AIDA'S REVENGE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VII, Issue 2, 10 January 1891, Page 6

AIDA'S REVENGE.

N a lovely garden surrounding the ill ‘ rocinha ' or'country house of Don ill Cavalho, which was situated within a 111 short distance of Para, the pott of entry for the Amazons, stood his niece, Aida, a beautiful girl of nineteen. X ' She was in a clinging robe of ■ v - Iff white drapery that set off well her tall, lithe figure and clear olive complexion. |W At her feet lay a large basket heaped II fff MV if with a profusion of scarlet passion -‘K 'li'iWuwn flowers ami white arums, which she had just gathered ; while behind her was a rich mass of tropical vegetation, velvety green leaves, finely-cut palm fronds, and feathery heads of foliage all mingled together in a wealth of luxuriance and beauty. Her dark eyes were fixed upon a group of three figures that were seated at a little distance, and as, with her scarlet lips a little apart, she listened eagerly to their conversation, the hot Brazilian blood rose fiercely to her cheeks and forehead, and her hand clutched convulsively at a small jewelled dagger hanging at her side. A look of intense hatred blazed over her face as presently a happy voice cried, • Aida, come here ; Antonio vows we must be married next month. Do tell him I can’t possibly get my trousseau ready on such short notice. He will not believe me.’ The speaker was Elvira, the only child of Don Pedro Cavalho, and with whom Aida had been brought up as a sister ever since the death of her own parents when she was a baby of three months old. Beside Elvira sat her lover, and opposite her, in a low chair reading a newspaper, reclined her father, a wealthy Brazilian planter, who idolised his fair-haired daughter, and who was well-content that Antonio Everist, the son of his rich friend and neighbour, should become her affianced husband, as in that case his treasure would not be taken far away from him. The actual betrothal had only taken place a few days before, although the fathers had planned and hoped for it in secret from the time of Elvira’s birth. But to Aida the fact of the engagement had come as a terrible and overwhelming blow, for, alas ! she too loved Antonio — loved him with the strong impetuous love of women of her temperament, and of the southern clime, and up to that hour she had believed herself beloved in return. Not that Antonio was much to blame ; his heart had always been Elvira s, but then Aida, his old playmate also, was a beautiful girl—and a look, a word of endearment, and one fatal day a kiss, as they stood together in the noon-tide under the mango tree, had done their work, and had lit up a spark in Aida’s ardent soul that had flamed up into vehement love. No one suspected it, except perhaps Juanita, the old Indian nurse, not even Antonio, and as the unhappy girl stooil apart, the unthinking China called again, half petulantly, ‘ Aida, darling, do come here. Antonio says he will take me to Europe for our honeymoon, and I want you to settle what the bridesmaids are to wear, and to arrange—’ But Aida could hear no more. Maddened by jealousy, she caught up her basket and fled in the brief twilight along a little woodland path leading to the house. Suddenly she checked herself, and springing aside with an exclamation of horror, she stood gazing at a rattlesnake that lay extended along the track, and on which she had all but trodden.

Gradually a cruel expression stole over her face. ‘ Better to die as Cleoparta died than live in this cruel pain,’ she said to herself, pressing her hand fiercely against her heart. Then, womanlike, she turned her head for a last farewell of Antonio, whose form could he seen in the gathering darkness bending over his beloved. AU at once a ghastly idea flashed across Aida’s fevered brain and took possession of her. ‘Why should I not do it?’ she muttered in her fi antic rage. ‘ Once in her bedroom the chances are that Elvira would tread on the snake, and then in two houis she would breathe no more. And once more free Antonio must love me.’ As she bent over the loathsome snake she laughed a hard and bitter laugh at the thought that the choice of Antonio’s bride rested with the venomous creature. • What care I if it strikes its deadly fangs into me,’ she said ; * ami if it does not, 1 shall take it for an omen that I, and not Elvira, shall wed Antonio. Let fate decide.’ So saying she resolutely laid hold of the serpent and lifted the heavy brute into the basket amongst the flowers. It did not turn upon her, nor even appear to evince any irritation at this summary proceeding. Indeed at times when in a sort of lethargy these animals require a good deal to rouse them. Then, raising the basket with a look of triumph, she walked quickly towards the house. As she neared the verandah she flung the end of her light scarf partly over the Howers. Scarcely had she done so when she met Juanita, their old Indian nurse. * Darling of my heart !’ ejaculated the old woman, seeing her flushed face. ‘ What ails thee ? Wilt thou lie down awhile ? Come, and I will take down thy hair and fan thee. The evening is close and sultry.’ ‘No, no, Juanita,’ answered Aida hurriedly, ‘I want nothing ; but 1 am weary and would be alone. Go thou and tell my uncle it is wall nigh supper-time and that he sits too long in the evening dew.’ So saying Aida swept past her, and after looking back to see that Juanita had departed on her errand she entered the bedroom of her cousin. The dainty sleeping apartment was fitted up with every luxury suitable to the climate, and the fond father had allowed his daughter to gratify many a pretty whim and fancy in the adornment of it. Here Aida paused, but only for a moment, and then she gently deposited the fatal snake on the floor, where it was partly concealed by the pink and white drapery of the toilet table. The handling it had undergone, ami its strange journey appeared at last to have had the effect of rousing it somewhat from its sluggish temper, for it slightly raised its ugly horny tail and shook its rattle as she laid it down. But Aida did not relent in her cruel purpose. Her brain was on fire with jealousy of her gentle cousin, and a thirst for revenge, and a determination to win Antonio for herself at all costs, dominated her whole being. The remembrance of those happy days of childhood passed with Elvira, when neither could sleep, play, or eat if the other were not by ; of the pleasant lessons learned together

under the mango tree, of their holiday expeditions, of the fair fleeting time ot early maidenhood, when with pretty oaths each cousin swore eternal fealty to the other, of the tender love and never-failing protecting care of her uncle ; did none of these golden memories move Aida to relinquish her horrid purpose ? Alas I no. All this was as though it had never been, and Aida sought her own room, which was next to her cousin’s, full ot nervous exaltation at having accomplished the deed that was to free her, as she hoped, from a hated rival. Crossing to the verandah, which looked out on to the garden, she sat down and tried to cool her hot cheeks by pressing them against the glossy green foliage of a banana that drooped its magnificent leaves around. In a few minutes she heard voices, and her uncle and Juanita passed into the house, while Antonio and Elvira lingered awhile by the verandah unconscious, in the darkness, of her presence. ‘ Antonio,’ the gentle voice of Elvira was saying, ‘ life seems so sweet to me now.’ ‘ And you are sweeter than life itself,’ returned Antonio, taking her in his arms. ‘ I wish everyone could be as happy as we are,’ she murmured. ‘ Only think, Antonio, I have never suffered any great grief or trouble all my life long.’ *No one could have the heart to vex you, my sweet one.’ ‘My mother's death, of course, I cannot remember ; and the only time I was ever really unhappy was for a few hours last year, when Aida had the fever, and we thought she would die.’ ‘ Yes,’ answered Antonio, ‘ I remember, and how you insisted on nursing her at the risk ot your own life.’ ‘Braving the growls and scoldings of you and my father,’ laughed Elvira gaily. ‘ But now, Antonio mio, you are not to go home until after supper. We have to arrange the expedition up the Magoary for to-morrow. I will just run in and change these thin shoes that are soaked with dew, and meet you again in the dining-room.’ Aida drew her breath hard as by the light of the newly risen moon she watched Antonio press a fervent kiss on Elvira’s upturned face, and she listened doggedly to her cousin's footsteps, as she passed into her own apartment. •The door closed. Aida rose from her seat. All the nerves in her body seemed suddenly to have become tightened to theii utmost tension. She stood erect—her head bent a little forward — her fixed eyes straining on vacancy, even her breathing suspended until it turned to sharp physical pain, so intensely did she listen to every sound that came from that other room.

She heard Elvira cross to the wardrobe to put away her hat and light wrap ; then there was the splashing of water. Elvira was washing her hands, and breaking out now and again with scraps of a joyous little Portuguese love song. Then came a silence. Still, Aida stood there, listening. Beads of perspiration were starting from her pale blow. Mechanically she raised her hand to wipe them away, when —Hark ! a sharp purring rattle, like the rustle of a field of ripe grain swaying in the wind, broke the stillness, and then —a terrible and agonised cry rang through the evening air. For a moment Aida stood there, paralysed, her hand to her brow. She heard the confused running of many feet, the exclamations of horror and dismay ; the loud cries of Juanita, and, above all, the hysterical weeping of Elvira. Then, when too late, remorse rushed like a Hood upon her. The full extent of her hideous wickedness was laid bare to her very soul, and with a horrified exclamation, ‘ My God ! what have I done ?’ the unhappy girl sank to the ground. The intensity of her emotion almost took away consciousness, but the sound of her own name plaintively called by Elvira roused her, and the vehemence of her nature quickly determined her course. She would throw herself at Elvira’s feet to make what atonement was possible. She would denounce herself before Antonio, betore the world, as a vile and unnatural murderess. So resolving, in the sudden reaction of her feelings, she raised herself from the ground, and with trembling limbs sought her cousin’s room. There all was confusion. Antonio with a look of wild hatred on his face, was bettering out the life of the rattlesnake with a thick stick. Servants were rushing about in search of antidotes and remedies, while on the sofa, supported in her father’s arms, lay Elvira, sobbing piteously. * Has she. been bitten ?’ were Aida’s first words, as the vain hope crossed her mind that perhaps her cousin had only been frightened by the proximity of the poisonous snake. But Don Pedro, whose ashen countenance besjroke his anguish, groaned aloud as he, without speaking, pointed to Elvira’s arm. There, just above the elbow, Aida saw a tiny wound surrounded by a light-coloured circle, and she knew that her cousin’s doom was sealed ! Already the words of her self-condemnation trembled on Aida’s lips, when Elvira stretched out her hands to her saying, * Aida, darling, is it really death ? Can nothing save me ?’ ‘Oh ! Elvira, Elvira,’ moaned the penitent girl in an agony of remorse as she threw herself on her knees beside her, ‘ Would God I could die in your place !’ Elvira made a strong effort to control herself on seeing her cousin’s violent grief, and nestling her cold pale face against Aida’s, she whispered, ‘ Yon must not fret for me, Aida dear ; see, I am trying to be brave, and I trust to you to comfort my father and Antonio. Kiss me, dearest. ’ As Aida did so, she felt she could willingly give up her hope of heaven to undo what she had done, or even for one word of forgiveness from those sweet lips—and yet it must not be ; her confession she felt must be kept back. How could she embitter the last hout of her cousin’s life by telling her the hideous truth? No ! a thousand times no. No matter at what cost to herself, Elvira at least must be spared that ! Meanwhile stimulants were given, and every remedy that could be thought of was applied, but all in vain. Why linger over the harrowing scene ? Suffice it to say that in less than three hours Elvira expired in the arms of her betrothed. The broken hearted father crept away to his room to be alone with his grief—Antonio, stunned by the desolating blow struck at his happiness, was sitting with his face buried in his hands, when he felt a touch on his shoulder. He looked up. Aida stood beside him, deathly pale. ‘ Come with me to my uncle,’ she said.

Alarmed at her manner, be rose and followed her. Sheled the way straight to Don Pedro’s room, where the old man sat bowed down over his desk. He raised his head as they entered. No tears were in hiaeyes. His was the bitter dry-eyed grief of old age, when the relief of tears is denied. ‘ Leave me, my children ; I would be alone,’ he said, gently. But Aida, never heeding him, broke out passionately, ‘ Listen, Uncle and Antonio ; I have something horrible to tell you. It was I who killed Elvira.' ‘Aida, my darling,’ said the old man, soothingly, unselfishly putting aside his own sorrow, as he rose to go tohis niece. ‘The shock has unhinged your mind. Go and lie down and try to sleep. ’ ‘ No, no,’ cried the girl, wildly ; ‘ I did do it, uncle ; I did it because I loved Antonio. I brought the snake and put it in her room. lam her murderess !’ Don Pedro trembled in every limb as he turned to Antonio.

‘ What is all this’’ he said. ‘ls the girl mad, or is it true ?’ ‘ By heaven !’ burst out the young man in uncontrollable fury, as he thought of the agonised death of his betrothed, ‘if she has done this, I will shoot her down like a dog. She is not fit to live.’ He had his hand already on the pistol when Don Pedroseized his arm. ‘ Stop, Antonio,’ he said, in a low voice of suppressed anguish, ‘I must know more of this.’ Then, with a sudden burst of fierceness, he asked : ‘ Had you been making love to both the girls ?’ ‘ I had not,’ replied Antonio with much heat; ‘ and I swear that until this moment I knew nothing of Aida’s feelings for me.’ She moved forward. Young, barely nineteen, and beautiful as she was, with her disordered hair pushed back in its wealth of loveliness, and her dark eyes shining like stars out of her pale face, in an agony of excitement and remorse, yet neither man could repress a shudder as she came nearer. She saw it, and stopped. ‘ Yes,’ she said, bitterly, ‘ Antonio is right. He never spoke of love to me, and yet 1 loved him. Oh ! God, how 1 loved him ! . . . . And I thought my love was returned, till ’ ‘ That is false,’ broke out Antonio ; ‘ I never loved you—never gave you cause to think so.’ Aida looked at him. That kiss, then, under the mango tree—those occasional sweet friendly words—had evidently passed altogether out of his recollection. It had all been as nothing to him, while to her it had meant so much. She made no answer. What was the use ; she thought wearily, but turning to her uncle, who sat with his hand shading his eyes, as if the sight of her pained him, she told in broken words and sentences the story of her maddening jealousy and guilt. As she ended she threw herself passionately at his feet, calling on him to kill her—to let her die the same death as Elvira—to torture her—anything so that she might in some way expiate her crime. At length Don Pedro spoke : ‘ I cannot slay my brother’s child,’ he said in a voice cold and stern as winter, ‘ but I will never look upon her face again.’

As Aida raised her head from the ground there was such a look of utter despair on her wan face that even Antonio, full as he was at the moment of a bitter hatred against her, was touched in spite of himself. ‘ If I may not meet death at your dear hands,’ she urged vehemently, ‘ I shall give myself up to the authorities. I shall—’ Don Pedro stopped her with a horrified gesture of dissent. ‘ Although you have robbed me of my only child by a cruel death,’ he said, ‘ the name of Cavalho must at least be spared from public disgrace. Antonio,’ he continued hurriedly, ‘ we alone know of her guilt. It must go nofurther. Promise me this.’ Antonio swore he would never reveal it. Then Don Pedro turned towards Aida, speaking with cold harshness, though he trembled in every limb, and his face was ashen pale. ‘You say you wish to expiate your sin. Let your punishment be then to bear through life, in silence, the terrible secret of your crime. None must ever know that a Cavalho was also a murderess.’ Aida bowed her head mechanically. ‘ I go to a living death,’ she said, and passed from the room. She knew that she had looked her last on her uncle whom she loved with her whole soul, and yet whose care and tenderness she had requited by doing to death his only child. Unutterably she longed for one word of forgiveness from him, and yet she felt there was none in his heart towards her. How could there be? Antonio, too, turned from her with loathing. Elvira was dead by her act. She felt herself an outcast from all love—fiom all forgiveness ; and as she flung herself on the bed with a low wailing cry, she realised to the full the heinousness of her guilt, and her own terrible isolation and misery. No tears came to relieve her throbbing brow as she pressed it against the pillow in her anguish. She dared not pray—she could not sleep. For long she lay thus, when suddenly she heard her name uttered with a term of endearment, and looking up she saw Juanita standing beside the bed. The old woman put her arms round Aida and drew her to her bosom. ‘ My heart’s child,’ she said tenderly, ‘ Let Juanita comfort thee as she did when thou wast a child.’ ‘ Oh ! J uanita, you cannot—you cannot ’ —moaned the unhappy girl. ‘ You do not know. . . .’ ‘ My dear one, I know all, and I know thou dost repent that is enough for Juanita.’ And she kissed Aida’s burning forehead and chafed her colds hands as if she had been an infant. Then with the sudden reaction at finding that, notwithstanding her guilt one human heart still loved her, Aida burst into a Hood of passionate weeping. ‘ How did you know ?’ she whispered at length, still clinging to the faithful old Indian servant. ‘ln the midst of the confusion,’ answered Juanita, ‘I picked up in thy cousin’s room a scarlet blossom such as those thou wast carrying in thy basket when I met thee in the verandah. I knew thou also didst love Antonio, and I remembered thy troubled look. It flashed upon me in an instant. Child, I picked up the flower intending to denounce thee, but when I saw thy face of woe, and knew by thy

'words to Elvira that remorse had seized thee, I could not do it. How could I lose both rny nurslings in the same hour ?’ Aida pressed closer to her. Gradually as she lay sobbing on Juanita’s breast, a strange calm came over her. The love of one faithful heart was like redemption. It made life, faith, hope once more possible. If Juanita, who had love Elvira as her own child, can forgive, she thought perhaps God will foigive also. And she vowed that her life henceforth should be one long expiation. At last exhausted nature had her way, and Aida sank into a troubled sleep, but it was not until the sun rose high in the heavens that Juanita laid her down out of her arms, and threw herself on the ground beside her. Three days later Aida dressed in deep mourning, stood alone on the deck of a steamer, leaving Para for Lislton, her uncle having consigned her to the care of a kinswoman who lived in that city. Juanita had implored to be allowed to accompany her, but for answer Aida had pointed her to Don Pedro, whose grief-stricken face, as he went over his •darling’s grave, could be seen from the verandah of her room. ‘ You must never leave him,’ she had said, ‘ I put him in your charge, Juanita.’ * - . * < * * * * Fifteen years have rolled away. Aida, after a long probation, entered the society of * Little Sisters of the Poor ’ in a Portuguese town. Incessant toil amongst the sick, the poor, and the vile has robl>ed her form of much of its beauty, and in repose her face wears always a look of intense sadness ; but by those amongst whom she labours, none are so beloved as ‘ the foreign sister,’ as they call her from her slightly differing accent —none so gentle with the young and with the erring. And the consolation of her uncle’s sorely longed-for forgiveness has not been denied her. In his last illness he charged Antonio to bear her the message himself, and to bid her be comforted.