The Fatal Glove by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

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"And you believe me guilty?"

"I do."

He took a step toward her. She never forgot the dreadful look upon his
face.

"I scorn to make any explanation. I might, perhaps, clear myself of this
foul accusation, but I will make no effort to do so. But not another day
will I live beneath the same roof with the woman who believed me guilty
of murder, and yet sunk herself so low as to become my wife!"

"As you please," she said, defiantly. "I should be quite as happy were it
so."

He bowed coldly, courteously--went out, and closed the door behind him.
The sound struck to the heart of his wife like a knell. She staggered
back, and fell upon a chair.

Had she been mad? She had wounded and angered him, beyond all hope of
pardon--him, whom in spite of everything, she held more precious than the
whole world! She had lost his respect--lost forever all chance of winning
his love. And she _had_ eagerly cherished the sweet hope that some time
he might forget the old dream, and turn to the new reality. But it was
past!

She went up to her chamber, and locking the door, threw herself, dressed
as she was, on the bed. How long must this continue? How long would he
remain away? His business would not, probably, keep him more than a few
days, and then, surely, he would return. And she would throw herself at
his feet, acknowledge her fault, and plead--yes, beg for his forgiveness.
Anything, only to have peace between them once more!

She could not write to him, for he had not left his address. The next
morning, she went down to the store, but they knew nothing of his
destination, or his probable time of absence. So all she could do was
to return home and wait.

A week passed--ten days--and still he did not return, and no tidings of
him had reached his agonized wife.

PART IV.

Louis Castrani received, one day, an urgent summons to Boston. It was the
very day following that on which he had been an unwilling listener to the
difficulty between Mr. and Mrs. Trevlyn. He knew from whom the summons
came. Once before he had been suddenly called in like manner.

A wretched woman she was now--but once the belle and beauty of the fair
Cuban town where Castrani's childhood and youth had been spent. She had
been a beautiful orphan, adopted by his parents, and brought up almost as
his sister. Perhaps, in those days, when they played together under the
soft Southern skies, he knew no difference.

Now she was dying. So said the message. Dying, and burdened with a
secret which she could confess to no ears save his. Before, when he had
gone to her, she had rallied after his arrival, and had declined making
confession. She should never speak of it, she said, until her death was
sure. But when she felt dissolution drawing nigh, she should send for
him again. And the summons had come. He obeyed it in haste, and one night
just before sunset, he stood by her bedside.

Once, she had been beautiful, with such beauty as a pure complexion,
black eyes, raven hair and perfect features confer; but now she was a
wreck. The pure, transparent complexion was pale as marble--the brilliant
eyes sunken--the magnificent hair bleached white as the wintry snow.

She welcomed him brokenly, her eyes lighting up with the pleasure of
seeing him--and then the light faded away, leaving her even more ghastly
than before.

"They tell me I am dying," she said, hoarsely. "Do you think so?"

He smoothed back the hair on the forehead--damp already with the dews of
death. His look assured her better than the words he could not bring
himself to speak.

"My poor Arabel!"

"Arabel! Who calls me Arabel?" she asked, dreamily. "I have not heard
that name since _he_ spoke it! What a sweet voice he had! O, _so_
sweet!--but falser than Satan! O Louis, Louis! if we could go back to the
old days among the orange groves, before I sinned--when we were innocent
little children!"

"It is all over now, Arabel. You were tempted; but God is good to
forgive, if repentance is sincere."

"O, I _have_ repented! I have, indeed! And I have prayed as well as I
knew how. But my crimes are so fearful! You are sure that Christ is very
merciful?"

"Very merciful, Arabel."

"More merciful, more gentle and loving than our best friends, Louis?"

"He forgave those who crucified Him."

"O, if I could only trust Him--if I only could!"

She clasped her hands, and her pale lips moved in prayer, though there
was no audible word.

"Let me hold your hand, Louis. It gives me strength. And you were always
a friend so true and steadfast. How happy we were in those dear old
days--you, and Inez, and I! Ah, Inez--Inez! She died in her sweet
innocence, loving and beloved--died by violence; but she never lived
to suffer from the falsity of those she loved! Well, she is in
paradise--God rest her!"

The dark eyes of Castrani grew moist. There arose before him a picture of
the fair young girl he had loved--the gentle-eyed Inez--the confiding
young thing he was to have married, had not the hand of a cruel jealousy
cut short her brief existence. Arabel saw his emotion, and pressed his
hand in hers, so cold and icy.

"You have suffered also, Louis, but not as I have suffered--O, no! O, the
days before _he_ came--_he_, the destroyer! What a handsome face he had,
and how he flattered me! Flattered my foolish pride, until, deserting
home and friends, I fled with him across the seas! To Paris--beautiful,
frivolous, crime-imbued Paris. I am so faint and tired, Louis! Give me a
drink, from the wineglass."

He put it to her lips; she swallowed greedily, and resumed:

"I have written out my history fully. Why, I hardly know, for there are
none but you, Louis, who will feel an interest in the poor outcast. But
something has impelled me to write it, and when I am dead, you will find
it there in that desk, sealed and directed to yourself. Maybe you will
never open it, for if my strength does not desert me, I shall tell you
all that you will care to know, with my own lips. I want to watch your
face, as I go on, and see if you condemn me. You are sure God is more
merciful than man?"

"In His word it is written, Arabel."

She kissed an ivory cross lying on her bosom, and proceeded with evident
difficulty.

"Well, I fled with Paul Linmere. For a time I was very happy. He was kind
to me, and I loved him so! We lived in a little vine-wreathed cottage, on
the banks of the Seine, and I had my tiny flower-garden, my books, my
birds, my faithful dog Leo--and Paul! Every pleasant night he used to
take me out on the river in the little boat which bore my name on its
side. O, those nights of perfect peace! The stars shone so softly, and
the moon beamed with a mellow light peculiar to Southern moons. Those
seasons of delight are a sweet dream in my memory. They seemed stolen
from paradise--they were so perfect. I lived in a sort of blissful waking
trance, that left me nothing to desire, nothing to ask for. Fool that I
was! I thought it was to last always. A little more cordial, Louis; it
will keep the spark of life alive, perhaps, until I have finished."

"Do not exert yourself, Arabel," he said, pityingly; "I do not wish you
to."

"I shall die easier. Let me go on. After a while, Paul wearied of me.
Perhaps I was too lavish of my caresses and words of love; it might tire
him to be loved so intensely. But such was my nature. He grew cold and
distant; at times positively ill-natured. Once he struck me; but I
forgave him the blow, because he had taken too much wine. At length, it
became known to me that I was about to become a mother, and I besought
him to give me a right to his name. I could bear the shame for myself,
but my child must not be born to curse the author of its being. He
laughed me to scorn, and called me by a foul name that I cannot repeat.
But I bore it all, for the sake of my unborn child, and on my knees I
begged and prayed of him to legalize our union by right of marriage.
After the first, he made me no reply, but subsided into a sullen silence,
which I could not make him break. That night he asked me to go out
boating with him. I prepared myself with alacrity, for I thought he was
getting pleased with me, and perhaps would comply with my request. Are
you weary of my story, Louis?"

"No, no. Go on. I am listening to you, Arabel."

"It was a lovely night. The stars gleamed like drops of molten gold, and
the moon looked down, pure, and serene, and holy. Paul was unusually
silent, and I was quiet, waiting for him to speak. Suddenly, when we
reached the middle of the river, he dropped the oars, and we drifted with
the current. He sprang up, his motion nearly capsizing the frail boat,
and taking a step toward me, fastened a rough hand upon my shoulders.
'Arabel,' he said, hoarsely, 'your power over me is among the things of
the past. Once, I thought I loved you, but it was merely a passion which
soon burned itself out. After that, I grew to hate you; but, because I
had taken you away from home and friends, I tried to treat you civilly.
Your caresses disgusted me. I would gladly have cast you off long ago, if
I had had but the shadow of a pretext. I am to be married to a beautiful
woman in America, before many months shall elapse--a woman with a name
and a fortune which will help me pay those cursed debts that are dragging
me down like a millstone. For you I have no further use. You complain
that our unborn child will be disgraced, unless I go through the mockery
of marriage with you. There is no disgrace in the grave--and I consign
you to its dreamless sleep!' The next moment the boat was capsized, and I
was floating in the water. I cried aloud his name, beseeching him to save
me, and got only his mocking laugh in return, as he struck out for the
shore. I could not swim, and I felt myself sinking down--down to
unfathomable depths. I felt cold as ice; there was a deafening roar
in my ears, and I knew no more."

"My poor Arabel, I could curse the villain who did this cowardly thing,
but he is dead, and in the hands of God."

"When I woke to consciousness, I was lying in a rude cottage, and two
persons, unknown to me--a man and a woman--were bending over me, applying
hot flannels to my numbed limbs, and restoratives to my lips. Before
morning my child was born; but it never opened its eyes on this world.
Death took it away. I had some articles of jewelry on my person, of some
considerable value, and with these I bribed the persons who had taken me
from the river to cause Mr. Linmere to believe that I had died. They were
rough people, but they were kind-hearted, and I owe them a large debt of
gratitude for their thoughtful care of me. But for it, I should have died
in reality. As soon as I was able to bear the journey, I left France.
Linmere had already closed the cottage and gone away--none knew whither;
but I was satisfied he had departed for the United States. I left France
with no feeling of regret, save for Leo, my faithful hound. I have shed
many bitter tears, when pondering over the probable fate of my poor dog."

"Be easy on that subject, Arabel. I saw the hound but a few weeks ago. He
is the property of a lady who loves him--the woman Paul Linmere was to
have married, if he had lived."

"I am glad. You may laugh at me, Louis, but the uncertain fate of Leo
has given me great unhappiness. But to continue--I engaged myself as
nursemaid with an English family, who had been traveling on the
continent, and were about returning home. I remained with them until
I had accumulated sufficient funds to defray my expenses across the
Atlantic, and then I set out on my journey. I came to New York, for
that had been Mr. Linmere's home before we went to France. I soon got
upon the track of him, and learned that he was about to be married to
a Miss Margaret Harrison, a young lady of great beauty, and with a large
fortune. I wanted to see her; for you must know that I had registered a
fearful vow of vengeance on Mr. Paul Linmere, and I desired to judge for
myself if it would fall heavily on the woman he was going to marry. For
even violently as I had loved him I now hated him.

"I saw Miss Harrison. I accosted her in the street, one day, as any
common beggar would have done, telling her a pitiful story of my poverty.
She smiled on me, spoke a few words of comfort, and laid a piece of gold
in my hand. Her sweet face charmed me. I set myself to find out if she
cared for the man she was to marry. It had all been arranged by her
father, years before, I understood, and I felt that her heart was not
interested.

"After learning that, nothing could have saved Paul Linmere. His fate was
decided. Twice I waylaid him in the streets, and showed him my pale face,
which was not unlike the face of the dead. And as he believed that I was
drowned, the sight of me filled him with the most abject terror. How I
enjoyed the poor wretch's cowardly horror!

"The night that he was to be married, I lay in wait for him at the place
where the brook crossed the highway. I had learned that he was to walk up
alone from the depot, to the house of his expectant bride, and there I
resolved to avenge my wrongs. I stepped before him as he came, laid my
cold hand on his arm, and bade him follow me. He obeyed, in the most
abject submission. He seemed to have no will of his own, but yielded
himself entirely to me. He shook like one with the ague, and his
footsteps faltered so that at times I had to drag him along. I took
him to the lonely graveyard, where sleep the Harrison dead, and--" She
covered her face with her hands and lapsed into silence.

"Well, Arabel, and then?" asked Castrani, fearfully absorbed in the
strange narrative, feeling, as he listened, that the fate of Archer
Trevlyn hung on the next words the wretched woman might speak.

"I dropped the hood from my face and confronted him. I had no pity. My
heart was like stone. I remembered all my wrongs; I said to myself this
was the man who had made my life a shipwreck, and had sent my soul to
perdition. He stood still, frozen to the spot, gazing into my face with
eyes that gleamed through the gloom like lurid fire. 'I am Arabel Vere,
whom you thought you murdered!' I hissed in his ear. 'The river could not
hold my secret! And thus I avenge myself for all my wrongs!'

"I struck one blow; he fell to the ground with a gurgling groan. I knew
that I had killed him, and I felt no remorse at the thought. It seemed a
very pleasant thing to contemplate. I stooped over him, to assure myself
that he was dead, and touched his forehead. It was growing cold. It
struck me through and through with a chill of unutterable horror. I fled,
like one mad, from the place. I entered a train of cars, which were just
going down to the city, and in the morning I left New York and came here.
I fell sick. The terrible excitement had been too much for me, and for
weeks I lay in a stupor which was the twin-sister of death. But a strong
constitution triumphed, and I came slowly back to health. I had some
money on my person at the time I was taken ill, and happening to fall
into the hands of a kind-hearted Irish woman, at whose door I had asked
for a glass of water, I was nursed with the care that saved my life.

"But I have never seen a moment of happiness since. Remorse has preyed on
me like a worm, and once before this I have been brought face to face
with death. Now I am going where I sent him! God be merciful!"

"Amen!" responded Louis, fervently.

It was very still in the room. Castrani sat by the bedside, waiting for
her to speak. She was silent so long he thought she slept, and stooped
over to ascertain. Yes, she did sleep. In this world she would never
waken more!

* * * * *

Castrani remained in Boston, and saw the remains of the unfortunate
Arabel Vere consigned to decent burial, and, that duty accomplished, he
took the first train for Lightfield. He had in his possession a document
which would clear Archer Trevlyn from the foul crime of which he stood
convicted in the mind of Margaret Harrison, and, aside from his desire to
see justice rendered the man whom he had grown to consider a very dear
friend, Castrani felt that it would make Margaret happier to know that
the one she had loved and trusted so entirely once, was innocent of the
crime imputed to him.

It was sunset when he reached the dwelling of Nurse Day. Margaret was
sitting on the veranda, with Leo by her side. The hound ran down to the
gate, to give the visitor a joyful greeting, and Margaret descended the
steps and held out her hand. She was very kind, almost cordial, for she
respected Castrani with her whole heart, and she was pleased to see him.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Castrani," she remarked, leading him into
the sitting-room; "and so, also, will be Nurse Day, when she returns. She
has gone to a prayer-meeting, now. And I am especially pleased to see you
just at this time, because I am thinking of returning to New York, and I
hope to persuade you to give me your escort, if it will not be asking too
much."

"To New York? Indeed that is delightful intelligence for the five hundred
dear friends who have deplored your absence so long! I had feared
sometimes, that you intended to remain here always."

"I almost wish I could--life has been so peaceful here. But I must go
back sooner or later, as well now as at any time. I think I am strong
enough to bear it," she added, sadly.

"Miss Harrison, I want to tell you a story."

She drew back from the hand he laid on hers, and her air became cold and
repelling. He divined her fears, and smiled a melancholy smile.

"No, not that. Do not fear. I shall never again trouble you with the
story of my unfortunate passion. I must go through life without the
blessing that would have made this world a paradise. It is not that of
which I speak, and you need have no apprehension for the future. God
helping me, I will never say to you a single word that a brother might
not say to a dearly-beloved sister."

She put her hand into his.

"I wish I could love you, Louis Castrani," she said, solemnly. "You
deserve my heart's best affections; but for me love is over! I have had
my day, and it is set. But you shall be my brother my dear, kind brother,
Louis! Oh, it is sweet to know that in this false world there is one
heart loyal and true!"

"Margaret, there is more than one true heart in the world, as you will
acknowledge, when I have told you my little story. You know, now, why you
discarded Archer Trevlyn. You thought him guilty of the murder of Paul
Linmere!"

A ghastly pallor overspread her face; she caught her breath in gasps, and
clutched frantically the arm of Castrani.

"Hush!" she said. "Do not say those dreadful words aloud; the very walls
have ears sometimes! Remember their utterance puts the life of a fellow
mortal in peril!"

"Have no fear; I am going to right the wrong."

"Leave this punishment to God. It would kill me to see him brought before
a hissing crowd to be tried for his life. Oh, Mr. Castrani, I implore
you--"

"Calm yourself, my child. I shall never knowingly injure Mr. Trevlyn. He
deserves no punishment for a sin he never committed. He is guiltless of
_that deed_ as you are yourself!"

"Guiltless--Archer guiltless!" she cried, her face wearing the pitiful,
strained look of agonized suspense. "I do not quite comprehend. Say it
again--oh, say it again!"

"Margaret, Archer Trevlyn never lifted a hand against Paul
Linmere--never! He is innocent before God and the angels!"

She dropped her head upon her hands, and burst into tears--the first she
had shed since that terrible night when that blasted revelation had, as
she thought, sealed up the fountain of tears forever. Castrani did not
seek to sooth her; he judged rightly that she would be better for this
abandonment to a woman's legitimate source of relief. She lifted her wet
face at last--but what a change was there! The transparent paleness had
given place to the sweet wild rose color which had once made Margie so
very lovely, and the sad eyes were brilliant as stars, through the mist
of tears.

"I believe it--yes, I believe it?" she said, softly,--reverently. "I
thank God for giving me the assurance. You tell me so. You would not,
unless it were true!"

"No, Margaret; I would not," replied Castrani, strongly affected. "Heaven
forbid that I should raise hopes which I cannot verify. When you are calm
enough to understand, I will explain it fully."

"I am calm now. Go on."

"I must trouble you with a little, only a little, of my own private
history, in order that you may understand what follows. I am, as you
know, a Cuban by birth, but my father, only, was Spanish. My mother was
a native of Boston, who married my father for love, and went with him to
his Southern home. I was an only child, and when I was about twelve years
of age, my parents adopted a girl, some four years my junior. She was the
orphan child of poor parents, and was possessed of wonderful beauty and
intelligence. Together we grew up and no brother and sister loved each
other more fully than we. It was only a brotherly and sisterly love--for
I was engaged, at sixteen, to Inez de Nuncio, a lovely young Spanish
girl, who was cruelly taken away from me by the hand of violence, as you
know. Arabel grew to girlhood, lovely as a houri. Lovely, however, is not
the right word; she was royally magnificent. I have seen many elegant
women, but never one who for stately grace and beauty would compare with
her. She had many suitors, but she favored none, until he came--Paul
Linmere, the fiend and destroyer! Ill health had driven him to Cuba, to
try the effect of our southern air, and soon after his arrival, he became
acquainted with Arabel. He was very handsome and fascinating, and much
sought after by the fair ladies of my native town. Arabel was vain, and
his devoted attentions flattered her, while his handsome face and
fascinating address won her love. She was a passionate child of the
South, uncalculating as a babe where her affections were concerned; and
before my parents had begun to ascertain any danger from Linmere's
society, she had left everything, and fled with him.

"My mother was plunged in grief, for she had loved Arabel like an own
child; and the uncertainty of her fate, I think, hastened my mother's
death. My father left no means untried to discover the whereabouts of the
erring girl--but in vain. For years her fate was shrouded in mystery.
My parents died. Inez was taken from me, and weary and heartsick, I came
to New York, hoping to find some distraction in new scenes, and among a
new people.

"The day before you left New York, I received a message from Arabel Vere.
She was in Boston ill unto death. She wanted to see me once more; and she
had a sin upon her conscience, which she must confess before she died;
and she must confess it to no person but myself. In obedience to this
summons, I hurried to Boston, and the same train that carried me, carried
you, also.

"I found Arabel but a mere wreck of her former self. Her countenance told
me how fearfully she had suffered. She was very ill, in a wretched room,
with no attendants or medical aid. I had her immediately removed to
lodgings suitable for her, and provided a nurse and a physician. From
that time she began to mend, and in a couple of days the physician
pronounced her out of immediate danger. When she knew her life was to be
prolonged, she refused to make the confession she had summoned me to
hear. So long as there was any prospect of her recovery, she said, she
must keep the matter a secret. But she could not die and leave it untold.
Therefore she promised that whenever she should feel death approaching
she should send again for me, and relieve her soul by the confession of
her sin. A few days ago came her second summons.

"Previous to this only a little while, I had been inadvertently a
listener to an altercation between Archer Trevlyn and his wife, during
which Mrs. Trevlyn, in a fit of rage, denounced her husband as the
murderer of Paul Linmere. She produced proofs, which I confess struck me
as strangely, satisfactory, and affirmed her belief in his guilt. She
also told him that because the knowledge of his crime had come to you,
you had discarded him, and left New York, to be rid of him forever!

"So knowing this, when I listened to the dying confession of Arabel Vere,
I knew that this confession would clear Archer Trevlyn from all shadow of
suspicion. Arabel died, and I buried her. Previous to her death--perhaps,
to guard against accident, perhaps, guided by the hand of a mysterious
Providence to clear the fair fame of an injured man--she wrote out at
length the history of her life. She gave it to me. I have it here. It
will explain to you all that you will desire to know."

He gave her the manuscript, wrung her hand, and left her.

* * * * *

Far into the night, Margie sat reading the closely-written sheets, penned
by the hand now pulseless in death. All was made clear; Archer Trevlyn
was fully exculpated. He was innocent of the crime which she had been
influenced to believe he had committed. She fell on her knees, and
thanked God for that. Though lost to her, it was a consolation ineffable
to know that he had not taken the life of a fellow-mortal.

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