became known to her. Agnes’ choice surprised us all. Evart Berkely was a young merchant reputed wealthy, but not at all agreeable or pleasing to my fancy. He was handsome and tolerably intelligent—had been well educated and had traveled abroad, bringing with him from his travels various “foreign airs and graces,” which did not improve his agreeability to my taste. He was certainly much inferior to Agnes in point of intellect; but she loved him nevertheless. I always thought him a cold, calculating man, and the passionate love he expressed for my beautiful friend seemed so unnatural, falling from his cold unexpressive lips. Mr. Lincoln was at first as much dissatisfied and surprised at Agnes’ choice as the rest of her friends; but when he discovered how completely her whole heart was given up to this infatuation, as he could make no serious objection to the gentleman, he quickly quieted all expressions of disapprobation, and only stipulated that their engagement should be a long one, pleading his wife’s health and his own lonely state as excuses. The lover, of course, was impatient at these obstacles, but Agnes, always alive to her father’s happiness, steadily refused to shorten the period of two years, decided upon by her father. Evart was a devoted lover, and seemed to exist only in the presence of his mistress; and dear Agnes was so supremely happy—I fancifully imagined her beauty increased under this new influence of love.
She had been engaged to Evart Berkely about a year, when one evening we all met at Mr. Lincoln’s, on our way to a gay private ball. I had always gone into society with Agnes and Mr. Lincoln; for my mother dying while I was quite a young girl, my father had been so deeply affected by her death—as she had been to him companion, guide, and comforter—that he avoided all society, and sought consolation in close application to his profession. He had been from boyhood on the closest terms of intimacy with Mr. Lincoln, and willingly consented that I should accompany Agnes on her entrance into society, under Mr. Lincoln’s care. Accordingly, on the night I allude to, I had been driven to Mr. Lincoln’s, that I might be one of their party. I particularize this one evening, for it was the most eventful night of Agnes’ life—the turning point in her existence. Events occurred on that night which gave the stamp and impress to her future. I remember thinking, as I looked upon her, after the completion of her toilette, that I had never seen her so magnificently beautiful. Her father and lover were rather gorgeous in their tastes, and to please them Agnes always dressed with more splendor than accorded with her own fancy; but the peculiar style of her beauty was well suited to this manner of dressing. Her tall, full form could well bear the heavy folds of rich drapery that always swept around her, and the brilliant jewels that gleamed and flashed in her dark hair, and on her snowy throat and arms, were admitted by even the most fastidious to be in good taste. She was the daughter of a reputed millionaire, beautiful and noble-looking—costly garments and rich gems seemed well fitted for her. It was a grand ball we were going to, and after spending the accustomed half hour in Mr. Lincoln’s library, he gave us into Evart Berkely’s charge. Agnes entreated her father to accompany her with more than her customary earnestness; but he pleaded indolence, and laughingly reminded her that her lover’s presence should be sufficient. I could not account for the tinge of sadness that gloomed over her features; and when Evart and I rallied her on her absence of mind, during our drive to the ball, she frankly confessed her feelings were unaccountable, and said she had been suffering all day from a vague, indefinable sense of approaching evil. We cheered her, and attributed her feelings to nervousness; what evil could one so prosperous and happy have to fear?
As usual, she was the centre of attraction, and crowds followed her. Evart hovered around her incessantly, and her quiet, happy looks, as she received his attentions, so openly offered, were to me most fascinating. Her sadness and home yearnings seemed to melt before the bright light of the ball-room, and the merry laughter and gay looks of her friends, put to flight all gloomy thoughts. I thought I had never heard her voice so melodious, her laugh more buoyant, nor her dancing so graceful; she appeared as the embodiment of happiness. During the course of the evening, I was standing alone by a window, in a recess, that opened into a conservatory, almost, if not quite, hidden by the folds of the drapery, enjoying, in a sort of dreamy state, the rich odors of the flowers, and the bewitching strains of the music. The movements of the crowd brought two old gentlemen directly in front of me, in such a manner that I could not have moved if I had wished from my hiding-place.
“Hugh Lincoln’s daughter is a beautiful creature,” said one to the other.
“She is, indeed,” replied the friend, “and she dresses like a sultana—look at her magnificent gems and gorgeous clothing. Hugh Lincoln has been a fortunate man, and his daughter will be a rich wife for the one that marries her.”
“May be so, and may be not,” said the first speaker; “one cannot tell how a man’s estate may turn out while still engaged in business. Hugh Lincoln has been a bold, daring merchant; he always incurs fearful risks, and although he has hitherto been fortunate, one turning of luck may sweep all his grandeur from him—for he perils all on every great speculation.”
“She is engaged,” said the friend, “to young Berkely, who is so constantly with her. He is a shrewd, calculating fellow; one might feel certain of Hugh Lincoln’s wealth by the mere knowledge of that engagement.”
A movement of the crowd took place, and the two worldly old croakers, as I deemed them, passed away. I kept my place, and my thoughts were filled with Agnes and her future. Vague forebodings pressed upon me, and all my old dislike and distrust of Evart returned to me. Low passionate murmurings of love came next upon my ear. Evart and Agnes stood beside me with the heavy folds of the curtain between us, and I became again an unintentional listener. Evart poured out the most fervent expressions of love—he besought my friend to delay their wedding no longer.
“Think, my idolized one,” he murmured, “how long has been my probation already.”
“No, no, Evart,” replied Agnes, steadily, “do not urge me. My father, who, from my earliest recollection has been devoted to my happiness, asks me to delay my marriage. I will not act against his wishes. It would be but a poor promise for our future happiness were I to be thus regardless of my father’s comfort. Adel is too young to supply my place to him for a year or two yet. We are together constantly, and a year will soon pass around.”