University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

The Orphan

Perhaps no surer test of high principles, as it is certain no
more accurate test of high breeding can be found, than a distaste
for injurious gossip. In woman, subject as she is unquestionably
by her education, habits, and active curiosity, to the influence of
this vice, its existence is deplorable, leading to a thousand wrongs,
among the chief of which is a false appreciation of ourselves;
but, when men submit to so vile a propensity, they become contemptible,
as well as wicked. As a result of long observation,
we should say that those who are most obnoxious to the just
condemnation of the world, are the most addicted to finding faults
in others; and it is only the comparatively good, who are so because
they are humble, that abstain from meddling and dealing
in scandal.

When one reflects on the great amount of injustice that is thus
inflicted, without even the most remote hope of reparation, how
far a loose, ill-considered and ignorant remark will float on the
tongues of the idle, how much unmerited misery is oftentimes
entailed by such unweighed assertions and opinions, and how
small is the return of benefit in any form whatever, it would
almost appear a necessary moral consequence that the world, by
general consent, would determine to eradicate so pernicious an
evil, in the common interest of mankind. That it does not, is

probably owing to the power that is still left in the hands of the
Father of Sin, by the Infinite Wisdom that has seen fit to place
us in this condition of trial. The parent of all lies, gossip, is
one of the most familiar of the means he employs to put his
falsehoods in circulation.

This vice is heartless and dangerous when confined to its natural
limits, the circles of society; but, when it invades the outer walks
of life, and, most of all, when it gets mixed up with the administration
of justice, it becomes a tyrant as ruthless and injurious
in its way, as he who fiddled while Rome was in flames. We
have no desire to exaggerate the evils of the state of society in
which we live; but an honest regard to truth will, we think, induce
every observant man to lament the manner in which this
power, under the guise of popular opinion, penetrates into all the
avenues of the courts, corrupting, perverting, and often destroying,
the healthful action of their systems.

Biberry furnished a clear example of the truth of these remarks
on the morning of the day on which Mary Monson was to be tried.
The gaol-window had its crowd of course; and though the disposition
of curtains, and other similar means of concealment, completely
baffled vulgar curiosity, they could not cloak the resentful
feelings to which this reserve gave birth. Most of those who
were drawn thither belonged to a class who fancied it was not
affliction enough to be accused of two of the highest crimes
known to the laws; but that to this grievous misfortune should be
added a submission to the stare of the multitude. It was the people's
laws the accused was supposed to have disregarded; and it was
their privilege to anticipate punishment, by insult.

“Why don't she show herself, and let the public look on her?”
demanded one curious old man, whose head had whitened under
a steadily increasing misconception of what the rights of this
public were. “I've seen murderers afore now, and ain't a bit
afeard on 'em, if they be well ironed and look'd a'ter.”

This sally produced a heartless laugh; for, sooth to say, where
one feels, under such circumstances, as reason, and justice, and
revelation would tell them to feel, ten feel as the demons prompt.

“You cannot expect that a lady of fashion, who plays on the
harp and talks French, will show her pretty face to be gazed at
by common folk,” rejoined a shabby-genteel sort of personage,
out of whose waistcoat-pocket obtruded the leaves of a small notebook,
and the end of a gold pen. This man was a reporter, rendered
malignant by meeting with opposition to his views of
imagining that the universe was created to furnish paragraphs for
newspapers. He was a half-educated European, who pronounced
all his words in a sort of boarding-school dialect, as if abbreviation
offended a taste `sicken'd over by learning.'

Another laugh succeeded this supercilious sneer; and three or
four lads, half-grown and clamorous, called aloud the name of
“Mary Monson,” demanding that she should show herself. At
that moment the accused was on her knees, with Anna Updyke
at her side, praying for that support which, as the crisis arrived,
she found to be more and more necessary!

Changing from the scene to the open street, we find a pettifogger,
one secretly prompted by Williams, spreading a report
that had its origin no one knew where, but which was gradually
finding its way to the ears of half the population of Duke's, exciting
prejudice and inflicting wrong.

“It's the curi'stest story I ever heard,” said Sam Tongue, as
the pettifogger was usually styled, though his real name was
Hubbs; “and one so hard to believe, that, though I tell it, I call
on no man to believe it. You see, gentlemen” — the little group
around him was composed of suitors, witnesses, jurors, grandjurors,
and others of a stamp that usually mark these several
classes of men — “that the account now is, that this Mary Monson
was sent abroad for her schoolin' when only ten years old;
and that she staid in the old countries long enough to l'arn to

play the harp, and other deviltries of the same natur'. It's a
misfortin', as I say, for any young woman to be sent out of
Ameriky for an edication. Edication, as everybody knows, is the
great glory of our country; and a body would think that what
can't be l'arn't here, isn't worth knowin'.”

This sentiment was well received, as would be any opinion
that asserted American superiority, with that particular class of
listeners. Eye turned to eye, nod answered nod, and a murmur
expressive of approbation passed through the little crowd.

“But there was no great harm in that,” put in a person named
Hicks, who was accustomed to connect consequences with their
causes, and to trace causes down to their consequences. “Anybody
might have been edicated in France as well as Mary Monson.
That will hardly tell ag'in her on the trial.”

“I didn't say it would,” answered Sam Tongue; “though it's
gin'rally conceded that France is no country for religion or true
freedom. Give me religion and freedom, say I; a body can get
along with bad crops, or disapp'intments in gin'ral, so long as he
has plenty of religion and plenty of freedom.”

Another murmur, another movement in the group, and other
nods denoted the spirit in which this was received too.

“All this don't make ag'in Mary Monson; 'specially as you
say she was sent abroad so young. It wasn't her fault if her
parents—”

“She had no parents—there's the great mystery of her case.
Never had, so far as can be discovered. A gal without parents,
without fri'nds of any sort, is edicated in a foreign land, l'arns to
speak foreign tongues, plays on foreign music, and comes home
a'ter she's grown up, with her pockets as full as if she'd been
to Californy and met a vein; and no one can tell where it all
come from!”

“Well, that won't tell ag'in her, ne'ther,” rejoined Hicks, who
had now defended the accused so much that he began to take an

interest in her acquittal. “Evidence must be direct, and have a
p'int, to tell ag'in man or woman. As for Californy, it's made
lawful by treaty, if Congress will only let it alone.”

“I know that as well as the best lawyer in Duke's; but character
can tell ag'in an accused, as is very likely to be shown in
the Oyer and Tarminer of this day. Character counts, let me
tell you, when the facts get a little confused; and this is just
what I was about to say. Mary Monson has money; where does
it come from?”

“Those that think her guilty say that it comes from poor Mrs.
Goodwin's stockin',” returned Hicks, with a laugh; “but, for
my part, I've seen that stockin', and am satisfied it didn't hold
five hundred dollars, if it did four.”

Here the reporter out with his notes, scribbling away for some
time. That evening a paragraph, a little altered to give it point
and interest, appeared in an evening paper, in which the conflicting
statements of Tongue and Hicks were so presented, that
neither of these worthies could have recognised his own child.
That paper was in Biberry next morning, and had no inconsiderable
influence, ultimately, on the fortunes of the accused.

In the bar-room of Mrs. Horton, the discussion was also lively
and wily on this same subject. As this was a place much frequented
by the jurors, the agents of Timms and Williams were
very numerous in and around that house. The reader is not to
suppose that these men admitted directly to themselves even, the
true character of the rascally business in which they were engaged;
for their employers were much too shrewd not to cover,
to a certain degree, the deformity of their own acts. One set
had been told that they were favouring justice, bringing down
aristocratic pride to the level of the rights of the mass, demonstrating
that this was a free country, by one of the very vilest
procedures that ever polluted the fountains of justice at their
very source. On the other hand, the agents of Timms had been

persuaded that they were working in behalf of a persecuted and
injured woman, who was pressed upon by the well-known avarice
of the nephew of the Goodwins, and who was in danger of becoming
the victim of a chain of extraordinary occurrences that
had thrown her into the meshes of the law. It is true, this
reasoning was backed by liberal gifts; which, however, were made
to assume the aspect of compensation fairly earned; for the biggest
villain going derives a certain degree of satisfaction in persuading
himself that he is acting under the influence of motives to which
he is, in truth, a stranger. The homage which vice pays to virtue
is on a much more extended scale than is commonly supposed.

Williams's men had much the best of it with the mass. They
addressed themselves to prejudices as wide as the dominion of
man; and a certain personal zeal was mingled with their cupidity.
Then they had, by far, the easiest task. He who merely aids the
evil principles of our nature, provided he conceal the cloven foot,
is much more sure of finding willing listeners than he who looks
for support in the good. A very unusual sort of story was circulated
in this bar-room at the expense of the accused, and which
carried with it more credit than common, in consequence of its
being so much out of the beaten track of events as to seem to
set invention at defiance.

Mary Monson was said to be an heiress, well connected, and
well educated — or, as these three very material circumstances
were stated by the Williams' men—“well to do herself, of friends
well to do, and of excellent schooling.” She had been married
to a person of equal position in society, wealth and character, but
many years her senior — too many, the story went, considering
her own time of life; for a great difference, when one of the parties
is youthful, is apt to tax the tastes too severely — and that
connection had not proved happy. It had been formed abroad,
and more on foreign than on American principles; the bridegroom
being a Frenchman. It was what is called a mariage de raison,

made through the agency of friends and executors, rather than
through the sympathies and feelings that should alone bring man
and woman together in this, the closest union known to human
beings. After a year of married life abroad, the unmatched
couple had come to America, where the wife possessed a very
ample fortune. This estate the recently enacted laws gave solely
and absolutely to herself; and it soon became a source of dissension
between man and wife. The husband, quite naturally, considered
himself entitled to advise and direct, and, in some measure,
to control, while the affluent, youthful, and pretty wife, was indisposed
to yield any of the independence she so much prized;
but which, in sooth, was asserted in the very teeth of one of the
most salutary laws of nature. In consequence of this very different
manner of viewing the marriage relation, a coolness ensued,
which was shortly followed by the disappearance of the wife.
This wife was Mary Monson, who had secreted herself in the
retired dwelling of the Goodwins, while the hired agents of her
husband were running up and down the land in search of the
fugitive in places of resort. To this account, so strange, and yet
in many respects so natural, it was added that a vein of occult
madness existed in the lady's family; and it was suggested that,
as so much of her conduct as was out of the ordinary course
might be traced to this malady, so was it also possible that the
terrible incidents of the fire and the deaths were to be imputed
to the same deep affliction.

We are far from saying that any rumour expressed in the
terms we have used, was circulating in Mrs. Horton's bar-room;
but one that contained all their essentials was. It is one of the
curious effects of the upward tendency of truth that almost every
effort to conceal it altogether fails; and this at the very time
when idle and heartless gossip is filling the world with lies. The
tongue does a thousand times more evil than the sword; destroys
more happiness, inflicts more incurable wounds, leaves deeper

and more indelible scars. Truth is rarely met with unalloyed by
falsehood.

Was the judgment of Pope a century since; nor has all the
boasted progress of these later times induced a change. It is
remarkable that a country which seems honestly devoted to improvement
of every sort, that has a feverish desire to take the
lead in the warfare against all sorts and species of falsehood,
gives not the slightest heed to the necessity of keeping the
channels of intelligence pure, as well as open! Such is the fact;
and it is a melancholy but a just admission to acknowledge that
with all the means of publicity preserved by America, there is
no country in which it is more difficult to get unadulterated truth
impressed on the common mind. The same wire that transmits
a true account of the price of cotton from Halifax to New Orleans,
carries a spark that imparts one that is false. The two
arrive together; and it is not until each has done its work that
the real fact is ascertained.

Notwithstanding these undoubted obstacles to the circulation
of unalloyed truth, that upward tendency to which we have
alluded occasionally brings out clear and strong rays of the divine
quality, that illumine the moral darkness on which they shine,
as the sun touches the verge of the thunder-cloud. It is in this
way that an occasional report is heard, coming from no one
knows where; originating with, no one knows whom; circulating
in a sort of under-current beneath the torrents of falsehood, that
is singularly, if it be not absolutely correct.

Of this character was the strange rumour that found its way
into Biberry on the morning of Mary Monson's trial, touching
the history of that mysterious young woman's past life. Wilmeter
heard it, first, with a pang of disappointment, though Anna had
nearly regained her power in his heart; and this pang was immediately

succeeded by unbounded surprise. He told the tale to
Millington; and together they endeavoured to trace the report
to something like its source. All efforts of this nature were in
vain. One had heard the story from another; but no one could
say whence it came originally. The young men gave the pursuit
up as useless, and proceeded together towards the room of Timms,
where they knew Dunscomb was to be found, just at that time.

“It is remarkable that a story of this nature should be in such
general circulation,” said John, “and no one be able to tell who
brought it to Biberry. Parts of it seem extravagant. Do they
not strike you so, sir?”

“There is nothing too extravagant for some women to do,”
answered Millington, thoughtfully. “Now, on such a person as
Sarah, or even on Anna Updyke, some calculations might be
made — certain calculations, I might say; but, there are women,
Jack, on whom one can no more depend, than on the constancy
of the winds.”

“I admire your — `even on Anna Updyke!' ”

“Do you not agree with me?” returned the unobservant Millington.
“I have always considered Sarah's friend as a particularly
reliable and safe sort of person.

“Even on Anna Updyke! — and a particularly reliable and
safe sort of person!—You have thought this, Mike, because she
is Sarah's bosom friend!”

“That may have prejudiced me in her favour, I will allow;
for I like most things that Sarah likes.”

John looked at his friend and future brother-in-law with an
amused surprise; the idea of liking Anna Updyke on any account
but her own, striking him as particularly absurd. But they were
soon at Timms's door, and the conversation dropped as a matter
of course.

No one who has ever travelled much in the interior of America,
can easily mistake the character of one of the small edifices,

with the gable to the street, ornamented with what are erroneously
termed Venitian blinds, painted white, and with an air
of tobacco-smoke and the shabby-genteel about it, notwithstanding
its architectural pretensions. This is a lawyer's office, thus
brought edgeways to the street, as if its owner felt the necessity
of approaching the thoroughfare of the world a little less directly
than the rest of mankind. It often happens that these buildings,
small as they usually are, contain two, or even three rooms; and
that the occupants, if single men, sleep in them as well as transact
their business. Such was the case with Timms, his “office,”
as the structure was termed, containing his bed-room, in addition
to an inner and an outer apartment devoted to the purposes of
the law. Dunscomb was in the sanctum, while a single clerk and
three or four clients, countrymen of decent exterior and very
expecting countenances, occupied the outer room. John and
Millington went into the presence with little or no hesitation.

Wilmeter was not accustomed to much circumlocution; and
he at once communicated the substance of the strange rumour
that was in circulation, touching their interesting client. The
uncle listened with intense attention, turning pale as the nephew
proceeded. Instead of answering or making any comment, he
sank upon a chair, leaned his hands on a table and his head on
his hands, for fully a minute. All were struck with these signs
of agitation; but no one dared to interfere. At length, this
awkward pause came to a close, and Dunscomb raised his head,
the face still pale and agitated. His eye immediately sought that
of Millington.

“You had heard this story, Michael?” demanded the counsellor.

“I had, sir. John and I went together to try to trace it to
some authority.”

“With what success?”

“None whatever. It is in every one's mouth, but no one can

say whence it came. Most rumours have a clue, but this seems
to have none.”

“Do you trace the connection which has struck — which has
oppressed me?”

“I do, sir, and was so struck the moment I heard the rumour;
for the facts are in singular conformity with what you communicated
to me some months since.”

“They are, indeed, and create a strong probability that there
is more truth in this rumour than is commonly to be found in
such reports. What has become of Timms?”

“On the ground, 'Squire,” answered that worthy from the
outer room — “just despatching my clerk” — this word he pronounced
`clurk' instead of `clark,' by way of showing he knew
how to spell — “with a message to one of my men. He will find
him, and be with us in a minute.”

In the mean time, Timms had a word to say to each client in
succession; getting rid of them all by merely telling each man,
in his turn, there was not the shadow of doubt that he would get
the better of his opponent in the trial that was so near at hand.
It may be said here, as a proof how much a legal prophet may
be mistaken, Timms was subsequently beaten in each of these
three suits, to the great disappointment of as many anxious husbandmen,
each of whom fondly counted on success, from the oily
promises he had received.

In a very few minutes the agent expected by Timms appeared
in the office. He was plain-looking, rather rough and honest in
appearance, with a most wily, villanous leer of the eye. His
employer introduced him as Mr. Johnson.

“Well, Johnson, what news?” commenced Timms. “These
are friends to Mary Monson, and you can speak out, always
avoiding partic'lar partic'lars.”

Johnson leered, helped himself to a chew of tobacco with
great deliberation, a trick he had when he needed a moment of

thought before he made his revelations; bowed respectfully to
the great York lawyer; took a good look at each of the young
men, as if to measure their means of doing good or harm; and
then condescended to reply.

“Not very good,” was the answer. “That foreign instrument,
which they say is just such an one as David used when he played
before Saul, has done a good deal of harm. It won't do, 'Squire
Timms, to fiddle off an indictment for murder! Mankind gets
engaged in such causes; and if they desire music on the trial,
it's the music of law and evidence that they want.”

“Have you heard any reports concerning Mary Monson's past
life? — if so, can you tell where they come from?”

Johnson knew perfectly well whence a portion of the rumours
came; those which told in favour of the accused; but these he
easily comprehended were not the reports to which Timms
alluded.

“Biberry is full of all sorts of rumours,” returned Johnson,
cautiously, “as it commonly is in court-time. Parties like to
make the most of their causes.”

“You know my meaning — we have no time to lose; answer
at once.”

“I suppose I do know what you mean, 'Squire Timms; and
I have heard the report. In my judgment, the person who set
it afloat is no friend of Mary Monson's.”

“You think, then, it will do her damage?”

“To the extent of her neck. Eve, before she touched the
apple, could not have been acquitted in the face of such a rumour.
I look upon your client as a lost woman, 'Squire Timms.”

“Does that seem to be the common sentiment—that is, so far
as you can judge?”

“Among the jurors it does.”

“The jurors!” exclaimed Dunscomb—“what can you possibly
know of the opinions of the jurors, Mr. Johnson?”

A cold smile passed over the man's face, and he looked steadily
at Timms, as if to catch a clue that might conduct him safely
through the difficulties of his case. A frown that was plain
enough to the agent, though admirably concealed from all others
in the room, told him to be cautious.

“I only know what I see and hear. Jurors are men, and other
men can sometimes get an insight into their feelings, without
running counter to law. I heard the rumour related myself, in
the presence of seven of the panel. It's true, nothing was said
of the murder, or the arson; but such a history of the previous
life of the accused was given as Lady Washington couldn't have
stood up ag'in, had she been livin', and on trial for her life.”

“Was anything said of insanity?” asked Dunscomb.

“Ah, that plea will do no good, now-a-days; it's worn out.
They'd hang a murderer from Bedlam. Insanity has been overdone,
and can't be depended on any longer.”

“Was anything said on the subject?” repeated the counsellor.

“Why, to own the truth, there was; but, as that told for
Mary Monson, and not ag'in her, it was not pressed.”

“You think, then, that the story has been circulated by persons
in favour of the prosecution?”

“I know it. One of the other side said to me, not ten minutes
ago—`Johnson,' said he—`we are old friends'—he always
speaks to me in that familiar way—`Johnson,' said he, `you'd a
done better to have gi'n up. What's five thousand dollars to the
likes of her? and them you know is the figures.”

“This is a pretty exhibition of the manner of administering
justice!” exclaimed the indignant Dunscomb. “Long as I have
been at the bar, I had no conception that such practices prevailed.
At all events, this illegality will give a fair occasion to demand a
new trial.”

“Ay, the sharpest lawyer that ever crossed Harlem bridge
can l'arn something in old Duke's,” said Johnson, nodding.

“'Squire Timms will stand to that. As for new trials, I only
wonder the lawyers don't get one each time they are beaten; for
the law would bear them out.”

“I should like to know how, Master Johnson,” put in Timms.
“That would be a secret worth knowing.”

“A five-dollar note will buy it.”

“There's one of ten—now, tell me your secret.”

“Well, 'Squire, you be a gentleman, whatever folks may say
and think of you. I'd rather do business with you, by one-half,
than do business with Williams; notwithstanding he has such a
name, up and down the country. Stick to it, and you'll get the
nomination to the Sinat'; and the nomination secured, you're
sure of the seat. Nomination is the government of Ameriky;
and that's secured by a wonderful few!”

“I believe you are more than half right, Johnson” — Here
Dunscomb, his nephew, and Millington left the office, quite unnoticed
by the two worthies, who had entered on a subject as
engrossing as that of Timms's elevation to the Senate. And, by
the way, as this book is very likely to be introduced to the world,
it may be well enough to explain that we have two sorts of
“Senates” in this country; wheels within wheels. There is the
Senate of each State, without an exception now, we believe; and
there is the Senate of the United States; the last being, in every
sense, much the most dignified and important body. It being
unfortunately true, that “nominations” are the real people of
America, unless in cases which arouse the nation, the State Senates
very often contain members altogether unsuited to their
trusts; men who have obtained their seats by party legerdemain;
and who had much better, on their own account, as well as on
that of the public, be at home attending to their own private
affairs. This much may be freely said by any citizen, of a State
Senate, a collection of political partisans that commands no particular
respect; but, it is very different with that of the United

States; and we shall confine ourselves to saying, in reference to
that body, which it is the fashion of the times to reverence as
the most illustrious political body on earth, that it is not quite as
obnoxious to this judgment as the best of its sisterhood of the
several States; though very far from being immaculate, or what,
with a little more honesty in political leaders, it might be.

“I believe you are half right, Johnson,” answered Timms —
“Nomination is the government in this country; liberty, people,
and all! Let a man get a nomination on the right side, and
he's as good as elected. But, now for this mode of getting new
trials, Johnson?”

“Why, 'Squire, I'm amazed a man of your experience should
ask the question! The law is sharp enough in keeping jurors,
and constables, and door-keepers in their places; but the jurors,
and constables, and door-keepers, don't like to be kept in their
places; and there isn't one cause in ten, if they be of any length,
in which the jurors don't stray, or the constables don't get into
the jury-rooms. You can't pound free-born Americans like
cattle!”

“I understand you, Johnson, and will take the hint. I knew
there was a screw loose in this part of our jurisprudence, but did
not think it as important as I now see it is. The fact is, Johnson,
we have been telling the people so long that they are perfect,
and every man that he, in his own person, is one of these
people, that our citizens don't like to submit to restraints that
are disagreeable. Still, we are a law-abiding people, as every
one says.”

“That may be so, 'Squire; but we are not jury-room-abiding,
nor be the constables outside-of-the-door-abiding, take my word
for it. As you say, sir, every man is beginning to think he is a
part of the people, and a great part, too; and he soon gets the
notion that he can do as he has a mind to do.”

“Where is Mr. Dunscomb?”

“He stepp'd out with the young gentlemen, a few moments
since. I dare say, 'Squire Timms, he's gone to engage men to
talk down this rumour about Mary Monson. That job should
have been mine, by rights!”

“Not he, Johnson—not he. Your grand lawyers don't meddle
with such matters; or, when they do, they pretend not to. No,
he has gone to the gaol, and I must follow him.”

At the gaol was Dunscomb, sure enough. Mary Monson,
Anna and Sarah, with Marie Moulin, all dressed for the court;
the former with beautiful simplicity, but still more beautiful
care; the three last plainly, but in attire well suited to their respective
stations in life. There was a common air of concern and
anxiety; though Mary Monson still maintained her self-command.
Indeed, the quiet of her manner was truly wonderful, for the
circumstances.

“Providence has placed me in a most trying situation,” she
said; “but I see my course. Were I to shrink from this trial,
evade it in any manner, a blot would rest on my name as long as
I am remembered. It is indispensable that I should be acquitted.
This, by God's blessing on the innocent, must come to pass, and
I may go forth and face my friends with a quiet mind.”

“These friends ought to be known,” answered Dunscomb,
“and should be here to countenance you with their presence.”

“They! — He! — Never — while I live, never!”

“You see this young man, Mary Monson — I believe he is
known to you, by name?”

Mary Monson turned her face towards Millington, smiled
coldly, and seemed undisturbed.

“What is he to me?—Here is the woman of his heart; — let
him turn to her, with all his care.”

“You understand me, Mary Monson — it is important that I
should be assured of that.”

“Perhaps I do, Mr. Dunscomb, and perhaps I do not. You
are enigmatical this morning; I cannot be certain.”

“In one short half-hour the bell of yonder court-house will
ring, when you are to be tried for your life.”

The cheek of the accused blanched a little; but its colour
soon returned, while her eye assumed a look even prouder than
common.

“Let it come” — was her quiet answer — “the innocent need
not tremble. These two pure beings have promised to accompany
me to the place of trial, and to give me their countenance. Why,
then, should I hesitate?”

“I shall go, too” — said Millington, steadily, like one whose
mind was made up.

“You! — Well, for the sake of this dear one, you may go,
too.”

“For no other reason, Mary?”

“For no other reason, sir. I am aware of the interest you
and Mr. Wilmeter have taken in my case; and I thank you both
from the bottom of my heart. Ah! kindness was never lost on
me—”

A flood of tears, for the first time since her imprisonment, so
far as any one knew, burst from this extraordinary being; and,
for a few minutes, she became woman in the fullest meaning of
the term.

During this interval Dunscomb retired, perceiving that it was
useless to urge anything on his client while weeping almost convulsively;
and aware that he had several things to do before the
court met. Besides, he left the place quite satisfied on an allimportant
point; and he and Millington walked by themselves
towards the court-house, their heads close together, and their
voices reduced nearly to whispers.