“And the coming year may see you wedded to another,” exclaimed her lover passionately.
“Evart,” said Agnes, reproachfully, “have I not promised to be your wife?”
“But, Agnes,” replied Evart, in hurried words, “suppose sorrow were to overtake me—men in business are daily exposed to ruin—what then could I depend on? Your father would never consent to your marriage with a bankrupt; and to my troubles would be added the fearful necessity of yielding you up forever.”
“Say not so, dear Evart,” replied Agnes, in earnest, loving tones; “in the hour of trouble you would be dearer to me, if possible, than now. I have promised to be your wife—I hold that promise sacred, believe me; and, moreover, I know my father’s generous nature too well to think as you do—in misfortune he would be kinder to you than in prosperity. But why talk of misfortune—are there any clouds on your business horizon? Come, tell me your troubles, and if you are, indeed, on the eve of bankruptcy, which Heaven avert, seek advice from my father; never fear, Evart, he will willingly assist you; and if it would lighten your heart in the midst of such affliction, I would be your wife instantly; in such a case my father would no longer object—you would need the consoling society of a wife more than he would need his daughter;” and Agnes’ face wore a look of mingled affection and anxiety as she took his hand.
“Truly,” exclaimed Evart, laughing, “I have half a mind to declare myself a bankrupt, if it would have that effect. But do not look so anxiously, my blessed one—my affairs are in a most prosperous condition. I was wrong to alarm you, yet it proved to me your love, dearest, which, indeed, I sometimes am weak enough to doubt. I torment myself with a thousand fancies. You are so beautiful, Agnes, so superior—I so unworthy of you, that I am always fearing a change in your feelings.”
“Now that is really unkind, Evart,” was Agnes’ reproachful answer; “am I prone to changing—who have I ever loved but you? You should not be thus suspicious, or you will make me fearful of change, not in myself but in you.”
Then followed from Evart the most fervent, passionate declarations, which were interrupted by the approach of some friends, who came to seek their assistance in forming a favorite dance; and I escaped from my hiding-place. I was so intimate with Agnes—her second self, as she playfully called me—that I felt no annoyance at having been forced to play the listener to her love scene; on the contrary, congratulated myself that no stranger, or mere acquaintance, had been in my place. I descended from the steps of the window into the conservatory, and spent a full hour in examining the beautiful plants—imagining myself in fairy land. The pure, beautiful light shed from the alabaster vases, which, containing lamps, were placed in different parts of the conservatory; the bewitching tones of music that came sweeping from the ball-room, and the soft night air that poured in from the open, outer windows, all heightened the illusion, and I fancied I was listening to the divine spirit-melody of the flower-sylphs, and inhaling their balmy atmosphere. How every moment of that night is impressed upon my memory; every word, every change of feeling—all were treasured up.
I was roused from my delicious reveries by Agnes and Evart, who came to announce to me it was time to retire. “As usual,” said Agnes, tenderly putting her arm around me, “I find you dreaming waking visions among the flowers. I fear my sad thoughts, dear Enna, have flown to you. I was so full of vague forebodings, when I left home, and now they have all vanished. I am as happy and light-hearted as I have ever been in my life; every thing around me seems to wear a fairy, heavenly hue.”
Thus she chatted away during our drive home. We bade her good night at Mr. Lincoln’s door, and the carriage drove away, bearing us to our own homes—one short half-hour after, and the same carriage bore me back again to that house in deep affliction. Agnes, after bidding us good night, entered the hall, and was proceeding up the stair-case to her own room, when, as she passed the library, she saw the library light still burning, which was to her a notice of her father’s waiting up for her return. She entered with a light heart and a merry song. Her father was seated in his chair, leaning his head forward on his reading-desk, apparently asleep. She bent over him to awaken him by gentle caresses, but ere her lips touched his brow, the expression of his face startled her. She gave one long, searching look, then uttered a piercing shriek of agony, which startled the whole house. He was dead. There, in that solitary room, his spirit had taken flight, alone, without daughter or friend beside him to receive his parting words of love. Poor Agnes! with what agony she leaned over him—vainly calling on him to speak to her—to look, if only once more, upon his own Agnes. It was a sad sight—this beautiful girl bending over her dead father—her rich drapery falling heavily around her, and her magnificent hair, which had escaped from the circlet of gems which bound it, swept the ground, making her pale face appear still more pallid, as its heavy, dark masses hung over her fair shoulders. Her earnest, heart-rending appeals were terrifying; not a tear flowed from her dark eyes—they seemed distended with agony; and the physicians who had been hastily summoned feared that the shock would deprive her of reason, if not of life. I at last succeeded in leading her away from her father, and, exhausted by her intense grief, she lay for hours in a heavy stupor.
Every means were resorted to, to restore Mr. Lincoln—but all in vain. The physicians, after an examination, decided that he had labored under an affection of the heart, unconsciously, for some time; that he had been on the brink of the grave for many months, undoubtedly—he, who had seemed so healthy; and this it was which had caused his death, which they thought had taken place some time before Agnes’ return, and with little or no suffering, possibly without a consciousness of the approaching fearful change. Poor Agnes! her sufferings were intense, but her naturally strong mind, and strict sense of duty, aided her, when in the morning, after the heavy stupor of exhaustion had passed away, the fearful consciousness of her great sorrow arose vividly before her. She recollected there were others to suffer, who were weaker to bear—her poor invalid mother, and fatherless brothers and sisters. She wept long and bitterly, when her eyes opened upon my tearful, anxious face, as I bent over her. I blessed those tears, for I knew they would relieve her. She at last, however, bowed meekly to the burden imposed upon her, and hastened to soothe and comfort her almost heart-broken mother, and the poor startled, weeping children.