Agnes folded up the letter; and, feeling the need of composing herself,
took refuge for a few minutes in her own room.
Her first natural sensations of surprise and excitement at the prospect
of going to Venice were succeeded by impressions of a less agreeable kind.
With the recovery of her customary composure came the unwelcome re-membrance of the parting words spoken to her by Montbarry's widow: —
'We shall meet again — here in England, or there in Venice where my hus-band died — and meet for the last time.'
It was an odd coincidence, to say the least of it, that the march of
events should be unexpectedly taking Agnes to Venice, after those words
had been spoken! Was the woman of the mysterious warnings and the wild
black eyes still thousands of miles away in America? Or was the march of
events taking her unexpectedly, too, on the journey to Venice? Agnes
started out of her chair, ashamed of even the momentary concession to
superstition which was implied by the mere presence of such questions as
these in her mind.
She rang the bell, and sent for her little pupils, and announced their
approaching departure to the household. The noisy delight of the children,
the inspiriting effort of packing up in a hurry, roused all her energies. She
dismissed her own absurd misgivings from consideration, with the con-tempt that they deserved. She worked as only women can work, when
their hearts are in what they do. The travellers reached Dublin that day, in
time for the boat to England. Two days later, they were with Lord and
Lady Montbarry at Paris.
