However, all readers - sooner or later - find for themselves a literary genre that is fundamentally different from all others. Hand and Ring by Anna Katharine Green (good book club books TXT) 📖
- Author: Anna Katharine Green
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"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.The secret that so long had hovered
Upon the misty verge of Truth.—Longfellow.
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
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