The ways of the hour a tale |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. | CHAPTER VII. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
 | CHAPTER VII. The ways of the hour |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
“Sir, this is the house; please it you, that I call?”
Taming of the Shrew.
The grated window which John Wilmeter now approached, commanded
nearly an entire view of the gallery that communicated
with the cell of Mary Monson. It also commanded a partial
view of the cell itself. As he looked through the grates, he saw
how neat and comfortable the last had been made by means of
Mrs. Gott's care, aided, doubtless, by some of the prisoner's
money — that gold which was, in fact, the strongest and only
very material circumstance against her. Mrs. Gott had put a
carpet in the cell, and divers pieces of furniture that were useful,
as well as two or three that were intended to be ornamental, rendering
the otherwise gloomy little apartment tolerably cheerful.
The gallery, much to John's surprise, had been furnished, also.
Pieces of new carpeting were laid on the flags, chairs and table
had been provided, and among other articles of this nature, was
a very respectable looking-glass. Everything appeared new, and
as if just sent from the different shops where the various articles
were sold. Wilmeter fancied that not less than a hundred dollars
had been expended in furnishing that gallery. The effect was
surprising; taking away from the place its chilling, jail-like air,
and giving to it, what it had never possessed before, one of household
comfort.
Mary Monson was walking to and fro, in this gallery, with
slow, thoughtful steps, her head a little bowed, and her hands
was she lost in thought, that John's footstep, or presence at the
grate, was not observed, and he had an opportunity to watch her
for near a minute, unseen himself. The occupation was not
exactly excusable; but, under all the circumstances, young Wilmeter
felt as if it might be permitted. It was his duty to ascertain
all he fairly might, concerning his client.
It has already been said that this strange girl, extraordinary
by her situation as a person accused of crimes so heinous, and
perhaps still more so by her manner of bearing up against the
terrors and mortifications of her condition, as well as by the mystery
which so completely veiled her past life, was not a beauty,
in the common acceptation of the term. Nevertheless, not one
female in ten thousand would sooner ensnare the heart of a
youth, by means of her personal attractions alone. It was not
regularity of features, nor brilliancy of complexion, nor lustre of
the eyes, nor any of the more ordinary charms, that gave her
this power; but an indescribable union of feminine traits, in
which intellectual gifts, spirit, tenderness, and modesty, were so
singularly blended, as to leave it questionable which had the
advantage. Her eyes were of a very gentle and mild expression,
when in a state of rest; excited, they were capable of opening
windows to the inmost soul. Her form was faultless; being
the true medium between vigorous health and womanly delicacy;
which, in this country, implies much less of the robust and solid,
than one meets with in the other hemisphere.
It is not easy to tell how we acquire those in-and-in habits,
which get to be a sort of second nature, and almost bestow on us
new instincts. It is by these secret sympathies, these tastes that
pervade the moral, as the nerves form a natural telegraph through
the physical, system, that one feels rather than sees, when he is
in the company of persons in his own class in life. Dress will
not afford an infallible test, on such an occasion, though the daw
the distinctive qualities lie much deeper than the surface. But
so it is; a gentleman can hardly be brought into the company
of man or woman, without his at once perceiving whether he or
she belong to his own social caste or not. What is more, if a
man of the world, he detects almost instinctively the degrees of
caste, as well as the greater subdivisions, and knows whether his
strange companions have seen much, or little; whether their
gentility is merely the result of the great accident, with its customary
advantages, or has been smoothed over by a liberal intercourse
with the better classes of a general society. Most of
all, may a travelled person be known — and that more especially
in a provincial country, like our own — from one that has not
travelled; though the company kept in other lands necessarily
draws an obvious distinction between the last. Now, John Wilmeter,
always mingling with the best society of his own country,
had also been abroad, and had obtained that “second sight”
which so insensibly, but certainly, increases the vision of all
Americans who enjoy the advantage of acquiring it. What is
more, though his years and the plans of his uncle for his future
welfare, had prevented his staying in Europe long enough to
receive all the benefit such a tour can bestow, he had remained
long enough to pass beyond the study of merely physical
things; and had made certain acquisitions in other matters, more
essential to tastes, if not to character. When an American returns
from an excursion into the old world, with “I come back
better satisfied than ever with my own country,” it is an infallible
sign that he did not stay long enough abroad; and when he
returns only to find fault, it is equally proof that he has stayed too
long. There is a happy medium which teaches something near
the truth, and that would tell us that there are a thousand things
to be amended and improved at home, while there are almost as
many enjoyed, that the oldest and most polished people on earth
enabled him to make the nicest distinctions, but he was sufficiently
advanced to have detected what he conceived to be signs
that this singular young creature, unknown, unsupported by any
who appeared to take an interest in her, besides himself and the
accidental acquaintances formed under the most painful circumstances,
had been abroad; perhaps, had been educated there.
The regulated tones of one of the sweetest voices he had ever
heard, the distinctness and precision of her utterance, as far as
possible removed from mouthing and stiffness, but markedly
quiet and even, with a total absence of all the affectations of
boarding-school grammar, were so many proofs of even a European
education, as he fancied; and before that week was terminated,
John had fully made up his mind that Mary Monson —
though an American by birth, about which there could be no
dispute — had been well taught in some of the schools of the
old world.
This was a conclusion not reached immediately. He had to
be favoured with several interviews, and to worm himself gradually
into the confidence of his uncle's client, ere he could be
permitted to see enough of the subject of his studies to form an
opinion so abstruse and ingenious.
When Mary Monson caught a glimpse of John Wilmeter's
head at her grate—where he stood respectfully uncovered, as in
a lady's presence — a slight flush passed over her face; but expecting
him, as she did, she could not well be surprised.
“This bears some resemblance, Mr. Wilmeter, to an interview
in a convent,” she then said, with a slight smile, but with perfect
composure of manner. “I am the novice — and novice am
I, indeed, to scenes like this — you, the excluded friend, who is
compelled to pay his visit through a grate! I must apologize for
all the trouble I am giving you.”
“Do not name it — I cannot be better employed than in your
what must be a most unheard-of calamity, for one like yourself,
and cannot but admire the admirable equanimity with which you
bear your cruel fortune.”
“Equanimity!” repeated Mary with emphasis, and a slight
display of intense feeling, powerfully controlled; “if it be so,
Mr. Wilmeter, it must be from the sense of security that I feel.
Yes; for the first time in months, I do feel myself safe—secure.”
“Safe!—Secure!—What, in a gaol?”
“Certainly; gaols are intended for places of security, are they
not?” answered Mary, smiling, but faintly and with a gleam of
sadness on her face. “This may appear wonderful to you, but I
do tell no more than sober truth, in repeating that, for the first
time in months, I have now a sense of security. I am what you
call in the hands of the law, and one there must be safe from
everything but what the law can do to her. Of that I have no
serious apprehensions, and I feel happy.”
“Happy!”
“Yes; by comparison, happy. I tell you this the more willingly,
for I plainly see you feel a generous interest in my welfare
— an interest which exceeds that of the counsel in his
client—”
“A thousand times exceeds it, Miss Monson! — Nay — is not
to be named with it!”
“I thank you, Mr. Wilmeter — from my heart I thank you,”
returned the prisoner, a slight flush passing over her features,
while her eyes were cast towards the floor. “I believe you are
one of strong feelings and quick impulses, and am grateful that
these have been in my favour, under circumstances that might
well have excused you for thinking the worst. From the hints
of this kind woman, Mrs. Gott, I am afraid that the opinion of
Biberry is less consoling?”
“You must know how it is in country villages, Miss Monson,
things down to the level of his own knowledge and understanding.”
Mary Monson smiled, again; this time more naturally, and
without any painful expression to lessen the bright influence
that lighting up of her features gave to a countenance so remarkable
for its appearance of illumination from within.
“Is not such the case in towns, as well as in villages, Mr.
Wilmeter?” she asked.
“Perhaps it is — but I mean that the circle of knowledge is
more confined in a place like this, than in a large town, and that
the people here could not well go beyond it.”
“Biberry is so near New York, that I should think, taking
class against class, no great difference can be found in their inhabitants.
That which the good folk of Biberry think of my
case, I am afraid will be thought of it by those of your own
town.”
“My own town? — and are you not really from New York,
Miss Monson?”
“In no manner,” answered Mary, once more smiling; this
time, however, because she understood how modestly and readily
her companion was opening a door by which she might let a
secret she had declined to reveal to his uncle, escape. “I am
not what you call a Manhattanese, in either descent, birth, or
residence; in no sense, whatever.”
“But, surely, you have never been educated in the country?
— You must belong to some large town — your manners show
that — I mean that you—”
“Do not belong to Biberry. In that you are quite right, sir.
I had never seen Biberry three months since; but, as for New
York, I have not passed a month there, in my whole life. The
longest visit I ever paid you, was one of ten days, when I landed,
coming from Havre, about eighteen months since”
“From Havre! Surely, you are an American, Miss Monson
— our own countrywoman?”
“Your own countrywoman, Mr. Wilmeter, by birth, descent,
and feelings. But an American female may visit Europe.”
“Certainly; and be educated there, as I had already suspected
was your case.”
“In part it was, and in part it was not.” Here Mary paused,
looked a little arch, seemed to hesitate, and to have some doubts
whether she ought to proceed, or not; but finally added—“You
have been abroad, yourself?”
“I have. I was nearly three years in Europe; and have not
been home yet, quite a twelvemonth.”
“You went into the east, I believe, after passing a few months
in the Pyrenees?” continued the prisoner, carelessly.
“You are quite right; we travelled as far as Jerusalem. The
journey has got to be so common, that it is no longer dangerous.
Even ladies make it, now, without any apprehension.”
“I am aware of that, having made it myself—”
“You, Miss Monson! You been at Jerusalem!”
“Why not, Mr. Wilmeter? You say, yourself, that females
constantly make the journey; why not I, as well as another?”
“I scarce know, myself; but it is so strange — all about you
is so very extraordinary—”
“You think it extraordinary that one of my sex, who has been
partly educated in Europe, and who has travelled in the Holy
Land, should be shut up in this gaol in Biberry—is it not so?”
“That is one view of the matter, I will confess; but it was
scarcely less strange, that such a person should be dwelling
in a garret-room of a cottage, like that of these unfortunate
Goodwins.”
“That touches on my secret, sir; and no more need be said.
You may judge how important I consider that secret, when I
know its preservation subjects me to the most cruel distrust; and
stand fair. Your excellent uncle, for instance, and—yourself.”
“I should be much flattered, could I think the last — I who
have scarcely the claim of an acquaintance.”
“You forget the situation in which your respectable and most
worthy uncle has left you here, Mr. Wilmeter; which, of itself,
gives you higher claims to my thanks and confidence than any
that mere acquaintance could bestow. Besides, we are not”—
another arch, but scarcely perceptible, smile again illuminated
that remarkable countenance — “the absolute strangers to each
other, that you seem to think us.”
“Not strangers? You amaze me! If I have ever had the
honour—”
“Honour!” interrupted Mary, a little bitterly. “It is truly
a great honour to know one in my situation!”
“I esteem it an honour; and no one has a right to call in
question my sincerity. If we have ever met before, I will
frankly own that I am ignorant of both the time and place.”
“This does not surprise me, in the least. The time is long,
for persons as young as ourselves, and the place was far away.
Ah! those were happy days for me, and most gladly would I
return to them! But we have talked enough on this subject.
I have declined telling my tale to your most excellent and very
respectable uncle; you will, therefore, the more easily excuse me,
if I decline telling it to you.”
“Who am not `most excellent and very respectable,' to recommend
me.”
“Who are too near my own age, to make you a proper confidant,
were there no other objection. The character that I learned
of you, when we met before, Mr. Wilmeter, was, however, one
of which you have no reason to be ashamed.”
This was said gently, but earnestly; was accompanied by a
most winning smile, and was instantly succeeded by a slight
somewhat stupid manner, as if expecting to brighten his powers
of recollection by friction. A sudden change was given to the
conversation, however, by the fair prisoner herself, who quietly
resumed—
“We will defer this part of the subject to another time. I
did not presume to send for you, Mr. Wilmeter, without an object,
having your uncle's authority for giving you all this trouble—”
“And my own earnest request to be permitted to serve you,
in any way I could.”
“I have not forgotten that offer, nor shall I ever. The man
who is willing to serve a woman, whom all around her frown
on, has a fair claim to be remembered. Good Mrs. Gott and
yourself are the only two friends I have in Biberry. Even your
companion, Mr. Millington, is a little disposed to judge me
harshly.”
John started; the movement was so natural, that his honest
countenance would have betrayed him, had he been disposed to
deny the imputation.
“That Millington has fallen into the popular notion about
here, I must allow, Miss Monson; but he is an excellent fellow
at the bottom, and will hear reason. Prejudices that are beyond
reason are detestable, and I generally avoid those whose characters
manifest this weakness; but Mike will always listen to what he
calls `law and facts,' and so we get along very well together.”
“It is fortunate; since you are about to be so nearly connected—”
“Connected! Is it possible that you know this circumstance?”
“You will find in the end, Mr. Wilmeter,” returned the prisoner,
smiling—this time, naturally, as one manifests satisfaction
without pain of any sort — “that I know more of your private
affairs than you had supposed. But let me come to business, if
you please, sir; I have great occasion here for a maid-servant.
town?”
“A servant! I know the very woman that will suit you. A
perfect jewel, in her way!”
“That is a very housekeeper sort of a character,” rejoined
Mary, absolutely laughing, in spite of her prison walls, and all
the terrible charges that had brought her within them; “just
such a character as I might have expected from Dr. McBrain's
intended, Mrs. Updyke—”
“And you know it, too! Why will you not tell us more,
since you tell us so much?”
“In good time, I suppose all will come out. Well, I endeavour
to submit to my fate; or to the will of God!” There was
no longer anything merry, in voice, face, or manner, but a simple,
natural pathos was singularly mixed in the tones with which
these few words were uttered. Then rousing herself, she gravely
resumed the subject which had induced her to send for John.
“You will pardon me, if I say that I would prefer a woman
chosen and recommended by your sister, Mr. Wilmeter, than one
chosen and recommended by yourself,” said Mary. “When I
shall have occasion for a footman, I will take your advice. It is
very important that I should engage a respectable, discreet woman;
and I will venture to write a line, myself, to Miss Wilmeter, if
you will be so kind as to send it. I know this is not the duty
of a counsel; but you see my situation. Mrs. Gott has offered
to procure a girl for me, it is true; but the prejudice is so strong
against me in Biberry, that I doubt if the proper sort of person
could be obtained. At any rate, I should be receiving a spy into
my little household, instead of a domestic, in whom I could place
confidence.”
“Sarah would join me in recommending Marie, who has been
with herself more than two years, and only left her to take care
of her father, in his last illness. Another, equally excellent, has
my sister's service, there is no opening for her. Mike Millington
is dying to return to town, and will gladly go over this evening.
By breakfast-time to-morrow, the woman might be here, if—”
“She will consent to serve a mistress in my cruel situation.
I feel the full weight of the objection, and know how difficult it
will be to get a female, who values her character as a servant, to
enter on such an engagement. You called this woman Marie;
by that, I take it she is a foreigner?”
“A Swiss — her parents emigrated; but I knew her in the
service of an American family, abroad, and got her for Sarah.
She is the best creature in the world — if she can be persuaded
to come.”
“Had she been an American, I should have despaired of succeeding
unless her feelings could have been touched; but, as
she is a foreigner, perhaps money will procure her services.
Should Miss Wilmeter approve of your selection, sir, I will
intreat her to go as high as fifty dollars a month, rather than not
get the sort of person I want. You can imagine how much importance
I attach to success. To escape remarks and gossiping,
the person engaged can join me as a companion, or friend, and
not as a servant.”
“I will get Mike off in half an hour, and Sarah will at least
make an effort. Yes, Marie Moulin, or Mary Mill, as the girls
call her, is just the thing!”
“Marie Moulin! Is that the name of the woman? She who
was in the service of the Barringers, at Paris? Do you mean
that person — five-and-thirty, slightly pock-marked, with light
blue eyes, and yellowish hair — more like a German, than her
French name would give reason to expect?”
“The very same; and you knew her, too! Why not bring
all your friends around you at once, Miss Monson, and not
remain here an hour longer than is necessary.”
Mary was too intent on the subject of engaging the woman in
question, to answer this last appeal. Earnestly did she resume
her instructions, therefore, and with an eagerness of manner
young Wilmeter had never before observed in her.
“If Marie Moulin be the person meant,” she said, “I will
spare no pains to obtain her services. Her attentions to poor
Mrs. Barringer, in her last illness, were admirable; and we all
loved her, I may say. Beg your sister to tell her, Mr. Wilmeter,
that an old acquaintance, in distress, implores her assistance.
That will bring Marie, sooner than money, Swiss though she be.”
“If you would write her a line, enclosing your real name, for
we are persuaded it is not Monson, it might have more effect
than all our solicitations, in behalf of one that is unknown.”
The prisoner turned slowly from the grate, and walked up and
down her gallery for a minute or two, as if pondering on this
proposal. Once she smiled, and it almost gave a lustre to her
remarkable countenance; then a cloud passed over her face, and
once more she appeared sad.
“No,” she said, stopping near the grate again, in one of her
turns. “I will not do it — it will be risking too much. I can
do nothing, just now, that will tell more of me than your sister
can state.”
“Should Marie Moulin know you, she must recognise you
when you meet.”
“It will be wiser to proceed a little in the dark. I confide
all to your powers of negotiation, and shall remain as tranquil as
possible, until to-morrow morning. There is still another little
affair that I must trouble you with, Mr. Wilmeter. My gold is
sequestered, as you know, and I am reduced to an insufficient
amount of twos and threes. Might I ask the favour of you to
obtain smaller notes for this, without mentioning in whose
behalf it is done?”
While speaking, Mary handed through the grate a hundred
natural and unpretending, as at once to convince John Wilmeter,
ever so willing to be persuaded into anything in her favour, that
she was accustomed to the use of money in considerable sums;
or, what might be considered so, for the wants and habits of a
female. Luckily, he had nearly money enough in his wallet to
change the note, making up a small balance that was needed, by
drawing five half-eagles from his purse. The prisoner held the
last, in the open palm of one of the most beautiful little hands
the eyes of man ever rested on.
“This metal has been my bane, in more ways than one, Mr.
Wilmeter,” she said, looking mournfully at the coin. “Of one
of its evil influences on my fate, I may not speak, now, if ever;
but you will understand me when I say, that I fear that gold
piece of Italian money is the principal cause of my being where
I am.”
“No doubt, it has been considered one of the most material
of the facts against you, Miss Monson; though it is by no
means conclusive, as evidence, even with the most bitter and
prejudiced.”
“I hope not. Now, Mr. Wilmeter, I will detain you no
longer; but beg you to do my commission with your sister, as
you would do it for her with me. I would write, but my hand
is so peculiar, it were better that I did not.”
Mary Monson now dismissed the young man, with the manner
of one very familiar with the tone of good society — a term that
it is much the fashion to ridicule just now, but which conveys a
meaning, that it were better the scoffers understood. This she
did, however, after again apologising for the trouble she was
giving, and thanking him earnestly for the interest he took in
her affairs. We believe in animal magnetism; and cannot pretend
to say what is the secret cause of the powerful sympathy
that is so often suddenly awakened between persons of different
sex; but Mary Monson, by that species of instinct that teaches
the female where she has awakened an interest livelier than
common, and possibly where she has not, was certainly already
aware that John Wilmeter did not regard her with the same cool
indifference he would have felt towards an ordinary client of his
uncle's. In thanking him, therefore, her own manner manifested
a little of the reflected feeling that such a state of things is pretty
certain to produce. She coloured, and slightly hesitated once, as
if she paused to choose her terms with more than usual care; but,
in the main, acquitted herself well. The parting, betrayed interest,
perhaps feeling, on both sides; but nothing very manifest
escaped either of our young people.
Never had John Wilmeter been at a greater loss to interpret
facts, than he was on quitting the grate. The prisoner was truly
the most incomprehensible being he had ever met with. Notwithstanding
the fearful nature of the charges against her—
charges that might well have given great uneasiness to the firmest
man—she actually seemed in love with her prison. It is true,
that worthy Mrs. Gott had taken from the place many of its
ordinary, repulsive features; but it was still a gaol, and the sun
could be seen only through grates, and massive walls separated
her that was within, from the world without. As the young
man was predisposed to regard everything connected with this
extraordinary young woman couleur de rose, however, he saw
nothing but the surest signs of innocence in several circumstances
that might have increased the distrust of his cooler-headed uncle;
but most persons would have regarded the gentle tranquillity
that now seemed to soothe a spirit that had evidently been much
troubled of late, as a sign that her hand could never have committed
the atrocities with which she was charged.
“Is she not a sweet young thing, Mr. Wilmeter?” exclaimed
kind Mrs. Gott, while locking the doors after John, on his
gaol, to have such a prisoner within its walls!”
“I believe that you and I stand alone in our favourable
opinion of Miss Monson,” John answered; “so far, at least, as
Biberry is concerned. The excitement against her seems to be
at the highest pitch; and I much doubt whether a fair trial can
be had in the county.”
“The newspapers won't mend the matter, sir. The papers
from town, this morning, are full of the affair, and they all
appear to lean the same way. But it's a long road that has no
turning, Mr. Wilmeter.”
“Very true, and nothing wheels about with a quicker step
than the sort of public opinion that is got up under a cry, and
runs itself out of breath, at the start. I expect to see Mary
Monson the most approved and most extolled woman in this
county, yet!”
Mrs. Gott hoped with all her heart that it might be so, though
she had, certainly, misgivings that the young man did not feel.
Half an hour after John Wilmeter had left the gaol, his friend,
Michael Millington, was on the road to town, carrying a letter to
Sarah, with a most earnest request that she would use all her
influence with Marie Moulin to engage in the unusual service
asked of her, for a few weeks, if for no longer a period. This
letter reached its destination in due time, and greatly did the
sister marvel over its warmth, as well as over the nature of
the request.
“I never knew John to write so earnestly!” exclaimed Sarah,
when she and Michael had talked over the matter a few moments.
“Were he actually in love, I could not expect him to be more
pressing.”
“I will not swear that he is not,” returned the friend, laughing.
“He sees everything with eyes so different from mine, that
I scarce know what to make of him. I have never known John
in this strange creature!”
“Creature! You men do not often call young ladies creatures;
and my brother affirms that this Mary Monson is a lady.”
“Certainly she is, so far as exterior, manner, education, and I
suppose, tastes, are concerned. Nevertheless, there is too much
reason to think she is, in some way unknown to us, connected
with crime.”
“I have read accounts of persons of these attainments, who
have been leagued together, and have carried on a great system
of plundering for years, with prodigious success. That, however,
was in older countries, where the necessities of a crowded population
drive men into extremes. We are hardly sufficiently advanced,
or civilized as they call it, for such bold villany.”
“A suspicion of that nature has crossed my mind,” returned
Millington, looking askance over his shoulder, as if he apprehended
that his friend might hear him. “It will not do, however, to
remotely hint to John anything of the sort. His mind is beyond
the influence of testimony.”
Sarah scarce knew what to make of the affair, though sisterly
regard disposed her to do all she could to oblige her brother.
Marie Moulin, however, was not easily persuaded into consenting
to serve a mistress who was in prison. She held up her hands,
turned up her eyes, uttered fifty exclamations, and declared, over
and over again “c'est impossible;” and wondered how a female
in such a situation could suppose any respectable domestic would
serve her, as it would be very sure to prevent her ever getting a
good place afterwards. This last objection struck Sarah as quite
reasonable, and had not her brother been so very urgent with
her, would of itself have induced her to abandon all attempt at
persuasion. Marie, however, finally yielded to a feeling of intense
curiosity, when no bribe in money could have bought her. John
had said the prisoner knew her—had known her in Europe—and
acquaintances in the old world, could be the particular individual
who had got herself into this formidable difficulty. It was impossible
to resist this feeling, so truly feminine, which was a good
deal stimulated by a secret wish in Sarah, also, to learn who this
mysterious person might be; and who did not fail to urge Marie,
with all her rhetoric, to consent to go and, at least, see the person
who had so strong a wish to engage her services. The Swiss had
not so much difficulty in complying, provided she was permitted
to reserve her final decision until she had met the prisoner, when
she might gratify her curiosity, and return to town prepared to
enlighten Miss Wilmeter, and all her other friends, on a subject
that had got to be intensely interesting.
It was not late, next morning, when Marie Moulin, attended
by John Wilmeter, presented herself to Mrs. Gott, as an applicant
for admission to the gallery of Mary Monson. The young
man did not show himself, on this occasion; though he was near
enough to hear the grating of the hinges when the prison-door
opened.
“C'est bien vous donc, Marie!” said the prisoner, in a quick
but pleased salutation.
“Mademoiselle!” exclaimed the Swiss. The kisses of women
succeeded. The door closed, and John Wilmeter learned no
more, on that occasion.
| CHAPTER VII. The ways of the hour | |