title: The soul of Lady Agnes.
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A ^ /-.V V s O' ® q 5 '^c^' "■ •s \ r '-Z ^a' ^ i. ^ •CP t^V ea XS\^ ^ -V " ^ 0 N 4 0 •it, ,^vJ4Xf» ■%• ^ ■“ ■' "d-ii % a . . ,0^ .- A '^5, “- 0 . t ^ y' \\ '** lt^/^‘ ^ A' M\\///^ .>- \ V a ^ o' ' V/ '> N 0 \ V ^ . ... .V>- . ,.xx.^,^v//^ » %' ■ - ,$ : *^ ^ y ^<o <^ 0*^ c a'^ \. ^ ■ ~ "^ <, '-' A'*’ The Soul of Lady Agnes * BY MARIE VIRGINIA HARDING Price, JO Cents. THE SOUL OF LADY AGNES, MARIE VIRGINIA HARDING. ** Miserere animi non digna ferentis,** COPTRiaHT, 1889 , BT G, IV. Dillingham, Publisher, Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co. MDCCCLXXXIX. V % t f \ f • » I TO MY MOTHER. WITH All a Daughter’s Love and Gratitude. Brooklyn, N. Y. —89. THE SOUL OF LADY AGNES. I. Across her closed eyes the sun falls hotly, across the bowed head, the slightly tipped bonnet, into the empty sockets of a poor lit- tle songster dangling there ; down it slides and dances over the woman’s silk dress, skips about lively and heats her through and through. Half under the awning, now in the sun s rays, now out, is a girl tipping on a wooden stool. She, too, seems sleepy. The mid-day heat grows oppressive. Back of them, in the shop with its door flung wide, is not a living creature. The counters 6 The Soul of Lady Agnes, shine like polished glass. Along the shelves of the walls are bottles ; underneath them glasses. The bottles bear their names upon their bodies ; ’tis, Absinthe Vermouth Vermont Absmthe, Plainly, in new gold letters on the shop windows, you see it from the street, is the same, 'written Absinthe Vermouty then the owner’s name, Jean Paul. A little diabhy in the shape of a small boy, mindful of the empty shop, creeps slily under the awning, and lies sprawled flat upon his stomach on the stones. He rolls about, kicks his feet up in the air, and out of the corners of his eyes, which glisten like the purest coals, keeps watch of the woman sleeping and the girl. Nothing disturbs the three. The boy still coolly lies and kicks his dirty, torn feet against the shadowed air. The river is close by, and A\\ the boats, like clock-work, move upon it. The wide, white streets, which diverge at this point, go down The Soul of Lady Agnes, 7 into the city, are desolate, so far as the eye can see. The handsome houses are shut up in stone nearly to their heads. It is the middle of October, yet, by a weather freak, the air is that of August, hot and blinding. The boy, with a somersault, stands on his feet. He is as fleet as the gale of a March day. Will he run ? Venez — icil^ Does she want to pound him for lying there ? Will he ? No ! She is laughing at him. He guesses he will gOi She speaks low, for the woman at her side is still sleeping. Oy Dieu, He never saw anything whiter than those teeth of hers. She might bite. He could, but his teeth are not as sharp as hers. He won’t go any nearer, no, he won’t. What is it ?” ** Avez-vous faim 8 The Soul of Lady Agnes, He mutters a prayer to the virgin. She has caught hold of his arm. AveZ’Vous faim She shakes him until his teeth cnatter. , Ouiy oui” he gobbles forth. She lets go of him and with lips curved in silent laughter, with a gleam in her blue eyes which intoxicates the gaze of the little gamin, slides off the stool and kneeling, runs her hand in the pocket of the slumbering woman. She pulls out a pocket-book, opens it and drops into her lap a quantity of loose silver, — all it contains. Back in its place she puts the porte-monnaie, then stands up. No one is watching her; she is careful of that. Le matUy le mainy va-t'en, Va vite, Angels have wings they say, but what now have little devils, winged feet, eh ?” The girl gives the question aloud in slightly foreign English. She sits again by 9 The Soul of Lady Agnes, the table, she lifts two empty glasses and peers deep in them. She turns them upside down and shakes out a greenish yellow drop or two. I’d like to shiver you to bits,” she hisses, you little snake, white-necked things, just because you’ve held that poison- ous stuff. You’ll not hold any more, do you hear? Not to-day, not one drop more for her. She hasnt a single soul' She lays the glasses down and strikes them with her strong, slender fingers, and sighs and sighs. Her bared head is like the sight of a cataract, a rippling of flashing tints dashed by the sun. Her hair is cut short and here and there curls tightly. Like little snails lie in their shells, it clings to her warm, white neck. She idly, wea- rily looks about her, her restless nature writhing under the profound stillness of the place. lo The Soul of Lady Agnes, In the vestibule of the Hotel Meurice are a group of men. A few have taken off their hats and try to mop up the moisture dripping on their brows. Others, leaning against the stone wall, hit nonchalantly at their boots with their light canes, seemingly oblivious to weather and surroundings. Slowly looking carelessly about, a gentleman of medium size, with a countenance which would halt the gaze of any passer, leaves the dining-room and crosses to the vestibule door. He remains there and looks up and down the now sunny, now shady, but terrifi- cally hot. Rue de Rivoli. The street is thronged with carriages. The footmen holding umbrellas over the coachmen is no uncommon sight, while Madame et Mon- sieur recline in their voiture, each sheltered by a separate shade. On the sidewalk are crowds of people passing. Over in the gar- den of the Tuilleries you can see the young- The Soul of Lady Agnes. 1 1 sters playing, hear them laughing. The gentleman standing in the door-way places his hat on so that his eyes are shaded by the brim. Underneath the skin covering tightly his cheek bones, his teeth are seen to be locked and grating, for the lower bone moves in and out. A man equal to him in size, but his superior in strength, though by ten years the elder, joins him. Without a word they step into the street together. No one passes but turns and stares. Some stop to look after them. It is no common sight, this ! A gentleman with a skin the hue of a lemon 'walking by the side of a mulatto. A mulatto in complexion only, his features, his hair, are remarkably handsome, and his bear- ing manly. “Senhor, have you thought where you are going ?” The words are Portuguese, “It doesn’t matter. Anything to kill 12 The Soul of Lady Agnes, time. We’ll go back to London to-night. I am sick of this.” “ You said the same of London, Senhor ; that’s why we left there. You’ll say it over again the first hour we’re back.” ‘‘ Cursed fool, but give the dying peace.” The servant has a gleam of pity shining in his full, heavy eyes. His manner is deep- ly deferential. '‘Courage, Senhor, courage. Monsieur le Docteur say’s you are better.” “ Better ! what an arrant liar you are, Juan. I suppose I can’t feel these hollowed cheeks ; see the color of my skin and eyes. I tell you, Juan, your Brazilian climate has sucked my life’s blood.” “Senhor, Brazil has made you a rich man.” He is pleading with him. “ But I have made it a richer country.” All his apathy is gone. His eyes scintillate. The Sold of Lady Agnes, 13 “ Have enriched it a hundred fold. Think of what the railroads have done, are doing ? My railroads. Hear that, Juan ?” i Senhor is a wise man.” ‘ Call not a man wise who has lost his health.” He turns on him irascibly. “ Where are you taking me ?” “ Nowhere, Senhor. You named no place.” “ Well then, where are we walking to ?” ''To the Seine, Senhor. You can see it there between the trees.” They move on, silently, a little further. “Eh, Juan, it looks as if we brought the heat away with us ?” He again has his cigar between his teeth. " Sim, Senhor, one of the waiters swore last night behind my back that we had.” It amused his master, he laughed pleas- antly. 14 The Soul of Lady Agnes, “We attract notice, eh, Juan. Diaboy but rd be afraid to take yon to the United States.” “ Senhor has promised that I go when he does ; the Senhor’s word is truth,” Again their walk is in silence. They reach the corner, and are facing a cafd They linger. The Seine is simmering before them. The servant suddenly feels a wiry, nerv- ous hand clutch hold of his arm ; feels it strongly through the cloth of his coat-sleeve. '' Presto y Juan, look closely; what angel of a girl is that ? You have her face now full in view. What a head of hair ? DeuSy Juan, do you see her.” “ Senhor,” he speaks soothingly, “ why not cross and see who she is? There is a woman by her side asleep.” They do so, and seat themselves at a near table. The Soul of Lady Agnes. 15 The woman appeared to be waking up. She raised her head several times, but in vain ; at each attempt her half-opened eyes would shut, and she was dreaming again. Juan uneasily eyes his master, who is act- ing strangel}^ With a sudden, rapid move- ment he has left his chair and is standing by the girl at the other table, looking earnestly into the unconscious woman’s pale face. “ Monsieur /” A commanding voice makes him look up. The girl, her face quivering with anger, fright, is glaring at him. He unhesitatingly speaks to her in Eng- lish. This lady’s name is Madame Chevan- nis, — Amelie Chevannis, — and you are Scita. Darling, when did your father die ?” She is not pleasant to look at as she answers : “We want no spies ” 1 6 The Soul of Lady Agnes. Astounded, he is silent for an instant. “ Scita, have you never heard your father speak of his old friend Leighton Bar- rymore of Buenos Ayres — ” - Oh !” She tosses her clinging curls away from her face. “ Oh r She has her slender arms around his neck, has laid her firm, round cheek against his sunken ones. '' I knew you would find us sometime ; I knew it, I knew it.” She gives the queerest little inflexion on each word. “ Papa’s old friend. But why — why — ” she has taken her hands away, why didn’t you come before ?” - ‘ Come before, child ! I heard of your father’s death and that you had left Paris, I The Soul of Lady Agnes. 1 7 was a desperately sick man myself at that time ; was it a mistake, then T A mistake.” She says it thoughtfully. Suddenly over her features a strange expression flits.” How did you know ? Who told you we had left Paris ?” How !” He tries to evade these wonderful blue eyes of hers and fails. He shows the pee- vishness of a sick man. '' Tut, child, your mother wrote me, and forgot to give her new address. I was wait- ing to feel stronger before hunting you up. I was off for London to-night ; coming back here later.” '' Forgot ! Why, she did it on purpose, Mr. Barrymore.” Don’t speak like that Scita ; don’t say that,” he utters sternly. 1 8 The Soul of Lady Agnes. I will! I tell you I will! I have sat here day after day at this very table, in this very spot, with Maman like that. She’s my Maman just one hour in the day ; after that she’s as you see her. She will wake in a few minutes now, clutch me by the hand, and we’ll go home together ; and she hurts, she bears so heavily on me.” Juan, who has been standing to one side of his master, puts a world of pity in the sin- gle word : ‘‘ Senhorita 1” She smiles at him through her tears. From this moment the Portuguese worships her. Mr. Barrymore looks exhausted. He touches Scita’s mother. Come, wake up I” he says. They are some seconds rousing her, but at last have left the cafe, and are walking under the leafless trees to a busier part of The Soul of Lady Agnes, 19 the city. Scita, by the side of Juan, is bewildering him with her rapid French gay little laughs, and sudden gleams of white from between the redness of her pretty mouth. She gestures and her eyes beam and dance. Not a care now sits upon her, she has the cooing of a dove, although it may, ten minutes later, change her into a fierce, pas- sionate little brute. In a new street, a fashionable part of Paris, on the Rue Bassano, Madame Chevan- nis lives. The four take the ascenseur and alight at the fifth floor. Scita, drawing a key from the bosom of her dress, opens the door, shows them in. Mr. Barrymore hastily reaches for his handkerchief ; his eyes have grown misty ; strange, but he has forgotten it. A small lace thing is pressed against the palm of his hand. 20 The Soul of Lady Agnes. ** Take it,” whispers Scita. Madame Chevannis has fallen into a chair in the salon ; there are only two more in the room. One, a common kitchen stool ; the other, a fragile bit of white and gold tinted wood, cushioned in blue satin. The latter, Mr. Barrymore has taken ; the other, Scita, curling her dusty feet under her. Juan erect, his hands clasped over his hat, stands inside the doorway. Madame Che- vannis removes her bonnet with the dangling little songster upon it, languidly pulls off her gloves. Her hands are white and faultlessly moulded, her fingers ringless. Ghastly looking, with dark circles underneath her eyes, she sits thinking. She is understand- ing it all now, that man speechless opposite her, is going to beat her. Not at all ; she knows his little game, she will beat him. Then a feeling of fear creeps slowly through her, and she is weakly crying : The Soul of Lady Agnes* 21 '' Leighton, speak ! don’t sit there like a dead man and glare at me — Dieu / Dieu /” '' Stop your French ; I understand your English.” There is a brutality, a tone in that voice which reveals clearly the deadliest part of a nature slow to rouse has been awakened. Amalie Chevannis dries her tears. Scita, dearest, go in the kitchen and get your supper. You must be starved.” '' I am. You know you ate the last there was in the house last night. They took the table away this morning. They are to come for these chairs to-night.” Scita folds her hands composedly in her lap. Her hair tumbling about her hides her face from view, but through its glisten her blue eyes shine and dance. Leighton, my dear husband’s friend, you never thought to see us poverty-stricken. Only a year ago, when you were with us, we 22 The Soul of Lady Agnes. had walls hung with tapestries, our floors strewn with rugs, while now there is nothing but bare wood about” She cries with every word. Scita softly is swaying to and fro, her knees caught up in her hands. Hush Amelie Chevannis ! Look at me. Yes, that’s it, a trifle longer. Now say it again. You are poverty-stricken,” Je sms — ” English /” She writhes in her chair. Don’t, don’t kill me, Leighton-^ Say it” His voice is less harsh. “ I am poverty-stricken.” Gerard ! Gerard ! and this is your Amelie, so low, so low. O God, have pity !” H is face is buried in his hands. He groans into them. \ The Soul of Lady Agnes, 23 Scita has stopped rocking and is like a statue. Juan has closed his eyes. He prays or curses, it sounds like both. When Mr. Bar- ramore looks up, he finds Madam Chevannis gone. She is there, in her room.” With her forefinger Scita points to the closed door. My child, what have you not suffered ; tell me all. How long has your mother been like this T '' Since one year. She took to it a month after the funeral.” But your friends, don’t they know, didn’t they do anything for her — for you.” Yes, they knew, and they knew how to stop calling on us. We receive cards even now.” She claps her hands over her mouth to check her rising laughter. She darts to a 24 The Soul of Lady Agnes. big wooden box in one corner of the perfect- ly barren room, drags it up to Mr. Barry- more, and throwing back the cover, dives her long, restless fingers in a mass of sharp- edged, square-cut cardboard. Amazedly he takes several from the handful she holds up to him and turns to the window. Scita, meanwhile, is reading rapidly. ' Le Marquis S , Madame L , Countess G , Mademoiselle C , Miss Louise , Duke de B T She has tossed them all back in the box, is slamming down the lid. With a light spring she now jumps up on it, and falls to stamping viciously. Mr. Barrymore holds out his hand. ** How old are you, Scita?” She is again on her stool. How old ? Sixteen.” She answers with a supremely haughty air. 25 The Sotil of Lady Agnes, He is too grave to smile. “You look fourteen,” he says sur- prisedly. “ Doesn’t she, Juan ?” “ Sim, Senhor.” Mr. Barr}^more rises. “ Remember, please, how hungry I am.” H is brows grow together again. “ I am going now to send you your din- ner. Juan will remain with you. Have you a spare mattress anywhere ?” She shook her head. “ Oh, yes, there is one piled up in a closet, only one.” “ Get it down, Juan, and put it in here.” He speaks to him for several minutes now in Portuguese. “Sim, Senhor.” Scita cannot understand them. “ I will be back to-morrow morning before your mother tries to go out,” he says to her. “ Child, do you believe that you 26 The Soul of Lady Agnes. are,” he hesitates — choosing his word — poor ?” I gave our last sous away to day ; our beds would have to be pawned to get more.” His yellow skin grows deeply wrinkled. He groans aloud — ‘‘ Starving, living in deso- late rooms — talking of pawning — Gerard Chevannis daughter, — Gerard Chevannis wife an absinthe drinker !” Scita hears him, and the veins on her temples throb visibly, violently. Your mother seems to have lost her reason, for she is a rich woman, and you child, an heiress, do you understand me clearly ; an heiress equal to any in this French capitol.” A crimson flush spreads over her face and brow. She for the second time that day clasps her hands around his neck* The Sotil of Lady Agnes, 27 ‘‘If this is so, then take me away with you, take me to your home.” “To Buenos Ayres?” he asks amazedly. “ The climate is — ” But she checks him. “ Buenos Ayres is just the place. No, promise now you will take me,” and she will not release him until he acquiesces. 28 The SotU of Lady Agnes» IL Mr. Barrymore stops at a restaurant and waits until he sees the preparations be- gun for the dinner which he has ordered to be taken to the fifth etage of 22 Rue Bas- sano. Satisfied, he now turns his steps in the direction of his hotel. It is the hour for table dUidte, but beckoning to the head waiter he speaks to him confidentially : See here, I want you to do me a favor. Serve me well and you won’t lose by it.” Suiting the action to the word Barrymore draws a roll of bills forth and hands him one. ‘‘ Merct, Monsieur y merczT The waiter, with his trim mutton chop whiskers, goes nearer, and his eyelids quiver with suppressed emotion as he listens. The Soul of Lady Agnes, 29 “ I want you to see that as fine a little meal as your chef serve is in waiting for a friend and myself in my salon in half-an- hour/' Bien, Bien le second 6 tage Monsieur ^ liest ce pas f ‘‘ Exactly.’’ C'est bien. With the air of a man wrapped up in his thoughts Barrymore goes out to the main office. “ Have you anything for me ?” The clerk with a nod of acquiescence hands him an envelope, which is lying on the desk. Seeking his room he hurriedly breaks the covering and reads, written on the en- closed card, above the engraved name, “ tout de suite,'' Laying down his hat, Mr. Barry- more stretches himself out in an easy chair, his eyes closed and his breathing labored and irregular, while his active brain works with 30 TJlc Soul of Lady Agnes, alarming rapidity. So certain had he been of his friend’s answer that, after despatching a message to him on leaving the Rue Bas- sano, he lost no time in hurrying to the hotel and ordering dinner. In precisely a half hour’s time he opens his door to a waiter, standing spotlessly attired, and who announces : “ Monsieui' on a se^^viS At this moment his guest arrives. They shake hands and at once sit down to dine. “ Leighton,” says his friend, “ have you your wife with you ?” The soup is placed on the table and they bedn eat i nor. o o “ No, de Brouville, she preferred keeping quiet.” The conversation is carried on in Eng- lish ; de Brouville speaking it with a slight accent. He is a gentleman with pure white hair and goatee, distinguished and elegant. “ I read your name in Le Figaro this j The Soul of Lady Agnes. 31 morning, and wondered if you would evade me. Don’t you know, Leighton, I can understand how broken a man must feel who has been as ill as you have.” “ Thanks, your sympathy is good. Had you thought to call ?” The I ren jhman’s quick sense perceiv^es a tint of sarcasm in the words. Impetuously he extends his arm and lays a long, carefully attended finger on his friend’s passive hand. You doubt me ?” “I do. Why not? You were seem- ingly as firm a friend of Gerard Chevannis as myself, seemingly. Yes, what have you done ? What trouble have you taken to see that his wife and child were living as they should. You sent them three cards. D — n. You, who were as a brother to Gerard Chevannis, whom he loved as only a man of his nature could love, and who died feeling so long as you were alive his family would 32 The Soul of Lady Agnes, be cared for. You sent them three cards. You, H— ir De Brouville, with contorted features, leaps from his chair. His hands and arms quiver, his lips are contorted and streaked. His passion is so strong that it gurgles in his parched throat ; his mouth falls apart with wordless speech. Barrymore is at a white heat, but leans forward in his chair without a sign of the tempest raging through him. The waiter noiselessly changes the dishes, places the fruit on the table and withdraws. Outside the door, his eyes great with curious terror, he stands, hearkening until some one entering the hall starts him on. De Brouville runs his white tongue along his lips, draws himself up to his fullest height : You, above all others, know the danger of addressing me as you have. Were you 33 The Soul of Lady Agnes, other than a gentleman, I would shoot you now. It is to-morrow at eleven. Pistols are the weapons.” Horace, we won’t fight. I believe you, you didn’t know. That drunken fiend of a woman wouldn’t let you.” De Brouville, standing over him, grated his locked teeth. From his pocket he draws forth a small jewelled pistol and lays it by his untouched plate of grapes on the table. Continuezl' he says. Barrymore catches his wine glass firmly. His jaw bones work nervously in and out. His light blue eyes show his utter uncon- sciousness of the movement of his friend, show he is absorbed by some keen pain gnawing him within. Horace,” and the name comes broken- ly, “ we loved Chevannis, didn’t we, poor Chevannis. It was hard his early death. That last time we were at his home together. 34 Soul of Lady Agnes. you remember how beautiful AmMie looked, that night how charming was his little girl. How Gerard adored them both. You and I talked of it going home. Now,” into his cold hands he sinks his head, to-day, this very afternoon, I saw a sight which will last me to eternity. There was a woman, her soul drunk with absinthe, lying half sprawled across a table, a bonnet crushed and ragged falling from her head ; the sun gushing full down upon her, in red-hot, sickening, rays. In the shade, by this woman’s side, was a young girl singing to herself, wonderful in her beaut}^ A half-hour before and that cafe had been swarming with men, cursing men, those tables holding the eternal fire. This woman is Amelie Chevannis, and the girl, Gerard’s adored baby Scita.” “ Leighton, man, you stagger me 1 What’s that you say of AmHie drinking ? of a cafe ? of a child ? The Soul of Lady Agnes, 35 De Brouville lessens his fierce hold of the other’s throat. I say this. You and I have not done our duty and we will have to answer for it, friend, at the judgment day. After the fun- eral Amelie took to drinking and is now a veritable city hag. No earthly power can save her, the drug has its insiduous grasp upon her.” “ Parbleu, Leighton, Amelie an absinthe drinker, Am^ie,” and while the tears float in his eyes he laughs. “ Why, man, listen. After Gerard’s death, I saw his widow for more than a week. She then left the city for their place at La Fitte — making me promise not to dis- turb her, saying she wished to be entirely alone. What less could I do but keep my word. It has been twelve months now and they are still away. I write her once a week, but she has never sent me a line.” 36 The Soul of Lady Agnes, Shrugging his shoulders he looks abrupt- ly, earnestly, in the face of his friend. There are half crescent deep furrowed lines beneath his eyes. His white moustache is carefully waxed at the ends. He is in even- ing dress, for there is a ball given at the President’s this night, beginning at eleven, which he must attend. “ AmHie was always clever ; with absin- the in her veins she is hellish clever. Do you know what she did ? She never left the city, but took an apartment in the Rue Bas- sano under another name. Each morning, disguised in common clothes, she went out with her daughter. They were generally in the latin quarter, Scita tells me, and there received her absinthe. She was home usually by eight.” “ Impossible ! Scita is old enough to have looked up some friend, and — ” “What daughter would tell a stranger of The Soul of Lady Agues. 37 her mother’s fall. What could she think but they had been deserted by their friends. She had nothing but their paper condolences after that first week to remind her of them.’* He raps the table fiercely. “It shows, Horace, that every hour things are passing by our very noses which we cannot smell though we think we taste. There is some excuse for me, sick in Brazil, but for you, one of France’s truest, bravest lawyers, to be duped by a woman — Bon Dieu /” De Brouville does not raise his head, he runs his shining eyes along the figured car- pet. “ But I knew you had been, knew it, that is why I asked you to dine with me to-night. Had I doubted you for one brief second, felt your letters to me of them had been lies, that you knew of AmHie’s passion, had — ” knocking his chair from under him, 38 The Sold of Lady Agnes. he rises — “ I would have sought you out in the chamber, in the street, and shot you down'' De Brouville lifts his head and speaks with quiet emphasis. “Had I known what you did, nothing could have prevented my killing you. Barrymore, by your being an American, not a Frenchman, there has been one less murder in the world. Your hand, friend. All that lies in my power from this hour on, will I do for Gerard’s wife and child. What are your plans ?” “ As guardian and one of the co-execu- tors I have the right to take Scita with me. She has in fact made me promise I would take her to Buenos Ayres.” “ But the climate may be too severe.” “In that case I will send her to my niece in America.” But Amelie ?’ The Soul of Lady Agnes, 39 ‘‘ She could not be dragged from here. She is her own mistress, but, Horace, you can see that she sinks — no lower.” De Brouville, bending his white head to the other’s brown one, kisses him gravely on the cheek. Without speaking they wring each other’s hands and part. De Brouville goes not to the ball that night, but home. 40 The Soul of Lady Agnes, III. Near the Plaza ii de Setiembre, in the city of Buenos Ayres, stands a handsome, anciently carved house of stone, freshly whitewashed. Not a blemish is on it, except the shadows which some tall palm trees shake about its sides. It is in the month of February, at an hour when the day’s heat is most oppressive, when the inhabitants of the city religiously seek their siesta. It is half-past eleven. Through the gateway of this mansion, in the main quad- rangle, a fountain gurgles blithely. On all sides are windows opened wide, and there are many rooms, seemingly empty, opening on this court. Leading from the quadrangle is another with several bubbling fountains in its cor- ners, while a great mass of blooming flowers, The Soul of Lady Agnes, 41 planted in long boxes, lie about. A slight breeze caressing them, sends forth their sweetness on its breath. Under the swing- ing boughs of wind touched shrubbery, its long throat hidden in rustling leaves, is a siremma, kneeling. This tamed bird, a sort of small ostrich, was captured in the high- land deserts by Barrymore himself. “Juan, tell it to her over again.” The mulatto, still bending above a basket of flowers he is carefully arranging, lifts his head. He fixes his eyes sternly on a little creature, dark-colored as himself, whom Scita presses tightly against the wall, and dis- tinctly, slowly speaks to her some moments in their native tongue. The child writhes to get free. Her face is of a dark crimson, and now and then, raising one corner of her shapely lips, she shows her tiny, locked teeth. “ You little vilaine, you sha n’t go until I 42 The Soul of Lady Agnes, let you. Now tell her, Juan, * He* knew liars by their odor a league off, and when Coralie approached the palace, he was obliged to burn vinegar to keep himself from being ill.’ ” She waits until Juan says it in his gibber- ish : “ Now Coralie’s mother was so ashamed, she tried to apologize for her daughter, but the enchanter. Merlin, who lived in a glass palace, said : ' I felt your daughter’s approach long ago. She is one of the great- est liars in the world, and she has made me very uncomfortable.’ ” The child’s eyes grow big with terror. She is becoming fascinated with this tale Juan is telling, if only the beautiful Senhorita wouldn’t look at her so, wouldn’t crush her on the wall. She again writhes to get free, then stands gasping softly, hearkening. With this, Merlin had clasped about her Jean Mac6. Contes du petit-chateau. 43 The Soul of Lady Agnes, neck a magnificent amethyst necklace, set with a diamond clasp of dazzling lustre. In a year,” said he, “ I will come for my neck- lace. If you dare take it off one single instant, until then, woe be unto you.” Here Scita gently shakes her. As steel tempered, she twists at a touch. This necklace was no other than that famous Necklace, of Truth, which the ancients talked of and which unveiled every species of falsehood. Before the year was over Merlin came for his necklace. She was then such a truthful child that she did not need it. This is what the necklace did, the beautiful stones turned dull when Coralie did not tell the truth ; it grew long when she added to it ; it shrank when she substracted from it, and clattered whenever she was silent. And now, Juan, tell her I have a necklace like this one.” Juan does. But before Scita can put a 44 The Soul of Lady Agues, chain around the child’s brown neck she has with a fearful howl of anguish broken loose and fled into the street. So sudden has this been, that Scita is standing holding the chain still in her hand, when Mr. Barrymore appears. “ I heard a cry !” Scita, laughing, catches his arm in hers. “ It was only Dona frightened at a fairy story. We were giving her a little lesson, eh, Juan ?” But the mulatto is busying himself again over the flowers. As Mr. Barrymore turns away he catches sight of a picture which interests him. It is visible, standing out vividly at the end of an opposite court. “ See there Scita !*' It is the child Dona they are watching, A man of scarce twenty-two is holding her to his breast, caressing her flying hair. The The Sold of Lady Agnes. 45 girl’s face is in full sight, but only her lover’s back is towards them. '‘She is young for this sort of thing. My wife must know of it.” Mr. Barrymore is irritated. She is telling him of her fright. See how wildly she gesticulates. How devilish the little thing looks. He is getting angry, too, now ; I can tell it by the way he raises his back. How she is making him hate me ! No, wait one moment. Do ! I must see his face, for he will be our enemy.” “ Tut, Scita, come in, what are they to you. My wife shall question the little witch. She is an orphaned charge of hers, whose only fault is lying.” Which she will scarce continue, of that I am certain.” " You have been taking her in hand, then. You would have done better to have left her alone.” 46 The Soul of Lady Agnes. Scita is indignant at his sharp tone, and haughtily steps before him into the sitting- room. A lady calls from her sofa couch. “ Leighton/* - Yes.” ‘‘Is that you ?”, “ Oh, no, his voice belongs to another, but I am here.” “Well, Scita, where have you been ?” “ In the court.’* “It seems to me you spend your time most profitlessly, Leighton, you Leigh- ton — ** Her husband does not pretend to answer, but his pleasant face is extremely disagree- able-looking. Scita, foreseeing a storm, raises her eye- brows and moves back. There is a window close by. Noiselessly she steps through it into the quadrangle. Juan is passing at this moment. Clasping her hands, she 47 The Sottl of Lady Agnes, claps the palms softly together. Hearing the call, Juan looks up; she beckons him to follow her. Away from the window, she speaks. “ Have you a message for me ?” “ Sim, Senhorita. Senhor will meet you here to night, at nine.” ** Are the streets quiet T They begin to be noisy again, but it will not last.” “ Oh, it was such fun this morning ; the pomos doing any amount of work. The excitement was great when the Carzo arrived. Ah, Juan, but it reminds me of my beloved Paris. When the Company of the Epoch passed with the little Holquins fol- lowing, I could hardly contain myself, and then I know I heard a bit of French spoken. Who was the jeune ho7nme who knocked aside the pomos which would have fallen on me, tell me again ? He was splendid look- 48 The Soul of Lady Agnes. ing; who was he, Juan? He had mottoes pinned down and across his coat. So you see he was a ladies favorite.” “ Sim, Senhorita, he was one Senhor Manuel, a half Spaniard, half Portuguese. His family stands high here in the city.” “ I liked him, Juan, and do -you think there is any chance of our meeting to- night ?” “ Sim, Senhorita, the chance is good. Th is Manuel is fond of strolling.” The color steals from her neck up in her face, and burns on her fair temples, her words falter, and she holds up her hand, instinctively, to show there must be quiet. She begins boldly, but before the short sentence is completed, the words die in her dry throat. My note, Juan, you took — ?” “ Sim, Senhorita. I gave it him myself.” You are good, good.” 49 The So id of Lady A ones. She is gone. For one week during the month of Feb- ruary there is held a carnival in Buenos Ayres, beginning with one Sunday and end- ing with the next. Each day the fun is kept going. On the Wednesday ashes are used to smear the attractive ones with, while many and varied are the modes of expression. The week of Carnival is over. This Sunday morning it had waxed gayer and longer than at any time to die completely before the evening. Scita, dressed darkly, stands by the por- tico. Waiting there in the darkness her heart jumps violently as she hears Mr€. Barrymore’s voice, her nasal twang falling cuttingly on her finely strung nerves. Un- consciously she beats her gloved hands together, frowns heavily and probs her lips up. '' Oh !” It is Scita’s favorite exclamation. 3 50 The Soul of Lady Agnes, “ Isn’t she the worse ?” “ It is not as I care, Leighton Barrymore, it is just as you say.” ‘‘ I will be home by eleven.” “ Mon Dieu, but they are drole.” Mr. Barrymore is with her now, and they are in the streets. The air is warm. The moon is up, and the stars are twinkling. The city being a sure level, there are in all directions vistas, with the steeples of the Spanish churches here and there. The streets are narrow, and on the sidewalk people pass in Indian file, unable to walk abreast. The scene is darkly strange and picturesque ; street cars, now half empty, now with every seat taken, go by. The theatre is open to-night. Hand- some equipages roll on, and fashion is glympsed at. The farther on they go the city has more an air of solemn whiteness of mysteries at its street corners, and Scita The Soul of Lady Agnes, 51 noticing this gives a little shiver of delight. They walk leisurely and cross by the Cathe- dral, a number of figures are crouched on its steps ; one Lazurus, holds out his hand and Scita drops in it a coin. He thanks her, and calls after them, ''boa noitel' They have gone a long distance, and Scita is growing weary. Mr. Barrymores silence irritates her. She is angry at herself. This is no adventure after all. Had she not told Senhor Manuel the way they would take, the hour of starting, and why, pray, had he not appeared before this ? Her note could not have touched him, what a fool she had been. Fate alone should have led him to her. Yes, she will hate him, if he don’t come soon. She will — ” ‘‘ What is it, Scita. You are scowling at a great rate. Has your stroll not satisfied you ? Come, time we went back. Restless- 52 The Soul of Lady Agnes, ness is your curse, child ; overcome it, or you will be submerged.” Nature, pure nature is the French girl’s life guide. She is naturally too quick-witted and clever to try and improve that which brought her child’s desires, now she is coming to w^oman’s estate. Impulse is rarely met by a blow. Mr. Barrymore’s words, the tone he used were, as a flash of lightning before a storm — ■ a lowering suggestion. Scita has drawn close to him, raises her emotional face full of love to his. “ You dear, dear ami. How good you are to me, you — ” But a shivering of a moonlit knife, a short, black figure, a thrust and Leighton Barrymore, dragging with him the clinging girl, falls to the pavement as one dead. Scita opens her eyes. There is some- The Soul of Lady Agnes, 53 thing thickening around her hand. She lifts it and great drops of warm, red blood drip on her. She utters one loud, long, piercing scream, thoughts and speech mix together. She faints again. Two policemen are on the scene. They know the wounded man at a glance. He is the American-Brazilian railroad magnate, one of the millionaires of Buenos Ayres. It is near twelve when a car- riage stops before a large silent house and a gentleman is carried in. From the recess of a near stone wall a young man has run for* w’ard. With a horrified face he hears what the policeman tells him. Striding then to the carriage, throwing open the door, he clasps in his arms a stricken little form. Unconscious as she is, he seems in no great hurry to take her in the house, but kisses her and kisses her, as if he thought this alone could wake her. “ Minha querida. I did not comprc- 54 The Soul of Lady Agnes, hend. I thought I was to wait here — Minha querida T But Manuel is two hours late and she fails to hear him now. Within the house he gives her up to the care of Juan, who in his great agitation curses aloud. Scita is well again the next morning, but Mr. Barrymore suffers keenly. The thrust he has received having been directed to his heart, but slipping, left it intact. The blow is seen to have been dealt with a curved knife, that commonly used by the natives, an inheritance from their Moor- ish ancestors. Its purpose is to kill, and Mr. Barrymore has little doubt but that it was given by some man discharged from his employ. The police are notified to do their best in capturing the would-be murderer. It is the evening of the morrow. You held me in your arms, last night?” she whispers to him. ... I'he Soul of Lady Agnes, 55 He is bending low over her, so low that his dark moustache twirls in her light hair. Mon Manuel^' she speaks in French. He answers her in his melodious English. Sweet little Scita, I could have devoured you then, but you were cold, cold.” The tremor passing over him shows itself on his under lip. She puts her finger up and touches it. “Tell me, Manuel, how long have you loved me T He holds both her hands gently, firmly, but he is an honest youth and does not hes- itate. “ Since last night. It was the first time I had seen you closely. In that crowd of hooting people your face shone like the image I bear here of the Virgin,” and he presses his heart. “And yet I loved you, Manuel, and I 56 The Soul of Lady Agnes: only saw you just one second in that crowd.” “Yes, niinha qiierida^ but a man is blinder than a woman. You are all eyes, we are eyelets.” “ So, Manuel,” she laughs right gaily. “Oh, Aunt Mil, come here. My Manuel is funny.” Mrs. Barrymore is in the far end of the dimly-lighted room, sipping through the silver tube of the mate cup her Paraguay tea. With each taste she tries to digest this sud- den love of Scita’s ; its fulfilment. The youth, Manuel Vasco, is highly con- nected. She knows his parents well. His family name Is a brave one, closely con- nected with that disastrous war which ended in the defeat and death of the dictator Lopez, March i, 1871. “ Scita, you jolly little Scita,” and he holds her closely. 57 The Soul of Lady Agnes. 