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Page 33
Far away in the northern part of New Hampshire, resided old Nellie Day,
the woman who had nursed her, and whom she had not seen for twelve years.
Nellie was a very quiet, discreet person, and had been very warmly
attached to the Harrison family. She had married late in life a worthy
farmer, and giving up her situation in New York, had gone with him to the
little-out-of-the-way village of Lightfield. Margie had kept up a sort of
desultory correspondence with her, and in every letter that the old lady
wrote she had urged Margie to visit her in her country home. It had never
been convenient to do so, but now the place was suggested to her at once,
and to Lightfield she decided to go.
She consulted her watch. It was five o'clock; the train for the North,
the first express, left at half-past six. There would be time. She would
leave all her business affairs in the hands of Mr. Farley, her legal
adviser and general manager; and as to the house, the maiden aunt who
resided with her could keep up the establishment until her return, if
she ever did return.
She packed a few of her plainest dresses and some other indispensables,
in a trunk, arrayed herself in a dark traveling suit, and rang for
Florine. The girl looked at her in silent amazement. Margie steadied
her voice, and spoke carelessly enough.
"Florine, I have been obliged to leave home very suddenly. My
preparations are all complete. I thought I would not wake you as I
had so little to do. Tell Peter to have the carriage at the door at six
precisely, and bring up Leo's breakfast, and a cup of hot coffee for me."
At six o'clock--having written a note to Mr. Farley, and one to her aunt,
giving no explanations, but merely saying she had been called away--she
put on her bonnet, entered the carriage and was driven to the depot. And
before nine-tenths of New York had thought of leaving their beds, she was
being whirled rapidly northward, her only companion Leo, who, watchful
and alert, lay curled up on the seat beside her.
* * * * *
Archer Trevlyn had not slept that night. Some sense of impending evil,
some demon of uneasiness oppressed him strangely. He tossed about until
daybreak, then he rose, dressed himself, and went out. Everything was
still on the streets except the clatter of the milk carts, and the early
drays and huckster wagons. The air was damp and dense, and struck a
deadly chill to the very marrow of this unseasonable wanderer. He walked
a few squares, and then returned to his hotel, more oppressed than when
he went out.
Did ever time move so slowly before? Would the morning never pass? He
wrote some urgent letters, read the damp morning paper, without the
slightest notion of contents, and went down to his breakfast, to come
away again leaving it untasted. Eight o'clock! The earliest possible hour
at which it would be proper to call on Miss Harrison was eleven. Three
mortal hours first! How should he ever endure it? She might be very ill.
She might even be dying? Archer, with the foolish inconsistency of love,
magnified every evil until he was nearly beside himself with dread, lest
she might be worse that Miss Lee had represented.
Nine o'clock struck; he was walking the floor in a state of nervous
excitement which would have forced him ere long to have broken all rules
of etiquette and taken his way to Harrison House, had not fate saved him
the necessity.
A waiter entered, and brought in a letter and a package. He snatched them
both, and saw they were directed in Margie's handwriting. For a moment
his heart stood still with a deadly fear. Great drops of perspiration
covered his forehead, and he dropped letter and package to the floor.
Why was she writing to him when she must expect to see him in a few
hours? And that package! what did it contain?
He picked it up, and tore off the wrappings. The betrothal ring rolled
out and fell with a hollow sound on the floor. The ring he had put upon
her finger--the ring he had seen her kiss more than once! He looked over
the contents of the box hurriedly; every little thing he had ever given
her was there, even to a bunch of faded violets!
But the letter? He had almost forgotten it, in pondering over the dread
significance of the return of his presents. He took it up, and broke the
seal with slow deliberation. It would not tell him any news, but it might
contain an explanation. His face grew pale as ashes as he read, and he
put his hand to his heart, as though he had received a blow there. Twice
he read it through, and at the last reading he seemed to realize its
dread portent.
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