The Fatal Glove by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

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She packed a few of her plainest dresses and some other indispensables,
in a trunk, arrayed herself in a dark traveling suit, and rang for
Florine. The girl looked at her in silent amazement. Margie steadied
her voice, and spoke carelessly enough.

"Florine, I have been obliged to leave home very suddenly. My
preparations are all complete. I thought I would not wake you as I
had so little to do. Tell Peter to have the carriage at the door at six
precisely, and bring up Leo's breakfast, and a cup of hot coffee for me."

At six o'clock--having written a note to Mr. Farley, and one to her aunt,
giving no explanations, but merely saying she had been called away--she
put on her bonnet, entered the carriage and was driven to the depot. And
before nine-tenths of New York had thought of leaving their beds, she was
being whirled rapidly northward, her only companion Leo, who, watchful
and alert, lay curled up on the seat beside her.

* * * * *

Archer Trevlyn had not slept that night. Some sense of impending evil,
some demon of uneasiness oppressed him strangely. He tossed about until
daybreak, then he rose, dressed himself, and went out. Everything was
still on the streets except the clatter of the milk carts, and the early
drays and huckster wagons. The air was damp and dense, and struck a
deadly chill to the very marrow of this unseasonable wanderer. He walked
a few squares, and then returned to his hotel, more oppressed than when
he went out.

Did ever time move so slowly before? Would the morning never pass? He
wrote some urgent letters, read the damp morning paper, without the
slightest notion of contents, and went down to his breakfast, to come
away again leaving it untasted. Eight o'clock! The earliest possible hour
at which it would be proper to call on Miss Harrison was eleven. Three
mortal hours first! How should he ever endure it? She might be very ill.
She might even be dying? Archer, with the foolish inconsistency of love,
magnified every evil until he was nearly beside himself with dread, lest
she might be worse that Miss Lee had represented.

Nine o'clock struck; he was walking the floor in a state of nervous
excitement which would have forced him ere long to have broken all rules
of etiquette and taken his way to Harrison House, had not fate saved him
the necessity.

A waiter entered, and brought in a letter and a package. He snatched them
both, and saw they were directed in Margie's handwriting. For a moment
his heart stood still with a deadly fear. Great drops of perspiration
covered his forehead, and he dropped letter and package to the floor.
Why was she writing to him when she must expect to see him in a few
hours? And that package! what did it contain?

He picked it up, and tore off the wrappings. The betrothal ring rolled
out and fell with a hollow sound on the floor. The ring he had put upon
her finger--the ring he had seen her kiss more than once! He looked over
the contents of the box hurriedly; every little thing he had ever given
her was there, even to a bunch of faded violets!

But the letter? He had almost forgotten it, in pondering over the dread
significance of the return of his presents. He took it up, and broke the
seal with slow deliberation. It would not tell him any news, but it might
contain an explanation. His face grew pale as ashes as he read, and he
put his hand to his heart, as though he had received a blow there. Twice
he read it through, and at the last reading he seemed to realize its
dread portent.

"She gives me up! Margie renounces me! Strangers we must be henceforth!
What does it all mean? Am I indeed awake, or is this only a painful
dream?"

He read a few lines of the missive a third time. Something of the old
dominant spirit of Archer Trevlyn came back to him.

"There is some misunderstanding. Margie has been told some dire
falsehood!" he exclaimed, starting up. "I will know everything. She
shall explain fully."

He seized his hat and hurried to her residence. The family were at
breakfast, the servant said, who opened the door. He asked to see Miss
Harrison.

"Miss Harrison left this morning, sir, in the early express," said the
man, eying Trevlyn with curious interest.

"Went in the early train! Can you tell me where she has gone?"

"I cannot. Perhaps her aunt, Miss Farnsworth, or Miss Lee can do so."

"Very well;" he made a desperate effort to seem calm, for the servant's
observant eye warned him that he was not acting himself. "Will you please
ask Miss Lee to favor me with a few minutes of her time?"

Miss Lee came into the parlor where Archer waited, a little afterward.
Archer, himself, was not more changed than she. Her countenance was pale
even to ghastliness, with the exception of a bright red spot on either
cheek, and her eyes shone with such an unnatural light, that even Archer,
absorbed as he was in his own troubles, noticed it. She welcomed him
quietly, in a somewhat constrained voice, and relapsed into silence.
Archer plunged at once upon what he came to ascertain.

"The servant tells me that Miss Harrison left New York this morning. I
am very anxious to communicate with her. Can you tell me wither she has
gone?"

"I cannot. She left before any of the family were up, and though she left
notes for both her aunt and her business agent, Mr. Farley, she did not
in either of them mention her destination."

"And she did not speak to you about it?"

"She did not. I spent a part of last evening with her, just before you
came, but she said nothing to me of her intention. She was not quite
well, and desired me to ask you to excuse her from going to the opera."

"And you did not see her this morning?"

"No. I have not seen her since I left her room to come down to you last
night. When I returned from my interview with you, I tapped at her
door--in fact, I tapped at it several times during the evening, for
I feared she might be worse--but I got no reply, and supposed she had
retired. No one saw her this morning, except Florine, her maid, and
Peter, the coachman, who drove her to the depot."

"And she went entirely alone?"

"She did from the house. Peter took her in the carriage."

"_From the House!_ But after that?" he asked, eagerly.

"Mr. Trevlyn," she said, coldly, "excuse me."

"I must know!" he cried; passionately grasping her arm; "tell me, did she
set out upon this mysterious journey alone?"

"I must decline to answer you."

"But I will not accept any denial! Miss Lee, you know what Margie was to
me. There has arisen a fearful misunderstanding between us. I must have
it explained. Why will you trifle with me? You must tell me what you
know."

"I do not wish to arouse suspicions, Mr. Trevlyn, which may have no
foundation to rest on. Only for your peace of mind do I withhold any
information I may possess on the subject."

"It is a cruel kindness. Tell me everything at once, I beg of you!"

"Then, if it distresses you, do not blame me; Peter saw Mr. Louis
Castrani at the depot, and is confident he went in the same train,
in the same car, with Miss Harrison."

"Castrani! Great Heaven!" he staggered into a chair. "Is it possible?
Margie, my Margie, that I thought so good and pure and truthful, false to
me! It cannot, cannot be! I will not believe it!"

"I do not ask you to," said Alexandrine, proudly. "I insinuated nothing.
I only replied to your question."

"Pardon me, Miss Lee. I am not quite myself this morning. I will go
now. I thank you for what you have told me, and trust it will all be
explained."

"I trust so," answered Miss Lee, turning to leave the room.

"Stay a moment! To what depot did Peter drive her?"

"The Northern, I think he said."

"Again I thank you, and good-morning."

He hurried away, got into the first coach he came across, and was driven
to the Northern depot.

He was somewhat acquainted with the ticket agent, and assuming as
nonchalant an air as was possible in his present disturbed state, he
strolled into the office. After a little indifferent conversation, he
said.

"By the way, Harris, do you know Mr. Castrani, the young Cuban, who has
turned the heads of so many of our fair belles? Some one was telling me
that he left town this morning."

"Castrani! Yes, I think I do. He did leave for the North this morning, in
the early express. I marked his baggage for him. He had been hurried so
in his preparations, he said, that he had no time for it."

"Indeed? It's a bore to be hurried. Where was he checked to?"

"Well, really, the name of the place has escaped me. Some little town in
New Hampshire or Maine, I think. We do so much of this business that my
memory is treacherous about such things."

"Were you speaking of Castrani?" asked Tom Clifford, a friend of Archer's
removing his cigar from his mouth. "Deuced fine fellow! Wish I had some
of his spare shillings. Though he's generous as a prince. Met him this
morning just as he was coming down the steps of the Astor. Had to get up
early to see after that confounded store of mine. Walker's too lazy to
open it mornings."

"You met Mr. Castrani?" said Archer, referring to the point.

"Yes. He told me he was going away. Woman somewhere mixed up in the case.
Said he expected to find one somewhere--well, hanged if I can tell where.
There's always a woman at the bottom of everything."

"He did not mention who this one was?"

"Not he. But I must be going. It's nearly lunch time. Good morning."

Trevlyn stopped a few moments with Mr. Harris, and then went back to his
rooms. He was satisfied. Hard as it was for him to believe it, he had no
other alternative. Margie was false, and she had gone away from him under
the protection of Castrani. He could have forgiven her anything but that.
If she had ceased to love him, and transferred her affections, he could
still have wished her all happiness, if she had only been frank with him.
But to profess love for him all the while she was planning to elope with
another man, was too much! His heart hardened toward her.

If there had been, in reality, as he had at first supposed, any
misunderstanding between him and her, and she had gone alone, he would
have followed her to the ends of the earth, and have had everything made
clear. But as it was now, he would not pursue her an inch. Let her go!
False and perfidious! Why should her flight ever trouble him?

But though he tried to believe her worthy of all scorn and contempt,
his heart was still very tender of her. He kissed the sweet face of the
picture he had worn so long in his bosom, before he locked it away from
his sight, and dropped some tears, that were no dishonor to his manhood,
over the half dozen elegant little trifles she had given him, before he
committed them to the flames.

There was a nine days' wonder over Miss Harrison's sudden exodus. But her
aunt was a discreet woman, and it was generally understood that Margie
had taken advantage of the pause in the fashionable season to visit some
distant relatives, and if ever any one coupled her flight and the
departure of Castrani together, it was not made the subject of remark.
Alexandrine kept what she knew to herself, and of course Archer Trevlyn
did not proclaim his own desertion.

For a week, nearly, he managed to keep about, and at the end of that time
he called at Mrs. Lee's. He wanted to question Alexandrine a little
further. The idea possessed him that in some way she might be cognizant
of Margie's destination. And though he had given the girl up, he longed
desperately to know if she were happy. He had felt strangely giddy all
day, and the heat of Mrs. Lee's parlors operated unfavorably upon him. He
was sitting on a sofa conversing with that lady and her daughter, when
suddenly he put his hand to his forehead, and sank back, pale and
speechless.

In the wildest alarm, they called a physician, who put him to bed, and
enjoined the severest quiet. Mr. Trevlyn, he said, had received a severe
shock to his nervous system, and there was imminent danger of congestive
fever of the brain.

His fears were verified. Archer did not rally, and on the second day he
was delirious. Then the womanly nature of Alexandrine Lee came out and
asserted itself. She banished all attendants from the sick room, and took
sole charge herself of the sufferer. Not even her mother would she allow
to take her place. When tempted by intense weariness to resign her post,
she would take _that stained glove_ from her bosom, and the sight of it
would banish all thought of admitting a stranger.

"No," she said to herself, "people in delirium speak of their most
cherished secrets and he shall not criminate himself. It he did that
terrible deed, only I of all the world can bring a shadow of suspicion
against him, and the secret shall never be revealed to any other."

So she sat the long days and longer nights away, by the side of this man
she loved so hopelessly, bathing his fevered brow, holding his parched
hand, and lingering fondly over the flushed, unconscious face.

He sank lower and lower day by day--so very low that the physician said
he could do no more. He must leave the case. There was nothing for it but
to wait with patience the workings of nature.

At last, the day came when the ravings of delirium subsided and a deadly
stupor intervened. It was the crisis of the disease. The sundown would
decide, Dr. Grayson said; he would be better, or death would ensue.

Alexandrine heard his opinion in stony silence. She sat by the bed's-head
now, calm and silent; her powers of self-control were infinite. Her
mother came in to watch for the change, as did several of Archer's
friends, heretofore excluded. She was not afraid for them to come;
there was no danger of Mr. Trevlyn criminating himself now. He had not
spoken or moved for twelve hours.

The time passed slowly. The sun crept down the west. The ticking of the
watch on the stand was all that broke the silence of the room. The last
sun ray departed--the west flamed with gold and crimson, and the amber
light flushed with the hue of health the white face on the pillow.
Alexandrine thought she saw a change other than that the sunset light
brought, and bent over him.

His eyes unclosed--he looked away from her to the vase of early spring
flowers on the centre-table. His lips moved--she caught the whispered
word with a fierce pang at the heart:

"Margie!"

The physician stepped forward, and sought the fluttering pulse. His face
told his decision before his lips did.

"The crisis is passed. He will live."

Yes, he would live. The suspense was over. Alexandrine's labors were
shared now, and Archer did not know how devotedly he had been tended--how
he owed his very existence to her.

He mended slowly, but by the middle of May he was able to go out. Of
course he was very grateful to the Lees, and their house was almost the
only one he visited. Alexandrine was fitful and moody. Sometimes she
received him with the greatest warmth, and then she would be cold and
distant. She puzzled Archer strangely. He wanted to be friends with her.
He felt that he owed her an immense debt of gratitude, and he desired to
treat her as he would a dear sister.

Perhaps it was because time hung so heavily on his hands that Trevlyn
went so frequently to Mrs. Lee's. Certainly he did not go to visit
Alexandrine. We all know how the habit of visiting certain places grows
upon us, without any particular cause, until we feel the necessity of
going through with the regular routine every day. He was to blame for
following up this acquaintance so closely, but he did it without any
wrong intention. He never thought it possible that any one should dream
of his being in love with Alexandrine.

But the world talked. They said it was a very pretty romance; Mr. Trevlyn
had been deserted by his lady-love, had fallen ill on account of it, and
been nursed by one whom of course he would marry. Indeed, they thought
him in duty bound to do so. In what other way could he manifest his
gratitude?

Vague whispers of this reached Trevlyn's ear, but he gave them at first
little heed. He should never marry, he said; it was sinful to wed without
love. But as he saw Alexandrine's pale face and strangely distraught
manner day by day, he came to feel as if he had in some way wronged her
though how he did not exactly understand.

One day he entered the sitting-room of Mrs. Lee with the freedom of a
privileged visitor, without rapping, and found Alexandrine in tears. He
would have retreated, but she had already seen him, and he felt that it
would be better to remain. He spoke to her kindly.

"I trust nothing has occured to distress you?"

She looked at him almost defiantly.

"Leave me!" she said, impetuously; "you, of all others, have no right
to question me!"

"Pardon me" he exclaimed, alarmed by her strange emotion, "and why not
_I_ question you?"

"Because you have caused me misery enough already--"

She stopped suddenly, and rising, was about to leave the room. He took
her hand, and closed the door she had opened, leading her to a seat.

"My dear Miss Lee, I do not comprehend you. Explain. If I have ever
injured you in any way, it has been the very thing farthest removed from
my intentions. Will you not give me a chance to defend myself?"

She blushed painfully; her embarrassment disturbed him, for he was
generous to all, and he really felt very kindly toward her.

"I cannot explain," she said, in a subdued voice. "I am sorry you came
just now. But these slanders anger me, as well as wound my feelings."

"What slanders, Miss Lee?"

Her color grew deeper. Animated by some sudden resolve, she lifted her
head proudly.

"I will tell you. Remember that you sought the information. Your coming
here has been made the subject of remark, and I have been accused of
having schemed to draw you here. You know if it be true."

His face flushed slowly. He recalled the silly stories that had some time
before reached his ears. And because of them she had suffered! This woman
whose unremitting care had saved his life! How thoughtless and cruel he
had been! He was a man of honor; if any woman's reputation had been
injured through his means, there was but one course for him to pursue.
He must make reparation. And how? For a moment his head whirled, but
glancing at the pale, distressed face before him, he made his decision.

"Alexandrine," he said, quietly, "you know just what my course has been.
You know my lowly origin--you know how life has cheated me of happiness.
You know how dear Margie Harrison was to me, and how I lost her. I loved
her with my whole soul--she will be the one love of my life time. I shall
never love another woman as I loved her. But if my name, and the position
I can give my wife, will be pleasant to you, then I ask you to accept
them, as some slight recompense for what I have made you suffer. If you
can be satisfied with the sincere respect and friendship I feel for you,
then I offer myself to you. You deserve my heart, but I have none to
give to any one. I have buried it so deep that it will never know a
resurrection."

She shuddered and grew pale. To one of her passionate nature--loving him
as she did--it was but a sorry wooing. His love she could never have. But
if she married him, she should be always near him; sometimes he would
hold her hands in his, and call her, as he did now, Alexandrine. Her
apparent struggle with herself pained him. Perhaps he guessed something
of its cause. He put his arm around her waist.

"My child," he said, kindly, "do you love me? Do you indeed care for me?
Cold and indifferent as I have been? Tell me truly, Alexandrine?"

She did tell him truly; something within urged her to let him see her
heart as it was. For a moment she put aside all her pride.

"I do love you," she said, "God only knows how dearly!"

He looked at her with gentle, pitying eyes, but he did not touch the red
lips so near his own. He could not be a hypocrite.

"I will be good to you, Alexandrine. God helping me, you shall never have
cause for complaint. I will make your life as happy as I can. I will give
you all that my life's shipwreck spared me. Will that content you? Will
you be my wife?"

Still she did not reply.

"Are you afraid to risk it?" he asked, almost sadly.

"No, I am not afraid! I will risk everything!" she answered.

Meantime, what of Margie Harrison? Through the dull, stormy day she had
been whirled along like the wind. The train was an express, and made few
stoppages. Margie took little note of anything which occurred. She sat
in her hard seat like one in a trance, and paid no heed to the lapse of
time, until the piteous whining of Leo warned her that night was near,
and the poor dog was hungry. At the first stopping-place she purchased
some bread and meat for him, but nothing for herself. She could not have
swallowed a mouthful.

Still the untiring train dashed onward. Boston was reached at last.
She got out, stood confused and bewildered, gazing around her. It was
night, and the place was strange to her. The cries of the porters and
hackmen--the bustle and dire confusion, struck a chill to her heart. The
crowd hurried hither and thither, each one intent on his own business,
and the lamps gave out a dismal light, dimmed as they were by the hanging
clouds of mist and fog. Alone in a great city! For the first time in her
life she felt the significance of the words she had so often heard. She
had never traveled a half dozen miles before, by herself, and she felt
almost as helpless as a little child.

"Carriage, ma'am?" said a hackman, touching her arm.

"Yes," she said, mechanically, and put her hand in her pocket for her
_porte-monnaie_, with a vague idea that she must pay him before she
started.

She uttered a low cry of dismay! Her pocket-book was missing! She
searched more thoroughly, but it was not to be found. Her pocket had been
picked. She turned a piteous face to the hackman.

"My money is lost, sir!" she said, "but if you will take me to a place of
shelter, I will remunerate you some way."

"Sorry to be obliged to refuse, ma'am," said the man, civilly enough,
"but I'm a poor man, with a family, and can't afford to keep my horses
for nothing."

"What is it, driver?" queried a rough voice; but in a moment a crowd had
gathered around poor, shrinking Margie, and growling, indignant Leo.

"The woman's lost her purse--"

"Oh, ho! the old story--eh? Beauty in distress. Should think they'd git
tired of playing that game!" said the coarse voice, which belonged to a
lounger and hanger-on at the depot.

"Looks rather suspicious, ma'am, for ye to be traveling on the train
alone," began the hackman; but he was interrupted by the lounger.

"That's the way they all travel. Wall, thank the Lord, I hain't so
gallant as to git taken in by every decent face I see!"

"Thank Heaven, I am not so lost to all sense of decency as to insult a
lady!" said a clear, stern voice; and a tall, distinguished-looking man
swept through the crowd, and reached Margie's side.

"Indeed, I am not mistaken!" he said, looking at her with amazement.
"Miss Harrison!"

She saw, as he lifted his hat, the frank, handsome face of Louis
Castrani. All her troubles were over--this man was a pillar of strength
to her weakness. She caught his arm eagerly, and Leo barked with joy,
recognizing a friend.

"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Castrani!"

His countenance lighted instantly. He pressed the hand on his arm.

"Thank you, my friend. What service can I render you? Where do you wish
to go? Let met act for you."

"Oh, thank you--if you only will! I was going further, but the train I
wished to take has been gone some hours, and I must stay here to-night.
And on my way, somewhere, my money has been stolen."

"Give yourself no more uneasiness. I am only too happy to be of any use
to you."

The crowd dispersed, and Castrani called a carriage, and put Margie and
Leo inside.

"Have you any choice of hotels?"

"None. I am entirely unacquainted here. You know best."

"To the ---- House," he said to the driver; and thither they were taken.

A warm room and a tempting supper were provided, but Margie could not
eat. She only swallowed a little toast, and drank a cup of tea. Castrani
came to her parlor just after she had finished, but he did not sit down.
He had too much delicacy to intrude himself upon her when accident had
thrown them together.

"I was called here on very urgent business," he said, "and shall be
obliged to attend to it to-night, but I shall return soon, and will see
you in the morning. Meanwhile, feel perfectly at home. I have engaged a
chamber-maid to attend to you, and do not be afraid to make your wants
known. Good-night, now, and pleasant dreams."

She was so weary, that she slept some, with Leo hugged tightly to her
breast; for she felt a sense of security in having this faithful friend
near her. Breakfast was served in her room, and by-and-by Castrani came
up. He spoke to her cheerfully, though he could not fail to notice that
some terrible blow had fallen upon her since last he had seen her, gay
and brilliant, at a party in New York. But he forbore to question her.
Margie appreciated his delicacy, and something impelled her to confide
to him what she had not entrusted to the descretion of any other person.
She owed him this confidence, for his disinterested kindness.

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