Married and Single CHAPTER 18.
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Reader, be our companion in a visit to the old man Lane. You consent. Come, then. We shall not find all, I fear, even as comfortable as when last we saw him. On the way, let us open to you a little more of his history. After the death of Dora, and the reception of her picture and accompanying letter, the old gentleman showed less of that cheerfulness of manner with which he had ever met his friends. He was more absent and thoughtful, even in company. The loss of nearly everything he had accumulated, in the failure of a single speculation, joined with moral causes to bring on a permanent depression of spirits.
To this state he had but one antidote, convivial companions and sensual gratification. He indulged freely in good eating and drinking, and from an epicure became something of agourmand. Thus, at that mature age, when every man who has lived right begins to rise into the innocence of wisdom — Lane commenced sinking into the sensuality of the brute. Whenever thought and feeling resumed their empire in his mind, they ruled with no mild and soothing sway. Gladly did he seek to dethrone them.
As he grew older, and became less and less companionable in his habits, he was left more and more alone. The few friends with whom he had been conjoined by the associations of earlier years, were all separated from him by death or distance. Even parasites, he had none; for, with increase of years and a diminution of monetary resources, he had grown penurious, and this divided him and even false friends. None sought his company from a fellow feeling, and none from interest. Left to himself, the old man felt his life to be a heavy burden.
But, while life lasts, every man will be urged on by some predominating love, good or evil. There is no such thing as sitting down in absolute listlessness. The fear of final poverty caused Lane to become miserly in his feelings. His practice was very light, and yielded but a small return. The great business of his life resolved itself into a provision for physical existence. This gave a new energy to his mind, and endowed it with quick perceptions wherever the making or saving of a penny was concerned. At sixty, he dispensed with what had before been considered indispensable — his servant. His meals were taken at a refectory, and the room in which he slept, kept in order by his own hands. To preserve appearances, a man was employed to open his office every morning, and make the fire in winter. But even stronger than his penuriousness, was his love of eating and drinking;with a quick, restless eye — were therefore united a full, sensual face, and obesity of person.
Five years more were passed, the old man gradually declining, and losing each day more and more of those noble qualities that distinguish an intellectual and moral being. At this period we are about to visit him. Come, then, let us see him for the last time. We shall not find him pleasantly domiciled in the house of a friend, nor yet, a step lower in the scale of comfort, at a good hotel, nor even at one a fourth or fifth remove from the best; no, but occupying the only habitable room in an old house, long ago deserted. It is up this alley, so choked with dirt that a vehicle rarely ventures through it; a pedestrian never, unless specially called upon to do so.
Come! the old man is sick, so do not hesitate. Here we are at last. How cheerless a place! You doubt if a living soul can dwell here; we shall see. This is the entrance. The old door turns harshly upon its single rusty hinge. We are within. No sound, no trace of a human being. How drearily our footsteps come echoed back to us, as we ascend the creaking stairs, which have not been swept for years! The air is close and suffocating.
We are on the second floor. Not here! These rooms are only inhabited by vermin. Here the worm gnaws steadily on through its brief existence; and here the mildew, and dry-rot, and the various fungi that are brought into existence in damp, close apartments, join in destroying the handiwork of man. He builds up with hurried skill; they slowly, but surely, return all again to the earth.
But we must not stop to moralize. Up still farther. How very still! The air is oppressed with silence. Now we are at his door. Listen! No sound. Can the old man be away? Surely not, for he has been sick and in bed for a week. Let us knock. No answer! Strange! He cannot, surely, be out. We will try the latch. The door opens, but all is still. There is no one here.
Yes! there he lies on that miserable bed. Does he yet breathe? No — yes! he moves. Hark! that groan! How unearthly it sounds. Lane! Lane! No answer. Raise him up; he is suffocating! There! now he breathes more freely. Hark! what does he say?
"Good wine — good dinner — and all that — plenty of friends. Don't let him go near that trunk — he'll take it, and then — ugh! the poor-house. I wish I were dead. Hush! Look! Don't you see him now after that trunk? He'll rob me. Aha! did I catch you?"
It is but a momentary struggle of the mind to come into outward perception. Now he sinks down exhausted. Evidently his time has come. He has filled up the measure of his days, and here, alone, in this wretched place — the last sands of his existence are falling. No wife — no child — no friend. For him, no one feels a movement of sympathy. He has livedfor himself — and dies without being thought of or cared for by anyone.
A groan — a long, deep, shuddering groan — a quivering of the limbs — a convulsive twitching of the muscles about his neck and face — a gasp, and all is over. The writing in his book of life is ended, and the volume sealed! When opened in that world to which we all are tending — will its record show a general current of good or of evil? Not for us is it to say. Enough that we shall strive to live to better purpose.
In this chamber of death, we will not remain, reader. Its atmosphere is too oppressive. It has no object to attract. Yes, one; there, upon the discolored wall, hangs the portrait of Dora Enfield, as she looked in early womanhood. What a lovely face! How it must have haunted that miserable old man, even to the last. We gaze on it for a moment, and then go forth, leaving Milford Lane with his God.
And now, what of Henry Trueman?
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