The Fatal Glove by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

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The ensuing winter was a very gay one. Margaret Harrison returned to New
York under the chaperonage of her friend, Mrs. Weldon, and mingled more
freely in society than she had done since the season she "came out." She
took pleasure in it now, for Archer Trevlyn was welcomed everywhere. He
was a favored guest in the most aristocratic homes, and people peculiarly
exclusive were happy to receive him into their most select gatherings.

His engagement with Margie was made public, and the young people were
overwhelmed with the usual compliments of politely expressed hopes and
fashionable congratulations.

The gentleman said Miss Harrison had always been beautiful, but this
season she was more than that. Happiness is a rare beautifier. It painted
Margie's cheeks and lips with purest rose color, and gave a light to her
eyes and a softness to her sweet voice.

Of course she did not mingle in society, even though her engagement
was well known, without being surrounded by admirers. They fairly took
her away from Arch, sometimes; but he tried to be patient. Before the
apple-trees in the green country valleys were rosy with blossoms, she
was to be all his own. He could afford to be generous.

Among the train of her admirers was a young Cuban gentleman, Louis
Castrani, a man of fascinating presence and great personal beauty. He had
been unfortunate in his first love. She had died a few days before they
were to have been married--died by the hand of violence, and Castrani had
shot the rival who murdered her. Public opinion had favored the avenger,
and he had not suffered for the act, but ever since he had been a prey to
melancholy. He told Margie his history, and it aroused her pity; but when
he asked her love, she refused him gently, telling him that her heart was
another's. He had suffered deeply from the disappointment, but he did not
give up her society, as most men would have done. He still hovered around
her, content if she gave him a smile or a kind word, seeming to find his
best happiness in anticipating her every wish before it was uttered.

Toward the end of March Alexandrine Lee came to pass a few days with
Margie. Some singular change had been at work on the girl. She had lost
her wonted gayety of spirits, and was for the most part subdued, almost
sad. Her beautiful eyes seldom lighted with a smile, and her sweet voice
was rarely heard.

She came, from a day spent out, one evening, into Margie's dressing-room.
Miss Harrison was preparing for the opera. There was a new prima donna,
and Archer was anxious for her to hear the wonder. Margie had never
looked lovelier. Her pink silk dress, with the corsage falling away
from the shoulders, and the sleeves leaving the round arms bare, was
peculiarly becoming, and the pearl necklace and bracelets--Archer's
gift--were no whiter or purer than the throat and wrists they encircled.

Alexandrine stood a moment in the door, looking at the lovely picture
presented by her young hostess. A pang, vague and unacknowledged, wrung
her heart, and showed itself on her countenance. But she came forward
with expressions of admiration.

"You are perfect, Margie--absolutely perfect! Poor gentlemen! how I pity
them to-night! How their wretched hearts will ache!"

Margie laughed.

"Nonsense, Alex, don't be absurd! Go and dress yourself. I am going to
the opera, and you must accompany us."

"_Us_--who may that plural pronoun embody?"

"Myself--and Mr. Trevlyn."

"Ah! thank you. Mr. Trevlyn may not care for an addition to his nice
little arrangement for a _tete-a-tete_."

"Don't be vexed, Alexandrine. We thought you would pass the evening at
your friend's, and Archer only came in to tell me a few hours ago."

"Of course I am not vexed, dear," and the girl kissed Margie's glowing
cheek. "Lovers will be lovers the world over. Silly things, always, and
never interesting company for other people. How long before Mr. Trevlyn
is coming for you?"

Margie consulted her watch.

"At eight. It is now seven. In an hour."

"In an hour! An hour's time! Long enough to change the destiny of
empires!"

"How strangely you talk, Alexandrine! What spirit possesses you?" asked
Margie, filled, in spite of herself, with a curious premonition of evil.

Alexandrine sat down by the side of her friend, and looked searchingly
into her face, her great black eyes holding Margie with a sort of
serpent-like fascination.

"Margaret, you love this Archer Trevlyn very dearly do you not?"

Margie blushed crimson, but she answered, proudly:

"Why need I be ashamed to confess it? I do. I love him with my whole
soul!"

"And you do not think there is in you any possibility of a change?"

"A change! What do you mean? Explain yourself."

"You do not think the time will ever come when you will cease to love Mr.
Arthur Trevlyn?"

"It will never come!" Margie replied, indignantly, "never, while I have
my reason!"

"Do you believe in love's immortality?"

"I believe that all true love is changeless as eternity! I am not a
child, Alexandrine, to be blown about by every passing breeze."

"No, you are a woman now, with a woman's capability of suffering. You
ought, also, to be possessed of woman's resolution of a woman's strength
to endure sorrow and affliction."

"I have never had any great affliction, Alexandrine. The death of Mr.
Linmere was horrible to me, but it was not as if I had loved him; and
though I loved Mr. Trevlyn, my guardian, he died so peacefully, that I
cannot wish him back. And my dear parents--I was so young then, and they
were so willing to go! No, I do not think I have ever had any great
sorrow, such as blast people's whole lifetimes."

"But you think you will always continue to love Archer Trevlyn?"

"How strangely you harp on that string! What do you mean? There is
something behind all this; I see it in your face. You frighten me!"

"Margie, all people are blind sometimes, but more especially women, when
they love. Would it be a mercy to open the eyes of one who, in happy
ignorance, was walking over a precipice which the flowers hid from her
view?"

Margie shuddered, and the beautiful color fled from her cheek.

"I do not comprehend you. Why do you keep me in suspense?"

"Because I dread to break the charm. You will hate me for it always,
Margie. We never love those who tell us disagreeable truths, even though
it be for our good."

"I do not know what you would tell me, Alexandrine, but I do not think
I shall hate you for it."

"Not if I tell you evil of Archer Trevlyn?"

"I will not listen to it!" she cried, indignantly.

"I expected as much. Well, Margie, you shall not. I will hold my peace;
but if ever, in the years to come, the terrible secret should be revealed
to you--the secret which would then destroy your happiness for all
time--remember that I would have saved you, and you refused to listen."

She drew her shawl around her shoulders, and rose to go.

Margie caught her arm.

"What is it? You _shall_ tell me! Suspense is worse than certainty."

"And if I tell you, you will keep silent? Silent as the grave itself?"

"Yes, if you wish it."

"Will you swear it?"

"I cannot; but I will keep it just as sacredly."

"I want not only your promise, but your oath. You would never break
an oath. And this which I am about to tell you, if known to the world,
involves Archer Trevlyn's life! and you refuse to take an oath."

"His life! Yes, I will swear. I would do anything to make his life
safer."

"Very well. You understand me fully? You are never to reveal anything
I may tell you to-night, unless I give you leave. You swear it?"

"I swear it."

"Listen, then. You remember the night Mr. Linmere was murdered?"

Margie grew pale as death, and clasped her hands convulsively.

"Yes, I remember it."

"You desired us, after we had finished dressing you, to leave you alone.
We did so, and you locked the door behind us, stepped from the window,
and went to the grave of your parents."

"I did."

"You remained there some little time, and when you turned away,
you stopped to look back, and in doing so you laid your hand--this
one,--" she touched Margie's slender left hand, on which shone Archer
Trevlyn's betrothal ring--"on the gate post. Do you remember it?"

"Yes, I remember it."

"And while it rested there--while your eyes were turned away, that hand
was touched--by something soft, and warm, and sentient--too warm, too
passionate, to be the kiss of a disembodied soul. Living human lips, that
scorched into your flesh, and thrilled you as nothing else ever had the
power to thrill you!"

Margie trembled convulsively, her color came and went, and she clasped
and unclasped her hands with nervous agitation.

"Am I not speaking the truth?"

"Yes, yes--go on. I am listening."

"Was there, in all the world, at that time, more than one person whose
kiss had the power to thrill you as that kiss thrilled you? Answer me,
Margie Harrison!"

"I will not! You have no right to ask me!" she replied, passionately.

"It is useless to attempt disguise, Margie. I can read your very
thoughts. At the moment you felt that touch, you knew instinctively who
was near you. You felt and acknowledged the presence of one who had no
right to be kissing the hand of another man's promised wife. And yet
the forbidden sin of that person was sweet to you. You stooped and
pressed your lips where his had been! Whose?"

"I do not know--indeed I do not! Why do you torture me so, Alexandrine?"

"My poor child, I will say no more. Good-night, Margie. I trust you will
have a pleasant evening with Mr. Trevlyn."

Margie caught the flowing skirt of Miss Lee's dress.

"You shall tell me all! I must know. I have heard too much to be kept in
ignorance of the remainder."

"So be it. You shall hear all. You know that Archer Trevlyn was in the
graveyard, or near it, that night, though you might not see him. Yet you
were sure of his presence--"

"I was not! I tell you, I was not!" she cried, fiercely. "I saw no one;
not a person!"

"Then, if you were not sure of his presence, you loved some other; else
why did you put your lips where those of a stranger had been? In that
case, you were doubly false!"

Margie's cheeks were crimson with shame. She covered her face with her
hands, and was silent.

"How many can you love at once, Margie Harrison?"

"Alexandrine, you are cruel!--cruel! Is it not enough for you to tell me
the truth, without torturing me thus?"

A flash of conscious triumph crossed the cold face of Miss Lee, and then
she was calm as before.

"No, I am not cruel--only truthful. You cannot deny that you knew
Archer Trevlyn was near you. You will not deny it. Margie, I know
what love is--I know something of its keen, subtle instincts. I should
recognize the vicinity of the man I loved, though all around me were
black as midnight."

"Well, what then?" asked Margie, defiantly.

"Wait and see. I followed you out that night, with no definite purpose in
my mind. Perhaps it was curiosity to see what a romantic woman, about to
be married to a man she does not love, would do, I stood outside the
hedge of arbor vitae while you were inside. I saw the tall, shadowy
figure which bent its head upon your hand, and I saw you put your mouth
where his had been. When you went away I did not go. Something kept me
behind. A moment afterward, I heard voices inside the hedge--just one
exclamation from each person--I could swear to that! and then--O
heaven!"

"What then!"

"A blow! a dull, terrible thud, a smothered groan, a fall--and I stood
there powerless to move--stricken dumb and motionless! And while I stood
transfixed, some person rushed past me, breathless, panting, reckless of
everything save escape! Margie, it was so dark that I could not be
positive, but I am morally certain that the person I saw was Archer
Trevlyn!"

"My God!" Margie cowered down to the floor, and hid her face in the folds
of Alexandrine's dress.

"Hear me through," Miss Lee went on relentlessly, her face growing
colder and harder with every word. "Hear me through and then decide for
yourself. Let no opinion of mine bias your judgment. I stood there a
moment longer, and then, when suspended volition came back to me, I fled
from the place. Margie, words cannot express to you my distress, my
bitter, burning anguish! It was like to madness. But sooner than have
divulged my suspicions, I would have killed myself! For I loved Archer
Trevlyn with a depth and fervor which your cool nature has no conception
of. I love him still, though I feel convinced, from the bottom of my
soul, that he is a murderer!"

Her cheeks grew brilliant as red roses, her eyes sparkled like stars.
Margie looked into the bewilderingly beautiful face with suspended
breath. The woman's passionate presence scorched her; she could not
be herself, with those eyes of fire blazing down into hers.

Alexandrine resumed, "I am wasting time. Let me hurry on to the end, or
your lover will be here before I finish."

"My lover!" cried Margie, in a dazed sort of way, "_my lover_? O yes I
remember, Archer Trevlyn was coming. Is it nearly time for him?"

Alexandrine took the shrinking, cowering girl by the shoulders, and
lifted her into a seat.

"Rouse yourself, Margie. I have not done. I want you to hear it all."

"Yes, I am hearing."

It was pitiful to see how helpless and weak the poor child had become.
All sense of joy and sorrow seemed to have died out of her.

"I feared so much that when the body of the murdered man should be
discovered, there would be some clue which would point to the guilty
party! Such a night as I passed, while they searched for the body! I
thought I should go mad!" She hid her face in her hands, and her figure
shook like a leaf in the autumn wind.

"When the dog took us to the graveyard, I thought I would be the first
inside--I would see if there was anything left on the ground to point to
the real murderer. You remember that I picked up something, do you not?"

"I do. Your glove, was it not?"

"Yes. It was my glove! I defy the whole world to take it from me! I would
die before such a proof should be brought against the man I love!" she
cried wildly. "See here!"

She drew from her bosom a kid glove, stained and stiff with blood.

"Margie, have you ever seen it before? Look here. It has been mended;
sewed with blue silk! Do you remember anything about it?"

"Yes; I saw you mend it at Cape May," she answered, the words forced from
her, apparently, without her volition.

"You are right. He had torn it while rowing me out, one morning. I saw
the rent and offered to repair it. He makes his gloves wear well, doesn't
he?"

"O don't! don't! how can you! Alexandrine, wake me, for mercy's sake!
This is some horrible dream."

"I would to heaven it were! It would be happier for us all. But if you
feel any doubt about the identity of the glove, look here." She turned
back the wrist, and there on the inside, written in the bold characters
which were a peculiarity of Arch Trevlyn's handwriting, was the name
in full--_Archer Trevlyn_.

Margie shrank back and covered her eyes, as if to shut out the terrible
proof. Alexandrine returned the glove to her bosom, and then continued:

"The handkerchief found near Mr. Linmere was marked with the single
letter A. Whose name begins with that letter?"

"Stop, I implore you! I shall lose my reason! I am blinded--I cannot see!
O, if I could only die and leave it all!"

"You will not die. I bore it, and still live; and it is so much harder
for me, because I have to bear it all alone. You have your religion to
help you, Margie. Surely that will bear you up! I have heard all you
pious people prate enough of its service in time of trouble to remember
that consolation."

"Don't, Alexandria! It is sinful to scorn God's holy religion. Yes, you
are right; it will help me. God himself will help me, if I ask him. He
knows how much I stand in need of it."

"I am glad you are so likely to be supported," returned the girl,
half-earnestly, half-contemptuously. "Are you satisfied in regard to
Mr. Archer Trevlyn?"

"I will not credit it!" cried Margie, passionately. "He did not do that
deed! He could not! So good, and noble, and pitiful of all suffering
humanity! And besides, what motive could he have?"

"The motive was all-powerful. Has not Mr. Trevlyn, by his own confession,
loved you from his youth up?"

"Yes."

"And Paul Linmere was about to become your husband. Could there be a more
potent reason for Archer Trevlyn to desire Mr. Linmere's death? He was an
obstacle which could be removed in no other way than by death, because
you had promised your father to marry him, and you could not falsify your
word. All men are weak and liable to sin; is Trevlyn any exception?
Margie, I have told you frankly what I know. You can credit it or not. I
leave it with you; decide as you think best. It is eight o'clock. I will
go now, for it is time for your lover to come for you."

"O, I cannot meet him--not to-night! I must have time to think--time to
collect my thoughts! My head whirls so, and everything is so dark! Stay,
Alexandrine, and excuse me to him. Say I have a headache--anything to
quiet him. I cannot see him now! I should go mad! Let me have a night
to think of it!"

Alexandrine put her hand on the soft hair of the bowed head.

"My poor Margie! it is hard for you. Hark! there is the bell. He has
come. Will you not go down?"

"No, no, no! Do what you judge best, and leave me to myself and my God."

Alexandrine went out, and Margie, locking the door after her, flung
herself down on the carpet and buried her face in the pillows of the
sofa.

Miss Lee swept down the staircase, her dark, bright face resplendent, her
bearing haughty as that of an empress. Arch was in the parlor. He looked
up eagerly as the door opened, but his countenance fell when he saw that
it was only Miss Lee. She greeted him cordially.

"Good evening, Mr. Trevlyn. I am deputized to receive you, and my good
intentions must be accepted in place of more fervid demonstrations."

"I am happy to see you, Miss Lee. Where is Margie?"

"She is in her room, somewhat indisposed. She begged me to ask you to
excuse her, as she is unable to come down, and of course cannot have
pleasure of going with you to the opera."

"Sick? Margie sick!" he exclaimed, anxiously. "What can be the matter?
She was well enough three hours ago."

"O, do not be uneasy. It is nothing serious. A headache, I think. She
will be well after a night's rest. Cannot I prevail on you to sit down?"

"I think not, to-night, thank you. I will call to-morrow. Give Margie my
best love, and tell her how sorry I am that she is ill."

Alexandrine promised, and Mr. Trevlyn bowed himself out. She put her hand
to her forehead, which seemed almost bursting with the strange weight
there.

"Guilty or not guilty," she muttered, "what does it matter to me? I love
him, and that is enough?"

PART III.

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.

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