University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The Duenna.

Two days after this, Dunscomb was in his library, late at night,
holding a brief discourse with McBrain's coachman, who has
been already introduced to the reader. Some orders had been
given to the last, in relation to another trip to Biberry, whither
the master and our lawyer were to proceed next day. The man
was an old and indulged servant, and often took great liberties
in these conferences. In this respect the Americans of his class
differ very little from the rest of their fellow-creatures, notwithstanding
all that has been said and written to the contrary. They
obey the impulses of their characters much as the rest of mankind,
though not absolutely without some difference in manner.

“I s'poses, 'Squire Dunscomb, that this is like to be the last
journey that I and the doctor will have to take soon ag'in, in
that quarter,” coolly observed Stephen, when his master's friend
had told him the hour to be at the door, with the other preparations
that would be necessary; “unless we should happen to be
called in at the post mortal.”

“Post mortem, you must mean, Hoof,” a slight smile flashing
on the lawyer's countenance, and as quickly disappearing. “So
you consider it a settled thing that my client is to be found
guilty?”

“That's what they say, sir; and things turn out, in this
country, pretty much as they say aforehand. For my part, sir,
I never quite liked the criminal's looks.”

“Her looks! I do not know where you would go to find a
more lovely young woman, Stephen!”

This was said with a vivacity and suddenness that startled the
coachman a little. Even Dunscomb seemed surprised at his own
animation, and had the grace to change colour. The fact was,
that he too was feeling the influence of woman, youthful, lovely,
spirited, refined, and surrounded with difficulties. This was the
third of Mary Monson's conquests since her arrest, if John Wilmeter's
wavering admiration could be placed in this category;
viz., Timms, the nephew, and the counsellor himself. Neither
was absolutely in love; but each and all submitted to an interest
of an unusual degree in the person, character and fortunes of this
unknown female. Timms, alone, had got so far as to contemplate
a marriage; the idea having crossed his mind that it might be
almost as useful as popularity, to become the husband of one
possessed of so much money.

“I'll not deny her good looks, 'Squire,” returned Stephen
Hoof — or Stephen Huff, as he called himself — “but it's her
bad looks that isn't so much to my fancy. Vhy, sir, once the
doctor had a horse that was agreeable enough to the eye, having
a good colour and most of the p'ints, but who wasn't no traveller,
not a bit on't. One that know'd the animal could see where the
fault lay, the fetlock j'int being oncommon longish; and that's
what I call good looks and bad looks.”

“You mean, Stephen,” said Dunscomb, who had regained all
his sang froid, “that Mary Monson has a bad-looking ankle, I
suppose, wherein I think you miserably mistaken. No matter;
she will not have to travel under your lash very far. But, how
is it with the reporters? — Do you see any more of your friend
that asks so many questions?”

“They be an axing set, 'Squire, if anybody can be so called,”
returned Stephen, grinning. “Would you think it, sir? — one
day when I was a comin' in from Timbully empty, one on 'em
axed me for a ride! a chap as hadn't his foot in a reg'lar private
coach since he was born, a wantin' to drive about in a wehicle as
well known as Doctor McBrain's best carriage! Them's the
sort of chaps that spreads all the reports that's going up and
down the land, they tell me.”

“They do their share of it, Stephen; though there are enough
to help them who do not openly belong to their corps. Well;
what does your acquaintance want to know now?”

“Oncommon curious, 'Squire, about the bones. He axed me
more than forty questions; what we thought of them; and about
their being male or female bones; and how we know'd; and a
great many more sich matters. I answered him accordin' to my
abilities; and so he made an article on the subject, and has sent
me the papers.”

“An article! Concerning Mary Monson, and on your information?”

“Sartain, sir; and the bones. Vhy they cut articles out of
much narrower cloth, I can tell you, 'Squire. There's the cooks,
and chambermaids, and vaiters about town, none of vich can hold
up their heads with a reg'lar, long-established physician's coachman,
who goes far ahead of even an omnibus driver in public
estimation, as you must know, 'Squire — but such sort of folks
furnish many an article for the papers now-a-days — yes, and
articles that ladies and gentlemen read.”

“That is certainly a singular source of useful knowledge —
one must hope they are well-grounded, or they will soon cease
to be ladies and gentlemen at all. Have you the paper about
you, Stephen?”

Hoof handed the lawyer a journal folded with a paragraph in

view that was so much thumbed and dirtied, it was not very easy
to read it.

“We understand that the trial of Mary Monson, for the murder
of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin,” said the `article,' “will
come off in the adjoining county of Dukes, at a very early day.
Strong attempts have been made to make it appear that the
skeletons found in the ruins of Goodwin's dwelling, which our
readers will remember was burned at the time of the murders,
are not human bones; but, we have been at great pains to investigate
this very material point, and have no hesitation in giving
it as our profound conviction that it will be made to appear that
these melancholy memorials are all that remain of the excellent
couple who were so suddenly taken out of existence. We do not
speak lightly on this subject, having gone to the fountain-head
for our facts, as well as for our science.”

“Hoof on McBrain!” muttered Dunscomb, arching his brows
—“this is much of a piece with quite one-half of the knowledge
that is poured into the popular mind, now-a-days. Thank you,
Stephen; I will keep this paper, which may be of use at the
trial.”

“I thought our opinions was vorth something more than nothing,
sir,” answered the gratified coachman — “a body doesn't
ride at all hours, day and night, year arter year, and come out
where he started. I vishes you to keep that 'ere paper, 'Squire,
a little carefully, for it may be wanted in the college where they
reads all sorts of things, one of these days.”

“It shall be cared for, my friend — I hear some one at the
street-door bell. — It is late for a call; and I fear Peter has gone
to bed. See who is there, and good night.”

Stephen withdrew, the ringing being repeated a little impatiently,
and was soon at the street-door. The fellow admitted
the visiters, and went ruminating homeward, Dunscomb maintaining
a very respectable reputation, in a bachelor point of view,

for morals. As for the lawyer himself, he was in the act of
reading a second time the precious opinion expressed in the journals,
when the door of his library opened, a little hesitatingly it
must be confessed, and two females stood on its threshold.
Although his entirely unexpected visiters were so much muffled
in shawls and veils it was not possible to distinguish even the
outlines of their persons, Dunscomb fancied each was youthful
and handsome, the instant he cast his eyes on them. The result
showed how well he guessed.

Throwing aside the garments that concealed their forms and
faces, Mary Monson and Anna Updyke advanced into the room.
The first was perfectly self-possessed and brilliantly handsome;
while her companion, flushed with excitement and exercise, was
not much behind her in this important particular. Dunscomb
started, and fancied there was felony, even in his hospitality.

“You know how difficult it is for me to travel by daylight,”
commenced Mary Monson, in the most natural manner in the
world; “that, and the distance we had to drive, must explain
the unseasonableness of this visit. You told me once, yourself,
that you are both a late and an early man, which encouraged me
to venture. Mr. Timms has written me a letter which I have
thought it might be well to show you. There it is; and when
you have cast an eye over it, we will speak of its contents.”

“Why, this is very much like a conditional proposal of marriage!”
cried Dunscomb, dropping the hand that held the letter,
as soon as he had read the first paragraph. “Conditional, so far
as the result of your trial is concerned!”

“I forgot the opening of the epistle, giving very little thought
to its purport; though Mr. Timms has not written me a line
lately that has not touched on this interesting subject. A marriage
between him and me is so entirely out of the way of all
the possibilities, that I look upon his advances as mere embellishment.

I have answered him directly in the negative once, and
that ought to satisfy any prudent person. They tell me no woman
should marry a man she has once refused; and I shall plead
this as a reason for continued obduracy.”

This was said pleasantly, and without the least appearance of
resentment; but in a way to show she regarded her attorney's proposal
as very much out of the beaten track. As for Dunscomb,
he passed his hand over his brows, and read the rest of a pretty
long letter with grave attention. The purely business part of
this communication was much to the point; important, clearly
put, and every way creditable to the writer. The lawyer read
it attentively a second time, ere he once opened his mouth in
comments.

“And why is this shown to me?” he asked, a little vexed, as
was seen in his manner. “I have told you it is felony to assist
a prisoner in an attempt to escape.”

“I have shown it to you, because I have not the remotest intention,
Mr. Dunscomb, to attempt anything of the sort. I shall
not quit my asylum so easily.”

“Then why are you here, at this hour, with the certainty that
most of the night must be passed on the road, if you mean to
return to your prison ere the sun reappears?”

“For air, exercise, and to show you this letter. I am often in
town, but am compelled, for more reasons than you are acquainted
with, to travel by night.”

“May I ask where you obtain a vehicle to make these journies
in?”

“I use my own carriage, and trust to a very long-tried and
most faithful domestic. I think Miss Updyke will say he drove
us not only carefully, but with great speed. On that score, we
have no grounds of complaint. But I am very much fatigued,
and must ask permission to sleep for an hour. You have a drawing-room,
I take it for granted, Mr. Dunscomb?”

“My niece fancies she has two. Shall I put lights in one of
them?”

“By no means. Anna knows the house as well as she does
her mother's, and will do the honours. On no account let Miss
Wilmeter be disturbed. I am a little afraid of meeting her,
since we have practised a piece of treachery touching Marie
Moulin. But, no matter; one hour on a sofa, in a dark room,
is all I ask. That will bring us to midnight, when the carriage
will again be at the door. You wish to see your mother, my
dear, and here is a safe and very suitable attendant to accompany
you to her house and back again.”

All this was said pleasantly, but with a singular air of authority,
as if this mysterious being were accustomed to plan out and
direct the movements of others. She had her way. In a minute
or two she was stretched on a sofa, covered with a shawl, the door
was closed on her, and Dunscomb was on his way to Mrs.
McBrain's residence, which was at some distance from his own,
with Anna leaning on his arm.

“Of course, my dear,” said the lawyer, as he and his beautiful
companion left his own door at that late hour of the night, “we
shall see no more of Mary Monson?”

“Not see her again! I should be very, very sorry to think
that, sir!”

“She is no simpleton, and means to take Timms's advice.
That fellow has written a strong letter, in no expectation of its
being seen, I fancy, in which he points out a new source of danger;
and plainly advises his client to abscond. I can see the
infatuation of love in this; for the letter, if produced, would
bring him into great trouble.”

“And you suppose, sir, that Mary Monson intends to follow
this advice?”

“Beyond a question. She is not only a very clever, but she
is a very cunning woman. This last quality is one that I admire

in her the least. I should be half in love with her myself” —
This was exactly the state of the counsellor's feelings towards
his client, in spite of his bravado and affected discernment; a
woman's charms often overshadowing a philosophy that is deeper
even than his — “but for this very trait, which I find little to
my taste. I take it for granted you are sent home to be put
under your mother's care, where you properly belong; and I am
got out of the way to save me from the pains and penalties of an
indictment for felony.”

“I think you do not understand Mary Monson, uncle Tom”—
so Anna had long called her friend's relative, as it might be in
anticipation of the time when the appellation would be correct—
“She is not the sort of person to do as you suggest; but would
rather make it a point of honour to remain, and face any accusation
whatever.”

“She must have nerves of steel to confront justice in a case
like her's, and in the present state of public feeling in Duke's.
Justice is a very pretty thing to talk about, my dear; but we old
practitioners know that it is little more, in human hands, than
the manipulations of human passions. Of late years, the outsiders—outside
barbarians they might very properly be termed—
have almost as much to do with the result of any warmly-contested
suit, as the law and evidence. `Who is on the jury?' is
the first question asked now-a-days; not what are the facts. I
have told all this, very plainly, to Mary Monson—”

“To induce her to fly?” asked Anna, prettily, and a little
smartly.

“Not so much that, as to induce her to consent to an application
for delay. The judges of this country are so much over-worked,
so little paid, and usually are so necessitous, that almost
any application for delay is granted. Business at chambers is
sadly neglected; for that is done in a corner, and does not address
itself to the public eye, or seek public eulogiums; but he is

thought the cleverest fellow who will soonest sweep out a crowded
calender. Causes are tried by tallow candles until midnight,
with half the jurors asleep; and hard-working men, accustomed
to be asleep by eight each night, are expected to keep their
thoughts and minds active in the face of all these obstacles.”

“Do you tell me this, uncle Tom, in the expectation that I
am to understand it?”

“I beg your pardon, child; but my heart is full of the failing
justice of the land. We shout hosannas in praise of the institutions,
while we shut our eyes to the gravest consequences that
are fast undermining us in the most important of all our interests.
But here we are already; I had no notion we had walked so fast.
Yes, there is papa McBrain's one-horse vehicle, well emptied of
its contents, I hope, by a hard day's work.”

“A doctor's life must be so laborious!” exclaimed the pretty
Anna. “I think nothing could tempt me to marry a physician.”

“It is well a certain lady of our acquaintance was not of your
way of thinking,” returned Dunscomb, laughing; for his good
humour always returned when he could give his friend a rub on
his matrimonial propensities, “else would McBrain have been
troubled to get his last and best. Never mind, my dear; he is
a good-natured fellow, and will make a very kind papa.”

Anna made no reply, but rang the bell a little pettishly; for
no child likes to have a mother married a second time, there being
much greater toleration for fathers, and asked her companion
in. As the wife of a physician in full practice, the bride had
already changed many of her long-cherished habits. In this respect,
however, she did no more than follow the fortunes of
woman, who so cheerfully makes any sacrifice in behalf of him
she loves. If men were only one-half as disinterested, as self-denying,
and as true as the other sex, in all that relates to the
affections, what a blessed state would that of matrimony be!
Still, there are erring, and selfish, and domineering, and capricious,

vain, heartless and self-willed females, whom nature never
intended for married life; and who are guilty of a species of
profanation, when they stand up and vow to love, honour and
obey their husbands. Many of these disregard their solemn
pledges, made at the altar, and under the immediate invocation
of the Deity, as they would disregard a promise made in jest,
and think no more of the duties and offices that are so peculiarly
the province of their sex, than of the passing and idle promises
of vanity. But, if such women exist, and that they do our daily
experience proves, they are as exceptions to the great law of
female faith, which is tenderness and truth. They are not
women in character, whatever they may be in appearance; but
creatures in the guise of a sex that they discredit and caricature.

Mrs. McBrain was not a person of the disposition just described.
She was gentle and good, and bid fair to make the
evening of her second husband's days very happy. Sooth to
say, she was a good deal in love, notwithstanding her time of
life, and the still more mature years of the bridegroom; and had
been so much occupied with the duties and cares that belonged
to her recent change of condition, as to be a little forgetful of
her daughter. At no other period of their joint lives would she
have permitted this beloved child to be absent from her, under
such circumstances, without greater care for her safety and comforts;
but there is a honey-week, as well as a honey-moon; and
the intenseness of its feelings might very well disturb the ordinary
round of even maternal duties. Glad enough, however,
was she now to see her daughter; when Anna, blooming, and
smiling, and blushing, flew into her mother's arms.

“There she is, widow — Mrs. Updyke — I beg pardon—married
woman, and Mrs. McBrain,” cried Dunscomb — “Ned is
such an uneasy fellow, he keeps all his friends in a fever with
his emotions, and love, and matrimony; and that just suits him,
as he has only to administer a pill and set all right again. But,

there she is, safe and unmarried, thank heaven; which is always
a sort of consolation to me. She's back again, and you will do
well to keep her, until my nephew, Jack, comes to ask permission
to carry her off, for good and all.”

Anna blushed more deeply than ever, while the mother smiled
and embraced her child. Then succeeded questions and answers,
until Mrs. McBrain had heard the whole story of her daughter's
intercourse with Mary Monson, so far as it has been made known
to the reader. Beyond that, Anna did not think herself authorized
to go; or, if she made any revelation, it would be premature
for us to repeat it.

“Here we are, all liable to be indicated for felony,” cried
Dunscomb, as soon as the young lady had told her tale. “Timms
will be hanged, in place of his client; and we three will have
cells at Sing Sing, as accessaries before the act. Yes, my dear
bride, you are what the law terms a `particeps criminis,' and
may look out for the sheriff before you are a week older.”

“And why all this, Mr. Dunscomb?” demanded the half-amused,
half-frightened Mrs. McBrain.

“For aiding and abetting a prisoner in breaking gaol. Mary
Monson is off, beyond a question. She lay down in Sarah's
drawing-room, pretending to be wearied, ten minutes since; and
has no doubt got through with her nap already, and is on her
way to Canada, or Texas, or California, or some other out-of-the-way
country; Cuba, for aught I know.”

“Is this so, think you, Anna?”

“I do not, mamma. So far from believing Mary Monson to
be flying to any out-of-the-way place, I have no doubt that we
shall find her fast asleep on Mr. Dunscomb's sofa.”

“Uncle Dunscomb's sofa, if you please, young lady.”

“No, sir; I shall call you uncle no longer,” answered Anna,
blushing scarlet — “until — until—”

“You have a legal claim to the use of the word. Well, that

will come in due time, I trust; if not, it shall be my care to see
you have a title to a still dearer appellation. There, widow —
Mrs. McBrain, I mean — I think that will do. But, seriously,
child, you cannot imagine that Mary Monson means ever to return
to her prison, there to be tried for life?”

“If there is faith in woman, she does, sir; else would I not
have exposod myself to the risk of accompanying her.”

“In what manner did you come to town, Anna?” asked the
anxious mother. “Are you not now at the mercy of some driver
of a hackney-coach, or of some public cabman?”

“I understand that the carriage which was in waiting for us,
half a mile from Biberry, is Mrs. Monson's—”

“Mrs.!” interrupted Dunscomb — “Is she, then, a married
woman?”

Anna looked down, trembled, and was conscious of having betrayed
a secret. So very precious to herself had been the communication
of Marie Moulin on this point, that it was ever
uppermost in her thoughts; and it had now escaped her under
an impulse she could not control. It was too late, however, to
retreat; and a moment's reflection told her it would every way
be better to tell all she knew, on this one point, at least.

This was soon done; for even Marie Moulin's means of information
were somewhat limited. This Swiss had formerly
known the prisoner by another name; though what name, she
would not reveal. This was in Europe, where Marie had actually
passed three years in this mysterious person's employment. Marie
had even come to America, in consequence of this connection, at
the death of her own mother; but, unable to find her former
mistress, had taken service with Sarah Wilmcter. Mary Monson
was single and unbetrothed when she left Europe. Such was
Marie Moulin's statement. But it was understood she was now
married; though to whom, she could not say. If Anna Updyke
knew more than this, she did not reveal it at that interview.

“Ah! Here is another case of a wife's elopement from her
husband,” interrupted Dunscomb, as soon as Anna reached this
point in her narration; “and I dare say something or other will
be found in this wretched Code to uphold her in her disobedience.
You have done well to marry, Mrs. McBrain; for, according to
the modern opinions in these matters, instead of providing yourself
with a lord and master, you have only engaged an upper-servant.”

“No true-hearted woman can ever look upon her husband in
so degrading a light,” answered the bride, with spirit.

“That will do for three days; but wait to the end of three
years. There are runaway wives enough, at this moment, roaming
up and down the land, setting the laws of God and man at
defiance, and jingling their purses, when they happen to have
money, under their lawful husbands' noses; ay, enough to set
up a three-tailed bashaw! But this damnable Code will uphold
them, in some shape or other, my life for it. One can't endure
her husband because he smokes; another finds fault with his not
going to church but once a day; another quarrels with him for
going three times; another says he has too much dinner-company;
and another protests she can't get a male friend inside of
her house. All these ladies, forgetful as they are of their highest
earthly duties, forgetful as they are of woman's very nature, are
the models of divine virtues, and lay claim to the sympathies of
mankind. They get those of fools; but prudent and reflecting
men shake their heads at such wandering deisses.”

“You are severe on us women, Mr. Dunscomb,” said the
bride.

“Not on you, my dear Mrs. McBrain — never a syllable on
you. But go on, child; I have had the case of one of these
vagrant wives in my hands, and know how mistaken has been
the disposition to pity her. Men lean to the woman's side; but
the frequency of the abuse is beginning to open the eyes of the

public. Go on, Anna dear, and let us hear it all — or all you
have to tell us.”

Very little remained to be related. Marie Moulin, herself,
knew very little of that which had occurred since her separation
from her present mistress in France. She did make one statement,
however, that Anna had deemed very important; but
which she felt bound to keep as a secret, in consequence of the
injunctions received from the Swiss.

“I should have a good deal to say about this affair,” observed
Dunscomb, when his beautiful companion was done, “did I believe
that we shall find Mary Monson on our return to my house.
In that case, I should say to you, my dear widow—Mrs. McBrain,
I mean — the devil take that fellow Ned, he'll have half the
women in town bearing his name before he is done—Well, Heaven
be praised! he can neither marry me, nor give me a stepfather,
let him do his very best. There's comfort in that consideration,
at any rate.”

“You were about to tell us what you would do,” put in the
bride, slightly vexed, yet too well assured of the counsellor's
attachment to her husband to feel angry—“you must know how
much value we all give to your advice.”

“I was about to say that Anna should not return to this
mysterious convict — no, she is not yet convicted, but she is indicted,
and that is something — but return she should not, were
there the least chance of our finding her, on our return home.
Let her go, then, and satisfy her curiosity, and pass the night
with Sarah, who must be through with her first nap by this
time.”

Anna urged her mother to consent to this arrangement, putting
forward her engagement with Mary Monson, not to desert her.
McBrain driving to the door, from paying his last visit that
night, his wife gave her assent to the proposition; the tenderest
mother occasionally permitting another and more powerful feeling

to usurp the place of maternal care. Mrs. McBrain, it must be
admitted, thought more of the bridegroom, sixty as he was, than
of her charming daughter; nor was she yet quite free from the
awkwardness that ever accompanies a new connection of this nature
when there are grown-up children; more especially on the
part of the female. Then Anna had communicated to her mother
a most material circumstance, which it does not suit our
present purpose to reveal.

“Now for a dozen pair of gloves that we do not find Mary
Monson,” said the lawyer, as he walked smartly towards his own
residence, with Anna Updyke under his arm.

“Done!” cried the young lady — “and you shall pay if you
lose.”

“As bound in honour. Peter” — the grey-headed black who
answered the summons to the door—“will be glad enough to see
us; for the old fellow is not accustomed to let his young rogue
of a master in at midnight, with a charming young woman under
his arm.”

Anna Updyke was right. Mary Monson was in a deep sleep
on the sofa. So profound was her rest, there was a hesitation
about disturbing her; though twelve, the hour set for the return
of the carriage to Biberry, was near. For a few minutes Dunscomb
conversed with his agreeable companion in his own
library.

“If Jack knew of your being in the house, he would never
forgive my not having him called.”

“I shall have plenty of occasions for seeing Jack,” returned
the young lady, colouring. “You know how assiduous he is in
this cause, and how devoted he is to the prisoner.”

“Do not run away with any such notion, child; Jack is yours,
heart and soul.”

“Hist — there is the carriage; Mary must be called.”

Away went Anna, laughing, blushing, but with tears in her

eyes. In a minute Mary Monson made her appearance, some-what
refreshed and calmed by her short nap.

“Make no excuse for waking me, Anna,” said this unaccountable
woman. “We can both sleep on the road. The carriage is
as easy as a cradle; and, luckily, the roads are quite good.”

“Still they lead to a prison, Mrs. Monson!”

The prisoner smiled, and seemed to be lost in thought. It
was the first time any of her new acquaintances had ever addressed
her as a married woman; though Marie Moulin, with
the exception of her first exclamation at their recent meeting,
had invariably used the appellation of Madame. All this, however,
was soon forgotten in the leave-taking. Dunscomb thought
he had seldom seen a female of higher tone of manners, or greater
personal charms, than this singular and mysterious young woman
appeared to be, as she curtsied her adieu.