Extravagant Living CHAPTER 8.
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Morning found Lucy again in a state of lively expectation. The fear that Mark would not come, naturally caused doubts to arise in the mind of Mrs. Jones. But these, often as they were on her lips, she could not gain her own consent to utter. The day wore on. It was three, four, five, six o'clock — and still, though the ear of Lucy was alive to every sound, she listened in vain for the foot-fall or voice of the expected one.
"Is the stagecoach in yet?" inquired Mrs. Jones of a neighbor, who went by.
"Yes, ever so long ago," was the answer.
With a heavy heart, aunt Mary went up to the chamber of Lucy. What an eager, questioning look was in the eyes of the sick girl as she entered. The good woman tried to appear unconcerned, but was not able to hide her feelings.
"Oh, aunt Mary! Hasn't he come!" And as she made the eager inquiry, she arose from her pillow with a strength born of mental excitement.
It needed no lip-language to strike her hopes to the ground. She read in the countenance of aunt Mary, that the waning day had mocked her fond expectation, and she sank back with a sigh upon her pillow. And now, to keen disappointment, was added a sharper pain. Was Mark, indeed, so indifferent as this? Did he so poorly return the sisterly affection, that as a spring of water in her heart was ever gushing forth and flowing towards him? There had been enough, and more than enough, in the conduct of Mark, to have long before this excited similar doubts and questions. But, the unselfish love of Lucy had ever been fruitful in assigning reasons for the brother's apparent neglect. Now, even love itself could offer no excuses.
From the excitement of confident hope, the sick girl rapidly sank into the same low state that followed her disappointment on the previous evening. Earnestly did Mrs. Jones seek, by trying to lift the thoughts of Lucy upward into the perceptions of things heavenly and eternal, to prevent this exhausting reaction. But the wings of her spirit fluttered only for a brief season in these higher regions, and then drooped feebly.
The morning that followed did not find Lucy Pinkerton as bright and full of expectancy as on the two preceding days. She did not mention the name of her brother, although it was very plain to her aunt that the thought of him was ever present to her mind. Frequently it was on the lips of Mrs. Jones to say, "Mark will certainly come this afternoon" — and she confidently expected him — but every time the utterance was about being made, she checked herself. He might not come, and, therefore, it would be wiser not to excite, more than was already the case, the mind of Lucy. If he failed to arrive, the disappointment would be keen enough as it was.
And so the hours of another day moved steadily on, until evening came again. The sun went down behind the distant mountain; the hush of twilight followed; darkness came brooding over the earth — but Lucy and aunt Mary were alone. Silent both had been for many minutes. Lucy lay with her eyes closed, and, as the dim lamp-light fell upon her face, looked as if she were sleeping her last earthly sleep — as if her struggling spirit had freed itself from mortal entanglements, and was already breathing the pure air of the heavenly world. Aunt Mary was near, and almost bending over her. The lips of the sick girl moved — her eyes unclosed — in a low voice she murmured —
"There is One who sticks closer than a brother."
"Yes, dear child!" was answered, "One whose love for us exceeds the love of a mother for her nursing child. He never leaves us nor forsakes us. Lean on Him, dear love! — lean heavily — His arm is around you; He will be your all-sufficient strength in weakness."
Lucy's eyes closed, and she was silent for a time longer.
"Tell Mark," said she, speaking again, "that my last thoughts were of him. Tell him, that I have prayed for him daily, that he might be kept free from evil. If I could only look upon his face and hear his voice before I die! But I will not hope for that now. He cannot arrive before the close of tomorrow, and before then, aunt, I shall be gone."
From that time, through all the night that followed, the dying girl gave no sign of external consciousness. A lonely and heart-stricken watcher, Mrs. Jones remained at her side until morning broke, and the sun looked in and kissing the white lips of the sleeper, awoke her. She smiled as she opened her eyes, and said that she had been dreaming a pleasant dream.
"I thought I was dying, and, as the time approached, I was conscious of the presence of two angels. They sat near my head conversing, and they talked of Heaven, of its beautiful scenery, its inhabitants and their employments, its spiritual joys and celestial beatitudes. In their thoughts I saw the images of wonderful things, to describe which, there is no power in human language. As they conversed, I remained in a state of elevation, and had no consciousness, but of Heaven and life eternal. And thus it was until I lost myself, as it were, in a sweet slumber, from which awakening, I found myself in a chamber so much like this one, that it appeared the very same, yet all had heightened and living beauty. I was lying, it seemed, upon this very bed. Beside me, now in full vision, stood the two angels, and, as they extended their hands, they said to me, 'Your life on earth has closed, and you have now arisen into the world of spirits. Come with us, and we will show you our beautiful land and its people!' I was so filled with a glad surprise at these words that I awoke. Oh, aunt! — was it not a sweet dream!"
"Yes, my love, a very sweet dream," answered Mrs. Jones. It was only by her utmost efforts, that she retained her calmness. "Even so, will your tranquil passage be. You may not be conscious of angelic attendants; yet they will be with you, and, even as in your dream, keep your thoughts on heavenly life. You will sleep tranquilly, and afterwards, be welcomed by angels."
A sob choked the utterance of aunt Mary, and she was silent. Ah! How could she speak thus, and not feel the bitterness of her approaching bereavement? How could she think of Lucy's death, and not, at the same time, think of the sad, lonely, grieving days that were to follow? She did think of them, and when she turned from the bedside of Lucy, she went back to her own room, and wept.
It was now too evident that the dying girl had but few hours to live. The physician called as usual, but was grave and silent. An unimportant prescription was made, and then he retired, with little expectation of looking again upon the living face of his patient. As the day wore on, Lucy gradually sank lower and lower, while her mind, for the most part, was completely indrawn. About four o'clock in the afternoon she aroused up, and asked the hour. On receiving an answer, there was a slight change in the expression of her countenance. From that time she gradually revived; and though she said nothing, it was plain that her mind was active.
About five o'clock, as aunt Mary sat by the bedside of Lucy, holding her hand, and looking sorrowfully upon her death-stricken face, the latch of the garden gate was lifted, and the heavy tread of a man was heard below.
"Mark!" exclaimed Lucy, suddenly opening her eyes.
"No, my love," replied aunt Mary, quickly, for already she had glanced from the window, "it is the postman."
"A letter for Lucy," said a neighbor, who had been staying with them through the day, and now came up. She retired, as Lucy grasped the letter —
"From Mark! It is in his own handwriting. Read it for me, aunt Mary. What does he say?" Her utterance was confused and rapid. Mrs. Jones broke the seal, and read —
"My own dear sister — Tomorrow I will be with you. Oh! how your letter has afflicted me. From the moment it came to hand, I have been straining every nerve to get away. I was certain yesterday that I would start today; but was sadly disappointed. Now, all is arranged, and I will leave in the stagecoach tomorrow. I never dreamed that your health was failing you so rapidly. Is it indeed so bad? Were you not in a mood of despondency at the time of writing? I try to think that you were. I write hurriedly, tomorrow you will see me. Good by — keep a brave heart. Ever yours, Mark."
The eyes of Lucy were tightly closed, while aunt Mary read this letter. On looking up, the latter saw a change in her countenance, that caused her to drop the paper from which she had been reading.
"Lucy, dear! Lucy!" she said, tenderly, yet in a troubled voice, as she drew an arm beneath her neck, and pressed her white face against her bosom. "Lucy, dear! What ails you?"
The lips of the dying girl moved. Aunt Mary bent down her ear.
"Too late! Too late!" was the low whisper that scarcely stirred the air.
Another day had nearly waned. As promised, Mark Pinkerton left Baltimore on that morning, and was now within a few miles of the village in which his earlier days had passed. Soon, every object that met his eyes wore a familiar aspect. There was the fine old woods in which he had gathered nuts; the fields over which he had so often roamed with Lucy when both were happy children; the silver brook, running as clear and merrily as when they sat upon its grassy bank with their white feet splashing in its crystal waters. And there was the lazy river into which Lucy had fallen, and from which he had dragged her forth with a boyish heroism — that made him, for the time, an object of admiration to the whole village. How little of change was written on things around him, though years had passed since the thoughtless, innocent days of childhood. Everything he looked upon had power to awaken former memories, to stir his heart with tender emotions, and to reprove him for his selfish neglect of an only sister.
"Dear Lucy!" he murmured, as a flood of old feelings and old recollections rushed back upon him; "how could I have grown so indifferent? How could I have thought so much ofself — and so little of you? I am angry with myself. I am more than half ashamed to look into your face. But, dear heart; you were always so forgiving and so forgetful. I will kiss away the tears my wrong to you have occasioned, and never again shall word or act of mine cause them to brighten on your cheeks. Hereafter, I will deny myself for your sake. I will practice Lofton's economic virtues — if I can."
The last part of the sentence was uttered after a slight pause, and left some strong impressions of doubt on Pinkerton's mind as to his ability to exercise the promised self-denial.
Soon the stagecoach came rumbling into the village. The moment it paused at the usual stopping place, the young man, who was unencumbered with baggage beyond a light suitcase, sprang from the old vehicle, and hurried off in the direction of Mrs. Jones' cottage. In a few minutes, he was there. Doors and windows were all closed, and as he passed quickly along the narrow garden path, he was suddenly oppressed with a strange feeling; and now, for the first time, came the thought that Lucy might be dead! A chilling sensation ran along every nerve. Momentarily his heart ceased to beat, while his breath was suspended. Then, as he laid his hand on the door, his heart bounded on again, and his chest heaved in constricted respiration. He entered. The room was shrouded in white! He was alone with his sister. But the silver cord was loosed, and the golden bowl was broken. With the dawning of day, her spirit had awakened into eternal life!
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