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Page 8
His hand trembled as he took down the laces--she glanced at his face. A
start of surprise--a conscious, painful blush swept over her face. He
dropped the box, and the rich laces fell over her feet.
"Pardon me," he said hurriedly, and, stooping to pick them up, the little
glove he had stolen on that night, and which he wore always in his bosom,
fell out, and dropped among the laces.
She picked it up with a little cry.
"The very glove that I lost four years ago! And you are--" she stopped
suddenly.
He paled to the lips, but, lifting his head proudly, said: "Go on. Finish
the sentence. I can bear it."
"No, I will not go on. Let the memory die, I knew you then, but you were
so young, and had to bear so much among temptations! And the other was a
villain. No, I am silent. You are safe."
He stooped, and, lifting the border of her shawl, kissed it reverently.
"If I live," he said solemnly, "you will be glad you have been so
merciful. Some time I shall hear you say so."
She did not purchase any laces. She went out forgetful of her errand, and
Arch was so awkward for the remainder of the day, and committed so many
blunders, that his fellow-clerks laughed at him unrebuked, and Mr.
Belgrade seriously wondered if Trevlyn had not been taking too much
champagne.
* * * * *
Margie Harrison and her guardian sat at breakfast. Mr. Trevlyn showed his
years very plainly. He was nearly seventy-five--he looked eighty.
Margie looked very lovely this morning and it was of this the old man was
thinking as he glanced at her across the table. She had more than
fulfilled the promise of her childhood. The golden hair was chestnut now,
and pushed behind her ears in heavy rippling masses of light and shadow.
Her eyes had taken a deeper tone--they were like wells whose depth you
could not guess at. Her features were delicately irregular, the forehead
low, broad and white; her chin was dimpled as an infant's, and her mouth
still ripe and red, as a damask rosebud. She wore a pink muslin wrapper,
tied with white ribbons, and in her hair drooped a cluster of
apple-blossoms.
"Margie dear," said Mr. Trevlyn, pausing in his work of buttering a
muffin, "I want you to look your prettiest to-night. I am going to bring
home a friend of mine--one who was also your father's friend--Mr.
Linmere. He arrived from Europe to-day."
Margie's cheek lost a trifle of its peachy bloom. She toyed with her
spoon, but did not reply to his remark.
"Did you understand me, child? Mr. Linmere has returned."
"Yes sir."
"And is coming here to-night. Remember to take extra pains with yourself,
Margie, for he has seen all the European beauties, and I do not want my
little American flower to be cast in the shade. Will you remember it?"
"Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Trevlyn."
"Margie!"
"Yes!"
"You are aware that Mr. Linmere is your affianced husband, are you not?"
"I have been told so."
"And yet in the face of that fact--well, of all things, girls do beat me!
Thank heaven, I have none of my own!" he added testily.
"Girls are better let alone, sir. It is very hard to feel one's self
bound to fulfil a contract of this kind."
"Hard! Well, now, I should think it easy. Mr. Linmere is all that any
reasonable woman could wish. Not too old, nor yet too young; about
forty-five, which is just the age for a man to marry; good-looking,
intelligent and wealthy--what more could you ask?"
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