“Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen,
And her eyes may be e’en any colour but green;
Be they light, gray, or black, their lustre and hue,
I swear I’ve no choice, only let her have two.”
_The Duenna._
Two days after this, Dunscomb was in his library, late at night, holding
a brief discourse with McBrain’s coachman, who has been already
introduced to the reader. Some orders had been given to the last, in
relation to another trip to Biberry, whither the master and our lawyer
were to proceed next day. The man was an old and indulged servant, and
often took great liberties in these conferences. In this respect the
Americans of his class differ very little from the rest of their
fellow-creatures, notwithstanding all that has been said and written to
the contrary. They obey the impulses of their characters much as the
rest of mankind, though not absolutely without some difference in
manner.
“I s’poses, ’Squire Dunscomb, that this is like to be the last journey
that I and the doctor will have to take soon ag’in, in _that_ quarter,”
coolly observed Stephen, when his master’s friend had told him the hour
to be at the door, with the other preparations that would be necessary;
“unless we should happen to be called in at the _post mortal_.”
“_Post mortem_, you must mean, Hoof,” a slight smile flashing on the
lawyer’s countenance, and as quickly disappearing. “So you consider it a
settled thing that my client is to be found guilty?”
“That’s what they say, sir; and things turn out, in this country, pretty
much as they say aforehand. For my part, sir, I never quite liked the
criminal’s looks.”
“Her _looks_! I do not know where you would go to find a more lovely
young woman, Stephen!”
This was said with a vivacity and suddenness that startled the coachman
a little. Even Dunscomb seemed surprised at his own animation, and had
the grace to change colour. The fact was, that he too was feeling the
influence of woman, youthful, lovely, spirited, refined, and surrounded
with difficulties. This was the third of Mary Monson’s conquests since
her arrest, if John Wilmeter’s wavering admiration could be placed in
this category; viz., Timms, the nephew, and the counsellor himself.
Neither was absolutely in love; but each and all submitted to an
interest of an unusual degree in the person, character and fortunes of
this unknown female. Timms, alone, had got so far as to contemplate a
marriage; the idea having crossed his mind that it might be almost as
useful as popularity, to become the husband of one possessed of so much
money.
“I’ll not deny her _good_ looks, ’Squire,” returned Stephen Hoof—or
Stephen Huff, as he called himself—“but it’s her _bad_ looks that isn’t
so much to my fancy. Vhy, sir, once the doctor had a horse that was
agreeable enough to the eye, having a good colour and most of the
p’ints, but who wasn’t no traveller, not a bit on’t. One that know’d the
animal could see where the fault lay, the fetlock j’int being oncommon
longish; and that’s what I call _good_ looks and _bad_ looks.”
“You mean, Stephen,” said Dunscomb, who had regained all his _sang
froid_, “that Mary Monson has a bad-looking ankle, I suppose, wherein I
think you miserably mistaken. No matter; she will not have to travel
under your lash very far. But, how is it with the reporters?—Do you see
any more of your friend that asks so many questions?”
“They be an axing set, ’Squire, if anybody can be so called,” returned
Stephen, grinning. “Would you think it, sir?—one day when I was a comin’
in from Timbully empty, one on ’em axed me for a ride! a chap as hadn’t
his foot in a reg’lar private coach since he was born, a wantin’ to
drive about in a wehicle as well known as Doctor McBrain’s best
carriage! Them’s the sort of chaps that spreads all the reports that’s
going up and down the land, they tell me.”
“They do their share of it, Stephen; though there are enough to help
them who do not openly belong to their corps. Well; what does your
acquaintance want to know now?”
“Oncommon curious, ’Squire, about the bones. He axed me more than forty
questions; what we thought of them; and about their being male or female
bones; and how we know’d; and a great many more sich matters. I answered
him accordin’ to my abilities; and so he made an article on the subject,
and has sent me the papers.”
“An article! Concerning Mary Monson, and on your information?”
“Sartain, sir; and the bones. Vhy they cut articles out of much narrower
cloth, I can tell you, ’Squire. There’s the cooks, and chambermaids, and
vaiters about town, none of vich can hold up their heads with a reg’lar,
long-established physician’s coachman, who goes far ahead of even an
omnibus driver in public estimation, as you must know, ’Squire—but such
sort of folks furnish many an article for the papers now-a-days—yes, and
articles that ladies and gentlemen read.”
“That is certainly a singular source of useful knowledge—one must hope
they are well-grounded, or they will soon cease to be ladies and
gentlemen at all. Have you the paper about you, Stephen?”
Hoof handed the lawyer a journal folded with a paragraph in view that
was so much thumbed and dirtied, it was not very easy to read it.
“We understand that the trial of Mary Monson, for the murder of Peter
and Dorothy Goodwin,” said the ‘article,’ “will come off in the
adjoining county of Dukes, at a very early day. Strong attempts have
been made to make it appear that the skeletons found in the ruins of
Goodwin’s dwelling, which our readers will remember was burned at the
time of the murders, are not human bones; but, we have been at great
pains to investigate this very material point, and have no hesitation in
giving it as our profound conviction that it will be made to appear that
these melancholy memorials are all that remain of the excellent couple
who were so suddenly taken out of existence. We do not speak lightly on
this subject, having gone to the fountain-head for our facts, as well as
for our science.”
“Hoof on McBrain!” muttered Dunscomb, arching his brows—“this is much of
a piece with quite one-half of the knowledge that is poured into the
popular mind, now-a-days. Thank you, Stephen; I will keep this paper,
which may be of use at the trial.”
“I thought our opinions was vorth something more than nothing, sir,”
answered the gratified coachman—“a body doesn’t ride at all hours, day
and night, year arter year, and come out where he started. I vishes you
to keep that ’ere paper, ’Squire, a little carefully, for it may be
wanted in the college where they reads all sorts of things, one of these
days.”
“It shall be cared for, my friend—I hear some one at the street-door
bell.—It is late for a call; and I fear Peter has gone to bed. See who
is there, and good night.”
Stephen withdrew, the ringing being repeated a little impatiently, and
was soon at the street-door. The fellow admitted the visiters, and went
ruminating homeward, Dunscomb maintaining a very respectable reputation,
in a bachelor point of view, for morals. As for the lawyer himself, he
was in the act of reading a second time the precious opinion expressed
in the journals, when the door of his library opened, a little
hesitatingly it must be confessed, and two females stood on its
threshold. Although his entirely unexpected visiters were so much
muffled in shawls and veils it was not possible to distinguish even the
outlines of their persons, Dunscomb fancied each was youthful and
handsome, the instant he cast his eyes on them. The result showed how
well he guessed.
Throwing aside the garments that concealed their forms and faces, Mary
Monson and Anna Updyke advanced into the room. The first was perfectly
self-possessed and brilliantly handsome; while her companion, flushed
with excitement and exercise, was not much behind her in this important
particular. Dunscomb started, and fancied there was felony, even in his
hospitality.
“You know how difficult it is for me to travel by daylight,” commenced
Mary Monson, in the most natural manner in the world; “that, and the
distance we had to drive, must explain the unseasonableness of this
visit. You told me once, yourself, that you are both a late and an early
man, which encouraged me to venture. Mr. Timms has written me a letter
which I have thought it might be well to show you. There it is; and when
you have cast an eye over it, we will speak of its contents.”
“Why, this is very much like a conditional proposal of marriage!” cried
Dunscomb, dropping the hand that held the letter, as soon as he had read
the first paragraph. “Conditional, so far as the result of your trial is
concerned!”
“I forgot the opening of the epistle, giving very little thought to its
purport; though Mr. Timms has not written me a line lately that has not
touched on this interesting subject. A marriage between him and me is so
entirely out of the way of all the possibilities, that I look upon his
advances as mere embellishment. I have answered him directly in the
negative once, and that ought to satisfy any prudent person. They tell
me no woman should marry a man she has once refused; and I shall plead
this as a reason for continued obduracy.”
This was said pleasantly, and without the least appearance of
resentment; but in a way to show she regarded her attorney’s proposal as
very much out of the beaten track. As for Dunscomb, he passed his hand
over his brows, and read the rest of a pretty long letter with grave
attention. The purely business part of this communication was much to
the point; important, clearly put, and every way creditable to the
writer. The lawyer read it attentively a second time, ere he once opened
his mouth in comments.
“And why is this shown to me?” he asked, a little vexed, as was seen in
his manner. “I have told you it is felony to assist a prisoner in an
attempt to escape.”
“I have shown it to you, because I have not the remotest intention, Mr.
Dunscomb, to attempt anything of the sort. I shall not quit my asylum so
easily.”
“Then why are you here, at this hour, with the certainty that most of
the night must be passed on the road, if you mean to return to your
prison ere the sun reappears?”
“For air, exercise, and to show you this letter. I am often in town, but
am compelled, for more reasons than you are acquainted with, to travel
by night.”
“May I ask where you obtain a vehicle to make these journies in?”
“I use my own carriage, and trust to a very long-tried and most faithful
domestic. I think Miss Updyke will say he drove us not only carefully,
but with great speed. On that score, we have no grounds of complaint.
But I am very much fatigued, and must ask permission to sleep for an
hour. You have a drawing-room, I take it for granted, Mr. Dunscomb?”
“My niece fancies she has two. Shall I put lights in one of them?”
“By no means. Anna knows the house as well as she does her mother’s, and
will do the honours. On no account let Miss Wilmeter be disturbed. I am
a little afraid of meeting _her_, since we have practised a piece of
treachery touching Marie Moulin. But, no matter; one hour on a sofa, in
a dark room, is all I ask. That will bring us to midnight, when the
carriage will again be at the door. You wish to see your mother, my
dear, and here is a safe and very suitable attendant to accompany you to
her house and back again.”
All this was said pleasantly, but with a singular air of authority, as
if this mysterious being were accustomed to plan out and direct the
movements of others. She had her way. In a minute or two she was
stretched on a sofa, covered with a shawl, the door was closed on her,
and Dunscomb was on his way to Mrs. McBrain’s residence, which was at
some distance from his own, with Anna leaning on his arm.
“Of course, my dear,” said the lawyer, as he and his beautiful companion
left his own door at that late hour of the night, “we shall see no more
of Mary Monson?”
“Not see her again! I should be very, very sorry to think that, sir!”
“She is no simpleton, and means to take Timms’s advice. That fellow has
written a strong letter, in no expectation of its being seen, I fancy,
in which he points out a new source of danger; and plainly advises his
client to abscond. I can see the infatuation of love in this; for the
letter, if produced, would bring him into great trouble.”
“And you suppose, sir, that Mary Monson intends to follow this advice?”
“Beyond a question. She is not only a very clever, but she is a very
cunning woman. This last quality is one that I admire in her the least.
I should be half in love with her myself”—This was exactly the state of
the counsellor’s feelings towards his client, in spite of his bravado
and affected discernment; a woman’s charms often overshadowing a
philosophy that is deeper even than his—“but for this very trait, which
I find little to my taste. I take it for granted you are sent home to be
put under your mother’s care, where you properly belong; and I am got
out of the way to save me from the pains and penalties of an indictment
for felony.”
“I think you do not understand Mary Monson, uncle Tom”—so Anna had long
called her friend’s relative, as it might be in anticipation of the time
when the appellation would be correct—“She is not the sort of person to
do as you suggest; but would rather make it a point of honour to remain,
and face any accusation whatever.”
“She must have nerves of steel to confront justice in a case like hers,
and in the present state of public feeling in Duke’s. Justice is a very
pretty thing to talk about, my dear; but we old practitioners know that
it is little more, in human hands, than the manipulations of human
passions. Of late years, the outsiders—outside barbarians they might
very properly be termed—have almost as much to do with the result of any
warmly-contested suit, as the law and evidence. ‘Who is on the jury?’ is
the first question asked now-a-days; not what are the facts. I have told
all this, very plainly, to Mary Monson——”
“To induce her to fly?” asked Anna, prettily, and a little smartly.
“Not so much that, as to induce her to consent to an application for
delay. The judges of this country are so much over-worked, so little
paid, and usually are so necessitous, that almost any application for
delay is granted. Business at chambers is sadly neglected; for that is
done in a corner, and does not address itself to the public eye, or seek
public eulogiums; but he is thought the cleverest fellow who will
soonest sweep out a crowded calendar. Causes are tried by tallow candles
until midnight, with half the jurors asleep; and hard-working men,
accustomed to be asleep by eight each night, are expected to keep their
thoughts and minds active in the face of all these obstacles.”
“Do you tell me this, uncle Tom, in the expectation that I am to
understand it?”
“I beg your pardon, child; but my heart is full of the failing justice
of the land. We shout hosannas in praise of the institutions, while we
shut our eyes to the gravest consequences that are fast undermining us
in the most important of all our interests. But here we are already; I
had no notion we had walked so fast. Yes, there is papa McBrain’s
one-horse vehicle, well emptied of its contents, I hope, by a hard day’s
work.”
“A doctor’s life must be so laborious!” exclaimed the pretty Anna. “I
think nothing could tempt me to marry a physician.”
“It is well a certain lady of our acquaintance was not of your way of
thinking,” returned Dunscomb, laughing; for his good humour always
returned when he could give his friend a rub on his matrimonial
propensities, “else would McBrain have been troubled to get his last and
best. Never mind, my dear; he is a good-natured fellow, and will make a
very kind papa.”
Anna made no reply, but rang the bell a little pettishly; for no child
likes to have a mother married a second time, there being much greater
toleration for fathers, and asked her companion in. As the wife of a
physician in full practice, the bride had already changed many of her
long-cherished habits. In this respect, however, she did no more than
follow the fortunes of woman, who so cheerfully makes any sacrifice in
behalf of him she loves. If men were only one-half as disinterested, as
self-denying, and as true as the other sex, in all that relates to the
affections, what a blessed state would that of matrimony be! Still,
there are erring, and selfish, and domineering, and capricious, vain,
heartless and self-willed females, whom nature never intended for
married life; and who are guilty of a species of profanation, when they
stand up and vow to love, honour and obey their husbands. Many of these
disregard their solemn pledges, made at the altar, and under the
immediate invocation of the Deity, as they would disregard a promise
made in jest, and think no more of the duties and offices that are so
peculiarly the province of their sex, than of the passing and idle
promises of vanity. But, if such women exist, and that they do our daily
experience proves, they are as exceptions to the great law of female
faith, which is tenderness and truth. They are not women in character,
whatever they may be in appearance; but creatures in the guise of a sex
that they discredit and caricature.
Mrs. McBrain was not a person of the disposition just described. She was
gentle and good, and bid fair to make the evening of her second
husband’s days very happy. Sooth to say, she was a good deal in love,
notwithstanding her time of life, and the still more mature years of the
bridegroom; and had been so much occupied with the duties and cares that
belonged to her recent change of condition, as to be a little forgetful
of her daughter. At no other period of their joint lives would she have
permitted this beloved child to be absent from her, under such
circumstances, without greater care for her safety and comforts; but
there is a honey-week, as well as a honey-moon; and the intenseness of
its feelings might very well disturb the ordinary round of even maternal
duties. Glad enough, however, was she now to see her daughter; when
Anna, blooming, and smiling, and blushing, flew into her mother’s arms.
“There she is, widow—Mrs. Updyke—I beg pardon—married woman, and Mrs.
McBrain,” cried Dunscomb—“Ned is such an uneasy fellow, he keeps all his
friends in a fever with his emotions, and love, and matrimony; and that
just suits him, as he has only to administer a pill and set all right
again. But there she is, safe and _unmarried_, thank heaven; which is
always a sort of consolation to me. She’s back again, and you will do
well to keep her, until my nephew, Jack, comes to ask permission to
carry her off, for good and all.”
Anna blushed more deeply than ever, while the mother smiled and embraced
her child. Then succeeded questions and answers, until Mrs. McBrain had
heard the whole story of her daughter’s intercourse with Mary Monson, so
far as it has been made known to the reader. Beyond that, Anna did not
think herself authorized to go; or, if she made any revelation, it would
be premature for us to repeat it.
“Here we are, all liable to be indicted for felony,” cried Dunscomb, as
soon as the young lady had told her tale. “Timms will be hanged, in
place of his client; and we three will have cells at Sing Sing, as
accessories before the act. Yes, my dear bride, you are what the law
terms a “particeps criminis,” and may look out for the sheriff before
you are a week older.”
“And why all this, Mr. Dunscomb?” demanded the half-amused,
half-frightened Mrs. McBrain.
“For aiding and abetting a prisoner in breaking gaol. Mary Monson is
off, beyond a question. She lay down in Sarah’s drawing-room, pretending
to be wearied, ten minutes since; and has no doubt got through with her
nap already, and is on her way to Canada, or Texas, or California, or
some other out-of-the-way country; Cuba, for aught I know.”
“Is this so, think you, Anna?”
“I do not, mamma. So far from believing Mary Monson to be flying to any
out-of-the-way place, I have no doubt that we shall find her fast asleep
on Mr. Dunscomb’s sofa.”
“_Uncle_ Dunscomb’s sofa, if you please, young lady.”
“No, sir; I shall call you uncle no longer,” answered Anna, blushing
scarlet—“until—until——”
“You have a legal claim to the use of the word. Well, that will come in
due time, I trust; if not, it shall be my care to see you have a title
to a still dearer appellation. There, widow—Mrs. McBrain, I mean—I think
that will do. But, seriously, child, you cannot imagine that Mary Monson
means ever to return to her prison, there to be tried for life?”
“If there is faith in woman, she does, sir; else would I not have
exposed myself to the risk of accompanying her.”
“In what manner did you come to town, Anna?” asked the anxious mother.
“Are you not now at the mercy of some driver of a hackney-coach, or of
some public cabman?”
“I understand that the carriage which was in waiting for us, half a mile
from Biberry, is Mrs. Monson’s——”
“Mrs.!” interrupted Dunscomb—“Is she, then, a married woman?”
Anna looked down, trembled, and was conscious of having betrayed a
secret. So very precious to herself had been the communication of Marie
Moulin on this point, that it was ever uppermost in her thoughts; and it
had now escaped her under an impulse she could not control. It was too
late, however, to retreat; and a moment’s reflection told her it would
every way be better to tell all she knew, on this one point, at least.
This was soon done; for even Marie Moulin’s means of information were
somewhat limited. This Swiss had formerly known the prisoner by another
name; though what name, she would not reveal. This was in Europe, where
Marie had actually passed three years in this mysterious person’s
employment. Marie had even come to America, in consequence of this
connection, at the death of her own mother; but, unable to find her
former mistress, had taken service with Sarah Wilmeter. Mary Monson was
single and unbetrothed when she left Europe. Such was Marie Moulin’s
statement. But it was understood she was now married; though to whom,
she could not say. If Anna Updyke knew more than this, she did not
reveal it at that interview.
“Ah! Here is another case of a wife’s elopement from her husband,”
interrupted Dunscomb, as soon as Anna reached this point in her
narration; “and I dare say something or other will be found in this
wretched Code to uphold her in her disobedience. You have done well to
marry, Mrs. McBrain; for, according to the modern opinions in these
matters, instead of providing yourself with a lord and master, you have
only engaged an upper-servant.”
“No true-hearted woman can ever look upon her husband in so degrading a
light,” answered the bride, with spirit.
“That will do for three days; but wait to the end of three years. There
are runaway wives enough, at this moment, roaming up and down the land,
setting the laws of God and man at defiance, and jingling their purses,
when they happen to have money, under their lawful husbands’ noses; ay,
enough to set up a three-tailed bashaw! But this damnable Code will
uphold them, in some shape or other, my life for it. One can’t endure
her husband because he smokes; another finds fault with his not going to
church but once a day; another quarrels with him for going three times;
another says he has too much dinner-company; and another protests she
can’t get a male friend inside of her house. All these ladies, forgetful
as they are of their highest earthly duties, forgetful as they are of
woman’s very nature, are the models of divine virtues, and lay claim to
the sympathies of mankind. They get those of fools; but prudent and
reflecting men shake their heads at such wandering deisses.”
“You are severe on us women, Mr. Dunscomb,” said the bride.
“Not on you, my dear Mrs. McBrain—never a syllable on _you_. But go on,
child; I have had the case of one of these vagrant wives in my hands,
and know how mistaken has been the disposition to pity her. Men lean to
the woman’s side; but the frequency of the abuse is beginning to open
the eyes of the public. Go on, Anna dear, and let us hear it all—or all
you have to tell us.”
Very little remained to be related. Marie Moulin, herself, knew very
little of that which had occurred since her separation from her present
mistress in France. She did make one statement, however, that Anna had
deemed very important; but which she felt bound to keep as a secret, in
consequence of the injunctions received from the Swiss.
“I should have a good deal to say about this affair,” observed Dunscomb,
when his beautiful companion was done, “did I believe that we shall find
Mary Monson on our return to my house. In that case, I should say to
you, my dear widow—Mrs. McBrain, I mean—the devil take that fellow Ned,
he’ll have half the women in town bearing his name before he is
done—Well, Heaven be praised! he can neither marry _me_, nor give me a
step-father, let him do his very best. There’s comfort in that
consideration, at any rate.”
“You were about to tell us what you would do,” put in the bride,
slightly vexed, yet too well assured of the counsellor’s attachment to
her husband to feel angry—“you must know how much value we all give to
your advice.”
“I was about to say that Anna should not return to this mysterious
convict—no, she is not _yet_ convicted, but she is indicted, and that is
something—but return she should not, were there the least chance of our
finding her, on our return home. Let her go, then, and satisfy her
curiosity, and pass the night with Sarah, who must be through with her
first nap by this time.”
Anna urged her mother to consent to this arrangement, putting forward
her engagement with Mary Monson, not to desert her. McBrain driving to
the door, from paying his last visit that night, his wife gave her
assent to the proposition; the tenderest mother occasionally permitting
another and more powerful feeling to usurp the place of maternal care.
Mrs. McBrain, it must be admitted, thought more of the bridegroom, sixty
as he was, than of her charming daughter; nor was she yet quite free
from the awkwardness that ever accompanies a new connection of this
nature when there are grown-up children; more especially on the part of
the female. Then Anna had communicated to her mother a most material
circumstance, which it does not suit our present purpose to reveal.
“Now for a dozen pair of gloves that we do not find Mary Monson,” said
the lawyer, as he walked smartly towards his own residence, with Anna
Updyke under his arm.
“Done!” cried the young lady—“and you shall _pay_ if you lose.”
“As bound in honour. Peter”—the grey-headed black who answered the
summons to the door—“will be glad enough to see us; for the old fellow
is not accustomed to let his young rogue of a master in at midnight,
with a charming young woman under his arm.”
Anna Updyke was right. Mary Monson was in a deep sleep on the sofa. So
profound was her rest, there was a hesitation about disturbing her;
though twelve, the hour set for the return of the carriage to Biberry,
was near. For a few minutes Dunscomb conversed with his agreeable
companion in his own library.
“If Jack knew of your being in the house, he would never forgive my not
having him called.”
“I shall have plenty of occasions for seeing Jack,” returned the young
lady, colouring. “You know how assiduous he is in this cause, and how
devoted he is to the prisoner.”
“Do not run away with any such notion, child; Jack is yours, heart and
soul.”
“Hist—there is the carriage; Mary must be called.”
Away went Anna, laughing, blushing, but with tears in her eyes. In a
minute Mary Monson made her appearance, somewhat refreshed and calmed by
her short nap.
“Make no excuse for waking me, Anna,” said this unaccountable woman. “We
can both sleep on the road. The carriage is as easy as a cradle; and,
luckily, the roads are quite good.”
“Still they lead to a prison, Mrs. Monson!”
The prisoner smiled, and seemed to be lost in thought. It was the first
time any of her new acquaintances had ever addressed her as a married
woman; though Marie Moulin, with the exception of her first exclamation
at their recent meeting, had invariably used the appellation of Madame.
All this, however, was soon forgotten in the leave-taking. Dunscomb
thought he had seldom seen a female of higher tone of manners, or
greater personal charms, than this singular and mysterious young woman
appeared to be, as she curtsied her adieu.