“Methinks, if, as I guess, the fault’s but small,
It might be pardoned.”
_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 note-book, 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, grand-jurors, 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.
“This or that unmix’d, no mortal e’er shall find”—
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 all-important point; and he and
Millington walked by themselves towards the court-house, their heads
close together, and their voices reduced nearly to whispers.