The ways of the hour a tale |
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| 15. | CHAPTER XV. |
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 | CHAPTER XV. The ways of the hour |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
Did peer, as through a grate;
And is that woman all her crew?
Is that a Death, and are there two?
Is Death that woman's mate.”
The Phantom Ship.
After a short preparatory interview with Anna Updyke, Dunscomb
repaired to the gaol, whither he had already despatched a
note to announce his intended visit. Good Mrs. Gott received
him with earnest attention; for, as the day of trial approached,
this kind-hearted woman manifested a warmer and warmer interest
in the fate of her prisoner.
“You are welcome, Mr. Dunscomb,” said this well-disposed
and gentle turnkey, as she led the way to the door that opened
on the gallery of the gaol; “and welcome, again and again. I
do wish this business may fall into good hands; and I'm afraid
Timms is not getting on with it as well as he might.”
“My associate has the reputation of being a skilful attorney
and a good manager, Mrs. Gott.”
“So he has, Mr. Dunscomb; but somehow — I scarce know
how myself — but somehow, he doesn't get along with this cause,
as well as I have known him to get along with others. The
excitement in the county is terrible; and Gott has had seven
anonymous letters to let him know that if Mary Monson escape,
his hopes from the public are gone for ever. I tell him not to
mind such contemptible things; but he is frightened half out of
letter with the contempt it merits.”
“It sometimes does, indeed. Then you think we shall have
up-hill work with the defence?”
“Dreadful!—I've never known a cause so generally tried out
of doors as this. What makes the matter more provoking, Mary
Monson might have had it all her own way, if she had been so
minded; for, at first, she was popularity itself with all the neighbours.
Folks nat'rally like beauty, and elegance, and youth;
and Mary has enough of each to make friends anywhere.”
“What! with the ladies?” said Dunscomb, smiling. “Surely
not with your sex, Mrs. Gott?”
“Yes, with the women, as well as with the men, if she would
only use her means; but she stands in her own light. Crowds
have been round the outer windows to hear her play on the harp
—they tell me she uses the real Jew's Harp, 'Squire Dunscomb;
such as Royal David used to play on; and that she has great
skill. There is a German in the village who knows all about
music, and he says Mary Monson has been excellently taught—
by the very best masters.”
“It is extraordinary; yet it would seem to be so. Will you
have the goodness to open the door, Mrs. Gott?”
“With all my heart,” answered this, in one sense, very singular
turnkey, though in another a very every-day character, jingling
her keys, but not taking a forward step to comply; “Mary Monson
expects you. I suppose, sir, you know that saucy Frank
Williams is retained by the friends of the Goodwins?”
“Mr. Timms has told me as much as that. I cannot say,
however, that I have any particular apprehension of encountering
Mr. Williams.”
“No, sir; not you, I'll engage, not in open court; but out
of doors he's very formidable.”
“I trust this cause, one involving the life and reputation of a
The issue is too serious for such a tribunal.”
“So a body would think; but a great deal of law-business is
settled, they tell me, under the sheds, and in the streets, and in
the taverns; most especially in the juror's bed-rooms, and settled
in a way it ought not to be.”
“I am afraid you are nearer right than every just-minded person
could wish. But we will talk of this another time — the
door if you please, now.”
“Yes, sir, in one minute. It would be so easy for Mary Monson
to be just as popular with everybody in Biberry as she is with
me. Let her come to one of the side-windows of the gallery this
evening, and show herself to the folks, and play on that harp of
her's, and Royal David himself could not have been better liked
by the Jews of old, than she would soon be by our people hereabouts.”
“It is probably now too late. The court sits in a few days;
and the mischief, if any there be, must be done.”
“No such thing, begging your pardon, 'Squire. There's that
in Mary Monson that can carry anything she pleases. Folks
now think her proud and consequential, because she will not just
stand at one of the grates and let them look at her a little.”
“I am afraid, Mrs. Gott, your husband has taught you a
greater respect for those you call `the people,' than they deserve
to receive at your hands.”
“Gott is dreadfully afraid of them—”
“And he is set apart by the laws to see them executed on
these very people,” interrupted Dunscomb, with a sneer; “to
levy on their possessions, keep the peace, enforce the laws; in
short, to make them feel, whenever it is necessary, that they are
governed!”
“Gott says `that the people will rule.' That's his great
saying.”
“Will seem to rule, is true enough; but the most that the
mass of any nation can do, is occasionally to check the proceedings
of their governors. The every-day work is most effectually
done by a favoured few here, just as it is done by a favoured few
everywhere else. The door, now, if you please, my good Mrs.
Gott.”
“Yes, sir, in one minute. Dear me! how odd that you should
think so. Why, I thought that you were a democrat, Mr. Dunscomb?”
“So I am, as between forms of government; but I never was
fool enough to think that the people can really rule, further than
by occasional checks and rebukes.”
“What would Gott say to this! Why, he is so much afraid
of the people, that he tells me he never does anything, without
faneying some one is looking over his shoulders.”
“Ay, that is a very good rule for a man who wishes to be
chosen sheriff. To be a bishop, it would be better to remember
the omniscient eye.”
“I do declare — oh! Gott never thinks of that, more's the
pity,” applying the key to the lock. “When you wish to come
out, 'Squire, just call at this grate”—then dropping her voice to
a whisper—“try and persuade Mary Monson to show herself at
one of the side grates.”
But Dunscomb entered the gallery with no such intention. As
he was expected, his reception was natural and easy. The prisoner
was carefully though simply dressed, and she appeared all
the better, most probably, for some of the practised arts of her
woman. Marie Moulin, herself, kept modestly within the cell,
where, indeed, she passed most of her time, leaving the now
quite handsomely furnished gallery to the uses of her mistress.
After the first few words of salutation, Dunscomb took the
chair he was invited to occupy, a good deal at a loss how to
address a woman of his companion's mien and general air as a
of course.
“I see you have had a proper regard to your comforts in this
miserable place,” he remarked.
“Do not call it by so forbidding a name, Mr. Dunscomb,” was
the answer, given with a sorrowful, but exceedingly winning
smile—“it is my place of refuge.”
“Do you still persist in refusing to tell me against what, Miss
Monson?”
“I persist in nothing that ought not to be done, I hope. At
another time I may be more communicative. But, if what Mrs.
Gott tells me is correct, I need these walls to prevent my being
torn to pieces by those she calls the people, outside.”
Dunscomb looked with amazement at the being who quietly
made this remark on her own situation. Of beautiful form, with
all the signs of a gentle origin and refined education, young,
handsome, delicate, nay, dainty of speech and acts, there she sat,
indicted for arson and murder, and about to be tried for her life,
with the composure of a lady in her drawing-room! The illuminated
expression that, at times, rendered her countenance so very
remarkable, had now given place to one of sobered sadness;
though apprehension did not appear to be in the least predominant.
“The sheriff has instilled into his wife a very healthful respect
for those she calls the people — healthful, for one who looks to
their voices for his support. This is very American.”
“I suppose it to be much the same everywhere. I have been
a good deal abroad, Mr. Dunscomb, and cannot say I perceive
any great difference in men.”
“Nor is there any, though circumstances cause different modes
of betraying their weaknesses, as well as what there is in them
that is good. But the people in this country, Miss Monson,
possess a power that, in your case, is not to be despised. As
that.”
“Surely you would not have me make an exhibition of myself,
Mr. Dunscomb, at the window of a gaol!”
“As far from that as possible. I would have you do nothing
that is unbecoming one of your habits and opinions — nothing,
in short, that would be improper, as a means of defence, by one
accused and tried by the State. Nevertheless, it is always wiser
to make friends than to make enemies.”
Mary Monson lowered her eyes to the carpet, and Dunscomb
perceived that her thoughts wandered. They were not on her
critical situation. It was indispensably necessary, however, that
he should be explicit, and he did not shrink from his duty.
Gently, but distinctly, and with a clearness that a far less gifted
mind than that of the accused could comprehend, he now opened
the subject of the approaching trial. A few words were first
ventured on its grave character, and on the vast importance it
was in all respects to his client; to which the latter listened attentively,
but without the slightest visible alarm. Next, he
alluded to the stories that were in circulation, the impression
they were producing, and the danger there was that her rights
might be affected by these sinister opinions.
“But I am to be tried by a judge and a jury, they tell me,”
said Mary Monson, when Dunscomb ceased speaking — “they
will come from a distance, and will not be prejudiced against me
by all this idle gossip.”
“Judges and jurors are only men, and nothing goes farther
with less effort than your `idle gossip.' Nothing is repeated accurately,
or it is very rare to find it so; and those who only half
comprehend a subject are certain to relate with exaggerations and
false colourings.”
“How, then, can the electors discover the real characters of
those for whom they are required to vote?” demanded Mary
to support or to oppose?”
“Half the time they do neither. It exceeds all our present
means, at least, to diffuse sufficient information for that. The
consequence is, that appearances and assertions are made to take
the place of facts. The mental food of the bulk of this nation
is an opinion simulated by the artful to answer their own purposes.
But the power of the masses is getting to be very formidable
— more formidable in a way never contemplated by those
who formed the institutions, than in any way that was foreseen.
Among other things, they begin to hold the administration of
justice in the hollow of their hands.”
“I am not to be tried by the masses, I trust. If so, my fate
would be very hard, I fear, judging from what I hear in my little
excursions in the neighbourhood.”
“Excursions, Miss Monson!” repeated the astonished Dunscomb.
“Excursions, sir; I make one for the benefit of air and exercise,
every favourable night, at this fine season of the year.
Surely you would not have me cooped up here in a gaol, without
the relief of a little fresh air?”
“With the knowledge and concurrence of the sheriff, or that
of his wife?”
“Perhaps not strictly with those of either; though I suspect
good Mrs. Gott has an inkling of my movements. It would be
too hard to deny myself air and exercise, both of which are very
necessary to my health, because I am charged with these horrid
crimes.”
Dunscomb passed a hand over his brow, as if he desired to
clear his mental vision by friction of the physical, and, for a moment,
sat absolutely lost in wonder. He scarce knew whether he
was or was not dreaming.
“And you have actually been outside of these walls, Miss
Monson!” he exclaimed, at length.
“Twenty times, at least. Why should I stay within them,
when the means of quitting them are always in my power?”
As Mary Monson said this, she showed her counsel a set of
keys that corresponded closely with those which good Mrs. Gott
was in the habit of using whenever she came to open the door
of that particular gallery. A quiet smile betrayed how little
the prisoner fancied there was anything remarkable in all this.
“Are you aware, Miss Monson, it is felony to assist a prisoner
to escape?”
“So they tell me, Mr. Dunscomb; but as I have not escaped,
or made any attempt to escape, and have returned regularly and
in good season to my gaol, no one can be harmed for what I have
done. Such, at least, is the opinion of Mr. Timms.”
Dunscomb did not like the expression of face that accompanied
this speech. It might be too much to say it was absolutely cunning;
but there was so much of the manœuvring of one accustomed
to manage in it, that it awakened the unpleasant distrust
that existed in the earlier days of his intercourse with this singular
young woman, and which had now been dormant for several weeks.
There was, however, so much of the cold polish of the upper
classes in his client's manner, that the offending expression was
thrown off from the surface of her looks, as light is reflected
from the ground and silvered mirror. At the very instant which
succeeded this seeming gleam of cunning, all was clam, quiet,
refined, gentle, and without apparent emotion in the countenance
of the accused.
“Timms!” repeated Dunscomb, slowly. “So he has known
of this, and I dare say has had an agency in bringing it about?”
“As you say it is felony to aid a prisoner to escape, I can say
neither yes nor no to this, Mr. Dunscomb, lest I betray an accomplice.
I should rather think, however, that Mr. Timms is
not a person to be easily caught in the meshes of the law.”
Again the counsellor disliked the expression; though Mary
did not pause to analyze his feelings, notwithstanding, but rather
sought to relieve his own curiosity, which had been a good deal
aroused by the information just received.
“As you have not hesitated to tell me of what you call your
`excursions,' Miss Monson,” he continued, “perhaps you will so
far extend your confidence as to let me know where you go?”
“I can have no objection to that. Mr. Timms tells me the
law cannot compel a counsel to betray his client's secrets; and
of course I am safe with you. Stop — I have a duty to perform
that has been too long delayed. Gentlemen of your profession
are entitled to their fees; and, as yet, I have been very remiss in
this respect. Will you do me the favour, Mr. Dunscomb, to accept
that, which you will see has been some time in readiness to
be offered.”
Dunscomb was too much of a professional man to feel any
embarrassment at this act of justice; but he took the letter,
broke the seal, even before his client's eyes, and held up for
examination a note for a thousand dollars. Prepared as he was
by Timms's account for a liberal reward, this large sum took him
a good deal by surprise.
“This is an unusual fee, Miss Monson!” he exclaimed; “one
much more considerable than I should expect from you, were I
working for remuneration, as in your case I certainly am not.”
“Gentlemen of the law look for their reward, I believe, as
much as others. We do not live in the times of chivalry, when
gallant men assisted distressed damsels as a matter of honour;
but in what has well been termed a `bank-note world.”'
“I have no wish to set myself up above the fair practices of
my profession, and am as ready to accept a fee as any man in
Nassau-Street. Nevertheless, I took your case in hand with a
very different motive. It would pain me to obliged to work
for a fee, on the present unhappy occasion.”
Mary Monson looked grateful, and for a minute she seemed to
be reflecting on some scheme by which she could devise a substitute
for the old-fashioned mode of proceeding in a case of this
sort.
“You have a niece, Mr. Dunscomb,” she at length exclaimed—
“as Marie Moulin informs me? A charming girl, and who is
about to be married?”
The lawyer assented by an inclination of the head, fastening
his penetrating black eyes on the full, expressive, greyish-blue
ones of his companion.
“You intend to return to town this evening?” said Mary
Monson, in continuation.
“Such is my intention. I came here to-day to confer with
you and Mr. Timms, on the subject of the trial, to see how
matters stand on the spot, by personal observation, and to introduce
to you one who feels the deepest interest in your welfare,
and desires most earnestly to seek your acquaintance.”
The prisoner was now silent, interrogating with her singularly
expressive eyes.
“It is Anna Updyke, the step-daughter of my nearest friend,
Dr. McBrain; and a very sincere, warm-hearted, and excellent
girl.”
“I have heard of her, too,” returned Mary Monson, with a
smile so strange, that her counsel wished she had not given this
demonstration of a feeling that seemed out of place, under all
the circumstances. “They tell me she is a most charming girl,
and that she is a very great favourite with your nephew, the
young gentleman whom I have styled my legal vidette.”
“Vidette! That is a singular term to be used by you!”
“Oh! you will remember that I have been much in countries
where such persons abound. I must have caught the word from
some of the young soldiers of Europe. But, Mr. John Wilmeter
is an admirer of the young lady you have named?”
“I hope he is. I know of no one with whom I think he
would be more likely to be happy.”
Dunscomb spoke earnestly, and at such times his manner was
singularly sincere and impressive. It was this appearance of
feeling and nature that gave him the power he possessed over
juries; and it may be said to have made no small part of his
fortune. Mary Monson seemed to be surprised; and she fastened
her remarkable eyes on the uncle, in a way that might have
admitted of different interpretations. Her lips moved as if she
spoke to herself; and the smile that succeeded was both mild
and sad.
“To be sure,” added the prisoner, slowly, “my information
is not on the very best authority, coming, as it does, from a servant
— but Marie Moulin is both discreet and observant.”
“She is tolerably well qualified to speak of Anna Updyke,
having seen her almost daily for the last two years. But, we are
all surprised that you should know anything of this young woman.”
“I know her precisely as she is known to your niece and Miss
Updyke — in other words, as a maid who is much esteemed by
those she serves — but,” apparently wishing to change the discourse
— “we are forgetting the purpose of your visit, all this
time, Mr. Dunscomb. Do me the favour to write your address
in town, and that of Dr. McBrain on this card, and we will proceed
to business.”
Dunscomb did as desired, when he opened on the details that
were the object of his little journey. As had been the case in
all his previous interviews with her, Mary Monson surprised him
with the coolness with which she spoke of an issue that involved
her own fate, for life or for death. While she carefully abstained
from making any allusion to circumstances that might betray
her previous history, she shrunk from no inquiry that bore on
the acts of which she had been accused. Every question put by
frankly and freely, there being no wish apparent to conceal
the minutest circumstance. She made several exceedingly
shrewd and useful suggestions on the subject of the approaching
trial, pointing out defects in the testimony against her, and reasoning
with singular acuteness on particular facts that were
known to be much relied on by the prosecution. We shall not
reveal these details any further in this stage of our narrative,
for they will necessarily appear at length in our subsequent
pages; but shall confine ourselves to a few of those remarks that
may be better given at present.
“I do not know, Mr. Dunscomb,” Mary Monson suddenly
said, while the subject of her trial was yet under discussion,
“that I have ever mentioned to you the fact that Mr. and Mrs.
Goodwin were not happy together. One would think, from what
was said at the time of the inquest, that they were a very affectionate
and contented couple; but my own observation, during
the short time I was under their roof, taught me better. The
husband drank, and the wife was avaricious and very quarrelsome.
I am afraid, sir, there are few really happy couples to be found
on earth!”
“If you knew McBrain better, you would not say that, my
dear Miss Monson,” answered the counsellor with a sort of glee—
“there's a husband for you! — a fellow who is not only happy
with one wife, but who is happy with three, as he will tell you
himself.”
“Not all at the same time, I hope, sir?”
Dunscomb did justice to his friend's character, by relating how
the matter really stood; after which he asked permission to introduce
Anna Updyke. Mary Monson seemed startled at this
request, and asked several questions, which induced her counsel
to surmise that she was fearful of being recognised. Nor was
Dunscomb pleased with all the expedients adopted by his client,
slightly indicated cunning, a quality that he might be said to
abhor. Accustomed as he was to all the efforts of ingenuity in
illustrating a principle or maintaining a proposition, he had
always avoided everything like sophistry and falsehood. This
weakness on the part of Mary Monson, however, was soon forgotten
in the graceful manner in which she acquieseed in the
wish of the stranger to be admitted. The permission was finally
accorded, as if an honour were received, with the tact of a female
and the easy dignity of a gentlewoman.
Anna Updyke possessed a certain ardour of character that had,
more than once, given her prudent and sagacious mother uneasiness,
and which sometimes led her into the commission of acts,
always innocent in themselves, and perfectly under the restraint
of principles, which the world would have been apt to regard as
imprudent. Such, however, was far from being her reputation,
her modesty and the diffidence with which she regarded herself,
being amply sufficient to protect her from the common observation,
even while most best by the weakness named. Her love
for John Wilmeter was so disinterested, or to herself so seemed
to be, that she fancied she could even assist in bringing about
his union with another woman, were that necessary to his happiness.
She believed that this mysterious stranger was, to say the
least, an object of intense interest with John, which soon made
her an object of intense interest with herself; and each hour
increased her desire to become acquainted with one so situated,
friendless, accused, and seemingly suspended by a thread over
an abyss, as she was. When she first made her proposal to
Dunscomb to be permitted to visit his client, the wary and experienced
counsellor strongly objected to the step. It was imprudent,
could lead to no good, and might leave an impression
unfavourable to Anna's own character. But this advice was
unheeded by a girl of Anna Updyke's generous temperament.
deep under-current of feeling and enthusiasm in her moral constitution,
that bore her onward in any course which she considered
to be right, with a total abnegation of self. This was a quality
to lead to good or evil, as it might receive a direction; and
happily nothing had yet occurred in her brief existence to carry
her away towards the latter goal.
Surprised at the steadiness and warmth with which his young
friend persevered in her request, Dunscomb, after obtaining the
permission of her mother, and promising to take good care of
his charge, was permitted to convey Anna to Biberry, in the
manner related.
Now, that her wish was about to be gratified, Anna Updyke,
like thousands of others who have been more impelled by impulses
than governed by reason, shrank from the execution of
her own purposes. But the generous ardour revived in her in
time to save appearances; and she was admitted by well-meaning
Mrs. Gott to the gallery of the prison, leaning on Dunscomb's
arm, much as she might have entered a drawing-room, in a regular
morning call.
The meeting between these two charming young women was
frank and cordial, though slightly qualified by the forms of the
world. A watchful and critical observer might have detected
less of nature in Mary Monson's manner than in that of her
guest, even while the welcome she gave her visitor was not without
cordiality and feeling. It is true that her courtesy was more
elaborate and European, if one may use the expression, than it
is usual to see in an American female, and her air was less ardent
than that of Anna; but the last was highly struck with her
countenance and general appearance, and, on the whole, not
dissatisfied with her own reception.
The power of sympathy and the force of affinities soon made
themselves felt, as between these two youthful females. Anna
all that there was which was questionable or mysterious
in her situation, or remembering it only to feel the influence of
its interest, while she submitted to a species of community of
feeling with John Wilmeter, as she fancied, and soon got to be
as much entranced with the stranger as seemed to be the fate of
all who approached the circle of her acquaintance. On the other
hand, Mary Monson felt a consolation and gratification in this
visit to which she had long been a stranger. Good Mrs. Gott
was kind-hearted and a woman, but she had no claim to the refinement
and peculiar sensibilities of a lady; while Marie Moulin,
discreet, respectful, even wise as she was in her own way, was,
after all, nothing but an upper servant. The chasm between the
cultivated and the uncultivated, the polished and the unpolished,
is wide; and the accused fully appreciated the change, when one
of her own class in life, habits, associations, and, if the reader
will, prejudices, so unexpectedly appeared to sympathize with,
and to console her. Under such circumstances, three or four
hours made the two fast and deeply-interested friends, on their
own accounts, to say nothing of the effect produced by the generous
advances of one, and the perilous condition of the other.
Dunscomb returned to town that evening, leaving Anna
Updyke behind him, ostensibly under the care of Mrs. Gott.
Democracy has been carried so far on the high road of ultraism
in New York, as in very many interests to become the victim of
its own expedients. Perhaps the people are never so far from
exercising a healthful, or indeed, any authority at all, as when
made to seem, by the expedients of demagogues, to possess an
absolute control. It is necessary merely to bestow a power which
it is impossible for the masses to wield with intelligence, in order
to effect this little piece of legerdemain in politics, the quasi
people in all such cases becoming the passive instruments in the
hands of their leaders, who strengthen their own authority by
which the agency of numbers can be felt, its force is made to
prevail, the tendency necessarily being to bring down all representation
to the level of the majority. The effect of the change
has been pretty equally divided between good and evil. In many
cases benefits have accured to the community by the exercise of
this direct popular control, while in probably quite as many the
result has been exactly the reverse of that which was anticipated.
In no one instance, we believe it will be generally admitted, has
the departure from the old practice been less advantageous than
in rendering the office of sheriff elective. Instead of being a
leading and independent man, who has a pride in his position,
and regards the character of his county as he does his own, this
functionary has got to be, nine times in ten, a mere political
manœuvrer, who seeks the place as a reward for party labours,
and fills it very much for his personal benefit, conferring no
dignity on it by his own position and character, lessening its
authority by his want of the qualities calculated to increase it,
and, in a good many instances, making it quite as difficult to wrest
money from his hands, as from those of the original debtor.
It is a consequence of this state of things that the sheriff has
quite lost all, or nearly all of the personal consideration that was
once connected with his office; and has sunk, in most of the
strictly rural counties, into a gaoler, and the head of the active
bailiffs. His object is altogether money; and the profit connected
with the keeping of the prisoners, now reduced almost entirely
to felons, the accused, and persons committed for misdemeanors,
is one of the inducements for aspiring to an office once so honourable.
In this state of things, it is not at all surprising that Dunscomb
was enabled to make such an arrangement with Mrs. Gott
as would place Anna Updyke in a private room in the house
attached to the gaol, and which formed the sheriff's dwelling.
this Anna herself objected, both because she had taken a strong
dislike to the garrulous but shrewd landlady, and because it
would have separated her too much from the person she had
come especially to console and sympathize with.
The arrangement made, Dunscomb, as has already been mentioned,
took his departure for town, with the understanding that
he was to return the succeeding week; the Circuit and Oyer and
Terminer sitting on Monday; and the District Attorney, Mr.
Garth, having given notice to her counsel that the indictment
against Mary Monson would be certainly traversed the second day of the sitting, which would be on Tuesday.
| CHAPTER XV. The ways of the hour | |