"AGNES"

Hawke's Bay Herald, Volume XXXII, Issue 10628, 5 June 1897, Page 5

"AGNES"

AN EPISODE IN THE! LIFE OP GARIBALDI. A wild, stormy November eight in the suburbs of London. The sparselyBoattered gas lampj throwing their flickering and uncertain light aoroos a tenantless road. Tbo distant murmur of waters telling that the spot ia not far removed from the Thames, whose volume of waters is ohecked by some look, Standing under one of the lamps is a alight girlish figure, dinging to the lamp post with one hand, while with the other ahe holds a shawl that proteota her from damp, angry blasts as they come hurling along from the north-west. A night that no one would choose for a promenade ; a night that even the sturdy guardians of the peace seem careless aboftt facing, ay they pyinge £nd cower under some protecting doorway, and yet this frail figuro olings to a lamp post, and watohes, her gaae oagerly riveted along the Ditton road. As she turns her face towards the light, the flickering lamp plays upon pale and regular features. The faoe of a Madonna, iv which there ia an expression half oljfear, half of anxiety. She stoops Her head to listen, and as she hearo the far off sound of wheels grating Upon (he road.- tb,e fllouc]or white qand dutches the lamp post with a nervous gzasp, Louder and louder cornea the Bound ; tben two lamps flash up ia the weird distance and a dog-cart, drawn by a fast trotting horse, in which are seated two men I" t? m aDproaching. It dashes up to the lamp post ";* the reins are tossed to one of the ocenpants, while the other springs to the ground. ' The girl lets go "her hold of the lamp poat aud falls intq his arms, while the voioe of the stranger bids hia companion, who wears the dress of groom to drive on for a hundred yards and wait. ' Agnes, my own darling what a night to aßk you to come to me ; I ecaroely expected you, but — ' 'Ob, Edward, I oould endure my anguish no longer. Mother suspects — and I, Heaven help me— l am almost mad,' The man thus addressed was tail and distinguished looking. A young, careless faoe, with the marks of early die- j eipation strongly imprinted. As she spoke be folded the Blight figure in his arms, and imprinted a kiss upon her upturned lips. 'Agnes, darling, all grief and pain will now be ever. Everything is prepared, and yon have met mo to-night to go with me to the home I have prepared for you. Is it not so ? ' ffSdwsrd, I have met you,' replied the girl, in f altering aocents, ' to tell you that I have deoided. My mother—' 'Is provided for,' impetuously broke In the young man. 'fasten, Edward. When my father died 'he bade me promise never to leave my mother's side.' Why will you not bonsent to her coming with us P Vfhy should she not be present at our marriage? I fear— l think — I do not know what to think.' • And Js this what yoij have pome to tell me after all I have proraißed— after explaining to you my position— after your own plighted word to mo to meet we harp (;o»pjght and to fly with, roej" < It was wrong of me,' replied the girl, in A moaning voice, ' j was so eont'uaed, you wrUnK the promise from me, Edward ; but since then my mutJiw has been falling. To-day she was so very ill, and as she lay baok in my arms Bile whispered : " Do not leave me till all is oj?er,' as if she knew that — that— oh, I cannot ( I cannot!' And she burst into tears. ' You should have thought of all this before/ Baid the man, in an altered voice. I have made all my arrangements — taken a house, famished it, engaged servants — they are now waiting for us. This is all maudlin folly. I tell you, Agnes, you must come with me ; I will not be put off any longer ! ' His tone was bo menacing that the young girl shrunk from his embrace ; but he held her firmly in his arms, while oalling for his companion ; ' Bring the trap, Kiohard ! ' 'Edward ! Edward !' criod the girl, ' what are you going to do P ' ' I am going to tako you with me, bo be quiet.' ' Never 1 ' she cried, struggling to get free. ' Mother was right ! Help! Help!' ' Curse the girl ! ' muttered the man, endeavouring to stifle the ories, which rang out now and again in piurqug accents. 'There's some one ooming up the road sir,' said the groom, who, upon hearing his master call, had driven up to his assistsnoe,

•Help! Help!' still sorenmed tho girl, ia ohooking accents, as tho man sho had called Edward dragged her towards the dog-cart. A noise of hurrying footsteps, a tall form, clad in a rough pea-jacket, with a muffler round hia face, a blow, and the awn Edward released his hold, stagger* ing backwards eevoral paces. A socoud blow and the groom is sent almost under the wheels of the dogonrt. Tho girl is frco, and, taking advantage of tho situation, sho (lies up tho road und ia boon lost iv tho mist of 1 tho uight. The m&n Etlwor.l has rlsou, evidently with tho iutontion of following tho flyiug figure, whon tho tall form of tho man in pon jacket, grasping a stout slick In hia right hand, blocks hia way. ' Out of tho way or it will be tho worse for you,' shouts Edward, rushing towards his ad vorsary. 1 Basta ! not v step, 1 repliod the man in a foreign accent, standing firmly in the path, flourishing his stick. 'It ia enough that I find a woman in distross, struggling with a man at this time of J the night. I shall cover her retreat.' j At this point tho groom had enough to do to hold the horse, who, terrified at the scuffle, had beoome_ restive, and was therefore nnftbleto give aoslatance to his master. ' I tell you you aro interfering ia what does not oonoorn you. The woman who has gone up the road ia my wife,' said the man we have called Edward. ' Possibly, 1 replied ho of the peajaokot, ' but that doea not alter the fact that you were abusing her ; otherwise she would be here to own the relationship-' . , ' ' This Interference is beyond endurance. Stand again 1 ' 'Sorry, but I can't oblige you; bosides, if that young woman is your w if e — whicTi I do not beliovo — you cm see hor to-morrow.' ' And who the denco are you, sir, who camraits an asiuUJn the iirst pI&CQj and prevents t» husband from following .his wife?' ' Oh ! aa to that, I am not ashamed of my name ; possibly you may have heard it befure. I am Giuseppe Garibaldi, and if you have any further communication to make to me, yon will find me at the " Bwan," at Ditton, until the day after to morrow. In the lnoantime, 1 added the General, planting himself in the Middle of the road, ' I shall oover tho retreat of the young person you are pleased to oall your wife— about which I have my opinion— and if you attempt to follow her you will take the oonaequences.' ' Confound the fellow 1 ' cried the man Edward, springing into hia dogcart, qulokly followed by his servant. ' You shall hear from me to-morrow.' And striking his horse vioiouely with his whip, he soon disappeared in the direction of London. Tho hero of Afpremonte stood gazing after the vohiole until it had disappeared, and then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he pursued his way up the lane in the direction taken by the young girl. He had proceeded some qiarter of a mile up this lane when the sound of sobs and lamentations caught his ear, and hurrying forward, he beheld ft female form, whioli ho at ouce recognized as belonging to the girl he had just rescued. She was on her knees at the garden goto of a small cottage, which was Bituated some distance back from the lane. Hurrying forward, he per« oeivod that she was leaning over another form whloh lay stretched, apparently lifeless on tho small gravel walk. Approaching the girl, who was sobbing violoutly, he respectfully raised his hat, and inquired if ho could be of any furthor assistance to her. 'Ob, Bir, I am in great distress. Something hus happened to my mother. I found her here ns I came running back. She has fainted. She will not speak to me. she is so ill. Oh, heaveno ! What can be the matter P Sue is so cold ! What shall I do? 1 'Calm yourself, young lady. Let me carry your mother Into the house.' And raising the form in his anne, preceded by the girl, Giuseppe Garibaldi carried it into the oottage. He who had stood faoe to faoe with death so of tin failed not to perceive that, as he laid the form of the girl's mother upon the couch, life was extinct. In the right hand the corpse held tightly clenched a paper, which the poor girl, in her intense excitement, had evidently failed to peroeive. Seeing this, and hoping that this paper might elucidate the strange ooenrencos of the night, Garityildi gently raised the girl, who, was on her knees at her mother's aido, and led her to the opposite side of the room and seated her on a oh air, IMy dear young lady,' he said, ' I do not wish to be obtrusive ; but I perceive you are in great trouble. 1 have children of my own, far away from here, and I feel for you. A sad misfortune has befallen you. Will you trust me? My name Is Giuseppe Garibaldi ; perhaps you have heard it before ; trnafc me.' 1 Oh, sir, will you not go fora doctor ? My mother will die ; she will— ' 'Be calm, my poor child. No doctor could help her ; she is past all snob, help.' \ What do you mean P Ob, nir, something terrible has happo xd. My mother is—' 'Dead,' replied the General, hiding his facs, over which tears were *ant falling. 'My God ! ' cried the girl, ' it cannot be ! It c&ituot be ! ' aid she rushed to tho side of the oorpae, burying hor face in the folds of the dress. After some time the poor girl bsoamo calmer, and with gentle and fatherly tenderness the great Italian sought to comfort and enoourago hor ; pointing to the paper still clutched in the fingers of the dead woman, he desired her to see what It contained, but the moment that the poor girl, having possessed herself of it, perceived its contents, with a wild, despairing cry she threw herself upon the corpse, crying out : f J have killed ho?! J have killed her!' The paper so (Irmly hold in that death grasp was the letter appointing the rendezvous for that evening. The poor mother had found it, and summoning the little strength left her sho had gone to protect hor daughter's honour. giie died by the way. Alone, friendless, an orphan, Garibaldi's groat heart went out to this young and suffering child. With tender care and delicacy he arranged her fow worldly affairs. With the devotion of a second father he watohed at hor bedside during a long and serious illness, and when health returned, and his country c.lled aloud for Garibaldi, tho nolle Italian left his almost adopted daughter in oharge of the Sisters of Mercy at o— -r, near Windsor, there to pass the rest of her life in peace, if not in happiness. Years rolled on. The name of Garibaldi echoed from pole to pole. His noble and patriotic deeds had freed his country ; his name was in every one's month ; but nowhere waß it whispered with more Intense affeotlon than by the lips of the gentle, sorrowing girl whose sad, young life passed away whore he had left her, among the Sisters, of Moroy atO r. She died mingling his name with that of her dead mother. A simple tombstone in the ohuroh of Olner, bearing the inscription ; ' Agnes, Aged 23 yoars. Gone to rest,' ia all that marks the spot whore rest the remains of one of the noblest deeds of Italy's h,ero.