Spike and Mulford noted the effect. Some water, doubtless, still worked itself into the vessel about the main-hatch, but that more flowed from her by means of the outlets just named, was quite apparent. After close watching at the outlets for some time, Spike was convinced that the schooner was slowly rising, the intense strain that still came from the brig producing that effect as the vessel gradually became lighter. By the end of half an hour, there could be no longer any doubt, the holes, which had been bored within an inch of the water, being now fully two inches above it. The augur was applied anew, still nearer to the surface of the sea, and as fresh outlets were made, those that began to manifest a dulness in their streams were carefully plugged.
Spike now thought it was time to take a look at the state of things on deck. Here, to his joy, he ascertained that the coamings had actually risen a little above the water. The reader is not to suppose by this rising of the vessel, that she had become sufficiently buoyant, in consequence of the water that had run out of her, to float of herself! This was far from being the case; but the constant upward pressure from the brig, which, on mechanical principles tended constantly to bring that craft upright, had the effect to lift the schooner as the latter was gradually relieved from the weight that pressed her toward the bottom.
The hatches were next removed, when it was found that the water in the schooner’s hold had so far lowered, as to leave a vacant space of quite a foot between the lowest part of the deck and its surface. Toward the two extremities of the vessel this space necessarily was much increased, in consequence of the sheer. Men were now sent into the hatchway with orders to hook on to the flour-barrels—a whip having been rigged in readiness to hoist them on deck. At the same time gangs were sent to the pumps, though Spike still depended for getting rid of the water somewhat on the augur—the carpenter continuing to bore and plug his holes as new opportunities offered, and the old outlets became useless. It was true this expedient would soon cease, for thewater having found its level in the vessel’s hold, was very nearly on a level also with that on the outside. Bailing also was commenced, both forward and aft.
Spike’s next material advantage was obtained by means of the cargo. By the time the sun had set, fully two hundred barrels had been rolled into the hatchway, and passed on deck, whence, about half of them, were sent in the light-house boat to the nearest islet, and the remainder were transferred to the deck of the brig. These last were placed on the off side of the Swash, and aided in bringing her nearer upright. A great deal was gained in getting rid of these barrels. The water in the schooner lowered just as much as the space they had occupied, and the vessel was relieved at once of twenty tons in weight.
Just after the sun had set, Señor Don Juan Montefalderon and his party returned on board. They had staid on the island to the last moment, at Rose’s request, for she had taken as close an observation of every thing, as possible, in order to ascertain if any means of concealment existed, in the event of her aunt, Biddy, and herself quitting the brig. The islets were all too naked and too small, however; and she was compelled to return to the Swash, without any hopes derived from this quarter.
Spike had just directed the people to get their suppers as the Mexican came on board. Together they descended to the schooner’s deck, where they had a long but secret conference. Señor Montefalderon was a calm, quiet and reasonable man, and while he felt as one would be apt to feel, who had recently seen so many associates swept suddenly out of existence, the late catastrophe did not in the least unman him. It is too much the habit of the American people to receive their impressions from newspapers, which throw off their articles unreflectingly, and often ignorantly, as crones in petticoats utter their gossip. In a word, the opinions thus obtained are very much on a level, in value, with the thoughts of those who are said to think aloud, and who give utterance to all the crudities and trivial rumors that may happen to reach their ears. In this manner, we apprehend, very false notions of our neighbors of Mexico have become circulated among us. That nation is a mixed race, and has necessarily the various characteristics of such an origin, and it is unfortunately little influenced by the diffusion of intelligence which certainly exists here. Although an enemy, it ought to be acknowledged, however, that even Mexico has her redeeming points. Anglo-Saxons as we are, we have no desire to unnecessarily illustrate that very marked feature in the Anglo-Saxon character, which prompts the mother stock to calumniate all who oppose it, but would rather adopt some of that chivalrous courtesy of which so much that is lofty and commendable is to be found among the descendants of Old Spain.
The Señor Montefalderon was earnestly engaged in what he conceived to be the cause of his country. It was scarcely possible to bring together two men impelled by motives more distinct than Spike and this gentleman. The first was acting under impulses of the lowest and most groveling nature; while the last was influenced by motives of the highest. However much Mexico may, and has, weakened her cause by her own punic faith, instability, military oppression, and political revolutions, giving to the Texans in particular, ample justification for their revolt, it was not probable that Don Juan Montefalderon saw the force of all the arguments that a casuist of ordinary ingenuity could certainly adduce against his country; for it is a most unusual thing to find a man any where, who is willing to admit that the positions of an opponent are good. He saw in the events of the day, a province wrested from his nation; and, in his reasoning on the subject, entirely overlooking the numerous occasions on which his own fluctuating government had given sufficient justification, not to say motives, to their powerful neighbors, to take the law into their own hands, and redress themselves; he fancied all that has occurred was previously planned, instead of regarding it, as it truly is, as merely the result of political events, that no man could have foreseen, that no man had originally imagined, or that any man could control.
Don Juan understood Spike completely, and quite justly appreciated not only his character, but his capabilities. Their acquaintance was not of a day, though it had ever been marked by that singular combination of caution and reliance that is apt to characterize the intercourse between the knave and the honest man, when circumstances compel not only communication, but, to a certain extent, confidence. They now paced the deck of the schooner, side by side, for fully an hour, during which time the price of the vessel, the means, and the mode of payment and transfer, were fully settled between them.
“But what will you do with your passengers, Don Esteban?” asked the Mexican pleasantly, when the more material points were adjusted. “I feel a great interest in the young lady in particular, who is a charming señorita, and who tells me that her aunt brought her this voyage on account of her health. She looks much too blooming to be out of health, and if she were, this is a singular voyage for an invalid to make!”
“You don’t understand human natur’ yet, altogether, I see, Don Wan,” answered Spike, chuckling and winking. “As you and I are not only good friends, but what a body may calloldfriends, I’ll let you into a secret in this affair, well knowing that you’ll not betray it. It’s quite true that the old woman thinks her niece is a pulmonory, as they call it, and that this v’y’ge is recommended for her, but the gal is as healthy as she’s handsom’.”
“Her constitution, then, must be very excellent, for it is seldom I have seen so charming a youngwoman. But if the aunt is misled in this matter, how has it been with the niece?”
Spike did not answer in words, but he leered upon his companion, and he winked.
“You mean to be understood that you are in intelligence with each other, I suppose, Don Esteban,” returned the Señor Montefalderon, who did not like the captain’s manner, and was willing to drop the discourse.
Spike then informed his companion, in confidence, that he and Rose were affianced, though without the aunt’s knowledge. That he intended to marry the niece the moment he reached a Mexican port with the brig, and that it was their joint intention to settle in the country. He added that the affair required management, as his intended had property, and expected more, and he begged Don Juan to aid him, as things drew near to a crisis. The Mexican evaded an answer, and the discourse dropped.
The moon was now shining, and would continue to throw its pale light over the scene for two or three hours longer. Spike profited by the circumstance to continue the work of lightening the schooner. One of the first things done next was to get up the dead, and to remove them to the boat. This melancholy office occupied an hour, the bodies being landed on the islet, near the powder, and there interred in the sands. Don Juan Montefalderon attended on this occasion, and repeated some prayers over the graves, as he had done in the morning, in the cases of the two who had been buried near the light-house.
While this melancholy duty was in the course of performance, that of pumping and bailing was continued, under the immediate personal superintendance of Mulford. It would not be easy to define, with perfect clearness, the conflicting feelings by which the mate of the Swash was now impelled. He had no longer any doubt on the subject of Spike’s treason, and had it not been for Rose, he would not have hesitated a moment about making off in the light-house boat for Key West, in order to report all that had passed to the authorities. But not only Rosewasthere, and to be cared for, but what was far more difficult to get along with, her aunt was with her. It is true Mrs. Budd was no longer Spike’s dupe; but under any circumstances she was a difficult subject to manage, and most especially so in all matters that related to the sea. Then the young man submitted, more or less, to the strange influence which a fine craft almost invariably obtains over those that belong to her. He did not like the idea of deserting the Swash, at the very moment he would not have hesitated about punishing her owner for his many misdeeds. In a word, Harry was too much of a tar not to feel a deep reluctance to turn against his cruise, or his voyage, however much either might be condemned by his judgment, or even by his principles.
It was quite nine o’clock when the Señor Montefalderon and Spike returned from burying the dead. No sooner did the last put his foot on the deck of his own vessel, than he felt the fall of one of the purchases which had been employed in raising the schooner. It was so far slack as to satisfy him that the latter now floated by her own buoyancy, though it might be well to let all stand until morning, for the purposes of security. Thus apprised of the condition of the two vessels, he gave the welcome order to “knock-off for the night.”
THE LOVE DIAL.
———
BY LIEUT. G. W. PATTON.
———
A dial in the twilight lay,Reflecting back pale evening’s ray,When stealthily two lovers cameAnd leaned beside its silent frame:“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”—But who might trace time’s tangled wayOn dials dim with twilight gray?As brightly now the midnight moonRode o’er the starry arch of noon,To learn the hour of eventideAgain the youth and maiden sighed:“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”—But ’neath the moon’s uncertain rayThe shadow pointed still astray.Unconscious how the moments flew,(Bound by the spell which passion drew,)Unto the dial’s line of shadeOnce more approached the youth and maid:“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”When (how could night so fast have worn?)The tell-tale shadow marked the morn.
A dial in the twilight lay,Reflecting back pale evening’s ray,When stealthily two lovers cameAnd leaned beside its silent frame:“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”—But who might trace time’s tangled wayOn dials dim with twilight gray?As brightly now the midnight moonRode o’er the starry arch of noon,To learn the hour of eventideAgain the youth and maiden sighed:“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”—But ’neath the moon’s uncertain rayThe shadow pointed still astray.Unconscious how the moments flew,(Bound by the spell which passion drew,)Unto the dial’s line of shadeOnce more approached the youth and maid:“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”When (how could night so fast have worn?)The tell-tale shadow marked the morn.
A dial in the twilight lay,Reflecting back pale evening’s ray,When stealthily two lovers cameAnd leaned beside its silent frame:“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”—But who might trace time’s tangled wayOn dials dim with twilight gray?
A dial in the twilight lay,
Reflecting back pale evening’s ray,
When stealthily two lovers came
And leaned beside its silent frame:
“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,
Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”
—But who might trace time’s tangled way
On dials dim with twilight gray?
As brightly now the midnight moonRode o’er the starry arch of noon,To learn the hour of eventideAgain the youth and maiden sighed:“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”—But ’neath the moon’s uncertain rayThe shadow pointed still astray.
As brightly now the midnight moon
Rode o’er the starry arch of noon,
To learn the hour of eventide
Again the youth and maiden sighed:
“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,
Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”
—But ’neath the moon’s uncertain ray
The shadow pointed still astray.
Unconscious how the moments flew,(Bound by the spell which passion drew,)Unto the dial’s line of shadeOnce more approached the youth and maid:“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”When (how could night so fast have worn?)The tell-tale shadow marked the morn.
Unconscious how the moments flew,
(Bound by the spell which passion drew,)
Unto the dial’s line of shade
Once more approached the youth and maid:
“Mute marker of the moments’ flight,
Oh! dial, tell us of the night!”
When (how could night so fast have worn?)
The tell-tale shadow marked the morn.
And as they watched the silv’ry faceWhere day his hours began to trace,In morning’s light, now stronger grown,This motto o’er the circle shown:“When lovers meet at eventide,Time marks not how the moments glide:When lovers part at rosy lightTime counts the ling’ring hours till night.”
And as they watched the silv’ry faceWhere day his hours began to trace,In morning’s light, now stronger grown,This motto o’er the circle shown:“When lovers meet at eventide,Time marks not how the moments glide:When lovers part at rosy lightTime counts the ling’ring hours till night.”
And as they watched the silv’ry faceWhere day his hours began to trace,In morning’s light, now stronger grown,This motto o’er the circle shown:“When lovers meet at eventide,Time marks not how the moments glide:When lovers part at rosy lightTime counts the ling’ring hours till night.”
And as they watched the silv’ry face
Where day his hours began to trace,
In morning’s light, now stronger grown,
This motto o’er the circle shown:
“When lovers meet at eventide,
Time marks not how the moments glide:
When lovers part at rosy light
Time counts the ling’ring hours till night.”
OLD MAIDS.
OR KATE WILSON’S MORNING VISIT.
———
BY ENNA DUVAL.
———
And now I see with eye serene,The very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveler between life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;A perfect woman, nobly plannedTo warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a spirit still, and brightWith something of an angel-light.Wordsworth.
And now I see with eye serene,The very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveler between life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;A perfect woman, nobly plannedTo warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a spirit still, and brightWith something of an angel-light.Wordsworth.
And now I see with eye serene,
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.
Wordsworth.
“I have just been visiting Miss Agnes Lincoln,” said my young friend Kate Wilson to me one morning. “Truly, Miss Enna, she is the most charming woman I have ever known—always excepting, of course, your own dear self. Though no longer young, she is still beautiful—intelligent, clever, without the slightest tinge of pedantry; gentle and loveable. Why is it that she has never married? She has been a devoted daughter and sister; I have always felt surprise and regret that she should not have been a wife.”
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 suchbadinage. 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,”
“Lo! the troubled joy of life,Love’s lightening happiness,”
“Lo! the troubled joy of life,Love’s lightening happiness,”
“Lo! the troubled joy of life,Love’s lightening happiness,”
“Lo! the troubled joy of life,
Love’s lightening happiness,”
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 reputedmillionaire, 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.”
“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 theflower-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.
Everybody grieved for Mr. Lincoln, for he was much beloved; “but,” said the out-of-doors world, “how fortunate are his family, possessing wealth in the midst of their sorrow. Mr. Lincoln has left them an immense fortune to comfort them in their affliction;” as if money could compensate for the loss of loved ones. Agnes would have gladly toiled for their daily bread to have purchased one look from those eyes closed in death, one accent of love from those cold, livid lips. After the funeral, Mr. Lincoln’s will was opened. It was one made three or four years previous to his death; and my father was one of the executors, and sole guardian to the children. This will had been made previous to Agnes’ engagement; but in it Mr. Lincoln expressed a wish, almost a command, that if ever Agnes married, my father should insist upon having the greater part of her immense fortune settled upon her.
A week or two passed by, when one evening my father returned home from his office, later than usual, and his face wore an anxious, troubled expression. Some case of more than ordinary misery and sadness, I thought, has come before him, in which fate has woven a darker weft of trouble. I hastened to procure for him the soothing cup of tea, which he so much loved, and sat beside his chair, as he silently despatched his light meal, expecting every moment to hear the new tale of human suffering—but I was disappointed; my father drank his tea quietly, and it was not until the tea-service was removed, and I seated at my sewing-table beside his large arm-chair, that the good, kind old man broke the silence.
“Enna, my child,” he said, in gloomy tones, “poor Agnes Lincoln, her mother and those fatherless children are penniless.”
“Penniless—impossible!” I exclaimed. “I thought Mr. Hugh Lincoln was admitted to be immensely wealthy.”
“His immense wealth,” said my father, “proves to be a magnificent dream—a shining bubble. He must have been lamentably ignorant of his own affairs, for things have evidently been going wrongfor some months past. Such wild, mad-cap speculations as the house have engaged in, I am sure my sensible, prudent friend would never have countenanced.”
I now understood the allusions of the old gentleman, in the first conversation which I had overheard in the ball-room, the night of Mr. Lincoln’s fearful death, and I repeated them to my father.
“Yes, indeed,” he replied, “daring indeed have been their operations, and not only that, but reckless and wild in the extreme. I remember now, although I gave but little heed at the time, noticing in Hugh Lincoln, for some months past, a heavy, growing indolence, as I deemed it. It must have proceeded from his fatal disease, and he has left the affairs of the concern in the hands of the junior partners, who have mismanaged not only wildly but wickedly. Poor fellow! he has been spared the sorrow, but what is to become of the poor invalid widow and orphans? Six little helpless creatures beside Agnes—Adel is not more than fourteen?”
“Scarcely thirteen,” I replied.
“Poor creatures!” exclaimed my father, brushing a tear aside. “But we must do all that we can for them. I am a poor man, but what little I have shall be freely shared with Hugh Lincoln’s children.”
“You forget, my dear father,” I said, “that Agnes is engaged to Evart Berkely.”
“True,” replied my father. “But, Enna, I have very little confidence in him; I only hope Agnes may not love him too dearly, for I very much fear that Evart’s love is rather too weak to bear the present news.”
“Does he know of the insolvency of the firm?” I inquired.
“Oh, yes,” said my father, “the mere suspicion of the insolvency of such a firm as Lincoln, Murray & Co., would of course spread like wild-fire. I never dreamed of such a thing myself, however, and heard this morning with great surprise, on going to my office, from an old merchant, that it had been rumored for several days. You must break it to Agnes, poor girl.”
“You think Evart Berkely knows of it?” I said, after a long silence.
“Oh, yes,” replied my father, “I met him in company with some other merchants this afternoon, and he spoke of Mr. Lincoln only as he would of any other well-known merchant, and united in self congratulations with some others as to being unaffected, fortunately, by the failure—not at all in the tone of one interested in his family.”
The conversation between Agnes and Evart returned to my memory, and I contrasted his feelings with hers—how differently would she have acted had he been overtaken by poverty. “But,” said I to myself in the morning, when preparing for my customary visit to Agnes, “it may be but fancy after all—we may be wronging Evart; he did not choose to exhibit his feelings before a crowd of men,” and with this consolatory conclusion, I set out on my walk.
I ascended the broad steps of Agnes’ noble residence, and passed through the wide hall and up the spacious stair-case, noting the magnificence of the furniture with a sigh. I entered the library, where I was told I would find Agnes. It was a grand, noble room, and in its adornments proved that immense wealth had been guided by the subduing hand of taste. It was lighted from above; the brick-and-mortar world without was completely unknown in that stately room; only the blue sky by day, and the bright stars by night, could be seen. The soft, unworldly light gleamed down on beautiful works of art, rare and costly pieces of sculpture, medals, gems, and here and there alcoves filled with the productions of those whom the intellectual world call Masters.
I paused at the threshold unheard by Agnes, who was writing at an escritoir—my eyes wandered over this intellectual Paradise and then rested upon the Eve. I was struck with the impression of her face; it bore a more beaming, hopeful look than I had seen on it since the night of her father’s death. “Poor girl!” I sighed to myself, “how soon is that brilliant expression to be dimmed by the care-clouds of life—not only heart trials, but poverty, privation, and, worse than all to your noble spirit—dependence.”
I moved forward, but the luxurious carpet told no tales of my foot-falls, and my hand rested on her shoulder ere she was aware of my entrance. She looked up, and her eyes were gleaming with tears—not tears of sadness—and a bright flush rested on her hitherto pale cheeks; I looked surprised, and she noting it said in trembling tones,
“Ah! dear Enna, I never valued the possession of wealth before. Read this letter, dearest, while I finish the answer.”
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 andwretchedness, 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?”
“You will all come to us, dear Agnes, and we will be as one family,” said my kind father, as they at last ended the careful examination of the affairs. “You and Enna have always been as sisters, my poor dead wife loved your mother as a sister. The income my profession yields you and Enna can manage so as to supply us all. We will live plainly but happily, I know. You are both sufficiently well informed to educate the girls, and Adel will soon be old enough to assist you. Horace and Frank will in a few years be able to help themselves, and supply my place when I grow too old to fill the purse.”
Agnes sat by the table quietly gazing as upon vacancy, when my dear, good father commenced his kind plan, and as he proceeded her dark eyes beamed with childlike fondness on the good old man.
“Surely Heaven will bless you and yours, dear Mr. Duval, for being thus kind to the widowed and fatherless,” she exclaimed, as he concluded. “But I must not accept your kind offer. Your plan, however, has confirmed me in the scheme I have been forming for some days past. If I am sufficiently well fitted to take charge of my sisters’ education, why not of others? If you will aid me I will open a school.”
The thought was a good one, and my father, finding Agnes steady in her determination yielded, and used every endeavor to forward her in her project. The creditors had refused to accept the costly wardrobe and magnificent jewels belonging to Mrs. Lincoln and Agnes. These were disposed of, and the money arising from their sale was appropriated by Agnes to the furnishing of her new establishment.
“I take this money only as a loan,” said Agnes to my father. “If I am spared, and have health and strength, at some future time it shall be returned. I never shall feel light-hearted until my father’s liabilities are all satisfied.”
A house was procured, every thing arranged for the opening of the school; and it was announced in society, that the Miss Lincoln who had been “the glass of fashion and the mould of form,” a few short months before, was about to enter the work-day world as a teacher. Much is said and much written about summer-friends—those who hover around the favorites of fortune, then flee from them in the dark hour of sorrow—but truly I have seen but little of such heartlessness, long as I have lived in the world. People do not wish to desert those who are in trouble. There is more of kindness of heart and sympathy in the world than we are willing to give credit for. Circumstances and events press so quickly in this life of change, that when one amongst us is stricken down, although we grieve, we are urged on in the stream, and though we would gladly aid our sinking companion, we are hurried on unconsciously. But let the stricken one give signs of life—evidences of aiding itself, then all are ready to give a helping hand. The race must be completed—life’s journey accomplished—but any one exhibiting a desire to unite in the struggle is willingly assisted. So was it with the friends of Agnes Lincoln. Had she weakly yielded to her troubles, and shown no disposition to aid herself, the world would have felt sorry for her, but they would have had no time to tarry by the way-side—but when she appeared amongst them prepared to take her part in life’s great contest, they willingly united to help her forward.
Agnes Lincoln’s accomplishments, her elegant manners—her strong mind, all her good qualities, were remembered; and mothers and fathers, who had admired the beautiful girl in society, hastened to place under her care their own daughters, asking that she might make them like her own lovely self, and they would be satisfied.She entered heart and soul into her new vocation; and hers became the most popular establishment in the city. In the course of two or three years the small house had to be changed, and a residence as large as her father’s princely mansion taken, in order to accommodate her large school. The luxurious comforts, necessary to her mother’s happiness, were gratified; her brothers and sisters carefully attended to; but her own wants were few, indeed. She was most carefully and studiously economical. Every year she deposited in my father’s hands, a sum of money, small at first, but gradually increasing, which she, with a sad smile, called her father’s fund; this was devoted to the settling off the remaining accounts against her father.
Noble creature! how every one revered her as she moved steadily on in the path of her duty. Hers was not an easy life; hard mental labor, from morning till night, she endured for many years. At day-dawn she was up, superintending her household, and directing the studies of those pupils who resided with her. The influence she exercised over those entrusted to her care, was a subject of remark. Her commands were insisted upon with words of love, but looks of firmness. Her girls hovered around her, quietly watching every glance; and in that whole troop of young, thoughtless creatures, the most of them the indulged, spoiled children of fortune, not one but would have dreaded to disobey the simplest request of their gentle teacher.
We met daily, as formerly, and I still was to her the confidante and bosom friend I had been in the days of her wealth. She never spoke of Evart—we both avoided all allusion to him; and when, a few years after their separation, he married a wealthy woman from a neighboring city, and his marriage was mentioned before her, by those who knew not of her former connection with him, or else had forgotten it, a mere acquaintance could not have detected any trace or evidence of feeling. The marble paleness of her cheek, the firm closed mouth, and quiet, but sad look, which told of inward suffering, betrayed to me, however, that her thoughts were with the past, and I noticed in her, for some time after, a closer attendance to her duties—not one moment, night or day, left unoccupied; and her brow bore a more serious expression, that told of self-combatings and heart-struggles.
Year after year passed, and Agnes had the satisfaction of seeing her sisters growing up charming women, admired in society, and her two brothers displaying the good qualities, and honorable, high spirits of their father. By her exertions they were educated; and ten years after her father’s death she paid off his last debt, and had the pleasure of seeing her eldest brother, Horace, who had just completed his studies, enter his profession as a partner with my father. The little Frank, her father’s darling, would be nothing but a merchant, as his father had been, and was dreaming seventeen-year-old visions of future grandeur, such as his father had probably dreamed at his age, and realized. He would wreath his mother’s fretful, complaining countenance with smiles, as he would describe the wealth he intended to accumulate, and the splendid things that should once more be hers. Two weddings were celebrated by Agnes—her two sisters, Adel and Mary, who married upright and warm-hearted men, prosperous in business; and Agnes felt almost a maternal pride as she furnished their houses, and provided the wedding wardrobes. The world wondered she did not marry, for her beauty never left her, nor were opportunities wanting. Many a fond, widowed father would have gladly persuaded the idolized teacher of their daughters to share their fortunes; but she calmly and quietly refused all offers, and seemed at last to find real happiness in her business.
Fifteen years passed by, and found Agnes still at her post. One only of those little ones, bequeathed by a loving father to her care, remained under her roof—and she was soon to leave Agnes to become a wife. All were married, happy, and well. The poor old mother had at last ceased all wailings, and had laid down to her long rest, when a new care devolved upon Agnes. Evart Berkely, who had appeared for years to be a prosperous man, and thought by many to possess great wealth, suddenly failed, and in a moment of despair put a violent end to his existence. His wife had died some five or six years before, many said of a broken-heart; and his three children were left upon the world homeless orphans. Evart left a letter, commending his children to Agnes, who, he said, had promised to be a mother to his children, should they ever need her care. Then was disclosed what Agnes had kept a secret. A year after his wife’s death, he had again sought Agnes; but his overtures were indignantly rejected by her; he continued his addresses by letters for some time, until Agnes refused to receive them, returning them unopened, saying, however, in her final note, that, should his children ever be left alone in life, she would be a mother to them; and to her home did she take those helpless ones, and devoted herself to her business with renewed energy to provide for their support and future establishment in life. People shrugged their shoulders, and called her conduct Quixotic and absurd, but the good and kind-hearted applauded her.
When my young friend, Kate Wilson, requested me to relate the history of Agnes, forty-five years had stealthily crept over her, but even the bitter, bleak winters of her adversity had failed to whiten her dark locks, or dim those beaming eyes—time had dealt gently with her beauty. Evart’s children have proved as blessings to her, and by them, and by her brothers and sisters, and by their children, Agnes is revered almost as a saint.
“Ah, Kate, Kate,” I said, as I arrived at this part of my “ower true tale,” “has not Agnes Lincoln’s lot, as an old maid, been quite as useful, and still more happy, than she would have been as Evart Berkely’s broken-hearted wife?”