The Fatal Glove by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

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"Nothing," answered Margie, recovering herself, and relapsing into her
usual self-composure.

They searched all that night, and found nothing. Absolutely nothing. With
the early train, both Mr. Trevlyn and Mr. Weldon went to the city. They
hurried to Mr. Linmere's room, only to have their worst fears confirmed.
Pietro informed them that his master had left there on the six o'clock
train; he had seen him to the depot, and into the car, receiving some
orders from him relative to his rooms, after he had taken his seat.

There could be no longer any doubt but that there had been foul play
somewhere. The proper authorities were notified, and the search began
afresh. Harrison Park and its environs were thoroughly ransacked; the
river was searched, the pond at the foot of the garden drained, but
nothing was discovered. There was no clue by which the fate of the
missing man could be guessed at, ever so vaguely.

Every person about the place was examined and cross-examined, but no one
knew anything, and the night shut down, and left the matter in mystery.
Pietro, at length, suggested Leo, Mr. Linmere's gray-hound.

"Him no love his master," said the Italian, "but him scent keen. It will
do no hurt to try him."

Accordingly, the next morning, Pietro brought the dog up to the Park.
The animal was sullen, and would accept of attentions from no one save
Margie, to whom he seemed to take at first sight. And after she had
spoken to him kindly, and patted his head, he refused all persuasions
and commands to leave her.

Mr. Darby, the detective, whose services had been engaged in the affair,
exerted all his powers of entreaty on the dog, but the animal clung to
Margie, and would not even look in the direction of the almost frantic
detective.

"It's no use, Miss Harrison," said Darby, "the cur wont stir an inch. You
will have to come with him! Sorry to ask ye, but this thing must be seen
into."

"Very well, I will accompany you," said Margie, rising, and throwing on
a shawl, she went out with them, followed by Mrs. Weldon, Alexandrine,
and two or three other ladies.

Leo kept close to Margie, trotting along beside her, uttering every now
and then a low whine indicative of anticipation and pleasure.

Darby produced a handkerchief which had belonged to Mr. Paul Linmere,
and which he had found in his rooms, lying on his dressing-table. He
showed this to the dog; Leo snuffed at it, and gave a sharp grunt of
displeasure.

"We want you to find him, Leo, good dog," said the Italian, stroking the
silky ears of the dog; "find your master."

Leo understood, but he looked around in evident perplexity.

"Take him to the depot!" said Mr. Trevlyn, "he may find the trail there."

They went to the station; the dog sniffed hurriedly at the platform, and
in a moment more dashed off into the highway leading to Harrison Park.

"Him got him!" cried Pietro; "him find my master!"

The whole company joined in following the dog. He went straight ahead,
his nose to the ground, his fleet limbs bearing him along with a rapidity
that the anxious followers found it hard to emulate.

At a brook which crossed the road he stopped, seemed a little confused,
crossed it finally on stepping stones, paused a moment by the side of a
bare nut tree, leaped the fence, and dashed off through a grass field.
Keeping steadily on, he made for the grounds of the Park, passed the
drained pond, and the frost-ruined garden, and pausing before the
inclosure where slept the Harrison dead, he lifted his head and gave
utterance to a howl so wild, so savagely unearthly, that it chilled the
blood in the veins of those who heard. An instant he paused, and then
dashing through the hedge, was lost to view.

"He is found! My master is found!" said Pietro, solemnly, removing his
cap, and wiping a tear from his eye. For the man was attached to Mr. Paul
Linmere, in his rough way, and the tear was one of genuine sorrow.

His companions looked at each other. Alexandrine grasped the arm of
Margie, and leaned heavily upon her.

"Let us go to the house--" she faltered, "I cannot bear it."

"I will know the worst," said Margie, hoarsely, and they went on
together.

It was so singular, but no one had thought to look within the graveyard
enclosure; perhaps if they had thought of it, they judged it impossible
that a murderer should select such a locality for the commission of his
crime.

Mr. Darby opened the gate, entered the yard, and stopped. So did the
others. All saw at once that the search was ended. Across the path
leading to the graves of Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, lay Paul Linmere. He was
white and ghastly; his forehead bare, and his sightless eyes wide open,
looking up to the sun of noon-day. His right hand lay on his breast, his
left still tightly grasped the turf upon which it had fixed its hold in
the cruel death-agony. His garments were stiff with his own blood, and
the dirk knife, still buried to the hilt in his heart, told the story of
his death.

Leo crouched a little way off, his eyes jubilant, his tail beating the
ground, evincing the greatest satisfaction. All present knew that the dog
rejoiced at the death of his master.

Alexandrine took a step toward the dead man, her back to the
horror-stricken group by the gate. She stopped suddenly, and lifted
something from the ground.

Darby, alert and watchful, was by her side in a moment.

"What have you there?" he demanded.

"My glove which I dropped," she answered, quietly, holding up the dainty
bit of embroidered kid.

The detective turned away satisfied; but Margie saw the girl's hand
shake, and her lips grow pale as marble, the moment Darby's keen eye was
removed from her face.

The discovery of the remains was followed by a long and tedious
investigation. There was an inquest, and a rigid examination of every
person who could by any possibility be imagined capable of throwing any
light on the murder, and after all was over, the mystery was just as dark
as it was at first.

Nothing was found to furnish the slightest clue to the assassin, except
a white cambric handkerchief just inside the graveyard, marked with the
single initial "A" in one corner. This handkerchief might have belonged
to the murderer, and it might have belonged to Mr. Linmere,--that could
not be determined. The article was given into the keeping of Mr. Darby;
and after three days lying in state at Harrison Park, the body of Mr.
Linmere was taken to Albany, where his relatives were buried, and laid
away for its last sleep.

Mr. Trevlyn offered a large reward for the apprehension of the murderer,
or for information which would lead to his apprehension; and the town
authorities offered an equal sum. Mr. Darby was retained to work upon the
case, and there it rested.

Margie uttered no word in the matter. She was stunned by the suddenness
of the blow, and she could not help being painfully conscious that she
felt relieved by the death of this unfortunate man. God had taken her
case into his hands in a manner too solemnly fearful for her to question.

* * * * *

Three months after the death of Paul Linmere, Margie met Archer Trevlyn
at the house of Alexandrine Lee. He was quite a constant visitor there,
Mrs. Lee told her, with a little conscious pride, for young Trevlyn was
being spoken of in business circles as a rising young man. He was to be
admitted to partnership in the firm of Belgrade and Co., in the spring.
And this once effected, his fortune was made.

There was a little whist party at Mrs. Lee's that evening, and Margie
was persuaded to remain. After a while the company asked for music.
Whist, the books of engravings, and the _bijoux_ of the centre-table
were exhausted, and small talk flagged. Margie was reluctantly prevailed
upon to play.

She was not a wonderful performer, but she had a fine ear, and played
with finish and accuracy. But she sang divinely. To oblige her friends,
she sang a few new things and then pausing, was about to rise from the
instrument, when Mr. Trevlyn came to her side.

"Will you play something for me?" he asked, stooping over her. His dark,
passionate eyes brought the blood to her face--made her restless and
nervous in spite of herself.

"What would you like?" she managed to ask.

"This!" He selected an old German ballad, long ago a favorite in the
highest musical circles, but now cast aside for something newer and more
brilliant. A simple, touching little song of love and sorrow.

She was about to decline singing it, but something told her to beware
of false modesty, and she sang it through.

"I thank you!" he said, earnestly, when she had finished. "It has done me
good. My mother used to sing that song, and I have never wanted to hear
it from any other lips--_until now_."

Alexandrine glided along, as radiant as a humming-bird, her cheeks
flushed, her black eyes sparkling, her voice sweet as a siren's.

"Sentimentalizing, I declare!" she exclaimed, gayly; "and singing that
dreadful song, too! Ugh! it gives me the cold shudders to listen to it!
How can you sing it, Margie, dear?"

"Miss Harrison sang it at my request, Miss Lee," said Trevlyn, gravely,
"it is an old favorite of mine. Shall I not listen to you now?"

Alexandrine took the seat Margie had vacated, and glanced up at the two
faces so near her.

"Why, Margie!" she said, "a moment ago I thought you were a rose, and now
you are a lily! What is the matter?"

"Nothing, thank you," returned Margie, coldly. "I am weary, and will go
home soon, I think."

Trevlyn looked at her with tender anxiety, evidently forgetful that he
had requested Miss Lee to play.

"You are wearied," he said. "Shall I call your carriage?"

"If you please, yes. Miss Lee I am sure will excuse me."

"I shall be obliged to, I suppose."

Trevlyn put Margie's shawl around her, and led her to the carriage. After
he had assisted her in, he touched lightly the hand he had just released,
and said "Good-night," his very accent a blessing.

In February Mr. Trevlyn received a severe shock. His aged wife had been
an inmate of an insane asylum almost ever since the death of her son
Hubert; and Mr. Trevlyn, though he had loved her with his whole soul,
had never seen her face in all those weary years.

Suddenly, without any premonitory symptoms, her reason returned to her,
and save that she was unmindful of the time that had elapsed during her
insanity, she was the same Caroline Trevlyn of old.

They told her cautiously of her husband's old age, for the unfortunate
woman could not realize that nearly twenty years had passed since the
loss of her mind. The first desire she expressed was to see "John," and
Mr. Trevlyn was sent for.

He came, and went into the presence of the wife from whom he had been so
long divided, alone. No one knew what passed between them. The interview
was a lengthy one, and Mr. Trevlyn came forth from it, animated by a
new-born hope. The wife of his youth was to be restored to him!

He made arrangements to take her home, but alas! they were never destined
to be carried into effect. The secret fears of the physician were
realized even sooner than he had expected. The approach of dissolution
had dissolved the clouds so long hanging over the mind of Caroline
Trevlyn. She lived only two days after the coming of her husband, and
died in his arms, happy in the belief that she was going to her son.

Mr. Trevlyn returned home, a changed being. All his asperity of temper
was gone; he was as gentle as a child. Whole days he would sit in the
chair where his wife used to sit in the happy days of her young wifehood,
speaking to no one, smiling sometimes to himself, as though he heard
some inner whisperings which pleased him.

One day he roused himself seemingly, and sent for Mr. Speedwell, his
attorney, and Dr. Drake, his family physician. With these gentlemen he
was closeted the entire forenoon; and from that time forward, his hold on
the world and its things seemed to relax.

One morning, when Margie went to take his gruel up to him--a duty she
always performed herself--she found him sitting in his arm-chair, wide
awake, but incapable of speech or motion.

The physician, hastily summoned, confirmed her worst fears. Mr. Trevlyn
had been smitten with paralysis. He was in no immediate danger, perhaps;
he might live for years, but was liable to drop away at any moment. It
was simply a question of time.

Toward the close of the second day after his attack, the power of speech
returned to Mr. Trevlyn.

"Margie!" he said, feebly, "Margie, come here." She flew to his side.

"I want you to send for Archer Trevlyn," he said with great difficulty.

She made a gesture of surprise.

"You think I am not quite right in my mind, Margie, that I should make
that request. But I was never more sane than at this moment. My mind was
never clearer, my mental sight never more correct. I want to see my
grandson."

Margie despatched a servant with a brief note to Archer, informing him
of his grandfather's desire, and then sat down to wait his coming.

It was a wild, stormy night in March; the boisterous wind beat against
the old mansion, and like a suffering human thing, shrieked down the
wide, old-fashioned chimneys.

In a lull of the storm there was a tap at the chamber door. Margie opened
it, and stood face to face with Archer Trevlyn.

"Come in," she whispered, "he is asleep."

"No, I am not asleep," said the sick man; "has my grandson come?"

"He is here," said Margie. "I will leave him with you, dear guardian. Let
him ring for me when you want me."

"Remain here, Margaret. I want you to be a witness to what passes between
us. I have no secrets from you, dear child, none whatever. Archer, come
hither."

Trevlyn advanced, his face pale, his eyes moist with tears. For, having
forgiven his grandparent, he had been growing to feel for the desolate
old man a sort of filial tenderness, and strong in his fresh young
manhood, it seemed terrible to him to see John Trevlyn lying there in
his helplessness and feebleness, waiting for death.

"Come hither, Archer," said the tremulous voice, "and put your hand on
mine. I cannot lift a finger to you, but I want to feel once more the
touch of kindred flesh and blood. I have annoyed you and yours sadly my
poor boy, but death sweeps away all enmities, and all shadows. I see so
clearly now. O, if I had only seen before!"

Arch knelt by the side of his bed, holding the old man's withered hands
in his. Margie stood a little apart, regarding the pair with moist eyes.

"Call me grandfather once, my son; I have never heard the name from the
lips of my kindred."

"Grandfather! O grandfather!" cried the young man, "now that you will let
me call you so, you must not die! You must live for me!"

"The decree has gone forth. There is from it no appeal. I am to die.
I have felt the certainty a long time. O, for one year of existence,
to right the wrongs I have done! But they could not be righted. Alas!
if I had centuries of time at my command, I could not bring back to life
the dear son my cruelty hurried out of the world, or his poor wife, whose
fair name I could, in my revenge for her love of my son, have taken from
her! O Hubert! Hubert! O my darling! dearer to me than my heart's
blood--but so foully wronged!"

His frame shook with emotion, but no tears came to his eyes. His remorse
was too deep and bitter for the surface sorrow of tears to relieve.

"Put it out of your mind, grandfather," said Arch, pressing his hand.
"Do not think of it, to let it trouble you more. They are all, I trust,
in heaven. Let them rest."

"And you will tell me this, Archer? You, who hated me so! You, who swore
a solemn oath to be revenged on me! Well, I do not blame you. I only
wonder that your forbearance was so long-suffering. Once you would have
rejoiced to see me suffer as I do now."

"I should, I say it to my shame. God forgive me for my wickedness! But
for _her_"--looking at Margie--"I might have kept the sinful vow I made.
She saved me."

"Come here, Margie, and kiss me," said the old man, tenderly. "My dear
children! my precious children, both of you! I bless you both--both of
you together, do you hear? Once I cursed you, Archer--now I bless you!
If there is a God, and I do at last believe there is, he will forgive
me that curse; for I have begged it of Him on my bended knees."

"He is merciful, dear guardian," said Margie, gently. "He never refuses
the earnest petition of the suffering soul."

"Archer, your grandmother died a little while ago. My cruelty to your
father made her, for twenty long years, a maniac. But before her death,
all delusion was swept away, and she bade me love and forgive our
grandson--that she might tell your father and mother, when she met
them in heaven, that at last all was well here below. I promised her,
and since then my soul has been in peace. But I have longed to go to
her--longed inexpressibly. She had been all around me, but so impalpable
that when I put out my hands to touch her, they grasped only the air.
The hands of mortality may not reach after the hands which have put on
immortality."

He lay quiet a moment, and then went on, brokenly.

"Archer, I wronged your parents bitterly, but I have repented it in dust
and ashes. Repented it long ago, only I was too proud and stubborn to
acknowledge it. Forgive me again, Archer, and kiss me before I die."

"I do forgive you, grandfather; I do forgive you with my whole heart."
He stooped, and left a kiss on the withered forehead.

"Margie," said the feeble voice, "pray for me, that peace may come."

She looked at Archer, hesitated a moment, then knelt by the bedside. He
stood silent, and then, urged by some uncontrollable impulse, he knelt by
her side.

The girlish voice, broken, but sweet as music, went up to Heaven in a
petition so fervent, so simple, that God heard and answered. The peace
she asked for the dying man came.

Her pleading ceased. Mr. Trevlyn lay quiet, his countenance serene and
hopeful. His lips moved, they bent over him, and caught the name of
"Caroline."

Trevlyn's hand sought Margie's and she did not repulse him. They stood
together silently, looking at the white face on the pillows.

"He is dead!" Archie said, softly: "God rest him!"

* * * * *

After the funeral of John Trevlyn, his last will and testament was read.
It created a great deal of surprise when it was known that all the vast
possessions of the old man were bequeathed to his grandson--his sole
relative--whom he had despised and denied almost to the day of his death.
In fact, not a half-dozen persons in the city were aware of the fact that
there existed any tie of relationship between John Trevlyn, the miser,
and Archer Trevlyn, the head clerk of Belgrade and Company.

Arch's good fortune did not change him a particle. He gave less time to
business, it is true, but he spent it in hard study. His early education
had been defective, and he was doing his best to remedy the lack.

Early in the autumn following the death of his grandfather, he went to
Europe, and after the lapse of a year, returned again to New York. The
second day after his arrival, he went out to Harrison Park. Margie had
passed the summer there, with an old friend of her mother for company,
he was told, and would not come back to the city before December.

It was a cold, stormy night in September, when he knocked at the door of
Miss Harrison's residence; but a cheery light shone from the window, and
streamed out of the door which the servant held open.

He inquired for Miss Harrison, and was shown at once into her presence.
She sat in a low chair, her dress of sombre black relieved by a white
ribbon at the throat, and by the chestnut light of the shining hair that
swept in unbound luxuriance over her shoulders. She rose to meet her
guest, scarcely recognizing Archer Trevlyn in the bronzed, bearded man
before her.

"Miss Harrison," he said, gently, "it is a cold night; will you not give
a warm welcome to an old friend?"

She knew his voice instantly. A bright color leaped to her cheek, an
embarrassment which made her a thousand times dearer and more charming to
Arch Trevlyn, possessed her. But she held out her hands, and said a few
shy words of welcome.

Arch sat down beside her, and the conversation drifted into recollections
of their own individual history. They spoke to each other with the
freedom of very old friends, forgetful of the fact that this was almost
the very first conversation they had ever had together.

After a while, Arch said:

"Miss Harrison, do you remember when you first saw me?"

She looked at him a moment, and hesitated before she answered.

"I may be mistaken, Mr. Trevlyn. If so, excuse me; but I think I saw you
first, years and years ago, in a flower store."

"You are correct; and on that occasion your generous kindness made me
very happy. I thought it would make my mother happy, also. I ran all the
way home, lest the roses might wilt before she saw them."

He stopped and gazed into the fire.

"Was she pleased with them?"

"She was dead. We put them in her coffin. They were buried with her."

Margie laid her hand lightly on his.

"I am so sorry for you! I, too, have buried my mother."

After a little silence, Arch went on.

"The next time you saw me was when you gave me these." He took out his
pocket-book, and displayed to her, folded in white paper, a cluster of
faded bluebells. "Do you remember them?"

"I think I do. You were knocked down by the pole of the carriage?"

"Yes. And the next time? Do you remember the next time?"

"I do."

"I thought so. I want to thank you, now, for your generous forbearance.
I want to tell you how your keeping my secret made a different being of
me. If you had betrayed me to justice, I might have been now an inmate
of a prison cell. Margie Harrison, your silence saved me! Do me the
justice to credit my assertion, when I tell you that I did not enter my
grandfather's house because I cared for the plunder I should obtain. I
had taken a vow to be revenged on him for his cruelty to my parents, and
Sharp, the man who was with me, represented to me, that there was no
surer way of accomplishing my purpose than by taking away the treasures
that he prized. For that only I became a house-breaker. I deserved
punishment. I do not seek to palliate my guilt, but I thank you again
for saving me!"

"I could not do otherwise than remain silent. When I would have spoken
your name, something kept me from doing it. I think I remembered always
the pitiful face of the little street-sweeper, and I could not bear to
bring him any more suffering."

"Since those days, Miss Harrison, I have met you frequently--always
by accident--but to-night it is no accident. I came here on purpose.
For what, do you think?"

"I do not know--how should I?"

"I have come here to tell you what I longed to tell you years ago! what
was no less true then than it is now; what was true of me when I was a
street-sweeper, what has been true of me ever since, and what will be
true of me through time and eternity!"

He had drawn very near to her--his arm stole round her waist, and he sat
looking down into her face with his soul in his eyes.

"Margie, I love you! I have loved you since the first moment I saw you.
There has never been a shade of wavering; I have been true to you through
all. My first love will be my last. Your influence has kept me from the
lower depths of sin; the thought of you has been my salvation from ruin.
Margie, my darling! I love you! I love you!"

"And yet you kept silence all these years! Oh, Archer!"

"I could not do differently. You were as far above me as the evening star
is above the earth it shines upon! It would have been base presumption in
the poor saloon-waiter, or the dry-goods clerk, to have aspired to the
hand of one like you. And although I loved you so, I should never have
spoken, had not fate raised me to the position of a fortune equal to your
own, and given me the means of offering you a home worthy of you. But I
am waiting for my answer. Give it to me, Margie."

Her shy eyes met his, and he read his answer in their clear depths. But
he was too exacting to be satisfied thus.

"Do you love me, Margie? I want to hear the words from your lips. Speak,
darling. They are for my ear alone, and you need not blush to utter
them."

"I do love you, Archer. I believe I have loved you ever since the first."

"And you will be mine? All my own!"

She gave him her hands. He drew the head, with its soft, bright hair, to
his breast, and kissed the sweet lips again and again, almost failing to
realize the blessed reality of his happiness.

It was late that night before Archer Trevlyn left his betrothed bride,
and took his way to the village hotel. But he was too happy, too full of
sweet content, to heed the lapse of time. At last the longing of his life
was satisfied. He had heard her say that she loved him.

And Margie sat and listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps, and
then went up to her chamber to pass the night, wakeful, too content to be
willing to lose the time in sleep, and so the dawn of morning found her
with open eyes.

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