The Fatal Glove by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

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Transcriber's note: After "The Fatal Glove" is a short story titled
"Constitutionally Bashful." The author was not
identified.

THE FATAL GLOVE

by

CLARA AUGUSTA

Author of "The Rugg Documents," "Patience Pettigrew's Perplexities," etc.

1892

PART I.

Arch Trevlyn had had a good day. Business had been brisk. The rain had
fallen steadily since daybreak, and the street-crossings in New York were
ankle deep in mud. The little street-sweeper's arms ached fearfully, but
his pocket was full of pennies, interspersed with an occasional
half-dime.

The clouds were breaking in the west, and a gleam of sunshine gilded the
tall tower of St. John's. Arch shouldered his broom, and whistled a merry
tune as he took his way homeward. His bright dark eyes sparkled as he
thought how the sight of his earnings would cheer his feeble mother. She
could have tea now, with real milk and some sugar in it, and an orange,
too. Only yesterday she was wishing she had an orange.

Arch's way led past a horticultural store, and his eye wandered longingly
over the display of flowers in the window. He must have just one wee
white rose, because, only the Sabbath before, while he sat at his
mother's feet, she had wept in telling him about the sweet roses that
used to grow under the window of the little country cottage where her
happy youth had been spent.

The white rose would be like bringing back to her ever so little a bit
of the happy past. It could not cost much, and Arch felt wealthy as a
prince. He stepped into the store and asked the price of a white rose.
The clerk answered him roughly:

"Get out of the store, you young rascal! You want to steal something!"

"I am not a thief, sir," said the boy, proudly, his sallow cheeks
crimsoning hotly. "I want a rose for my mother. I guess I can pay for
it!"

"It's half a dollar, if you want it," said the man, sneeringly. "Show
your money, or take yourself off this minute!"

Archie's countenance fell. He had not half a dollar in all. He turned
sadly away, his head drooping, his lip quivering. Oh, how very hard it
was to be poor, he thought, looking enviously at the costly carriage,
with a pair of splendid grays, standing before the door.

"Stop, little boy!" said a sweet voice from somewhere among the roses and
heliotropes. "Is your mother sick?"

Arch removed his cap--some inborn spirit of courtesy prompting him to be
reverent toward the glorious vision which burst upon him. For a moment he
thought he saw an angel, and almost expected that she would unfold her
silvery wings, and vanish in a golden cloud from his sight. But after the
first glimpse he saw that she was a little girl about his own age--eight
or nine years, perhaps--with yellow curls, deep hazel eyes, a mouth like
a rosebud, and a blue silk frock. She repeated the question:

"Is your mother sick, little boy?"

"No, she is not sick, for she always sits up, and sews. But she is not
strong, and her cheeks never have any color in them, like yours."

"And does she love flowers?"

"Yes, she loves them dearly. She kisses them always, when she has any.
And that's not often."

"Does she? That's nice. Just like I do!" said the little girl, in a
pleased voice. "Mr. Burns"--to the gruff clerk--"here is a dollar. Give
me some real nice roses, and two or three sweet pinks. The lady shall
have some flowers. Tell her I sent them."

"Who shall I say sent them?"

"Margie Harrison. Will she know me, think?"

"I guess not. But it's all the same. I shall tell her you are one of the
angels, any way. She knows about them, for she's told me ever so much
about them."

The little girl laughed, and gave him the flowers.

"Don't soil them with your grimy hands," she said, a little saucily; "and
when you get home--let's see, what's your name?"

"Archer Trevlyn."

"Why, what a nice name! Just like names in a storybook. I know some
elegant people by the name of Trevlyn. But they live in a big house, and
have flowers enough of their own. So they can't be your folks, can they?"

"No, they're not my folks," replied the boy, with a touch of bitterness
in his voice.

"Well, Archer when you get home, you wash your face, do! It's so dirty!"

The boy flushed hotly. If one of his companions had said that to him, he
would have knocked him down instantly. But he forgave everything this
little girl said, because she was so beautiful and so kind.

"I am a street-sweeper, miss."

"Oh, that accounts for it, then. It's very muddy to-day, and you must be
tired. Hark! there's Florine calling me. Good-by, Archer."

She vanished, and a moment later the boy saw her disappear within the
glittering carriage, which, loaded down with fragrant blossoms, was
driven slowly away. He stood a little while looking after it, then,
pulling his cap down over his eyes, and grasping the stems of her flowers
tightly in his little purple hand, he started for home.

Home! It could hardly be called so, and yet it was home to Archer. His
mother was there--the dear mother who was all the world to him. It was in
a poor part of the city--an old, tumble-down wooden house, swarming with
tenants, teeming with misery, filth, and crime.

Up a crazy flight of steps, and turning to the right, Arch saw that the
door of his mother's room was half-way open, and the storm had beaten in
on the floor. It was all damp and dismal, and such an indescribable air
of desolation over anything! Archer's heart beat a little slower as he
went in. His mother sat in an arm-chair by the window, an uncovered box
in her lap, and a miniature locket clasped in her hand.

"Oh, mother! mother dearest!" cried Arch, holding up the flowers, "only
see what I have got! An angel gave them to me! A very angel, with hair
like the sunshine, and a blue frock, all real silk! And I have got my
pocket full of pennies, and you shall have an orange, mother, and ever
so many nice things besides. See, mother dear!"

He displayed a handful of coin, but she did not notice him. He looked at
her through the gloom of the twilight, and a feeling of terrible awe
stole over him. He crept to her side, and touched her cheek with his
finger. It was cold as ice. A mortal pallor overspread his face; the
pennies and the flowers rolled unheeded to the floor.

"Dead! dead! My mother is dead!" he cried.

He did not display any of the passionate grief which is natural to
childhood--there were no tears in his feverish eyes. He took her cold
hand in his own, and stood there all night long, smoothing back the
beautiful hair, and talking to her as one would talk to a sick child.

It was thus that Mat Miller found him the next morning. Mat was a little
older than himself--a street-sweeper also. She and Arch had always been
good friends; they sympathized with each other when bad luck was on them,
and they cheered lustily when fortune smiled.

"Hurrah, Arch!" cried Mat, as she burst into the room; "it rains again,
and we shall get a harvest! Good gracious, Arch! is--your--mother--dead?"

"Hush!" said the boy, putting down the cold hand; "I have been trying to
warm her all night, but it is no use. Only just feel how like ice my
hands are. I wish I was as cold all over, and then they would let me stay
with my mother."

"Oh, Arch!" cried the girl, sinking down beside him on the desolate
hearth, "it's a hard world to live in! I wonder, if, when folks be dead,
they have to sweep crossings, and be kicked and cuffed round by old
grandmas when they don't get no pennies? If they don't then I wish I
was dead, too, Arch!"

"I suppose it's wicked, Mat. _She_ used to say so. She told me never to
get tired of waiting for God's own time--her very words, Mat. Well, now
her time has come, and I am all alone--all alone! Oh, mother--mother!" He
threw himself down before the dead woman, and his form shook with
emotion, but not a tear came to his eyes. Only that hard, stony look
of hopeless despair. Mat crept up to him and took his head in her lap,
smoothing softly the matted chestnut hair.

"Don't take on so, Arch! don't!" she cried the tears running down over
her sunburnt face. "I'll be a mother to ye, Arch! I will indeed! I know
I'm a little brat, but I love you, Arch, and some time, when we get
bigger, I'll marry you, Arch, and we'll live in the country, where
there's birds and flowers, and it's just like the Park all round. Don't
feel so--don't!"

Arch pressed the dirty little hands that fluttered about him--for, next
to his mother, he loved Mat.

"I will go out now and call somebody," she said; "there Mrs. Hill and
Peggy Sullivan, if she ain't drunk. Either of them will come!" And a few
moments later the room was filled with the rude neighbors.

They did not think it necessary to call a coroner. She had been ailing
for a long time. Heart complaint, the physician said--and she had
probably died in one of those spasms to which she was subject. So they
robed her for the grave, and when all was done, Arch stole in and laid
the pinks and roses on her breast.

"Oh, mother! mother!" he said, bending over her, in agony, "she sent them
to you, and you shall have them! I thought they would make you so happy!
Well, maybe they will now! Who can tell?"

The funeral was a very poor one. A kind city missionary prayed over the
remains, and the hearse was followed to Potter's Field only by Mat and
Arch--ragged and tattered, but sincere mourners.

When they came back Mat took Arch's hand and led him into the wretched
den she called home.

"You shall stay here, Arch, with Grandma Rugg and me. She said you might
if you'd be a good boy, and not plague the cat. Grandma's a rough one,
but she ain't kicked me since I tore her cap off. I'm too big to be
kicked now. Sit down, Arch; you know you can't stay at home now."

Yes, to be sure he could not stay there any longer. No one knew that any
better than Arch. The landlord had warned him out that very morning. A
half-quarter's rent was still due, and the meagre furniture would barely
suffice to satisfy his claim. Hitherto, Mrs. Trevlyn had managed to pay
her expenses, but, now that she was gone, Arch knew that it was more than
folly to think of renting a room. But he could not suppress a cry of pain
when they came to take away the things; and when they laid their rude
hands on the chair in which his mother died, poor Arch could endure no
more, but fled out into the street, and wandered about till hunger and
weariness forced him back to the old haunt.

He accepted the hospitality of Grandma Rugg, and made his home with her
and Mat. The influences which surrounded him were not calculated to
develop good principles, and Arch grew rude and boisterous, like the
other street boys. He heard the vilest language--oaths were the rule
rather than the exception in Grigg Court, as the place was called--and
gambling, and drunkenness, and licentiousness abounded. Still, it was
singular how much evil Arch shunned.

But there was growing within him a principle of bitter hatred, which one
day might embitter his whole existence. Perhaps he had cause for it; he
thought he had, and cherished it with jealous care, lest it should be
annihilated as the years went on.

From his mother's private papers he had learned much of her history that
he had before been ignorant of. She had never spoken to him very freely
of the past. She knew how proud and high his temper was, and acted with
wisdom in burying the story of her wrongs in her own breast.

His father, Hubert Trevlyn, had come of a proud family. There was no
bluer blood in the land than that which ran in the veins of the Trevlyns.
Not very far back they had an earl for their ancestor, and, better than
that, the whole long lineage had never been tarnished by a breath of
dishonor.

Hubert was the sole child of his father, and in him were centred many
bright and precious hopes. His father was a kind parent, though a stern
one, who would never brook a shade of disobedience in this boy upon whom
his fondest hopes and aspirations were fixed.

When Hubert was about twenty-four he went into the country for his
health, which was never very robust, and while there he met Helen
Crayton. It was a case of love at first sight, but none the less pure and
steadfast account. Helen was an orphan--a poor seamstress, but beautiful
and intelligent beyond any woman he had ever met. They loved, and they
would not be cheated out of their happiness by any worldly opposition.
Hubert wrote to his father, informing him of his love for Helen, and
asking his consent to their union. Such a letter as he received in
return! It bade him give up the girl at once and return home. If he
ever spoke to her again he was disowned forever! He might consider
himself houseless and homeless.

Hubert had some of the proud Trevlyn blood in his composition, and this
letter roused it thoroughly. A week afterward he was the husband of Helen
Crayton. He took his young wife to the city, and, having something of a
talent for painting, he opened a studio, hoping to receive sufficient
patronage from his friends to support his family in comfort.

But he had not rightfully calculated the extent of his father's hatred.
He made himself the evil genius of his disobedient son; and, in
consequence, nothing Hubert touched prospered. Mr. Trevlyn destroyed the
confidence of his friends in him; he circulated scandalous reports of
his wife; he made the public to look with suspicious eyes upon the
unfortunate pair, and took the honestly earned bread out of their very
mouths. From bad to worse it went on, until, broken in health and
spirits, Hubert made an appeal to his father. It was a cold, wet night,
and he begged for a little food for his wife and child. They were
literally starving! Begged of his own father, and was refused with
curses. Not only refused, but kicked like a dog from the door of his
childhood's home! There was a fearful storm that night, and Hubert did
not come back. All night his young wife sat waiting for him, hushing the
feeble cries of the weary infant upon her breast. With the dawn, she
muffled herself and child in a shawl, and went forth to seek him. Half
way from her wretched home to the palatial mansion of Mr. Trevlyn she
found her husband, stone dead, and shrouded in the snow--the tender,
pitiful snow, that covered him and his wretchedness from sight.

After that, people who knew Mr. Trevlyn said that he grew more fretful
and disagreeable. His hair was bleached white as the snow, his hands
shook, and his erect frame was bowed and bent like that of a very aged
man. His wife, Hubert's mother, pined away to a mere shadow, and before
the lapse of a year she was a hopeless idiot.

Helen Trevlyn took up the burden of her life, refusing to despair because
of her child. It was a hard struggle for her, and she lived on, until, as
we have seen, when Archer was nine years of age, she died.

When all this was known to Archer Trevlyn he was almost beside himself
with passion. If he had possessed the power, he would have wiped the
whole Trevlyn race out of existence. He shut himself up in his desolate
garret with the tell-tale letters and papers which had belonged to his
mother, and there, all alone, he took a fearful oath of vengeance. The
wrongs of his parents should yet be visited on the head of the man who
had been so cruelly unpitying. He did not know what form his revenge
might take, but, so sure as he lived, it should fall some time!

* * * * *

Five years passed. Archer was fourteen years of age. He had left the
street-sweeping business some time before, at the command of Grandma
Rugg, and entered a third-class restaurant as an under-waiter. It was not
the best school in the world for good morals. The people who frequented
the Garden Rooms, as they were called, were mostly of a low class, and
all the interests and associations surrounding Arch were bad. But perhaps
he was not one to be influenced very largely by his surroundings. So the
Garden Rooms, if they did not make him better, did not make him worse.

In all these years he had kept the memory of Margie Harrison fresh and
green, though he had not seen her since the day his mother died. The
remembrance of her beauty and purity kept him oftentimes from sin; and
when he felt tempted to give utterance to oaths, her soft eyes seemed to
come between him and temptation.

One day he was going across the street to make change for a customer,
when a stylish carriage came dashing along. The horses shied at some
object, and the pole of the carriage struck Arch and knocked him down.
The driver drew in the horses with an imprecation.

Arch picked himself up, and stood recovering his scattered senses,
leaning against a lamp-post.

"Served ye right!" said the coachman roughly. "You'd no business to be
running befront of folkses carriages."

"Stop!" said a clear voice inside the coach. "What has occurred, Peter?"

"Only a ragged boy knocked down; but he's up again all right. Shall
I drive on? You will be late to the concert."

"I shall survive it, if I am," said the voice. "Get down and open the
door. I must see if the child is hurt."

"It's no child, miss; it is a boy older than yourself," said the man,
surlily obeying the command.

Margie Harrison descended to the pavement. From the sweet voice, Arch had
almost expected to see _her_. A flush of grateful admiration lit up his
face. She beamed upon him like a star from the depths of the clouds.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, kindly. "It was very careless of Peter to let
the carriage strike you. Allow us to take you home."

"Thank you," he said. "I am close to where I work, and I am not hurt. It
is only a trifling bruise."

Something familiar about him seemed to strike her; she looked at him with
a strangely puzzled face, but he gave her no light.

"Is there nothing we can do for you?" she asked, at length.

A great presumption almost took his breath away. He gave it voice on the
moment, afraid if he waited he should lack the courage.

"If you will give me the cluster of bluebells in your belt--"

She looked surprised, hesitated a moment, then laid them in his hand. He
bowed, and was lost in the crowd.

That night when he got home he found Mat worse. She had been failing for
a long time. She was a large girl now, with great preternaturally bright
eyes, and a spot of crimson in each hollow cheek.

It was more than three months since she had been able to do anything, and
Grandma Rugg was very harsh and severe with her in consequence. There
were black and blue places on her shoulders now where she had been
beaten, but Arch did not know it. Mat never spoke to him about her
sufferings, because it distressed him so, and made him very angry with
the old woman.

He went in and sat down on the straw beside Mat; and almost before he
knew it he was telling her about Margie Harrison. He always brought all
his joys and sorrows to Mat now, just as he used to carry them to his
mother.

The girl listened intently, the spots on her face growing deeper and
wider. She looked at the bluebells wistfully, but would not touch them.
Arch offered her a spray. She shook her head sadly.

"No," she said, "they are not for me. Keep them, Arch. Some time, I
think, you will be rich and happy, and have all the flowers and beautiful
things you wish."

"If I ever am, Mat, you shall be my queen, and dress in gold and silver!"
answered the boy, warmly; "and never do any more heavy work to make your
hands hard."

"You are very good, Arch," she said. "I thank you, but I shall not be
there, you know. I think I am going away--going where I shall see my
mother, and your mother, too. Arch, and where all the world will be full
of flowers! Then I shall think of you, Arch, and wish I could send you
some."

"Mat, dear Mat! don't talk so strangely!" said the boy, clasping her hot
hands in his. "You must not think of going away! What _should_ I do
without you?"

She smiled, and touched her lips to his hand, which had stolen under her
head, and lay so near her cheek.

"You would forget me, Arch. I mean after a time, and I should want you
to. But I love you better than anything else in all the world! And it is
better that I should die. A great deal better! Last night I dreamed it
was. Your mother came and told me so. Do you know how jealous I have been
of that Margie Harrison? I have watched you closely. I have seen you kiss
a dead rose that I knew she gave you. And I longed to see her so much,
that I have waited around the splendid house where she lives, and seen
her time and again come out to ride, with the beautiful dresses, and the
white feather in her hat, and the wild roses on her cheeks. And my heart
ached with such a hot, bitter pain! But it's all over now, Arch: I am not
jealous now. I love her and you--both of you together. If I do go away,
I want you to think kindly of me, and--and--good-night, Arch--dear Arch.
I am so tired."

He gathered her head to his bosom, and kissed her lips.

Poor little Mat! In the morning, when Arch came down, she had indeed gone
away--drifted out with the tide and with the silent night.

After Mat's death the home at Grandma Rugg's became insupportable to
Arch. He could not remain there. The old woman was crosser than ever,
and, though he gave her every penny of his earnings, she was not
satisfied.

So Arch took lodgings in another part of the city, quite as poor a place,
but there no one had the right to grumble at him. Still, because she was
some relation to Mat, he gave Grandma Rugg full half of his money, but he
never remained inside her doors longer than necessity demanded.

In his new lodgings he became acquainted with a middle-aged man who
represented himself as a retired army officer. His name was John Sharp--a
sleek, keen-eyed, smooth-tongued individual, who never boasted or
blustered, but who gave people the idea that at some time he had been
a person of consequence. This man attached himself particularly to Arch
Trevlyn. With insidious cunning he wormed himself into the boy's
confidence, and gained, to a certain degree, his friendship. Arch did not
trust him entirely, though. There was something about him from which he
shrank--the touch of his white, jewelled hand made his flesh creep, like
the touch of a serpent.

But Mr. Sharp had an object to gain, and set himself resolutely to work
to carry his point. He made himself necessary to Arch. He bought him
books, and taught him in the evenings, when neither was engaged
otherwise. He had been well educated, and in Arch he had an apt scholar.
Every spare moment of the boy's life was absorbed in his books.

By-and-bye Sharp learned the whole history of the wrongs, inflicted on
Arch's parents by old Mr. Trevlyn. He snapped at the story as a dog
snaps at a bone. But he was, cautious and patient, and it was a long time
before he showed himself to Arch in his true character. And then, when he
did, the revelation had been made so much by degrees, that the boy was
hardly shocked to find that his friend was a house-breaker and a highway
robber.

Long before he had formed a plan to rob the house of Mr. Trevlyn. It was
a field that promised well. Mr. Trevlyn, with the idiosyncrasy of age,
had invested most of his fortune in diamonds, and these he kept in a
chamber in his house. His chief delight consisted in gloating over
these precious stones. Night after night he would sit handling his
diamonds, chuckling over his wealth, and threatening imaginary plunderers
with destruction.

So, his servants said, and Sharp repeated the story to Arch with sundry
variations and alterations suited to the case. He had a persuasive
tongue, and it is little wonder that the boy, hating his grandfather as
he did, and resolved as he was upon revenging his father's wrongs, should
fall into the snare. He wanted Mr. Trevlyn to suffer--he did not care
how. If the loss of his diamonds would be to him a severer blow than any
other, then let it fall.

Sharp used many specious arguments to induce Arch to become his
accomplice in robbing the Trevlyn mansion, but the only one which
had any weight was that he could thus revenge his father's wrongs.

"Only assist me, and secure your revenge," said the wily schemer, "and
I will share the spoils with you. There will be enough to enrich us both
for life!"

Arch drew himself up proudly, a fiery red on his cheek, a dangerous gleam
in his dark eye.

"I am no thief, sir! I'd scorn to take a cent from that old man to use
for my benefit! I would not touch his diamonds if they lay here at my
feet! But if I can make him suffer anything like as my poor father
suffered through him, then I am ready to turn robber--yes, pickpocket,
if you will!" he added, savagely.

Sharp appointed the night. His plans were craftily laid. Mr. Trevlyn, he
had ascertained, would be absent on Thursday night; he had taken a little
journey into the country for his health, and only the servants and his
ward would sleep in the house.

Thursday night was dark and rainy. At midnight Sharp and Arch stood
before the house they were about to plunder. No thought of shame or sin
entered Archer Trevlyn's heart; he did not seem to think he was about to
disgrace himself for life; he thought only of Mr. Trevlyn's dismay when
he should return, to find the bulk of his riches swept away from him at
one blow.

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