Extravagant Living CHAPTER 6.
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From this time, during a period of three months, there was a steady draught on the sum which Lofton had accumulated; but the diminution gave him pleasure, not pain. A source, it proved, of deep gratification that he was able to procure for Ellen, during a long and dangerous illness, the comforts of a home, and the loving care of one who nursed her with the tenderness of a mother. As the sick girl began to recover strength, and her mind to acquire something of its usual activity, her native independence and maidenly delicacy threw a shadow over her feelings, and produced something of reserve towards her lover. Gradually she learned, through guarded answers to her questions, both from Lofton and Mrs. Wilson, all about her removal from the house of Mrs. Sly, and her present actual dependence on the generosity of the young man, to whose prompt interference, she was indebted for life itself.
Ellen had so far recovered as to be able not only to sit up a greater part of each day, but to walk a few squares, leaning on the arm of Lofton. Strength was coming back rapidly. Already, a faint flush might be seen on her cheeks, and the brightness of returning health in her eyes. It was now midsummer. Earlier than usual, one afternoon, and before the twilight succeeding the long day had closed in, Lofton called upon Ellen. He opened the little parlor door without knocking. There she sat, near the window, sewing, while on the table beside her were portions of a new silk dress, the rich materials and fashionable style of which left him in no doubt as to the nature of her employment — the work from a customer. The flush on her cheek, which he had marked, at his last visit, with so much pleasure, was gone; and lines of weariness were too visible on her brow.
"Why, Ellen!" he said, in a tone of surprise, "what is the meaning of this? You are not well enough to go to work yet."
"I'm gaining strength very fast, Archie," she replied, smiling cheerfully. "It's over two months, now, that I've been idle, and a burden o others, "her voice slightly faltered on the word "burden," while her eyes drooped beneath the earnest gaze of her companion, "and I shall feel better to be doing something, if it is ever so little. Mrs. Brown was here, yesterday, and urged me so strongly to make this dress for her, that I couldn't well refuse."
"Mrs. Brown has neither feeling nor consideration!" said the young man, with more than his ordinary warmth of speech.
"I would rather make it, than not," replied Ellen, showing some slight confusion of manner. "I feel a great deal stronger, and must begin to do something."
"You began too soon before, and against all my earnest persuasions. The imprudence came near costing you your life. Do not, let me beg of you, Ellen, act so unwisely again. Send the dress back to Mrs. Brown, and tell her that you find yourself too weak to finish it. If she is a true woman, she will take no offence."
"But I think I am well enough," persisted Ellen.
"No, child, you are not," said Mrs. Wilson, now coming into the room, and replying to her last sentence, "and I have told you so before. She has a woman's will, Archie, and a pretty strong one."
"Now, don't say that, Mrs. Wilson," quickly spoke up Ellen, slightly coloring. She felt that, to the ear of her lover, there was something disparaging in the remark.
"I do say it, child," returned Mrs. Wilson. "Haven't I been talking to you all day, and telling you how wrong it was to attempt this work with your present strength."
"But, Mrs. Wilson," urged Ellen, "you know my reasons for wishing to make this dress. You know — you know — "
Ellen did not finish the sentence. Her face was still more suffused, and she bent it so low upon her bosom, that its expression was concealed.
"I know," returned Mrs. Wilson, thrown a little off of her guard by excitement of feeling, "that Mrs. Sly has no claim on you so imperative that life itself must be put in jeopardy to secure the payment."
"Mrs. Sly!" ejaculated Lofton. "And, please, what claim has she upon Ellen?"
"Oh! Mrs. Wilson," said Ellen, in real distress, "how could you speak so?"
Mrs. Wilson was silent. She felt that she had done wrong in thus referring, in the presence of Ellen's lover, to the existence of an embarrassing financial obligation. Lofton comprehended all in a moment, and said —
"Let both of your hearts be at rest on this subject. Mrs. Sly has not the shadow of a claim on Ellen."
"I believe you are in error, there," answered Mrs. Wilson, who, not choosing to understand Lofton, went on to explain somewhat particularly the state of affairs between Ellen and Mrs. Sly, dwelling, as she did so, with some prominence, on the previous sickness of Ellen, as the cause of her indebtedness.
"Not the least in error," said the young man smiling, when Mrs. Wilson ended her explanations. "Mrs. Sly has no claim, not even to the value of a barley-corn, upon Ellen."
The young girl raised her suffused face and looked reproachfully at Lofton. The meaning of his last remark, she clearly understood. Far deeper than this reproachful glance, the eyes of the young man penetrated, and saw radiant and beautiful a look of grateful, confiding love.
Silence followed, and a gradual calming down of excited feelings. Then Lofton related his closing interview with Mrs. Sly, and on concluding the narrative, turned to Ellen and said abruptly, "What would you have done — had you been in my place?"
"Just as you did," replied Mrs. Wilson, before Ellen had time to frame an answer. "And, now that we all understand each other, let us give a little thought to the future. It is plain that Ellen's health will be permanently injured if she persists in doing as she did before. Now that she has agreed to make this dress for Mrs. Brown, I do not positively object to her finishing it, provided she work only a few hours each day. But, I should regard the taking in of any more work for at least a month or six weeks to come, as positively wrong."
"But, Mrs. Wilson," interposed Ellen, "I cannot live in idleness, I cannot — "
"You are, for the present, under our guardianship, my child," said Mrs. Wilson, laying her hand tenderly on that of the young girl. "Leave to us the care of thinking and acting for you in the present. When able to walk alone, we will restore all your freedom. Can you not trust us? Have you not faith in our love for you?"
"Oh yes — all faith — all trust," answered Ellen, betraying strong emotions. A flood of tears came to the relief of her oppressed feelings, and she wept for a time freely. How weak and dependent she now felt. Bravely had she striven to stand alone, while the thought of leaning upon her lover for support, was something from which her mind shrank with an instinctive sense of indelicacy. Yet, in her earnest struggle, she had fallen to the earth, and his was the hand that raised her up — his the arm that still sustained her.
The barriers of reserve were all broken down. Though formally betrothed to each other, yet no marriage day had been named, because the circumstances of Lofton were not such as to justify the step. Both were young, and both willing to wait the better time coming in the future. Such being the case, a certain maidenly reserve had marked the fellowship of Ellen with her lover.
But the evening they spent alone after the interview just described, was one marked by a different tone of thought and feeling from any that had gone before. Circumstances utterly beyond her control, had left Ellen helpless. His arm was instantly reached forth to protect and to sustain her. She had leaned upon it in utter weakness, and now that her step still faltered, she could not refuse the support so earnestly and so lovingly offered. And as her thoughts took new forms, while she listened to all his more freely uttered plans for the future, and saw herself leaning still in her weakness upon him, a deep inner joy warmed her bosom. She felt herself drawn nearer to him — felt her life blended, as it were, with his. A higher respect for his manly intelligence, and a higher confidence in his manly virtues, were also inspired. In her almost abject weakness, new strength had been born.
When Lofton parted from Ellen on that evening, there was something of despondency and impatience in his heart.
"Oh, that my income were larger!" he exclaimed, throwing out his hands as he gained the street, after leaving the house of Mrs. Wilson. And then, with bowed head, in deep meditation, he took his way homeward. Earnestly, as he walked along, did he ponder the present and the future. He still had nearly one hundred and fifty dollars in the Savings Fund. With a salary of only four hundred dollars, and but a hundred and fifty dollars ahead, would it be prudent to take so important a step as marriage? This was the distinct proposition in his mind. It was very far from being decided, when he reached his boarding house. The hour was late, at least for him. On entering the parlor, he found no one there but Pinkerton, who was walking the floor with uneasy step.
"I'm glad you've come at last, Archie," said the young man. "I've been waiting for you all the evening. Just walk up to my room. I have something very particular to say to you."
"Nothing wrong, I hope," remarked Lofton, who saw that his friend was much disturbed.
As soon as they were in the room, Pinkerton drew a letter from his pocket, and, handing it to Lofton, said —
"Read that."
The letter was from his sister, and the contents were as follows:
"Dear Brother Mark — I feel a little stronger today, and aunt Mary, after a good deal of persuasion, has consented to let me bear the fatigue of writing. She has propped me up in bed with pillows, and opened the large Bible before me, on which to lay my paper. I have grown very, very weak, brother. It may be, that I shall never have strength to write you again. And I want you just to answer this, if it is ever so briefly. It is nearly three months, now, since your last letter came. What a long time it has seemed — the longer, that I had so many reasons for wishing to hear from you. Oh, I would like so much to see you, Mark. Can't you leave business for a week, and make us a visit? Aunt Mary will be delighted, and I — oh, I shall weep for very joy. Do come, brother! I don't think I have much longer to live in this world. You don't know how much I have failed. I hardly think you would know me.
"Should I never see you again, Mark, let this be my dying request — Don't forget Aunt Mary! She has been all to me that a mother could have been. I mentioned, in my last letter, that she had lost her bank stock. Deprived of the income it yielded, she has since been in much financial embarrassment; and, at times, greatly depressed in spirits. How my heart aches for her! Don't forget her, Mark, when I am gone. I feel too weak to write any longer. Try, won't you, to come and see me? Oh, I want to look upon your face again before I die. Do come, dear brother! From your loving sister, Lucy."
Lofton read this letter through, and then lifting his eyes to the face of Pinkerton, which showed great disturbance, said —
"You will see your sister, and that immediately."
"I must see her. Poor Lucy! I had no idea that she was failing so rapidly."
"Under the circumstances, there will, of course, be no difficulty in your obtaining a week's leave of absence."
"O no. There'll be no difficulty on that score. But — " Pinkerton paused.
"But what?"
"Lack of funds is the great trouble. The fact is, Archie, I can't think of going to see Lucy with less than a hundred dollars in my pocket. Twenty to bear my expenses, and the rest for her. I blame myself sharply for not having sent her a supply of money weeks ago. She wrote to me of aunt Mary's loss, and how oppressed she was by a sense ofdependence. I had no money then, and was indebted by sundry small debts. It is little, if anything, better now. Still, matters have reached a crisis, and I must get the needed sum, if I borrow it. You have money in the Savings Fund. Lend me a hundred dollars for six months. I will pay you good interest. I would not ask the favor, were not my needs so imperative."
"My own needs, Mark," replied Lofton, "are nearly as imperative as yours. I have now but a hundred and fifty dollars in the fund, and shall in all probability, use the whole of it within three months from this time."
"Imperative as mine!" exclaimed Pinkerton, greatly excited, and with something rude and contemptuous in his voice. "And in your cold calculation, you will let the pleading voice of a dying sister quiver on the air in vain?"
"No, Mark," returned Lofton, calmly; "I will not do this. Against you, if against anyone — will lie the charge."
"What do you mean?"
"Your real needs are no larger than mine, while your income is larger. Am I to blame that no part of your earnings have been reserved, through self-denial, for an only sister, wasting away by disease, dependent and helpless? The little that I have saved, I shall need in a very short time, and for a purpose quite as near my heart as yours. To put it out of my power to serve this purpose, I think would be criminal; and for the reason that another's very life may depend on my ability to extend aid and comfort. Borrow somewhere else; or get an advance on your salary, which a representation of your pressing need will readily secure. But, don't urge me further; for I regard the fulfillment of my own obligations in life, as my first duty. A sense of this may narrow my views somewhat; may lead me to feel little inclined to aid others in fulfilling their neglected obligations — but so it is."
Though the words of Lofton were full of rebuke, yet his tone and manner which were unimpassioned, and even kind, allayed, rather than excited the feelings of Pinkerton, who rather coldly apologized for his hasty remark, and then changed the subject.
Lofton soon after retired to his own room. Half the night he lay awake, pondering the questions excited by his recent interview with Ellen. And equally wakeful was Pinkerton. Never had the latter felt so deeply disturbed in mind. He loved his sister as much as it was possible for a man like him to love anyone. There were many early memories that bound her to his heart; and when these were stirred, he thought of her with real tenderness. They were stirred, now, even in their remotest chambers. Had he possessed thousands of dollars, and the sum were needed for her comfort of mind or body, in his present state — all would have been freely given. But, he had nothing. In useless trifles, and vain self-indulgence, all, and more than all of his income had been spent; and now, when half of what he had foolishly wasted in a twelve-month would have filled the heart of his dying sister with gladness, he had nothing for the emergency.
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