The Fatal Glove Part 16

Meantime, what of Margie Harrison? Through the dull, stormy day she had been whirled along like the wind. The train was an express, and made few stoppages. Margie took little note of anything which occurred. She sat in her hard seat like one in a trance, and paid no heed to the lapse of time, until the piteous whining of Leo warned her that night was near, and the poor dog was hungry. At the first stopping-place she purchased some bread and meat for him, but nothing for herself. She could not have swallowed a mouthful.

Still the untiring train dashed onward. Boston was reached at last.

She got out, stood confused and bewildered, gazing around her. It was night, and the place was strange to her. The cries of the porters and hackmen--the bustle and dire confusion, struck a chill to her heart. The crowd hurried hither and thither, each one intent on his own business, and the lamps gave out a dismal light, dimmed as they were by the hanging clouds of mist and fog. Alone in a great city! For the first time in her life she felt the significance of the words she had so often heard. She had never traveled a half dozen miles before, by herself, and she felt almost as helpless as a little child.

"Carriage, ma'am?" said a hackman, touching her arm.

"Yes," she said, mechanically, and put her hand in her pocket for her _porte-monnaie_, with a vague idea that she must pay him before she started.

She uttered a low cry of dismay! Her pocket-book was missing! She searched more thoroughly, but it was not to be found. Her pocket had been picked. She turned a piteous face to the hackman.

"My money is lost, sir!" she said, "but if you will take me to a place of shelter, I will remunerate you some way."

"Sorry to be obliged to refuse, ma'am," said the man, civilly enough, "but I'm a poor man, with a family, and can't afford to keep my horses for nothing."

"What is it, driver?" queried a rough voice; but in a moment a crowd had gathered around poor, shrinking Margie, and growling, indignant Leo.

"The woman's lost her purse--"

"Oh, ho! the old story--eh? Beauty in distress. Should think they'd git tired of playing that game!" said the coa.r.s.e voice, which belonged to a lounger and hanger-on at the depot.

"Looks rather suspicious, ma'am, for ye to be traveling on the train alone," began the hackman; but he was interrupted by the lounger.

"That's the way they all travel. Wall, thank the Lord, I hain't so gallant as to git taken in by every decent face I see!"

"Thank Heaven, I am not so lost to all sense of decency as to insult a lady!" said a clear, stern voice; and a tall, distinguished-looking man swept through the crowd, and reached Margie's side.

"Indeed, I am not mistaken!" he said, looking at her with amazement.

"Miss Harrison!"

She saw, as he lifted his hat, the frank, handsome face of Louis Castrani. All her troubles were over--this man was a pillar of strength to her weakness. She caught his arm eagerly, and Leo barked with joy, recognizing a friend.

"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Castrani!"

His countenance lighted instantly. He pressed the hand on his arm.

"Thank you, my friend. What service can I render you? Where do you wish to go? Let met act for you."

"Oh, thank you--if you only will! I was going further, but the train I wished to take has been gone some hours, and I must stay here to-night.

And on my way, somewhere, my money has been stolen."

"Give yourself no more uneasiness. I am only too happy to be of any use to you."

The crowd dispersed, and Castrani called a carriage, and put Margie and Leo inside.

"Have you any choice of hotels?"

"None. I am entirely unacquainted here. You know best."

"To the ---- House," he said to the driver; and thither they were taken.

A warm room and a tempting supper were provided, but Margie could not eat. She only swallowed a little toast, and drank a cup of tea. Castrani came to her parlor just after she had finished, but he did not sit down.

He had too much delicacy to intrude himself upon her when accident had thrown them together.

"I was called here on very urgent business," he said, "and shall be obliged to attend to it to-night, but I shall return soon, and will see you in the morning. Meanwhile, feel perfectly at home. I have engaged a chamber-maid to attend to you, and do not be afraid to make your wants known. Good-night, now, and pleasant dreams."

She was so weary, that she slept some, with Leo hugged tightly to her breast; for she felt a sense of security in having this faithful friend near her. Breakfast was served in her room, and by-and-by Castrani came up. He spoke to her cheerfully, though he could not fail to notice that some terrible blow had fallen upon her since last he had seen her, gay and brilliant, at a party in New York. But he forbore to question her.

Margie appreciated his delicacy, and something impelled her to confide to him what she had not entrusted to the descretion of any other person.

She owed him this confidence, for his disinterested kindness.

"Mr. Castrani," she said, quietly enough, outwardly, "circ.u.mstances, of which I cannot speak, have made it necessary for me to leave New York. I do not desire that the place of my destination shall be known to any one.

But to show you how much I appreciate your kindness, and how entirely I trust you, I will inform you that I am going to Lightfield, in New Hampshire, to stop an indefinite length of time with my old nurse, Mrs.

Day."

Castrani was visibly affected by this proof of her confidence.

"From me, no one shall ever know the place of your refuge," he said, earnestly. "Your train leaves at ten. It is now nine. If you would only permit me to see you safely to the end of your journey!"

She flushed. He read a quiet reproach in her eye.

"Pardon me. I know it may seem like officiousness, but I would try and not be disagreeable to you. I would not even speak to you, if you desired it should be so. But I could travel in the same car with you, and be there to protect you, if you should need me."

"I thank you greatly. But I had rather you went no further. I shall meet with no difficulty, I think. I shall reach Nurse Day's by sunset."

"As you will. I will not press the matter. Your pleasure shall be mine."

A little later, he a.s.sisted her from the carriage that had taken her to the depot. Her baggage was checked--he handed her the check, and her ticket, and then pressed into her hand a roll of bank-notes. She put them back quietly, but he declined taking them.

"I do not give it to you--I lend it to you. You shall repay it at your convenience."

"On these conditions, I thank you, also."

She put out her hand. He took it, resisted the inclination to press his lips to it, and held it lightly in his.

"If you will give me permission--to call upon you--should I be in Lightfield during your stay there--I shall be more than happy!"

She was about to refuse, but the mute pleading of his eyes deterred her.

He had been kind to her, and it could do her no harm. Probably, he would never come to Lightfield, so she gave him the permission he asked for.

The day pa.s.sed without incident, and nightfall found Margie within ten miles of her destination. She was driven along a rough country road, to a square farm-house--looming up white through the dark--and a moment later she was lying, pale and exhausted, in the arms of Nurse Day.

"My blessed child!" cried the old lady; "my precious little Margie! My old eyes will almost grow young again, after having been cheered by the sight of ye!" And she kissed Margie again and again, while Leo expressed his delight in true canine style--by barking vociferously, and leaping over the chairs and tables.

Nurse Day was pleasantly situated. Her husband was a grave, staid man who was very kind to Margie, always. The farm was a rambling affair--extending over, and embracing in its ample limits, hill and dale, meadow and woodland, and a portion, of a bright, swift river, on whose bold banks it was Margie's delight to sit through the purple sunsets, and watch the play of light and shade on the bare, rocky cliff opposite.

Nature proved a true friend to the sore heart of the girl. The breezes, so fresh, and sweet, and clear, soothed Margie inexpressibly. The sunshine was a message of healing; the songs of the birds carried her back to her happy childhood. Wandering through the leafy aisles of the forest, she seemed brought nearer to G.o.d and his mercy. Only once had Nurse Day questioned her of the past, and then Margie had said:

"I have done with the past forever, Nurse Day. I wish it never recalled to me. I have met with a great sorrow--one of which I cannot speak. I came here to forget it. Never ask me anything about it. I would confide it to you, if I could, but my word is given to another to keep silent.

I acted for what I thought best. Heaven knows if I erred, I did not err willingly."