The ways of the hour

by James Fenimore Cooper

Perhaps Mary Monson never looked more lovely than at that moment. She had dressed herself with great simplicity, but with exceeding care; excitement gave her the richest colour; hope, even delight, was glowing in her eyes; and her whole form was expanding with the sentiment of triumph. There is no feeling more general than sympathy with success. After the judge’s charge, few doubted of the result; and on every side, as she walked with a light firm step to her chair, the prisoner read kindness, sympathy, and exultation. After all that had been said, and all the prejudices that had been awakened, Mary Monson was about to be acquitted! Even the reporters became a little humanized; had juster perceptions than common of the rights of their fellow-creatures; and a more smiling, benignant assembly was never collected in that hall. In a few minutes, silence was obtained, and the jurors were called. Every man answered to his name, when the profound stillness of expectation pervaded the place.

“Stand up, Mary Monson, and listen to the verdict,” said the clerk, not without a little tremor in his voice. “Gentlemen, what do you say—is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?”

The foreman arose, stroked down a few scattering grey hairs, then, in a voice barely audible, he pronounced the portentous word “guilty.” Had a bomb suddenly exploded in the room, it could not have produced greater astonishment, and scarcely more consternation. Anna Updyke darted forward, and, as with a single bound, Mary Monson was folded in her arms.

“No, no!” cried this warm-hearted girl, totally unconscious of the impropriety of her acts; “she is not guilty. You do not know her. I do. She was my school mamma. She is a lady, incapable of being guilty of such crimes. No, no, gentlemen, you will think better of this, and alter your verdict—perhaps it was a mistake, and you meant to say, ‘not guilty!’”

“Who is this young lady?” asked the judge, in a tremulous voice—“a relative of the prisoner’s?”

“No, sir,” answered the excited girl, “no relative, but a very close friend. She was my ‘school mamma’ once, and I know she is not a person to rob, and murder, and set fire to houses. Her birth, education, character, all place her above it. You will think better of this, gentlemen, and change your verdict. Now, go at once and do it, or you may distress her!”

“Does any one know who this young lady is?” demanded his honour, his voice growing more and more tremulous.

“I am Anna Updyke—Dr. McBrain’s daughter, now, and uncle Tom’s niece,” answered Anna, scarce knowing what she said. “But never mind me—it is Mary Monson, here, who has been tried, and who has so wrongfully been found guilty. She never committed these crimes, I tell you, sir—is incapable of committing them—had no motive for committing them; and I beg you will put a stop to these proceedings, before they get so far as to make it difficult to recede. Just tell the jury to alter their verdict. No, no, Mary Monson is no murderess! She would no more hurt the Goodwins, or touch a particle of their gold, than either of us all. You do not know her, sir. If you did, you would smile at this mistake of the jury, for it is all a cruel mistake. Now do, my dear sir, send them away, again, and tell them to be more reasonable.”

“The young lady had better be removed,” interposed the judge, wiping his eyes. “Such scenes may be natural, and the court looks on them leniently; but time is precious, and my duty renders it necessary to interpose my authority to maintain the order of our proceedings. Let some of the ladies remove the young lady; she is too delicate for the touch of a constable—but time is precious.”

The judge was not precisely conscious, himself, of what he was saying, though he knew the general drift of his remarks. The process of blowing his nose interrupted his speech, more than once, and Anna was removed by the assistance of Marie Moulin, Sarah Wilmeter, and good Mrs. Gott; the latter sobbing like a child, while the other two scarce realized the consequences of the momentous word that had just been pronounced. Dunscomb took care that the whole group should quit the building, and be removed to the tavern.