E-text prepared by Bill Tozier, Barbara Tozier, Mary Meehan, and the
Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(https://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's note: After "The Fatal Glove" is a short story titled
"Constitutionally Bashful." The author was not
identified.
THE FATAL GLOVE
by
CLARA AUGUSTA
Author of "The Rugg Documents," "Patience Pettigrew's Perplexities," etc.
1892
PART I.
Arch Trevlyn had had a good day. Business had been brisk. The rain had
fallen steadily since daybreak, and the street-crossings in New York were
ankle deep in mud. The little street-sweeper's arms ached fearfully, but
his pocket was full of pennies, interspersed with an occasional
half-dime.
The clouds were breaking in the west, and a gleam of sunshine gilded the
tall tower of St. John's. Arch shouldered his broom, and whistled a merry
tune as he took his way homeward. His bright dark eyes sparkled as he
thought how the sight of his earnings would cheer his feeble mother. She
could have tea now, with real milk and some sugar in it, and an orange,
too. Only yesterday she was wishing she had an orange.
Arch's way led past a horticultural store, and his eye wandered longingly
over the display of flowers in the window. He must have just one wee
white rose, because, only the Sabbath before, while he sat at his
mother's feet, she had wept in telling him about the sweet roses that
used to grow under the window of the little country cottage where her
happy youth had been spent.
The white rose would be like bringing back to her ever so little a bit
of the happy past. It could not cost much, and Arch felt wealthy as a
prince. He stepped into the store and asked the price of a white rose.
The clerk answered him roughly:
"Get out of the store, you young rascal! You want to steal something!"
"I am not a thief, sir," said the boy, proudly, his sallow cheeks
crimsoning hotly. "I want a rose for my mother. I guess I can pay for
it!"
"It's half a dollar, if you want it," said the man, sneeringly. "Show
your money, or take yourself off this minute!"
Archie's countenance fell. He had not half a dollar in all. He turned
sadly away, his head drooping, his lip quivering. Oh, how very hard it
was to be poor, he thought, looking enviously at the costly carriage,
with a pair of splendid grays, standing before the door.
"Stop, little boy!" said a sweet voice from somewhere among the roses and
heliotropes. "Is your mother sick?"
Arch removed his cap--some inborn spirit of courtesy prompting him to be
reverent toward the glorious vision which burst upon him. For a moment he
thought he saw an angel, and almost expected that she would unfold her
silvery wings, and vanish in a golden cloud from his sight. But after the
first glimpse he saw that she was a little girl about his own age--eight
or nine years, perhaps--with yellow curls, deep hazel eyes, a mouth like
a rosebud, and a blue silk frock. She repeated the question:
"Is your mother sick, little boy?"
"No, she is not sick, for she always sits up, and sews. But she is not
strong, and her cheeks never have any color in them, like yours."
"And does she love flowers?"
"Yes, she loves them dearly. She kisses them always, when she has any.
And that's not often."
"Does she? That's nice. Just like I do!" said the little girl, in a
pleased voice. "Mr. Burns"--to the gruff clerk--"here is a dollar. Give
me some real nice roses, and two or three sweet pinks. The lady shall
have some flowers. Tell her I sent them."
"Who shall I say sent them?"
"Margie Harrison. Will she know me, think?"
"I guess not. But it's all the same. I shall tell her you are one of the
angels, any way. She knows about them, for she's told me ever so much
about them."
The little girl laughed, and gave him the flowers.
"Don't soil them with your grimy hands," she said, a little saucily; "and
when you get home--let's see, what's your name?"
"Archer Trevlyn."
"Why, what a nice name! Just like names in a storybook. I know some
elegant people by the name of Trevlyn. But they live in a big house, and
have flowers enough of their own. So they can't be your folks, can they?"
"No, they're not my folks," replied the boy, with a touch of bitterness
in his voice.
"Well, Archer when you get home, you wash your face, do! It's so dirty!"
The boy flushed hotly. If one of his companions had said that to him, he
would have knocked him down instantly. But he forgave everything this
little girl said, because she was so beautiful and so kind.
"I am a street-sweeper, miss."
"Oh, that accounts for it, then. It's very muddy to-day, and you must be
tired. Hark! there's Florine calling me. Good-by, Archer."
She vanished, and a moment later the boy saw her disappear within the
glittering carriage, which, loaded down with fragrant blossoms, was
driven slowly away. He stood a little while looking after it, then,
pulling his cap down over his eyes, and grasping the stems of her flowers
tightly in his little purple hand, he started for home.
Home! It could hardly be called so, and yet it was home to Archer. His
mother was there--the dear mother who was all the world to him. It was in
a poor part of the city--an old, tumble-down wooden house, swarming with
tenants, teeming with misery, filth, and crime.
Up a crazy flight of steps, and turning to the right, Arch saw that the
door of his mother's room was half-way open, and the storm had beaten in
on the floor. It was all damp and dismal, and such an indescribable air
of desolation over anything! Archer's heart beat a little slower as he
went in. His mother sat in an arm-chair by the window, an uncovered box
in her lap, and a miniature locket clasped in her hand.
"Oh, mother! mother dearest!" cried Arch, holding up the flowers, "only
see what I have got! An angel gave them to me! A very angel, with hair
like the sunshine, and a blue frock, all real silk! And I have got my
pocket full of pennies, and you shall have an orange, mother, and ever
so many nice things besides. See, mother dear!"
He displayed a handful of coin, but she did not notice him. He looked at
her through the gloom of the twilight, and a feeling of terrible awe
stole over him. He crept to her side, and touched her cheek with his
finger. It was cold as ice. A mortal pallor overspread his face; the
pennies and the flowers rolled unheeded to the floor.
"Dead! dead! My mother is dead!" he cried.
He did not display any of the passionate grief which is natural to
childhood--there were no tears in his feverish eyes. He took her cold
hand in his own, and stood there all night long, smoothing back the
beautiful hair, and talking to her as one would talk to a sick child.
It was thus that Mat Miller found him the next morning. Mat was a little
older than himself--a street-sweeper also. She and Arch had always been
good friends; they sympathized with each other when bad luck was on them,
and they cheered lustily when fortune smiled.
"Hurrah, Arch!" cried Mat, as she burst into the room; "it rains again,
and we shall get a harvest! Good gracious, Arch! is--your--mother--dead?"
"Hush!" said the boy, putting down the cold hand; "I have been trying to
warm her all night, but it is no use. Only just feel how like ice my
hands are. I wish I was as cold all over, and then they would let me stay
with my mother."
"Oh, Arch!" cried the girl, sinking down beside him on the desolate
hearth, "it's a hard world to live in! I wonder, if, when folks be dead,
they have to sweep crossings, and be kicked and cuffed round by old
grandmas when they don't get no pennies? If they don't then I wish I
was dead, too, Arch!"
"I suppose it's wicked, Mat. _She_ used to say so. She told me never to
get tired of waiting for God's own time--her very words, Mat. Well, now
her time has come, and I am all alone--all alone! Oh, mother--mother!" He
threw himself down before the dead woman, and his form shook with
emotion, but not a tear came to his eyes. Only that hard, stony look
of hopeless despair. Mat crept up to him and took his head in her lap,
smoothing softly the matted chestnut hair.
"Don't take on so, Arch! don't!" she cried the tears running down over
her sunburnt face. "I'll be a mother to ye, Arch! I will indeed! I know
I'm a little brat, but I love you, Arch, and some time, when we get
bigger, I'll marry you, Arch, and we'll live in the country, where
there's birds and flowers, and it's just like the Park all round. Don't
feel so--don't!"
Arch pressed the dirty little hands that fluttered about him--for, next
to his mother, he loved Mat.
"I will go out now and call somebody," she said; "there Mrs. Hill and
Peggy Sullivan, if she ain't drunk. Either of them will come!" And a few
moments later the room was filled with the rude neighbors.
They did not think it necessary to call a coroner. She had been ailing
for a long time. Heart complaint, the physician said--and she had
probably died in one of those spasms to which she was subject. So they
robed her for the grave, and when all was done, Arch stole in and laid
the pinks and roses on her breast.
"Oh, mother! mother!" he said, bending over her, in agony, "she sent them
to you, and you shall have them! I thought they would make you so happy!
Well, maybe they will now! Who can tell?"
The funeral was a very poor one. A kind city missionary prayed over the
remains, and the hearse was followed to Potter's Field only by Mat and
Arch--ragged and tattered, but sincere mourners.
When they came back Mat took Arch's hand and led him into the wretched
den she called home.
"You shall stay here, Arch, with Grandma Rugg and me. She said you might
if you'd be a good boy, and not plague the cat. Grandma's a rough one,
but she ain't kicked me since I tore her cap off. I'm too big to be
kicked now. Sit down, Arch; you know you can't stay at home now."
Yes, to be sure he could not stay there any longer. No one knew that any
better than Arch. The landlord had warned him out that very morning. A
half-quarter's rent was still due, and the meagre furniture would barely
suffice to satisfy his claim. Hitherto, Mrs. Trevlyn had managed to pay
her expenses, but, now that she was gone, Arch knew that it was more than
folly to think of renting a room. But he could not suppress a cry of pain
when they came to take away the things; and when they laid their rude
hands on the chair in which his mother died, poor Arch could endure no
more, but fled out into the street, and wandered about till hunger and
weariness forced him back to the old haunt.
He accepted the hospitality of Grandma Rugg, and made his home with her
and Mat. The influences which surrounded him were not calculated to
develop good principles, and Arch grew rude and boisterous, like the
other street boys. He heard the vilest language--oaths were the rule
rather than the exception in Grigg Court, as the place was called--and
gambling, and drunkenness, and licentiousness abounded. Still, it was
singular how much evil Arch shunned.
But there was growing within him a principle of bitter hatred, which one
day might embitter his whole existence. Perhaps he had cause for it; he
thought he had, and cherished it with jealous care, lest it should be
annihilated as the years went on.
From his mother's private papers he had learned much of her history that
he had before been ignorant of. She had never spoken to him very freely
of the past. She knew how proud and high his temper was, and acted with
wisdom in burying the story of her wrongs in her own breast.
His father, Hubert Trevlyn, had come of a proud family. There was no
bluer blood in the land than that which ran in the veins of the Trevlyns.
Not very far back they had an earl for their ancestor, and, better than
that, the whole long lineage had never been tarnished by a breath of
dishonor.
Hubert was the sole child of his father, and in him were centred many
bright and precious hopes. His father was a kind parent, though a stern
one, who would never brook a shade of disobedience in this boy upon whom
his fondest hopes and aspirations were fixed.
When Hubert was about twenty-four he went into the country for his
health, which was never very robust, and while there he met Helen
Crayton. It was a case of love at first sight, but none the less pure and
steadfast account. Helen was an orphan--a poor seamstress, but beautiful
and intelligent beyond any woman he had ever met. They loved, and they
would not be cheated out of their happiness by any worldly opposition.
Hubert wrote to his father, informing him of his love for Helen, and
asking his consent to their union. Such a letter as he received in
return! It bade him give up the girl at once and return home. If he
ever spoke to her again he was disowned forever! He might consider
himself houseless and homeless.
Hubert had some of the proud Trevlyn blood in his composition, and this
letter roused it thoroughly. A week afterward he was the husband of Helen
Crayton. He took his young wife to the city, and, having something of a
talent for painting, he opened a studio, hoping to receive sufficient
patronage from his friends to support his family in comfort.
But he had not rightfully calculated the extent of his father's hatred.
He made himself the evil genius of his disobedient son; and, in
consequence, nothing Hubert touched prospered. Mr. Trevlyn destroyed the
confidence of his friends in him; he circulated scandalous reports of
his wife; he made the public to look with suspicious eyes upon the
unfortunate pair, and took the honestly earned bread out of their very
mouths. From bad to worse it went on, until, broken in health and
spirits, Hubert made an appeal to his father. It was a cold, wet night,
and he begged for a little food for his wife and child. They were
literally starving! Begged of his own father, and was refused with
curses. Not only refused, but kicked like a dog from the door of his
childhood's home! There was a fearful storm that night, and Hubert did
not come back. All night his young wife sat waiting for him, hushing the
feeble cries of the weary infant upon her breast. With the dawn, she
muffled herself and child in a shawl, and went forth to seek him. Half
way from her wretched home to the palatial mansion of Mr. Trevlyn she
found her husband, stone dead, and shrouded in the snow--the tender,
pitiful snow, that covered him and his wretchedness from sight.
After that, people who knew Mr. Trevlyn said that he grew more fretful
and disagreeable. His hair was bleached white as the snow, his hands
shook, and his erect frame was bowed and bent like that of a very aged
man. His wife, Hubert's mother, pined away to a mere shadow, and before
the lapse of a year she was a hopeless idiot.
Helen Trevlyn took up the burden of her life, refusing to despair because
of her child. It was a hard struggle for her, and she lived on, until, as
we have seen, when Archer was nine years of age, she died.
When all this was known to Archer Trevlyn he was almost beside himself
with passion. If he had possessed the power, he would have wiped the
whole Trevlyn race out of existence. He shut himself up in his desolate
garret with the tell-tale letters and papers which had belonged to his
mother, and there, all alone, he took a fearful oath of vengeance. The
wrongs of his parents should yet be visited on the head of the man who
had been so cruelly unpitying. He did not know what form his revenge
might take, but, so sure as he lived, it should fall some time!
* * * * *
Five years passed. Archer was fourteen years of age. He had left the
street-sweeping business some time before, at the command of Grandma
Rugg, and entered a third-class restaurant as an under-waiter. It was not
the best school in the world for good morals. The people who frequented
the Garden Rooms, as they were called, were mostly of a low class, and
all the interests and associations surrounding Arch were bad. But perhaps
he was not one to be influenced very largely by his surroundings. So the
Garden Rooms, if they did not make him better, did not make him worse.
In all these years he had kept the memory of Margie Harrison fresh and
green, though he had not seen her since the day his mother died. The
remembrance of her beauty and purity kept him oftentimes from sin; and
when he felt tempted to give utterance to oaths, her soft eyes seemed to
come between him and temptation.
One day he was going across the street to make change for a customer,
when a stylish carriage came dashing along. The horses shied at some
object, and the pole of the carriage struck Arch and knocked him down.
The driver drew in the horses with an imprecation.
Arch picked himself up, and stood recovering his scattered senses,
leaning against a lamp-post.
"Served ye right!" said the coachman roughly. "You'd no business to be
running befront of folkses carriages."
"Stop!" said a clear voice inside the coach. "What has occurred, Peter?"
"Only a ragged boy knocked down; but he's up again all right. Shall
I drive on? You will be late to the concert."
"I shall survive it, if I am," said the voice. "Get down and open the
door. I must see if the child is hurt."
"It's no child, miss; it is a boy older than yourself," said the man,
surlily obeying the command.
Margie Harrison descended to the pavement. From the sweet voice, Arch had
almost expected to see _her_. A flush of grateful admiration lit up his
face. She beamed upon him like a star from the depths of the clouds.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, kindly. "It was very careless of Peter to let
the carriage strike you. Allow us to take you home."
"Thank you," he said. "I am close to where I work, and I am not hurt. It
is only a trifling bruise."
Something familiar about him seemed to strike her; she looked at him with
a strangely puzzled face, but he gave her no light.
"Is there nothing we can do for you?" she asked, at length.
A great presumption almost took his breath away. He gave it voice on the
moment, afraid if he waited he should lack the courage.
"If you will give me the cluster of bluebells in your belt--"
She looked surprised, hesitated a moment, then laid them in his hand. He
bowed, and was lost in the crowd.
That night when he got home he found Mat worse. She had been failing for
a long time. She was a large girl now, with great preternaturally bright
eyes, and a spot of crimson in each hollow cheek.
It was more than three months since she had been able to do anything, and
Grandma Rugg was very harsh and severe with her in consequence. There
were black and blue places on her shoulders now where she had been
beaten, but Arch did not know it. Mat never spoke to him about her
sufferings, because it distressed him so, and made him very angry with
the old woman.
He went in and sat down on the straw beside Mat; and almost before he
knew it he was telling her about Margie Harrison. He always brought all
his joys and sorrows to Mat now, just as he used to carry them to his
mother.
The girl listened intently, the spots on her face growing deeper and
wider. She looked at the bluebells wistfully, but would not touch them.
Arch offered her a spray. She shook her head sadly.
"No," she said, "they are not for me. Keep them, Arch. Some time, I
think, you will be rich and happy, and have all the flowers and beautiful
things you wish."
"If I ever am, Mat, you shall be my queen, and dress in gold and silver!"
answered the boy, warmly; "and never do any more heavy work to make your
hands hard."
"You are very good, Arch," she said. "I thank you, but I shall not be
there, you know. I think I am going away--going where I shall see my
mother, and your mother, too. Arch, and where all the world will be full
of flowers! Then I shall think of you, Arch, and wish I could send you
some."
"Mat, dear Mat! don't talk so strangely!" said the boy, clasping her hot
hands in his. "You must not think of going away! What _should_ I do
without you?"
She smiled, and touched her lips to his hand, which had stolen under her
head, and lay so near her cheek.
"You would forget me, Arch. I mean after a time, and I should want you
to. But I love you better than anything else in all the world! And it is
better that I should die. A great deal better! Last night I dreamed it
was. Your mother came and told me so. Do you know how jealous I have been
of that Margie Harrison? I have watched you closely. I have seen you kiss
a dead rose that I knew she gave you. And I longed to see her so much,
that I have waited around the splendid house where she lives, and seen
her time and again come out to ride, with the beautiful dresses, and the
white feather in her hat, and the wild roses on her cheeks. And my heart
ached with such a hot, bitter pain! But it's all over now, Arch: I am not
jealous now. I love her and you--both of you together. If I do go away,
I want you to think kindly of me, and--and--good-night, Arch--dear Arch.
I am so tired."
He gathered her head to his bosom, and kissed her lips.
Poor little Mat! In the morning, when Arch came down, she had indeed gone
away--drifted out with the tide and with the silent night.
After Mat's death the home at Grandma Rugg's became insupportable to
Arch. He could not remain there. The old woman was crosser than ever,
and, though he gave her every penny of his earnings, she was not
satisfied.
So Arch took lodgings in another part of the city, quite as poor a place,
but there no one had the right to grumble at him. Still, because she was
some relation to Mat, he gave Grandma Rugg full half of his money, but he
never remained inside her doors longer than necessity demanded.
In his new lodgings he became acquainted with a middle-aged man who
represented himself as a retired army officer. His name was John Sharp--a
sleek, keen-eyed, smooth-tongued individual, who never boasted or
blustered, but who gave people the idea that at some time he had been
a person of consequence. This man attached himself particularly to Arch
Trevlyn. With insidious cunning he wormed himself into the boy's
confidence, and gained, to a certain degree, his friendship. Arch did not
trust him entirely, though. There was something about him from which he
shrank--the touch of his white, jewelled hand made his flesh creep, like
the touch of a serpent.
But Mr. Sharp had an object to gain, and set himself resolutely to work
to carry his point. He made himself necessary to Arch. He bought him
books, and taught him in the evenings, when neither was engaged
otherwise. He had been well educated, and in Arch he had an apt scholar.
Every spare moment of the boy's life was absorbed in his books.
By-and-bye Sharp learned the whole history of the wrongs inflicted on
Arch's parents by old Mr. Trevlyn. He snapped at the story as a dog
snaps at a bone. But he was cautious and patient, and it was a long time
before he showed himself to Arch in his true character. And then, when he
did, the revelation had been made so much by degrees, that the boy was
hardly shocked to find that his friend was a house-breaker and a highway
robber.
Long before he had formed a plan to rob the house of Mr. Trevlyn. It was
a field that promised well. Mr. Trevlyn, with the idiosyncrasy of age,
had invested most of his fortune in diamonds, and these he kept in a
chamber in his house. His chief delight consisted in gloating over
these precious stones. Night after night he would sit handling his
diamonds, chuckling over his wealth, and threatening imaginary plunderers
with destruction.
So his servants said, and Sharp repeated the story to Arch with sundry
variations and alterations suited to the case. He had a persuasive
tongue, and it is little wonder that the boy, hating his grandfather as
he did, and resolved as he was upon revenging his father's wrongs, should
fall into the snare. He wanted Mr. Trevlyn to suffer--he did not care
how. If the loss of his diamonds would be to him a severer blow than any
other, then let it fall.
Sharp used many specious arguments to induce Arch to become his
accomplice in robbing the Trevlyn mansion, but the only one which
had any weight was that he could thus revenge his father's wrongs.
"Only assist me, and secure your revenge," said the wily schemer, "and
I will share the spoils with you. There will be enough to enrich us both
for life!"
Arch drew himself up proudly, a fiery red on his cheek, a dangerous gleam
in his dark eye.
"I am no thief, sir! I'd scorn to take a cent from that old man to use
for my benefit! I would not touch his diamonds if they lay here at my
feet! But if I can make him suffer anything like as my poor father
suffered through him, then I am ready to turn robber--yes, pickpocket,
if you will!" he added, savagely.
Sharp appointed the night. His plans were craftily laid. Mr. Trevlyn, he
had ascertained, would be absent on Thursday night; he had taken a little
journey into the country for his health, and only the servants and his
ward would sleep in the house.
Thursday night was dark and rainy. At midnight Sharp and Arch stood
before the house they were about to plunder. No thought of shame or sin
entered Archer Trevlyn's heart; he did not seem to think he was about to
disgrace himself for life; he thought only of Mr. Trevlyn's dismay when
he should return, to find the bulk of his riches swept away from him at
one blow.
"He took all my father had," he said, under his breath; "he would have
sullied the fair fame of my mother; and if I could take from him
everything but life, I would do it."
Sharp, with a dexterous skill, removed the fastenings of a shutter, and
then the window yielded readily to his touch. He stepped inside; Arch
followed. All was quiet, save the heavy ticking of the old clock on the
hall stairs. Up the thickly carpeted stairway, along the corridor they
passed, and Sharp stopped before a closed door.
"We must pass through one room before reaching that where the safe is
which contains the treasure," he said, in a whisper. "It is possible that
there may be some one sleeping in that room. If so, leave them to me,
that is all."
He opened the door with one of a bunch of keys which he carried, and
noiselessly entered. The gas was turned down low, but a mellow radiance
filled the place. A bed stood in one corner, and Sharp advanced toward
it. The noise he had made, slight though it was, aroused the occupant,
and, as she started up in affright, Arch met the soft, pleading eyes of
Margie Harrison. She spoke to him, not to Sharp.
"Do not let him kill me!"
Sharp laid a rough hand on her shoulder, and put a knife at her throat.
Simultaneously, Arch sprang upon him like a tiger.
"Release that girl!" he hissed. "Dare to touch her with but the tips of
your fingers, and by Heaven I will murder you!"
Sharp sprang back with an oath, and at the same moment a pistol-shot rang
through the house, and Sharp, bathed in blood, fell to the floor. Old Mr.
Trevlyn, travel-stained and wet, strode into the room.
"I've killed him!" he said, in a cracked voice of intense satisfaction.
"He didn't catch old Trevlyn napping. I knew well enough they'd be after
my diamonds, and I gave up the journey. Margie, child, are the jewels
safe?"
She had fallen back on the pillows, pale as death, her white night-dress
spattered with the blood of the dead robber.
Arch lifted a tiny glove from the carpet, thrust it into his bosom, and,
before old Trevlyn could raise a hand to stop him, he had got clear of
the premises.
Such a relief as he felt when the cool, fresh air struck his face. He had
been saved from overt criminality. God had not permitted him to thus
debase himself. Now that his excitement was gone, he saw the heinousness
of the sin he had been about to commit in all its deformity.
Let old Trevlyn go! Let him gloat over his diamonds while yet he had
opportunity. He would not despoil him of his treasures, but he could not
give up his scheme of vengeance. It should be brought about some other
way.
A large reward was offered by Mr. Trevlyn for the apprehension of Sharp's
accomplice, but, as no description of his person could be given by any
one except Margie, who could not or would not be explicit on that point,
he was not secured.
Trevlyn recognized and appreciated her noble generosity in suffering him
to go free, for in the one look she had given him on that disgraceful
occasion, he had felt that she recognized him. But she pitied him enough
to let him go free.
Well, he would show her that her confidence was not misplaced. He would
deserve her forbearance. He was resolved upon a new life.
He left the saloon, and after many rebuffs succeeded in getting
employment as errand-boy in a large importing house. The salary was a
mere pittance, but it kept him in clothes and coarse food, until one day,
about a year after his apprenticeship there, he chanced to save the life
of Mr. Belgrade, the senior partner. A gas-pipe in the private office of
the firm exploded, and the place took fire, and Mr. Belgrade, smothered
and helpless, would have perished in the flames, had not Arch, with a
bravery few would have expected in a bashful, retiring boy, plunged
through the smoke and flame, and borne him to a place of safety.
Mr. Belgrade was a man with a conscience, and, grateful for his life, he
rewarded his preserver by a clerkship of importance. The duties of this
office he discharged faithfully for three years, when the death of the
head clerk left a vacancy, and when Arch was nineteen he received the
situation.
Through these three years he had been a close student. Far into the night
he pored over his books, and, too proud to go to school, he hired a
teacher and was taught privately. At twenty he was quite as well educated
as nine-tenths of the young men now turned out by our fashionable
colleges.
Rumors of Margie Harrison's triumphs reached him constantly, for Margie
was a belle and a beauty now. Her parents were dead, and she had been
left to the guardianship of Mr. Trevlyn, at whose house she made her
home, and where she reigned a very queen. Old Trevlyn's heart at last
found something beside his diamonds to worship, and Margie had it all her
own way.
She came into the store of Belgrade and Co. one day, and asked to look
at some laces. Trevlyn was the only clerk disengaged, and with a very
changeable face he came forward to attend to her. He felt that she would
recognize him at once--that she would remember where she had seen him the
last time--a house-breaker! She held his reputation in her keeping.
His hand trembled as he took down the laces--she glanced at his face. A
start of surprise--a conscious, painful blush swept over her face. He
dropped the box, and the rich laces fell over her feet.
"Pardon me," he said hurriedly, and, stooping to pick them up, the little
glove he had stolen on that night, and which he wore always in his bosom,
fell out, and dropped among the laces.
She picked it up with a little cry.
"The very glove that I lost four years ago! And you are--" she stopped
suddenly.
He paled to the lips, but, lifting his head proudly, said: "Go on. Finish
the sentence. I can bear it."
"No, I will not go on. Let the memory die, I knew you then, but you were
so young, and had to bear so much among temptations! And the other was a
villain. No, I am silent. You are safe."
He stooped, and, lifting the border of her shawl, kissed it reverently.
"If I live," he said solemnly, "you will be glad you have been so
merciful. Some time I shall hear you say so."
She did not purchase any laces. She went out forgetful of her errand, and
Arch was so awkward for the remainder of the day, and committed so many
blunders, that his fellow-clerks laughed at him unrebuked, and Mr.
Belgrade seriously wondered if Trevlyn had not been taking too much
champagne.
* * * * *
Margie Harrison and her guardian sat at breakfast. Mr. Trevlyn showed his
years very plainly. He was nearly seventy-five--he looked eighty.
Margie looked very lovely this morning and it was of this the old man was
thinking as he glanced at her across the table. She had more than
fulfilled the promise of her childhood. The golden hair was chestnut now,
and pushed behind her ears in heavy rippling masses of light and shadow.
Her eyes had taken a deeper tone--they were like wells whose depth you
could not guess at. Her features were delicately irregular, the forehead
low, broad and white; her chin was dimpled as an infant's, and her mouth
still ripe and red, as a damask rosebud. She wore a pink muslin wrapper,
tied with white ribbons, and in her hair drooped a cluster of
apple-blossoms.
"Margie dear," said Mr. Trevlyn, pausing in his work of buttering a
muffin, "I want you to look your prettiest to-night. I am going to bring
home a friend of mine--one who was also your father's friend--Mr.
Linmere. He arrived from Europe to-day."
Margie's cheek lost a trifle of its peachy bloom. She toyed with her
spoon, but did not reply to his remark.
"Did you understand me, child? Mr. Linmere has returned."
"Yes sir."
"And is coming here to-night. Remember to take extra pains with yourself,
Margie, for he has seen all the European beauties, and I do not want my
little American flower to be cast in the shade. Will you remember it?"
"Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Trevlyn."
"Margie!"
"Yes!"
"You are aware that Mr. Linmere is your affianced husband, are you not?"
"I have been told so."
"And yet in the face of that fact--well, of all things, girls do beat me!
Thank heaven, I have none of my own!" he added testily.
"Girls are better let alone, sir. It is very hard to feel one's self
bound to fulfil a contract of this kind."
"Hard! Well, now, I should think it easy. Mr. Linmere is all that any
reasonable woman could wish. Not too old, nor yet too young; about
forty-five, which is just the age for a man to marry; good-looking,
intelligent and wealthy--what more could you ask?"
"You forgot that I do not love him--that he does not love me."
"Love! tush! Don't let me hear anything about that. I loath the name.
Margie, love ruined my only son! For love he disobeyed me and I disowned
him, I have not spoken his name for years! Your father approved of Mr.
Linmere, and while you were yet a child you were betrothed. And when your
father died, what did you promise him on his deathbed?"
Margie grew white as the ribbons at her throat.
"I promised him that I would _try_ and fulfil his requirements."
"That you would _try_! Yes. And that was equal to giving an unqualified
assent. You know the conditions of the will, I believe?"
"I do. If I marry without your consent under the age of twenty-one, I
forfeit my patrimony. And I am nineteen now. And I shall not marry
without your consent."
"Margie, you must marry Mr. Linmere. Do not hope to do differently. It
is your duty. He has lived single all these years waiting for you. He
will be kind to you, and you will be happy. Prepare to receive him with
becoming respect."
Mr. Trevlyn considered his duty performed, and went out for his customary
walk.
At dinner Mr. Linmere arrived. Margie met him with cold composure. He
scanned her fair face and almost faultless form, with the eye of a
connoisseur, and congratulated himself on the fortune which was to give
him, such a bride without the perplexity of a wooing. She was beautiful
and attractive, and he had feared she might be ugly, which would have
been a dampener on his satisfaction. True, her wealth would have
counter-balanced any degree of personal deformity; but Mr. Paul Linmere
admired beauty, and liked to have pretty things around him.
To tell the truth, he was sadly in need of money. It was fortunate that
his old friend, Mr. Harrison, Margie's dead father, had taken it into his
head to plight his daughter's troth to him while she was yet a child. Mr.
Harrison had been an eccentric man; and from the fact that in many points
of religious belief he and Mr. Paul Linmere agreed, (for both were
miserable skeptics,) he valued him above all other men, and thought his
daughter's happiness would be secured by the union he had planned.
Linmere had been abroad several years, and had led a very reckless,
dissipated life. Luxurious by nature, lacking in moral rectitude, and
having wealth at his command, he indulged himself unrestrained; and when
at last he left the gay French capital and returned to America, his whole
fortune, with exception of a few thousands, was dissipated. So he needed
a rich wife sorely, and was not disposed to defer his happiness.
He met Margie with _empressement_, and bowed his tall head to kiss the
white hand she extended to him. She drew it away coldly--something about
the man made her shrink from him.
"I am so happy to meet you again. Margie, and after ten years of
separation! I have thought so much and so often of you."
"Thank you, Mr. Linmere."
"Will you not call me Paul?" he asked, in a subdued voice, letting his
dangerous eyes, full of light and softness, rest on her.
An expression of haughty surprise swept her face. She drew back a pace.
"I am not accustomed to address gentlemen--mere acquaintances--by
their Christian names, sir."
"But in this case, Margie? Surely the relations existing between us
will admit of such a familiarity," he said, seating himself, while she
remained standing coldly near.
"There are no relations existing between us at present, Mr. Linmere," she
answered, haughtily; "and if, in obedience to the wishes of the dead, we
should ever become connected in name, I beg leave to assure you in the
beginning that you will always be Mr. Linmere to me."
A flush of anger mounted to his cheek; he set his teeth, but outwardly he
was calm and subdued. Anger, just at present, was impolitic.
"I hope to win your love, Margie; I trust I shall," he answered, sadly
enough to have aroused almost any woman's pity; but some subtle instinct
told Margie he was false to the core.
But all through the evening he was affable and complaisant and
forbearing. She made no attempt to conceal her dislike of him.
Concealments were not familiar to Margie's nature. She was frank
and open as the day.
Mr. Linmere's fascinations were many and varied. He had a great deal of
adaptation, and made himself agreeable to every one. He had traveled
extensively, was a close observer, and had a retentive memory. Mr.
Trevlyn was charmed with him. So was Alexandrine Lee, a friend of
Margie's, a rival belle, who accidentally (?) dropped in to spend the
evening.
Mr. Linmere played and sang with exquisite taste and skill--he was a
complete master of the art, and, in spite of herself, Margie listened to
him with a delight that was almost fascination, but which subsided the
moment the melody ceased.
He judged her by the majority of women he had met, and finding her
indifferent, he sought to rouse her jealousy by flirting with Miss Lee,
who was by no means adverse to his attentions. But Margie hailed the
transfer with a relief which was so evident, that Mr. Linmere, piqued and
irritated, took up his hat to leave, in the midst of one of Miss Lee's
most brilliant descriptions of what she had seen in Italy, from whence
she had just returned. He went over to the sofa where Margie was sitting.
"I hope to please you better next time," he said, lifting her hand.
"Good-night, Margie dear." And before she was aware, he touched his lips
to her forehead. She tore her hand away from him, and a flush of anger
sprang to her cheek. He surveyed her with admiration. He liked a little
spirit in a woman, especially as he intended to be able to subdue it when
it pleased him. Her anger made her a thousand times more beautiful. He
stood looking at her a moment, then turned and withdrew.
Margie struck her forehead with her hand, as if she would wipe out the
touch he had left there.
Alexandrine came and put her arm around Margie's waist.
"I almost envy you, Margie," she said, in that singularly purring voice
of hers. "Ah, Linmere is magnificent! Such eyes, and hair, and such a
voice! Well, Margie, you are a fortunate girl."
And Miss Lee sighed, and shook out the heavy folds of her violet silk,
with the air of one who has been injured, but is determined to show a
proper spirit of resignation.
Mr. Paul Linmere hurried along through an unfrequented street to his
suite of rooms at the St. Nicholas. He was very angry with everybody; he
felt like an ill-treated individual. He had expected Margie to fall at
his feet at once. A man of his attractions to be snubbed as he had
been, by a mere chit of a girl, too!
"I will find means to tame her, when once she is mine," he muttered. "By
heaven! but it will be rare sport to break that fiery spirit! It will
make me young again!"
Something white and shadowy bound his path. A spectral hand was laid on
his arm, chilling like ice, even through his clothing. The ghastly face
of a woman--a face framed in jet black hair, and lit up by great black
eyes bright as stars, gleamed through the mirk of the night.
The man gazed into the weird face, and shook like a leaf in the blast.
His arm sank nerveless to his side, palsied by that frozen touch; his
voice was so unnatural that he started at the sound.
"My God! Arabel Vere! Do the dead come back?"
The great unnaturally brilliant eyes seemed to burn into his brain. The
cold hand tightened on his arm. A breath like wind freighted with snow
crossed his face.
"Speak for heaven's sake!" he cried. "Am I dreaming?"
"Remember the banks of the Seine!" said a singularly sweet voice, which
sounded to Mr. Paul Linmere as if it came from leagues and leagues away.
"When you sit by the side of the living love, remember the dead! Think of
the dark rolling river, and of what its waters covered!"
He started from the strange presence, and caught at a post for support.
His self-possession was gone; he trembled like the most abject coward.
Only for a moment--and then, when he looked again, the apparition had
vanished.
"Good God!" he cried, putting his hand to his forehead. "Do the dead
indeed come back! I saw them take her from the river--O heaven! I saw her
when she sank beneath the terrible waters! Is there a hereafter, and does
a man sell his soul to damnation who commits what the world calls
murder?"
He stopped under a lamp and drew out his pocket-book, taking therefrom a
soiled scrap of paper.
"Yes, I have it here. 'Found drowned, the body of a woman. Her linen was
marked with the name of Arabel Vere. Another unfortunate--' No, I will
not read the rest. I have read it too often, now, for my peace of mind.
Yes, she is dead. There is no doubt. I have been dreaming to-night. Old
Trevlyn's wine was too strong for me. Arabel Vere, indeed! Pshaw! Paul
Linmere, are you an idiot?"
Not daring to cast a look behind him, he hurried home, and up to his
spacious parlor on the second floor.
Linmere turned up the gas into a flare, and, throwing off his coat, flung
himself into an arm-chair, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
He looked about the room with half-frightened, searching eyes. He dreaded
solitude, and he feared company, yet felt the necessity of speaking to
something. His eyes lighted on the greyhound dozing on the hearth-rug.
"Leo, Leo," he called, "come here, sir!"
The dog opened his eyes, but gave no responsive wag of his tail. You saw
at once that though Leo was Mr. Paul Linmere's property, and lived with
him, he did not have any attachment for him.
"Come here, sir!" said Linmere, authoritatively.
Still the animal did not stir. Linmere was nervous enough to be excited
to anger by the veriest trifle, and the dog's disobedience aroused his
rage.
"Curse the brute!" he cried; and putting his foot against him, he sent
him spinning across the room. Leo did not growl, or cry out, but his
eyes gleamed like coals, and he showed his white teeth with savage but
impotent hatred. It was easy to see that if he had been a bulldog instead
of a greyhound, he would have torn Mr. Paul Linmere limb from limb.
Linmere went back to his chair, and sat down with a sullen face; but he
could not rest there. He rose, and going into an inner room, brought out
an ebony box, which he opened, and from which he took a miniature in a
golden case. He hesitated a moment before touching the spring, and when
he did so the unclosing revealed the face of a young girl--a fair young
girl in her early youth--not more than eighteen summers could have
scattered their roses over her, when that beautiful impression was taken.
A ripe southern face, with masses of jet-black hair, and dark brilliant
eyes. There was a dewy crimson on her lips, and her cheeks were red as
damask roses. A bright, happy face, upon which no blight had fallen.
"She was beautiful--beautiful as an houri!" said Mr. Paul Linmere,
speaking slowly, half unconsciously, it seemed, his thoughts aloud. "And
when I first knew her she was sweet and innocent. I made her sin. I led
her into the temptation she was too weak to resist. Women are soft and
silly when they are in love, and because of that, men have to bear all
the blame. She was willing to trust me--she ought to have been more
cautious. Who blames me, if I tired of her? A man does not always want
a moping complaining woman hanging about him; and she had a deuced
unpleasant way of forcing herself upon me when it was particularly
disagreeable to have her do so. Well--but there is no use in
retrospection. She was drowned--she and her unborn child, and
the dead can never come back--no, never!"
He sprang up and rang the bell sharply. Directly his valet, Pietro, a
sleepy-looking and swarthy Italian, appeared.
"Bring me a glass of brandy, Pietro; and look you, sir, you may sleep
to-night on the lounge in my room. I am not feeling quite well, and may
have need of you before morning."
The man looked surprised, but made no comment. He brought the stimulant,
his master drank it off, and then threw himself, dressed as he was, on
the bed.
Upper Tendom was ringing with the approaching nuptials of Miss Harrison
and Mr. Linmere. The bride was so beautiful and wealthy, and so
insensible to her good fortune in securing the most eligible man in her
set. Half the ladies in the city were in love with Mr. Linmere. He was
so _distingue_, carried himself so loftily, and yet was so gallantly
condescending, and so inimitably fascinating. He knew Europe like a book,
sang like a professor, and knew just how to hand a lady her fan, adjust
her shawl, and take her from a carriage. Accomplishments which make men
popular, always.
Early in July Mr. Trevlyn and Margie, accompanied by a gay party, went
down to Cape May. Mr. Trevlyn had long ago forsworn everything of the
kind; but since Margie Harrison had come to reside with him he had given
up his hermit habits, and been quite like other nice gouty old gentleman.
The party went down on Thursday--Mr. Paul Linmere followed on Saturday.
Margie had hoped he would not come; in his absence she could have
enjoyed the sojourn, but his presence destroyed for her all the charms
of sea and sky. She grew frightened, sometimes, when she thought how
intensely she hated him. And in October she was to become his wife.
Some way, Margie felt strangely at ease on the subject. She knew that the
arrangements were all made, that her wedding _trousseau_ was being gotten
up by a fashionable _modiste_, that Delmonico had received orders for the
feast, and that the oranges were budded, which, when burst into flowers,
were to adorn her forehead on her bridal day. She despised Linmere with
her whole soul, she dreaded him inexpressibly, yet she scarcely gave her
approaching marriage with him a single thought. She wondered that she did
not; when she thought of it all, she was shocked to find herself so
impassive.
Her party had been a week at Cape May, when Archer Trevlyn came down,
with the wife of his employer, Mr. Belgrade. The lady was in delicate
health, and had been advised to try sea air and surf-bathing. Mr.
Belgrade's business would not allow of his absence at just that time,
and he had shown his confidence in his head clerk by selecting him as
his wife's escort.
Introduced into society by so well established an aristocrat as Mrs.
Belgrade, Arch might at once have taken a prominent place among the
fashionables; for his singularly handsome face and highbred manners made
him an acquisition to any company. But he never forgot that he had been
a street-sweeper, and he would not submit to be patronized by the very
people who had once, perhaps, grudged him the pennies they had thrown to
him as they would have thrown bread to a starving dog. So he avoided
society, and attended only on Mrs. Belgrade. But from Alexandrine Lee
he could not escape. She fastened upon him at once. She had a habit
of singling out gentlemen, and giving them the distinction of her
attentions, and no one thought of noticing it now. Arch was ill at ease
beneath the infliction, but he was a thorough gentleman, and could not
repulse her rudely.
A few days after the arrival of Mrs. Belgrade, Arch took her down to the
beach to bathe. The beach was alive with the gorgeous grotesque figures
of the bathers. The air was bracing, the surf splendid.
Mr. Trevlyn's carriage drove down soon after Mrs. Belgrade had finished
her morning's "dip;" and Margie and Mr. Linmere, accompanied by
Alexandrine Lee, alighted. They were in bathing costume, and Miss Lee,
espying Arch, fastened upon him without ceremony.
"Oh, Mr. Trevlyn," she said, animatedly, "I am glad to have come across
you. I was just telling Mr. Linmere that two ladies were hardly safe with
only one gentleman in such a surf as there is this morning. I shall have
to depend on you to take care of me. Shall I?"
Of course, Arch could not refuse, and apologizing to Mrs. Belgrade, who
good-naturedly urged him forward, he took charge of Miss Lee.
Linmere offered Margie his hand to lead her in, but she declined. He kept
close beside her, and when they stood waist deep in the water, and a huge
breaker was approaching, he put his arm around her shoulders. With an
impatient gesture she tore herself away. He made an effort to retain her,
and in the struggle Margie lost her footing, and the receding wave bore
her out to sea.
Linmere grew pale as death. He knew if Margie was drowned, he was a
ruined man. His pictures and statuary would have to go under the
hammer--his creditors were only kept from striking by his prospect of
getting a rich wife to pay his debts. He cast an imploring eye on the
swimmers around him, but he was too great a coward to risk his life
among the swirling breakers.
Only one man struck boldly out to the rescue. Arch Trevlyn threw off the
clinging hand of Miss Lee, and with a strong arm pressed his way through
the white-capped billows. He came near to Margie, and saw the chestnut
gleam of her hair on the bright treacherous water, and in an instant it
was swept under a long line of snowy foam. She rose again at a little
distance, and her eyes met his pleadingly. Her lips syllabled the words,
"save me!"
He heard them, above all the deafening roar of the waters. They nerved
him on to fresh exertions. Another stroke, and he caught her arm, drew
her to him, held her closely to his breast, and touched her wet hair with
his lips. Then he controlled himself, and spoke coolly:
"Take my hand, Miss Harrison, and I think I can tow you safely to the
shore. Do not be afraid."
"I am not afraid," she said, quietly.
How his heart leaped at the sound of her voice! How happy he was that she
was not afraid--that she trusted her life to him! Of how little value he
would have reckoned his own existence, if he had purchased hers by its
loss!
A hundred pairs of hands were outstretched to receive Margie, when Arch
brought her to the shore. Her dear devoted friends crowded around her,
and in their joy at her escape, Arch retreated for his lodgings. But Miss
Lee had been watching him, and seized his arm the moment he was clear of
the crowd.
"Oh, Mr. Trevlyn, it is just like a novel!" she exclaimed,
enthusiastically. "Only you cannot marry the heroine, for she is
engaged to Mr. Linmere; and she perfectly dotes on him."
She flitted away, and Trevlyn went up to his chamber.
That evening there was a "hop" at the hotel, but Arch did not go down.
He knew if he did the inevitable Miss Lee would anchor herself on his
arm for the evening; and his politeness was not equal to the task of
entertaining her.
The strains of music reached him, softened and made sweet by the
distance. He stole down on the piazza, and sat under the shadows of a
flowering vine, looking at the sky, with its myriads of glittering stars.
There was a light step at his side, and glancing up, he saw Margie
Harrison.
She was in evening dress, her white arms and shoulders bare, and
glistening with snowy pearls. Her soft unbound hair fell over her neck
in a flood of light, and a subtle perfume, like the breath of blooming
water-lilies, floated around her.
"I want to make you my captive for a little while, Mr. Trevlyn," she
said, gayly. "Will you wear the chains?"
"Like a garland of roses," he responded. "Yes, to the world's end, Miss
Harrison!"
The unconscious fervor of his voice brought a crimson flush to her face.
She dropped her eyes, and toyed with the bracelet on her arm.
"I did not know _you_ dealt in compliments, Mr. Trevlyn," she said,
a little reproachfully. "I thought you were always sincere."
"And so I am, Miss Harrison."
"I take you at your word then," she said, recovering her playful air.
"You will not blame me, if I lead you into difficulty?"
"Certainly not. I give myself into your keeping."
She put her hand within his arm, and led him up the stairs, to a private
parlor on the second floor. Under the jet of light sat old Mr. Trevlyn.
Archer's heart throbbed fiercely, and his lips grew set and motionless,
as he stood there before the man he hated--the man against whom he had
made a vow of undying vengeance. Margie was looking at her guardian, and
did not observe the startling change which had come over Arch. She spoke
softly, addressing the old man.
"Dear guardian, this is the man who this morning so gallantly rescued me
from a watery grave. I want you to help me thank him."
Mr. Trevlyn arose, came forward, and extended his hand. Arch stood erect,
his arms folded on his breast. He did not move, nor offer to take the
proffered hand. Mr. Trevlyn gave a start of surprise, and seizing a lamp
from the table, held it up to the face of the young man. Arch did not
flinch; he bore the insulting scrutiny with stony calmness.
The old man dashed down the lamp, and put his hand to his forehead. His
face was livid with passion, his voice choked so as to be scarcely
audible.
"Margie, Margie Harrison!" he exclaimed, "what is this person's name?"
"Archer Trevlyn, sir," answered the girl, amazed at the strange behavior
of the two men.
"Just as I thought! Hubert's son!"
"Yes," said Arch, speaking with painful calmness, "I am Hubert's son; the
son of the man your wicked cruelty murdered."
Mr. Trevlyn seized his cane and rushed upon his grandson; but Margie
sprang forward and threw her arm across the breast of Arch.
"Strike him, if you dare!" she said, "but you shall strike a woman!"
Mr. Trevlyn looked at her, and the weapon dropped to the floor.
"Margaret Harrison," he said, sternly, "leave this room. This is no place
for you. Obey me!"
"I am subject to no man's authority," she said, boldly; "and I will not
leave the room. You shall not insult a gentleman to whom I owe my life,
and who is here as my invited guest!"
"I shall defend myself! There is murder in that fellow's eye, if I ever
saw it in that of any human being!"
"I am answerable for his conduct," she said with proud dignity. "He
will do nothing of which a lady needs stand in fear. I brought him
here, ignorant of the relationship existing between you and him, and
unconscious of the truth that I should be called upon to defend him
from the causeless rage of his own grandfather."
Again the cane was uplifted, but Margie laid her hand resolutely upon it.
"Give it to me. Will you--you, who pride yourself upon your high and
delicate sense of honor--will you be such an abject coward as to strike
a defenceless man?"
He yielded her the weapon, and she threw it from the window.
"You may take away my defence, Margaret," said the old man, resolutely,
"but you shall not prevent me from cursing him! A curse be upon him--"
"Hold, sir! Remember that your head is white with the snows of time! It
will not be long before you go to the God who sees you every moment, who
will judge you for every sin you commit."
"You may preach that stuff to the dogs! There is no God! I defy him and
you! Archer Trevlyn, my curse be upon you and yours, now and forever!
Child of a disobedient son! child of a mother who was a harlot!"
Arch sprang upon him with a savage cry. His hand was on his throat--God
knows what crime he would have done, fired by the insult offered to the
memory of his mother, had not Margie caught his hands, and drawn them
away.
"Oh, Archer, Archer Trevlyn!" she cried, imploringly, "grant me this one
favor--the very first I ever asked of you! For my sake, come away. He is
an old man. Leave him to God, and his own conscience. You are young and
strong; you would not disgrace your manhood by laying violent hands on
the weakness of old age!"
"Did you hear what he called my mother, the purest woman the world ever
saw? No man shall repeat that foul slander in my presence, and live!"
"He will not repeat it. Forgive him. He is fretful, and he thinks the
world has gone hard with him. He has sinned, and those who sin suffer
always. It has been a long and terrible feud between him and yours. I
brought you here--let me take you away."
Her soft hands were on his--her beautiful tear-wet eyes lifted to his
face. He could not withstand that look. He would have given up the plans
of a lifetime, if she had asked him with those imploring eyes.
"I yield to you, Miss Harrison--only to you," he replied. "If John
Trevlyn lives, he owes his life to you. He judged rightly--there was
murder in my soul, and he saw it in my eyes. Years ago, after they laid
my poor heart-broken mother out of my sight, I swore a terrible vow of
vengeance on the old man whose cruelty had hurried her into the grave.
But for you, I should have kept the vow this moment. But I will obey you.
Take me wherever you will."
She led him down the stairs, across the lawn, and out on the lonely
beach, where the quiet moon and the passionless stars dropped down their
crystal rain. The sweet south wind blew up cool from the sea, and afar
off the tinkle of a sheep-bell stirred the silence of the night. The lamp
in the distant lighthouse gleamed like a spark of fire, and at their feet
broke the tireless billows, white as the snow-drifts of December.
There was something inexpressibly soothing in the serenity of the night.
Arch felt its influence. The hot color died out of his cheek, his pulse
beat slower, he lifted his eyes to the purple arch of the summer sky.
"All God's universe is at rest," said Margie, her voice breaking upon his
ear like a strain of music. "Oh, Arthur Trevlyn, be at peace with all
mankind!"
"I am--with all but _him_."
"And with _him_, also. The heart which bears malice cannot be a happy
heart. There has been a great wrong done--I have heard the sad story--but
it is divine to forgive. The man who can pardon the enemy who has wrought
him evil, rises to a height where nothing of these earthly temptations
can harm him more. He stands on a level with the angels of God. If you
have been injured, let it pass. If your parents were hurried out of the
world by his cruelty, think how much sooner they tasted the bliss of
heaven! Every wrong will in due time be avenged. Justice will be done,
for the Infinite One has promised it. Leave it in His hands. Archer,
before I leave you, promise to forgive Mr. Trevlyn."
"I cannot! I cannot!" he cried, hoarsely. "Oh, Margie, Miss Harrison, ask
of me anything but that, even to the sacrifice of my life, and I will
willingly oblige you, but not that! not that!"
"_That_ is all I ask. It is for your good and my peace of mind that I
demand it. You have no right to make me unhappy, as your persistence in
this dreadful course will do. Promise me, Archer Trevlyn!"
She put her hand on his shoulder; he turned his head and pressed his lips
upon it. She did not draw it away, but stood, melting his hard heart with
her wonderfully sweet gaze. He yielded all at once--she knew she had
conquered. He sank down on one knee before her, and bowed his face upon
his hands. She stooped over him, her hair swept his shoulders, the brown
mingling with the deeper chestnut of his curling locks.
"You will promise me, Mr. Trevlyn?"
He looked up suddenly.
"What will you give me, if I promise?"
"Ask for it."
He lifted a curl of shining hair.
"Yes," she said. "Promise me what I ask, and I will give it to you."
He took his pocket-knife and severed the tress.
"I promise you. I break my vow; I seek no revenge. I forgive John
Trevlyn, and may God forgive him also. He is safe from me. I submit to
have my parents sleep on unavenged. I leave him and his sins to the God
whom he denies; and all because you have asked it of me."
Slowly and silently they went up to the house. At the door he said no
good-night--he only held her hand a moment, closely, and then turned
away.