The tone of voice told the regret which those words expressed, and caused me to smile as I looked at my bright-eyed friend, who, being on the eve of marriage herself with one she loved very dearly, thought, of course, the married state the only true vocation for a woman.
“But, Kate,” I replied, “Agnes Lincoln has always had duties sufficient to employ her in her home circle—her heart has been too much occupied with providing for the comfort of her brothers and sisters, and nursing a poor invalid mother, to go out on voyages, in order to seek a fellow heart, or to attend to the said fellow heart, should it come wooing. Only unoccupied, free-from-care bodies, like your sweet self, can find time to fall in love and marry—”
“Nonsense!” said the blushing Kate, “do not tease me with such badinage. I wish you would tell me Miss Lincoln’s history—romantic I have already determined it is—for those deep, dark eyes of hers give evidences, by their bright flashings at times, of the existence of a fount of passion, which, I am sure, must have welled up and bubbled over at some period of her life. You have known her intimately from girlhood, Miss Duval, come, tell me the tale. See, it is the very time for a long story, we are certain of being alone, no stupid visiters will interrupt us, for those threatening, overhanging clouds are already beginning to let down their watery contents—the fire snaps and sparkles in a most sociable manner, and I will spend the whole day with you in this cheery little room of yours.”
Accordingly she threw aside her bonnet and shawl—pushed what she called “the troublesome desk, and still more wearying work-basket,” away from me, then throwing herself on a low ottoman beside me, looked most persuasively into my face for the web of romance she was determined I should weave, and with the air of one determined not to be denied.
“Do you deserve, Kate,” I said, “that I should entertain you, when you seem to think so slightingly of the mission of my sisterhood? Saucy girl! are old maids always to be regarded by such sparkling, merry witches like yourself, as leading lives useless to both man and womankind?”
“No, no, dear Miss Enna,” exclaimed the lovely girl, as she gathered her graceful limbs on her favorite seat beside me, in order to make her dear little luxurious form still more comfortable, gazing into my face with her bright dancing eyes, and holding my hands caressingly, “Heaven knows, I have had need to bless the sisterhood, for what would I have been without such a dear, good, kind—” I stopped her rosy flattering lips with my hand, and yielded to her request. Kate Wilson promised to be lenient should my story have less of interest and romance in it than she expected—will you, my dear reader, be as merciful and indulgent?
As Kate said, I had known Agnes Lincoln from girlhood—yes, babyhood—for we had been introduced by our proud, happy mothers to each other, in our first long dresses, and had taken infinite delight, so our nurses had said, in tearing the blue and pink cockades off of each other’s caps. We were always warm friends; went to the same schools, and, as our parents were intimate, when we grew up visited in the same circles. Agnes’ father was the senior member of one of the most opulent firms in the city—his wealth was said to be immense, and truly they lived in a style of princely magnificence. She was the eldest of several children. The three next to her died in infancy, which made quite a difference between her and the other children in point of age. Her mother was a woman of exceedingly delicate frame, and sickness and the distress she had suffered on losing her children, weakened still more a mind never very strong. I always remember her as an invalid—surrounded by every luxury wealth could purchase; possessing a doting husband and a family of noble children; yet always repining and melancholy.
Agnes had been educated by her father with exceeding great care; and as she grew up was a most agreeable companion for him. He accompanied her into society; they studied, rode, drove and walked together; indeed one could rarely see them apart. How proud was he of her; and he lavished every costly gift upon her with an unsparing hand. She was beautiful—a tall, splendid looking creature—a fine erect figure, with the bearing of a queen, and a head fitted for a Zenobia—but the classic severity of her features was softened by the most melting, lovely eyes, and the gentle melodious tones of her voice were bewitching. Beautiful, rich and young, of course Agnes Lincoln was a belle. She had been full two years in society, and to the surprise of her friends she was still disengaged. “I shall never marry, Enna,” she would say to me, in answer to my playful reproaches upon her want of susceptibility—“how could my poor mother or lonely father spare me?” and at last I began to think, as many others did, that Agnes was one of those born to a life of “single blessedness,” when
“Lo! the troubled joy of life,
Love’s lightening happiness,”