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THE WAYS OF THE HOUR
I working for remuneration, as in your case I certainly am not.”
“Gentlemen of the law look for their reward, I believe, as much
as others. We do not live in the times of chivalry, when gallant
men assisted distressed damsels as a matter of honour; but in
what has well been termed a `bank – note world.”’
“I have no wish to set myself up above the fair practices of
my profession, and am as ready to accept a fee as any man in
Nassau – Street. Nevertheless, I took your case in hand with a
very different motive. It would pain me to obliged to work for
a fee, on the present unhappy occasion.”
Mary Monson looked grateful, and for a minute she seemed
to be reflecting on some scheme by which she could devise a
substitute for the old – fashioned mode of proceeding in a
case of this sort.
“You have a niece, Mr. Dunscomb,” she at length exclaimed
“as Marie Moulin informs me? A charming girl, and who is
about to be married?”
The lawyer assented by an inclination of the head, fastening his penetrating black eyes on the full, expressive, greyish –
blue ones of his companion.
“You intend to return to town this evening?” said Mary
Monson, in continuation.
“Such is my intention. I came here to – day to confer with
you and Mr. Timms, on the subject of the trial, to see how matters stand on the spot, by personal observation, and to introduce to you one who feels the deepest interest in your welfare,
and desires most earnestly to seek your acquaintance.”
The prisoner was now silent, interrogating with her singularly expressive eyes.
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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
“It is Anna Updyke, the step – daughter of my nearest
friend, Dr. McBrain; and a very sincere, warm – hearted, and
excellent girl.”
“I have heard of her, too,” returned Mary Monson, with a
smile so strange, that her counsel wished she had not given
this demonstration of a feeling that seemed out of place, under
all the circumstances. “They tell me she is a most charming
girl, and that she is a very great favourite with your nephew,
the young gentleman whom I have styled my legal vidette.”
“Vidette! That is a singular term to be used by you!”
“Oh! you will remember that I have been much in countries where such persons abound. I must have caught the word
from some of the young soldiers of Europe. But, Mr. John Wilmeter is an admirer of the young lady you have named?”
“I hope he is. I know of no one with whom I think he would
be more likely to be happy.”
Dunscomb spoke earnestly, and at such times his manner
was singularly sincere and impressive. It was this appearance
of feeling and nature that gave him the power he possessed
over juries; and it may be said to have made no small part of
his fortune. Mary Monson seemed to be surprised; and she fastened her remarkable eyes on the uncle, in a way that might
have admitted of different interpretations. Her lips moved as
if she spoke to herself; and the smile that succeeded was both
mild and sad.
“To be sure,” added the prisoner, slowly, “my information
is not on the very best authority, coming, as it does, from a servant but Marie Moulin is both discreet and observant.”
“She is tolerably well qualified to speak of Anna Updyke,
having seen her almost daily for the last two years. But, we
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THE WAYS OF THE HOUR
are all surprised that you should know anything of this young
woman.”
“I know her precisely as she is known to your niece and
Miss Updyke in other words, as a maid who is much esteemed
by those she serves but,” apparently wishing to change the
discourse “we are forgetting the purpose of your visit, all this
time, Mr. Dunscomb. Do me the favour to write your address
in town, and that of Dr. McBrain on this card, and we will proceed to business.”
Dunscomb did as desired, when he opened on the details
that were the object of his little journey. As had been the case
in all his previous interviews with her, Mary Monson surprised
him with the coolness with which she spoke of an issue that
involved her own fate, for life or for death. While she carefully abstained from making any allusion to circumstances
that might betray her previous history, she shrunk from no
inquiry that bore on the acts of which she had been accused.
Every question put by Dunscomb that related to the murders
and the arson, was answered frankly and freely, there being
no wish apparent to conceal the minutest circumstance. She
made several exceedingly shrewd and useful suggestions on
the subject of the approaching trial, pointing out defects in the
testimony against her, and reasoning with singular acuteness
on particular facts that were known to be much relied on by
the prosecution. We shall not reveal these details any further
in this stage of our narrative, for they will necessarily appear at
length in our subsequent pages; but shall confine ourselves to
a few of those remarks that may be better given at present.
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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
“I do not know, Mr. Dunscomb,” Mary Monson suddenly
said, while the subject of her trial was yet under discussion,
“that I have ever mentioned to you the fact that Mr. and Mrs.
Goodwin were not happy together. One would think, from
what was said at the time of the inquest, that they were a very
affectionate and contented couple; but my own observation,
during the short time I was under their roof, taught me better. The husband drank, and the wife was avaricious and very
quarrelsome. I am afraid, sir, there are few really happy couples
to be found on earth!”
“If you knew McBrain better, you would not say that, my
dear Miss Monson,” answered the counsellor with a sort of
glee “there’s a husband for you! a fellow who is not only happy
with one wife, but who is happy with three, as he will tell you
himself.”
“Not all at the same time, I hope, sir?”
Dunscomb did justice to his friend’s character, by relating
how the matter really stood; after which he asked permission to
introduce Anna Updyke. Mary Monson seemed startled at this
request, and asked several questions, which induced her counsel to surmise that she was fearful of being recognised. Nor
was Dunscomb pleased with all the expedients adopted by his
client, in order to extract information from him. He thought
they slightly indicated cunning, a quality that he might be said
to abhor. Accustomed as he was to all the efforts of ingenuity in illustrating a principle or maintaining a proposition, he
had always avoided everything like sophistry and falsehood.
This weakness on the part of Mary Monson, however, was soon
forgotten in the graceful manner in which she acquieseed in
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THE WAYS OF THE HOUR
the wish of the stranger to be admitted. The permission was
finally accorded, as if an honour were received, with the tact of
a female and the easy dignity of a gentlewoman.
Anna Updyke possessed a certain ardour of character that
had, more than once, given her prudent and sagacious mother
uneasiness, and which sometimes led her into the commission
of acts, always innocent in themselves, and perfectly under the
restraint of principles, which the world would have been apt
to regard as imprudent. Such, however, was far from being her
reputation, her modesty and the diffidence with which she regarded herself, being amply sufficient to protect her from the
common observation, even while most best by the weakness
named. Her love for John Wilmeter was so disinterested, or
to herself so seemed to be, that she fancied she could even assist in bringing about his union with another woman, were
that necessary to his happiness. She believed that this mysterious stranger was, to say the least, an object of intense interest
with John, which soon made her an object of intense interest
with herself; and each hour increased her desire to become
acquainted with one so situated, friendless, accused, and seemingly suspended by a thread over an abyss, as she was. When
she first made her proposal to Dunscomb to be permitted to
visit his client, the wary and experienced counsellor strongly
objected to the step. It was imprudent, could lead to no good,
and might leave an impression unfavourable to Anna’s own
character. But this advice was unheeded by a girl of Anna Updyke’s generous temperament. Quiet and gentle as she ordinarily appeared to be, there was a deep under – current of
feeling and enthusiasm in her moral constitution, that bore
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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
her onward in any course which she considered to be right,
with a total abnegation of self. This was a quality to lead to
good or evil, as it might receive a direction; and happily nothing had yet occurred in her brief existence to carry her away
towards the latter goal.
Surprised at the steadiness and warmth with which his
young friend persevered in her request, Dunscomb, after obtaining the permission of her mother, and promising to take
good care of his charge, was permitted to convey Anna to Biberry, in the manner related.
Now, that her wish was about to be gratified, Anna Updyke, like thousands of others who have been more impelled
by impulses than governed by reason, shrank from the execution of her own purposes. But the generous ardour revived
in her in time to save appearances; and she was admitted by
well – meaning Mrs. Gott to the gallery of the prison, leaning
on Dunscomb’s arm, much as she might have entered a drawing – room, in a regular morning call.
The meeting between these two charming young women
was frank and cordial, though slightly qualified by the forms
of the world. A watchful and critical observer might have detected less of nature in Mary Monson’s manner than in that of
her guest, even while the welcome she gave her visitor was not
without cordiality and feeling. It is true that her courtesy was
more elaborate and European, if one may use the expression,
than it is usual to see in an American female, and her air was
less ardent than that of Anna; but the last was highly struck
with her countenance and general appearance, and, on the
whole, not dissatisfied with her own reception.
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THE WAYS OF THE HOUR
The power of sympathy and the force of affinities soon
made themselves felt, as between these two youthful females.
Anna regarded Mary as a stranger most grievously wronged;
and forgetting all that there was which was questionable or
mysterious in her situation, or remembering it only to feel the
influence of its interest, while she submitted to a species of
community of feeling with John Wilmeter, as she fancied, and
soon got to be as much entranced with the stranger as seemed
to be the fate of all who approached the circle of her acquaintance. On the other hand, Mary Monson felt a consolation and
gratification in this visit to which she had long been a stranger. Good Mrs. Gott was kind – hearted and a woman, but she
had no claim to the refinement and peculiar sensibilities of
a lady; while Marie Moulin, discreet, respectful, even wise as
she was in her own way, was, after all, nothing but an upper
servant. The chasm between the cultivated and the uncultivated, the polished and the unpolished, is wide; and the accused
fully appreciated the change, when one of her own class in life,
habits, associations, and, if the reader will, prejudices, so unexpectedly appeared to sympathize with, and to console her.
Under such circumstances, three or four hours made the two
fast and deeply – interested friends, on their own accounts, to
say nothing of the effect produced by the generous advances of
one, and the perilous condition of the other.
Dunscomb returned to town that evening, leaving Anna
Updyke behind him, ostensibly under the care of Mrs. Gott.
Democracy has been carried so far on the high road of ultraism in New York, as in very many interests to become the
victim of its own expedients. Perhaps the people are never so
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JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
far from exercising a healthful, or indeed, any authority at all,
as when made to seem, by the expedients of demagogues, to
possess an absolute control. It is necessary merely to bestow
a power which it is impossible for the masses to wield with
intelligence, in order to effect this little piece of legerdemain
in politics, the quasi people in all such cases becoming the passive instruments in the hands of their leaders, who strengthen
their own authority by this seeming support of the majority. In
all cases, however, in which the agency of numbers can be felt,
its force is made to prevail, the tendency necessarily being to
bring down all representation to the level of the majority. The
effect of the change has been pretty equally divided between
good and evil. In many cases benefits have accured to the community by the exercise of this direct popular control, while in
probably quite as many the result has been exactly the reverse
of that which was anticipated. In no one instance, we believe
it will be generally admitted, has the departure from the old
practice been less advantageous than in rendering the office
of sheriff elective. Instead of being a leading and independent
man, who has a pride in his position, and regards the character
of his county as he does his own, this functionary has got to
be, nine times in ten, a mere political manoeuvrer, who seeks
the place as a reward for party labours, and fills it very much
for his personal benefit, conferring no dignity on it by his own
position and character, lessening its authority by his want of
the qualities calculated to increase it, and, in a good many instances, making it quite as difficult to wrest money from his
hands, as from those of the original debtor.
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THE WAYS OF THE HOUR
It is a consequence of this state of things that the sheriff
has quite lost all, or nearly all of the personal consideration
that was once connected with his office; and has sunk, in most
of the strictly rural counties, into a gaoler, and the head of the
active bailiffs. His object is altogether money; and the profit
connected with the keeping of the prisoners, now reduced almost entirely to felons, the accused, and persons committed
for misdemeanors, is one of the inducements for aspiring to an
office once so honourable.
In this state of things, it is not at all surprising that Dunscomb was enabled to make such an arrangement with Mrs.
Gott as would place Anna Updyke in a private room in the
house attached to the gaol, and which formed the sheriff’s
dwelling. The counsellor preferred leaving her with Mrs. Horton; but to this Anna herself objected, both because she had
taken a strong dislike to the garrulous but shrewd landlady,
and because it would have separated her too much from the
person she had come especially to console and sympathize
with.
The arrangement made, Dunscomb, as has already been
mentioned, took his departure for town, with the understanding that he was to return the succeeding week; the Circuit and
Oyer and Terminer sitting on Monday; and the District Attorney, Mr. Garth, having given notice to her counsel that the
indictment against Mary Monson would be certainly traversed
the second day of the sitting, which would be on Tuesday.
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CHAPTER XVI
“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
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