“Sir, this is the house; please it you, that I call?”
_Taming of the Shrew._
The grated window which John Wilmeter now approached, commanded nearly
an entire view of the gallery that communicated with the cell of Mary
Monson. It also commanded a partial view of the cell itself. As he
looked through the grates, he saw how neat and comfortable the last had
been made by means of Mrs. Gott’s care, aided, doubtless, by some of the
prisoner’s money—that gold which was, in fact, the strongest and only
very material circumstance against her. Mrs. Gott had put a carpet in
the cell, and divers pieces of furniture that were useful, as well as
two or three that were intended to be ornamental, rendering the
otherwise gloomy little apartment tolerably cheerful. The gallery, much
to John’s surprise, had been furnished, also. Pieces of new carpeting
were laid on the flags, chairs and table had been provided, and among
other articles of this nature, was a very respectable looking-glass.
Everything appeared new, and as if just sent from the different shops
where the various articles were sold. Wilmeter fancied that not less
than a hundred dollars had been expended in furnishing that gallery. The
effect was surprising; taking away from the place its chilling,
jail-like air, and giving to it, what it had never possessed before, one
of household comfort.
Mary Monson was walking to and fro, in this gallery, with slow,
thoughtful steps, her head a little bowed, and her hands hanging before
her, with the fingers interlocked. So completely was she lost in
thought, that John’s footstep, or presence at the grate, was not
observed, and he had an opportunity to watch her for near a minute,
unseen himself. The occupation was not exactly excusable; but, under all
the circumstances, young Wilmeter felt as if it might be permitted. It
was his duty to ascertain all he fairly might, concerning his client.
It has already been said that this strange girl, extraordinary by her
situation as a person accused of crimes so heinous, and perhaps still
more so by her manner of bearing up against the terrors and
mortifications of her condition, as well as by the mystery which so
completely veiled her past life, was not a beauty, in the common
acceptation of the term. Nevertheless, not one female in ten thousand
would sooner ensnare the heart of a youth, by means of her personal
attractions alone. It was not regularity of features, nor brilliancy of
complexion, nor lustre of the eyes, nor any of the more ordinary charms,
that gave her this power; but an indescribable union of feminine traits,
in which intellectual gifts, spirit, tenderness, and modesty, were so
singularly blended, as to leave it questionable which had the advantage.
Her eyes were of a very gentle and mild expression, when in a state of
rest; excited, they were capable of opening windows to the inmost soul.
Her form was faultless; being the true medium between vigorous health
and womanly delicacy; which, in this country, implies much less of the
robust and solid than one meets with in the other hemisphere.
It is not easy to tell how we acquire those in-and-in habits, which get
to be a sort of second nature, and almost bestow on us new instincts. It
is by these secret sympathies, these tastes that pervade the moral, as
the nerves form a natural telegraph through the physical, system, that
one _feels_ rather than _sees_, when he is in the company of persons in
his own class in life. Dress will not afford an infallible test, on such
an occasion, though the daw is instantly seen not to be the peacock;
neither will _ad_dress, for the distinctive qualities lie much deeper
than the surface. But so it is; a gentleman can hardly be brought into
the company of man or woman, without his at once perceiving whether he
or she belong to his own social caste or not. What is more, if a man of
the world, he detects almost instinctively the _degrees_ of caste, as
well as the greater subdivisions, and knows whether his strange
companions have seen much, or little; whether their gentility is merely
the result of the great accident, with its customary advantages, or has
been smoothed over by a liberal intercourse with the better classes of a
general society. Most of all, may a travelled person be known—and that
more especially in a provincial country, like our own—from one that has
not travelled; though the company kept in other lands necessarily draws
an obvious distinction between the last. Now, John Wilmeter, always
mingling with the best society of his own country, had also been abroad,
and had obtained that “second sight” which so insensibly, but certainly,
increases the vision of all Americans who enjoy the advantage of
acquiring it. What is more, though his years and the plans of his uncle
for his future welfare, had prevented his staying in Europe long enough
to receive all the benefit such a tour can bestow, he had remained long
enough to pass beyond the study of merely physical things; and had made
certain acquisitions in other matters, more essential to tastes, if not
to character. When an American returns from an excursion into the old
world, with “I come back better satisfied than ever with my own
country,” it is an infallible sign that he did not stay long enough
abroad; and when he returns only to find fault, it is equally proof that
he has stayed too long. There is a happy medium which teaches something
near the truth, and that would tell us that there are a thousand things
to be amended and improved at home, while there are almost as many
enjoyed, that the oldest and most polished people on earth might envy.
John Wilmeter had not reached the point that enabled him to make the
nicest distinctions, but he was sufficiently advanced to have detected
what he conceived to be signs that this singular young creature,
unknown, unsupported by any who appeared to take an interest in her,
besides himself and the accidental acquaintances formed under the most
painful circumstances, had been abroad; perhaps, had been educated
there. The regulated tones of one of the sweetest voices he had ever
heard, the distinctness and precision of her utterance, as far as
possible removed from mouthing and stiffness, but markedly quiet and
even, with a total absence of all the affectations of boarding-school
grammar, were so many proofs of even a European education, as he
fancied; and before that week was terminated, John had fully made up his
mind that Mary Monson—though an American by birth, about which there
could be no dispute—had been well taught in some of the schools of the
old world.
This was a conclusion not reached immediately. He had to be favoured
with several interviews, and to worm himself gradually into the
confidence of his uncle’s client, ere he could be permitted to see
enough of the subject of his studies to form an opinion so abstruse and
ingenious.
When Mary Monson caught a glimpse of John Wilmeter’s head at her
grate—where he stood respectfully uncovered, as in a lady’s presence—a
slight flush passed over her face; but expecting him, as she did, she
could not well be surprised.
“This bears some resemblance, Mr. Wilmeter, to an interview in a
convent,” she then said, with a slight smile, but with perfect composure
of manner. “I am the novice—and novice am I, indeed, to scenes like
this—you, the excluded friend, who is compelled to pay his visit through
a grate! I must apologize for all the trouble I am giving you.”
“Do not name it—I cannot be better employed than in your behalf. I am
rejoiced that you sustain yourself so well against what must be a most
unheard-of calamity, for one like yourself, and cannot but admire the
admirable equanimity with which you bear your cruel fortune.”
“Equanimity!” repeated Mary with emphasis, and a slight display of
intense feeling, powerfully controlled; “if it be so, Mr. Wilmeter, it
must be from the sense of security that I feel. Yes; for the first time
in months, I do feel myself safe—secure.”
“Safe!—Secure!—What, in a gaol?”
“Certainly; gaols are intended for places of security, are they not?”
answered Mary, smiling, but faintly and with a gleam of sadness on her
face. “This may appear wonderful to you, but I do tell no more than
sober truth, in repeating that, for the first time in months, I have now
a sense of security. I am what you call in the hands of the law, and one
there must be safe from everything but what the law can do to her. Of
that I have no serious apprehensions, and I feel happy.”
“Happy!”
“Yes; by comparison, happy. I tell you this the more willingly, for I
plainly see you feel a generous interest in my welfare—an interest which
exceeds that of the counsel in his client——”
“A thousand times exceeds it, Miss Monson!—Nay—is not to be named with
it!”
“I thank you, Mr. Wilmeter—from my heart I thank you,” returned the
prisoner, a slight flush passing over her features, while her eyes were
cast towards the floor. “I believe you are one of strong feelings and
quick impulses, and am grateful that these have been in my favour, under
circumstances that might well have excused you for thinking the worst.
From the hints of this kind woman, Mrs. Gott, I am afraid that the
opinion of Biberry is less consoling?”
“You must know how it is in country villages, Miss Monson,—every one has
something to say, and every one brings all things down to the level of
his own knowledge and understanding.”
Mary Monson smiled, again; this time more naturally, and without any
painful expression to lessen the bright influence that lighting up of
her features gave to a countenance so remarkable for its appearance of
illumination from within.
“Is not such the case in towns, as well as in villages, Mr. Wilmeter?”
she asked.
“Perhaps it is—but I mean that the circle of knowledge is more confined
in a place like this, than in a large town, and that the people here
could not well go beyond it.”
“Biberry is so near New York, that I should think, taking class against
class, no great difference can be found in their inhabitants. That which
the good folk of Biberry think of my case, I am afraid will be thought
of it by those of your own town.”
“_My_ own town?—and are you not really from New York, Miss Monson?”
“In no manner,” answered Mary, once more smiling; this time, however,
because she understood how modestly and readily her companion was
opening a door by which she might let a secret she had declined to
reveal to his uncle, escape. “I am not what you call a Manhattanese, in
either descent, birth, or residence; in no sense, whatever.”
“But, surely, you have never been educated in the country?—You must
belong to some large town—your manners show that—I mean that you——”
“Do not belong to Biberry. In that you are quite right, sir. I had never
seen Biberry three months since; but, as for New York, I have not passed
a month there, in my whole life. The longest visit I ever paid you, was
one of ten days, when I landed, coming from Havre, about eighteen months
since.”
“From Havre! Surely, you are an American, Miss Monson—our own
countrywoman?”
“Your own countrywoman, Mr. Wilmeter, by birth, descent, and feelings.
But an American female may visit Europe.”
“Certainly; and be educated there, as I had already suspected was your
case.”
“In part it was, and in part if was not.” Here Mary paused, looked a
little arch, seemed to hesitate, and to have some doubts whether she
ought to proceed, or not; but finally added—“You have been abroad,
yourself?”
“I have. I was nearly three years in Europe; and have not been home yet,
quite a twelvemonth.”
“You went into the east, I believe, after passing a few months in the
Pyrenees?” continued the prisoner, carelessly.
“You are quite right; we travelled as far as Jerusalem. The journey has
got to be so common, that it is no longer dangerous. Even ladies make
it, now, without any apprehension.”
“I am aware of that, having made it myself——”
“You, Miss Monson! You been at Jerusalem!”
“Why not, Mr. Wilmeter? You say, yourself, that females constantly make
the journey; why not I, as well as another?”
“I scarce know, myself; but it is so strange—all about you is so very
extraordinary——”
“You think it extraordinary that one of my sex, who has been partly
educated in Europe, and who has travelled in the Holy Land, should be
shut up in this gaol in Biberry—is it not so?”
“That is one view of the matter, I will confess; but it was scarcely
less strange, that such a person should be dwelling in a garret-room of
a cottage, like that of these unfortunate Goodwins.”
“That touches on my secret, sir; and no more need be said. You may judge
how important I consider that secret, when I know its preservation
subjects me to the most cruel distrust; and that, too, in the minds of
those with whom I would so gladly stand fair. Your excellent uncle, for
instance, and—yourself.”
“I should be much flattered, could I think the last—I who have scarcely
the claim of an acquaintance.”
“You forget the situation in which your respectable and most worthy
uncle has left you here, Mr. Wilmeter; which, of itself, gives you
higher claims to my thanks and confidence than any that mere
acquaintance could bestow. Besides, we are not”—another arch, but
scarcely perceptible, smile again illuminated that remarkable
countenance—“the absolute strangers to each other, that you seem to
think us.”
“Not strangers? You amaze me! If I have ever had the honour——”
“Honour!” interrupted Mary, a little bitterly. “It is truly a great
honour to know one in my situation!”
“I esteem it an honour; and no one has a right to call in question my
sincerity. If we have ever met before, I will frankly own that I am
ignorant of both the time and place.”
“This does not surprise me, in the least. The time is long, for persons
as young as ourselves, and the place was far away. Ah! those were happy
days for me, and most gladly would I return to them! But we have talked
enough on this subject. I have declined telling my tale to your most
excellent and very respectable uncle; you will, therefore, the more
easily excuse me, if I decline telling it to you.”
“Who am not ‘most excellent and very respectable,’ to recommend me.”
“Who are too near my own age, to make you a proper confidant, were there
no other objection. The character that I learned of you, when we met
before, Mr. Wilmeter, was, however, one of which you have no reason to
be ashamed.”
This was said gently, but earnestly; was accompanied by a most winning
smile, and was instantly succeeded by a slight blush. John Wilmeter
rubbed his forehead, sooth to say, in a somewhat stupid manner, as if
expecting to brighten his powers of recollection by friction. A sudden
change was given to the conversation, however, by the fair prisoner
herself, who quietly resumed—
“We will defer this part of the subject to another time. I did not
presume to send for you, Mr. Wilmeter, without an object, having your
uncle’s authority for giving you all this trouble——”
“And my own earnest request to be permitted to serve you, in any way I
could.”
“I have not forgotten that offer, nor shall I ever. The man who is
willing to serve a woman, whom all around her frown on, has a fair claim
to be remembered. Good Mrs. Gott and yourself are the only two friends I
have in Biberry. Even your companion, Mr. Millington, is a little
disposed to judge me harshly.”
John started; the movement was so natural, that his honest countenance
would have betrayed him, had he been disposed to deny the imputation.
“That Millington has fallen into the popular notion about here, I must
allow, Miss Monson; but he is an excellent fellow at the bottom, and
will hear reason. Prejudices that are beyond reason are detestable, and
I generally avoid those whose characters manifest this weakness; but
Mike will always listen to what he calls ‘law and facts,’ and so we get
along very well together.”
“It is fortunate; since you are about to be so nearly connected——”
“Connected! Is it possible that _you_ know this circumstance?”
“You will find in the end, Mr. Wilmeter,” returned the prisoner,
smiling—this time, naturally, as one manifests satisfaction without pain
of any sort—“that I know more of your private affairs than you had
supposed. But let me come to business, if you please, sir; I have great
occasion here for a maid-servant. Do you not think that Miss Wilmeter
might send me one from town?”
“A servant! I know the very woman that will suit you. A perfect jewel,
in her way!”
“That is a very housekeeper sort of a character,” rejoined Mary,
absolutely laughing, in spite of her prison walls, and all the tenable
charges that had brought her within them; “just such a character as I
might have expected from Dr. McBrain’s intended, Mrs. Updyke——”
“And you know it, too! Why will you not tell us more, since you tell us
so much?”
“In good time, I suppose all will come out. Well, I endeavour to submit
to my fate; or to the will of God!” There was no longer anything merry,
in voice, face, or manner, but a simple, natural pathos was singularly
mixed in the tones with which these few words were uttered. Then rousing
herself, she gravely resumed the subject which had induced her to send
for John.
“You will pardon me, if I say that I would prefer a woman chosen and
recommended by your sister, Mr. Wilmeter, than one chosen and
recommended by yourself,” said Mary. “When I shall have occasion for a
footman, I will take your advice. It is very important that I should
engage a respectable, discreet woman; and I will venture to write a
line, myself, to Miss Wilmeter, if you will be so kind as to send it. I
know this is not the duty of a counsel; but you see my situation. Mrs.
Gott has offered to procure a girl for me, it is true; but the prejudice
is so strong against me in Biberry, that I doubt if the proper sort of
person could be obtained. At any rate, I should be receiving a spy into
my little household, instead of a domestic, in whom I could place
confidence.”
“Sarah would join me in recommending Marie, who has been with herself
more than two years, and only left her to take care of her father, in
his last illness. Another, equally excellent, has been taken in her
place; and now, that she wishes to return to my sister’s service, there
is no opening for her. Mike Millington is dying to return to town, and
will gladly go over this evening. By breakfast-time to-morrow, the woman
might be here, if——”
“She will consent to serve a mistress in my cruel situation. I feel the
full weight of the objection, and know how difficult it will be to get a
female, who values her character as a servant, to enter on such an
engagement. You called this woman Marie; by that, I take it she is a
foreigner?”
“A Swiss—her parents emigrated; but I knew her in the service of an
American family, abroad, and got her for Sarah. She is the best creature
in the world—if she can be persuaded to come.”
“Had she been an American, I should have despaired of succeeding unless
her feelings could have been touched; but, as she is a foreigner,
perhaps money will procure her services. Should Miss Wilmeter approve of
your selection, sir, I will intreat her to go as high as fifty dollars a
month, rather than not get the sort of person I want. You can imagine
how much importance I attach to success. To escape remarks and
gossiping, the person engaged can join me as a companion, or friend, and
not as a servant.”
“I will get Mike off in half an hour, and Sarah will at least make an
effort. Yes, Marie Moulin, or Mary Mill, as the girls call her, is just
the thing!”
“Marie Moulin! Is that the name of the woman? She who was in the service
of the Barringers, at Paris? Do you mean _that_ person—five-and-thirty,
slightly pock-marked, with light blue eyes, and yellowish hair—more like
a German, than her French name would give reason to expect?”
“The very same; and you knew her, _too_! Why not bring all your friends
around you at once, Miss Monson, and not remain here an hour longer than
is necessary.”
Mary was too intent on the subject of engaging the woman in question, to
answer this last appeal. Earnestly did she resume her instructions,
therefore, and with an eagerness of manner young Wilmeter had never
before observed in her.
“If Marie Moulin be the person meant,” she said, “I will spare no pains
to obtain her services. Her attentions to poor Mrs. Barringer, in her
last illness, were admirable; and we all loved her, I may say. Beg your
sister to tell her, Mr. Wilmeter, that an old acquaintance, in distress,
implores her assistance. That will bring Marie, sooner than money, Swiss
though she be.”
“If you would write her a line, enclosing your real name, for we are
persuaded it is not Monson, it might have more effect than all our
solicitations, in behalf of one that is unknown.”
The prisoner turned slowly from the grate, and walked up and down her
gallery for a minute or two, as if pondering on this proposal. Once she
smiled, and it almost gave a lustre to her remarkable countenance; then
a cloud passed over her face, and once more she appeared sad.
“No,” she said, stopping near the grate again, in one of her turns. “I
will not do it—it will be risking too much. I can do nothing, just now,
that will tell more of me than your sister can state.”
“Should Marie Moulin know you, she must recognise you when you meet.”
“It will be wiser to proceed a little in the dark. I confide all to your
powers of negotiation, and shall remain as tranquil as possible, until
to-morrow morning. There is still another little affair that I must
trouble you with, Mr. Wilmeter. My gold is sequestered, as you know, and
I am reduced to an insufficient amount of twos and threes. Might I ask
the favour of you to obtain smaller notes for this, without mentioning
in whose behalf it is done?”
While speaking, Mary handed through the grate a hundred dollar note of
one of the New York banks, with a manner so natural and unpretending, as
at once to convince John Wilmeter, ever so willing to be persuaded into
anything in her favour, that she was accustomed to the use of money in
considerable sums; or, what might be considered so, for the wants and
habits of a female. Luckily, he had nearly money enough in his wallet to
change the note, making up a small balance that was needed, by drawing
five half-eagles from his purse. The prisoner held the last, in the open
palm of one of the most beautiful little hands the eyes of man ever
rested on.
“This metal has been my bane, in more ways than one, Mr. Wilmeter,” she
said, looking mournfully at the coin. “Of one of its evil influences on
my fate, I may not speak, now, if ever; but you will understand me when
I say, that I fear that gold piece of Italian money is the principal
cause of my being where I am.”
“No doubt, it has been considered one of the most material of the facts
against you, Miss Monson; though it is by no means conclusive, as
evidence, even with the most bitter and prejudiced.”
“I hope not. Now, Mr. Wilmeter, I will detain you no longer; but beg you
to do my commission with your sister, as you would do it for her with
me. I would write, but my hand is so peculiar, it were better that I did
not.”
Mary Monson now dismissed the young man, with the manner of one very
familiar with the tone of good society—a term that it is much the
fashion to ridicule just now, but which conveys a meaning, that it were
better the scoffers understood. This she did, however, after again
apologising for the trouble she was giving, and thanking him earnestly
for the interest he took in her affairs. We believe in animal magnetism;
and cannot pretend to say what is the secret cause of the powerful
sympathy that is so often suddenly awakened between persons of different
sexes, and, in some instances, between those who are of the same sex;
but Mary Monson, by that species of instinct that teaches the female
where she has awakened an interest livelier than common, and possibly
where she has not, was certainly already aware that John Wilmeter did
not regard her with the same cool indifference he would have felt
towards an ordinary client of his uncle’s. In thanking him, therefore,
her own manner manifested a little of the reflected feeling that such a
state of things is pretty certain to produce. She coloured, and slightly
hesitated once, as if she paused to choose her terms with more than
usual care; but, in the main, acquitted herself well. The parting,
betrayed interest, perhaps feeling, on both sides; but nothing very
manifest escaped either of our young people.
Never had John Wilmeter been at a greater loss to interpret facts, than
he was on quitting the grate. The prisoner was truly the most
incomprehensible being he had ever met with. Notwithstanding the fearful
nature of the charges against her—charges that might well have given
great uneasiness to the firmest man—she actually seemed in love with her
prison. It is true, that worthy Mrs. Gott had taken from the place many
of its ordinary, repulsive features; but it was still a gaol, and the
sun could be seen only through grates, and massive walls separated her
that was within, from the world without. As the young man was
predisposed to regard everything connected with this extraordinary young
woman _couleur de rose_, however, he saw nothing but the surest signs of
innocence in several circumstances that might have increased the
distrust of his cooler-headed uncle; but most persons would have
regarded the gentle tranquillity that now seemed to soothe a spirit that
had evidently been much troubled of late, as a sign that her hand could
never have committed the atrocities with which she was charged.
“Is she not a sweet young thing, Mr. Wilmeter?” exclaimed kind Mrs.
Gott, while locking the doors after John, on his retiring from the
grate. “I consider it an honour to Biberry gaol, to have such a prisoner
within its walls!”
“I believe that you and I stand alone in our favourable opinion of Miss
Monson,” John answered; “so far, at least, as Biberry is concerned. The
excitement against her seems to be at the highest pitch; and I much
doubt whether a fair trial can be had in the county.”
“The newspapers won’t mend the matter, sir. The papers from town, this
morning, are full of the affair, and they all appear to lean the same
way. But it’s a long road that has no turning, Mr. Wilmeter.”
“Very true, and nothing wheels about with a quicker step than the sort
of public opinion that is got up under a cry, and runs itself out of
breath, at the start. I expect to see Mary Monson the most approved and
most extolled woman in this county, yet!”
Mrs. Gott hoped with all her heart that it might be so, though _she_
had, certainly, misgivings that the young man did not feel. Half an hour
after John Wilmeter had left the gaol, his friend, Michael Millington,
was on the road to town, carrying a letter to Sarah, with a most earnest
request that she would use all her influence with Marie Moulin to engage
in the unusual service asked of her, for a few weeks, if for no longer a
period. This letter reached its destination in due time, and greatly did
the sister marvel over its warmth, as well as over the nature of the
request.
“I never knew John to write so earnestly!” exclaimed Sarah, when she and
Michael had talked over the matter a few moments. “Were he actually in
love, I could not expect him to be more pressing.”
“I will not swear that he is not,” returned the friend, laughing. “He
sees everything with eyes so different from mine, that I scarce know
what to make of him. I have never known John so deeply interested in any
human being, as he is at this moment in this strange creature!”
“Creature! You men do not often call young ladies _creatures_, and my
brother affirms that this Mary Monson is a lady.”
“Certainly she is, so far as exterior, manner, education, and I suppose,
tastes, are concerned. Nevertheless, there is too much reason to think
she is, in some way unknown to us, connected with crime.”
“I have read accounts of persons of these attainments, who have been
leagued together, and have carried on a great system of plundering for
years, with prodigious success. That, however, was in older countries,
where the necessities of a crowded population drive men into extremes.
We are hardly sufficiently advanced, or civilized as they call it, for
such bold villany.”
“A suspicion of that nature has crossed my mind,” returned Millington,
looking askance over his shoulder, as if he apprehended that his friend
might hear him. “It will not do, however, to remotely hint to John
anything of the sort. His mind is beyond the influence of testimony.”
Sarah scarce knew what to make of the affair, though sisterly regard
disposed her to do all she could to oblige her brother. Marie Moulin,
however, was not easily persuaded into consenting to serve a mistress
who was in prison. She held up her hands, turned up her eyes, uttered
fifty exclamations, and declared, over and over again “_c’est
impossible_;” and wondered how a female in such a situation could
suppose any respectable domestic would serve her, as it would be very
sure to prevent her ever getting a good place afterwards. This last
objection struck Sarah as quite reasonable, and had not her brother been
so very urgent with her, would of itself have induced her to abandon all
attempt at persuasion. Marie, however, finally yielded to a feeling of
intense curiosity, when no bribe in money could have bought her. John
had said the prisoner knew her—had known her in Europe—and she was soon
dying with the desire to know who, of all her many acquaintances in the
old world, could be the particular individual who had got herself into
this formidable difficulty. It was impossible to resist this feeling, so
truly feminine, which was a good deal stimulated by a secret wish in
Sarah, also, to learn who this mysterious person might be; and who did
not fail to urge Marie, with all her rhetoric, to consent to go and, at
least, see the person who had so strong a wish to engage her services.
The Swiss had not so much difficulty in complying, provided she was
permitted to reserve her final decision until she had met the prisoner,
when she might gratify her curiosity, and return to town prepared to
enlighten Miss Wilmeter, and all her other friends, on a subject that
had got to be intensely interesting.
It was not late, next morning, when Marie Moulin, attended by John
Wilmeter, presented herself to Mrs. Gott, as an applicant for admission
to the gallery of Mary Monson. The young man did not show himself, on
this occasion; though he was near enough to hear the grating of the
hinges when the prison-door opened.
“C’est bien vous donc, Marie!” said the prisoner, in a quick but pleased
salutation.
“Mademoiselle!” exclaimed the Swiss. The kisses of women succeeded. The
door closed, and John Wilmeter learned no more, on that occasion.
[Illustration]