University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

Mourning Bride.

During the interval between the occurrence of the scene in
court that has just been related, and the appearance of Dunscomb
at Biberry, the community was rapidly taking sides on the subject
of the guilt or innocence of Mary Monson. The windows of the
gaol were crowded all day; throngs collecting there to catch
glimpses of the extraordinary female, who was rightly enough
reported to be living in a species of luxury in so unusual a place,
and who was known to play on an instrument that the popular
mind was a good deal disposed to regard as sacred. As a matter
of course, a hundred stories were in circulation, touching the
character, history, sayings and doings of this remarkable person,
that had no foundation whatever in truth; for it is an infirmity
of human nature to circulate and place its belief in falsehoods of
this sort; and more especially of human nature as it is exhibited
in a country where care has been taken to stimulate the curiosity
of the vulgar, without exactly placing them in a condition to appease
its longings, either intelligently or in a very good taste.

This interest would have been manifested, in such a case, had
there been no particular moving cause; but the secret practices
of Williams and Timms greatly increased its intensity, and was
bringing the population of Duke's to a state of excitement that
was very little favourable to an impartial administration of justice.

Discussions had taken place at every corner, and in all the
bar-rooms; and many were the alleged facts connected with the
murders, which had their sole existence in rumour, that was adduced
in the heat of argument, or to make out a suppositious
case. All this time, Williams was either in court, attending
closely to his different causes, or was seen passing between the
court-house and the tavern, with bundles of papers under his
arms, like a man absorbed in business. Timms played a very
similar part, though he found leisure to hold divers conferences
with several of his confidential agents. Testimony was his aim;
and, half a dozen times, when he fancied himself on the point
of establishing something new and important, the whole of the
ingenious fabric he had reared came tumbling about his ears, in
consequence of some radical defect in the foundation.

Such was the state of things on the evening of Wednesday,
the day preceding that which had been set down for the trial,
when the stage arrived bringing “'Squire Dunscomb,” his carpetbags,
his trunk, and his books. McBrain shortly after drove up
in his own carriage; and Anna was soon in her mother's arms.
The excitement, so general in the place, had naturally enough
extended to these females; and Mrs. McBrain and her daughter
were soon closeted, talking over the affair of Mary Monson.

About eight that evening, Dunscomb and Timms were busy,
looking over minutes of testimony, briefs, and other written documents
that were connected with the approaching trial. Mrs.
Horton had reserved the best room in her house for this distinguished
counsel; an apartment in a wing that was a good deal
removed from the noise and bustle of a leading inn, during a
circuit. Here Dunscomb had been duly installed, and here he
early set up “his traps,” as he termed his flesh-brushes, sponges,
briefs, and calfskin-covered volumes. Two tallow candles threw
a dim, lawyer-like light on the scene; while unrolled paper-curtains
shut out as much of night as such an imperfect screen

could exclude. The odour of segars — excellent Havannas, by
the way — was fragrant in the place; and one of the little fountains
of smoke was stuck knowingly in a corner of the eminent
counsel's mouth, while Timms had garnished his skinny lips
with the short stump of a pipe. Neither said anything; one of
the parties presenting documents that the other read in silence.
Such was the state of matters, when a slight tap at the door was
succeeded by the unexpected appearance of “saucy Williams.”
Timms started, gathered together all his papers with the utmost
care, and awaited the explanation of this unlooked-for visit with
the most lively curiosity. Dunscomb, on the other hand, received
his guest with urbanity, and like one who felt that the wrangling
of the bar, in which, by the way, he had too much self-respect
and good temper to indulge, had no necessary connection with
the courtesies of private life.

Williams had scarcely a claim superior to those of Timms, to
be considered a gentleman; though he had the advantage of
having been what is termed liberally educated — a phrase of very
doubtful import, when put to the test of old-fashioned notions on
such subjects. In manners, he had the defects, and we may add
the merits, of the school in which he had been educated. All
that has been said of Timms on this subject, in the way of censure,
was equally applicable to Williams; but the last possessed
a self-command, an admirable reliance on his own qualities, which
would have fitted him, as regards this one quality, to be an emperor.
Foreigners wonder at the self-possession of Americans in
the presence of the great; and it is really one of the merits of the
institutions that it causes every person to feel that he is a man,
and entitled to receive the treatment due to a being so high in
the seale of earthly creations. It is true, that this feeling often
degenerates into a vulgar and over-sensitive jealousy, frequently
rendering its possessor exacting and ridiculous; but, on the
whole, the effect is manly, not to say ennobling.

Now, Williams was self-possessed by nature, as well as by
association and education. Though keenly alive to the differences
and chances of fortune, he never succumbed to mere rank and
wealth. Intriguing by disposition, not to say by education, he
could affect a deference he did not feel; but, apart from the positive
consequences of power, he was not to be daunted by the
presence of the most magnificent sovereign who ever reigned.
No wonder, then, that he felt quite at home in the company of
his present host; though fully aware that he was one of the
leading members of the New York bar. As a proof of this independence
may be cited the fact that he had no sooner paid his
salutations and been invited to be seated, than he deliberately
selected a segar from the open box of Dunscomb, lighted it, took
a chair, raised one leg coolly on the corner of a table, and began
to smoke.

“The calendar is a little crowded,” observed this free-and-easy
visiter, “and is likely to carry us over into the middle of next
week. Are you retained in Daniels against Fireman's Insurance?”

“I am not—a brief was offered by the plaintiff, but I declined
taking it.”

“A little conscientious, I suppose. Well, I leave all the sin
of my suits on the shoulders of my clients. It is bad enough to
listen to their griefs, without being called on to smart for them.
I have heard you are in Cogswell against Davidson?”

“In tbat cause I have been retained. I may as well say, at
once, we intend to move it on.”

“It's of no great moment — if you beat us at the circuit, our
turn will come on execution.”

“I believe, Mr. Williams, your clients have a knack at gaining
the day in that mode. It is of no great interest to me, however,
as I rarely take the management of a cause after it quits the
courts.”

“How do you like the Code, brother Dunscomb?”

“Damnable, sir. I am too old, in the first place, to like
change. Then change from bad to worse is adding folly to imbecility.
The Common Law practice had its faults, I allow; but
this new system has no merits.”

“I do not go as far as that; and I rather begin to like the
new plan of remuneration. We are nothing out of pocket, and
sometimes are a handsome sum in. You defend Mary Monson?”

Timms felt assured that his old antagonist had now reached
the case that had really brought him to the room. He fidgeted,
looked eagerly round to see that no stray paper could fall beneath
the hawk-like eye of the other party, and then sat in comparative
composure, waiting the result.

“I do,” Dunscomb quietly replied; “and I shall do it con
amore — I suppose you know what that means, Mr. Williams?”

A sarcastic smile passed over the steeled countenance of the
other, his appearance being literally sardonic for an instant.

“I presume I do. We know enough Latin in Duke's to get
along with such a quotation; though our friend Timms here despises
the classics. `Con amore' means, in this instance, a `lover's
zeal,' I suppose; for they tell me that all who approach the
criminal submits to her power to charm.”

“The accused, if you please,” put in the opposing attorney;
“but no criminal, until the word `guilty' has been pronounced.”

“I am convicted. They say you are to be the happy man,
Timms, in the event of an acquittal. It is reported all over the
county, that you are to become Mr. Monson as a reward for your
services; and if half that I hear be true, you will deserve her,
with a good estate in the bargain.”

Here Williams laughed heartily at his own wit; but Dunscomb
looked grave, while his associate counsel looked angry. In
point of fact the nail had been hit on the head; and consciousness
lighted the spirit within, with its calm, mild glow. The

senior counsel was too proud, and too dignified, to make any reply;
but Timms was troubled with no such feeling.

“If there are any such rumours in old Duke's,” retorted the
last, “it will not need mesmerism to discover their author. In
my opinion, the people ought to carry on their suits in a spirit
of liberality and justice; and not in a vindictive, malicious temper.”

“We are all of the same way of thinking,” answered Williams,
with a sneer. “I consider it liberal to give you a handsome
young woman with a full purse; though no one can say
how, or by whom, it has been filled. By the way, Mr. Dunscomb,
I am instructed to make a proposal to you; and as Timms is in
the court, this may be as good a moment as another to present it
for consideration. My offer is from the nephew, next of kin, and
sole heir of the late Peter Goodwin; by whom, as you probably
know, I am retained. This gentleman is well assured that his
deceased relatives had a large sum in gold by them, at the time
of the murders—”

“No verdict has yet shown that there has been any murders
at all,” interrupted Timms.

“We have the verdict of the inquest, begging your pardon,
brother Timms — that is something, surely; though not enough,
quite likely, to convince your mind. But, to proceed with my
proposition: — My client is well assured that such a secret fund
existed. He also knows that your client, gentlemen, is flush of
money, and money in gold coins that correspond with many pieces
that have been seen by different individuals in the possession of
our aunt—”

“Ay, eagles and half-eagles,” interrupted Timms—“a resemblance
that comes from the stamp of the mint.”

“Go on with your proposition, Mr. Williams” — said Dunscomb.

“We offer to withdraw all our extra counsel, myself included,

and to leave the case altogether with the State, which is very
much the same thing as an acquittal; provided you will return to
us five thousand dollars in this gold coin. Not pay, for that
might be compounding a felony; but return.”

“There could be no compounding a felony, if the indictment
be not quashed, but traversed,” said the senior counsel for the
defence.

“Very true; but we prefer the word `return.' That leaves
everything clear, and will enable us to face the county. Our
object is to get our rights—let the State take care of its justice
for itself.”

“You can hardly expect that such a proposition should be
accepted, Williams?”

“I am not so sure of that, Timms; life is sweeter than money
even. I should like to hear the answer of your associate, however.
You, I can see, have no intention of lessening the marriage
portion, if it can be helped.”

Such side-hits were so common in court, as between these
worthies, that neither thought much of them out of court. But
Williams gave a signal proof of the acuteness of his observation,
when he expressed a wish to know in what light his proposal was
viewed by Dunscomb. That learned gentleman evidently paid
more respect to the offer than had been manifested by his associate;
and now sat silently ruminating on its nature. Thus
directly appealed to, he felt the necessity of giving some sort of
an answer.

“You have come expressly to make this proposition to us,
Mr. Williams?” Dunscomb demanded.

“To be frank with you, sir, such is the main object of my
visit.”

“Of course it is sanctioned by your client, and you speak by
authority?”

“It is fully sanctioned by my client, who would greatly prefer

the plan; and I act directly by his written instructions. Nothing
short of these would induce me to make the proposition.”

“Very well, sir. Will an answer by ten o'clock this evening
meet your views?”

“Perfectly so. An answer at any time between this and the
sitting of the court to-morrow morning, will fully meet our views.
The terms, however, cannot be diminished. Owing to the shortness
of the time, it may be well to understand that.”

“Then, Mr. Williams, I ask a little time for reflection and
consultation. We may meet again to-night.”

The other assented, rose, cooly helped himself to another
segar, and had got as far as the door, when an expressive gesture
from Timms induced him to pause.

“Let us understand each other,” said the last, with emphasis.
“Is this a truce, with a complete cessation of hostilities;
or is it only a negotiation to be carried on in the midst of
war?”

“I hardly comprehend your meaning, Mr. Timms. The question
is simply one of taking certain forces — allied forces, they
may be called — from the field, and leaving you to contend only
with the main enemy. There need be nothing said of a truce,
since nothing further can be done until the court opens.”

“That may do very well, Williams, for those that haven't
practised in Duke's as long as myself; but it will not do for me.
There is an army of reporters here, at this moment; and I am
afraid that the allies of whom you speak have whole corps of
skirmishers.”

Williams maintained a countenance so unmoved that even the
judicious Timms was a little shaken; while Dunscomb, who had
all the reluctance of a gentleman to believe in an act of meanness,
felt outraged by his associate's suspicions.

“Come, come, Mr. Timms,” the last exclaimed, “I beg we
may have no more of this. Mr. Williams has come with a proposition

worthy of our consideration; let us meet it in the spirit
in which it is offered.”

“Yes,” repeated Williams, with a look that might well have
explained his sobriquet of `saucy;' yes, in the spirit in which it
is offered. What do you say to that, Timms?”

“That I shall manage the defence precisely as if no such proposition
had been made, or any negotiation accepted. You can
do the same for the prosecution.”

“Agreed!” Williams rejoined, making a sweeping gesture
with his hand, and immediately quitting the room.

Dunscomb was silent for a minute. A thread of smoke arose
from the end of his segar; but the volume no longer poured from
between his lips. He was ruminating too intensely even to
smoke. Rising suddenly, he took his hat, and motioned towards
the door.

“Timms, we must go to the gaol,” he said; “Mary Monson
must be spoken to at once.”

“If Williams had made his proposition ten days ago, there
might be some use in listening to it,” returned the junior, following
the senior counsel from the room, carrying all the papers in
the cause under an arm; “but, now that all the mischief is done,
it would be throwing away five thousand dollars to listen to his
proposition.”

“We will see — we will see,” answered the other, hurrying
down stairs — “what means the rumpus in that room, Timms?
Mrs. Horton has not treated me well, to place a troublesome
neighbour so near me. I shall stop and tell her as much, as we
go through the hall.”

“You had better not, 'Squire. We want all our friends just
now; and a sharp word might cause us to lose this woman, who
has a devil of a tongue. She tells me that a crazy man was
brought here privately; and, being well paid for it, she has consented
to give him what she calls her `drunkard's parlour,' until

the court has settled his affair. His room, like your own, is so
much out of the way, that the poor fellow gives very little trouble
to the great body of the boarders.”

“Ay, very little trouble to you, and the rest of you, in the
main building; but a great deal to me. I shall speak to Mrs.
Horton on the subject, as we pass out.”

“Better not, 'Squire. The woman is our friend now, I know;
but a warm word may turn her to the right-about.”

It is probable Dunscomb was influenced by his companion;
for he left the house without putting his threat in execution. In
a few minutes he and Timms were at the gaol. As counsel could
not well be refused admission to their client on the eve of trial,
the two lawyers were admitted to the gallery within the outer
door that has been so often mentioned. Of course, Mary Monson
was notified of the visit; and she received them with Anna Updyke,
the good, gentle, considerate Anna, who was ever disposed
to help the weak and to console the unhappy, at her side. Dunscomb
had no notion that the intimacy had grown to this head;
but when he came to reflect that one of the parties was to be
tried for her life next day, he was disposed to overlook the manifest
indiscretion of his old favourite in being in such a place.
Mrs. McBrain's presence released him from all responsibility;
and he returned the warm pressure of Anna's hand in kindness,
if not with positive approbation. As for the girl herself, the
very sight of “Uncle Tom,” as she had so long been accustomed
to call the counsellor, cheered her heart, and raised new hopes in
behalf of her friend.

In a few clear, pointed words, Dunscomb let the motive of his
visit be known. There was little time to throw away, and he
went directly at his object, stating everything succinctly, but in
the most intelligible manner. Nothing could have been more
calm than the manner in which Mary Monson listened to his
statement; her deportment being as steady as that of one sitting

in judgment herself, rather than that of a person whose own fate
was involved in the issue.

“It is a large sum to raise in so short a time,” continued the
kind-hearted Dunscomb; “but I deem the proposition so important
to your interest, that, rather than lose this advantage, I
would not hesitate about advancing the money myself, should
you be unprepared for so heavy a demand.”

“As respects the money, Mr. Dunscomb,” returned the fair
prisoner, in the most easy and natural manner, “that need give
us no concern. By sending a confidential messenger to town —
Mr. John Wilmeter, for instance” — here Anna pressed less
closely to her friend's side — “it would be very easy to have five
hundred eagles or a thousand half-eagles here, by breakfast-time
to-morrow. It is not on account of any such difficulty that I
hesitate a moment. What I dislike is the injustice of the thing.
I have never touched a cent of poor Mrs. Goodwin's hoard; and
it would be false to admit that I am returning that which I never
received.”

“We must not be particular, ma'am, on immaterial points,
when there is so much at stake.”

“It may be immaterial whether I pay money under one form
or another, Mr. Dunscomb; but it cannot be immaterial to my
future standing, whether I am acquitted in the teeth of this Mr.
Williams's opposition, or under favour of his purchase.”

“Acquitted! Our case is not absolutely clear, Miss Monson—
it is my duty to tell you as much!”

“I understand such to be the opinion of both Mr. Timms and
yourself, sir; I like the candour of your conduct, but am not
converted to your way of thinking. I shall be acquitted, gentlemen
— yes, honourably, triumphantly acquitted; and I cannot
consent to lessen the impression of such a termination to my
affair, by putting myself in the way of being even suspected of a
collusion with a man like this saucy Williams. It is far better

to meet him openly, and to defy him to do his worst. Perhaps
some such trial, followed by complete success, will be necessary
to my future happiness.”

Anna now pressed nearer to the side of her friend; passing an
arm, unconsciously to herself, around her waist. As for Dunscomb,
he gazed at the handsome prisoner in a sort of stupefied
wonder. The place, the hour, the business of the succeeding
day, and all the accessories of the scene, had an effect to increase
the confusion of his mind, and, for the moment, to call in question
the fidelity of his senses. As he gazed at the prison-like
aspect of the gallery, his eye fell on the countenance of Marie
Moulin, and rested there in surprise for half a minute. The
Swiss maid was looking earnestly at her mistress, with an expression
of concern and of care so intense, that it caused the
counsellor to search for their cause. For the first time it flashed
on his mind that Mary Monson might be a lunatic, and that the
defence so often set up in capital cases as to weary the common
mind, might be rendered justly available in this particular instance.
The whole conduct of this serving-woman had been so
singular; the deportment of Mary Monson herself was so much
out of the ordinary rules; and the adhesion of Anna Updyke,
a girl of singular prudence of conduct, notwithstanding her disposition
to enthusiasm, so marked, that the inference was far
from unnatural. Nevertheless, Mary Monson had never looked
more calm, more intellectual; never manifested more of a mien
of high intelligence, than at that very instant. The singular
illumination of the countenance to which we have had occasion
already to allude, was conspicuous, but it was benignant and
quiet; and the flush of the cheeks added lustre to her eyes.
Then the sentiments expressed were just and noble, free from
the cunning and mendacity of a maniac; and such as any man
might be proud to have the wife of his bosom entertain. All
these considerations quickly chased the rising distrust from Dunscomb's

mind, and his thoughts reverted to the business that had
brought him there.

“You are the best judge, ma'am, of what will most contribute
to your happiness,” rejoined the counsellor, after a brief pause.
“In the ignorance in which we are kept of the past, I might
well add, the only judge; though it is possible that your female
companions know more, in this respect, than your legal advisers.
It is proper I should say, once more, and probably for the last
time, that your case will be greatly prejudiced unless you enable
us to dwell on your past life freely and truly.”

“I am accused of murdering an unoffending female and her
husband; of setting fire to the dwelling, and of robbing them of
their gold. These are accusations that can properly be answered
only by a complete acquittal, after a solemn investigation. No
half-way measures will do. I must be found not guilty, or a blot
rests on my character for life. My position is singular — I had
almost said cruel — in some respects owing to my own wilfulness—”

Here Anna Updyke pressed closer to her friend's side, as if
she would defend her against these self-accusations; while Marie
Moulin dropped her needle, and listened with the liveliest
curiosity.

“In many respects, perhaps,” continued Mary, after a short
pause, “and I must take the consequences. Wilfulness has ever
been my greatest enemy. It has been fed by perfect independence
and too much money. I doubt if it be good for woman to
be thus tried. We were created for dependence, Mr. Dunscomb;
dependence on our fathers, on our brothers, and perhaps on our
husbands” — here there was another pause; and the cheeks of
the fair speaker flushed, while her eyes became brilliant to light.

“Perhaps!” repeated the counsellor, with solemn emphasis.

“I know that men think differently from us on this subject—”

“From us — do you desire me to believe that most women
wish to be independent of their husbands? Ask the young
woman at your side, if that be her feeling of the duties of her
sex.”

Anna dropped her head on her bosom, and blushed scarlet.
In all her day-dreams of happiness with John Wilmeter, the very
reverse of the feeling now alluded to, had been uppermost in her
mind; and to her nothing had ever seemed half as sweet as the
picture of leaning on him for support, guidance, authority, and
advice. The thought of independence would have been painful
to her; for a principle of nature, the instinct of her sex, taught
her that the part of woman was “to love, honour, and obey.” As
for Mary Monson, she quailed a little before the severe eye of
Dunscomb; but education, the accidents of life, and possibly a
secret principle of her peculiar temperament, united to stimulate
her to maintain her original ground.

“I know not what may be the particular notions of Miss Updyke,”
returned this singular being, “but I can feel my own
longings. They are all for independence. Men have not dealt
fairly by women. Possessing the power, they have made all the
laws, fashioned all the opinions of the world, in their own favour.
Let a woman err, and she can never rise from her fall; while
men live with impunity in the midst of their guilt. If a woman
think differently from those around her, she is expected to conceal
her opinions, in order to receive those of her masters. Even
in the worship of God, the highest and most precious of all our
duties, she is expected to play a secondary part, and act as if the
Christian Faith favoured the sentiment of another, which teaches
that women have no souls.”

“All this is as old as the repinings of a very treacherous nature,
young lady,” answered Dunscomb, coolly; “and I have
often heard it before. It is not surprising, however, that a young,
handsome, highly-educated, and I presume rich, person of your

sex, should be seduced by notions seemingly so attractive, and
long for what she will be apt to term the emancipation of her
sex. This is an age of emancipation; prudent grey-headed men
become deluded, and exhibit their folly by succumbing to a wild
and exceedingly silly philanthropical hurrah! Even religion is
emancipated! There are churches, it is true; but they exist as
appendages of society, instead of being divine institutions, established
for the secret purposes of unerring wisdom; and we hear
men openly commending this or that ecclesiastical organization,
because it has more or less of the savour of republicanism. But
one new dogma remains to be advanced — that the government
of the universe is democratical — in which the `music of the
spheres' is a popular song; and the disappearance of a world a
matter to be referred to the people in their primary capacity.
Among other absurdities of the hour is a new law, giving to
married women the control of their property, and drawing a line
of covetousness across the bolster of every marriage bed in the
State!”

“Surely, Mr. Dunscomb, a man of your integrity, character,
manliness, and principles, would defend the weaker sex in the
maintenance of its rights against prodigality, tyranny, and neglect!”

“These are so many words, my dear ma'am, and are totally
without meaning, when thoroughly sifted. God created woman
to be a help-meet to man—to comfort, solace, and aid him in his
pursuit after worldly happiness; but always in a dependent relation.
The marriage condition, viewed in its every-day aspect, has
sufficient causes of disagreement, without drawing in this of property.
One of the dearest and nearest of its ties, indeed, that
of a perfect identification of interests, is at once cut off by this
foolish, not to say wicked attempt to light the torch of contention
in every household. It were better to teach our women not to
throw themselves away on men who cannot be trusted; to inculcate

the necessity of not marrying in haste to repent at leisure,
than to tinker the old, venerable, and long-tried usages of our
fathers, by crotchets that come far more from the feverish audacity
of ignorance, than from philosophy or wisdom. Why, unless
the courts interpose their prudence to rectify the blunders of the
legislature, as they have already done a hundred times, the
labourer's wife may have her action against her husband for the
earthen bowl he has broken; and the man may be sued by the
wife for rent! The happiness of every home is hourly put in
jeopardy, in order that, now and then, a wife may be saved from
the courses of a speculator or a spendthrift.”

“Might not this have been done before, uncle Tom, by means
of settlements?” asked Anna, with interest.

“Certainly; and that it is which renders all this silly quackery
so much the worse. In those cases in which the magnitude of
the stake might seem to demand extraordinary care, the means
already existed for providing all useful safeguards; and any new
legislation was quite unnecessary. This very law will produce
twenty-fold more unhappiness in families, than it will prevent of
misery, by setting up distinct, and often conflicting interests,
among those who ought to live as `bone of their bone, and flesh
of their flesh.”

“You do not give to woman her proper place in society, Mr.
Dunscomb,” returned Mary Monson, haughtily; “your comments
are those of a bachelor. I have heard of a certain Miss
Millington, who once had an interest with you, and who, if living,
would have taught you juster sentiments on this subject.”

Dunscomb turned as white as a sheet; his hand and lip quivered;
and all desire to continue the discourse suddenly left him.
The gentle Anna, ever attentive to his wishes and ailings, stole
to his side, silently offering a glass of water. She had seen this
agitation before, and knew there was a leaf in “Uncle Tom's”
history that he did not wish every vulgar eye to read.

As for Mary Monson, she went into her cell, like one who declined
any further communication with her counsel. Timms was
struck with her lofty and decided manner; but stood too much
in awe of her, to interpose a remonstrance. After a few minutes
taken by Dunscomb to regain his self-command, and a brief consultation
together, the two lawyers quitted the prison. All this
time, the accused remained in her cell, in resentful silence,
closely and anxiously watched by the searching eye of her senior
attendant.