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Page 10
"I hope to win your love, Margie; I trust I shall," he answered, sadly
enough to have aroused almost any woman's pity; but some subtle instinct
told Margie he was false to the core.
But all through the evening he was affable and complaisant and
forbearing. She made no attempt to conceal her dislike of him.
Concealments were not familiar to Margie's nature. She was frank
and open as the day.
Mr. Linmere's fascinations were many and varied. He had a great deal of
adaptation, and made himself agreeable to every one. He had traveled
extensively, was a close observer, and had a retentive memory. Mr.
Trevlyn was charmed with him. So was Alexandrine Lee, a friend of
Margie's, a rival belle, who accidentally (?) dropped in to spend the
evening.
Mr. Linmere played and sang with exquisite taste and skill--he was a
complete master of the art, and, in spite of herself, Margie listened to
him with a delight that was almost fascination, but which subsided the
moment the melody ceased.
He judged her by the majority of women he had met, and finding her
indifferent, he sought to rouse her jealousy by flirting with Miss Lee,
who was by no means adverse to his attentions. But Margie hailed the
transfer with a relief which was so evident, that Mr. Linmere, piqued and
irritated, took up his hat to leave, in the midst of one of Miss Lee's
most brilliant descriptions of what she had seen in Italy, from whence
she had just returned. He went over to the sofa where Margie was sitting.
"I hope to please you better next time," he said, lifting her hand.
"Good-night, Margie dear." And before she was aware, he touched his lips
to her forehead. She tore her hand away from him, and a flush of anger
sprang to her cheek. He surveyed her with admiration. He liked a little
spirit in a woman, especially as he intended to be able to subdue it when
it pleased him. Her anger made her a thousand times more beautiful. He
stood looking at her a moment, then turned and withdrew.
Margie struck her forehead with her hand, as if she would wipe out the
touch he had left there.
Alexandrine came and put her arm around Margie's waist.
"I almost envy you, Margie," she said, in that singularly purring voice
of hers. "Ah, Linmere is magnificent! Such eyes, and hair, and such a
voice! Well, Margie, you are a fortunate girl."
And Miss Lee sighed, and shook out the heavy folds of her violet silk,
with the air of one who has been injured, but is determined to show a
proper spirit of resignation.
Mr. Paul Linmere hurried along through an unfrequented street to his
suite of rooms at the St. Nicholas. He was very angry with everybody; he
felt like an ill-treated individual. He had expected Margie to fall at
his feet at once. A man of his attractions to be snubbed as he had
been, by a mere chit of a girl, too!
"I will find means to tame her, when once she is mine," he muttered. "By
heaven! but it will be rare sport to break that fiery spirit! It will
make me young again!"
Something white and shadowy bound his path. A spectral hand was laid on
his arm, chilling like ice, even through his clothing. The ghastly face
of a woman--a face framed in jet black hair, and lit up by great black
eyes bright as stars, gleamed through the mirk of the night.
The man gazed into the weird face, and shook like a leaf in the blast.
His arm sank nerveless to his side, palsied by that frozen touch; his
voice was so unnatural that he started at the sound.
"My God! Arabel Vere! Do the dead come back?"
The great unnaturally brilliant eyes seemed to burn into his brain. The
cold hand tightened on his arm. A breath like wind freighted with snow
crossed his face.
"Speak for heaven's sake!" he cried. "Am I dreaming?"
"Remember the banks of the Seine!" said a singularly sweet voice, which
sounded to Mr. Paul Linmere as if it came from leagues and leagues away.
"When you sit by the side of the living love, remember the dead! Think of
the dark rolling river, and of what its waters covered!"
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