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Page 4
After that, people who knew Mr. Trevlyn said that he grew more fretful
and disagreeable. His hair was bleached white as the snow, his hands
shook, and his erect frame was bowed and bent like that of a very aged
man. His wife, Hubert's mother, pined away to a mere shadow, and before
the lapse of a year she was a hopeless idiot.
Helen Trevlyn took up the burden of her life, refusing to despair because
of her child. It was a hard struggle for her, and she lived on, until, as
we have seen, when Archer was nine years of age, she died.
When all this was known to Archer Trevlyn he was almost beside himself
with passion. If he had possessed the power, he would have wiped the
whole Trevlyn race out of existence. He shut himself up in his desolate
garret with the tell-tale letters and papers which had belonged to his
mother, and there, all alone, he took a fearful oath of vengeance. The
wrongs of his parents should yet be visited on the head of the man who
had been so cruelly unpitying. He did not know what form his revenge
might take, but, so sure as he lived, it should fall some time!
* * * * *
Five years passed. Archer was fourteen years of age. He had left the
street-sweeping business some time before, at the command of Grandma
Rugg, and entered a third-class restaurant as an under-waiter. It was not
the best school in the world for good morals. The people who frequented
the Garden Rooms, as they were called, were mostly of a low class, and
all the interests and associations surrounding Arch were bad. But perhaps
he was not one to be influenced very largely by his surroundings. So the
Garden Rooms, if they did not make him better, did not make him worse.
In all these years he had kept the memory of Margie Harrison fresh and
green, though he had not seen her since the day his mother died. The
remembrance of her beauty and purity kept him oftentimes from sin; and
when he felt tempted to give utterance to oaths, her soft eyes seemed to
come between him and temptation.
One day he was going across the street to make change for a customer,
when a stylish carriage came dashing along. The horses shied at some
object, and the pole of the carriage struck Arch and knocked him down.
The driver drew in the horses with an imprecation.
Arch picked himself up, and stood recovering his scattered senses,
leaning against a lamp-post.
"Served ye right!" said the coachman roughly. "You'd no business to be
running befront of folkses carriages."
"Stop!" said a clear voice inside the coach. "What has occurred, Peter?"
"Only a ragged boy knocked down; but he's up again all right. Shall
I drive on? You will be late to the concert."
"I shall survive it, if I am," said the voice. "Get down and open the
door. I must see if the child is hurt."
"It's no child, miss; it is a boy older than yourself," said the man,
surlily obeying the command.
Margie Harrison descended to the pavement. From the sweet voice, Arch had
almost expected to see _her_. A flush of grateful admiration lit up his
face. She beamed upon him like a star from the depths of the clouds.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, kindly. "It was very careless of Peter to let
the carriage strike you. Allow us to take you home."
"Thank you," he said. "I am close to where I work, and I am not hurt. It
is only a trifling bruise."
Something familiar about him seemed to strike her; she looked at him with
a strangely puzzled face, but he gave her no light.
"Is there nothing we can do for you?" she asked, at length.
A great presumption almost took his breath away. He gave it voice on the
moment, afraid if he waited he should lack the courage.
"If you will give me the cluster of bluebells in your belt--"
She looked surprised, hesitated a moment, then laid them in his hand. He
bowed, and was lost in the crowd.
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