“Which means, Timms, that you will marry Mary Monson, although she may be guilty; provided always, that two very important contingencies are favourably disposed of.”
“What contingencies do you allude to, Williams? I know of none.”
“One is, provided she will have you; the other is, provided she is not hanged.”
“As to the first, I have no great apprehension; women that have been once before a court, on a trial for a capital offence, are not very particular. On my side, it will be easy enough to persuade the public that, as counsel in a most interesting case, I became intimately acquainted with her virtues, touched by her misfortunes, captivated by her beauty and accomplishments, and finally overcome by her charms. I don’t think, Williams, that such an explanation would fail of its effect, before a caucus even. Men are always favourably disposed to those they think worse off than they are themselves. A good deal of capital is made on that principle.”
“I do not know that it would. Now-a-days the elections generally turn more on public principles than on private conduct. The Americans are a most forgiving people, unless you tell them the truth. That they will not pardon.”
“Nor any other nation, I fancy. Human natur’ revolts at it. But that”—snapping his fingers—“for your elections; it is the caucuses that I lay myself out to meet. Give me the nomination, and I am as certain of my seat as, in the old countries, a first-born is to his father’s throne.”
“It is pretty safe as a rule, I allow; but nominations sometimes fail.”
“Not when regular, and made on proper principles. A nomination is almost as good as popularity.”
“Often better; for men are just asses enough to work in the collar of party, even when overloaded. But all this time the night is wearing away. If I go into court in the morning, it will be too late. This thing must be settled at once, and that in a very explicit manner.”
“I wish I knew what you have picked up concerning Mary Monson’s early life!” said Timms, like a man struggling with doubt.