The long night passed away, as all nights, however long and dark they may
be, will pass away.
Margie had not slept. She had paced her chamber until long after
midnight, utterly disregarding Alexandrine, who had knocked repeatedly
at her door, and at last, overcome by weariness, she had sunk down in
a chair by the open window, and sat there, gazing blankly out into the
night, with its purple heavens, and its glory of sparkling stars.
Nothing could have tempted Margie to have credited such a story of her
lover, had it not been for the overwhelming evidence of her own senses.
Ever since the night of Paul Linmere's assassination, she had at times
been tortured with agonizing doubts. From the first she had been morally
sure whose lips had touched her hand that night in the graveyard; she
knew that no other presence than that of Archer Trevlyn had the power to
influence her as she had been influenced. She knew that he had been
there, though she had not seen him; and for what purpose had he been
there? It was a question she had asked herself a thousand times!
There could be no doubt any longer. She was forced to that conclusion at
last; her heart sinking like lead in her bosom as she came to acknowledge
it. In a moment of terrible temptation, Arch Trevlyn had stained his
hands with blood! And for her sake!
There was a violent warfare in her heart. Her love for Archer Trevlyn had
not sprung up in a day; its growth had been slow, and it had taken deep
root. Oh, how hard it was to give up the blissful dream! She thought of
his early life--how it had been full of temptation--how his noble nature
had been warped and perverted by the evil influences that had surrounded
him, and for a while the temptation was strong upon her soul to forgive
him everything--to ignore all the past, and take him into her life as
though the fearful story she had just listened to had been untold. Marry
a murderer!
"Oh, God!" she cried in horror, as the whole extent of the truth burst
upon her: "Oh, my God, pity and aid me!"
She sank down on her knees, and though her lips uttered no sound, her
heart prayed as only hearts can pray when wrung with mortal suffering.
She saw her duty clearly. Archer Trevlyn must be given up; from that
there could be no appeal. Henceforth he must be to her as though he
had never been. She must put him entirely out of her life--out of her
thoughts--out of her sleeping and waking dreams.
But she could give him no explanation of her change of mind. She had
passed her word--nay, she had sworn never to reveal aught that Miss Lee
had told her, and a promise was binding. But he would not need any
explanation. His own guilty conscience would tell him why he was
renounced.
She took off the rose-colored dress in which she had arrayed herself to
meet him, and folded it away in a drawer of her wardrobe, together with
every other adornment she had worn that night. They would always be to
her painful reminders of that terrible season of anguish and despair.
When all were in, she shut them away from her sight, turned the key upon
them, and flung it far out of the window.
Then she opened her writing desk, and took out all the little notes he
had ever written to her, read them all over, and holding them one by one
to the blaze of the lamp, watched them with a sort of stony calmness
until they shrivelled and fell in ashes, black as her hopes, to the
floor. Then his gifts; a few simple things. These she did not look at;
she put them hastily into a box, sealed them up, and wrote his address
on the cover.
The last task was the hardest. She must write him a note, telling him
that all was over between them. The gray light of a clouded morning found
her making the effort. But for a long time her pen refused to move; her
hand seemed powerless. She felt weak and helpless as a very infant. But
it was done at last, and she read it over, wondering that she was alive
to read it:
"MR. ARCHER TREVLYN, SIR:--Yesterday afternoon, when I last saw you, I
did not think that before twenty-four hours had elapsed I should be under
the necessity of inditing to you this letter. Henceforth, you and I must
be as strangers. Not all the wealth and influence of the universe could
tempt me to become your wife, now that my eyes are opened. I renounce you
utterly and entirely, and no word or argument of yours can change me.
Therefore, do not attempt to see me, for with my own consent I will never
look upon your face again. I deem no explanation necessary; your own
conscience will tell you why I have been forced to make this decision.
I return to you with this note everything that can serve to remind me of
you, and ask you to do me the favor to burn all that you may have in your
possession which once was mine. Farewell, now and forever.
"MARGARET HARRISON."
There remained still something more to be done. Margie knew that Archer
Trevlyn would seek her out, and demand an explanation from her own lips,
and this must never be. She could not see him now; she was not certain
that she could ever see him again. She dared not risk the influence his
personal presence might have upon her. She must leave New York. But
where should she go? She had scarcely asked the question before thought
answered her.
Far away in the northern part of New Hampshire, resided old Nellie Day,
the woman who had nursed her, and whom she had not seen for twelve years.
Nellie was a very quiet, discreet person, and had been very warmly
attached to the Harrison family. She had married late in life a worthy
farmer, and giving up her situation in New York, had gone with him to the
little-out-of-the-way village of Lightfield. Margie had kept up a sort of
desultory correspondence with her, and in every letter that the old lady
wrote she had urged Margie to visit her in her country home. It had never
been convenient to do so, but now the place was suggested to her at once,
and to Lightfield she decided to go.
She consulted her watch. It was five o'clock; the train for the North,
the first express, left at half-past six. There would be time. She would
leave all her business affairs in the hands of Mr. Farley, her legal
adviser and general manager; and as to the house, the maiden aunt who
resided with her could keep up the establishment until her return, if
she ever did return.
She packed a few of her plainest dresses and some other indispensables,
in a trunk, arrayed herself in a dark traveling suit, and rang for
Florine. The girl looked at her in silent amazement. Margie steadied
her voice, and spoke carelessly enough.
"Florine, I have been obliged to leave home very suddenly. My
preparations are all complete. I thought I would not wake you as I
had so little to do. Tell Peter to have the carriage at the door at six
precisely, and bring up Leo's breakfast, and a cup of hot coffee for me."
At six o'clock--having written a note to Mr. Farley, and one to her aunt,
giving no explanations, but merely saying she had been called away--she
put on her bonnet, entered the carriage and was driven to the depot. And
before nine-tenths of New York had thought of leaving their beds, she was
being whirled rapidly northward, her only companion Leo, who, watchful
and alert, lay curled up on the seat beside her.
* * * * *
Archer Trevlyn had not slept that night. Some sense of impending evil,
some demon of uneasiness oppressed him strangely. He tossed about until
daybreak, then he rose, dressed himself, and went out. Everything was
still on the streets except the clatter of the milk carts, and the early
drays and huckster wagons. The air was damp and dense, and struck a
deadly chill to the very marrow of this unseasonable wanderer. He walked
a few squares, and then returned to his hotel, more oppressed than when
he went out.
Did ever time move so slowly before? Would the morning never pass? He
wrote some urgent letters, read the damp morning paper, without the
slightest notion of contents, and went down to his breakfast, to come
away again leaving it untasted. Eight o'clock! The earliest possible hour
at which it would be proper to call on Miss Harrison was eleven. Three
mortal hours first! How should he ever endure it? She might be very ill.
She might even be dying! Archer, with the foolish inconsistency of love,
magnified every evil until he was nearly beside himself with dread, lest
she might be worse that Miss Lee had represented.
Nine o'clock struck; he was walking the floor in a state of nervous
excitement which would have forced him ere long to have broken all rules
of etiquette and taken his way to Harrison House, had not fate saved him
the necessity.
A waiter entered, and brought in a letter and a package. He snatched them
both, and saw they were directed in Margie's handwriting. For a moment
his heart stood still with a deadly fear. Great drops of perspiration
covered his forehead, and he dropped letter and package to the floor.
Why was she writing to him when she must expect to see him in a few
hours? And that package! what did it contain?
He picked it up, and tore off the wrappings. The betrothal ring rolled
out and fell with a hollow sound on the floor. The ring he had put upon
her finger--the ring he had seen her kiss more than once! He looked over
the contents of the box hurriedly; every little thing he had ever given
her was there, even to a bunch of faded violets!
But the letter? He had almost forgotten it, in pondering over the dread
significance of the return of his presents. He took it up, and broke the
seal with slow deliberation. It would not tell him any news, but it might
contain an explanation. His face grew pale as ashes as he read, and he
put his hand to his heart, as though he had received a blow there. Twice
he read it through, and at the last reading he seemed to realize its
dread portent.
"She gives me up! Margie renounces me! Strangers we must be henceforth!
What does it all mean? Am I indeed awake, or is this only a painful
dream?"
He read a few lines of the missive a third time. Something of the old
dominant spirit of Archer Trevlyn came back to him.
"There is some misunderstanding. Margie has been told some dire
falsehood!" he exclaimed, starting up. "I will know everything. She
shall explain fully."
He seized his hat and hurried to her residence. The family were at
breakfast, the servant said, who opened the door. He asked to see Miss
Harrison.
"Miss Harrison left this morning, sir, in the early express," said the
man, eying Trevlyn with curious interest.
"Went in the early train! Can you tell me where she has gone?"
"I cannot. Perhaps her aunt, Miss Farnsworth, or Miss Lee can do so."
"Very well;" he made a desperate effort to seem calm, for the servant's
observant eye warned him that he was not acting himself. "Will you please
ask Miss Lee to favor me with a few minutes of her time?"
Miss Lee came into the parlor where Archer waited, a little afterward.
Archer, himself, was not more changed than she. Her countenance was pale
even to ghastliness, with the exception of a bright red spot on either
cheek, and her eyes shone with such an unnatural light, that even Archer,
absorbed as he was in his own troubles, noticed it. She welcomed him
quietly, in a somewhat constrained voice, and relapsed into silence.
Archer plunged at once upon what he came to ascertain.
"The servant tells me that Miss Harrison left New York this morning. I
am very anxious to communicate with her. Can you tell me wither she has
gone?"
"I cannot. She left before any of the family were up, and though she left
notes for both her aunt and her business agent, Mr. Farley, she did not
in either of them mention her destination."
"And she did not speak to you about it?"
"She did not. I spent a part of last evening with her, just before you
came, but she said nothing to me of her intention. She was not quite
well, and desired me to ask you to excuse her from going to the opera."
"And you did not see her this morning?"
"No. I have not seen her since I left her room to come down to you last
night. When I returned from my interview with you, I tapped at her
door--in fact, I tapped at it several times during the evening, for
I feared she might be worse--but I got no reply, and supposed she had
retired. No one saw her this morning, except Florine, her maid, and
Peter, the coachman, who drove her to the depot."
"And she went entirely alone?"
"She did from the house. Peter took her in the carriage."
"_From the House!_ But after that?" he asked, eagerly.
"Mr. Trevlyn," she said, coldly, "excuse me."
"I must know!" he cried; passionately grasping her arm; "tell me, did she
set out upon this mysterious journey alone?"
"I must decline to answer you."
"But I will not accept any denial! Miss Lee, you know what Margie was to
me. There has arisen a fearful misunderstanding between us. I must have
it explained. Why will you trifle with me? You must tell me what you
know."
"I do not wish to arouse suspicions, Mr. Trevlyn, which may have no
foundation to rest on. Only for your peace of mind do I withhold any
information I may possess on the subject."
"It is a cruel kindness. Tell me everything at once, I beg of you!"
"Then, if it distresses you, do not blame me; Peter saw Mr. Louis
Castrani at the depot, and is confident he went in the same train,
in the same car, with Miss Harrison."
"Castrani! Great Heaven!" he staggered into a chair. "Is it possible?
Margie, my Margie, that I thought so good and pure and truthful, false to
me! It cannot, cannot be! I will not believe it!"
"I do not ask you to," said Alexandrine, proudly. "I insinuated nothing.
I only replied to your question."
"Pardon me, Miss Lee. I am not quite myself this morning. I will go
now. I thank you for what you have told me, and trust it will all be
explained."
"I trust so," answered Miss Lee, turning to leave the room.
"Stay a moment! To what depot did Peter drive her?"
"The Northern, I think he said."
"Again I thank you, and good-morning."
He hurried away, got into the first coach he came across, and was driven
to the Northern depot.
He was somewhat acquainted with the ticket agent, and assuming as
nonchalant an air as was possible in his present disturbed state, he
strolled into the office. After a little indifferent conversation, he
said.
"By the way, Harris, do you know Mr. Castrani, the young Cuban, who has
turned the heads of so many of our fair belles? Some one was telling me
that he left town this morning."
"Castrani! Yes, I think I do. He did leave for the North this morning, in
the early express. I marked his baggage for him. He had been hurried so
in his preparations, he said, that he had no time for it."
"Indeed? It's a bore to be hurried. Where was he checked to?"
"Well, really, the name of the place has escaped me. Some little town in
New Hampshire or Maine, I think. We do so much of this business that my
memory is treacherous about such things."
"Were you speaking of Castrani?" asked Tom Clifford, a friend of Archer's
removing his cigar from his mouth. "Deuced fine fellow! Wish I had some
of his spare shillings. Though he's generous as a prince. Met him this
morning just as he was coming down the steps of the Astor. Had to get up
early to see after that confounded store of mine. Walker's too lazy to
open it mornings."
"You met Mr. Castrani?" said Archer, referring to the point.
"Yes. He told me he was going away. Woman somewhere mixed up in the case.
Said he expected to find one somewhere--well, hanged if I can tell where.
There's always a woman at the bottom of everything."
"He did not mention who this one was?"
"Not he. But I must be going. It's nearly lunch time. Good morning."
Trevlyn stopped a few moments with Mr. Harris, and then went back to his
rooms. He was satisfied. Hard as it was for him to believe it, he had no
other alternative. Margie was false, and she had gone away from him under
the protection of Castrani. He could have forgiven her anything but that.
If she had ceased to love him, and transferred her affections, he could
still have wished her all happiness, if she had only been frank with him.
But to profess love for him all the while she was planning to elope with
another man, was too much! His heart hardened toward her.
If there had been, in reality, as he had at first supposed, any
misunderstanding between him and her, and she had gone alone, he would
have followed her to the ends of the earth, and have had everything made
clear. But as it was now, he would not pursue her an inch. Let her go!
False and perfidious! Why should her flight ever trouble him?
But though he tried to believe her worthy of all scorn and contempt,
his heart was still very tender of her. He kissed the sweet face of the
picture he had worn so long in his bosom, before he locked it away from
his sight, and dropped some tears, that were no dishonor to his manhood,
over the half dozen elegant little trifles she had given him, before he
committed them to the flames.
There was a nine days' wonder over Miss Harrison's sudden exodus. But her
aunt was a discreet woman, and it was generally understood that Margie
had taken advantage of the pause in the fashionable season to visit some
distant relatives, and if ever any one coupled her flight and the
departure of Castrani together, it was not made the subject of remark.
Alexandrine kept what she knew to herself, and of course Archer Trevlyn
did not proclaim his own desertion.
For a week, nearly, he managed to keep about, and at the end of that time
he called at Mrs. Lee's. He wanted to question Alexandrine a little
further. The idea possessed him that in some way she might be cognizant
of Margie's destination. And though he had given the girl up, he longed
desperately to know if she were happy. He had felt strangely giddy all
day, and the heat of Mrs. Lee's parlors operated unfavorably upon him. He
was sitting on a sofa conversing with that lady and her daughter, when
suddenly he put his hand to his forehead, and sank back, pale and
speechless.
In the wildest alarm, they called a physician, who put him to bed, and
enjoined the severest quiet. Mr. Trevlyn, he said, had received a severe
shock to his nervous system, and there was imminent danger of congestive
fever of the brain.
His fears were verified. Archer did not rally, and on the second day he
was delirious. Then the womanly nature of Alexandrine Lee came out and
asserted itself. She banished all attendants from the sick room, and took
sole charge herself of the sufferer. Not even her mother would she allow
to take her place. When tempted by intense weariness to resign her post,
she would take _that stained glove_ from her bosom, and the sight of it
would banish all thought of admitting a stranger.
"No," she said to herself, "people in delirium speak of their most
cherished secrets and he shall not criminate himself. It he did that
terrible deed, only I of all the world can bring a shadow of suspicion
against him, and the secret shall never be revealed to any other."
So she sat the long days and longer nights away, by the side of this man
she loved so hopelessly, bathing his fevered brow, holding his parched
hand, and lingering fondly over the flushed, unconscious face.
He sank lower and lower day by day--so very low that the physician said
he could do no more. He must leave the case. There was nothing for it but
to wait with patience the workings of nature.
At last, the day came when the ravings of delirium subsided and a deadly
stupor intervened. It was the crisis of the disease. The sundown would
decide, Dr. Grayson said; he would be better, or death would ensue.
Alexandrine heard his opinion in stony silence. She sat by the bed's-head
now, calm and silent; her powers of self-control were infinite. Her
mother came in to watch for the change, as did several of Archer's
friends, heretofore excluded. She was not afraid for them to come;
there was no danger of Mr. Trevlyn criminating himself now. He had not
spoken or moved for twelve hours.
The time passed slowly. The sun crept down the west. The ticking of the
watch on the stand was all that broke the silence of the room. The last
sun ray departed--the west flamed with gold and crimson, and the amber
light flushed with the hue of health the white face on the pillow.
Alexandrine thought she saw a change other than that the sunset light
brought, and bent over him.
His eyes unclosed--he looked away from her to the vase of early spring
flowers on the centre-table. His lips moved--she caught the whispered
word with a fierce pang at the heart:
"Margie!"
The physician stepped forward, and sought the fluttering pulse. His face
told his decision before his lips did.
"The crisis is passed. He will live."
Yes, he would live. The suspense was over. Alexandrine's labors were
shared now, and Archer did not know how devotedly he had been tended--how
he owed his very existence to her.
He mended slowly, but by the middle of May he was able to go out. Of
course he was very grateful to the Lees, and their house was almost the
only one he visited. Alexandrine was fitful and moody. Sometimes she
received him with the greatest warmth, and then she would be cold and
distant. She puzzled Archer strangely. He wanted to be friends with her.
He felt that he owed her an immense debt of gratitude, and he desired to
treat her as he would a dear sister.
Perhaps it was because time hung so heavily on his hands that Trevlyn
went so frequently to Mrs. Lee's. Certainly he did not go to visit
Alexandrine. We all know how the habit of visiting certain places grows
upon us, without any particular cause, until we feel the necessity of
going through with the regular routine every day. He was to blame for
following up this acquaintance so closely, but he did it without any
wrong intention. He never thought it possible that any one should dream
of his being in love with Alexandrine.
But the world talked. They said it was a very pretty romance; Mr. Trevlyn
had been deserted by his lady-love, had fallen ill on account of it, and
been nursed by one whom of course he would marry. Indeed, they thought
him in duty bound to do so. In what other way could he manifest his
gratitude?
Vague whispers of this reached Trevlyn's ear, but he gave them at first
little heed. He should never marry, he said; it was sinful to wed without
love. But as he saw Alexandrine's pale face and strangely distraught
manner day by day, he came to feel as if he had in some way wronged her
though how he did not exactly understand.
One day he entered the sitting-room of Mrs. Lee with the freedom of a
privileged visitor, without rapping, and found Alexandrine in tears. He
would have retreated, but she had already seen him, and he felt that it
would be better to remain. He spoke to her kindly.
"I trust nothing has occured to distress you?"
She looked at him almost defiantly.
"Leave me!" she said, impetuously; "you, of all others, have no right
to question me!"
"Pardon me" he exclaimed, alarmed by her strange emotion, "and why not
_I_ question you?"
"Because you have caused me misery enough already--"
She stopped suddenly, and rising, was about to leave the room. He took
her hand, and closed the door she had opened, leading her to a seat.
"My dear Miss Lee, I do not comprehend you. Explain. If I have ever
injured you in any way, it has been the very thing farthest removed from
my intentions. Will you not give me a chance to defend myself?"
She blushed painfully; her embarrassment disturbed him, for he was
generous to all, and he really felt very kindly toward her.
"I cannot explain," she said, in a subdued voice. "I am sorry you came
just now. But these slanders anger me, as well as wound my feelings."
"What slanders, Miss Lee?"
Her color grew deeper. Animated by some sudden resolve, she lifted her
head proudly.
"I will tell you. Remember that you sought the information. Your coming
here has been made the subject of remark, and I have been accused of
having schemed to draw you here. You know if it be true."
His face flushed slowly. He recalled the silly stories that had some time
before reached his ears. And because of them she had suffered! This woman
whose unremitting care had saved his life! How thoughtless and cruel he
had been! He was a man of honor; if any woman's reputation had been
injured through his means, there was but one course for him to pursue.
He must make reparation. And how? For a moment his head whirled, but
glancing at the pale, distressed face before him, he made his decision.
"Alexandrine," he said, quietly, "you know just what my course has been.
You know my lowly origin--you know how life has cheated me of happiness.
You know how dear Margie Harrison was to me, and how I lost her. I loved
her with my whole soul--she will be the one love of my life time. I shall
never love another woman as I loved her. But if my name, and the position
I can give my wife, will be pleasant to you, then I ask you to accept
them, as some slight recompense for what I have made you suffer. If you
can be satisfied with the sincere respect and friendship I feel for you,
then I offer myself to you. You deserve my heart, but I have none to
give to any one. I have buried it so deep that it will never know a
resurrection."
She shuddered and grew pale. To one of her passionate nature--loving him
as she did--it was but a sorry wooing. His love she could never have. But
if she married him, she should be always near him; sometimes he would
hold her hands in his, and call her, as he did now, Alexandrine. Her
apparent struggle with herself pained him. Perhaps he guessed something
of its cause. He put his arm around her waist.
"My child," he said, kindly, "do you love me? Do you indeed care for me?
Cold and indifferent as I have been? Tell me truly, Alexandrine?"
She did tell him truly; something within urged her to let him see her
heart as it was. For a moment she put aside all her pride.
"I do love you," she said, "God only knows how dearly!"
He looked at her with gentle, pitying eyes, but he did not touch the red
lips so near his own. He could not be a hypocrite.
"I will be good to you, Alexandrine. God helping me, you shall never have
cause for complaint. I will make your life as happy as I can. I will give
you all that my life's shipwreck spared me. Will that content you? Will
you be my wife?"
Still she did not reply.
"Are you afraid to risk it?" he asked, almost sadly.
"No, I am not afraid! I will risk everything!" she answered.
Meantime, what of Margie Harrison? Through the dull, stormy day she had
been whirled along like the wind. The train was an express, and made few
stoppages. Margie took little note of anything which occurred. She sat
in her hard seat like one in a trance, and paid no heed to the lapse of
time, until the piteous whining of Leo warned her that night was near,
and the poor dog was hungry. At the first stopping-place she purchased
some bread and meat for him, but nothing for herself. She could not have
swallowed a mouthful.
Still the untiring train dashed onward. Boston was reached at last.
She got out, stood confused and bewildered, gazing around her. It was
night, and the place was strange to her. The cries of the porters and
hackmen--the bustle and dire confusion, struck a chill to her heart. The
crowd hurried hither and thither, each one intent on his own business,
and the lamps gave out a dismal light, dimmed as they were by the hanging
clouds of mist and fog. Alone in a great city! For the first time in her
life she felt the significance of the words she had so often heard. She
had never traveled a half dozen miles before, by herself, and she felt
almost as helpless as a little child.
"Carriage, ma'am?" said a hackman, touching her arm.
"Yes," she said, mechanically, and put her hand in her pocket for her
_porte-monnaie_, with a vague idea that she must pay him before she
started.
She uttered a low cry of dismay! Her pocket-book was missing! She
searched more thoroughly, but it was not to be found. Her pocket had been
picked. She turned a piteous face to the hackman.
"My money is lost, sir!" she said, "but if you will take me to a place of
shelter, I will remunerate you some way."
"Sorry to be obliged to refuse, ma'am," said the man, civilly enough,
"but I'm a poor man, with a family, and can't afford to keep my horses
for nothing."
"What is it, driver?" queried a rough voice; but in a moment a crowd had
gathered around poor, shrinking Margie, and growling, indignant Leo.
"The woman's lost her purse--"
"Oh, ho! the old story--eh? Beauty in distress. Should think they'd git
tired of playing that game!" said the coarse voice, which belonged to a
lounger and hanger-on at the depot.
"Looks rather suspicious, ma'am, for ye to be traveling on the train
alone," began the hackman; but he was interrupted by the lounger.
"That's the way they all travel. Wall, thank the Lord, I hain't so
gallant as to git taken in by every decent face I see!"
"Thank Heaven, I am not so lost to all sense of decency as to insult a
lady!" said a clear, stern voice; and a tall, distinguished-looking man
swept through the crowd, and reached Margie's side.
"Indeed, I am not mistaken!" he said, looking at her with amazement.
"Miss Harrison!"
She saw, as he lifted his hat, the frank, handsome face of Louis
Castrani. All her troubles were over--this man was a pillar of strength
to her weakness. She caught his arm eagerly, and Leo barked with joy,
recognizing a friend.
"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Castrani!"
His countenance lighted instantly. He pressed the hand on his arm.
"Thank you, my friend. What service can I render you? Where do you wish
to go? Let me act for you."
"Oh, thank you--if you only will! I was going further, but the train I
wished to take has been gone some hours, and I must stay here to-night.
And on my way, somewhere, my money has been stolen."
"Give yourself no more uneasiness. I am only too happy to be of any use
to you."
The crowd dispersed, and Castrani called a carriage, and put Margie and
Leo inside.
"Have you any choice of hotels?"
"None. I am entirely unacquainted here. You know best."
"To the ---- House," he said to the driver; and thither they were taken.
A warm room and a tempting supper were provided, but Margie could not
eat. She only swallowed a little toast, and drank a cup of tea. Castrani
came to her parlor just after she had finished, but he did not sit down.
He had too much delicacy to intrude himself upon her when accident had
thrown them together.
"I was called here on very urgent business," he said, "and shall be
obliged to attend to it to-night, but I shall return soon, and will see
you in the morning. Meanwhile, feel perfectly at home. I have engaged a
chamber-maid to attend to you, and do not be afraid to make your wants
known. Good-night, now, and pleasant dreams."
She was so weary, that she slept some, with Leo hugged tightly to her
breast; for she felt a sense of security in having this faithful friend
near her. Breakfast was served in her room, and by-and-by Castrani came
up. He spoke to her cheerfully, though he could not fail to notice that
some terrible blow had fallen upon her since last he had seen her, gay
and brilliant, at a party in New York. But he forbore to question her.
Margie appreciated his delicacy, and something impelled her to confide
to him what she had not entrusted to the descretion of any other person.
She owed him this confidence, for his disinterested kindness.
"Mr. Castrani," she said, quietly enough, outwardly, "circumstances, of
which I cannot speak, have made it necessary for me to leave New York. I
do not desire that the place of my destination shall be known to any one.
But to show you how much I appreciate your kindness, and how entirely I
trust you, I will inform you that I am going to Lightfield, in New
Hampshire, to stop an indefinite length of time with my old nurse, Mrs.
Day."
Castrani was visibly affected by this proof of her confidence.
"From me, no one shall ever know the place of your refuge," he said,
earnestly. "Your train leaves at ten. It is now nine. If you would only
permit me to see you safely to the end of your journey!"
She flushed. He read a quiet reproach in her eye.
"Pardon me. I know it may seem like officiousness, but I would try and
not be disagreeable to you. I would not even speak to you, if you desired
it should be so. But I could travel in the same car with you, and be
there to protect you, if you should need me."
"I thank you greatly. But I had rather you went no further. I shall meet
with no difficulty, I think. I shall reach Nurse Day's by sunset."
"As you will. I will not press the matter. Your pleasure shall be mine."
A little later, he assisted her from the carriage that had taken her to
the depot. Her baggage was checked--he handed her the check, and her
ticket, and then pressed into her hand a roll of bank-notes. She put them
back quietly, but he declined taking them.
"I do not give it to you--I lend it to you. You shall repay it at your
convenience."
"On these conditions, I thank you, also."
She put out her hand. He took it, resisted the inclination to press his
lips to it, and held it lightly in his.
"If you will give me permission--to call upon you--should I be in
Lightfield during your stay there--I shall be more than happy!"
She was about to refuse, but the mute pleading of his eyes deterred her.
He had been kind to her, and it could do her no harm. Probably, he would
never come to Lightfield, so she gave him the permission he asked for.
The day passed without incident, and nightfall found Margie within ten
miles of her destination. She was driven along a rough country road, to a
square farm-house--looming up white through the dark--and a moment later
she was lying, pale and exhausted, in the arms of Nurse Day.
"My blessed child!" cried the old lady; "my precious little Margie! My
old eyes will almost grow young again, after having been cheered by the
sight of ye!" And she kissed Margie again and again, while Leo expressed
his delight in true canine style--by barking vociferously, and leaping
over the chairs and tables.
Nurse Day was pleasantly situated. Her husband was a grave, staid
man who was very kind to Margie, always. The farm was a rambling
affair--extending over, and embracing in its ample limits, hill and dale,
meadow and woodland, and a portion, of a bright, swift river, on whose
bold banks it was Margie's delight to sit through the purple sunsets, and
watch the play of light and shade on the bare, rocky cliff opposite.
Nature proved a true friend to the sore heart of the girl. The breezes,
so fresh, and sweet, and clear, soothed Margie inexpressibly. The
sunshine was a message of healing; the songs of the birds carried her
back to her happy childhood. Wandering through the leafy aisles of the
forest, she seemed brought nearer to God and his mercy. Only once had
Nurse Day questioned her of the past, and then Margie had said:
"I have done with the past forever, Nurse Day. I wish it never recalled
to me. I have met with a great sorrow--one of which I cannot speak. I
came here to forget it. Never ask me anything about it. I would confide
it to you, if I could, but my word is given to another to keep silent.
I acted for what I thought best. Heaven knows if I erred, I did not err
willingly."
"Give it all into God's hands," said Nurse Day, reverently. "He knows
just what is best for us."
The days went on slowly, but they brought something of peace to Margie
Harrison. The violence of her distress passed away, and now there was
only a dull pain at her heart--a pain that must always have its abode
there.
She held no communication with any person in New York, save her aunt, and
her business agent, Mr. Farley, and her letters to them were posted in a
distant town, in a neighboring State, where Nurse Day had friends--and so
Margie's place of refuge was still a secret.
It was August now, and the weather at its hottest. Margie spent a large
portion of her time out of doors, with only Leo for a companion. She sat,
one lovely afternoon, on the bank of the river, dividing her time between
the charming panorama of sunshine and shadow before her, and a book of
poems in her lap, when there was a step at her side. She looked up, and
saw the face of Louis Castrani.
"Miss Harrison, you will, I trust, excuse me for seeking you here. But my
wish to see you was so strong, that, on my way to the White Mountains, I
left my party, and turned aside here, to gratify the desire. You know you
gave me permission?"
"I did; but I hardly thought you would take advantage of it."
"Perhaps I ought not to have done so. Indeed, I tried hard not to. Are
you very angry?"
"No, I am not angry at all. I am glad to see you." She held out her hand.
"So is Leo, too--only see him caper."
The dog was leaping upon Mr. Castrani, with the liveliest demonstrations
of joy. He patted the silky head.
"It is something to be welcomed by a brute, Miss Harrison; their
instincts are seldom at fault, I believe. Have you been well, Miss
Harrison?"
"Very well, thank you. And you? But I need not ask. Your looks answer for
you. When did you leave New York?"
"I have been in New York only a fortnight since I last saw you. Business
has kept me elsewhere. I came from New York three days ago. What a
beautiful spot you have hidden yourself in!"
"I am pleased to hear you say so. Isn't it lovely? But you must tell me
about home. How are all my friends?"
"They are well. How mellowy the sunshine falls on the rough crags
opposite, and what a picture for a painter to transfer to canvas!"
"Yes, I have wished I were an artist, over and over a gain. But I have no
talent in that direction. My friends are all well, you say? What of Miss
Lee? Did you see her?"
"Yes. She is well. What are you reading?" lifting the book from the
ground where it had fallen.
Margie turned suddenly upon him, and regarded him searchingly.
"Why do you evade answering my questions, Mr. Castrani? It is natural
that I should want to hear something of the home from which I have been
so long away, is it not? Why do you refuse to satisfy my reasonable
curiosity on that subject?"
Castrani's handsome face clouded--he looked at her with tender pity in
his eyes.
"Miss Harrison, why will you press me further? Your friends are all
well."
"I know. But there is something behind that. Tell it to me at once."
"I cannot--indeed, I cannot! You must hear it from some other lips.
I would rather die, than cause you one single pang of sorrow!"
"You are very kind, Mr. Castrani--you mean generously--but I want to
know." Some subtle instinct seemed to tell her what she was to hear--for
she added, "Is it of Miss Lee?"
"I told you Miss Lee was well."
"Mr. Castrani. I have given you more of my confidence than I have ever
bestowed on any other person, because I respect you above all men, and
because I have perfect confidence in your honor. Has this matter, of
which you hesitate to tell me, anything to do with--with Mr. Archer
Trevlyn?"
Her voice sank to a whisper, before the sentence was finished, for she
had never spoken his name since that fearful night on which his guilt had
been revealed to her.
"I will reply to your question by asking another; and, if it seems
impertinent, remember that it is not so intended, and that I do not ask
it from any vulgar feeling of curiosity."
"You can ask nothing impertinent, Mr. Castrani," she replied, earnestly.
"Thank you. I do not intend to. Are you betrothed to Archer Trevlyn?"
She grew very pale, but her eyes met his fearlessly.
"I _was_ once. But it is all over, now," with a dreary sigh, that was
like the breath of the autumn wind through the dead leaves.
"Before you left New York--was it over before that?"
"Yes, before I left New York. It was why I left there. I cannot tell you
how it was--I can never tell any human being. But a terrible necessity
arose which forced us apart."
"Did he--did Arch Trevlyn desert you, Miss Harrison?" asked Castrani, his
brow contracting, his dark eyes glowing with indignation.
"No; it was my hand that severed the engagement. Do not blame him for
that. It was impossible that it should be fulfilled."
"You, Miss Harrison? You broke the engagement?" he asked, eagerly.
Perhaps she read something in the beautiful hope that sprung up in his
heart from the glad light in his eyes, and she crushed it at once.
"Yes, I. But not because I had ceased to love him. No, no. He
was--is--and will be always, the one love of my lifetime. I shall
never love another. Now, I have trusted in you--be frank and free
with me."
"Well--since you ask it, Mr. Trevlyn and Miss Lee are to be married in
September."
"To Miss Lee--married to Miss Lee? Great Heaven! And she is aware of
his--What am I saying? What did I say? O, Mr. Castrani, excuse me--I am
so--surprised--" She groped blindly for something to cling to, fell
forward, and he received her senseless form in his arms.
He held her silently, a moment, his face wearing a look of unutterable
love and sadness; then he put her down on the grass, and brought water
in a large leaf from the stream. He bathed her forehead, tenderly as a
mother might, murmuring over her words of gentleness and affection.
"My poor Margie! my poor little darling!"
He pressed the little icy hands in his, but he did not kiss the lips
he would have given half his life to have felt upon his. He was too
honorable to take advantage of her helplessness. She revived after a
while, and met his eyes, as he knelt beside her.
"Are you better?" he asked, gently.
"Yes, it is over now. I am sorry to have troubled you. I must depend on
you to go to the house with me. Nurse Day will be glad to welcome you.
And I must ask you not to alarm her by alluding to my sudden illness. I
am quite well now."
He gave her his arm, and they went up to the house together followed by
Leo.
* * * * *
Archer Trevlyn and Alexandrine Lee were married in September. It was a
very quiet wedding, the bridegroom preferring that there should be no
parade or show on the occasion. Alexandrine and her mother both desired
that it should take place in the fashionable church, where they
worshipped, but they yielded to the wishes of Mr. Trevlyn. He deserved
some deference, Mrs. Lee declared, for having behaved so handsomely.
His presents to his bride were superb. A set of diamonds, that were
a little fortune in themselves, and a settlement of three thousand a
year--pin-money. The brown-stone house was furnished, and there was no
more elegant establishment in the city.
Trevlyn House, the fine old residence of the late John Trevlyn, was
closed. Only the old butler and his wife remained in a back-wing, to air
the rooms occasionally, and keep the moths out of the upholstery. For
some reasons, unexplained even to himself, Archer never took his wife
there. Perhaps the quiet room too forcibly reminded him of the woman he
had loved and lost.
Alexandrine's ambition was satisfied. At last, she was the wife of the
man whose love and admiration she had coveted since her first
acquaintance with him. From her heart she believed him guilty of the
murder of Paul Linmere; but in spite of it, she had married him. She
loved him intensely enough to pardon even that heinous crime.
Her husband's admiration Alexandrine possessed, but she soon came to
realize that he had told her the truth, when he said his heart was buried
too deep to know a resurrection. He was kind to her--very gentle, and
kind, and generous--for it was not in Archer Trevlyn's nature to be
unkind to anything--and he felt that he owed her all respect and
attention, in return for her love. Her every wish was gratified. Horses,
carriages, servants, dress, jewelry--everything that money could
purchase--waited her command, but not what she craved more than all--_his
love_.
He never kissed her, never took her hands in his, or held her to him when
he said good-by, as he frequently did, for several days' absence on
matters of business. He never called her Alexandrine--it was always Mrs.
Trevlyn; and through the long winter evenings, when they were not at some
ball or party, and sat by their splendid fireside, he never put his head
in her lap, and let her soft fingers caress his hair, as she had seen
other husbands do.
In September, Louis Castrani again appeared in New York society. His
appearance revived the old story of his devotion to Margaret Harrison,
and people began to wonder why she staid away from home so long.
As soon as he heard of Castrani's arrival, Archer Trevlyn sought him out.
He felt that he had a right to know if his suspicions touching Margie
were correct.
Castrani received him coldly but courteously. Trevlyn was not to be
repelled, but went to the point at once.
"Mr. Castrani," he said, "I believe I have to deal with a man of honor,
and I trust that you will do me the favor of answering the questions I
may ask, frankly."
"I shall be happy to answer any inquiries which Mr. Trevlyn may propound,
provided they are not impertinent," replied Castrani, haughtily.
Trevlyn hesitated. He dreaded to have his suspicions confirmed, and he
feared that if this man spoke the truth, such would be the case.
"I am listening, Mr. Trevlyn," remarked Castrani.
"Excuse me. In order to make you understand my position, I must beg you
to indulge me in a little retrospection. You are, doubtless, aware that
at one time I was engaged to Miss Margaret Harrison?"
"Such was the rumor, sir."
"It was correct. I loved her deeply, fondly, with my whole soul--just as
I love her still--in spite of all."
"Mr. Trevlyn," said Castrani, with cold reproof in his voice, "you have a
wife."
"I am aware of it, but that does not change my feelings. I have tried to
kill all regard for Margaret Harrison, but it is impossible. I can
control it, but I cannot make it die. My wife knows it all--I told her
freely--and knowing it, she was willing to bear my name. For some reason,
unknown to me, unexplained by Margaret, she cast me off. I had seen her
only the day before the fatal note reached me--had held her in my arms,
and felt her kiss upon my lips." He stopped, controlling his emotion, and
went on resolutely. "The next day I received a letter, from her--a brief,
cold, almost scornful letter. She renounced me utterly--she would never
meet me again, but as a stranger. She need make no explanation, she said;
my own conscience would tell me why she could no longer be anything to
me. As if I had committed some crime. I should have sought her, from one
end of the earth to the other, and won from her an explanation of her
rejection, had it not been for the force of circumstances, which revealed
to me that she left for the North, in the early express--with you--or
equivalent to that. She entered the train at the same time, and you were
both in the same car. That fact, coupled with your well-known devotion to
her, and her renunciation of me, satisfied me that she had fled from me,
to the arms of--another lover!"
"Villain!" cried Castrani, starting from his chair his face scarlet with
indignation. "If it were not a disgrace to use violence upon a guest, I
would thrash you soundly! You loved Margaret Harrison, and yet believed
that damnable falsehood of her! Out upon such love! She is, and was, as
pure as the angels! Yes, you say truly, I was devoted to her. I would
have given my life--yea, my soul's salvation, for her love! But she never
cared for me. I never enticed her to do evil--I would not, if I could,
and I could not, if I would! Who repeated this vile slander? Show him to
me, and by Heaven, his blood shall wipe out the stain!"
All Trevlyn's pride and passion left him. His face lost its rigid
tenseness, his eyes grew moist. He forgave Castrani's insults, because
he told him Margaret was pure. He put out his hands, and grasped those
of his companion.
"O, sir," he said, "I thank you--I thank you! You have made me as happy
as it is now possible for me to become. It is like going back to heaven,
after a long absence, to know that she was pure--that I was not deceived
in her. O Margie! Margie! my wronged Margie! God forgive me for indulging
such a thought of you!"
Castrani's hard face softened a little, as he witnessed the utter
abandonment of the proud man before him.
"You may well ask God to forgive you," he said. "You deserve the depths
of perdition for harboring in your heart a thought against the purity of
that woman. Archer Trevlyn, had she loved me as she did you, I would have
cut off my right hand before I would have entertained a suspicion of sin
in her! It is true, she went North on the same train as I did, but I did
not know it until the journey was ended. Previous to that time, I had not
seen her for more than a fortnight, and I did not know that she was near
me, until in Boston my attention was attracted by a crowd of 'roughs,'
gathered around a lady and a greyhound. The lady had lost her
_porte-monnaie_, and the crowd made some insulting remarks which I took
the liberty of resenting, and when I saw the lady's face, to my amazement
I recognized Margaret Harrison!"
"And you protected her? You gave her money and took her to a place of
safety?" said Trevlyn, anxiously.
"Of course. As I should have done by any other lady--but more especially
for her. I took her to a hotel, and on the morrow saw her start on her
journey. I would have gone on with her, but she declined my escort."
"O, I thank you--I thank you, so much! I shall be your friend always, for
that. You will tell me where she is?"
"No. I cannot."
"Cannot. Does that imply that you will not?"
"It does."
"Then you know her present place of sojourn?"
"I do. But she does not desire the knowledge to become general. I have
pledged my word to her not to reveal it. Neither is it best for you to
know."
"You are right. It is not. I might be unable to hinder myself from
seeking her. And that could do no good. I know that she is innocent. That
shall suffice me. Only tell me she is well, and agreeably situated."
"She is both. More, I think she is at peace. She is with those who love
her."
"I thank you for bearing with me. I shall be happier for knowing she was
not false to me. Whatever might have caused her to break the engagement,
it was not because she loved another. Good-by, Mr. Castrani."
He wrung the hand of the Cuban warmly, and departed.
* * * * *
It was an afternoon in May. Everything without was smiling and at rest,
but Mrs. Trevlyn was cross and out of humor. Perhaps any lady will say
that she had sufficient reason. Everything had gone wrong. The cook was
sick, and the dinner a failure; her dressmaker had disappointed her in
not finishing her dress for the great ball at Mrs. Fitz Noodle's, that
evening; and Annie, her maid, was down with one of her nervous headaches,
and she would be obliged to send for a hair-dresser.
Louis Castrani was a guest in the house, by Archer's invitation--for
the two gentlemen had become friends, warmly and deeply attached to each
other, and Mrs. Trevlyn could not help fretting over the unfortunate
condition of her _cuisine_.
She was looking very cross, as she sat in the back parlor, adjoining the
tasteful little morning-room, where she spent most of her time, and where
the gentlemen were in the habit of taking their books and newspapers when
they desired it quiet. If she had known that Mr. Castrani was at that
moment lying on the lounge in the morning-room, the door of which was
slightly ajar, she might have dismissed that unbecoming frown, and put
her troubles aside. Mr. Trevlyn entered, just as she had for the
twentieth time that day arrived at the conclusion that she was the most
sorely afflicted woman in the world, and his first words did not tend to
give her any consolation.
"I am very sorry, Mrs. Trevlyn, that I am to be deprived of the privilege
of attending the ball to-night. It is particularly annoying."
"What do you mean, Mr. Trevlyn?"
"I am obliged to go to Philadelphia on important business, and must leave
in this evening's train. I did not know of the necessity until a few
hours ago."
Mrs. Trevlyn was just in the state to be wrought upon by trifles.
"Always business," she exclaimed, pettishly. "I am sick of the word."
"Business before pleasure, Mrs. Trevlyn. But, really this is an important
affair. It is connected with the house of Renshaw and Selwyn, which went
under last week. The firm were under large obligations to--"
"Don't talk business to me, Mr. Trevlyn. I do not understand such
things--neither do I desire to. I only hope it _is_ business you are
going for!"
Mr. Trevlyn looked at her in some surprise.
"You only hope it _is_ business?" he said, inquiringly. "I do not
comprehend."
"I might have said that I hoped it was not a woman who called you from
your wife!"
The moment the words were spoken she repented their utterance, but the
mischief was already done.
"Mrs. Trevlyn, I shall request you to unsay the insinuation conveyed in
your words. They are unworthy of you and a shame to me."
"And I shall decline to unsay them. I dare affirm they are true enough."
"What do you mean, madam? I am, I trust, a man of honor. You are my wife,
and I am true to you. I have never loved but one woman, and she is dead
to me."
The allusion to the old love was extremely unfortunate just at this time,
for Mrs. Trevlyn was just sore enough to be deeply wounded by it, and
angry enough to throw back taunt for taunt.
"A man of honor!" she ejaculated, scornfully. "Honor, forsooth! Archer
Trevlyn, do you call yourself that?"
"I do; and I defy any man living to prove the contrary!" answered Archer,
proudly.
"You defy any _man_! Do you, also, defy any woman? Tell me, if you can,
whose glove this is?" And she pulled from her bosom the blood-stained
glove, and held it up before him.
He looked at it, flushed crimson, and trembled perceptibly. She laughed
scornfully.
"Archer Trevlyn, your guilt is known to me! It has been known to me ever
since the fatal night on which Paul Linmere met his death. I was there
that night, by the lonely graveyard. I saw you kiss _her_ hand! I heard
the dreadful blow, listened to the smothered groan, and saw through the
gloom the guilty murderer as he fled from the scene of crime! When the
victim was discovered, I went first, because I feared he might have left
behind him something that might fix his identity--and so he had. This
glove I found lying upon the ground, by the side of the wretched
victim--marked with the name of the murderer--stained with the blood of
the murdered! I hid it away; I would have died sooner than it should have
been torn from me, because I was foolish enough to love this man, whose
hand was red with murder! Archer Trevlyn, you took the life of Paul
Linmere, and thus removed the last obstacle that stood between you and
Margaret Harrison!"
Trevlyn's face had grown white as death while she had been speaking, but
it was more like the white heat of passion, than like the pallor of
detected guilt. His rigid lips were stern and pale; his dark eyes fairly
shot lightnings. He looked at his wife, as though he would read her very
soul.
"Alexandrine!" he said, hoarsely, "you believed this of me? You deemed me
guilty of the crime of murder, and yet you married me?"
"Yes, I married you. I was not so conscientious as your saintly Margaret.
She would not marry a man who had shed blood--even though he had done it
for love of her!"
Trevlyn caught her arm fiercely.
"Madam, do you mean to say that this shameful story ever came to the ears
of Margie Harrison?"
"Yes, she knew it. I told it to her myself! Kill me, if you like," she
added, seeing his fearful face; "it will not be your first crime!"
He forced himself to be calm.
"When did you make this revelation to Margaret?"
"The night before she left New York--the night she was to have gone to
the opera with you. I deemed it my duty. I did not do it to separate you,
though I am willing to confess that I desired you to be separated. I knew
that Margaret would sooner die than marry you, if the knowledge of your
crime was possessed by her."
"And she--Margaret--believed me guilty?"
"Why should she not? Any jury of twelve impartial men would have
committed you on the evidence I could have brought. You were in love
with Miss Harrison. She was under a solemn obligation to marry Mr.
Linmere--yet she loved you. Nothing save his death could release her.
You were, then, at night in a lonely graveyard, where none of your kin
were slumbering. There, at that hour, the murder was done, and after its
commission, you stole forth silently, guiltily. By the side of the
murdered man, was found your glove, stained with his blood; and a little
way from his dead body, a handkerchief, bearing the single initial 'A.'
Whose name commences with that letter? Could anything be clearer or more
conclusive?"
"And you believe me guilty?"
"I do."
He took a step toward her. She never forgot the dreadful look upon his
face.
"I scorn to make any explanation. I might, perhaps, clear myself of this
foul accusation, but I will make no effort to do so. But not another day
will I live beneath the same roof with the woman who believed me guilty
of murder, and yet sunk herself so low as to become my wife!"
"As you please," she said, defiantly. "I should be quite as happy were it
so."
He bowed coldly, courteously--went out, and closed the door behind him.
The sound struck to the heart of his wife like a knell. She staggered
back, and fell upon a chair.
Had she been mad? She had wounded and angered him, beyond all hope of
pardon--him, whom in spite of everything, she held more precious than the
whole world! She had lost his respect--lost forever all chance of winning
his love. And she _had_ eagerly cherished the sweet hope that some time
he might forget the old dream, and turn to the new reality. But it was
past!
She went up to her chamber, and locking the door, threw herself, dressed
as she was, on the bed. How long must this continue? How long would he
remain away? His business would not, probably, keep him more than a few
days, and then, surely, he would return. And she would throw herself at
his feet, acknowledge her fault, and plead--yes, beg for his forgiveness.
Anything, only to have peace between them once more!
She could not write to him, for he had not left his address. The next
morning, she went down to the store, but they knew nothing of his
destination, or his probable time of absence. So all she could do was
to return home and wait.
A week passed--ten days--and still he did not return, and no tidings of
him had reached his agonized wife.