Chapter XL: In the Prison (2)

That he should die is worthy policy;
But yet we want a color for his death;
'Tis meet he be condemned by course of law.
--HENRY VI.

MR. GRYCE was perfectly aware that the task before him was a difficult one. To be himself convinced that Mr. Orcutt had been in possession of a motive sufficient to account for, if not excuse, this horrible crime was one thing; to find out that motive and make it apparent to the world was another. But he was not discouraged. Summoning his two subordinates, he laid the matter before them.

"I am convinced," said he, "that Mrs. Clemmens was a more important person to Mr. Orcutt than her plain appearance and humble manner of life would suggest. Do either of you know whether Mr. Orcutt's name has ever been associated with any private scandal, the knowledge of which might have given her power over him?"

"I do not think he was that kind of a man," said Byrd. "Since morning I have put myself in the way of such persons as I saw disposed to converse about him, and though I have been astonished to find how many there are who say they never quite liked or altogether trusted this famous lawyer, I have heard nothing said in any way derogatory to his private character. Indeed, I believe, as far as the ladies were concerned, he was particularly reserved. Though a bachelor, he showed no disposition to marry, and until Miss Dare appeared on the scene was not known to be even attentive to one of her sex."

"Some one, however, I forget who, told me that for a short time he was sweet on a certain Miss Pratt," remarked Hickory.

"Pratt? Where have I heard that name?" murmured Byrd to himself.

"But nothing came of it," Hickory continued. "She was not over and above smart they say, and though pretty enough, did not hold his fancy. Some folks declare she was so disappointed she left town."

"Pratt, Pratt!" repeated Byrd to himself. "Ah! I know now," he suddenly exclaimed. "While I stood around amongst the crowd, the morning Mrs. Clemmens was murdered, I remember overhearing some one say how hard she was on the Pratt girl."

"Humph!" ejaculated Mr. Gryce. "The widow was hard on any one Mr. Orcutt chose to admire."

"I don't understand it," said Byrd.

"Nor I," rejoined Mr. Gryce; "but I intend to before the week is out." Then abruptly: "When did Mrs. Clemmens come to this town?"

"Fifteen years ago," replied Byrd.

"And Orcutt--when did he first put in an appearance here?"

"At very much the same time, I believe."

"Humph! And did they seem to be friends at that time?"

"Some say Yes, some say No."

"Where did he come from--have you learned?"

"From some place in Nebraska, I believe."

"And she?"

"Why, she came from some place in Nebraska too!"

"The _same_ place?"

"That we must find out."

Mr. Gryce mused for a minute; then he observed:

"Mr. Orcutt was renowned in his profession. Do you know any thing about his career--whether he brought a reputation for ability with him, or whether his fame was entirely made in this place?"

"I think it was made here. Indeed, I have heard that it was in this court he pleaded his first case. Don't you know more about it, Hickory?"

"Yes; Mr. Ferris told me this morning that Orcutt had not opened a law-book when he came to this town. That he was a country schoolmaster in some uncivilized district out West, and would never have been any thing more, perhaps, if the son of old Stephen Orcutt had not died, and thus made a vacancy in the law-office here which he was immediately sent for to fill."

"Stephen Orcutt? He was the uncle of this man, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"And quite a lawyer too?"

"Yes, but nothing like Tremont B. _He_ was successful from the start. Had a natural aptitude, I suppose--must have had, to pick up the profession in the way he did."

"Boys," cried Mr. Gryce, after another short ruminative pause, "the secret we want to know is of long standing; indeed, I should not be surprised if it were connected with his life out West. I will tell you why I think so. For ten years Mrs. Clemmens has been known to put money in the bank regularly every week. Now, where did she get that money? From Mr. Orcutt, of course. What for? In payment for the dinner he usually took with her? No, in payment of her silence concerning a past he desired kept secret."

"But they have been here fifteen years and she has only received money for ten."

"She has only put money in the bank for ten; she may have been paid before that and may not. I do not suppose he was in a condition to be very lavish at the outset of his career."

"You advise us, then, to see what we can make out of his early life out West?"

"Yes; and I will see what I can make out of hers. The link which connects the two will be found. Mr. Orcutt did not say: 'It was all for you, Imogene,' for nothing."

And, dismissing the two young men, Mr. Gryce proceeded to the house of Mr. Orcutt, where he entered upon an examination of such papers and documents as were open to his inspection, in the hope of discovering some allusion to the deceased lawyer's early history. But he was not successful. Neither did a like inspection of the widow's letters bring any new facts to light. The only result which seemed to follow these efforts was an increased certainty on his part that some dangerous secret lurked in a past that was so determinedly hidden from the world, and resorting to the only expedient now left to him, he resolved to consult Miss Firman, as being the only person who professed to have had any acquaintance with Mrs. Clemmens before she came to Sibley. To be sure, she had already been questioned by the coroner, but Mr. Gryce was a man who had always found that the dryest well could be made to yield a drop or two more of water if the bucket was dropped by a dexterous hand. He accordingly prepared himself for a trip to Utica.

XLIII.

MRS. FIRMAN.

Hark! she speaks. I will set down what comes from her....
Heaven knows what she has known.--MACBETH.

"MISS FIRMAN, I believe?" The staid, pleasant-faced lady whom we know, but who is looking older and considerably more careworn than when we saw her at the coroner's inquest, rose from her chair in her own cozy sitting-room, and surveyed her visitor curiously. "I am Mr. Gryce," the genial voice went on. "Perhaps the name is not familiar?"

"I never heard it before," was the short but not ungracious reply.

"Well, then, let me explain," said he. "You are a relative of the Mrs. Clemmens who was so foully murdered in Sibley, are you not? Pardon me, but I see you are; your expression speaks for itself." How he could have seen her expression was a mystery to Miss Firman, for his eyes, if not attention, were seemingly fixed upon some object in quite a different portion of the room. "You must, therefore," he pursued, "be in a state of great anxiety to know who her murderer was. Now, I am in that same state, madam; we are, therefore, in sympathy, you see."

The respectful smile and peculiar intonation with which these last words were uttered, robbed them of their familiarity and allowed Miss Firman to perceive his true character.

"You are a detective," said she, and as he did not deny it, she went on: "You say I must be anxious to know who my cousin's murderer was. Has Craik Mansell, then, been acquitted?"

"A verdict has not been given," said the other. "His trial has been adjourned in order to give him an opportunity to choose a new counsel."

Miss Firman motioned her visitor to be seated, and at once took a chair herself.

"What do you want with me?" she asked, with characteristic bluntness.

The detective was silent. It was but for a moment, but in that moment he seemed to read to the bottom of this woman's mind.

"Well," said he, "I will tell you. You believe Craik Mansell to be innocent?"

"I do," she returned.

"Very well; so do I."

"Let me shake hands with you," was her abrupt remark. And without a smile she reached forth her hand, which he took with equal gravity.

This ceremony over, he remarked, with a cheerful mien:

"We are fortunately not in a court of law, and so can talk freely together. Why do you think Mansell innocent? I am sure the evidence has not been much in his favor."

"Why do _you_ think him innocent?" was the brisk retort.

"I have talked with him."

"Ah!"

"I have talked with Miss Dare."

A different "Ah!" this time.

"And I was present when Mr. Orcutt breathed his last."

The look she gave was like cold water on Mr. Gryce's secretly growing hopes.

"What has that to do with it?" she wonderingly exclaimed.

The detective took another tone.

"You did not know Mr. Orcutt then?" he inquired.

"I had not that honor," was the formal reply.

"You have never, then, visited your cousin in Sibley?"

"Yes, I was there once; but that did not give me an acquaintance with Mr. Orcutt."

"Yet he went almost every day to her house."

"And he came while I was there, but _that_ did not give me an acquaintance with him."

"He was reserved, then, in his manners, uncommunicative, possibly morose?"

"He was just what I would expect such a gentleman to be at the table with women like my cousin and myself."

"Not morose, then; only reserved."

"Exactly," the short, quick bow of the amiable spinster seemed to assert.

Mr. Gryce drew a deep breath. This well seemed to be destitute of even a drop of moisture.

"Why do you ask me about Mr. Orcutt? Has his death in any way affected young Mansell's prospects?"

"That is what I want to find out," declared Mr. Gryce. Then, without giving her time for another question, said: "Where did Mrs. Clemmens first make the acquaintance of Mr. Orcutt? Wasn't it in some town out West?"

"Out West? Not to my knowledge, sir. I always supposed she saw him first in Sibley."

This well was certainly very dry.

"Yet you are not positive that this is so, are you?" pursued the patient detective. "She came from Nebraska, and so did he; now, why may they not have known each other there?"

"I did not know that he came from Nebraska."

"She has never talked about him then?"

"Never."

Mr. Gryce drew another deep breath and let down his bucket again.

"I thought your cousin spent her childhood in Toledo?"

"She did, sir."

"How came she to go to Nebraska then?"

"Well, she was left an orphan and had to look out for herself. A situation in some way opened to her in Nebraska, and she went there to take it."

"A situation at what?"

"As waitress in some hotel."

"Humph! And was she still a waitress when she married?"

"Yes, I think so, but I am not sure about it or any thing else in connection with her at that time. The subject was so painful we never discussed it."

"Why painful?"

"She lost her husband so soon."

"But you can tell me the name of the town in which this hotel was, can you not?"

"It was called Swanson then, but that was fifteen years ago. Its name may have been changed since."

Swanson! This was something to learn, but not much. Mr. Gryce returned to his first question. "You have not told me," said he, "why _you_ believe Craik Mansell to be innocent?"

"Well," replied she, "_I_ believe Craik Mansell to be innocent because he is the son of his mother. I think I know _him_ pretty well, but I am certain I knew _her_. She was a woman who would go through fire and water to attain a purpose she thought right, but who would stop in the midst of any project the moment she felt the least doubt of its being just or wise. Craik has his mother's forehead and eyes, and no one will ever make me believe he has not her principles also."

"I coincide with you, madam," remarked the attentive detective.

"I hope the jury will," was her energetic response.

He bowed and was about to attempt another question, when an interruption occurred. Miss Firman was called from the room, and Mr. Gryce found himself left for a few moments alone. His thoughts, as he awaited her return, were far from cheerful, for he saw a long and tedious line of inquiry opening before him in the West, which, if it did not end in failure, promised to exhaust not only a week, but possibly many months, before certainty of any kind could be obtained. With Miss Dare on the verge of a fever, and Mansell in a position calling for the utmost nerve and self-control, this prospect looked any thing but attractive to the benevolent detective; and, carried away by his impatience, he was about to give utterance to an angry ejaculation against the man he believed to be the author of all this mischief, when he suddenly heard a voice raised from some unknown quarter near by, saying in strange tones he was positive did not proceed from Miss Firman:

"Was it Clemmens or was it Orcutt? Clemmens or Orcutt? I cannot remember."

Naturally excited and aroused, Mr. Gryce rose and looked about him. A door stood ajar at his back. Hastening toward it, he was about to lay his hand on the knob when Miss Firman returned.

"Oh, I beg you," she entreated. "That is my mother's room, and she is not at all well."

"I was going to her assistance," asserted the detective, with grave composure. "She has just uttered a cry."

"Oh, you don't say so!" exclaimed the unsuspicious spinster, and hurrying forward, she threw open the door herself. Mr. Gryce benevolently followed. "Why, she is asleep," protested Miss Firman, turning on the detective with a suspicious look.

Mr. Gryce, with a glance toward the bed he saw before him, bowed with seeming perplexity.

"She certainly appears to be," said he, "and yet I am positive she spoke but an instant ago; I can even tell you the words she used."

"What were they?" asked the spinster, with something like a look of concern.

"She said: 'Was it Clemmens or was it Orcutt? Clemmens or Orcutt? I cannot remember.'"

"You don't say so! Poor ma! She was dreaming. Come into the other room and I will explain."

And leading the way back to the apartment they had left, she motioned him again toward a chair, and then said:

"Ma has always been a very hale and active woman for her years; but this murder seems to have shaken her. To speak the truth, sir, she has not been quite right in her mind since the day I told her of it; and I often detect her murmuring words similar to those you have just heard."

"Humph! And does she often use his name?"

"Whose name?"

"Mr. Orcutt's."

"Why, yes; but not with any understanding of whom she is speaking."

"Are you _sure_?" inquired Mr. Gryce, with that peculiar impressiveness he used on great occasions.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," returned the detective, dryly, "that I believe your mother does know what she is talking about when she links the name of Mr. Orcutt with that of your cousin who was murdered. They belong together; Mr. Orcutt was her murderer."

"_Mr. Orcutt?_"

"Hush!" cried Mr. Gryce, "you will wake up your mother."

And, adapting himself to this emergency as to all others, he talked with the astounded and incredulous woman before him till she was in a condition not only to listen to his explanations, but to discuss the problem of a crime so seemingly without motive. He then said, with easy assurance:

"Your mother does not know that Mr. Orcutt is dead?"

"No, sir."

"She does not even know he was counsel for Craik Mansell in the trial now going on."

"How do you know that?" inquired Miss Firman, grimly.

"Because I do not believe you have even told her that Craik Mansell was on trial."

"Sir, you are a magician."

"Have you, madam?"

"No, sir, I have not."

"Very good; what _does_ she know about Mr. Orcutt, then; and why should she connect his name with Mrs. Clemmens?"

"She knows he was her boarder, and that he was the first one to discover she had been murdered."

"That is not enough to account for her frequent repetition of his name."

"You think not?"

"I am sure not. Cannot your mother have some memories connected with his name of which you are ignorant?"

"No, sir; we have lived together in this house for twenty-five years, and have never had a thought we have not shared together. Ma could not have known any thing about him or Mary Ann which I did not. The words she has just spoken sprang from mental confusion. She is almost like a child sometimes."

Mr. Gryce smiled. If the cream-jug he happened to be gazing at on a tray near by had been full of cream, I am far from certain it would not have turned sour on the spot.

"I grant the mental confusion," said he; "but why should she confuse those two names in preference to all others?" And, with quiet persistence, he remarked again: "She may be recalling some old fact of years ago. Was there never a time, even while you lived here together, when she could have received some confidence from Mrs. Clemmens----"

"Mary Ann, Mary Ann!" came in querulous accents from the other room, "I wish you had not told me; Emily would be a better one to know your secret."

It was a startling interruption to come just at that moment The two surprised listeners glanced toward each other, and Miss Firman colored.

"That sounds as if your surmise was true," she dryly observed.

"Let us make an experiment," said he, and motioned her to re-enter her mother's room, which she did with a precipitation that showed her composure had been sorely shaken by these unexpected occurrences.

He followed her without ceremony.

The old lady lay as before in a condition between sleeping and waking, and did not move as they came in. Mr. Gryce at once withdrew out of sight, and, with finger on his lip, put himself in the attitude of waiting. Miss Firman, surprised, and possibly curious, took her stand at the foot of the bed.

A few minutes passed thus, during which a strange dreariness seemed to settle upon the room; then the old lady spoke again, this time repeating the words he had first heard, but in a tone which betrayed an increased perplexity.

"_Was_ it Clemmens or _was_ it Orcutt? I wish somebody would tell me."

Instantly Mr. Gryce, with his soft tread, drew near to the old lady's side, and, leaning over her, murmured gently:

"I think it was Orcutt."

Instantly the old lady breathed a deep sigh and moved.

"Then her name was Mrs. Orcutt," said she, "and I thought you always called her Clemmens."

Miss Firman, recoiling, stared at Mr. Gryce, on whose cheek a faint spot of red had appeared--a most unusual token of emotion with him.

"Did she say it was Mrs. Orcutt," he pursued, in the even tones he had before used.

"She said----" But here the old lady opened her eyes, and, seeing her daughter standing at the foot of her bed, turned away with a peevish air, and restlessly pushed her hand under the pillow.

Mr. Gryce at once bent nearer.

"She said----" he suggested, with careful gentleness.

But the old lady made no answer. Her hand seemed to have touched some object for which she was seeking, and she was evidently oblivious to all else. Miss Firman came around and touched Mr. Gryce on the shoulder.

"It is useless," said she; "she is awake now, and you won't hear any thing more; come!"

And she drew the reluctant detective back again into the other room.

"What does it all mean?" she asked, sinking into a chair.

Mr. Gryce did not answer. He had a question of his own to put.

"Why did your mother put her hand under her pillow?" he asked.

"I don't know, unless it was to see if her big envelope was there."

"Her big envelope?"

"Yes; for weeks now, ever since she took to her bed, she has kept a paper in a big envelope under her pillow. What is in it I don't know, for she never seems to hear me when I inquire."

"And have you no curiosity to find out?"

"No, sir. Why should I? It might easily be my father's old letters sealed up, or, for that matter, be nothing more than a piece of blank paper. My mother is not herself, as I have said before."

"I should like a peep at the contents of that envelope," he declared.

"You?"

"Is there any name written on the outside?"

"No."

"It would not be violating any one's rights, then, if you opened it."

"Only my mother's, sir."

"You say she is not in her right mind?"

"All the more reason why I should respect her whims and caprices."

"Wouldn't you open it if she were dead?"

"Yes."

"Will it be very different then from what it is now? A father's letters! a blank piece of paper! What harm would there be in looking at them?"

"My mother would know it if I took them away. It might excite and injure her."

"Put another envelope in the place of this one, with a piece of paper folded up in it."

"It would be a trick."

"I know it; but if Craik Mansell can be saved even by a trick, I should think you would be willing to venture on one."

"Craik Mansell? What has he got to do with the papers under my mother's pillow?"

"I cannot say that he has any thing to do with them; but if he has--if, for instance, that envelope should contain, not a piece of blank paper, or even the letters of your father, but such a document, say, as a certificate of marriage----"

"A certificate of marriage?"

"Yes, between Mrs. Clemmens and Mr. Orcutt, it would not take much perspicacity to prophesy an acquittal for Craik Mansell."

"Mary Ann the wife of Mr. Orcutt! Oh, that is impossible!" exclaimed the agitated spinster. But even while making this determined statement, she turned a look full of curiosity and excitement toward the door which separated them from her mother's apartment.

Mr. Gryce smiled in his wise way.

"Less improbable things than that have been found to be true in this topsy-turvy world," said he. "Mrs. Clemmens might very well have been Mrs. Orcutt."

"Do you really think so?" she asked; and yielding with sudden impetuosity to the curiosity of the moment, she at once dashed from his side and disappeared in her mother's room. Mr. Gryce's smile took on an aspect of triumph.

It was some few moments before she returned, but when she did, her countenance was flushed with emotion.

"I have it," she murmured, taking out a packet from under her apron and tearing it open with trembling fingers.

A number of closely written sheets fell out.

XLIV.

THE WIDOW CLEMMENS.

Discovered
The secret that so long had hovered
Upon the misty verge of Truth.--LONGFELLOW.

"WELL, and what have you to say?" It was Mr. Ferris who spoke. The week which Mr. Gryce had demanded for his inquiries had fully elapsed, and the three detectives stood before him ready with their report.

It was Mr. Gryce who replied.

"Sir," said he, "our opinions have not been changed by the discoveries which we have made. It was Mr. Orcutt who killed Mrs. Clemmens, and for the reason already stated that she stood in the way of his marrying Miss Dare. Mrs. Clemmens was his wife."

"His _wife_?"

"Yes, sir; and, what is more, she has been so for years; before either of them came to Sibley, in fact."

The District Attorney looked stunned.

"It was while they lived West," said Byrd. "He was a poor school-master, and she a waitress in some hotel. She was pretty then, and he thought he loved her. At all events, he induced her to marry him, and then kept it secret because he was afraid she would lose her place at the hotel, where she was getting very good wages. You see, he had the makings in him of a villain even then."

"And was it a real marriage?"

"There is a record of it," said Hickory.

"And did he never acknowledge it?"

"Not openly," answered Byrd. "The commonness of the woman seemed to revolt him after he was married to her, and when in a month or so he received the summons East, which opened up before him the career of a lawyer, he determined to drop her and start afresh. He accordingly left town without notifying her, and actually succeeded in reaching the railway depot twenty miles away before he was stopped. But here, a delay occurring in the departure of the train, she was enabled to overtake him, and a stormy scene ensued. What its exact nature was, we, of course, cannot say, but from the results it is evident that he told her his prospects had changed, and with them his tastes and requirements; that she was not the woman he thought her, and that he could not and would not take her East with him as his wife: while she, on her side, displayed full as much spirit as he, and replied that if he could desert her like this he wasn't the kind of a man she could live with, and that he could go if he wished; only that he must acknowledge her claims upon him by giving her a yearly stipend, according to his income and success. At all events, some such compromise was effected, for he came East and she went back to Swanson. She did not stay there long, however; for the next we know she was in Sibley, where she set up her own little house-keeping arrangements under his very eye. More than that, she prevailed upon him to visit her daily, and even to take a meal at her house, her sense of justice seeming to be satisfied if he showed her this little attention and gave to no other woman the place he denied her. It was the weakness shown in this last requirement that doubtless led to her death. She would stand any thing but a rival. He knew this, and preferred crime to the loss of the woman he loved."

"You speak very knowingly," said Mr. Ferris. "May I ask where you received your information?"

It was Mr. Gryce who answered.

"From letters. Mrs. Clemmens was one of those women who delight in putting their feelings on paper. Fortunately for us, such women are not rare. See here!" And he pulled out before the District Attorney a pile of old letters in the widow's well-known handwriting.

"Where did you find these?" asked Mr. Ferris.

"Well," said Mr. Gryce, "I found them in rather a curious place. They were in the keeping of old Mrs. Firman, Miss Firman's mother. Mrs. Clemmens, or, rather, Mrs. Orcutt, got frightened some two years ago at the disappearance of her marriage certificate from the place where she had always kept it hidden, and, thinking that Mr. Orcutt was planning to throw her off, she resolved to provide herself with a confidante capable of standing by her in case she wished to assert her rights. She chose old Mrs. Firman. Why, when her daughter would have been so much more suitable for the purpose, it is hard to tell; possibly the widow's pride revolted from telling a woman of her own years the indignities she had suffered. However that may be, it was to the old lady she told her story and gave these letters--letters which, as you will see, are not written to any special person, but are rather the separate leaves of a journal which she kept to show the state of her feelings from time to time."

"And this?" inquired Mr. Ferris, taking up a sheet of paper written in a different handwriting from the rest.

"This is an attempt on the part of the old lady to put on paper the story which had been told her. She evidently thought herself too old to be entrusted with a secret so important, and, fearing loss of memory, or perhaps sudden death, took this means of explaining how she came into possession of her cousin's letters. 'T was a wise precaution. Without it we would have missed the clue to the widow's journal. For the old lady's brain gave way when she heard of the widow's death, and had it not been for a special stroke of good-luck on my part, we might have remained some time longer in ignorance of what very valuable papers she secretly held in her possession."

"I will read the letters," said Mr. Ferris.

Seeing from his look that he only waited their departure to do so, Mr. Gryce and his subordinates arose.

"I think you will find them satisfactory," drawled Hickory.

"If you do not," said Mr. Gryce, "then give a look at this telegram. It is from Swanson, and notifies us that a record of a marriage between Benjamin Orcutt--Mr. Orcutt's middle name was Benjamin--and Mary Mansell can be found in the old town books."

Mr. Ferris took the telegram, the shade of sorrow settling heavier and heavier on his brow.

"I see," said he, "I have got to accept your conclusions. Well, there are those among the living who will be greatly relieved by these discoveries. I will try and think of that."

Yet, after the detectives were gone, and he sat down in solitude before these evidences of his friend's perfidy, it was many long and dreary moments before he could summon up courage to peruse them. But when he did, he found in them all that Mr. Gryce had promised. As my readers may feel some interest to know how the seeming widow bore the daily trial of her life, I will give a few extracts from these letters. The first bears date of fourteen years back, and was written after she came to Sibley:

"NOVEMBER 8, 1867.--In the same town! Within a
stone's throw of the court-house, where, they tell
me, his business will soon take him almost every
day! Isn't it a triumph? and am I not to be
congratulated upon my bravery in coming here? He
hasn't seen me yet, but I have seen _him_. I crept
out of the house at nightfall on purpose. He was
sauntering down the street and he looked--it makes
my blood boil to think of it--he looked _happy_."

"NOVEMBER 10, 1867.--Clemmens, Clemmens--that is
my name, and I have taken the title of widow. What
a fate for a woman with a husband in the next
street! He saw _me_ to-day. I met him in the open
square, and I looked him right in the face. How he
did quail! It just does me good to think of it!
Perk and haughty as he is, he grew as white as a
sheet when he saw me, and though he tried to put
on airs and carry it off with a high hand, he
failed, just as I knew he would when he came to
meet me on even ground. Oh, I'll have my way now,
and if I choose to stay in this place where I can
keep my eye on him, he won't dare to say No. The
only thing I fear is that he will do me a secret
mischief some day. His look was just murderous
when he left me."

"FEBRUARY 24, 1868.--Can I stand it? I ask myself
that question every morning when I get up. Can I
stand it? To sit all alone in my little narrow
room and know that he is going about as gay as you
please with people who wouldn't look at me twice.
It's awful hard; but it would be worse still to be
where I couldn't see what he was up to. Then I
should imagine all sorts of things. No, I will
just grit my teeth and bear it. I'll get used to
it after a while."

"OCTOBER 7, 1868.--If he says he never loved me he
lies. He did, or why did he marry me? I never
asked him to. He teased me into it, saying my
saucy ways had bewitched him. A month after, it
was common ways, rude ways, such ways as he
wouldn't have in a wife. That's the kind of man he
is."

"MAY 11, 1869.--One thing I will say of him. He
don't pay no heed to women. He's too busy, I
guess. He don't seem to think of any thing but to
get along, and he does get along remarkable. I'm
awful proud of him. He's taken to defending
criminals lately. They almost all get off."

"OCTOBER 5, 1870.--He pays me but a pittance. How
can I look like any thing, or hold my head up with
the ladies here if I cannot get enough together to
buy me a new fall hat. I _will_ not go to church
looking like a farmer's wife, if I haven't any
education or any manners. I'm as good as anybody
here if they but knew it, and deserve to dress as
well. He _must_ give me more money."

"NOVEMBER 2, 1870.--No, he sha'n't give me a cent
more. If I can't go to church I will stay at home.
He sha'n't say I stood in his way of becoming a
great man. He _is_ too good for me. I saw it
to-day when he got up in the court to speak. I was
there with a thick veil over my face, for I was
determined to know whether he was as smart as
folks say or not. And he just is! Oh, how
beautiful he did look, and how everybody held
their breaths while he was speaking! I felt like
jumping up and saying: 'This is my husband; we
were married three years ago.' Wouldn't I have
raised a rumpus if I had! I guess the poor man he
was pleading for would not have been remembered
very long after that. My husband! the thought
makes me laugh. No other woman can call him that,
anyhow. He is mine, _mine_, _mine_, and I mean he
shall stay so."

"JANUARY 9, 1871.--I feel awful blue to-night. I
have been thinking about those Hildreths. How they
would like to have me dead! And so would Tremont,
though he don't say nothing. I like to call him
Tremont; it makes me feel as if he belonged to me.
What if that wicked Gouverneur Hildreth should
know I lived so much alone? I don't believe he
would stop at killing me! And my husband! He is
equal to telling him I have no protector. Oh, what
a dreadful wickedness it is in me to put that down
on paper! It isn't so--it isn't so; my husband
wouldn't do me any harm if he could. If ever I'm
found dead in my bed, it will be the work of that
Toledo man and of nobody else."

"MARCH 2, 1872.--I hope I am going to have some
comfort now. Tremont has begun to pay me more
money. He _had_ to. He isn't a poor man any more,
and when he moves into his big house, I am going
to move into a certain little cottage I have
found, just around the corner. If I can't have no
other pleasures, I will at least have a kitchen I
can call my own, and a parlor too. What if there
don't no company come to it; they would if they
_knew_. I've just heard from Adelaide; she says
Craik is getting to be a big boy, and is so
smart."

"JUNE 10, 1872.--What's the use of having a home?
I declare I feel just like breaking down and
crying. I don't want company: if women folks,
they're always talking about their husbands and
children; and if men, they're always saying: 'My
wife's this, and my wife's that.' But I do want
_him_. It's my right; what if I couldn't say three
words to him that was agreeable, I could look at
him and think: 'This splendid gentleman is my
husband, I ain't so much alone in the world as
folks think.' I'll put on my bonnet and run down
the street. Perhaps I'll see him sitting in the
club-house window!"

"EVENING.--I hate him. He has a hard, cruel,
wicked heart. When I got to the club-house window
he was sitting there, so I just went walking by,
and he saw me and came out and hustled me away
with terrible words, saying he wouldn't have me
hanging round where he was; that I had promised
not to bother him, and that I must keep my word,
or he would see me--he didn't say where, but it's
easy enough to guess. So--so! he thinks he'll put
an end to my coming to see him, does he? Well,
perhaps he can; but if he does, he shall pay for
it by coming to see me. I'll not sit day in and
day out alone without the glimpse of a face I
love, not while I have a husband in the same town
with me. He shall come, if it is only for a moment
each day, or I'll dare every thing and tell the
world I am his wife."

"JUNE 16, 1872.--He had to consent! Meek as I have
been, he knows it won't do to rouse me too much.
So to-day he came in to dinner, and he had to
acknowledge it was a good one. Oh, how I did feel
when I saw his face on the other side of the
table! I didn't know whether I hated him or loved
him. But I am sure now I hated him, for he
scarcely spoke to me all the time he was eating,
and when he was through, he went away just as a
stranger would have done. He means to act like a
boarder, and, goodness me, he's welcome to if he
isn't going to act like a husband! The hard,
selfish---- Oh, oh, I love him!"

"AUGUST 5, 1872.--It is no use; I'll never be a
happy woman. Tremont has been in so regularly to
dinner lately, and shown me such a kind face, I
thought I would venture upon a little familiarity.
It was only to lay my hand upon his arm, but it
made him very angry, and I thought he would strike
me. Am I then actually hateful to him? or is he so
proud he cannot bear the thought of my having the
right to touch him? I looked in the glass when he
went out. I _am_ plain and homespun, that's a
fact. Even my red cheeks are gone, and the dimples
which once took his fancy. I shall never lay the
tip of a finger on him again."

"FEBRUARY 13, 1873.--What shall I cook for him
to-day? Some thing that he likes. It is my only
pleasure, to see how he does enjoy my meals. I
should think they would choke him; they do me
sometimes. But men are made of iron--ambitious
men, anyhow. Little they care what suffering they
cause, so long as they have a good time and get
all the praises they want. _He_ gets them more and
more every day. He will soon be as far above me as
if I had married the President himself. Oh,
sometimes when I think of it and remember he is my
own husband, I just feel as if some awful fate was
preparing for him or me!"

"JUNE 7, 1873.--Would he send for me if he was
dying? No. He hates me; he hates me."

"SEPTEMBER 8, 1874.--Craik was here to-day; he is
just going North to earn a few dollars in the
logging business. What a keen eye he has for a boy
of his years! I shouldn't wonder if he made a
powerful smart man some day. If he's only good,
too, and kind to his women-folks, I sha'n't mind.
But a smart man who is all for himself is an awful
trial to those who love him. Don't I know? Haven't
I suffered? Craik must never be like him."

"DECEMBER 21, 1875.--One thousand dollars. That's
a nice little sum to have put away in the bank. So
much I get out of my husband's fame, anyhow. I
think I will make my will, for I want Craik to
have what I leave. He's a fine lad."

"FEBRUARY 19, 1876.--I was thinking the other day,
suppose I did die suddenly. It would be dreadful
to have the name of Clemmens put on my tombstone!
But it would be. Tremont would never let the truth
be known, if he had to rifle my dead body for my
marriage certificate. What shall I do, then? Tell
anybody who I am? It seems just as if I couldn't.
Either the whole world must know it, or just
himself and me alone. Oh, I wish I had never been
born!"

"JUNE 17, 1876.--Why wasn't I made handsome and
fine and nice? Think where I would be if I was!
I'd be in that big house of his, curtesying to all
the grand folks as go there. I went to see it last
night. It was dark as pitch in the streets, and I
went into the gate and all around the house. I
walked upon the piazza too, and rubbed my hand
along the window-ledges and up and down the doors.
It's mighty nice, all of it, and there sha'n't lie
a square inch on that whole ground that my foot
sha'n't go over. I wish I could get inside the
house once."

"JULY 1, 1876.--I have done it. I went to see Mr.
Orcutt's sister. I had a right. Isn't he away, and
isn't he my boarder, and didn't I want to know
when he was coming home? She's a soft,
good-natured piece, and let me peek into the
library without saying a word. What a room it is!
I just felt like I'd been struck when I saw it and
spied his chair setting there and all those books
heaped around and the fine things on the
mantel-shelf and the pictures on the walls. What
would I do in such a place as that? I could keep
it clean, but so could any gal he might hire. Oh,
me! Oh, me! I wish he'd given me a chance. Perhaps
if he had loved me I might have learned to be
quiet and nice like that silly sister of his."

"JANUARY 12, 1877.--Some women would take a heap
of delight in having folks know they were the wife
of a great man, but I find lots of pleasure in
being so without folks knowing it. If I lived in
his big house and was called Mrs. Orcutt, why, he
would have nothing to be afraid of and might do as
he pleased; but now he has to do what _I_ please.
Sometimes, when I sit down of an evening in my
little sitting-room to sew, I think how this
famous man whom everybody is afraid of has to come
and go just as humble me wants him to; and it
makes me hug myself with pride. It's as if I had a
string tied round his little finger, which I can
pull now and then. I don't pull it much; but I do
sometimes."

"MARCH 30, 1877.--Gouverneur Hildreth is dead. I
shall never be his victim, at any rate. Shall I
ever be the victim of anybody? I don't feel as if
I cared now. For one kiss I would sell my life and
die happy.

"There is a young Gouverneur, but it will be years
before he will be old enough to make me afraid of
him."

"NOVEMBER 16, 1878.--I should think that Tremont
would be lonely in that big house of his. If he
had a heart he would. They say he reads all the
time. How can folks pore so over books? I can't.
I'd rather sit in my chair and think. What story
in all the books is equal to mine?"

"APRIL 23, 1879.--I am growing very settled in my
ways. Now that Tremont comes in almost every day,
I'm satisfied not to see any other company. My
house affairs keep me busy too. I like to have it
all nice for him. I believe I could almost be
happy if he'd only smile once in a while when he
meets my eye. But he never does. Oh, well, we all
have our crosses, and he's a very great man."

"JANUARY 18, 1880.--He went to a ball last night.
What does it mean? He never seemed to care for
things like that. Is there any girl he is after?"

"FEBRUARY 6, 1880.--Oh, he has been riding with a
lady, has he? It was in the next town, and he
thought I wouldn't hear. But there's little he
does that I don't know about; let him make himself
sure of that. I even know her name; it is Selina
Pratt. If he goes with her again, look out for a
disturbance. I'll not stand his making love to
another woman."

"MAY 26, 1880.--My marriage certificate is
missing. Can it be that Tremont has taken it? I
have looked all through the desk where I have kept
it for so many years, but I cannot find it. He was
left alone in the house a few minutes the other
day. Could he have taken the chance to rob me of
the only proof I have that we are man and wife? If
he has he is a villain at heart, and is capable of
doing any thing, even of marrying this Pratt girl
who he _has_ taken riding again. The worst is that
I dare not accuse him of having my certificate;
for if he didn't take it and should find out it is
gone, he'd throw me off just as quick as if he
had. What shall I do then? Something. He shall
_never_ marry another woman while I live."

"MAY 30, 1880.--The Pratt girl is gone. If he
cared for her it was only for a week, like an old
love I could mention. I think I feel safe again,
only I am convinced some one ought to know my
secret besides myself. Shall it be Emily? No. I'd
rather tell her mother."

"JUNE 9TH, 1880.--I am going to Utica. I shall
take these letters with me. Perhaps I shall leave
them. For the last time, then, let me say 'I am
the lawful wife of Tremont Benjamin Orcutt, the
lawyer, who lives in Sibley, New York.' We were
married in Swanson, Nevada, on the 3d of July,
1867, by a travelling minister, named George
Sinclair.

"MARY ANN ORCUTT, Sibley, N. Y."

XLV.

MR. GRYCE SAYS GOOD-BYE.

There still are many rainbows in your sky.--BYRON.

"HELEN?"

"Yes, Imogene."

"What noise is that? The people seem to be shouting down the street. What does it mean?"

Helen Richmond--whom we better know as Helen Darling--looked at the worn, fever-flushed countenance of her friend, and for a moment was silent; then she whispered:

"I have not dared to tell you before, you seemed so ill; but I can tell you now, because joyful news never hurts. The people shout because the long and tedious trial of an innocent man has come to an end. Craik Mansell was acquitted from the charge of murder this morning."

"Acquitted! O Helen!"

"Yes, dear. Since you have been ill, very strange and solemn revelations have come to light. Mr. Orcutt----"

"Ah!" cried Imogene, rising up in the great arm-chair in which she was half-sitting and half-reclining. "I know what you are going to say. I was with Mr. Orcutt when he died. I heard him myself declare that fate had spoken in his death. I believe Mr. Orcutt to have been the murderer of Mrs. Clemmens, Helen."

"Yes, there can be no doubt about that," was the reply.

"It has been proved then?"

"Yes."

Moved to the depths of her being, Imogene covered her face with her hands. Presently she murmured:

"I do not understand it. Why should such a great man as he have desired the death of a woman like her? He said it was all for my sake. What did he mean, Helen?"

"Don't you know?" questioned the other, anxiously.

"How should I? It is the mystery of mysteries to me."

"Ah, then you did not suspect that she was his wife?"

"His wife!" Imogene rose in horror.

"Yes," repeated the little bride with decision. "She was his lawfully wedded wife. They were married as long ago as when we were little children."

"Married! And he dared to approach me with words of love! Dared to offer himself to me as a husband while his hands were still wet with the life-blood of his wife! O the horror of it! The amazing wickedness and presumption of it!"

"He is dead," whispered the gentle little lady at her side.

With a sigh of suppressed feeling, Imogene sank back.

"I must not think of him," she cried. "I am not strong enough. I must think only of Craik. He has been acquitted, you say--acquitted."

"Yes, and the whole town is rejoicing."

A smile, exquisite as it was rare, swept like a sunbeam over Imogene's lips.

"And I rejoice with the rest," she cried. Then, as if she felt all speech to be a mockery, she remained for a long time silent, gazing with ever-deepening expression into the space before her, till Helen did not know whether the awe she felt creeping over her sprang from admiration of her companion's suddenly awakened beauty or from a recognition of the depths of that companion's emotions. At last Imogene spoke:

"How came Mr. Mansell to be _acquitted_? Mr. Gryce did not tell me to look for any such reinstatement as that. The most he bade me expect was that Mr. Ferris would decline to prosecute Mr. Mansell any further, in which event he would be discharged."

"I know," said Helen, "but Mr. Mansell was not satisfied with that. He demanded a verdict from the jury. So Mr. Ferris, with great generosity, asked the Judge to recommend the jury to bring in a verdict of acquittal, and when the Judge hesitated to do this, the foreman of the jury himself rose, and intimated that he thought the jury were ready with their verdict. The Judge took advantage of this, and the result was a triumphant acquittal."

"O Helen, Helen!"

"That was just an hour ago," cried the little lady, brightly, "but the people are not through shouting yet. There has been a great excitement in town these last few days."

"And I knew nothing of it!" exclaimed Imogene. Suddenly she looked at Helen. "How did you hear about what took place in the court-room to-day?" she asked.

"Mr. Byrd told me."

"Ah, Mr. Byrd?"

"He came to leave a good-bye for you. He goes home this afternoon."

"I should like to have seen Mr. Byrd," said Imogene.

"Would you?" queried the little lady, quietly shaking her head. "I don't know; I think it is just as well you did not see him," said she.

But she made no such demur when a little while later Mr. Gryce was announced. The fatherly old gentleman had evidently been in that house before, and Mrs. Richmond was not the woman to withstand a man like him.

He came immediately into the room where Imogene was sitting. Evidently he thought as Helen did, that good news never hurts.

"Well!" he cried, taking her trembling hand in his, with his most expressive smile. "What did I tell you? Didn't I say that if you would only trust me all would come right? And it has, don't you see? Right as a trivet."

"Yes," she returned; "and I never can find words with which to express my gratitude. You have saved two lives, Mr. Gryce: his--and mine."

"Pooh! pooh!" cried the detective, good-humoredly. "You mustn't think too much of any thing I have done. It was the falling limb that did the business. If Mr. Orcutt's conscience had not been awakened by the stroke of death, I don't know where we should have been to-day. Affairs were beginning to look pretty dark for Mansell."

Imogene shuddered.

"But I haven't come here to call up unpleasant memories," he continued. "I have come to wish you joy and a happy convalescence." And leaning toward her, he said, with a complete change of voice: "You know, I suppose, why Mr. Mansell presumed to think _you_ guilty of this crime?"