The Fatal Glove by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

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Only one man struck boldly out to the rescue. Arch Trevlyn threw off the
clinging hand of Miss Lee, and with a strong arm pressed his way through
the white-capped billows. He came near to Margie, and saw the chestnut
gleam of her hair on the bright treacherous water, and in an instant it
was swept under a long line of snowy foam. She rose again at a little
distance, and her eyes met his pleadingly. Her lips syllabled the words,
"save me!"

He heard them, above all the deafening roar of the waters. They nerved
him on to fresh exertions. Another stroke, and he caught her arm, drew
her to him, held her closely to his breast, and touched her wet hair with
his lips. Then he controlled himself, and spoke coolly:

"Take my hand, Miss Harrison, and I think I can tow you safely to the
shore. Do not be afraid."

"I am not afraid," she said, quietly.

How his heart leaped at the sound of her voice! How happy he was that she
was not afraid--that she trusted her life to him! Of how little value he
would have reckoned his own existence, if he had purchased hers by its
loss!

A hundred pairs of hands were outstretched to receive Margie, when Arch
brought her to the shore. Her dear devoted friends crowded around her,
and in their joy at her escape, Arch retreated for his lodgings. But Miss
Lee had been watching him, and seized his arm the moment he was clear of
the crowd.

"Oh, Mr. Trevlyn, it is just like a novel!" she exclaimed,
enthusiastically. "Only you cannot marry the heroine, for she is
engaged to Mr. Linmere; and she perfectly dotes on him."

She flitted away, and Trevlyn went up to his chamber.

That evening there was a "hop" at the hotel, but Arch did not go down.
He knew if he did the inevitable Miss Lee would anchor herself on his
arm for the evening; and his politeness was not equal to the task of
entertaining her.

The strains of music reached him, softened and made sweet by the
distance. He stole down on the piazza, and sat under the shadows of a
flowering vine, looking at the sky, with its myriads of glittering stars.
There was a light step at his side, and glancing up, he saw Margie
Harrison.

She was in evening dress, her white arms and shoulders bare, and
glistening with snowy pearls. Her soft unbound hair fell over her neck
in a flood of light, and a subtle perfume, like the breath of blooming
water-lilies, floated around her.

"I want to make you my captive for a little while, Mr. Trevlyn," she
said, gayly. "Will you wear the chains?"

"Like a garland of roses," he responded. "Yes, to the world's end, Miss
Harrison!"

The unconscious fervor of his voice brought a crimson flush to her face.
She dropped her eyes, and toyed with the bracelet on her arm.

"I did not know _you_ dealt in compliments, Mr. Trevlyn," she said,
a little reproachfully. "I thought you were always sincere."

"And so I am, Miss Harrison."

"I take you at your word then," she said, recovering her playful air.
"You will not blame me, if I lead you into difficulty?"

"Certainly not. I give myself into your keeping."

She put her hand within his arm, and led him up the stairs, to a private
parlor on the second floor. Under the jet of light sat old Mr. Trevlyn.
Archer's heart throbbed fiercely, and his lips grew set and motionless,
as he stood there before the man he hated--the man against whom he had
made a vow of undying vengeance. Margie was looking at her guardian, and
did not observe the startling change which had come over Arch. She spoke
softly, addressing the old man.

"Dear guardian, this is the man who this morning so gallantly rescued me
from a watery grave. I want you to help me thank him."

Mr. Trevlyn arose, came forward, and extended his hand. Arch stood erect,
his arms folded on his breast. He did not move, nor offer to take the
proffered hand. Mr. Trevlyn gave a start of surprise, and seizing a lamp
from the table, held it up to the face of the young man. Arch did not
flinch; he bore the insulting scrutiny with stony calmness.

The old man dashed down the lamp, and put his hand to his forehead. His
face was livid with passion, his voice choked so as to be scarcely
audible.

"Margie, Margie Harrison!" he exclaimed, "what is this person's name?"

"Archer Trevlyn, sir," answered the girl, amazed at the strange behavior
of the two men.

"Just as I thought! Hubert's son!"

"Yes," said Arch, speaking with painful calmness, "I am Hubert's son; the
son of the man your wicked cruelty murdered."

Mr. Trevlyn seized his cane and rushed upon his grandson; but Margie
sprang forward and threw her arm across the breast of Arch.

"Strike him, if you dare!" she said, "but you shall strike a woman!"

Mr. Trevlyn looked at her, and the weapon dropped to the floor.

"Margaret Harrison," he said, sternly, "leave this room. This is no place
for you. Obey me!"

"I am subject to no man's authority," she said, boldly; "and I will not
leave the room. You shall not insult a gentleman to whom I owe my life,
and who is here as my invited guest!"

"I shall defend myself! There is murder in that fellow's eye, if I ever
saw it in that of any human being!"

"I am answerable for his conduct," she said with proud dignity. "He
will do nothing of which a lady needs stand in fear. I brought him
here, ignorant of the relationship existing between you and him, and
unconscious of the truth that I should be called upon to defend him
from the causeless rage of his own grandfather."

Again the cane was uplifted, but Margie laid her hand resolutely upon it.

"Give it to me. Will you--you, who pride yourself upon your high and
delicate sense of honor--will you be such an abject coward as to strike
a defenceless man?"

He yielded her the weapon, and she threw it from the window.

"You may take away my defence, Margaret," said the old man, resolutely,
"but you shall not prevent me from cursing him! A curse be upon him--"

"Hold, sir? Remember that your head is white with the snows of time? It
will not be long before you go to the God who sees you every moment, who
will judge you for every sin you commit."

"You may preach that stuff to the dogs! There is no God! I defy him and
you! Archer Trevlyn, my curse be upon you and yours, now and forever!
Child of a disobedient son! child of a mother who was a harlot!"

Arch sprang upon him with a savage cry. His hand was on his throat--God
knows what crime he would have done, fired by the insult offered to the
memory of his mother, had not Margie caught his hands, and drawn them
away.

"Oh, Archer, Archer Trevlyn!" she cried, imploringly, "grant me this one
favor--the very first I ever asked of you! For my sake, come away. He is
an old man. Leave him to God, and his own conscience. You are young and
strong; you would not disgrace your manhood by laying violent hands on
the weakness of old age!"

"Did you hear what he called my mother, the purest woman the world ever
saw? No man shall repeat that foul slander in my presence, and live!"

"He will not repeat it. Forgive him. He is fretful, and he thinks the
world has gone hard with him. He has sinned, and those who sin suffer
always. It has been a long and terrible feud between him and yours. I
brought you here--let me take you away."

Her soft hands were on his--her beautiful tear-wet eyes lifted to his
face. He could not withstand that look. He would have given up the plans
of a lifetime, if she had asked him with those imploring eyes.

"I yield to you, Miss Harrison--only to you," he replied. "If John
Trevlyn lives, he owes his life to you. He judged rightly--there was
murder in my soul, and he saw it in my eyes. Years ago, after they laid
my poor heart-broken mother out of my sight, I swore a terrible vow of
vengeance on the old man whose cruelty had hurried her into the grave.
But for you, I should have kept the vow this moment. But I will obey you.
Take me wherever you will."

She led him down the stairs, across the lawn, and out on the lonely
beach, where the quiet moon and the passionless stars dropped down their
crystal rain. The sweet south wind blew up cool from the sea, and afar
off the tinkle of a sheep-bell stirred the silence of the night. The lamp
in the distant lighthouse gleamed like a spark of fire, and at their feet
broke the tireless billows, white as the snow-drifts of December.

There was something inexpressibly soothing in the serenity of the night.
Arch felt its influence. The hot color died out of his cheek, his pulse
beat slower, he lifted his eyes to the purple arch of the summer sky.

"All God's universe is at rest," said Margie, her voice breaking upon his
ear like a strain of music. "Oh, Arthur Trevlyn, be at peace with all
mankind!"

"I am--with all but _him_."

"And with _him_, also. The heart which bears malice cannot be a happy
heart. There has been a great wrong done--I have heard the sad story--but
it is divine to forgive. The man who can pardon the enemy who has wrought
him evil, rises to a height where nothing of these earthly temptations
can harm him more. He stands on a level with the angels of God. If you
have been injured, let it pass. If your parents were hurried out of the
world by his cruelty, think how much sooner they tasted the bliss of
heaven! Every wrong will in due time be avenged. Justice will be done,
for the Infinite One has promised it. Leave it in His hands. Archer,
before I leave you, promise to forgive Mr. Trevlyn."

"I cannot! I cannot!" he cried, hoarsely. "Oh, Margie, Miss Harrison, ask
of me anything but that, even to the sacrifice of my life, and I will
willingly oblige you, but not that! not that!"

"_That_ is all I ask. It is for your good and my peace of mind that I
demand it. You have no right to make me unhappy, as your persistence in
this dreadful course will do. Promise me, Archer Trevlyn!"

She put her hand on his shoulder; he turned his head and pressed his lips
upon it. She did not draw it away, but stood, melting his hard heart with
her wonderfully sweet gaze. He yielded all at once--she knew she had
conquered. He sank down on one knee before her, and bowed his face upon
his hands. She stooped over him, her hair swept his shoulders, the brown
mingling with the deeper chestnut of his curling locks.

"You will promise me, Mr. Trevlyn?"

He looked up suddenly.

"What will you give me, if I promise?"

"Ask for it."

He lifted a curl of shining hair.

"Yes," she said. "Promise me what I ask, and I will give it to you."

He took his pocket-knife and severed the tress.

"I promise you. I break my vow; I seek no revenge. I forgive John
Trevlyn, and may God forgive him also. He is safe from me. I submit to
have my parents sleep on unavenged. I leave him and his sins to the God
whom he denies; and all because you have asked it of me."

Slowly and silently they went up to the house. At the door he said no
good-night--he only held her hand a moment, closely, and then turned
away.

PART II.

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 drank 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?"

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