The Fatal Glove by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

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"Mr. Castrani," she said, quietly enough, outwardly, "circumstances, of
which I cannot speak, have made it necessary for me to leave New York. I
do not desire that the place of my destination shall be known to any one.
But to show you how much I appreciate your kindness, and how entirely I
trust you, I will inform you that I am going to Lightfield, in New
Hampshire, to stop an indefinite length of time with my old nurse, Mrs.
Day."

Castrani was visibly affected by this proof of her confidence.

"From me, no one shall ever know the place of your refuge," he said,
earnestly. "Your train leaves at ten. It is now nine. If you would only
permit me to see you safely to the end of your journey!"

She flushed. He read a quiet reproach in her eye.

"Pardon me. I know it may seem like officiousness, but I would try and
not be disagreeable to you. I would not even speak to you, if you desired
it should be so. But I could travel in the same car with you, and be
there to protect you, if you should need me."

"I thank you greatly. But I had rather you went no further. I shall meet
with no difficulty, I think. I shall reach Nurse Day's by sunset."

"As you will. I will not press the matter. Your pleasure shall be mine."

A little later, he assisted her from the carriage that had taken her to
the depot. Her baggage was checked--he handed her the check, and her
ticket, and then pressed into her hand a roll of bank-notes. She put them
back quietly, but he declined taking them.

"I do not give it to you--I lend it to you. You shall repay it at your
convenience."

"On these conditions, I thank you, also."

She put out her hand. He took it, resisted the inclination to press his
lips to it, and held it lightly in his.

"If you will give me permission--to call upon you--should I be in
Lightfield during your stay there--I shall be more than happy!"

She was about to refuse, but the mute pleading of his eyes deterred her.
He had been kind to her, and it could do her no harm. Probably, he would
never come to Lightfield, so she gave him the permission he asked for.

The day passed without incident, and nightfall found Margie within ten
miles of her destination. She was driven along a rough country road, to a
square farm-house--looming up white through the dark--and a moment later
she was lying, pale and exhausted, in the arms of Nurse Day.

"My blessed child!" cried the old lady; "my precious little Margie! My
old eyes will almost grow young again, after having been cheered by the
sight of ye!" And she kissed Margie again and again, while Leo expressed
his delight in true canine style--by barking vociferously, and leaping
over the chairs and tables.

Nurse Day was pleasantly situated. Her husband was a grave, staid
man who was very kind to Margie, always. The farm was a rambling
affair--extending over, and embracing in its ample limits, hill and dale,
meadow and woodland, and a portion, of a bright, swift river, on whose
bold banks it was Margie's delight to sit through the purple sunsets, and
watch the play of light and shade on the bare, rocky cliff opposite.

Nature proved a true friend to the sore heart of the girl. The breezes,
so fresh, and sweet, and clear, soothed Margie inexpressibly. The
sunshine was a message of healing; the songs of the birds carried her
back to her happy childhood. Wandering through the leafy aisles of the
forest, she seemed brought nearer to God and his mercy. Only once had
Nurse Day questioned her of the past, and then Margie had said:

"I have done with the past forever, Nurse Day. I wish it never recalled
to me. I have met with a great sorrow--one of which I cannot speak. I
came here to forget it. Never ask me anything about it. I would confide
it to you, if I could, but my word is given to another to keep silent.
I acted for what I thought best. Heaven knows if I erred, I did not err
willingly."

"Give it all into God's hands," said Nurse Day, reverently. "He knows
just what is best for us."

The days went on slowly, but they brought something of peace to Margie
Harrison. The violence of her distress passed away, and now there was
only a dull pain at her heart--a pain that must always have its abode
there.

She held no communication with any person in New York, save her aunt, and
her business agent, Mr. Farley, and her letters to them were posted in a
distant town, in a neighboring State, where Nurse Day had friends--and so
Margie's place of refuge was still a secret.

It was August now, and the weather at its hottest. Margie spent a large
portion of her time out of doors, with only Leo for a companion. She sat,
one lovely afternoon, on the bank of the river, dividing her time between
the charming panorama of sunshine and shadow before her, and a book of
poems in her lap, when there was a step at her side. She looked up, and
saw the face of Louis Castrani.

"Miss Harrison, you will, I trust, excuse me for seeking you here. But my
wish to see you was so strong, that, on my way to the White Mountains, I
left my party, and turned aside here, to gratify the desire. You know you
gave me permission?"

"I did; but I hardly thought you would take advantage of it."

"Perhaps I ought not to have done so. Indeed, I tried hard not to. Are
you very angry?"

"No, I am not angry at all. I am glad to see you." She held out her hand.
"So is Leo, too--only see him caper."

The dog was leaping upon Mr. Castrani, with the liveliest demonstrations
of joy. He patted the silky head.

"It is something to be welcomed by a brute, Miss Harrison; their
instincts are seldom at fault, I believe. Have you been well, Miss
Harrison?"

"Very well, thank you. And you? But I need not ask. Your looks answer for
you. When did you leave New York?"

"I have been in New York only a fortnight since I last saw you. Business
has kept me elsewhere. I came from New York three days ago. What a
beautiful spot you have hidden yourself in!"

"I am pleased to hear you say so. Isn't it lovely? But you must tell me
about home. How are all my friends?"

"They are well. How mellowy the sunshine falls on the rough crags
opposite, and what a picture for a painter to transfer to canvas!"

"Yes, I have wished I were an artist, over and over a gain. But I have no
talent in that direction. My friends are all well, you say? What of Miss
Lee? Did you see her?"

"Yes. She is well. What are you reading?" lifting the book from the
ground where it had fallen.

Margie turned suddenly upon him, and regarded him searchingly.

"Why do you evade answering my questions, Mr. Castrani? It is natural
that I should want to hear something of the home from which I have been
so long away, is it not? Why do you refuse to satisfy my reasonable
curiosity on that subject?"

Castrani's handsome face clouded--he looked at her with tender pity in
his eyes.

"Miss Harrison, why will you press me further? Your friends are all
well."

"I know. But there is something behind that. Tell it to me at once."

"I cannot--indeed, I cannot! You must hear it from some other lips.
I would rather die, than cause you one single pang of sorrow!"

"You are very kind, Mr. Castrani--you mean generously--but I want to
know." Some subtle instinct seemed to tell her what she was to hear--for
she added, "Is it of Miss Lee?"

"I told you Miss Lee was well."

"Mr. Castrani. I have given you more of my confidence than I have ever
bestowed on any other person, because I respect you above all men, and
because I have perfect confidence in your honor. Has this matter, of
which you hesitate to tell me, anything to do with--with Mr. Archer
Trevlyn?"

Her voice sank to a whisper, before the sentence was finished, for she
had never spoken his name since that fearful night on which his guilt had
been revealed to her.

"I will reply to your question by asking another; and, if it seems
impertinent, remember that it is not so intended, and that I do not ask
it from any vulgar feeling of curiosity."

"You can ask nothing impertinent, Mr. Castrani," she replied, earnestly.

"Thank you. I do not intend to. Are you betrothed to Archer Trevlyn?"

She grew very pale, but her eyes met his fearlessly.

"I _was_ once. But it is all over, now," with a dreary sigh, that was
like the breath of the autumn wind through the dead leaves.

"Before you left New York--was it over before that?"

"Yes, before I left New York. It was why I left there. I cannot tell you
how it was--I can never tell any human being. But a terrible necessity
arose which forced us apart."

"Did he--did Arch Trevlyn desert you, Miss Harrison?" asked Castrani, his
brow contracting, his dark eyes glowing with indignation.

"No; it was my hand that severed the engagement. Do not blame him for
that. It was impossible that it should be fulfilled."

"You, Miss Harrison? You broke the engagement?" he asked, eagerly.

Perhaps she read something in the beautiful hope that sprung up in his
heart from the glad light in his eyes, and she crushed it at once.

"Yes, I. But not because I had ceased to love him. No, no. He
was--is--and will be always, the one love of my lifetime. I shall
never love another. Now, I have trusted in you--be frank and free
with me."

"Well--since you ask it, Mr. Trevlyn and Miss Lee are to be married in
September."

"To Miss Lee--married to Miss Lee? Great Heaven! And she is aware of
his--What am I saying? What did I say? O, Mr. Castrani, excuse me--I am
so--surprised--" She groped blindly for something to cling to, fell
forward, and he received her senseless form in his arms.

He held her silently, a moment, his face wearing a look of unutterable
love and sadness; then he put her down on the grass, and brought water
in a large leaf from the stream. He bathed her forehead, tenderly as a
mother might, murmuring over her words of gentleness and affection.

"My poor Margie! my poor little darling!"

He pressed the little icy hands in his, but he did not kiss the lips
he would have given half his life to have felt upon his. He was too
honorable to take advantage of her helplessness. She revived after a
while, and met his eyes, as he knelt beside her.

"Are you better?" he asked, gently.

"Yes, it is over now. I am sorry to have troubled you. I must depend on
you to go to the house with me. Nurse Day will be glad to welcome you.
And I must ask you not to alarm her by alluding to my sudden illness. I
am quite well now."

He gave her his arm, and they went up to the house together followed by
Leo.

* * * * *

Archer Trevlyn and Alexandrine Lee were married in September. It was a
very quiet wedding, the bridegroom preferring that there should be no
parade or show on the occasion. Alexandrine and her mother both desired
that it should take place in the fashionable church, where they
worshipped, but they yielded to the wishes of Mr. Trevlyn. He deserved
some deference, Mrs. Lee declared, for having behaved so handsomely.
His presents to his bride were superb. A set of diamonds, that were
a little fortune in themselves, and a settlement of three thousand a
year--pin-money. The brown-stone house was furnished, and there was no
more elegant establishment in the city.

Trevlyn House, the fine old residence of the late John Trevlyn, was
closed. Only the old butler and his wife remained in a back-wing, to air
the rooms occasionally, and keep the moths out of the upholstery. For
some reasons, unexplained even to himself, Archer never took his wife
there. Perhaps the quiet room too forcibly reminded him of the woman he
had loved and lost.

Alexandrine's ambition was satisfied. At last, she was the wife of the
man whose love and admiration she had coveted since her first
acquaintance with him. From her heart she believed him guilty of the
murder of Paul Linmere; but in spite of it, she had married him. She
loved him intensely enough to pardon even that heinous crime.

Her husband's admiration Alexandrine possessed, but she soon came to
realize that he had told her the truth, when he said his heart was buried
too deep to know a resurrection. He was kind to her--very gentle, and
kind, and generous--for it was not in Archer Trevlyn's nature to be
unkind to anything--and he felt that he owed her all respect and
attention, in return for her love. Her every wish was gratified. Horses,
carriages, servants, dress, jewelry--everything that money could
purchase--waited her command, but not what she craved more than all--_his
love_.

He never kissed her, never took her hands in his, or held her to him when
he said good-by, as he frequently did, for several days' absence on
matters of business. He never called her Alexandrine--it was always Mrs.
Trevlyn; and through the long winter evenings, when they were not at some
ball or party, and sat by their splendid fireside, he never put his head
in her lap, and let her soft fingers caress his hair, as she had seen
other husbands do.

In September, Louis Castrani again appeared in New York society. His
appearance revived the old story of his devotion to Margaret Harrison,
and people began to wonder why she staid away from home so long.

As soon as he heard of Castrani's arrival, Archer Trevlyn sought him out.
He felt that he had a right to know if his suspicions touching Margie
were correct.

Castrani received him coldly but courteously. Trevlyn was not to be
repelled, but went to the point at once.

"Mr. Castrani," he said, "I believe I have to deal with a man of honor,
and I trust that you will do me the favor of answering the questions I
may ask, frankly."

"I shall be happy to answer any inquiries which Mr. Trevlyn may propound,
provided they are not impertinent," replied Castrani, haughtily.

Trevlyn hesitated. He dreaded to have his suspicions confirmed, and he
feared that if this man spoke the truth, such would be the case.

"I am listening, Mr. Trevlyn," remarked Castrani.

"Excuse me. In order to make you understand my position, I must beg you
to indulge me in a little retrospection. You are, doubtless, aware that
at one time I was engaged to Miss Margaret Harrison?"

"Such was the rumor, sir."

"It was correct. I loved her deeply, fondly, with my whole soul--just as
I love her still--in spite of all."

"Mr. Trevlyn," said Castrani, with cold reproof in his voice, "you have a
wife."

"I am aware of it, but that does not change my feelings. I have tried to
kill all regard for Margaret Harrison, but it is impossible. I can
control it, but I cannot make it die. My wife knows it all--I told her
freely--and knowing it, she was willing to bear my name. For some reason,
unknown to me, unexplained by Margaret, she cast me off. I had seen her
only the day before the fatal note reached me--had held her in my arms,
and felt her kiss upon my lips." He stopped, controlling his emotion, and
went on resolutely. "The next day I received a letter, from her--a brief,
cold, almost scornful letter. She renounced me utterly--she would never
meet me again, but as a stranger. She need make no explanation, she said;
my own conscience would tell me why she could no longer be anything to
me. As if I had committed some crime. I should have sought her, from one
end of the earth to the other, and won from her an explanation of her
rejection, had it not been for the force of circumstances, which revealed
to me that she left for the North, in the early express--with you--or
equivalent to that. She entered the train at the same time, and you were
both in the same car. That fact, coupled with your well-known devotion to
her, and her renunciation of me, satisfied me that she had fled from me,
to the arms of--another lover!"

"Villain!" cried Castrani, starting from his chair his face scarlet with
indignation. "If it were not a disgrace to use violence upon a guest, I
would thrash you soundly! You loved Margaret Harrison, and yet believed
that damnable falsehood of her! Out upon such love! She is, and was, as
pure as the angels! Yes, you say truly, I was devoted to her. I would
have given my life--yea, my soul's salvation, for her love! But she never
cared for me. I never enticed her to do evil--I would not, if I could,
and I could not, if I would! Who repeated this vile slander? Show him to
me, and by Heaven, his blood shall wipe out the stain!"

All Trevlyn's pride and passion left him. His face lost its rigid
tenseness, his eyes grew moist. He forgave Castrani's insults, because
he told him Margaret was pure. He put out his hands, and grasped those
of his companion.

"O, sir," he said, "I thank you--I thank you! You have made me as happy
as it is now possible for me to become. It is like going back to heaven,
after a long absence, to know that she was pure--that I was not deceived
in her. O Margie! Margie! my wronged Margie! God forgive me for indulging
such a thought of you!"

Castrani's hard face softened a little, as he witnessed the utter
abandonment of the proud man before him.

"You may well ask God to forgive you," he said. "You deserve the depths
of perdition for harboring in your heart a thought against the purity of
that woman. Archer Trevlyn, had she loved me as she did you, I would have
cut off my right hand before I would have entertained a suspicion of sin
in her! It is true, she went North on the same train as I did, but I did
not know it until the journey was ended. Previous to that time, I had not
seen her for more than a fortnight, and I did not know that she was near
me, until in Boston my attention was attracted by a crowd of 'roughs,'
gathered around a lady and a greyhound. The lady had lost her
_porte-monnaie_, and the crowd made some insulting remarks which I took
the liberty of resenting, and when I saw the lady's face, to my amazement
I recognized Margaret Harrison!"

"And you protected her? You gave her money and took her to a place of
safety?" said Trevlyn, anxiously.

"Of course. As I should have done by any other lady--but more especially
for her. I took her to a hotel, and on the morrow saw her start on her
journey. I would have gone on with her, but she declined my escort."

"O, I thank you--I thank you, so much! I shall be your friend always, for
that. You will tell me where she is?"

"No. I cannot."

"Cannot. Does that imply that you will not?"

"It does."

"Then you know her present place of sojourn?"

"I do. But she does not desire the knowledge to become general. I have
pledged my word to her not to reveal it. Neither is it best for you to
know."

"You are right. It is not. I might be unable to hinder myself from
seeking her. And that could do no good. I know that she is innocent. That
shall suffice me. Only tell me she is well, and agreeably situated."

"She is both. More, I think she is at peace. She is with those who love
her."

"I thank you for bearing with me. I shall be happier for knowing she was
not false to me. Whatever might have caused her to break the engagement,
it was not because she loved another. Good-by, Mr. Castrani."

He wrung the hand of the Cuban warmly, and departed.

* * * * *

It was an afternoon in May. Everything without was smiling and at rest,
but Mrs. Trevlyn was cross and out of humor. Perhaps any lady will say
that she had sufficient reason. Everything had gone wrong. The cook was
sick, and the dinner a failure; her dressmaker had disappointed her in
not finishing her dress for the great ball at Mrs. Fitz Noodle's, that
evening; and Annie, her maid, was down with one of her nervous headaches,
and she would be obliged to send for a hair-dresser.

Louis Castrani was a guest in the house, by Archer's invitation--for
the two gentlemen had become friends, warmly and deeply attached to each
other, and Mrs. Trevlyn could not help fretting over the unfortunate
condition of her _cuisine_.

She was looking very cross, as she sat in the back parlor, adjoining the
tasteful little morning-room, where she spent most of her time, and where
the gentlemen were in the habit of taking their books and newspapers when
they desired it quiet. If she had known that Mr. Castrani was at that
moment lying on the lounge in the morning-room, the door of which was
slightly ajar, she might have dismissed that unbecoming frown, and put
her troubles aside. Mr. Trevlyn entered, just as she had for the
twentieth time that day arrived at the conclusion that she was the most
sorely afflicted woman in the world, and his first words did not tend to
give her any consolation.

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Trevlyn, that I am to be deprived of the privilege
of attending the ball to-night. It is particularly annoying."

"What do you mean, Mr. Trevlyn?"

"I am obliged to go to Philadelphia on important business, and must leave
in this evening's train. I did not know of the necessity until a few
hours ago."

Mrs. Trevlyn was just in the state to be wrought upon by trifles.

"Always business," she exclaimed, pettishly. "I am sick of the word."

"Business before pleasure, Mrs. Trevlyn. But, really this is an important
affair. It is connected with the house of Renshaw and Selwyn, which went
under last week. The firm were under large obligations to--"

"Don't talk business to me, Mr. Trevlyn. I do not understand such
things--neither do I desire to. I only hope it _is_ business you are
going for!"

Mr. Trevlyn looked at her in some surprise.

"You only hope it _is_ business?" he said, inquiringly. "I do not
comprehend."

"I might have said that I hoped it was not a woman who called you from
your wife!"

The moment the words were spoken she repented their utterance, but the
mischief was already done.

"Mrs. Trevlyn, I shall request you to unsay the insinuation conveyed in
your words. They are unworthy of you and a shame to me."

"And I shall decline to unsay them. I dare affirm they are true enough."

"What do you mean, madam? I am, I trust, a man of honor. You are my wife,
and I am true to you. I have never loved but one woman, and she is dead
to me."

The allusion to the old love was extremely unfortunate just at this time,
for Mrs. Trevlyn was just sore enough to be deeply wounded by it, and
angry enough to throw back taunt for taunt.

"A man of honor!" she ejaculated, scornfully. "Honor, forsooth! Archer
Trevlyn, do you call yourself that?"

"I do; and I defy any man living to prove the contrary!" answered Archer,
proudly.

"You defy any _man_! Do you, also, defy any woman? Tell me, if you can,
whose glove this is?" And she pulled from her bosom the blood-stained
glove, and held it up before him.

He looked at it, flushed crimson, and trembled perceptibly. She laughed
scornfully.

"Archer Trevlyn, your guilt is known to me! It has been known to me ever
since the fatal night on which Paul Linmere met his death. I was there
that night, by the lonely graveyard. I saw you kiss _her_ hand! I heard
the dreadful blow, listened to the smothered groan, and saw through the
gloom the guilty murderer as he fled from the scene of crime! When the
victim was discovered, I went first, because I feared he might have left
behind him something that might fix his identity--and so he had. This
glove I found lying upon the ground, by the side of the wretched
victim--marked with the name of the murderer-stained with the blood of
the murdered! I hid it away; I would have died sooner than it should have
been torn from me, because I was foolish enough to love this man, whose
hand was red with murder! Archer Trevlyn, you took the life of Paul
Linmere, and thus removed the last obstacle that stood between you and
Margaret Harrison!"

Trevlyn's face had grown white as death while she had been speaking, but
it was more like the white heat of passion, than like the pallor of
detected guilt. His rigid lips were stern and pale; his dark eyes fairly
shot lightnings. He looked at his wife, as though he would read her very
soul.

"Alexandrine!" he said, hoarsely, "you believed this of me? You deemed me
guilty of the crime of murder, and yet you married me?"

"Yes, I married you. I was not so conscientious as your saintly Margaret.
She would not marry a man who had shed blood--even though he had done it
for love of her!"

Trevlyn caught her arm fiercely.

"Madam, do you mean to say that this shameful story ever came to the ears
of Margie Harrison?"

"Yes, she knew it. I told it to her myself! Kill me, if you like," she
added, seeing his fearful face; "it will not be your first crime!"

He forced himself to be calm.

"When did you make this revelation to Margaret?"

"The night before she left New York--the night she was to have gone to
the opera with you. I deemed it my duty. I did not do it to separate you,
though I am willing to confess that I desired you to be separated. I knew
that Margaret would sooner die than marry you, if the knowledge of your
crime was possessed by her."

"And she--Margaret--believed me guilty?"

"Why should she not? Any jury of twelve impartial men would have
committed you on the evidence I could have brought. You were in love
with Miss Harrison. She was under a solemn obligation to marry Mr.
Linmere--yet she loved you. Nothing save his death could release her.
You were, then, at night in a lonely graveyard, where none of your kin
were slumbering. There, at that hour, the murder was done, and after its
commission, you stole forth silently, guiltily. By the side of the
murdered man, was found your glove, stained with his blood; and a little
way from his dead body, a handkerchief, bearing the single initial 'A.'
Whose name commences with that letter? Could anything be clearer or more
conclusive?"

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