University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

Earl of Essex.

The gaol presented a very different scene. A solemn stillness
reigned in its gallery; and even good Mrs. Gott had become
weary with the excitement of the day, and had retired to rest.
A single lamp was burning in the cell; and dark forms were
dimly visible in the passage, without the direct influence of its
rays. Two were seated, while a third paced the stone but carpeted
pavement, with a slow and quiet step. The first were the
shadowy forms of Anna Updyke and Marie Moulin; the last,
that of Mary Monson. For half an hour the prisoner had been
on her knees, praying for strength to endure a burthen that surpassed
her expectations; and, as is usual with those who look
above for aid, more especially women, she was reaping the benefit
of her petition. Not a syllable had she uttered, however, since
quitting the cell. Her voice, soft, melodious, and lady-like, was
now heard for the first time.

“My situation is most extraordinary, Anna,” she said; “it
proves almost too much for my strength! This has been a terrible
day, calm as I may have appeared; and I fear that the
morrow will be still harder to be borne. There is an expression
about the eyes of that man, Williams, that both alarms and disgusts
me. I am to expect in him a most fiery foe.”

“Why, then, do you not escape from scenes for which you are

so unsuited, and leave this saucy Williams to himself, and his
schemes of plunder?”

“That would not do. Several sufficient reasons exist for
remaining. Were I to avail myself of the use of the keys I
possess, and quit the gaol not to return, good Mrs. Gott and her
husband would probably both be ruined. Although they are
ignorant of what money and ingenuity have done for me, it would
be difficult to induce the world to believe them innocent. But a
still higher reason for remaining is the vindication of my own
character.”

“No one will think of confounding you with Mary Monson;
and by going abroad, as you say it is your intention to do, you
would effectually escape from even suspicion.”

“You little know the world, my dear. I see that all the
useful lessons I gave you, as your school-mamma, are already
forgotten. The six years between us in age have given me an
experience that tells me to do nothing of the sort. Nothing is
so certain to follow us as a bad name; though the good one is
easily enough forgotten. As Mary Monson, I am indicted for
these grievous crimes; as Mary Monson will I be acquitted of
them. I feel an affection for the character, and shall not degrade
it by any act as base as that of flight.”

“Why not, then, resort to the other means you possess, and
gain a speedy triumph in open court?”

As Anna put this question, Mary Monson came beneath the
light and stopped. Her handsome face was in full view, and her
friend saw an expression on it that gave her pain. It lasted only
a moment; but that moment was long enough to induce Anna to
wish she had not seen it. On several previous occasions this
same expression had rendered her uneasy; but the evil look was
soon forgotten in the quiet elegance of manners that borrowed
charms from a countenance usually as soft as the evening sky in
September. Ere she resumed her walk, Mary Monson shook her

head in dissent from the proposition of her friend, and passed on,
a shadowy but graceful form, as she went down the gallery.

“It would be premature,” she said, “and I should fail of my
object. I will not rob that excellent Mr. Dunscomb of his honest
triumph. How calm and gentlemanlike he was to-day; yet how
firm and prompt, when it became necessary to show these qualities.”

“Uncle Tom is all that is good; and we love him as we would
love a parent.”

A pause succeeded, during which Mary Monson walked along
the gallery once, in profound thought.

“Yours promises to be a happy future, my dear,” she said.
“Of suitable ages, tempers, stations, country — yes, country; for
an American woman should never marry a foreigner!”

Anna Updyke did not reply; and a silence succeeded that was
interrupted by the rattling of a key in the outer door.

“It is your new father, Anna, come to see you home. Thank
you, kind-hearted and most generous-minded girl. I feel the
sacrifices that you and your friend are making in my behalf, and
shall carry the recollection of them to the grave. On her, I had
no claims at all; and on you, but those that are very slight.
You have been to me, indeed, most excellent friends, and a great
support when both were most needed. Of my own sex, and of
the same social level, I do not now see how I should have got on
without you. Mrs. Gott is kindness and good-nature themselves;
but she is so different from us in a thousand things, that I have
often been pained by it. In our intercourse with you, how different!
Knowing so much, you pry into nothing. Not a question,
not a look to embarrass me; and with a perfect and saint-like
reliance on my innocence, were I a sister, your support could not
be more warm-hearted or firm.”

After a short pause, in which this singular young woman
smiled, and appeared to be talking to herself, she continued,

after kissing her companion most affectionately for good-night,
and walking with her as far as the door of the gallery, where it
had been announced that the doctor was waiting for his stepdaughter—

“I wish I knew whether the same faith goes through the connection
— Mr. John Wilmeter?”

“Oh! He is persuaded of your entire innocence. It was he
who excited so much interest in me, on your behalf, before I had
the least idea of our having ever met before.”

“He is a noble-hearted young man, and'has many excellent
qualities — a little romantic, but none the worse for that, my
dear, as you will find in the end. Alas! alas! Those marriages
that are made over a rent-roll, or an inventory, need a great deal
of something very different from what they possess, to render
them happy! Mr. Wilmeter has told me that no evidence
could make him believe in my guilt. There is a confidence that
might touch a woman's heart, Anna, did circumstances admit of
such a thing. I like that Michael Millington, too; the name is
dear to me, as is the race of which he comes. No matter; the world
va son train, let us regret and repine as we may. And Uncle
Tom, Anna — what do you think of his real opinion? Is it in
my favour or not?”

Anna Updyke had detected in Dunscomb a disposition to
doubt, and was naturally averse to communicating a fact so unpleasant
to her friend. Kissing the latter affectionately, she
hurried away to meet McBrain, already waiting for her without.
In quitting the dwelling of the building annexed to the gaol,
the doctor and Anna met Timms hurrying forward to seek an
interview with his client before she retired to rest. An application
at once obtained permission for the limb of the law to
enter.

“I have come, Miss Mary,” as Timms now called his client,
“on what I fear will prove a useless errand; but which I have

thought it my duty to see performed, as your best friend, and
one of your legal advisers. You have already heard what I had
to say on the subject of a certain proposal of the next of kin to
withdraw from the prosecution, which will carry with him this
Williams, with whom I should think you would, by this time,
be heartily disgusted. I come now to say that this offer is
repeated with a good deal of emphasis, and that you have still
an opportunity of lessening the force that is pressing on your
interests, by at least one-half. Williams may well count for
more than half of the vigour and shrewdness of what is doing
for the State in your case.”

“The proposal must be more distinctly made, and you must
let me have a clear view of what is expected from me, Mr. Timms,
before I can give any reply,” said Mary Monson. “But you
may wish to be alone with me before you are more explicit. I
will order my woman to go into the cell.”

“It might be more prudent were we to go into the cell ourselves,
and leave your domestic outside. These galleries carry
sounds like ear-trumpets; and we never know who may be our
next neighbour in a gaol.”

Mary Monson quietly assented to the proposal, calling to her
woman in French to remain outside, in the dark, while she profited
by the light of the lamp in the cell. Timms followed, and
closed the door.

In size, form, and materials, the cell of Mary Monson was
necessarily like that of every other inmate of the gaol. Its sides,
top and bottom, were of massive stones; the two last being flags
of great dimensions. But taste and money had converted even
this place into an apartment that was comfortable in all respects
but that of size. Two cells opening on the section of gallery
that the consideration of Mrs. Gott had caused to be screened
off, and appropriated to the exclusive use of the fair prisoner,
one had been furnished as a sleeping apartment, while that in

which Timms was now received had more the air of a sort of
boudoir. It was well carpeted, like all the rest of what might
be termed the suite; and had a variety of those little elegancies
that women of cultivated tastes and ample means are almost certain
to gather about them. The harp which had occasioned so
much scandal, as well as a guitar, stood near by; and chairs of
different forms and various degrees of comfort, crowded the room,
perhaps to superfluity. As this was the first time Timms had
been admitted to the cell, he was all eyes, gazing about him at
the numerous signs of wealth it contained, with inward satisfaction.
It was a minute after he was desired to be seated before
he could comply, so lively was the curiosity to be appeased. It
was during this minute that Marie Moulin lighted four candles,
that were already arranged in bronzed candlesticks, making a
blaze of light for that small room. These candles were of spermaceti,
the ordinary American substitute for wax. Nothing that
he then saw, or had ever seen in his intercourse with his client,
so profoundly impressed Timms as this luxury of light. Accustomed
himself to read and write by a couple of small inferior
articles in tallow, when he did not use a lamp, there seemed to
be something regal to his unsophistieated imagination, in this
display of brilliancy.

Whether Mary Monson had a purpose to answer in giving
Timms so unusual a reception, we shall leave the reader to discover
by means of his own sagacity; but circumstances might
well lead one to the conclusion that she had. There was a satisfied
look, as she glanced around the cell and surveyed its arrangements,
that possibly led fairly enough to such an inference.
Nevertheless, her demeanour was perfectly quiet, betraying none
of the fidgeting uneasiness of an underbred person, lest all might
not be right. Every arrangement was left to the servant; and
when Marie Moulin finally quitted the cell and closed the door
behind her, every thought of the apartment and what it contained

seemed to vanish from the mind of her extraordinary
mistress.

“Before you proceed to communicate the purpose of your visit,
Mr. Timms,” Mary Monson said, “I shall ask permission to put
a few questions of my own, touching the state of our cause.
Have we gained or lost by this day's proceedings?”

“Most clearly gained, as every man at the bar will confirm by
his opinion.”

“That has been my own way of thinking; and I am glad to
hear it corroborated by such competent judges. I confess the
prosecution does not seem to me to show the strength it really
possesses. This Jane Pope made a miserable blunder about the
piece of coin.”

“She has done the other side no great good, certainly.”

“How stands the jury, Mr. Timms?”

Although this question was put so directly, Timms heard it
with uneasiness. Nor did he like the expression of Mary Monson's
eyes, which seemed to regard him with a keenness that
might possibly imply distrust. But it was necessary to answer;
though he did so with caution, and with a due regard to his own
safety.

“It is pretty well,” he said, “though not quite as much
opposed to capital punishment as I had hoped for. We challenged
off one of the sharpest chaps in the county, and have got in his
place a man who is pretty much under my thumb.”

“And the stories — the reports — have they been well circulated?”

“A little too well, I'm afraid. That concerning your having
married a Frenchman, and having run away from him, has gone
through all the lower towns of Duke's like wild-fire. It has even
reached the ears of 'Squire Dunscomb, and will be in the York
papers to-morrow.”

A little start betrayed the surprise of the prisoner; and a look

accompanied it, which would seem to denote dissatisfaction that a
tale put in circulation by herself, as it would now appear, had
gone quite so far.

“Mr. Dunscomb!” she repeated, musingly. “Anna Updyke's
uncle Tom; and one whom such a story may very well set thinking.
I wish it had not reached him, of all men, Mr. Timms.”

“If I may judge of his opinions by some little acts and expressions
that have escaped him, I am inclined to think he
believes the story to be, in the main, true.”

Mary Monson smiled; and, as was much her wont when thinking
intensely, her lips moved; even a low muttering became
audible to a person as near as her companion then was.

“It is now time, Mr. Timms, to set the other story in motion,”
she said, quickly. “Let one account follow the other; that will
distract people's belief. We must be active in this matter.”

“There is less necessity for our moving in the affair, as Williams
has got a clue to it, by some means or other; and his men
will spread it far and near, long before the cause goes to the
jury.”

“That is fortunate!” exclaimed the prisoner, actually clapping
her pretty gloved hands together in delight. “A story as terrible
as that must react powerfully, when its falsehood comes to be
shown. I regard that tale as the cleverest of all our schemes,
Mr. Timms.”

“Why — yes — that is — I think, Miss Mary, it may be set
down as the boldest.”

“And this saucy Williams, as you call him, has got hold of it
already, and believes it true!”

“It is not surprising; there are so many small and probable
facts accompanying it.”

“I suppose you know what Shakspeare calls such an invention,
Mr. Timms?” said Mary Monson, smiling.

“I am not particularly acquainted with that author, ma'am.

I know there was such a writer, and that he was thought a good
deal of, in his day; but I can't say I have ever read him.”

The beautiful prisoner turned her large expressive blue eyes
on her companion with a gaze of wonder; but her breeding prevented
her from uttering what she certainly thought and felt.

“Shakspeare is a writer very generally esteemed,” she answered,
after one moment of muttering, and one moment to control
herself; “I believe he is commonly placed at the head of
our English literature, if not at the head of that of all times
and nations — Homer, perhaps, excepted.”

“What! higher, do you think, Miss Mary, than Blackstone
and Kent!”

“Those are authors of whom I know nothing, Mr. Timms;
but now, sir, I will listen to your errand here to-night.”

“It is the old matter. Williams has been talking to me again,
touching the five thousand dollars.”

“Mr. Williams has my answer. If five thousand cents would
buy him off, he should not receive them from me.”

This was said with a frown; and then it was that the observer
had an opportunity of tracing in a face otherwise so lovely, the
lines that indicate self-will, and a spirit not easily controlled.
Alas! that women should ever so mistake their natural means to
influence and guide, as to have recourse to the exercise of agents
that they rarely wield with effect; and ever with a sacrifice of
womanly character and womanly grace. The person who would
draw the sex from the quiet scenes that they so much embellish,
to mingle in the strifes of the world; who would place them in
stations that nature has obviously intended men should occupy,
is not their real friend, any more than the weak adviser who
resorts to reputed specifics when the knife alone can effect a cure.
The Creator intended woman for a “help-meet,” and not for the
head of the family circle; and most fatally ill-judging are the
laws that would fain disturb the order of a domestic government

which is directly derived from divine wisdom as from divine
benevolence.

“I told him as much, Miss Mary,” answered Timms; “but
he does not seem disposed to take `no' for an answer. Williams
has the true scent for a dollar.”

“I am quite certain of an acquittal, Mr. Timms; and having
endured so much, and hazarded so much, I do not like to throw
away the triumph of my approaching victory. There is a powerful
excitement in my situation; and I like excitement to weakness,
perhaps. No, no; my success must not be tarnished by
any such covert bargain. I will not listen to the proposal for
an instant!”

“I understand that the raising of the sum required would
form no particular obstacle to the arrangement?” asked Timms,
in a careless sort of way that was intended to conceal the real
interest he took in the reply.

“None at all. The money might be in his hands before the
court sits in the morning; but it never shall be, as coming from
me. Let Mr. Williams know this definitively; and tell him to
do his worst.”

Timms was a little surprised, and a good deal uneasy at this
manifestation of a spirit of defiance, which could produce no
good, and which might be productive of evil. While he was
delighted to hear, for the fourth or fifth time, how easy it would
be for his fair client to command a sum as large as that demanded,
he secretly determined not to let the man who had sent him on
his present errand know the temper in which it had been received
Williams was sufficiently dangerous as it was; and he saw all the
hazard of giving him fresh incentives to increase his exertions.

“And now, as this matter is finally disposed of, Mr. Timms—
for I desire that it may not be again mentioned to me”—resumed
the accused, “let us say a word more on the subject of our new
report. Your agent has set on foot a story that I belong to a

gang of wretches who are combined to prey on society; and that,
in this character, I came into Duke's to carry out one of its nefarious
schemes?”

“That is the substance of the rumour we have started at your
own desire; though I could wish it were not quite so strong, and
that there were more time for the reaction.”

“The strength of the rumour is its great merit; and, as for
time, we have abundance for our purposes. Reaction is the great
power of popularity, as I have heard, again and again. It is
always the most effective, too, at the turn of the tide. Let the
public once get possessed with the notion that a rumour so injurious
has been in circulation at the expense of one in my cruel
condition, and the current of feeling will set the other way in a
torrent that nothing can arrest!”

“I take the idea, Miss Mary, which is well enough for certain
cases, but a little too hazardous for this. Suppose it should be
ascertained that this report came from us?”

“It never can be, if the caution I directed was observed. You
have not neglected my advice, Mr. Timms?”

The attorney had not; and great had been his surprise at the
ingenuity and finesse manifested by this singular woman, in setting
afloat a report that would certainly act to her injury, unless arrested
and disproved at a moment most critical in her future fate. Nevertheless,
in obedience to Mary Monson's positive commands,
this very bold measure had been undertaken; and Timms was
waiting with impatience for the information by means of which
he was to counteract these self-inflicted injuries, and make them
the instruments of good, on the reaction.

If that portion of society which takes delight in gossip could
be made to understand the real characters of those to whom they
commit the control of their opinions, not to say principles, there
would be far more of reserve and self-respect observed in the
submission to this social evil, than there is at present. Malice,

the inward impulses of the propagators of a lie, and cupidity,
are at the bottom of half the tales that reach our ears; and in
those cases in which the world in its ignorance fancies it has
some authority for what it says, it as often happens that some
hidden motive is at the bottom of the exhibition as the one which
seems so apparent. There are a set of vulgar vices that may be
termed the “stereotyped,” they lie so near the surface of human
infirmities. They who are most subject to their influence always
drag these vices first into the arena of talk; and fully one-half
of that of this nature which we hear, has its origin as much in
the reflective nature of the gossip's own character, as in any facts
truly connected with the acts of the subjects of his or her stories.

But Mary Monson was taking a far higher flight than the
circulation of an injurious rumour. She believed herself to be
putting on foot a master-stroke of policy. In her intercourse
with Timms, so much was said of the power of opinion, that
she had passed hours, nay days, in the study of the means to
control and counteract it. Whence she obtained her notion
of the virtue of reaction it might not be easy to say; but her
theory was not without its truth; and it is certain that her means
of producing it were of remarkable simplicity and ingenuity.

Having settled the two preliminaries of the rumour and of
Williams's proposition, Timms thought the moment favourable
to making a demonstration in his own affairs. Love he did not
yet dare to propose openly; though he had now been, for some
time, making covert demonstrations towards the tender passion.
In addition to the motive of cupidity, one of great influence with
such a man, Timms's heart, such as it was, had really yielded to
the influence of a beauty, manners, accomplishments, and information,
all of a class so much higher than he had been accustomed
to meet with, as to be subjects of wonder with him, not to
say of adoration. This man had his affections as well as another;
and, while John Wilmeter had submitted to a merely passing

inclination, as much produced by the interest he took in an unknown
female's situation as by any other cause, poor Timms had
been hourly falling more and more in love. It is a tribute to
nature, that this passion can be, and is, felt by all. Although a
purifying sentiment, the corrupt and impure can feel its power,
and, in a greater or less degree, submit to its influence, though
their homage may be tainted by the grosser elements that are so
largely mixed up with the compound of their characters. We
may have occasion to show hereafter how far the uncouth attorney
of Mary Monson succeeded in his suit with his fair client.