Extravagant Living CHAPTER 7.
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The meeting of Lofton and Pinkerton the next morning, was attended by a certain coldness and reserve. Not that the former wished to appear cool, or the latter to seem offended. Both, in memory of their recent conversation, and the causes leading thereto, felt a measure of sobriety, and this showed itself in their exterior.
A careful review of his financial affairs, and a summing up of his resources, which had been made by Pinkerton during the sleepless hours of the preceding night, in no way lessened the embarrassment of his situation. More than once, in asking for small advances on his salary, his employers had expressed surprise that a young man, with no one but himself to support, should, being in the receipt of six hundred dollars a year, be under the necessity of making such a request. And the last time he did so, it was hinted that he must make abad use of a part of his money.
Under these circumstances, again to ask an advance, and especially of so large a sum as one hundred dollars, he felt to be doubtful policy. He could, it is true, urge the serious illness and dependent condition of his sister. But, a certain feeling of shame deterred him from this. Were he to do so, his neglect of that sister could hardly, without falsehood, be concealed — and he had, naturally, too high a regard for truth to make of it so direct a violation. This mode of raising the desired sum was, therefore, after due deliberation, abandoned.
Other efforts to borrow were then made. But, none of his applications during that day were successful. In fact, a week elapsed before he was able to get the sum of fifty dollars, and then obtaining leave of absence for a few days, he started for the village where his sister resided. Had Lofton needed four times the sum, he could have obtained it in an hour; but Pinkerton's credit was not held in very high estimation, and people who had money did not much care to lend it to a young man of extravagant habits, who was never over-prompt in meeting his little obligations.
We now transfer our readers to the pleasant little village of Lincoln, the residence of Lucy Pinkerton. Her letter to her brother was no overdrawn picture. The last sands in time's hour-glass were falling. The effort to write, as aunt Mary Jones had feared, exhausted her very much; and, to the increasing uneasiness of her kind relative, she did not rally again from the prostrate condition in which it left her. On the day following, she remained in a half-sleeping, half-waking condition, noticing little that passed, and only speaking in answer to some inquiry. On the second day, she was something brighter, but did not attempt to sit up even in bed. On the third morning, in coming early into her room, Mrs. Jones was both pleased and surprised to find her propped up with pillows — the work of her own hands — her face all a-glow, and her eyes bright.
"Why Lucy dear! How are you, this morning?" said Mrs. Jones.
"Oh, I feel so much better, aunt Mary. I've been awake ever since day dawn, and now I'm just waiting for the sun to look over the mountain. I dreamed all night about Mark. I'm sure he'll come today."
"Don't set your heart too much on that, child," said aunt Mary. "If Mark started by the very next stagecoach after getting your letter, he could only arrive today. You may receive an answer saying that he will be here tomorrow, or next day: but I wouldn't count on anything beyond, for fear of disappointment, and you are too weak to bear even that."
As Mrs. Jones spoke, something of the light faded from Lucy's countenance. She answered:
"I'm sure he will come today. He wouldn't linger a moment after getting my letter, for I told him — "
Lucy checked herself.
"Told him what, my love?" Mrs. Jones leaned over, and laid her hand softly on the white forehead of the invalid.
But Lucy did not answer. Slowly her long lashes drooped, until their dark fringes lay upon her colorless cheeks. A little while she communed with herself, and then her calm, deep, spiritual eyes rested again upon the face of her relative.
"That if he did not come immediately, he might not look upon my living face." Did the voice falter that uttered these words? No — it betrayed nothing of human weakness — no mortal dread. Afar off, Death had seemed to Lucy a very king of terrors. But, as he came nearer and nearer, and less of earthly atmosphere intervened, the distorted image gave place to a form of angelic beauty. The valley into which we must all descend, looked down upon from some far distant mountain, was dark and fearful — but rays of heavenly light were now piercing every gloomy recess, and she saw it but as a safe passage to a world of joy beyond.
Aunt Mary Jones was not self-deceived in regard to Lucy. That the time of her departure was near at hand, she knew by many unerring signs. How gently, and earnestly, and guardedly — even while her own heart grew faint as she thought of the coming separation — had this excellent woman sought to lift the mind of Lucy upward into the contemplation of heavenly things. Yet, even as she did so, the pupil often became the teacher.
Never before had the sick girl spoken in such direct terms of her approaching death. At the first utterance, Mrs. Jones felt a thrill along every nerve. But after a slight effort at self-composure, she was able to say, in a voice of tender encouragement:
"And you really think, my dear child, that your change is so near at hand?"
"It cannot be very far off now, aunt Mary," was calmly replied. This poor body is nearly worn out. It scarcely obeys the smallest demand for action."
"And your heart beats evenly?"
Lucy took the hand of her relative, and laid it against her bosom.
"Is not the motion undisturbed?" she asked, smiling. "Yet, why should it be disturbed?"
"True. Holy angels will attend you!"
"I feel their presence already," said Lucy. "Oh, why should I be fearful? Why should I shrink and tremble? I shall sleep sweetly, and awake; and the awaking will be my resurrection into eternal life. An earthly night — a heavenly morning! As a child lays its weary head on its mother's bosom, and falls away into sweet slumber — so will I sink to rest. A brief season of blessed unconsciousness, and then refreshed and happy as that child, I will awake in a world of spiritual life and beauty. Will it not be so?"
"It will, my child! It will!" replied aunt Mary. Her voice betrayed her struggling emotions.
"A world, whose excellence and beauty are dimly shadowed forth in our natural world, where things visible give faint images of things invisible. A world wherein are the realthings which have so many lovely types in this. How often have you told me of that world, dear aunt; and how, of late, I have loved to hear you speak of it. All is to me a blessed reality. It does not seem as if I were going to a strange country — as if I were about launching my bark on a dark river, flowing towards an unknown shore. All such gloomy images have ceased to haunt me. My heart blesses you, dear aunt, for the beautiful Christian faith into which you have led me. I lean my head upon it as a downy pillow — I repose on it as on a couch."
"May you sleep your last sleep on it sweetly, peacefully, confidingly!" said Mrs. Jones, so low that her voice was almost a whisper. And she pressed her lips to those of her fading flower, whose fragrance was exhaling to Heaven.
From this state, thoughts of her brother soon drew Lucy down again to the earth. Nature affection still held over her its potent influence, and so far as Mark was concerned, appeared to grow stronger and stronger the nearer her departure came. As the time wore on, and the hour approached when the stagecoach from Baltimore usually came in, Lucy's expectation grew disturbing in its intensity. Her kind relative saw this, and tried to divert her mind from the narrow and too rapid current in which it was flowing — but her effort was fruitless. She thought only of Mark and the joy of the meeting soon to take place.
"What time is it now, aunt Mary?" she asked, late in the afternoon, as Mrs. Jones came into her room.
"Nearly six o'clock," replied Mrs. Jones.
"Is it so late?" There was disappointment in Lucy's voice.
"Yes, dear."
"The stagecoach sometimes gets here as early as five, does it not?"
"It is hardly ever later," answered Mrs. Jones.
"I wonder if it is in?" A shadow of disappointment was already gathering on her face.
"I think it most likely. Yes — it is in, Lucy — and must have arrived half an hour ago, for there goes Wilkins, the driver, now, on his way home."
How quickly the already gathering shadows darkened on the face of Lucy Pinkerton. She made no exclamation — uttered no word of disappointment — seemed not to feel acutely — slowly the long, dark lashes fell upon her cheeks.
"Oh, Mark! Mark!" said Mrs. Jones, speaking to herself, as she stood looking sadly down upon the pure, white face of Lucy — "If your love had been even as the shadow of her love, that summons would have brought you here today!"
Then, stooping down and touching with her lips the forehead of the sick girl, she whispered —
"Don't let your thoughts dwell upon this too intently. I did not expect him today. But, tomorrow, he will no doubt be here."
There was a motion of the lips, and a slight quivering of the eyelids, as if Lucy were about to look up and speak. But neither lips nor eyes unclosed. As aunt Mary still bent over and gazed tenderly down upon her, two tears came stealing out from beneath the closed lashes, and then a low sob struggled up from the grieving heart of the failing invalid. With the wise instinct of a loving woman, Mrs. Jones uttered a few words hoping thereby to unseal the fountain of tears. They were not spoken in vain. The trickling drops were followed by a gushing stream, and the pent-up waters flowed forth, relieving the oppressed bosom. Briefly, the weak frame of Lucy quivered with excess of feeling. Then all was calm again.
"I am but a foolish child, aunt Mary," she said, after entire self-possession was restored, "and you will forgive my weakness. You warned me against building too much on the coming of Mark today. But I had set my heart so on seeing him, that I felt certain he would be here. The bitterness of my disappointment is over, now, and I can wait patiently. Tomorrow he will come."
It was on the lips of Mrs. Jones to say that, even in this expectation, she must not be too expectant; but she could not find it in her heart to utter the words.
The reaction upon Lucy's excited state of mind during this day, came, as reaction ever follows undue excitement of any kind. When, after leaving her for half an hour to attend to some household duties, Mrs. Jones returned to her chamber, she found Lucy in a very low and prostrate condition. The food she had prepared for her was not even tasted, and, during the whole evening, she remained in so low a state, as to excite in the mind of her relative the most painful anxiety.
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