A few select friends had assembled at Mrs. Bernard's, to celebrate
Ella's birthday.
"It will not do to have a dancing-party, Mamma," said Ella, when they
were making the necessary arrangements, "it will not do to have a
dancing-party, or Agnes will refuse to come, and I have set my heart on
having her, and I strongly suspect somebody else has done the same,"
glancing mischievously at her brother, who had just entered the room. "I
am sure, too, I shall enjoy myself a great deal better with a few select
friends, than if we had a large, gay party."
"Have it your own way, my dear," said the mother, fondly kissing her
daughter's fair upturned brow; "if it pleases you, I am sure it will
satisfy me."
"Thank you, dear Mamma, and now I have nothing to do but to write my
invitations, and send them. But, Arthur, I declare you have not said a
word; one would imagine, only I know better, that you do not feel at all
interested in the matter."
"Interested, why should I, in your foolish parties? Do you not know I
have something better to think of?"
"Doubtless, and you do not care in the least who accepts the
invitations. Now, confess, for you may as well, that when I proposed, a
few evenings ago, having a small select gathering of friends for Agnes's
sake, your very eyes shone with joy, for all you did wear that provoking
grave look. Confess, too, that you have thought of little else ever
since. I am sure you dreamed about it last night, for you looked very
smiling as you entered the breakfast room this morning."
"You are an incorrigible little rattle-brain, Ella, and, to punish you,
I have a great mind to declare I will not enter your party. How would
you like that?"
"I am not in the least alarmed, brother dear, that that threat will be
carried into execution, for the very good and sufficient reason, that
you would thus punish yourself worse than me. But if I stand talking any
longer, my invitations will not be written in season, so I must defer
our very edifying conversation till another opportunity,"--and, humming
a favorite air, the lively girl danced gaily out of the room.
Arthur, left alone, stood for a moment musing, half amused and half
vexed with his sister. He scarcely had ever mentioned Agnes's name, and
yet, he could not conceal from himself that he felt an interest in her,
beyond that he had ever experienced for any other woman.
"Absence is love's food," so poets say, and Arthur proved the truth of
the observation. While spending his college vacations at home, he had
often met with her before; and, even then, she charmed him as no other
woman ever did, but when report told of her engagement to Edward
Lincoln, honor forbade him any longer to cherish hopes which he had
allowed to tint with their bright hues his dreams of the future.
He had shunned her society as far as possible from that time while at
home, and striven, while at college and during his year's sojourn in
foreign lands, to banish her image from his remembrance, and vainly
imagined he had succeeded; but the flame, though it may be dimmed, was
by no means quenched, and was ready, at the slightest encouragement, to
burst forth with renewed vigor.
But we have digressed. Mrs. Bernard's drawing-room presented a picture
of comfort and elegance as Agnes entered it on the evening of Ella's
party. A few select friends were gathered there, all apparently
perfectly at home, and amusing themselves without restraint, according
to their diversified inclinations. Some were examining the choice
engravings that lay scattered on the tables; others were standing in a
group round the piano, admiring some new music which Ella had that day
received; while the elder members of the party were gathered round the
fireside, enjoying its cheerful blaze, and merrily discussing the events
of the season. Innocent amusement seemed to be the rule of the evening,
and Agnes, though she had left home unusually depressed in spirits, felt
a glow of pleasure thrill through her heart as she contemplated the
scene, and responded with her usual sweet, though, latterly, pensive
smile, the kind greetings of her friends.
"How pale Miss Wiltshire looks to-night," observed one young lady to
another who was seated at the piano as Agnes entered the apartment.
"She does, indeed, pale and sad both," was the response.
Arthur, who had overheard the remark, could not help admitting to
himself its correctness, as he crossed the room to pay his respects to
Agnes, and as, unobserved, he watched her closely, it was evident to him
that, while with her usual unselfishness, she strove to promote the
happiness of others by entering cheerfully into conversation, from the
half suppressed sigh, and the shadow that at intervals stole over her
face, some painful subject, very foreign from the scene around, occupied
her thoughts.
"I am afraid you are not well to-night, Miss Wiltshire," he at length
said, in a tone low and gentle as a woman's, for Agnes, seated on a
corner of the sofa, and imagining herself unobserved by the rest of the
company, had for a moment closed her eyes, as though to shut out
surrounding objects, while an expression of mental anguish flitted
across her features.
How precious to the aching heart is human sympathy. The words were
nothing in themselves, but the tenderness of tone in which they were
spoken, told plainly that it was anything but a matter of indifference
to the speaker, and Agnes, blushing deeply as she met Arthur's
compassionate glance, felt the conviction, darting like a ray of sunbeam
through her mind, that to at least one person in the world she was
dearer than aught else beside.
"I have only a slight headache," was her reply to his kind inquiry, and
one which was strictly correct, for the headache was the result of
mental agitation during the day.
"I shall recommend you, then, to sit quite still, while I constitute
myself, for the evening, your devoted knight; and shall, therefore,
remain here, ready to obey your slightest behests, be they what they
may."
"I shall certainly then insist, in the first place, that others be not
deprived of the pleasure of your company for my gratification. I should
be selfish, indeed, if I allowed you to do so."
"Notwithstanding, here I am, and here I intend to remain until I am
forced away," said Arthur, smiling as, seating himself comfortably
beside her on the sofa, he drew a portfolio from the centre table, which
contained some sketches taken during his recent tour, and, in pointing
out the different places and relating his adventures in each, Agnes
became so much interested as to forget her headache, and even the
anxiety which had weighed down her mind but a short time before.
There was one picture that seemed particularly to attract her attention.
It was the sketch of a small church, whose white walls peeped out from
the midst of thick foliage, and whose opened doors seemed to welcome the
worshippers that in every direction were seen apparently wending their
way towards it.
Agnes gazed at it long and earnestly. She laid it down and took it up
again, while Arthur, who could not imagine why she seemed to admire this
sketch in preference to others whose artistic merits were far superior,
gazed on her with some surprise.
"I see you are wondering, Mr. Bernard," she said, as she marked the
inquiring expression of his countenance, "why this scene should
particularly attract me. It is because it reminds me of the happiest
hours of my life, for, in a church, whose situation and appearance
exactly resembles this, I first learned where true bliss was to be
found."
"A valuable lesson truly, Miss Wiltshire, and one which I would feel
thankful if you could impart to me, for I assure you I am sadly in need
of it. Dissatisfied with the world, I still see so much hypocrisy in the
church,--there are so many, even among those who minister in holy
things, who seem by their actions wedded to the vanities which they
profess to renounce, that I turn away with a feeling akin to disgust,
and am almost ready to believe that the piety which characterized the
first professors of Christianity has totally disappeared."
"Perhaps you have not been looking for it in the right place, Mr.
Bernard. There are many whose religion consists in outward observances,
while the heart is given up to its idol; but, granting there was not one
in the world who was really the possessor of true religion, 'What is
that to thee?' The claims of Heaven are not less binding on you, because
not recognized or responded to by the multitude, for each must render an
account of himself, whether the offering of the heart, the only
acceptable one, has been presented, or whether we have turned coldly
away from the voice of the charmer, charm it ever so wisely."
There was silence for a few moments, which was broken by an observation
from Arthur.
"Do you know of whom you remind me, Miss Wiltshire? Of a distant
relative of my mother's, who resided with us for a time, when I was but
a boy. She was a young woman then; I, a wild, heedless boy; but her
look, her smile, her very words, are indelibly impressed on my mind.
What a lovely example of all Christian graces was she, for in her they
seemed blended, like the exquisite tints of the rainbow, into a perfect
whole. Her gentle reproof,--her winning manner ever alluring us to that
which was right,--her unwearied endeavor to make all around her
happy,--these, combined with every womanly charm, made her appear, in my
eyes, more than human; and when death came, much and deeply as I
lamented the loss, I could scarcely wonder that Heaven had reclaimed its
own."
There was a pause, and then Arthur added,--"That I have not gone to the
same extent in folly as others, I believe I owe to her, for when
tempted, by my gay companions at college, to join them in the pleasures
of sin, her look of mild entreaty seemed ever before me, deterring me
from ill; and I often think, had she lived, I might to-day have been a
better and more useful man."
Agnes had been an attentive listener. "I do not wonder," she said, as he
ceased speaking, "that you so highly estimate woman's influence, for you
have largely benefited by it; but though dead, she yet speaketh. Do you
remember what Young says respecting dying friends? That they are
'Angels sent on errands full of love,
For us they sicken, and for us they die.'
We sometimes wonder at the mysterious Providence which often suddenly
removes the excellent from earth; while the wicked are allowed to
remain; but may it not be graciously ordered thus, to excite in us an
ardent desire for that preparation which shall enable us to greet our
friends on the shores of the better land. Oh, without such a hope what
would life be.
'It lifts the fainting spirit up,
It brings to life the dead.'
How often should I be ready to sink in despair," and Agnes's lips
quivered with emotion, "were it not that I am permitted to look forward
to that inheritance which is incorruptible and undefiled, and which
shall prove an abundant recompense for those 'light afflictions which
are but for a moment.'"
"But you," said Arthur, half inquiringly, "are, I trust, a stranger to
those afflictions.
'Rose-leaved from the cold,
And meant, verily, to hold
Life's pure pleasures manifold.'"
"My childhood and youth has, indeed, passed amid flowers and sunshine,"
was the reply; "and if the future appears now to point to a more gloomy
and thornier path, I will not repine to tread it, for
'Here little, and hereafter much,
Is true from age to age.'"
Arthur, as he was about making a reply, was interrupted by his sister,
who came to request Agnes to play for her a favorite tune, and their
conversation, with the exception of an occasional word now and then, was
ended for that evening.