The Fatal Glove

The Fatal Glove, by Clara
Augusta Jones Trask

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Title: The Fatal Glove
Author: Clara Augusta Jones Trask
Release Date: June 4, 2005 [eBook #15989]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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GLOVE***
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Transcriber's note: After "The Fatal Glove" is a short story titled

"Constitutionally Bashful." The author was not identified.

THE FATAL GLOVE
by
CLARA AUGUSTA
Author of "The Rugg Documents," "Patience Pettigrew's Perplexities,"
etc.
1892


PART I.
Arch Trevlyn had had a good day. Business had been brisk. The rain
had fallen steadily since daybreak, and the street-crossings in New
York were ankle deep in mud. The little street-sweeper's arms ached
fearfully, but his pocket was full of pennies, interspersed with an
occasional half-dime.
The clouds were breaking in the west, and a gleam of sunshine gilded
the tall tower of St. John's. Arch shouldered his broom, and whistled a
merry tune as he took his way homeward. His bright dark eyes sparkled
as he thought how the sight of his earnings would cheer his feeble
mother. She could have tea now, with real milk and some sugar in it,
and an orange, too. Only yesterday she was wishing she had an orange.
Arch's way led past a horticultural store, and his eye wandered
longingly over the display of flowers in the window. He must have just
one wee white rose, because, only the Sabbath before, while he sat at
his mother's feet, she had wept in telling him about the sweet roses that
used to grow under the window of the little country cottage where her

happy youth had been spent.
The white rose would be like bringing back to her ever so little a bit of
the happy past. It could not cost much, and Arch felt wealthy as a
prince. He stepped into the store and asked the price of a white rose.
The clerk answered him roughly:
"Get out of the store, you young rascal! You want to steal something!"
"I am not a thief, sir," said the boy, proudly, his sallow cheeks
crimsoning hotly. "I want a rose for my mother. I guess I can pay for
it!"
"It's half a dollar, if you want it," said the man, sneeringly. "Show your
money, or take yourself off this minute!"
Archie's countenance fell. He had not half a dollar in all. He turned
sadly away, his head drooping, his lip quivering. Oh, how very hard it
was to be poor, he thought, looking enviously at the costly carriage,
with a pair of splendid grays, standing before the door.
"Stop, little boy!" said a sweet voice from somewhere among the roses
and heliotropes. "Is your mother sick?"
Arch removed his cap--some inborn spirit of courtesy prompting him to
be reverent toward the glorious vision which burst upon him. For a
moment he thought he saw an angel, and almost expected that she
would unfold her silvery wings, and vanish in a golden cloud from his
sight. But after the first glimpse he saw that she was a little girl about
his own age--eight or nine years, perhaps--with yellow curls, deep
hazel eyes, a mouth like a rosebud, and a blue silk frock. She repeated
the question:
"Is your mother sick, little boy?"
"No, she is not sick, for she always sits up, and sews. But she is not
strong, and her cheeks never have any color in them, like yours."

"And does she love flowers?"
"Yes, she loves them dearly. She kisses them always, when she has any.
And that's not often."
"Does she? That's nice. Just like I do!" said the little girl, in a pleased
voice. "Mr. Burns"--to the gruff clerk--"here is a dollar. Give me some
real nice roses, and two or three sweet pinks. The lady shall have some
flowers. Tell her I sent them."
"Who shall I say sent them?"
"Margie Harrison. Will she know me, think?"
"I guess not. But it's all the same. I shall tell her you are one of the
angels, any way. She knows about them, for she's told me ever so much
about them."
The little girl laughed, and gave him the flowers.
"Don't soil them with your grimy hands," she said, a little saucily; "and
when you get home--let's see, what's your name?"
"Archer Trevlyn."
"Why, what a nice name!