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Page 16
PART II.
Paul Linmere's wedding-day drew near. Between him and Margie there was
no semblance of affection. Her coldness never varied, and after a few
fruitless attempts to excite in her some manifestation of interest, he
took his cue from her, and was as coldly indifferent as herself.
A few days before the tenth of October, which was the day appointed for
the bridal, Dick Turner, one of Paul's friends, gave a supper at the
Bachelors' Club. A supper in honor of Paul, or to testify the sorrow of
the Club at the loss of one of its members. It was a very hilarious
occasion, and the toasting and wine-drinking extended far into the small
hours.
In a somewhat elevated frame of mind, Mr. Paul Linmere left the rooms of
the Club at about three o'clock in the morning, to return home. His way
lay along the most deserted part of the city--a place where there were
few dwellings, and the buildings were mostly stores and warehouses.
Suddenly a touch on his arm stopped him. The same cold, deathly touch he
had felt once before. He had drank just enough to feel remarkably brave,
and turning, he encountered the strangely gleaming eyes that had frozen
his blood that night in early summer. All his bravado left him. He felt
weak and helpless as a child.
"What is it? what do you want?" he asked brokenly.
"Justice!" said the mysterious presence.
"Justice? For whom?"
"Arabel Vere."
"Arabel Vere! Curse her!" he cried, savagely.
The figure lifted a spectral white hand.
"Paul Linmere--beware! The vengeance of the dead reaches sometimes unto
the living! There is not water enough in the Seine to drown a woman's
hatred! Death itself cannot annihilate it! Beware!"
He struck savagely at the uplifted hand, but his arm met no resistance.
He beat only against the impalpable air. His spectral visitor had flown,
and left nothing behind her to tell of her presence.
With unsteady steps Mr. Paul Linmere hurried home, entered his room, and
double-locked the door behind him.
* * * * *
Mr. Trevlyn had decided that the marriage of his ward should take place
at Harrison Park, the old country seat of the Harrisons, on the Hudson.
Here Margie's parents had lived always in the summer; here they had died
within a week of each other, and here in the cypress grove by the river,
they were buried. There would be no more fitting place for the marriage
of their daughter to be solemnized. Margie neither opposed nor approved
the plan. She did not oppose anything. She was passive, almost apathetic.
The admiring dressmakers and milliners came and went, fitting, and
measuring, and trying on their tasteful creations, but without eliciting
any signs of interest or pleasure from Margie Harrison. She gave no
orders, found no fault; expressed no admiration nor its opposite. It
was all the same to her.
The bridal dress came home a few days before the appointed day. It was
a superb affair, and Margie looked like a queen in it. It was of white
satin, with a point lace overskirt, looped up at intervals with tiny
bouquets of orange blossoms. The corsage was cut low, leaving the
beautiful shoulders bare, the open sleeves displaying the perfectly
rounded arms in all their perfection. The veil was point lace, and must
have cost a little fortune. Mr. Trevlyn had determined that everything
should be on a magnificent scale, and had given the whole arrangement of
the affair to Mrs. Colonel Weldon, the most fashionable woman in her set.
Mr. Trevlyn had the diamonds which were the wonder of the city, richly
set, and Margie was to wear them on her bridal night, as a special mark
of the old man's favor. For, next to the diamonds, the sordid man loved
Margie Harrison.
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