“—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.”
“—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?”
“—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.”
“—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 anything, 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.”
“—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 someone ought to know my secret besides myself. Shall it be Emily? No. I’d rather tell her mother.”
“—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 3rd of July, 1867, by a travelling minister, named George Sinclair.
XLV
Mr. Gryce Says Goodbye
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 armchair 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 lifeblood 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
