The Fatal Glove by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

C >> Clara Augusta Jones Trask >> The Fatal Glove

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Her resolution was taken before morning. She had deeply wronged Archer
Trevlyn, and she must go to him with a full confession, confess her
fault, and plead for his forgiveness.

Castrani, who came in the morning, approved her decision; and Nurse Day,
who was told the whole story, and listened with moist eyes, agreed with
them both. So it happened that on the ensuing morning Margie bade
farewell to the quiet home which had sheltered her through her bitterest
sorrow, and accompanied by Castrani, set forth for New York.

She went to her own home first. Her aunt was in the country, but the
servants gave her a warm welcome, and after resting for an hour, she took
her way to the residence of Archer Trevlyn, but a few squares distant.

A strange silence seemed to hang over the palatial mansion. The blinds
were closed--there was no sign of life about the premises. A thrill of
unexplained dread ran through her frame as she touched the silver-handled
bell. The servant who answered her summons seemed to partake of the
strange, solemn quiet pervading everything.

"Is Mr. Trevlyn in?" she asked, trembling in spite of herself.

"I believe Mr. Trevlyn has left the country, madam."

"Left the country? When did he go?"

"Some days ago."

Margie leaned against the carved marble vase which flanked the massive
doorway, unconsciously crushing the crimson petals of the trumpet-flower
which grew therein. What should she do? She could write to him. His wife
would know his address. She caught at the idea.

"Mrs. Trevlyn--take me to her! She was an old friend of mine."

The man looked at her curiously, hesitated a moment, and motioning her
to enter, indicated the closed door of the parlor.

"You can go in, I presume, as you are a friend of the family."

A feeling of solemnity, which was almost awe, stole over Margie as she
turned the handle of the door, and stepped inside the parlor. It was
shrouded in the gloom of almost utter darkness. The heavy silken curtains
fell drooping with their costliness to the velvet carpet, and a faint,
sickening odor of withering water lilies pervaded the close atmosphere.
Water lilies!--they were Alexandrine's favorite flowers.

Margie stopped by the door until her eyes became accustomed to the
gloom, and then she saw that the centre of the room was occupied by a
table, on which lay some rigid object--strangely long, and still, and
angular--covered with a drapery of black velvet, looped up by dying water
lilies.

Still controlled by that feeling of strange awe, Margie stole along to
the table and lifted the massive cover. She saw beneath it the pale, dead
face of Alexandrine Trevlyn. She dropped the pall, uttered a cry of
horror, and sank upon a chair. The door unclosed noiselessly, and Mrs.
Lee, the mother of the dead woman, came in.

"Oh, Margie! Margie!" she cried, "pity me! My heart is broken! My
darling! My only child is taken from me!"

It was long before she grew composed enough to give any explanation of
the tragedy--for tragedy Margie felt sure it was.

The story can be told in a few brief words. Alexandrine and her husband
had had some difficulty. Mrs. Lee could not tell in relation to what, but
she knew that Alexandrine blamed herself for the part she had taken. Mr.
Trevlyn left her in anger, to go to Philadelphia on business. He was
expected to be absent about four days. Meanwhile, his wife suffered
agonies of remorse, and counted the hours until his return should give
her the privilege of throwing herself at his feet and begging his
forgiveness.

But he did not return. A week, ten days passed, and still no tidings.
Alexandrine was almost frantic. On the eleventh day came a telegraph
despatch, brief and cruel, as those heartless things invariably are,
informing her that Mr. Trevlyn had closed his business in Philadelphia,
and was on the eve of leaving the country for an indefinite period.
His destination was not mentioned, and his unhappy wife, feeling that
if he left Philadelphia without her seeing him, all trace of him would
be lost, hurried to the depot and set out for that city.

There had been an accident about half way between New York and
Philadelphia, and Alexandrine Trevlyn had been brought back to her
splendid home--a corpse! That was all.

Archer Trevlyn had left behind him no clue by which he might be reached
or communicated with, and his wife, unforgiven, must be consigned to the
tomb, without a single tear upon her face from the eyes of him she had
loved so fondly.

They buried her at Greenwood, and the grass and flowers bloomed over her
grave. She passed out of memory, and was forgotten, like a perished leaf,
or a beautiful sunset fading out with the night.

* * * * *

The summer days fled on, and brought the autumn mellowness and splendor.
Margie, outwardly calm and quiet, lived at Harrison Park with her staid
maiden aunt.

A year passed away thus monotonously, then another, and no tidings ever
came of Archer Trevlyn. Margie thought of him now as we think of one long
dead, with tender regret, and love almost reverent. He was dead to her,
she said, but it was no sin to cherish his memory.

In the third year Margie's aunt married. It was quite a little romance.
An old lover, discarded years before in a fit of girlish obstinacy, came
back, after weary wanderings in search of happiness, and seeking out the
love of other days, wooed and won her over again.

There was a quiet wedding, and then the happy pair decided on a trip
to Europe. And, of course, Margie must accompany them. At first she
demurred; she took so little pleasure in anything, she feared her
presence might mar their happiness, and she dreaded to leave the place
where she had passed so many delightful hours with him. But her aunt and
Doctor Elbert refused to give her up, and so, one beautiful September
morning, they sailed for Liverpool in the good ship Colossus.

For many days the voyage was prosperous, but in mid-ocean they fell upon
stormy weather, and the ship was tossed about at the winds and waters. It
was a terrible storm, and great apprehensions were entertained that the
vessel might founder, but she would doubtless have weathered the blast in
safety, if she had not sprung a leak.

The fearful intelligence was announced just at the closing in of a dark
dismal night, and every heart sank, and every face was shrouded in gloom.
Only for a moment! The men sprang to the pumps and worked with a will--as
men will work for their lives--but their efforts were vain. The water
increased in the hold, and it soon became evident that the Colossus would
hardly keep afloat until morning.

But Providence was pleased to snatch those human lives from the
destruction which seemed inevitable, and just when they were most
helpless, most despairing, the lights of a strange ship were seen. They
succeeded in making their desperate condition known, and by day-dawn all
were safe on board the steamer; for the stranger proved to be a steamer
on her way from Liverpool to New York.

The decks were crowded; Doctor Elbert was looking after his wife, and
Margie, clinging to a rope, stood frightened and alone. Some one came to
her, said a few words which the tempest made inaudible, and carried her
below. The light of the cabin lamps fell full on his face. She uttered
a cry, for in that moment she recognized Archer Trevlyn.

"Margie Harrison!" he cried, his fingers closing tightly over hers.
"Margie! Mine! Mine at last! The ocean has given you up to me!"

"O Archer! where have you been? It has been so weary! And I have wanted
to see you so much--that I might tell you how I had wronged you--that I
might ask you to forgive me. Will you pardon me for believing that you
could ever be guilty of that man's death? If you knew--if you knew how
artfully it was represented to me--what overwhelming proofs were
presented, you would not wonder--"

"I do know all, Margie; Alexandrine told me. My poor wife! God rest her.
She believed me guilty, and yet her fatal love for me overlooked the
crime. She deceived me in many things, but she is dead, and I will not
be unforgiving. She poisoned my mind with suspicions of you and Louis
Castrani, and I was fool enough to credit her insinuations. Margie, I
want you to pardon me."

"I do, freely. Castrani is a noble soul. I love him as I would a
brother."

"Continue to do so, Margie. He deserves it, I think. The night I left
home, Alexandrine revealed to me the cause of your sudden rejection of
me. We quarrelled terribly. I remember it with bitter remorse. We parted
in anger, Margie, and she died without my forgiveness and blessing. It
was very hard, but perhaps, at the last, she did not suffer. I will
believe so."

"If she sinned, it was through love of you, Archer, and that should make
you very forgiving toward her."

"I have forgiven her long ago. I know the proofs were strong against me.
I am not sure but that they were sufficient to have convicted me of
murder in a court of law. You were conscious of my presence that night
in the graveyard, Margie?"

"Yes. I thought it was you. I knew no other man's presence had the power
to thrill and impress me as yours did."

"I meant to impress you, Margaret. I brought all the strength of my will
to bear on that object. I said to myself, she shall know that I am near
her, and yet my visible presence shall not be revealed to her. And now,
can you guess why I was there?"

"Hardly."

"Love ought to tell you."

"It might tell me wrong."

"No, Margie. Never! You know that I have loved you from the moment I saw
you first, and though for a long, long time I never dared to think you
would ever be to me anything more than a bright, beautiful vision, to be
worshipped afar off, yet it agonized me to think of giving you up to
another. For after that it would be a sin to love you. When I heard you
were to marry that man, I cannot tell you how I suffered. I set myself to
ascertain if you cared for him. And I was satisfied beyond a doubt that
you did not."

"You were correct. I did not."

"He was a villain of the deepest dye, Margie. I do not know as Arabel
Vere sinned in ridding the earth of him. When I think that but for her
crime you would now have been his wife, I am not sure that she was not
the instrument of a justly incensed Providence to work out the decrees
of the destiny."

"O, Archer! It was dreadful for him to die as he did. But what a life of
misery it saved me from! I will not think of it. I leave it all."

"It is best to do so. But to explain my presence at Harrison Park that
night. I went there hoping to catch a glimpse of you. I wanted to see you
once more before you were lost to me forever. I did not desire to speak
to you; I did not desire to disturb you in any way; but I wanted to see
you before that man had a legal claim on you. I watched your windows
closely. I had found out which was your window from one of the servants,
and I watched its light which burned through the dusky twilight like
the evening star. I wonder if you had a thought for me, that night,
Margie--your wedding night?"

"I did think of you--" she blushed, and hid her face on his shoulder--"I
did think of you. I longed inexpressibly to fly to your side and be
forever at rest!"

"My darling!" he kissed her fondly, and went on: "I saw you leave your
room by the window and come down the garden path. I had felt that you
would come. I was not surprised that you did. I had expected it. I
followed you silently, saw you kneel by the grave of your parents,
heard you call out upon your father for pity. O, how I loved and pitied
you, Margie--but my tongue was tied--I had no right to speak--but I did
kiss your hand. Did you know it Margie?"

"Yes."

"You recognized me, then? I meant you should. After that I hurried away.
I was afraid to trust myself near you longer, lest I might be tempted to
what I might repent. I fled away from the place and knew nothing of the
fearful deed done there until the papers announced it the next day."

"And I suspected you of the crime! O, Archer! Archer! how could I ever
have been so blind? How can you ever forgive me?"

"I want forgiveness, Margie. I doubted you. I thought you were false to
me, and had fled with Castrani. That unfortunate glove confirmed you, I
suppose. I dropped it in my haste to escape without your observation, and
afterward I expected to hear of it in connection with the finding of
Linmere's body. I never knew what became of it until my wife displayed
it, that day when she taunted me with my crime. Poor Alexandrine! She had
the misfortune to love me, and after your renunciation and your departure
from New York--in those days when I deemed you false as fair--I offered
her my hand. I thought perhaps she might be happier as my wife, and I
felt that I owed her something for her devoted love. I tried to do my
duty by her, but a man never can do that by his wife, unless he loves
her."

"You acted for what you thought was best, Archer."

"I did. Heaven knows I did. She died in coming to me to ask my
forgiveness for the taunting words she had spoken at our last parting. I
was cruel. I went away from her in pride and anger, and left behind me no
means by which she could communicate with me. I deserved to suffer, and I
have."

"And I also, Archer."

"My poor Margie! Do you know, dear, that it was the knowledge that you
wanted me which was sending me home again? A month ago I saw Louis
Castrani in Paris. He told me everything. He was delicate enough about
it, darling; you need not blush for fear he might have told me you were
grieving for me; but he made me understand that my future might not be so
dark as I had begun to regard it. He read to me the dying confession of
Arabel Vere, and made clear many things regarding which I had previously
been in the dark. Is all peace between us, Margie?"

"All is peace, Archer. And God is very good."

"He is. I thank Him for it. And now I want to ask one thing more. I am
not quite satisfied."

"Well?"

"Perhaps you will think it ill-timed--now that we are surrounded by
strangers, and our very lives perhaps in peril--but I cannot wait. I have
spent precious moments enough in waiting. It has been very long, Margie,
since I heard you say you loved me, and I want to hear the words again."

She looked up at him shyly.

"Archer, how do I know but you have changed?"

"You know I have not. I have loved but one woman--I shall love no other
through time and eternity. And now, at last, after all the distress and
the sorrow we have passed through, will you give me your promise to meet
whatever else fortune and fate may have in store for us, by my side?"

She put her face up to his, and he kissed her lips.

"Yours always, Archer. I have never had one thought for any other."

So a second time were Archer Trevlyn and Margie Harrison betrothed.

On the ensuing day the storm abated, and the steamer made a swift passage
to New York.

Doctor and Mrs. Elbert were a little disappointed at the sudden
termination of their bridal tour, but consoled themselves with the
thought that they could try it over again in the spring.

Trevlyn remained in the city to adjust some business affairs which had
suffered from his long absence, and Margie and her friends went up to her
own home. He was to follow them hither on the ensuing day.

And so it happened that once more Margie sat in her old familiar chamber
dressing for the coming of Archer Trevlyn. What should she put on? She
remembered the rose-colored dress she had laid away that dreadful night
so long ago. But now the rose-colored dreams had come back, why not wear
the rose-colored dress? She went to the wardrobe where she had locked it
away. Some of the servants had found the key out in the grass where she
had flung it that night, and fitted it to the lock. She lifted the dress,
and the beautiful pearl ornaments, and held them up to the light. The
dress was fresh and unfaded, but it was full four years behind the style!
Well, what did that matter? She had a fancy for wearing it. She wanted to
take up her life just where she had left it when she put off that dress.

To the unbounded horror of Florine, she arrayed herself in the
old-fashioned dress, and waited for her lover. And she had not long to
wait. She heard his well-remembered step in the hall, and a moment after
she was folded in his arms.

* * * * *

At Christmas there was a bridal at Harrison Park. The day was clear and
cloudless--the air almost as balmy as the air of spring. Such a Christmas
had not been known for years.

The sun shone brightly, and soft winds sighed through the leafless trees.
And Margie was married, and not a cloud came between her and the sun.

Peace and content dwelt with Archer Trevlyn and his wife in their
beautiful home. Having suffered, they knew better how to be grateful
for, and to appreciate the blessings at last bestowed upon them.

At their happy fireside there comes to sit, sometimes, of an evening, a
quiet, grave-faced man. A man whom Archer Trevlyn and his wife love as a
dear brother, prize above all other earthly friends. And beside Louis
Castrani, Leo sits, serene and contemplative, enjoying a green old age in
peace and plenty. Castrani will never marry, but sometime in the
hereafter, I think he will have his recompense.

CONSTITUTIONALLY BASHFUL.

I suppose there is no doubt but I was born with bashful tendencies, and
"What is bred in the bone, stays long in the flesh," to use the words of
some wise individual, who, like many another great genius, shunned
notoriety, and had for his _nom de plume_, Anonymous.

My mother tells me that, when an infant, I had the ridiculous habit of
turning over on my face in the cradle, when there was company; and if the
visitors happened to be ladies, I turned red in the cheeks, and purple
about the eyes, to such an alarming degree as could not fail of exciting
wonder and awe in the heart of the most indifferent beholder!

I remember that, when a child of four or five years, I used to take
refuge behind the great eight-day clock whenever my mother had callers;
and once I came near being frozen to death in the refrigerator, where I
had ensconced myself on the appearance of a couple of lady visitors.

Throughout my boyhood it was the same, only decidedly more so. My _debut_
at school was like an entrance into the ancient halls of torture.

The austere schoolmaster, with his dread insignia of birchen rod,
steel-bowed spectacles, and swallow-tailed coat, was bad enough; the
grinning, mischief-loving, and at times, belligerent, boys were worse.
But the girls! Heavens! I feared them more than any suspected criminal
of old did the Terrible Council of Ten! All on earth they seemed to find
to do was to giggle at me! Of course, I was the object of their sport;
for they peeped at me over the tops of their books, from behind their
pocket-handkerchiefs, through the interstices of their curls--and made
me hopelessly wretched by dubbing me "Apron-string."

The third day of my attendance at school was stormy, and my home being
at some distance, I was obliged to remain, with most of the others,
through the noon intermission. The little girls got to playing at pawns.
I retreated to a corner near the door, and stood a silent and not
unterrified spectator.

By-and-by, a cherry-lipped little girl had to pay a forfeit, and one of
her schoolmates pronounced the sentence, in a loud voice:

"Kiss Apron-string Sunderland!"

That meant me. There was a wild scream of laughter, in which all joined,
and I took ingloriously to flight, with little Cherry-lips close at my
heels. I strained every nerve and sinew--it was a matter of life and
death to me--and I have no doubt but I should have won the race in fine
style, if I had not, unfortunately, in my blind haste, run against Miss
Patty Hanson, the primest and worst tempered spinster in Hallswell.

My _momentum_ was such that I knocked Miss Patty from _terra firma_, very
much as the successful ball knocks down the nine-pins; and the _debris_
of the wreck--consisting of a fractured umbrella, a torn calico gown, and
a fearfully dislocated bonnet--Miss Hanson rose up--a Nemesis! And such a
thrashing as I received, at her hand, would have made the blackest
villain out of purgatory confess his sins without prevarication!

I had heard my mother say that no one died till their time had come, and
I felt satisfied that my time _had_ come. I vainly endeavored to repeat,

"Now I lay me down to sleep!"

as both fitting and appropriate to the occasion; but Miss Patty thumped
the words out of me, to the tune of the Umbrella Quickstep, in staccato.

Little Cherry-lips came nobly to the rescue.

"For shame! Miss Hanson," she cried, "to beat a little boy at such a
rate! It won't mend your umbrella, nor straighten your calash! And the
perspiration is washing the paint all out of your cheeks!"

My enemy left me to fly at my defender, whose name was Florence Hay. But
Florence was a little too agile for the old lady, whom she speedily
distanced, while I made good my escape into the sheltering foliage of
an apple-tree, where, securely perched on a strong limb, I remained until
school was out, and the girls had all gone home.

After a time, at my urgent entreaties, my parents removed me from the
village-school, and placed me at an institute for boys. I had thought,
previously to the change, that I should be perfectly happy when it was
effected; but I had, somehow, miscalculated. I missed the bewitching
faces of the girls I had fled from, and, for the first time in my life,
I realized that the world would be a terrible humdrum sort of a place if
there were nothing but men here.

To confess the plain truth, I had discovered that, in spite of my
bashfulness, I loved every single girl I had ever seen--not even
excepting good black Bess in my mother's kitchen, who concocted such
admirable turnovers and seedcakes. But at that time, sooner than have
acknowledged such a weakness, I would have been broiled alive.

As I grew toward manhood, my bashfulness got no better. It was confirmed;
it had become a chronic disease, as irremediable as the rheumatism, and a
thousand times more distressing.

I was frequently invited to quiltings, apple parings, huskings, etc.; but
I never dared to go, lest I should be expected to have something to say
to some of the feminine portion of the company.

If my mother sent me on any errand to a house where there were girls, I
used to stand a half hour on the door step, waiting for courage to rap;
and if one of the aforesaid girls happened to answer the summons, it was
with the greatest difficulty that I could restrain myself from taking
refuge in flight. And after I had got in, and made known my business,
I knew no more what was told me in return than we know why the comet of
last summer had a curved train.

At church, I habitually sat with averted face, and cut my finger nails;
in fact I had performed that operation for those digital ornaments so
often that there was very little left of them to practice upon. I most
devoutly wished that it had been so that folks could have been created
with knitting-work, or something of the kind, in their hands--it would
have been so nice when one didn't know what to do with his upper
extremities.

As for my feet, though not remarkably large, they were constantly in the
way. I have often seen the time when I would have given all the world,
had it been mine to give, if I could have taken them off, and consigned
them to the obscurity of my pocket.

One eventful day, my mother took it into her head to have a quilting.
Early in the afternoon I retired to the garret, as the most isolated spot
I could think of, and ensconced myself in bed. All the girls in the
neighborhood were invited, and I would sooner have faced a flaming line
of armed batteries.

Such a gay, joyous time as they had of it, judging from the sounds of
merriment that occasionally floated up to my retreat! I longed to be a
witness of the frolic I knew they were enjoying, but I could not summon
resolution enough to venture from my concealment; and so I wound the
sheets round my head to shut out the gay peals of laughter, and tried to
think myself highly satisfied with my achievement. I was comfortable and
safe, so far as I knew; but the hours were long ones, and I prayed Time
to jog on his team a little faster, if convenient.

By-and-by, the merriment grew louder; there was a pattering of eager feet
on the garret stairs, considerable loud whispering in the passage, and an
infinite amount of giggling. Good heavens! What were they going to do? I
clutched the bed clothes with frantic hands and drew them around my head,
to the utter neglect of the rest of my body, probably believing, like the
ostrich, that so long as I saw nobody, nobody would see me.

Directly the door was thrown open, and, evidently, there was a
consultation on the threshold.

"Go in, Flory!" said the gay voice of Kate Merrick, the pride and tease
of the village. "Go in, I say! What on earth are you afraid of? Boy
Sunderland won't eat you, if he is a bear!"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10