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116 pages

English

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Amazingly, Anna Katharine Green turned to writing detective fiction out of desperation after her poetry failed to earn much in the way of either recognition or compensation. The Amethyst Box is a fine example of the meticulously plotted classic mysteries that comprise Green's remarkable body of work.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mars 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775452034
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE AMETHYST BOX
AND OTHER STORIES
* * *
ANNA KATHERINE GREEN

*

The Amethyst Box And Other Stories First published in 1905 ISBN 978-1-775452-03-4 © 2011 The Floating Press While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
THE AMETHYST BOX I - The Flask Which Held but a Drop II - Beaton's Dream III - A Scream in the Night IV - What Sinclair Had to Show Me V - Three O'Clock in the Morning VI - Dorothy Speaks VII - Constraint VIII - Gilbertine Speaks IX - In the Little Boudoir THE HOUSE IN THE MIST I - An Open Door II - With My Ear to the Wainscoting III - A Life Drama IV - The Final Shock THE RUBY AND THE CALDRON
THE AMETHYST BOX
*
I - The Flask Which Held but a Drop
*
It was the night before the wedding. Though Sinclair, and not myself,was the happy man, I had my own causes for excitement, and, finding theheat of the billiard-room insupportable, I sought the veranda for asolitary smoke in sight of the ocean and a full moon.
I was in a condition of rapturous, if unreasoning, delight. Thatafternoon a little hand had lingered in mine for just an instant longerthan the circumstances of the moment strictly required, and small as thefavor may seem to those who do not know Dorothy Camerden, to me, whorealized fully both her delicacy and pride, it was a sign that my long,if secret, devotion was about to be rewarded and that at last I was freeto cherish hopes whose alternative had once bid fair to wreck thehappiness of my life.
I was reveling in the felicity of these anticipations and contrastingthis hour of ardent hope with others of whose dissatisfaction and gloomI was yet mindful, when a sudden shadow fell across the broad band oflight issuing from the library window, and Sinclair stepped out.
He had the appearance of being disturbed; very much disturbed, Ithought, for a man on the point of marrying the woman for whom heprofessed to entertain the one profound passion of his life; butremembering his frequent causes of annoyance—causes quite apart fromhis bride and her personal attributes—I kept on placidly smoking till Ifelt his hand on my shoulder and turned to see that the moment was aserious one.
"I have something to say to you," he whispered. "Come where we shall runless risk of being disturbed."
"What's wrong?" I asked, facing him with curiosity, if not with alarm."I never saw you look like this before. Has the old lady taken this lastminute to—"
"Hush!" he prayed, emphasizing the word with a curt gesture not to bemistaken. "The little room over the west porch is empty just now. Followme there."
With a sigh for the cigar I had so lately lighted I tossed it into thebushes and sauntered in after him. I thought I understood his trouble.The prospective bride was young—a mere slip of a girl, indeed—bright,beautiful and proud, yet with odd little restraints in her manner andlanguage, due probably to her peculiar bringing up and the surprise, notyet overcome, of finding herself, after an isolated, if not despised,childhood, the idol of society and the recipient of general homage. Thefault was not with her. But she had for guardian (alas! my dear girl hadthe same) an aunt who was a gorgon. This aunt must have been makingherself disagreeable to the prospective bridegroom, and he, being quickto take offense, quicker than myself, it was said, had probably retortedin a way to make things unpleasant. As he was a guest in the house, heand all the other members of the bridal party—(Mrs. Armstrong havinginsisted upon opening her magnificent Newport villa for this wedding andits attendant festivities), the matter might well look black to him. YetI did not feel disposed to take much interest in it, even though hiscase might be mine some day, with all its accompanying drawbacks.
But, once confronted with Sinclair in the well-lighted room above, Iperceived that I had better drop all selfish regrets and give my fullattention to what he had to say. For his eye, which had flashed with anunusual light at dinner, was clouded now, and his manner, when he stroveto speak, betrayed a nervousness I had considered foreign to his natureever since the day I had seen him rein in his horse so calmly on theextreme edge of a precipice where a fall would have meant certain deathnot only to himself, but also to the two riders who unwittingly werepressing closely behind him.
"Walter," he faltered, "something has happened, something dreadful,something unprecedented! You may think me a fool—God knows I would beglad to be proved so, but this thing has frightened me. I—" He pausedand pulled himself together. "I will tell you about it, then you canjudge for yourself. I am in no condition to do so. I wonder if you willbe when you hear—"
"Don't beat about the bush. Speak up! What's the matter?"
He gave me an odd look full of gloom, a look I felt the force of, thoughI could not interpret it; then coming closer, though there was no onewithin hearing, possibly no one any nearer than the drawing-room below,he whispered in my ear:
"I have lost a little vial of the deadliest drug ever compounded; aVenetian curiosity which I was foolish enough to take out and show theladies, because the little box which holds it is such an exquisiteexample of jewelers' work. There's death in its taste, almost in itssmell; and it's out of my hands and—"
"Well, I'll tell you how to fix that up," I put in, with my usual frankdecision. "Order the music stopped; call everybody into the drawing-roomand explain the dangerous nature of this toy. After which, if anythinghappens, it will not be your fault, but that of the person who has sothoughtlessly appropriated it."
His eyes, which had been resting eagerly on mine, shifted aside invisible embarrassment.
"Impossible! It would only aggravate matters, or rather, would notrelieve my fears at all. The person who took it knew its nature verywell, and that person—"
"Oh, then you know who took it!" I broke in, in increasing astonishment."I thought from your manner that—"
"No," he moodily corrected, "I do not know who took it. If I did, Ishould not be here. That is, I do not know the exact person. Only—"Here he again eyed me with his former singular intentness, andobserving that I was nettled, made a fresh beginning. "When I camehere, I brought with me a case of rarities chosen from my variouscollections. In looking over them preparatory to making a present toGilbertine, I came across the little box I have just mentioned. It ismade of a single amethyst and contains—or so I was assured when Ibought it—a tiny flask of old but very deadly poison. How it came to beincluded with the other precious and beautiful articles I had picked outfor her cadeau , I can not say; but there it was; and conceiving thatthe sight of it would please the ladies, I carried it down into thelibrary and, in an evil hour, called three or four of those about me toinspect it. This was while you boys were in the billiard-room, so theladies could give their entire attention to the little box which iscertainly worth the most careful scrutiny.
"I was holding it out on the palm of my hand, where it burned with apurple light which made more than one feminine eye glitter, whensomebody inquired to what use so small and yet so rich a receptaclecould be put. The question was such a natural one I never thought ofevading it, besides, I enjoy the fearsome delight which women take inthe marvelous. Expecting no greater result than lifted eyebrows orflushed cheeks, I answered by pressing a little spring in thefiligree-work surrounding the gem. Instantly, the tiniest of lids flewback, revealing a crystal flask of such minute proportions that theusual astonishment followed its disclosure.
"'You see!' I cried, 'it was made to hold that !' And moving my hand toand fro under the gas-jet, I caused to shine in their eyes the singledrop of yellow liquid it still held. 'Poison!' I impressively announced.'This trinket may have adorned the bosom of a Borgia or flashed from thearm of some great Venetian lady as she flourished her fan between herembittered heart and the object of her wrath or jealousy.'
"The first sentence had come naturally, but the last was spoken atrandom and almost unconsciously. For at the utterance of the word'poison,' a quickly suppressed cry had escaped the lips of some onebehind me, which, while faint enough to elude the attention of any earless sensitive than my own, contained such an astonishing, ifinvoluntary, note of self-betrayal that my mind grew numb with horror,and I stood staring at the fearful toy which had called up such arevelation of—what? That is what I am here to ask, first of myself,then of you. For the two women pressing behind me were—"
"Who?" I sharply demanded, partaking in some indefinable way of hisexcitement and alarm.
"Gilbertine Murray and Dorothy Camerden:"—his prospective bride and thewoman I loved and whom he knew I loved, though I had kept my secretquite successfully from every one else!
The look we exchanged neither of us will ever forget.
"Describe the sound!" I presently said.
"I can not," he replied. "I can only give you my impression of it. You,like myself, fought in more than one skirmish in the Cuban War. Did youever hear the cry made by a wounded man when the cup of cool water forwhich he has long agonized is brought suddenly before his eyes? Such asound, with all that goes to make it eloquent, did I hear from one ofthe two girls who leaned over my shoulder. Can you understand thisamazing, this