Part 10 (1/2)
He inquired for Miss Harrison, and was shown at once into her presence.
She sat in a low chair, her dress of sombre black relieved by a white ribbon at the throat, and by the chestnut light of the s.h.i.+ning hair that swept in unbound luxuriance over her shoulders. She rose to meet her guest, scarcely recognizing Archer Trevlyn in the bronzed, bearded man before her.
”Miss Harrison,” he said, gently, ”it is a cold night; will you not give a warm welcome to an old friend?”
She knew his voice instantly. A bright color leaped to her cheek, an embarra.s.sment which made her a thousand times dearer and more charming to Arch Trevlyn, possessed her. But she held out her hands, and said a few shy words of welcome.
Arch sat down beside her, and the conversation drifted into recollections of their own individual history. They spoke to each other with the freedom of very old friends, forgetful of the fact that this was almost the very first conversation they had ever had together.
After a while, Arch said:
”Miss Harrison, do you remember when you first saw me?”
She looked at him a moment, and hesitated before she answered.
”I may be mistaken, Mr. Trevlyn. If so, excuse me; but I think I saw you first, years and years ago, in a flower store.”
”You are correct; and on that occasion your generous kindness made me very happy. I thought it would make my mother happy, also. I ran all the way home, lest the roses might wilt before she saw them.”
He stopped and gazed into the fire.
”Was she pleased with them?”
”She was dead. We put them in her coffin. They were buried with her.”
Margie laid her hand lightly on his.
”I am so sorry for you! I, too, have buried my mother.”
After a little silence, Arch went on.
”The next time you saw me was when you gave me these.” He took out his pocket-book, and displayed to her, folded in white paper, a cl.u.s.ter of faded bluebells. ”Do you remember them?”
”I think I do. You were knocked down by the pole of the carriage?”
”Yes. And the next time? Do you remember the next time?”
”I do.”
”I thought so. I want to thank you, now, for your generous forbearance.
I want to tell you how your keeping my secret made a different being of me. If you had betrayed me to justice, I might have been now an inmate of a prison cell. Margie Harrison, your silence saved me! Do me the justice to credit my a.s.sertion, when I tell you that I did not enter my grandfather's house because I cared for the plunder I should obtain. I had taken a vow to be revenged on him for his cruelty to my parents, and Sharp, the man who was with me, represented to me, that there was no surer way of accomplis.h.i.+ng my purpose than by taking away the treasures that he prized. For that only I became a house-breaker. I deserved punishment. I do not seek to palliate my guilt, but I thank you again for saving me!”
”I could not do otherwise than remain silent. When I would have spoken your name, something kept me from doing it. I think I remembered always the pitiful face of the little street-sweeper, and I could not bear to bring him any more suffering.”
”Since those days, Miss Harrison, I have met you frequently--always by accident--but to-night it is no accident. I came here on purpose.
For what, do you think?”
”I do not know--how should I?”
”I have come here to tell you what I longed to tell you years ago! what was no less true then than it is now; what was true of me when I was a street-sweeper, what has been true of me ever since, and what will be true of me through time and eternity!”