"Calm yourself, my child. I shall never knowingly injure Mr. Trevlyn. He deserves no punishment for a sin he never committed. He is guiltless of that deed as you are yourself!"
"Guiltless—Archer guiltless!" she cried, her face wearing the pitiful, strained look of agonized suspense. "I do not quite comprehend. Say it again—oh, say it again!"
"Margaret, Archer Trevlyn never lifted a hand against Paul Linmere—never! He is innocent before God and the angels!"
She dropped her head upon her hands, and burst into tears—the first she had shed since that terrible night when that blasted revelation had, as she thought, sealed up the fountain of tears forever. Castrani did not seek to sooth her; he judged rightly that she would be better for this abandonment to a woman's legitimate source of relief. She lifted her wet face at last—but what a change was there! The transparent paleness had given place to the sweet wild rose color which had once made Margie so very lovely, and the sad eyes were brilliant as stars, through the mist of tears.
"I believe it—yes, I believe it!" she said, softly,—reverently. "I thank God for giving me the assurance. You tell me so. You would not, unless it were true!"
"No, Margaret; I would not," replied Castrani, strongly affected. "Heaven forbid that I should raise hopes which I cannot verify. When you are calm enough to understand, I will explain it fully."
"I am calm now. Go on."
"I must trouble you with a little, only a little, of my own private history, in order that you may understand what follows. I am, as you know, a Cuban by birth, but my father, only, was Spanish. My mother was a native of Boston, who married my father for love, and went with him to his Southern home. I was an only child, and when I was about twelve years of age, my parents adopted a girl, some four years my junior. She was the orphan child of poor parents, and was possessed of wonderful beauty and intelligence. Together we grew up and no brother and sister loved each other more fully than we. It was only a brotherly and sisterly love—for I was engaged, at sixteen, to Inez de Nuncio, a lovely young Spanish girl, who was cruelly taken away from me by the hand of violence, as you know. Arabel grew to girlhood, lovely as a houri. Lovely, however, is not the right word; she was royally magnificent. I have seen many elegant women, but never one who for stately grace and beauty would compare with her. She had many suitors, but she favored none, until he came—Paul Linmere, the fiend and destroyer! Ill health had driven him to Cuba, to try the effect of our southern air, and soon after his arrival, he became acquainted with Arabel. He was very handsome and fascinating, and much sought after by the fair ladies of my native town. Arabel was vain, and his devoted attentions flattered her, while his handsome face and fascinating address won her love. She was a passionate child of the South, uncalculating as a babe where her affections were concerned; and before my parents had begun to ascertain any danger from Linmere's society, she had left everything, and fled with him.
"My mother was plunged in grief, for she had loved Arabel like an own child; and the uncertainty of her fate, I think, hastened my mother's death. My father left no means untried to discover the whereabouts of the erring girl—but in vain. For years her fate was shrouded in mystery. My parents died. Inez was taken from me, and weary and heartsick, I came to New York, hoping to find some distraction in new scenes, and among a new people.
"The day before you left New York, I received a message from Arabel Vere. She was in Boston ill unto death. She wanted to see me once more; and she had a sin upon her conscience, which she must confess before she died; and she must confess it to no person but myself. In obedience to this summons, I hurried to Boston, and the same train that carried me, carried you, also.