I took from her hands an open letter—it was from Evart, written the previous night, announcing anticipated severe and heavy losses, and freeing her from her engagement—he could not, he said, ask her to wed a penniless man—and after lamenting in a fine round period his unworthiness of her, his misery and wretchedness, concluded with a farewell forever. After I concluded the note, I felt that my father was right, my hands dropped before me, and for a few moments I felt as in a dream—a spell was over me—I could not tell my poor wronged friend the real truth—at last she broke the silence.
“Ah! Enna,” were her words, “I bless Heaven I have enough for both. My share of my poor father’s princely fortune will fully cover his losses, and again establish him in life. How unkind and yet how natural is his note—poor Evart! I can fancy his wretchedness when releasing me from my engagement—and he must have known it was useless—but I cannot censure him—even thus would I have acted had the loss of fortune happened to me.”
“Would you, dear Agnes?” said I, throwing my arms over her beautiful neck caressingly.
“Indeed would I, Enna,” she replied sadly. “It would have been a hard duty, but steadily would I have performed it.”
“Agnes,” I said, in low, earnest tones, inwardly imploring for assistance and strength in my painful task, “that duty is required of you. You are the penniless one instead of Evart. He is as prosperous as ever, but you, my poor friend, are bereft of all—but friends.”
She gazed wildly at me, then with one low wailing cry of deep agony became insensible. She was laid on her couch, surrounded by all the appliances of wealth so soon to be taken from her, and the heavy stupor that hung over her spirit the bitter hours after her father’s death ensued. But I knew her inward strength, and although I could scarcely pray for her recovery to such misery as would be hers, I felt that the helpless ones dependent on her for consolation would, as in the former dark hours, sustain her. The heavy clouds passed over, and she at last aroused her suffering broken spirit.
“Where are the letters?” she murmured in low tones.
“One I destroyed, dearest,” I replied—“the other—”
“Destroy it likewise, Enna, and help me to forget. I have others to think of now,” and with a quiet look of repressed agony she hastily employed herself in preparing for their future change of circumstances. Evart was never alluded to by any one; and day after day she engaged herself in entering into the investigation of her father’s affairs, with the firm, quiet air of a woman of business. The investigation proved only the painful truth—ruin, hopeless ruin stared them in the face—every thing was swept from them. Poor Mrs. Lincoln had seemed overwhelmed with sorrow at her husband’s death, but this new grief appeared to her weak, indolent nature still harder to bear, and she helplessly implored to be taken from life.
“For myself, dear Mr. Duval,” said my friend, in a calm voice, but the tones of which showed repressed suffering, “I care not—I can endure hardships—but my poor mother, how can she bear the change?”