Paul Linmere's wedding-day drew near. Between him and Margie there was
no semblance of affection. Her coldness never varied, and after a few
fruitless attempts to excite in her some manifestation of interest, he
took his cue from her, and was as coldly indifferent as herself.
A few days before the tenth of October, which was the day appointed for
the bridal, Dick Turner, one of Paul's friends, gave a supper at the
Bachelors' Club. A supper in honor of Paul, or to testify the sorrow of
the Club at the loss of one of its members. It was a very hilarious
occasion, and the toasting and wine-drinking extended far into the small
hours.
In a somewhat elevated frame of mind, Mr. Paul Linmere left the rooms of
the Club at about three o'clock in the morning, to return home. His way
lay along the most deserted part of the city--a place where there were
few dwellings, and the buildings were mostly stores and warehouses.
Suddenly a touch on his arm stopped him. The same cold, deathly touch he
had felt once before. He had drunk just enough to feel remarkably brave,
and turning, he encountered the strangely gleaming eyes that had frozen
his blood that night in early summer. All his bravado left him. He felt
weak and helpless as a child.
"What is it? what do you want?" he asked brokenly.
"Justice!" said the mysterious presence.
"Justice? For whom?"
"Arabel Vere."
"Arabel Vere! Curse her!" he cried, savagely.
The figure lifted a spectral white hand.
"Paul Linmere--beware! The vengeance of the dead reaches sometimes unto
the living! There is not water enough in the Seine to drown a woman's
hatred! Death itself cannot annihilate it! Beware!"
He struck savagely at the uplifted hand, but his arm met no resistance.
He beat only against the impalpable air. His spectral visitor had flown,
and left nothing behind her to tell of her presence.
With unsteady steps Mr. Paul Linmere hurried home, entered his room, and
double-locked the door behind him.
* * * * *
Mr. Trevlyn had decided that the marriage of his ward should take place
at Harrison Park, the old country seat of the Harrisons, on the Hudson.
Here Margie's parents had lived always in the summer; here they had died
within a week of each other, and here in the cypress grove by the river,
they were buried. There would be no more fitting place for the marriage
of their daughter to be solemnized. Margie neither opposed nor approved
the plan. She did not oppose anything. She was passive, almost apathetic.
The admiring dressmakers and milliners came and went, fitting, and
measuring, and trying on their tasteful creations, but without eliciting
any signs of interest or pleasure from Margie Harrison. She gave no
orders, found no fault; expressed no admiration nor its opposite. It
was all the same to her.
The bridal dress came home a few days before the appointed day. It was
a superb affair, and Margie looked like a queen in it. It was of white
satin, with a point lace overskirt, looped up at intervals with tiny
bouquets of orange blossoms. The corsage was cut low, leaving the
beautiful shoulders bare, the open sleeves displaying the perfectly
rounded arms in all their perfection. The veil was point lace, and must
have cost a little fortune. Mr. Trevlyn had determined that everything
should be on a magnificent scale, and had given the whole arrangement of
the affair to Mrs. Colonel Weldon, the most fashionable woman in her set.
Mr. Trevlyn had the diamonds which were the wonder of the city, richly
set, and Margie was to wear them on her bridal night, as a special mark
of the old man's favor. For, next to the diamonds, the sordid man loved
Margie Harrison.
Linmere's gift to his bride was very simple, but in exquisite taste, Mrs.
Weldon decided. A set of turquoise, with his initial and hers interwoven.
Only when they were received, did Margie come out of her cold composure.
She snapped together the lid of the casket containing them with something
very like angry impatience, and gave the box to her maid.
"Take them away, Florine, instantly, and put them where I shall never see
them again!"
The woman looked surprised, but she was a discreet piece, and strongly
attached to her mistress, and she put the ornaments away without comment.
The tenth of October arrived. A wet, lowering day, with alternate
snatches of rain and sunshine, settling down toward sunset into a steady,
uncomfortable drizzle. A dismal enough wedding-day.
The ceremony was to take place at nine o'clock in the evening, and the
invited guests were numerous. Harrison Park would accommodate them all
royally.
Mr. Linmere was expected out from the city in the six o'clock train, and
as the stopping place was not more than five minutes' walk from the Park,
he had left orders that no carriage need be sent. He would walk up. He
thought he should need the stimulus of the fresh air to carry him through
the fiery ordeal, he said, laughingly.
The long day wore slowly away. The preparations were complete. Mrs.
Weldon in her violet moire-antique and family diamonds, went through the
stately parlors once more to assure herself that everything was _au
fait_.
At five o'clock the task of dressing the bride began. The bridesmaids
were in ecstacies over the finery, and they took almost as much pains in
dressing Margie as they would in dressing themselves for a like occasion.
Margie's cheeks were as white as the robes they put upon her. One of the
girls suggested rouge, but Alexandrine demurred.
"A bride should always be pale," she said. "It looks so interesting,
and gives everyone the idea that she realizes the responsibility she
is taking upon herself--doesn't that veil fall sweetly?"
And then followed a shower of feminine expressions of admiration from the
four charming bridesmaids.
"Is everything ready?" asked Margie, wearily, when at last they paused in
their efforts.
"Yes, everything is as perfect as one could desire," said Alexandrine.
"How do you feel, Margie, dear?"
"Very well, thank you."
"You are so self-possessed! Now, I should be all of a tremble! Dear me!
I wonder people _can_ be so cold on the eve of such a great change! But
then we are so different. Will you not take a glass of wine, Margie?"
"Thank you, no. I do not take wine, you know."
"I know, but on this occasion. Hush! that was the whistle of the train.
Mr. Linmere will be here in a few minutes! Shall I bring him up to see
you? It is not etiquette for the groom to see the bride on the day of
their marriage, until they meet at the altar; but you look so charming,
dear! I would like him to admire you. He has such exquisite taste."
Margie's uplifted eyes had a half-frightened look, which Alexandrine did
not understand.
"No, no!" she said, hurriedly; "do not bring him here! We will follow
etiquette for this time, if you please, Miss Lee."
"O well, just as you please, my dear."
"And now, my friends, be kind enough to leave me alone," said Margie.
"I want the last hours of my free life to myself. I will ring when I
desire your attendance."
Margie's manner forbade any objection on the part of the attendants, and
they somewhat reluctantly withdrew. She turned the key upon them, and
went to the window. The rain had ceased falling, but the air was damp and
dense.
Her room was on the first floor, and the windows, furnished with
balconies, opened to the floor. She stood looking out into the night for
a moment, then gathering up her flowing drapery, and covering herself
with a heavy cloak, stepped from the window. The damp earth struck a
chill to her delicately-shod feet, but she did not notice it. The mist
and fog dampened her hair, unheeded. She went swiftly down the shaded
path, the dead leaves of the linden trees rustling mournfully as she
swept through them. Past the garden and its deserted summer-house, and
the grapery, where the purple fruit was lavishing its sweets on the air,
and climbing a stile, she stood beside a group of shading cypress trees.
Just before her was a square enclosure, fenced by a hedge of arbor vitae,
from the midst of which, towering white and spectral up into the silent
night, rose a marble shaft, surmounted by the figure of an angel, with
drooping head and folded wings.
Margie passed within the inclosure, and stood beside the graves of her
parents. She stood a moment silent, motionless; then, forgetful of her
bridal garment, she flung herself down on the turf.
"Oh, my father! my father!" she cried, "why did you doom me to such a
fate? Why did you ask me to give that fatal promise? Oh, look down from
heaven and pity your child!"
The wind sighed mournfully in the cypresses, the belated crickets and
katydids droned in the hedge, but no sweet voice of sympathy soothed
Margie's strained ear. For, wrought up as she was, she almost listened
to hear some response from the lips which death had made mute forever.
The village clock struck half-past eight, warning Margie that it was
almost time for the ceremony to take place. She started up, drew her
cloak around her, and turned to leave the place. As she did so, she felt
a touch on her hand--the hand she laid for a moment on the gate--as she
stood giving a last sad look at the mound of earth she was leaving, a
touch light and soft as a breath, but which thrilled her through every
nerve.
She turned her head quickly, but saw nothing. Something--the sound of
receding footsteps--met her ear, nothing more, but she was convinced there
had been a human presence near her. Where? Her heart beat strangely; her
blood, a moment before so chilled and stagnant, leaped through her veins
like fire. From whence arose the change?
She reached her chamber without meeting any one, and unlocking the door,
rang for her attendants. The house was in a strange confusion. Groups
were gathered in the corridors, whispering together, and some unexplained
trouble seemed to have fallen upon the whole place.
After a little while, Alexandrine came in, pale and haggard. Margie saw
her white dress was damp, and her hair uncurled, as if by the weather.
"Where have you been, Alexandrine?" she asked; "and what is the matter?"
The girl turned from white to crimson.
"I have been in my room," she replied.
"But your clothes are damp, and your hair uncurled--"
"The air is wet, and this great house is as moist as an ice-shed,"
returned the girl, hurriedly. "It is no wonder if my hair is uncurled.
Margie, the--the--Mr. Linmere has not arrived."
"Not arrived! It must be nine o'clock."
As she spoke, the sonorous strokes of the clock proclaiming the hour,
vibrated through the house.
"We have been distracted about him for more than two hours! he should
surely have been here by half-past six! Mr. Trevlyn has sent messengers
to the depot, to make inquiries, and the officekeeper thinks Mr. Linmere
arrived in the six o'clock train, but is not quite positive. Mr. Weldon
went, himself, to meet the seven-thirty train, thinking perhaps he might
have got detained, and would come on in the succeeding train, but he did
not arrive. And there are no more trains to-night! Oh, Margie, isn't it
dreadful?"
Alexandrine's manner was strangely flurried and ill at ease, and the hand
she laid on Margie's was cold as ice. Margie scrutinized her curiously,
wondering the while at her own heartless apathy.
Something had occurred to stir the composure of this usually cool, and
self-possessed woman fearfully. But what it was Margie could not guess.
Mr. Trevlyn burst into the room, pale and exhausted.
"It is no use!" he said, throwing himself into a chair, "no use to try
to disguise the truth! There will be no wedding to-night, Margie! The
bridegroom has failed to come! The scoundrel! If I were ten years
younger, I would call him out for this insult!"
Margie laid her hand on his arm, a strange, new feeling of vague relief
pervading her. It was as if some great weight, under which her slender
strength had wearied and sank, were rolled off from her.
"Compose yourself, dear guardian, he may have been unavoidably detained.
Some business--"
"Business on his wedding-day! No, Margie! there is something wrong
somewhere. He is either playing us false--confound him!--or he has met
with some accident! By George! who knows but he has been waylaid and
murdered! The road from here to the depot, though short, is a lonely one,
with woods on either side! And Mr. Linmere carries always about his
person enough valuables to tempt a desperate character."
"I beg you not to suppose such a dreadful thing!" exclaimed Margie,
shuddering; "he will come in the morning, and--"
"But Hays was positive that he saw him leave the six o'clock train. He
described him accurately, even to the saying that he had a bouquet of
white camelias in his hand. Margie, what flowers was he to bring?"
She shook her head.
"Mrs. Weldon knows. I do not."
Alexandrine spoke.
"White camelias. I heard Mrs. Weldon ask him to fetch them."
Mr. Trevlyn started up.
"I will have out the whole household, at once, and search, the whole
estate! For I feel as if some terrible crime may have been done upon our
very threshold. Margie, dear, take heart, he may be alive and well!"
He went out to alarm the already excited guests, and in half an hour the
place was alive with lanterns, carried by those who sought for the
missing bridegroom.
Pale and silent, the women gathered themselves together in the chamber of
the bride, and waited. Margie sat among them in her white robes, mute and
motionless as a statue.
"It must be terrible to fall by the hand of an assassin!" said Mrs.
Weldon, with a shudder. "Good heavens! what a dreadful thing it would be
if Mr. Linmere has been murdered!"
"An assassin! My God!" cried Margie, a terrible thought stealing across
her mind. Who had touched her in the cypress grove? What hand had woke in
her a thrill that changed her from ice to fire! What if it were the hand
of her betrothed husband's murderer?
Alexandrine started forward at Margie's exclamation. Her cheek was white
as marble, her breath came quick and struggling.
"Margie! Margie Harrison!" she cried, "what do you mean?"
"Nothing," answered Margie, recovering herself, and relapsing into her
usual self-composure.
They searched all that night, and found nothing. Absolutely nothing. With
the early train, both Mr. Trevlyn and Mr. Weldon went to the city. They
hurried to Mr. Linmere's room, only to have their worst fears confirmed.
Pietro informed them that his master had left there on the six o'clock
train; he had seen him to the depot, and into the car, receiving some
orders from him relative to his rooms, after he had taken his seat.
There could be no longer any doubt but that there had been foul play
somewhere. The proper authorities were notified, and the search began
afresh. Harrison Park and its environs were thoroughly ransacked; the
river was searched, the pond at the foot of the garden drained, but
nothing was discovered. There was no clue by which the fate of the
missing man could be guessed at, ever so vaguely.
Every person about the place was examined and cross-examined, but no one
knew anything, and the night shut down, and left the matter in mystery.
Pietro, at length, suggested Leo, Mr. Linmere's gray-hound.
"Him no love his master," said the Italian, "but him scent keen. It will
do no hurt to try him."
Accordingly, the next morning, Pietro brought the dog up to the Park.
The animal was sullen, and would accept of attentions from no one save
Margie, to whom he seemed to take at first sight. And after she had
spoken to him kindly, and patted his head, he refused all persuasions
and commands to leave her.
Mr. Darby, the detective, whose services had been engaged in the affair,
exerted all his powers of entreaty on the dog, but the animal clung to
Margie, and would not even look in the direction of the almost frantic
detective.
"It's no use, Miss Harrison," said Darby, "the cur wont stir an inch. You
will have to come with him! Sorry to ask ye, but this thing must be seen
into."
"Very well, I will accompany you," said Margie, rising, and throwing on
a shawl, she went out with them, followed by Mrs. Weldon, Alexandrine,
and two or three other ladies.
Leo kept close to Margie, trotting along beside her, uttering every now
and then a low whine indicative of anticipation and pleasure.
Darby produced a handkerchief which had belonged to Mr. Paul Linmere,
and which he had found in his rooms, lying on his dressing-table. He
showed this to the dog; Leo snuffed at it, and gave a sharp grunt of
displeasure.
"We want you to find him, Leo, good dog," said the Italian, stroking the
silky ears of the dog; "find your master."
Leo understood, but he looked around in evident perplexity.
"Take him to the depot!" said Mr. Trevlyn, "he may find the trail there."
They went to the station; the dog sniffed hurriedly at the platform, and
in a moment more dashed off into the highway leading to Harrison Park.
"Him got him!" cried Pietro; "him find my master!"
The whole company joined in following the dog. He went straight ahead,
his nose to the ground, his fleet limbs bearing him along with a rapidity
that the anxious followers found it hard to emulate.
At a brook which crossed the road he stopped, seemed a little confused,
crossed it finally on stepping stones, paused a moment by the side of a
bare nut tree, leaped the fence, and dashed off through a grass field.
Keeping steadily on, he made for the grounds of the Park, passed the
drained pond, and the frost-ruined garden, and pausing before the
inclosure where slept the Harrison dead, he lifted his head and gave
utterance to a howl so wild, so savagely unearthly, that it chilled the
blood in the veins of those who heard. An instant he paused, and then
dashing through the hedge, was lost to view.
"He is found! My master is found!" said Pietro, solemnly, removing his
cap, and wiping a tear from his eye. For the man was attached to Mr. Paul
Linmere, in his rough way, and the tear was one of genuine sorrow.
His companions looked at each other. Alexandrine grasped the arm of
Margie, and leaned heavily upon her.
"Let us go to the house--" she faltered, "I cannot bear it."
"I will know the worst," said Margie, hoarsely, and they went on
together.
It was so singular, but no one had thought to look within the graveyard
enclosure; perhaps if they had thought of it, they judged it impossible
that a murderer should select such a locality for the commission of his
crime.
Mr. Darby opened the gate, entered the yard, and stopped. So did the
others. All saw at once that the search was ended. Across the path
leading to the graves of Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, lay Paul Linmere. He was
white and ghastly; his forehead bare, and his sightless eyes wide open,
looking up to the sun of noon-day. His right hand lay on his breast, his
left still tightly grasped the turf upon which it had fixed its hold in
the cruel death-agony. His garments were stiff with his own blood, and
the dirk knife, still buried to the hilt in his heart, told the story of
his death.
Leo crouched a little way off, his eyes jubilant, his tail beating the
ground, evincing the greatest satisfaction. All present knew that the dog
rejoiced at the death of his master.
Alexandrine took a step toward the dead man, her back to the
horror-stricken group by the gate. She stopped suddenly, and lifted
something from the ground.
Darby, alert and watchful, was by her side in a moment.
"What have you there?" he demanded.
"My glove which I dropped," she answered, quietly, holding up the dainty
bit of embroidered kid.
The detective turned away satisfied; but Margie saw the girl's hand
shake, and her lips grow pale as marble, the moment Darby's keen eye was
removed from her face.
The discovery of the remains was followed by a long and tedious
investigation. There was an inquest, and a rigid examination of every
person who could by any possibility be imagined capable of throwing any
light on the murder, and after all was over, the mystery was just as dark
as it was at first.
Nothing was found to furnish the slightest clue to the assassin, except
a white cambric handkerchief just inside the graveyard, marked with the
single initial "A" in one corner. This handkerchief might have belonged
to the murderer, and it might have belonged to Mr. Linmere,--that could
not be determined. The article was given into the keeping of Mr. Darby;
and after three days lying in state at Harrison Park, the body of Mr.
Linmere was taken to Albany, where his relatives were buried, and laid
away for its last sleep.
Mr. Trevlyn offered a large reward for the apprehension of the murderer,
or for information which would lead to his apprehension; and the town
authorities offered an equal sum. Mr. Darby was retained to work upon the
case, and there it rested.
Margie uttered no word in the matter. She was stunned by the suddenness
of the blow, and she could not help being painfully conscious that she
felt relieved by the death of this unfortunate man. God had taken her
case into his hands in a manner too solemnly fearful for her to question.
* * * * *
Three months after the death of Paul Linmere, Margie met Archer Trevlyn
at the house of Alexandrine Lee. He was quite a constant visitor there,
Mrs. Lee told her, with a little conscious pride, for young Trevlyn was
being spoken of in business circles as a rising young man. He was to be
admitted to partnership in the firm of Belgrade and Co., in the spring.
And this once effected, his fortune was made.
There was a little whist party at Mrs. Lee's that evening, and Margie
was persuaded to remain. After a while the company asked for music.
Whist, the books of engravings, and the _bijoux_ of the centre-table
were exhausted, and small talk flagged. Margie was reluctantly prevailed
upon to play.
She was not a wonderful performer, but she had a fine ear, and played
with finish and accuracy. But she sang divinely. To oblige her friends,
she sang a few new things and then pausing, was about to rise from the
instrument, when Mr. Trevlyn came to her side.
"Will you play something for me?" he asked, stooping over her. His dark,
passionate eyes brought the blood to her face--made her restless and
nervous in spite of herself.
"What would you like?" she managed to ask.
"This!" He selected an old German ballad, long ago a favorite in the
highest musical circles, but now cast aside for something newer and more
brilliant. A simple, touching little song of love and sorrow.
She was about to decline singing it, but something told her to beware
of false modesty, and she sang it through.
"I thank you!" he said, earnestly, when she had finished. "It has done me
good. My mother used to sing that song, and I have never wanted to hear
it from any other lips--_until now_."
Alexandrine glided along, as radiant as a humming-bird, her cheeks
flushed, her black eyes sparkling, her voice sweet as a siren's.
"Sentimentalizing, I declare!" she exclaimed, gayly; "and singing that
dreadful song, too! Ugh! it gives me the cold shudders to listen to it!
How can you sing it, Margie, dear?"
"Miss Harrison sang it at my request, Miss Lee," said Trevlyn, gravely,
"it is an old favorite of mine. Shall I not listen to you now?"
Alexandrine took the seat Margie had vacated, and glanced up at the two
faces so near her.
"Why, Margie!" she said, "a moment ago I thought you were a rose, and now
you are a lily! What is the matter?"
"Nothing, thank you," returned Margie, coldly. "I am weary, and will go
home soon, I think."
Trevlyn looked at her with tender anxiety, evidently forgetful that he
had requested Miss Lee to play.
"You are wearied," he said. "Shall I call your carriage?"
"If you please, yes. Miss Lee I am sure will excuse me."
"I shall be obliged to, I suppose."
Trevlyn put Margie's shawl around her, and led her to the carriage. After
he had assisted her in, he touched lightly the hand he had just released,
and said "Good-night," his very accent a blessing.
In February Mr. Trevlyn received a severe shock. His aged wife had been
an inmate of an insane asylum almost ever since the death of her son
Hubert; and Mr. Trevlyn, though he had loved her with his whole soul,
had never seen her face in all those weary years.
Suddenly, without any premonitory symptoms, her reason returned to her,
and save that she was unmindful of the time that had elapsed during her
insanity, she was the same Caroline Trevlyn of old.
They told her cautiously of her husband's old age, for the unfortunate
woman could not realize that nearly twenty years had passed since the
loss of her mind. The first desire she expressed was to see "John," and
Mr. Trevlyn was sent for.
He came, and went into the presence of the wife from whom he had been so
long divided, alone. No one knew what passed between them. The interview
was a lengthy one, and Mr. Trevlyn came forth from it, animated by a
new-born hope. The wife of his youth was to be restored to him!
He made arrangements to take her home, but alas! they were never destined
to be carried into effect. The secret fears of the physician were
realized even sooner than he had expected. The approach of dissolution
had dissolved the clouds so long hanging over the mind of Caroline
Trevlyn. She lived only two days after the coming of her husband, and
died in his arms, happy in the belief that she was going to her son.
Mr. Trevlyn returned home, a changed being. All his asperity of temper
was gone; he was as gentle as a child. Whole days he would sit in the
chair where his wife used to sit in the happy days of her young wifehood,
speaking to no one, smiling sometimes to himself, as though he heard
some inner whisperings which pleased him.
One day he roused himself seemingly, and sent for Mr. Speedwell, his
attorney, and Dr. Drake, his family physician. With these gentlemen he
was closeted the entire forenoon; and from that time forward, his hold on
the world and its things seemed to relax.
One morning, when Margie went to take his gruel up to him--a duty she
always performed herself--she found him sitting in his arm-chair, wide
awake, but incapable of speech or motion.
The physician, hastily summoned, confirmed her worst fears. Mr. Trevlyn
had been smitten with paralysis. He was in no immediate danger, perhaps;
he might live for years, but was liable to drop away at any moment. It
was simply a question of time.
Toward the close of the second day after his attack, the power of speech
returned to Mr. Trevlyn.
"Margie!" he said, feebly, "Margie, come here." She flew to his side.
"I want you to send for Archer Trevlyn," he said with great difficulty.
She made a gesture of surprise.
"You think I am not quite right in my mind, Margie, that I should make
that request. But I was never more sane than at this moment. My mind was
never clearer, my mental sight never more correct. I want to see my
grandson."
Margie despatched a servant with a brief note to Archer, informing him
of his grandfather's desire, and then sat down to wait his coming.
It was a wild, stormy night in March; the boisterous wind beat against
the old mansion, and like a suffering human thing, shrieked down the
wide, old-fashioned chimneys.
In a lull of the storm there was a tap at the chamber door. Margie opened
it, and stood face to face with Archer Trevlyn.
"Come in," she whispered, "he is asleep."
"No, I am not asleep," said the sick man; "has my grandson come?"
"He is here," said Margie. "I will leave him with you, dear guardian. Let
him ring for me when you want me."
"Remain here, Margaret. I want you to be a witness to what passes between
us. I have no secrets from you, dear child, none whatever. Archer, come
hither."
Trevlyn advanced, his face pale, his eyes moist with tears. For, having
forgiven his grandparent, he had been growing to feel for the desolate
old man a sort of filial tenderness, and strong in his fresh young
manhood, it seemed terrible to him to see John Trevlyn lying there in
his helplessness and feebleness, waiting for death.
"Come hither, Archer," said the tremulous voice, "and put your hand on
mine. I cannot lift a finger to you, but I want to feel once more the
touch of kindred flesh and blood. I have annoyed you and yours sadly my
poor boy, but death sweeps away all enmities, and all shadows. I see so
clearly now. O, if I had only seen before!"
Arch knelt by the side of his bed, holding the old man's withered hands
in his. Margie stood a little apart, regarding the pair with moist eyes.
"Call me grandfather once, my son; I have never heard the name from the
lips of my kindred."
"Grandfather! O grandfather!" cried the young man, "now that you will let
me call you so, you must not die! You must live for me!"
"The decree has gone forth. There is from it no appeal. I am to die.
I have felt the certainty a long time. O, for one year of existence,
to right the wrongs I have done! But they could not be righted. Alas!
if I had centuries of time at my command, I could not bring back to life
the dear son my cruelty hurried out of the world, or his poor wife, whose
fair name I could, in my revenge for her love of my son, have taken from
her! O Hubert! Hubert! O my darling! dearer to me than my heart's
blood--but so foully wronged!"
His frame shook with emotion, but no tears came to his eyes. His remorse
was too deep and bitter for the surface sorrow of tears to relieve.
"Put it out of your mind, grandfather," said Arch, pressing his hand.
"Do not think of it, to let it trouble you more. They are all, I trust,
in heaven. Let them rest."
"And you will tell me this, Archer? You, who hated me so! You, who swore
a solemn oath to be revenged on me! Well, I do not blame you. I only
wonder that your forbearance was so long-suffering. Once you would have
rejoiced to see me suffer as I do now."
"I should, I say it to my shame. God forgive me for my wickedness! But
for _her_"--looking at Margie--"I might have kept the sinful vow I made.
She saved me."
"Come here, Margie, and kiss me," said the old man, tenderly. "My dear
children! my precious children, both of you! I bless you both--both of
you together, do you hear? Once I cursed you, Archer--now I bless you!
If there is a God, and I do at last believe there is, he will forgive
me that curse; for I have begged it of Him on my bended knees."
"He is merciful, dear guardian," said Margie, gently. "He never refuses
the earnest petition of the suffering soul."
"Archer, your grandmother died a little while ago. My cruelty to your
father made her, for twenty long years, a maniac. But before her death,
all delusion was swept away, and she bade me love and forgive our
grandson--that she might tell your father and mother, when she met
them in heaven, that at last all was well here below. I promised her,
and since then my soul has been in peace. But I have longed to go to
her--longed inexpressibly. She had been all around me, but so impalpable
that when I put out my hands to touch her, they grasped only the air.
The hands of mortality may not reach after the hands which have put on
immortality."
He lay quiet a moment, and then went on, brokenly.
"Archer, I wronged your parents bitterly, but I have repented it in dust
and ashes. Repented it long ago, only I was too proud and stubborn to
acknowledge it. Forgive me again, Archer, and kiss me before I die."
"I do forgive you, grandfather; I do forgive you with my whole heart."
He stooped, and left a kiss on the withered forehead.
"Margie," said the feeble voice, "pray for me, that peace may come."
She looked at Archer, hesitated a moment, then knelt by the bedside. He
stood silent, and then, urged by some uncontrollable impulse, he knelt by
her side.
The girlish voice, broken, but sweet as music, went up to Heaven in a
petition so fervent, so simple, that God heard and answered. The peace
she asked for the dying man came.
Her pleading ceased. Mr. Trevlyn lay quiet, his countenance serene and
hopeful. His lips moved, they bent over him, and caught the name of
"Caroline."
Trevlyn's hand sought Margie's and she did not repulse him. They stood
together silently, looking at the white face on the pillows.
"He is dead!" Archie said, softly: "God rest him!"
* * * * *
After the funeral of John Trevlyn, his last will and testament was read.
It created a great deal of surprise when it was known that all the vast
possessions of the old man were bequeathed to his grandson--his sole
relative--whom he had despised and denied almost to the day of his death.
In fact, not a half-dozen persons in the city were aware of the fact that
there existed any tie of relationship between John Trevlyn, the miser,
and Archer Trevlyn, the head clerk of Belgrade and Company.
Arch's good fortune did not change him a particle. He gave less time to
business, it is true, but he spent it in hard study. His early education
had been defective, and he was doing his best to remedy the lack.
Early in the autumn following the death of his grandfather, he went to
Europe, and after the lapse of a year, returned again to New York. The
second day after his arrival, he went out to Harrison Park. Margie had
passed the summer there, with an old friend of her mother for company,
he was told, and would not come back to the city before December.
It was a cold, stormy night in September, when he knocked at the door of
Miss Harrison's residence; but a cheery light shone from the window, and
streamed out of the door which the servant held open.
He inquired for Miss Harrison, and was shown at once into her presence.
She sat in a low chair, her dress of sombre black relieved by a white
ribbon at the throat, and by the chestnut light of the shining hair that
swept in unbound luxuriance over her shoulders. She rose to meet her
guest, scarcely recognizing Archer Trevlyn in the bronzed, bearded man
before her.
"Miss Harrison," he said, gently, "it is a cold night; will you not give
a warm welcome to an old friend?"
She knew his voice instantly. A bright color leaped to her cheek, an
embarrassment which made her a thousand times dearer and more charming to
Arch Trevlyn, possessed her. But she held out her hands, and said a few
shy words of welcome.
Arch sat down beside her, and the conversation drifted into recollections
of their own individual history. They spoke to each other with the
freedom of very old friends, forgetful of the fact that this was almost
the very first conversation they had ever had together.
After a while, Arch said:
"Miss Harrison, do you remember when you first saw me?"
She looked at him a moment, and hesitated before she answered.
"I may be mistaken, Mr. Trevlyn. If so, excuse me; but I think I saw you
first, years and years ago, in a flower store."
"You are correct; and on that occasion your generous kindness made me
very happy. I thought it would make my mother happy, also. I ran all the
way home, lest the roses might wilt before she saw them."
He stopped and gazed into the fire.
"Was she pleased with them?"
"She was dead. We put them in her coffin. They were buried with her."
Margie laid her hand lightly on his.
"I am so sorry for you! I, too, have buried my mother."
After a little silence, Arch went on.
"The next time you saw me was when you gave me these." He took out his
pocket-book, and displayed to her, folded in white paper, a cluster of
faded bluebells. "Do you remember them?"
"I think I do. You were knocked down by the pole of the carriage?"
"Yes. And the next time? Do you remember the next time?"
"I do."
"I thought so. I want to thank you, now, for your generous forbearance.
I want to tell you how your keeping my secret made a different being of
me. If you had betrayed me to justice, I might have been now an inmate
of a prison cell. Margie Harrison, your silence saved me! Do me the
justice to credit my assertion, when I tell you that I did not enter my
grandfather's house because I cared for the plunder I should obtain. I
had taken a vow to be revenged on him for his cruelty to my parents, and
Sharp, the man who was with me, represented to me, that there was no
surer way of accomplishing my purpose than by taking away the treasures
that he prized. For that only I became a house-breaker. I deserved
punishment. I do not seek to palliate my guilt, but I thank you again
for saving me!"
"I could not do otherwise than remain silent. When I would have spoken
your name, something kept me from doing it. I think I remembered always
the pitiful face of the little street-sweeper, and I could not bear to
bring him any more suffering."
"Since those days, Miss Harrison, I have met you frequently--always
by accident--but to-night it is no accident. I came here on purpose.
For what, do you think?"
"I do not know--how should I?"
"I have come here to tell you what I longed to tell you years ago! what
was no less true then than it is now; what was true of me when I was a
street-sweeper, what has been true of me ever since, and what will be
true of me through time and eternity!"
He had drawn very near to her--his arm stole round her waist, and he sat
looking down into her face with his soul in his eyes.
"Margie, I love you! I have loved you since the first moment I saw you.
There has never been a shade of wavering; I have been true to you through
all. My first love will be my last. Your influence has kept me from the
lower depths of sin; the thought of you has been my salvation from ruin.
Margie, my darling! I love you! I love you!"
"And yet you kept silence all these years! Oh, Archer!"
"I could not do differently. You were as far above me as the evening star
is above the earth it shines upon! It would have been base presumption in
the poor saloon-waiter, or the dry-goods clerk, to have aspired to the
hand of one like you. And although I loved you so, I should never have
spoken, had not fate raised me to the position of a fortune equal to your
own, and given me the means of offering you a home worthy of you. But I
am waiting for my answer. Give it to me, Margie."
Her shy eyes met his, and he read his answer in their clear depths. But
he was too exacting to be satisfied thus.
"Do you love me, Margie? I want to hear the words from your lips. Speak,
darling. They are for my ear alone, and you need not blush to utter
them."
"I do love you, Archer. I believe I have loved you ever since the first."
"And you will be mine? All my own!"
She gave him her hands. He drew the head, with its soft, bright hair, to
his breast, and kissed the sweet lips again and again, almost failing to
realize the blessed reality of his happiness.
It was late that night before Archer Trevlyn left his betrothed bride,
and took his way to the village hotel. But he was too happy, too full of
sweet content, to heed the lapse of time. At last the longing of his life
was satisfied. He had heard her say that she loved him.
And Margie sat and listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps, and
then went up to her chamber to pass the night, wakeful, too content to be
willing to lose the time in sleep, and so the dawn of morning found her
with open eyes.
* * * * *
The ensuing winter was a very gay one. Margaret Harrison returned to New
York under the chaperonage of her friend, Mrs. Weldon, and mingled more
freely in society than she had done since the season she "came out." She
took pleasure in it now, for Archer Trevlyn was welcomed everywhere. He
was a favored guest in the most aristocratic homes, and people peculiarly
exclusive were happy to receive him into their most select gatherings.
His engagement with Margie was made public, and the young people were
overwhelmed with the usual compliments of politely expressed hopes and
fashionable congratulations.
The gentleman said Miss Harrison had always been beautiful, but this
season she was more than that. Happiness is a rare beautifier. It painted
Margie's cheeks and lips with purest rose color, and gave a light to her
eyes and a softness to her sweet voice.
Of course she did not mingle in society, even though her engagement
was well known, without being surrounded by admirers. They fairly took
her away from Arch, sometimes; but he tried to be patient. Before the
apple-trees in the green country valleys were rosy with blossoms, she
was to be all his own. He could afford to be generous.
Among the train of her admirers was a young Cuban gentleman, Louis
Castrani, a man of fascinating presence and great personal beauty. He had
been unfortunate in his first love. She had died a few days before they
were to have been married--died by the hand of violence, and Castrani had
shot the rival who murdered her. Public opinion had favored the avenger,
and he had not suffered for the act, but ever since he had been a prey to
melancholy. He told Margie his history, and it aroused her pity; but when
he asked her love, she refused him gently, telling him that her heart was
another's. He had suffered deeply from the disappointment, but he did not
give up her society, as most men would have done. He still hovered around
her, content if she gave him a smile or a kind word, seeming to find his
best happiness in anticipating her every wish before it was uttered.
Toward the end of March Alexandrine Lee came to pass a few days with
Margie. Some singular change had been at work on the girl. She had lost
her wonted gayety of spirits, and was for the most part subdued, almost
sad. Her beautiful eyes seldom lighted with a smile, and her sweet voice
was rarely heard.
She came, from a day spent out, one evening, into Margie's dressing-room.
Miss Harrison was preparing for the opera. There was a new prima donna,
and Archer was anxious for her to hear the wonder. Margie had never
looked lovelier. Her pink silk dress, with the corsage falling away
from the shoulders, and the sleeves leaving the round arms bare, was
peculiarly becoming, and the pearl necklace and bracelets--Archer's
gift--were no whiter or purer than the throat and wrists they encircled.
Alexandrine stood a moment in the door, looking at the lovely picture
presented by her young hostess. A pang, vague and unacknowledged, wrung
her heart, and showed itself on her countenance. But she came forward
with expressions of admiration.
"You are perfect, Margie--absolutely perfect! Poor gentlemen! how I pity
them to-night! How their wretched hearts will ache!"
Margie laughed.
"Nonsense, Alex, don't be absurd! Go and dress yourself. I am going to
the opera, and you must accompany us."
"_Us_--who may that plural pronoun embody?"
"Myself--and Mr. Trevlyn."
"Ah! thank you. Mr. Trevlyn may not care for an addition to his nice
little arrangement for a _tête-à-tête_."
"Don't be vexed, Alexandrine. We thought you would pass the evening at
your friend's, and Archer only came in to tell me a few hours ago."
"Of course I am not vexed, dear," and the girl kissed Margie's glowing
cheek. "Lovers will be lovers the world over. Silly things, always, and
never interesting company for other people. How long before Mr. Trevlyn
is coming for you?"
Margie consulted her watch.
"At eight. It is now seven. In an hour."
"In an hour! An hour's time! Long enough to change the destiny of
empires!"
"How strangely you talk, Alexandrine! What spirit possesses you?" asked
Margie, filled, in spite of herself, with a curious premonition of evil.
Alexandrine sat down by the side of her friend, and looked searchingly
into her face, her great black eyes holding Margie with a sort of
serpent-like fascination.
"Margaret, you love this Archer Trevlyn very dearly do you not?"
Margie blushed crimson, but she answered, proudly:
"Why need I be ashamed to confess it? I do. I love him with my whole
soul!"
"And you do not think there is in you any possibility of a change?"
"A change! What do you mean? Explain yourself."
"You do not think the time will ever come when you will cease to love Mr.
Arthur Trevlyn?"
"It will never come!" Margie replied, indignantly, "never, while I have
my reason!"
"Do you believe in love's immortality?"
"I believe that all true love is changeless as eternity! I am not a
child, Alexandrine, to be blown about by every passing breeze."
"No, you are a woman now, with a woman's capability of suffering. You
ought, also, to be possessed of woman's resolution of a woman's strength
to endure sorrow and affliction."
"I have never had any great affliction, Alexandrine. The death of Mr.
Linmere was horrible to me, but it was not as if I had loved him; and
though I loved Mr. Trevlyn, my guardian, he died so peacefully, that I
cannot wish him back. And my dear parents--I was so young then, and they
were so willing to go! No, I do not think I have ever had any great
sorrow, such as blast people's whole lifetimes."
"But you think you will always continue to love Archer Trevlyn?"
"How strangely you harp on that string! What do you mean? There is
something behind all this; I see it in your face. You frighten me!"
"Margie, all people are blind sometimes, but more especially women, when
they love. Would it be a mercy to open the eyes of one who, in happy
ignorance, was walking over a precipice which the flowers hid from her
view?"
Margie shuddered, and the beautiful color fled from her cheek.
"I do not comprehend you. Why do you keep me in suspense?"
"Because I dread to break the charm. You will hate me for it always,
Margie. We never love those who tell us disagreeable truths, even though
it be for our good."
"I do not know what you would tell me, Alexandrine, but I do not think
I shall hate you for it."
"Not if I tell you evil of Archer Trevlyn?"
"I will not listen to it!" she cried, indignantly.
"I expected as much. Well, Margie, you shall not. I will hold my peace;
but if ever, in the years to come, the terrible secret should be revealed
to you--the secret which would then destroy your happiness for all
time--remember that I would have saved you, and you refused to listen."
She drew her shawl around her shoulders, and rose to go.
Margie caught her arm.
"What is it? You _shall_ tell me! Suspense is worse than certainty."
"And if I tell you, you will keep silent? Silent as the grave itself?"
"Yes, if you wish it."
"Will you swear it?"
"I cannot; but I will keep it just as sacredly."
"I want not only your promise, but your oath. You would never break
an oath. And this which I am about to tell you, if known to the world,
involves Archer Trevlyn's life! and you refuse to take an oath."
"His life! Yes, I will swear. I would do anything to make his life
safer."
"Very well. You understand me fully? You are never to reveal anything
I may tell you to-night, unless I give you leave. You swear it?"
"I swear it."
"Listen, then. You remember the night Mr. Linmere was murdered?"
Margie grew pale as death, and clasped her hands convulsively.
"Yes, I remember it."
"You desired us, after we had finished dressing you, to leave you alone.
We did so, and you locked the door behind us, stepped from the window,
and went to the grave of your parents."
"I did."
"You remained there some little time, and when you turned away,
you stopped to look back, and in doing so you laid your hand--this
one,--" she touched Margie's slender left hand, on which shone Archer
Trevlyn's betrothal ring--"on the gate post. Do you remember it?"
"Yes, I remember it."
"And while it rested there--while your eyes were turned away, that hand
was touched--by something soft, and warm, and sentient--too warm, too
passionate, to be the kiss of a disembodied soul. Living human lips, that
scorched into your flesh, and thrilled you as nothing else ever had the
power to thrill you!"
Margie trembled convulsively, her color came and went, and she clasped
and unclasped her hands with nervous agitation.
"Am I not speaking the truth?"
"Yes, yes--go on. I am listening."
"Was there, in all the world, at that time, more than one person whose
kiss had the power to thrill you as that kiss thrilled you? Answer me,
Margie Harrison!"
"I will not! You have no right to ask me!" she replied, passionately.
"It is useless to attempt disguise, Margie. I can read your very
thoughts. At the moment you felt that touch, you knew instinctively who
was near you. You felt and acknowledged the presence of one who had no
right to be kissing the hand of another man's promised wife. And yet
the forbidden sin of that person was sweet to you. You stooped and
pressed your lips where his had been! Whose?"
"I do not know--indeed I do not! Why do you torture me so, Alexandrine?"
"My poor child, I will say no more. Good-night, Margie. I trust you will
have a pleasant evening with Mr. Trevlyn."
Margie caught the flowing skirt of Miss Lee's dress.
"You shall tell me all! I must know. I have heard too much to be kept in
ignorance of the remainder."
"So be it. You shall hear all. You know that Archer Trevlyn was in the
graveyard, or near it, that night, though you might not see him. Yet you
were sure of his presence--"
"I was not! I tell you, I was not!" she cried, fiercely. "I saw no one;
not a person!"
"Then, if you were not sure of his presence, you loved some other; else
why did you put your lips where those of a stranger had been? In that
case, you were doubly false!"
Margie's cheeks were crimson with shame. She covered her face with her
hands, and was silent.
"How many can you love at once, Margie Harrison?"
"Alexandrine, you are cruel!--cruel! Is it not enough for you to tell me
the truth, without torturing me thus?"
A flash of conscious triumph crossed the cold face of Miss Lee, and then
she was calm as before.
"No, I am not cruel--only truthful. You cannot deny that you knew
Archer Trevlyn was near you. You will not deny it. Margie, I know
what love is--I know something of its keen, subtle instincts. I should
recognize the vicinity of the man I loved, though all around me were
black as midnight."
"Well, what then?" asked Margie, defiantly.
"Wait and see. I followed you out that night, with no definite purpose in
my mind. Perhaps it was curiosity to see what a romantic woman, about to
be married to a man she does not love, would do, I stood outside the
hedge of arbor vitae while you were inside. I saw the tall, shadowy
figure which bent its head upon your hand, and I saw you put your mouth
where his had been. When you went away I did not go. Something kept me
behind. A moment afterward, I heard voices inside the hedge--just one
exclamation from each person--I could swear to that! and then--O
heaven!"
"What then!"
"A blow! a dull, terrible thud, a smothered groan, a fall--and I stood
there powerless to move--stricken dumb and motionless! And while I stood
transfixed, some person rushed past me, breathless, panting, reckless of
everything save escape! Margie, it was so dark that I could not be
positive, but I am morally certain that the person I saw was Archer
Trevlyn!"
"My God!" Margie cowered down to the floor, and hid her face in the folds
of Alexandrine's dress.
"Hear me through," Miss Lee went on relentlessly, her face growing
colder and harder with every word. "Hear me through and then decide for
yourself. Let no opinion of mine bias your judgment. I stood there a
moment longer, and then, when suspended volition came back to me, I fled
from the place. Margie, words cannot express to you my distress, my
bitter, burning anguish! It was like to madness. But sooner than have
divulged my suspicions, I would have killed myself! For I loved Archer
Trevlyn with a depth and fervor which your cool nature has no conception
of. I love him still, though I feel convinced, from the bottom of my
soul, that he is a murderer!"
Her cheeks grew brilliant as red roses, her eyes sparkled like stars.
Margie looked into the bewilderingly beautiful face with suspended
breath. The woman's passionate presence scorched her; she could not
be herself, with those eyes of fire blazing down into hers.
Alexandrine resumed, "I am wasting time. Let me hurry on to the end, or
your lover will be here before I finish."
"My lover!" cried Margie, in a dazed sort of way, "_my lover_? O yes I
remember, Archer Trevlyn was coming. Is it nearly time for him?"
Alexandrine took the shrinking, cowering girl by the shoulders, and
lifted her into a seat.
"Rouse yourself, Margie. I have not done. I want you to hear it all."
"Yes, I am hearing."
It was pitiful to see how helpless and weak the poor child had become.
All sense of joy and sorrow seemed to have died out of her.
"I feared so much that when the body of the murdered man should be
discovered, there would be some clue which would point to the guilty
party! Such a night as I passed, while they searched for the body! I
thought I should go mad!" She hid her face in her hands, and her figure
shook like a leaf in the autumn wind.
"When the dog took us to the graveyard, I thought I would be the first
inside--I would see if there was anything left on the ground to point to
the real murderer. You remember that I picked up something, do you not?"
"I do. Your glove, was it not?"
"Yes. It was my glove! I defy the whole world to take it from me! I would
die before such a proof should be brought against the man I love!" she
cried wildly. "See here!"
She drew from her bosom a kid glove, stained and stiff with blood.
"Margie, have you ever seen it before? Look here. It has been mended;
sewed with blue silk! Do you remember anything about it?"
"Yes; I saw you mend it at Cape May," she answered, the words forced from
her, apparently, without her volition.
"You are right. He had torn it while rowing me out, one morning. I saw
the rent and offered to repair it. He makes his gloves wear well, doesn't
he?"
"O don't! don't! how can you! Alexandrine, wake me, for mercy's sake!
This is some horrible dream."
"I would to heaven it were! It would be happier for us all. But if you
feel any doubt about the identity of the glove, look here." She turned
back the wrist, and there on the inside, written in the bold characters
which were a peculiarity of Arch Trevlyn's handwriting, was the name
in full--_Archer Trevlyn_.
Margie shrank back and covered her eyes, as if to shut out the terrible
proof. Alexandrine returned the glove to her bosom, and then continued:
"The handkerchief found near Mr. Linmere was marked with the single
letter A. Whose name begins with that letter?"
"Stop, I implore you! I shall lose my reason! I am blinded--I cannot see!
O, if I could only die and leave it all!"
"You will not die. I bore it, and still live; and it is so much harder
for me, because I have to bear it all alone. You have your religion to
help you, Margie. Surely that will bear you up! I have heard all you
pious people prate enough of its service in time of trouble to remember
that consolation."
"Don't, Alexandrine! It is sinful to scorn God's holy religion. Yes, you
are right; it will help me. God himself will help me, if I ask him. He
knows how much I stand in need of it."
"I am glad you are so likely to be supported," returned the girl,
half-earnestly, half-contemptuously. "Are you satisfied in regard to
Mr. Archer Trevlyn?"
"I will not credit it!" cried Margie, passionately. "He did not do that
deed! He could not! So good, and noble, and pitiful of all suffering
humanity! And besides, what motive could he have?"
"The motive was all-powerful. Has not Mr. Trevlyn, by his own confession,
loved you from his youth up?"
"Yes."
"And Paul Linmere was about to become your husband. Could there be a more
potent reason for Archer Trevlyn to desire Mr. Linmere's death? He was an
obstacle which could be removed in no other way than by death, because
you had promised your father to marry him, and you could not falsify your
word. All men are weak and liable to sin; is Trevlyn any exception?
Margie, I have told you frankly what I know. You can credit it or not. I
leave it with you; decide as you think best. It is eight o'clock. I will
go now, for it is time for your lover to come for you."
"O, I cannot meet him--not to-night! I must have time to think--time to
collect my thoughts! My head whirls so, and everything is so dark! Stay,
Alexandrine, and excuse me to him. Say I have a headache--anything to
quiet him. I cannot see him now! I should go mad! Let me have a night
to think of it!"
Alexandrine put her hand on the soft hair of the bowed head.
"My poor Margie! it is hard for you. Hark! there is the bell. He has
come. Will you not go down?"
"No, no, no! Do what you judge best, and leave me to myself and my God."
Alexandrine went out, and Margie, locking the door after her, flung
herself down on the carpet and buried her face in the pillows of the
sofa.
Miss Lee swept down the staircase, her dark, bright face resplendent, her
bearing haughty as that of an empress. Arch was in the parlor. He looked
up eagerly as the door opened, but his countenance fell when he saw that
it was only Miss Lee. She greeted him cordially.
"Good evening, Mr. Trevlyn. I am deputized to receive you, and my good
intentions must be accepted in place of more fervid demonstrations."
"I am happy to see you, Miss Lee. Where is Margie?"
"She is in her room, somewhat indisposed. She begged me to ask you to
excuse her, as she is unable to come down, and of course cannot have
pleasure of going with you to the opera."
"Sick? Margie sick!" he exclaimed, anxiously. "What can be the matter?
She was well enough three hours ago."
"O, do not be uneasy. It is nothing serious. A headache, I think. She
will be well after a night's rest. Cannot I prevail on you to sit down?"
"I think not, to-night, thank you. I will call to-morrow. Give Margie my
best love, and tell her how sorry I am that she is ill."
Alexandrine promised, and Mr. Trevlyn bowed himself out. She put her hand
to her forehead, which seemed almost bursting with the strange weight
there.
"Guilty or not guilty," she muttered, "what does it matter to me? I love
him, and that is enough!"