“We will see—we will see,” answered the other, hurrying down stairs—“what means the rumpus in that room, Timms? Mrs. Horton has not treated me well, to place a troublesome neighbour so near me. I shall stop and tell her as much, as we go through the hall.”
“You had better not, ’Squire. We want all our friends just now; and a sharp word might cause us to lose this woman, who has a devil of a tongue. She tells me that a crazy man was brought here privately; and, being well paid for it, she has consented to give him what she calls her ‘drunkard’s parlour,’ until the court has settled his affair. His room, like your own, is so much out of the way, that the poor fellow gives very little trouble to the great body of the boarders.”
“Ay, very little trouble to you, and the rest of you, in the main building; but a great deal to me. I shall speak to Mrs.[Mrs.] Horton on the subject, as we pass out.”
“Better not, ’Squire. The woman is our friend now, I know; but a warm word may turn her to the right-about.”
It is probable Dunscomb was influenced by his companion; for he left the house without putting his threat in execution. In a few minutes he and Timms were at the gaol. As counsel could not well be refused admission to their client on the eve of trial, the two lawyers were admitted to the gallery within the outer door that has been so often mentioned. Of course, Mary Monson was notified of the visit; and she received them with Anna Updyke, the good, gentle, considerate Anna, who was ever disposed to help the weak and to console the unhappy, at her side. Dunscomb had no notion that the intimacy had grown to this head; but when he came to reflect that one of the parties was to be tried for her life next day, he was disposed to overlook the manifest indiscretion of his old favourite in being in such a place. Mrs. McBrain’s presence released him from all responsibility; and he returned the warm pressure of Anna’s hand in kindness, if not with positive approbation. As for the girl herself, the very sight of “Uncle Tom,” as she had so long been accustomed to call the counsellor, cheered her heart, and raised new hopes in behalf of her friend.
In a few clear, pointed words, Dunscomb let the motive of his visit be known. There was little time to throw away, and he went directly at his object, stating everything succinctly, but in the most intelligible manner. Nothing could have been more calm than the manner in which Mary Monson listened to his statement; her deportment being as steady as that of one sitting in judgment herself, rather than that of a person whose own fate was involved in the issue.
“It is a large sum to raise in so short a time,” continued the kind-hearted Dunscomb; “but I deem the proposition so important to your interest, that, rather than lose this advantage, I would not hesitate about advancing the money myself, should you be unprepared for so heavy a demand.”
“As respects the money, Mr. Dunscomb,” returned the fair prisoner, in the most easy and natural manner, “that need give us no concern. By sending a confidential messenger to town—Mr. John Wilmeter, for instance”—here Anna pressed less closely to her friend’s side—“it would be very easy to have five hundred eagles or a thousand half-eagles here, by breakfast-time to-morrow. It is not on account of any such difficulty that I hesitate a moment. What I dislike is the injustice of the thing. I have never touched a cent of poor Mrs. Goodwin’s hoard; and it would be false to admit that I am returning that which I never received.”
“We must not be particular, ma’am, on immaterial points, when there is so much at stake.”
“It may be immaterial whether I pay money under one form or another, Mr. Dunscomb; but it cannot be immaterial to my future standing, whether I am acquitted in the teeth of this Mr. Williams’s opposition, or under favour of his purchase.”