The ways of the hour

by James Fenimore Cooper

Mary Monson was walking to and fro, in this gallery, with slow, thoughtful steps, her head a little bowed, and her hands hanging before her, with the fingers interlocked. So completely was she lost in thought, that John’s footstep, or presence at the grate, was not observed, and he had an opportunity to watch her for near a minute, unseen himself. The occupation was not exactly excusable; but, under all the circumstances, young Wilmeter felt as if it might be permitted. It was his duty to ascertain all he fairly might, concerning his client.

It has already been said that this strange girl, extraordinary by her situation as a person accused of crimes so heinous, and perhaps still more so by her manner of bearing up against the terrors and mortifications of her condition, as well as by the mystery which so completely veiled her past life, was not a beauty, in the common acceptation of the term. Nevertheless, not one female in ten thousand would sooner ensnare the heart of a youth, by means of her personal attractions alone. It was not regularity of features, nor brilliancy of complexion, nor lustre of the eyes, nor any of the more ordinary charms, that gave her this power; but an indescribable union of feminine traits, in which intellectual gifts, spirit, tenderness, and modesty, were so singularly blended, as to leave it questionable which had the advantage. Her eyes were of a very gentle and mild expression, when in a state of rest; excited, they were capable of opening windows to the inmost soul. Her form was faultless; being the true medium between vigorous health and womanly delicacy; which, in this country, implies much less of the robust and solid than one meets with in the other hemisphere.

It is not easy to tell how we acquire those in-and-in habits, which get to be a sort of second nature, and almost bestow on us new instincts. It is by these secret sympathies, these tastes that pervade the moral, as the nerves form a natural telegraph through the physical, system, that one feels rather than sees, when he is in the company of persons in his own class in life. Dress will not afford an infallible test, on such an occasion, though the daw is instantly seen not to be the peacock; neither will address, for the distinctive qualities lie much deeper than the surface. But so it is; a gentleman can hardly be brought into the company of man or woman, without his at once perceiving whether he or she belong to his own social caste or not. What is more, if a man of the world, he detects almost instinctively the degrees of caste, as well as the greater subdivisions, and knows whether his strange companions have seen much, or little; whether their gentility is merely the result of the great accident, with its customary advantages, or has been smoothed over by a liberal intercourse with the better classes of a general society. Most of all, may a travelled person be known—and that more especially in a provincial country, like our own—from one that has not travelled; though the company kept in other lands necessarily draws an obvious distinction between the last. Now, John Wilmeter, always mingling with the best society of his own country, had also been abroad, and had obtained that “second sight” which so insensibly, but certainly, increases the vision of all Americans who enjoy the advantage of acquiring it. What is more, though his years and the plans of his uncle for his future welfare, had prevented his staying in Europe long enough to receive all the benefit such a tour can bestow, he had remained long enough to pass beyond the study of merely physical things; and had made certain acquisitions in other matters, more essential to tastes, if not to character. When an American returns from an excursion into the old world, with “I come back better satisfied than ever with my own country,” it is an infallible sign that he did not stay long enough abroad; and when he returns only to find fault, it is equally proof that he has stayed too long. There is a happy medium which teaches something near the truth, and that would tell us that there are a thousand things to be amended and improved at home, while there are almost as many enjoyed, that the oldest and most polished people on earth might envy. John Wilmeter had not reached the point that enabled him to make the nicest distinctions, but he was sufficiently advanced to have detected what he conceived to be signs that this singular young creature, unknown, unsupported by any who appeared to take an interest in her, besides himself and the accidental acquaintances formed under the most painful circumstances, had been abroad; perhaps, had been educated there. The regulated tones of one of the sweetest voices he had ever heard, the distinctness and precision of her utterance, as far as possible removed from mouthing and stiffness, but markedly quiet and even, with a total absence of all the affectations of boarding-school grammar, were so many proofs of even a European education, as he fancied; and before that week was terminated, John had fully made up his mind that Mary Monson—though an American by birth, about which there could be no dispute—had been well taught in some of the schools of the old world.

This was a conclusion not reached immediately. He had to be favoured with several interviews, and to worm himself gradually into the confidence of his uncle’s client, ere he could be permitted to see enough of the subject of his studies to form an opinion so abstruse and ingenious.

When Mary Monson caught a glimpse of John Wilmeter’s head at her grate—where he stood respectfully uncovered, as in a lady’s presence—a slight flush passed over her face; but expecting him, as she did, she could not well be surprised.

“This bears some resemblance, Mr. Wilmeter, to an interview in a convent,” she then said, with a slight smile, but with perfect composure of manner. “I am the novice—and novice am I, indeed, to scenes like this—you, the excluded friend, who is compelled to pay his visit through a grate! I must apologize for all the trouble I am giving you.”

“Do not name it—I cannot be better employed than in your behalf. I am rejoiced that you sustain yourself so well against what must be a most unheard-of calamity, for one like yourself, and cannot but admire the admirable equanimity with which you bear your cruel fortune.”

“Equanimity!” repeated Mary with emphasis, and a slight display of intense feeling, powerfully controlled; “if it be so, Mr. Wilmeter, it must be from the sense of security that I feel. Yes; for the first time in months, I do feel myself safe—secure.”

“Safe!—Secure!—What, in a gaol?”

“Certainly; gaols are intended for places of security, are they not?” answered Mary, smiling, but faintly and with a gleam of sadness on her face. “This may appear wonderful to you, but I do tell no more than sober truth, in repeating that, for the first time in months, I have now a sense of security. I am what you call in the hands of the law, and one there must be safe from everything but what the law can do to her. Of that I have no serious apprehensions, and I feel happy.”