“She is tolerably well qualified to speak of Anna Updyke, having seen her almost daily for the last two years. But, we 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.
“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 acquiesced in 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 beset 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.[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 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.