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Updated: June 17, 2025
True, her wealth would have counter-balanced any degree of personal deformity; but Mr. Paul Linmere admired beauty, and liked to have pretty things around him. To tell the truth, he was sadly in need of money. It was fortunate that his old friend, Mr. Harrison, Margie's dead father, had taken it into his head to plight his daughter's troth to him while she was yet a child. Mr.
"I am weary, and will go home soon, I think." Trevlyn looked at her with tender anxiety, evidently forgetful that he had requested Miss Lee to play. "You are wearied," he said. "Shall I call your carriage?" "If you please, yes. Miss Lee I am sure will excuse me." "I shall be obliged to, I suppose." Trevlyn put Margie's shawl around her, and led her to the carriage.
It is not etiquette for the groom to see the bride on the day of their marriage, until they meet at the altar; but you look so charming, dear! I would like him to admire you. He has such exquisite taste." Margie's uplifted eyes had a half-frightened look, which Alexandrine did not understand. "No, no!" she said, hurriedly; "do not bring him here!
Her pleading ceased. Mr. Trevlyn lay quiet, his countenance serene and hopeful. His lips moved, they bent over him, and caught the name of "Caroline." Trevlyn's hand sought Margie's and she did not repulse him. They stood together silently, looking at the white face on the pillows. "He is dead!" Archie said, softly: "God rest him!"
Alexandrine kept what she knew to herself, and of course Archer Trevlyn did not proclaim his own desertion. For a week, nearly, he managed to keep about, and at the end of that time he called at Mrs. Lee's. He wanted to question Alexandrine a little further. The idea possessed him that in some way she might be cognizant of Margie's destination.
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.
She held no communication with any person in New York, save her aunt, and her business agent, Mr. Farley, and her letters to them were posted in a distant town, in a neighboring State, where Nurse Day had friends and so Margie's place of refuge was still a secret. It was August now, and the weather at its hottest.
The wind sighed mournfully in the cypresses, the belated crickets and katydids droned in the hedge, but no sweet voice of sympathy soothed Margie's strained ear. For, wrought up as she was, she almost listened to hear some response from the lips which death had made mute forever. The village clock struck half-past eight, warning Margie that it was almost time for the ceremony to take place.
Here Margie's parents had lived always in the summer; here they had died within a week of each other, and here in the cypress grove by the river, they were buried. There would be no more fitting place for the marriage of their daughter to be solemnized. Margie neither opposed nor approved the plan. She did not oppose anything. She was passive, almost apathetic.
Margie thought of him now as we think of one long dead, with tender regret, and love almost reverent. He was dead to her, she said, but it was no sin to cherish his memory. In the third year Margie's aunt married. It was quite a little romance.
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