THE LAST MEETING OF AGNES AND THE STRANGER LADY.
While all nature was wrapped in the listening stillness of admiration at
the rising sun, Fernand Wagner dragged himself painfully toward his
home.
His garments were besmeared with mud and dirt; they were torn, too, in
many places; and here and there were stains of blood, still wet, upon
them.
In fact, had he been dragged by a wild horse through a thicket of
brambles, he could scarcely have appeared in a more wretched plight.
His countenance was ghastly pale; terror still flashed from his eyes,
and despair sat on his lofty brow.
Stealing through the most concealed part of his garden, he was
approaching his own mansion with the air of a man who returns home in
the morning after having perpetrated some dreadful deed of turpitude
under cover of the night.
But the watchful eyes of a woman have marked his coming from the lattice
of her window; and in a few minutes Agnes, light as a fawn, came
bounding toward him, exclaiming, "Oh! what a night of uneasiness have I
passed, Fernand! But at length thou art restored to me--thou whom I have
ever loved so fondly; although," she added, mournfully, "I abandoned
thee for so long a time!"
And she embraced him tenderly.
"Agnes!" cried Fernand, repulsing her with an impatience which she had
never experienced at his hands before: "wherefore thus act the spy upon
me? Believe me, that although we pass ourselves off as brother and
sister, yet I do not renounce that authority which the real nature of
those ties that bind us together----"
"Fernand! Fernand! this to me!" exclaimed Agnes, bursting into tears.
"Oh! how have I deserved such reproaches?"
"My dearest girl, pardon me, forgive me!" cried Wagner, in a tone of
bitter anguish. "My God! I ought not to upbraid thee for that
watchfulness during my absence, and that joy at my return, which prove
that you love me! Again I say, pardon me, dearest Agnes."
"You need not ask me, Fernand," was the reply. "Only speak kindly to
me----"
"I do, I will, Agnes," interrupted Wagner. "But leave me now! Let me
regain my own chamber alone; I have reasons, urgent reasons for so
doing; and this afternoon, Agnes, I shall be composed--collected again.
Do you proceed by that path; I will take this."
And, hastily pressing her hand, Wagner broke abruptly away.
For a few moments Agnes stood looking after him in vacant astonishment
at his extraordinary manner, and also at his alarming appearance, but
concerning which latter she had not dared to question him.
When he had entered the mansion by a private door, Agnes turned and
pursued her way along a circuitous path shaded on each side by dark
evergreens, and which was the one he had directed her to take so as to
regain the front gate of the dwelling.
But scarcely had she advanced a dozen paces, when a sudden rustling
among the trees alarmed her; and in an instant a female form--tall,
majestic, and with a dark veil thrown over her head, stood before her.
Agnes uttered a faint shriek: for, although the lady's countenance was
concealed by the veil, she had no difficulty in recognizing the stranger
who had already terrified her on three previous occasions, and who
seemed to haunt her.
And, as if to dispel all doubt as to the identity, the majestic lady
suddenly tore aside her veil, and disclosed to the trembling, shrinking
Agnes, features already too well known.
But, if the lightning of those brilliant, burning, black eyes had seemed
terrible on former occasions, they were now absolutely blasting, and
Agnes fell upon her knees, exclaiming, "Mercy! mercy! how have I
offended you?"
For a few moments those basilisk-eyes darted forth shafts of fire and
flame, and the red lips quivered violently, and the haughty brow
contracted menacingly, and Agnes was stupefied, stunned, fascinated,
terribly fascinated by that tremendous rage, the vengeance of which
seemed ready to explode against her.
But only a few moments lasted that dreadful scene; for the lady, whose
entire appearance was that of an avenging fiend in the guise of a
beauteous woman, suddenly drew a sharp poniard from its sheath in her
bodice, and plunged it into the bosom of the hapless Agnes.
The victim fell back; but not a shriek--not a sound escaped her lips.
The blow was well aimed, the poniard was sharp and went deep, and death
followed instantaneously.
For nearly a minute did the murderess stand gazing on the corpse--the
corpse of one erst so beautiful; and her countenance, gradually relaxing
from its stern, implacable expression, assumed an air of deep
remorse--of bitter, bitter compunction.
But probably yielding to the sudden thought that she must provide for
her own safety, the murderess drew forth the dagger from the white bosom
in which it was buried: hastily wiped it upon a leaf; returned it to the
sheath; and, replacing the veil over her countenance, hurried rapidly
away from the scene of her fearful crime.