shall I say it without calling a red spot to your cheeks, to that pretty little seamstress of yours. You should have gone yourself — and taken her also."
"You think so?" The brow of Lofton was slightly bent as he said this.
"I both say it and think it. The mind loses its healthy tone, unless we award to it occasional recreations. What is so exhilarating, and at the same time, so refining, as music?"
"Perhaps you are right," said Lofton, thoughtfully.
"Take my advice. Go this very day and secure a couple of seats. Be generous for once, and you'll never repent of it the longest day you live."
"I'll think about it," answered Lofton. The bell rang for breakfast, and the interview closed.
For the sake of Ellen, Lofton at first thought he would secure seats for the opera on that evening. But a little reflection told him that, in her feeble state, the excitement of music and acting, with the fatigue consequent upon several hours' occupation of one of the uncomfortable seats with which theaters are always provided, would do her far more injury than to remain at home. So that idea was very wisely abandoned. But, he by no means abandoned a better purpose. Earnestly he sought to devise some plan by which she could berelieved, for a few weeks, from the toil that was in danger of entirely destroying her health. The two hundred dollars, saved by such steady self-denial and careful economy — how gladly would he devote all of this, if needful, to meet the present need! But, how was he to use it, and not hurt the maidenly delicacy of one so tenderly and so worthily beloved? That was the question he found it most difficult to decide.
Breakfast over, the two young men departed to their different places of business. Pinkerton stepping buoyantly along, and still feeling the excitement of the previous evening; Lofton, with his eyes upon the pavement, earnestly pondering the ways and means of relief for Ellen Birch.
On reaching the store in which he was employed, a letter was handed to Pinkerton. He knew, from the post-mark and handwriting, that it came from his sister, and before the seal was broken, or a word of the contents known, a soberer mood followed the pleasant excitement of his feelings. With an uneasy foreboding, he opened the letter and read:
"My Dear Brother: I wish I could write to you that my health was improving, but it is not. I am very weak, and, though the season of flowers and singing birds is at hand, I do not seem to gain any strength. As yet, I have not ventured to go out even on the mildest days, lest I should take cold. The slightest cold brings back my cough, and that jars my poor frame terribly. Aunt Mary is very kind to me — as kind as a mother. Poor aunt Mary! She is in trouble. You know she had some bank stock, that paid her about a hundred and fifty dollars a year. Well, the bank has failed, and she has lost it all. Now, she has nothing to depend on but her dairy, and what she can sell from her little farm. I am consequently, a burden to her, and this makes me, at times, feel very unhappy. Oh, how I wish I were able to help her; but I am not. You have often said to me, dear brother, that so soon as you were able, you would pay aunt Mary something for my board. If you could spare her a little now, Mark; if you could send her twenty-five or thirty dollars — how much good it would do her, and how much it would lighten the weight which now lies heavy on my feelings! It is hard for me to ask this of you, Mark; but we are brother and sister, alone in the world — and to whom can I go but to you?"
"I do not think I will be very long here to burden anyone. I feel myself growing daily weaker and weaker. But few sands remain, and they are falling rapidly. Let me lean on you a little more heavily. Let me feel your arm bearing me up, Mark. I will not know the bitter sense of dependence which now so often oppresses me, if from your hand come the few things needful to sustain my failing life.
"I cannot write a longer letter to you now. The effort has exhausted me so much, that I must close at once. May I hope to hear from you soon, dear Mark? From your loving sister, Lucy."
To say that the young man was not deeply moved by this letter; to say that the instant impulse of his mind was not to respond fully to the earnest appeal of his sister — would be to do him great injustice.
"My poor dear sister!" he sighed, as he re-folded the letter. "How gladly would I shelter you from every storm of life! But — "
He did not finish even in thought, the sentence, but repressed the mental utterance, and in the bitterness of conscious inability to respond as he could wish, clenched his hands tightly.
"Twenty-five or thirty dollars," he said to himself, a little while afterwards, as his thoughts began to run clearer. "It does not seem a great deal; and yet, I am not the possessor at the present time, of a tenth part of the sum; while the whole of the current quarter's salary has already been drawn. I might borrow what is needed for poor Lucy."
"A lad wants to see you," said a fellow-clerk to Pinkerton, as these thoughts were passing through his mind. The young man turned around, and there stood a boy with a piece of paper in his hand. It was a bill from his boot-maker.
"Mr. Slocum," said the boy, "wants you to send the money for this bill. He's got a note to pay."
"Tell him," replied Pinkerton, very disturbed at this particular time, "that I can't do anything for him today. I'm short myself."
"But Mr. Slocum says you must send the money. The bill's been standing for months already." The lad spoke with an impertinence of manner that was very offensive.
"Go back and tell your master that must is a hard word, and he'd better withdraw it," said Pinkerton, looking sternly at the boy.
"But sir — "
"Off with you!"
The shoemaker's lad turned away and left the store, muttering something to himself that Pinkerton did not hear.
The current of the young man's thoughts were considerably changed by this disturbing incident. Other unsettled bills were remembered; and, as a very natural consequence, the sense of his own needs and financial deficiencies threw into the shadow, those of his sick and dependent sister. Still, he did not forget her; neither did he resolve to let her needs go unsupplied.
"Poor Lucy!" he sighed, as the thought of her returned more vividly. "Oh, that I were rich for your sake! There is nothing in this world that I would think too good for you. How unfortunate that money matters should be with me, as they are at present! I wish I had been more economical. I spend a great deal more for trifles than is at all consistent withtrue economy. Ah well! It can't be helped now. I must try and do better in the future."
"Mark," said a fellow-clerk, touching him on the shoulder at this moment, "don't you want a gold watch, cheap?"
Now to be the owner of a gold watch, had, for a long time, been the ambition of Pinkerton. Three or four times he had commenced saving up money for the purchase of one, but his weak propensity to waste small sums on trifles, never permitted the attempted accumulation to reach beyond three or four dollars — and then the whole would suddenlydisappear like frost-work in the sunshine. To the clerk's question, he gravely shook his head.
"You'll never meet with such a chance again, if you wait a dozen years," said the other.
"Who's got it? What's the price?" asked Pinkerton. A feeling of interest in the matter was being awakened.
"Joe Purdy has it. It belongs to a friend or his who needs money badly, and will sell it cheap."
"What kind of a watch?"
"A patent lever."
"Altogether beyond my ability," said Pinkerton. "And, besides, I am desperately poor just now."
"It can be bought for thirty dollars," remarked the other.
"Thirty dollars for a gold patent lever. You're joking."
"Not a bit of it. It's a first-rate watch, and is worth sixty dollars, if it's worth a cent. If I hadn't purchased one last winter, I would take it myself. You'll never have such another opportunity. Take my advice and secure it on the spot."
"But I haven't the money."
"Borrow it."
"Will you lend?"
"Haven't a dollar of my last quarter's salary left. But you can get what you want from Joe Purdy."
Pinkerton shrugged his shoulders, as he replied,
"And pay him two or three percent a month, for the use of it. He shaves too deep for me."
"Just as you like about that," returned the other. "But if you paid five percent a month on thirty dollars, until you drew on your next quarter's salary, you'd have the best of the bargain. Take my advice and secure the watch."
Advice so accordant with his desire to possess the article, thus temptingly set before his mind, Pinkerton felt very much inclined to follow. A sight of the watch, confirmed his inclinations. Without pausing to take counsel from prudence; to think again of the needs of poor Lucy; yielding to the persuasions of others and his own pleading wishes — he bought the watch, and gave to Joe Purdy — a shrewd, unscrupulous, money-loving fellow-clerk — his due bill to be paid two months thereafter for thirty-four dollars — the four dollars extra being interest at the rate of nearly seven percent a month on the loan of thirty dollars!
Ah! it never entered into the head of Mark Pinkerton to conceive of the painful, almost sickening reluctance with which his sister Lucy had, under her heavy pressure, forced herself to write to him as she had done. That he would respond, promptly and affectionately, she had no doubt. Yet, did not that take away the strong disinclination which was felt to ask him for money.
Five days had passed since Lucy wrote, and she was now in hourly expectation of a reply. Aunt Mary was looking troubled; and Lucy knew that she had cause of trouble. Oh, how it hurt her to think that she was now a burden to her kind relative! As she sat by her window looking out, the butcher drove up, and, alighting, knocked at the gate.
"I wonder what he wants?" said Lucy to herself, as an uneasy feeling crept into her mind. She bent nearer to the window. Soon aunt Mary came out, and Lucy heard the butcher say,
"Good morning, Mrs. Jones. Fine weather this. I've called, as you wished, to look at old Brindle."
The heart of Lucy gave a violent bound. Then tears gushed from her eyes. And was dear, faithful old Brindle to go to the slaughter-house? The thought made her so faint, that she had to lie down. Shutting her eyes, she lay eagerly listening for every movement below. The murmur of voices, continued for some time, reached her ears. Then Lucy heard the butcher say, as he clicked the latch of the gate.
"Very well, Mrs. Jones. I'll send for her tomorrow morning; and some time during the day, will bring you the twenty dollars."
By this time the butcher was in his saddle. A word to his horse, and he was off in a brisk trot, never dreaming of the grief his visit had occasioned.
Aunt Mary's chamber was next to Lucy's, The unhappy girl soon heard footsteps slowly ascending the stairs. Her aunt's door was opened and shut. A low sob or suppressed groan, reached her ears; then all was still. More than half an hour elapsed before the slightest movement was again audible. Then the good lady came into Lucy's room, and with a slightly shadowed, yet serene brow, sat down by the bedside, and, taking in her's the white, almost transparent hand of the pale invalid, said, with much tenderness:
"You don't look so well today, Lucy. I'm afraid you've been sitting up too long. Is there anything I can get for you?"
"Nothing, aunt Mary," replied Lucy, scarcely able to restrain her tears. "What did the butcher want?" she asked, as soon as she could speak with some steadiness of voice. "You won't surely let him have our dear old Brindle?"
"You mustn't take it to heart, dear," replied aunt Mary, with far more composure of manner than she had herself hoped to obtain. "What can't be helped, must be borne with fortitude. Brindle has been dry for some time; and we can very well part with her. I owe just twenty dollars for taxes, and they've threatened to sell our little place if it isn't paid. So, there is no help for us. Don't think of it, my child."
"Oh, I can't help thinking of it!" sobbed Lucy. "Dear, good old Brindle! Oh, aunt Mary," she said, after gaining a little composure "I feel, now, as if I ought no longer to be a burden to you."
Gently the hand of aunt Mary was laid upon the lips of the girl, and lovingly she answered:
"Hush! While a roof and a loaf remain to me, dear child, you will share them. Oh, never, never again wound me by uttering the words 'a burden.' It is love for you, Lucy, which throws light upon my way, which gives warmth to my heart; which brings strength and cheerfulness. Could I only call back the roses to your cheeks, I would be blessed indeed."
And with many loving words, she sought to drive away the impression which she had, even before this, seen gradually forming in the mind of her niece.
Now more than ever, did Lucy's thoughts turn to her brother. She was certain he would send her the money she had asked for; and should it come by the post that day, the sacrifice of Brindlewould be saved. An hour afterwards, she saw the postman turn in at the gate. How her heart leaped! She was sure he had a letter for her, and she was not mistaken. The welcome letter was from Baltimore, and the address in the hand-writing of Mark. Eagerly, and with unsteady hands, she broke the seal. There was no enclosure!
"My Dear Sister Lucy: I cannot tell you how much I am pained to hear of our good aunt Mary's misfortune, and grieved that your health continues so poorly. Your letter could not have come to me at a worse time. I haven't a dollar, and will not be able to draw on my salary for two months to come. Then I will certainly send you some money. Oh, I wish that I were rich for your sake! — "
Thus far Lucy read, when tears blinded her. She did not sob, nor weep aloud. Her disappointment was too deep for that. But the pressure on her bosom was so great that it seemed as if her heart would really cease its throbbings.
Mark Pinkerton was the owner of a gold watch. In his selfish extravagance and pride, he dreamed not at how serious a cost he had obtained it.
On the next morning old Brindle was driven off by the butcher. Poor Lucy, worse than usual, did not leave her bed during the whole day.
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