The Barnwell people-sentinel. (Barnwell, S.C.) 1925-current, March 14, 1929, Image 3
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Eighth Installment
WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE
Palermo is the scene. There an exile,
Leonardo di Marioni, has come for love
of Adrienne Cartuccio, who spurns hi<&
Hf meets an Englishman, Lord St. Mau
rice, who falls in love with Adrienne on
sight. Leonardo sees his sister Margharita,
who tells him his love for Adrienne is hope
less. But he pleads with her to arrange an
accidental meeting, Jo say farewell, be
tween Adrienne and him.
She consents. That night the Englishman
is informed of an attempt being made to
carry off Signorina Cartuccio, and Mar-
ghaflta, who are walking by brigands
employed by a rejected suitor on a lonely
road, He rushes tc Jhe scene, and proves
able to rescue t84 ladies.
Inflamed by the failure of his schenie,
Leonardo secs Margharita who shows him
she knows that he was instigator of the
attempted attack. The Englishman now
sees Adrienne often. The Englishman, sit
ting in the hotel, finds a dagger at his feet
Looking up, he sees the Sicilian, and scents
trouble. “We sat here a week ago,” re
calls Leonardor. Lord St. Maurice nods.
Leonardo and the Englishman quarrel.
The Englishman at first refused to accept
a challenge to duel, then when the Italian
slaps him consents. The two men face
each other ready to fight to the death.
Margharita stops the duel by coming just
in the nick of time to save the Englishman
from his fate, with two officers who arrest
the exile Leonardo. Leonardo vows ven
geance. After 25 years in jail he is again
at his hotel, an old, broken man with only
memories left to him.
At his hotel the proprietor, worried
about^him, advertises for his friends and
Leonardo is first visited by the woman he
had loved, whom he shoos out of his sight.
Then there comes to him the daughter of
his sister, whom he greets in great sur
prise. He learns that his sister is dead.
Count Leonardo tells his niece the story
of his love for Margharita. She is sympa
thetic.
NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY
ened and shaken, that the desire of his
life should have passed from him.
She had grown to love this shrunken
old man. In her girlhood she had
heard stories of him from her nurse,
and many times the hot tears had
stood in her eyes as she conjured up
to herself that pathetic figure, waiting
and waiting, year by year, for that
liberty which was to come only with
old age. She had thought of him,
sad-eyed and^weary, pacing his lonely
prison cell, and ever watching through
his barred window the little segment
of blue sky and sunlight which pene
trated into the high-walled court.
How he must long for the scent of
flowers, the fresh open air, the rustle
Lady St Maurice looked up from
her work quickly. Nine o’clock was
just striking, and her son only a
moment before had replaced his watch
in his pocket with an impatient little
gesture.
“Yes, I do think so,” she answered
quietly. “I think her very strange
indeed. Why do you ask me?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, I don’t know exactly. It seems
odd that she should want to spend
all her evening alone, and that she
should have so many long letters to
write. Do you think that she quite
understands that you would like her
to come down with us?”
“I am quite sure that she does.
Margharita looked like a beautiful
wild animal in her passion. Her hair
had fallen all over her face, and was
streaming down her back. Her small
white hand was clenched and up
raised, and her straight, supple figure,
panther-like in its grace, was distended
until she towered over the little
shrunken form before her. Terrible
was the gleam in her eyes, and ter
rible the fixed rigidity of her features.
Yet she was as beautiful as a young
goddess in her wrath.
“Nol" she cried fiercely, “the Order
shall not diel You belong to it still;
and I—I, too, swear the oath of ven
geance! Together we will hunt her
_ •• * I C’._ .• , M
“She shall die!” he cried.
A slight shudder passed across the
girl’s face, but she repeated his words.^
“She shall diel But, uncle, you are
ill. What is it?”
She chafed his hands and held him
up. He had fainted.
“Where am-I, Margharita?”
She leaned over him, and drew a
long deep breath of relief. It was
the reward of many weary days and
nights of constant watching and care
ful nursing. His reason was saved.
“In your own room at the hotel,”
she whispered. “Don’t you remem
ber? You were taken ill.”
He looked at her, helpless and
puzzled. Slowly the mists began to
roll away.
“Yes, you were with me,” he mur
mured softly. “I remember now. I
was telling you the story of the past—
my past You are Margharita’s child.
Yes, I remember. Was it this after
noon?”
She kissed his forehead, and then
drew back suddenly, lest the warm
tear which was quivering on her eye
lid should fall back upon his face.
“It was three weeks ago!”
“Three weeks ago l” He looked
wonderingly around—at the little table
at his side, where a huge bowl of
sweet-scented roses was surrounded by
a little army of empty medicine bottles,
at Margharita’s pale, wan face, and at
a couch drawn up to the bedside.
“And you have been nursing me all
the time?” he whispered.
She smiled brightly through the
tears which she could not hide.
“Of course I have. Who has a bet
ter right, I should like to know?”
He sighed and closed his eyes. In
a few minutes he was asleep.
For a fortnight his life had hung
upon a thread, and even when the
doctor had declared him out of danger,
the question of his sanity or insanity
quivered upon the balance for another
week. He would either awake per
fectly reasonable, in all respects his
old self, or he would open his eyes
upon a world, the keynote to which he
had lost forever. In other words he
would either awake a perfectly sane
man, or hopelessly and incurably in
sane. There would be no middle
course. That was the doctor’s verdict.
And through all those long days and
nights Margharita had watched over
him as though he had been her own
father. All the passionate sympathy
of her warm southern nature had been
kindled by the story of his wrongs
Day by day the sight of his helpless
suffering had increased her indignation
toward those whom she really believed
to have bitterly wronged him. Through
those long quiet days and silent nights,
she had brooded upon them. She
never for one moment repented of
having allied herself to that wild oath
of vengeance, whose echoes often at
dead of night seemed still to ring in
her ears. Her only fear was that he
would emerge from the fierce illness
under which he was laboring, so weak
leaves, and the hum of moving Lumley. I even objected to having
insects. How his heart must ache for her come here as a governess at all.
the sound of men’s voices, the touch of Her mother was a dear friend of mine
their hands, some sense of loving or many years ago, and I told Margha-
friendly companionship to break the rita from the first that I would rather
icy monotony of his weary, stagnant have her here as my daughter. She
existence. Her imagination had been w>|ild have been very welcome to a
touched, and she had be«i all ready to home with us. It was only her pride
welcome and to love him as a hero which made her insist upon coming
and a martyr, even if he had appealed as Grade’s governess, and I support
to her in r.o other my. But v;I:ir. it iz the trims fed;-- v/hich ore *- -
she had seen him stricken down and her to keep herself so much aloof
helpless, with that look of ineffable
sadness in his soft dark eyes, it was
more than her sympathy which was
aroused, more than her imagination
which was stirred. Her large pitying
icart became his absolutely. She was
alone in the world, and she must needs
love some otic. For good or for evil,
ate had brought this strange old man
to her, and woven this tie between
them. v
He held out his hands; site grasped
them fondly.
Margharita,. she came here!” he
whispered.
“What, here? Here in this room?"
He nodded.
“'It was two days before you came.
I was sitting alone in the twilight.
The door opened. I thought I was
dreaming. It was she, as beautiful as
ever, richly dressed, happy, comely.
She came to pity, to sue for pardon.
I let her talk, and then, when I had
gathered strength, I stood up and
cursed her. I thrust her away; I
cursed her with the fiercest and crud
est words which my lips could utter.
It drove the warm color from her
cheeks, and the light from her eyes.
I cursed her till her £ieart shook with
fear. She staggered out of the room
a stricken woman. I ”
“Tell me her name.”
“It was Adrienne Cartuccio. It is
now Lady Maurice.”
“The Lady St. Maurice 1 She was
my mother’s friend then?”
“Yes.”
Margharita’s eyes were bright, and
her voice trembled.
“Listen 1” she cried. “When my
mother was dying she gave me
letter. If ever you need a friend or
help,” she whispered, “go to Lady
St. Maurice. This letter is to her.
She will help you for my sake. Uncle,
fate is on our side. Just before I
came to you I wrote to Lady St
Maurice. I told her that I was un
happy in my life, and I wished for a
situation as a governess. I sent her
my mother’s letter.”
“And she replied ?”
“Yes. She offered me a home. If
I wished I could teach her little girl.”
Her vqice was trembling, and her
eyes, dry and brilliant, "were fixed upon
his. He was sitting upright in bed,
leaning a little forward toward her,
and the sunbeam which had stolen in
through the parted curtains fell upon
his white corpse-like face. A Strange
look was in his eyes; his fingers
clutched the bedclothes nervously.
“You will—go?” he asked hoarsely.
“You will go to Lady St. Maurice?”
An answering light shot back from
her eyes. She was suddenly pale to
the lips. Her voice was hushed as
though in fear, but it was firm.
“Yes, I shall go. To-night I shall
accept her offer.
PART m
“Mother, don't you think that Miss
Briscoe is a very strange girl?"
so
from us. I am sorry, but 1 can do no
more than I have done toward making
icr see things differently.”
Lord Lumley fidgeted about for a
minute or two on the hearthrug.
There was a certain reserve in his
mother’s manner which made the task
which he had set himself more diffi
cult even than it would have been
under ordinary circumstances. Be
sides, he felt that from her low seat
she was watching him intently, and
the knowledge did not tend toward
setting him more at his ease.
“You loved her mother, then?”
“I did. She was my dearest friend.”
“And yet—forgive me if I am
wrong—but sometimes I fancy that
you do not even like Miss Briscoe.”
She will not let me like or dislike
her, Lumley.” ^
He shook his head.
“It isn’t that exactly. I have seen
you watching her sometimes—as for
instance when she sang that Sicilian
song here—as though you were—well,
almost afraid of her; as though there
was something about her which almost
repelled you.’*
The Countess laid down her work,
and looked steadfastly into the fire.
There was a moment’s silence.
“You have been a close watcher,
Lumley.”
“I admit it. But, tell me, have I
not watched to some purpose. There
is no mistaking the look in your face
sometimes, when she comes into the
room unexpectedly. If the thing were
not absurd, I should say that you
were afraid of her.”
Lady St. Maurice held her hand to
her side for a moment, as though she
felt a sudden pain. She ’repeated her
son’s words without looking up at
him.
“Afraid of her! No, no, Lumley.
I am afraid of something else, some
thing of which her face continually
reminds me. It is the shadow of the
past which seems to follow her joot-
steps.” ^
A tragic note had suddenly been
struck in the conversation between
mother and son. Lord Lumley, who
had been altogether unprepared for it,
was full of interest.
“The past!” he repeated. “Whose
past? Tell me all about it, mother.”
She looked up at him, and he saw
that her face was unusually pale.
“Xumley, it is only a little while ago
since your father and I told you the
story of our strange meeting and
marriage. You remember it?”
“Every word! . Every word,
mother 1”
“You remember the duel which the
Count di Marioni sought to force upon
your father, but which I prevented?
You remember the means which I was
driven to use to prevent it, and the
oath of vengeance which Leonardo—
the Count di Marioni—swore against
us both?”
Continued Next Week
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