The ways of the hour

By James Fenimore Cooper

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Title: The ways of the hour

Author: James Fenimore Cooper

Release date: January 4, 2025 [eBook #75036]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: D. Appleton and Company, 1861

Credits: KD Weeks and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

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Transcriber’s Note:

This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding
the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

THE WAYS OF THE HOUR.

[Illustration:

The Theft
_The Ways of the Hour_
]

[Illustration:

“This bears some resemblance, Mr. Wilmeter, to an interview
in a convent. I am the novice, you the excluded friend, who is
compelled to pay his visit through a grate.”
_Ways of the Hour. Page 115._
]

THE

WAYS OF THE HOUR.

_A TALE._

J. FENIMORE COOPER.

‘Is this the way
I must return to native dust?’

NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1892.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Entered, according to the Act of Congress, In the year 1861, by
W. A. TOWNSEND AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of
New York.

[Illustration]

PREFACE.

-----------------------

The object of this book is to draw the attention of the reader to some
of the social evils that beset us; more particularly in connection with
the administration of criminal justice. So long a time has intervened
since the thought occurred, and so many interruptions have delayed the
progress of the work, that it is felt the subject has been very
imperfectly treated; but it is hoped that enough has been done to cause
a few to reflect on a matter of vital importance; one that to them may
possess the interest of novelty.

A strange indifference exists as to the composition of the juries. In
our view, the institution itself, so admirable in a monarchy, is totally
unsuited to a democracy. The very principle that renders it so safe
where there is a great central power to resist, renders it unsafe in a
state of society in which few have sufficient resolution to attempt even
to resist popular impulses.

A hundred instances might be given in which the juries of this country
are an evil; one or two of which we will point out. In trials between
railroad companies and those who dwell along their lines, prejudice is
usually so strong against the former, that justice for them is nearly
hopeless. In certain parts of the country, the juries are made the
instruments of defeating the claims of creditors who dwell at a
distance, and are believed to have interests opposed to the particular
community where the debtor resides. This is a most crying evil, and has
been the source of many and grievous wrongs. Whenever there is a motive
for creating a simulated public opinion, by the united action of several
journals, justice is next to hopeless; such combinations rarely, if
ever, occurring in its behalf. In cases that are connected with the
workings of political schemes, and not unfrequently in those in which
political men are parties to the suits, it is often found that the
general prejudices or partialities of the out-door factions enter the
jury-box. This is a most serious evil too; for, even when the feeling
does not produce a direct and flagrant wrong, it is very apt so far to
temper the right as to deprive it of much of its virtue. In a country
like this, in which party penetrates to the very bottom of society, the
extent of this evil can be known only to those who are brought into
close contact with the ordinary workings of the institution.

In a democracy, proper selections in the material that are necessary to
render juries safe, become nearly impossible. Then, the tendency is to
the accumulation of power in bodies of men; and in a state of society
like our own, the juries get to be much too independent of the opinion
of the court. It is precisely in that condition of things in which the
influence and authority of the judge guide the juror, and the
investigation and substantial power of the juror react on the
proceedings of the court, that the greatest benefits have been found to
accrue from this institution. The reverse of this state of things will
be very likely to produce the greatest amount of evil.

It is certain that the juries are falling into disrepute throughout the
length and breadth of the land. The difficulty is to find a substitute.
As they are bodies holding the lives, property and character of every
member of the community, more or less, in their power, it is not to be
supposed that the masses will surrender this important means of
exercising their authority voluntarily, or with good will. Time alone
can bring reform through the extent of the abuses.

The writer has not the vanity to suppose that any thing contained in
this book will produce a very serious impression on the popularity of
the jury. Such is not its design. All that is anticipated is to cause a
portion of his readers to reflect on the subject; persons who probably
have never yet given it a moment of thought.

There is a tendency, at the present time, to court change for its own
sake. This is erroneously termed a love of reform. Something very like a
revolution is going on in our midst, while there is much reason to
apprehend that few real grievances are abated; the spurious too
exclusively occupying the popular mind, to render easy a just
distinction between them. When an American prates about aristocracy, it
is pretty safe to set him down as knavish or ignorant. It is purely
cant; and the declaimers would be puzzled to point to a single element
of the little understood and much decried institution, the country being
absolutely without any, unless the enjoyment of the ordinary rights of
property can be so considered. But the demagogue must have his war-cry
as well as the Indian; and it is probable he will continue to whoop as
long as the country contains minds weak enough to furnish him with
dupes.

COOPERSTOWN, _March 12, 1850_.

[Illustration]

THE WAYS OF THE HOUR.

-----------------------

CHAPTER I.

_Mar._ My lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed?
_Aum._ Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in.
_King Richard II._

In one respect, there is a visible improvement in the goodly town of
Manhattan, and that is in its architecture. Of its growth, there has
never been any question, while many have disputed its pretension to
improvement. A vast expansion of mediocrity, though useful and imposing,
rarely satisfies either the judgment or the taste; those who possess
these qualities, requiring a nearer approach to what is excellent, than
can ever be found beneath the term just mentioned.

A town which is built of red bricks, that are faced with white marble,
the whole garnished with green blinds, can never have but one outward
sign—that of tawdry vulgarity. But this radical defect is slowly
disappearing from the streets of Manhattan; and those who build, are
getting to understand that architecture, like statuary, will not admit
of strong contrasts in colours. Horace Walpole tells us of a certain old
Lord Pembroke, who blackened the eyes of the gods and goddesses in the
celebrated gallery at Wilton, and prided himself on the achievement, as
if he had been another Phidias. There have been thousands of those who
have laboured in the spirit of this Earl of Pembroke in the streets of
all the American towns; but travelling, hints, books and example, are
slowly effecting a change; and whole squares may now be seen in which
the eye rests with satisfaction on blinds, facings and bricks, all
brought to the same pleasing, sober, architectural tint. We regard this
as the first step, in advance, that has been made in the right
direction, so far as the outward aspect of the town is concerned, and
look forward, with hope, to the day when Manhattan shall have banished
its rag-fair finery altogether, and the place will become as remarkable
for the chaste simplicity of its streets, as they have hitherto been for
their marked want of taste.

With this great town, mottled as it is, in people as well as in hues,
with its native population collected from all parts of this vast
republic, and its European representatives amounting to scores of
thousands, we shall have much to do in the succeeding pages. Our
researches, however, will be bestowed more on things moral than on
things physical; and we shall endeavour to carry the reader with us
through scenes that, we regret to say, are far more characteristic than
novel.

In one of the cross streets that communicate with Broadway, and below
Canal, stands a dwelling that is obnoxious to all the charges of bad
taste to which there has already been allusion, as well as to certain
others that have not yet been named, at all. A quarter of a century
since, or within the first twenty years of its own existence, the house
in question would have been regarded as decidedly patrician, though it
is now lost amid the thousands of similar abodes that have arisen since
its own construction. There it stands, with its red bricks periodically
painted redder; its marble facings, making a livery of red turned up
with white; its green blinds, its high stoop, its half-buried and low
basement, and all its neatness and comfort, notwithstanding its flagrant
architectural sins. Into this building we now propose to enter, at the
very early hour of eight in the morning.

The principal floor was divided, as usual, between a dining and a
drawing-room, with large communicating doors. This was the stereotyped
construction of all Manhattanese dwellings of any pretension, a quarter
of a century since; and that of Mr. Thomas Dunscomb, the owner and
occupant of the house in question, had been built in rigid conformity
with the fashion of its day. ’Squire Dunscomb, as this gentleman was
termed in all the adjacent country counties, where he was well known as
a reliable and sound legal adviser; Mr. Thomas Dunscomb, as he was
styled by various single ladies, who wondered he never married; or Tom
Dunscomb, as he was familiarly called by a herd of unyoked youths, all
of whom were turned of sixty, was a capital fellow in each of his many
characters. As a lawyer, he was as near the top of the bar as a man can
be, who never had any pretensions to be an orator, and whose longest
effort seldom exceeded half an hour. Should the plan of placing
eloquence in hobbles reach our own bar, his habit of condensing, his
trick of getting _multum in parvo_, may yet bring him to the very
summit; for he will have an immense advantage over those who, resembling
a country buck at a town ball, need the whole field to cut their
flourishes in. As a man of the world, he was well-bred, though a little
cynical, very agreeable, most especially with the ladies, and quite
familiar with all the better habits of the best-toned circles of the
place. As a boon companion, Tom Dunscomb was an immense favourite, being
particularly warm-hearted, and always ready for any extra eating or
drinking. In addition to these leading qualities, Dunscomb was known to
be rich, having inherited a very tolerable estate, as well as having
added much to his means, by a large and lucrative practice. If to these
circumstances we add that of a very prepossessing personal appearance,
in which age was very green, the reader has all that is necessary for an
introduction to one of our principal characters.

Though a bachelor, Mr. Dunscomb did not live alone. He had a nephew and
a niece in his family, the orphan children of a sister who had now been
dead many years. They bore the name of Wilmeter, which, in the family
parlance, was almost always pronounced Wilmington. It was Jack
Wilmington, and Sally Wilmington, at school, at home, and with all their
intimates; though Mr. John Wilmeter and Miss Sarah Wilmeter were often
spoken of in their little out-door world; it being rather an affectation
of the times to prove, in this manner, that one retains some knowledge
of the spelling-book. We shall write the name as it is written by the
parties themselves, forewarning the reader that if he desire to
pronounce it by the same family standard, he must take the unauthorized
spelling as a guide. We own ourselves to a strong predilection for old
familiar sounds, as well as old familiar faces.

At half-past 8, A. M., of a fine morning, late in May, when the roses
were beginning to show their tints amid the verdure of the leaves, in
Mr. Dunscomb’s yard, the three individuals just mentioned were at the
breakfast-table of what it is the fashion of New York to term a
dining-room. The windows were open, and a soft and fragrant air filled
the apartment. We have said that Mr. Dunscomb was affluent, and he chose
to enjoy his means, not à la Manhattan, in idle competition with the
_nouveaux riches_, but in a more quiet and rational way. His father had
occupied lots, ‘running through,’ as it is termed; building his house on
one street and his stables on the other; leaving himself a space in the
rear of the former, that was prodigious for a town so squeezed into
parallelograms of twenty-five feet by a hundred. This open space was of
the usual breadth, but it actually measured a hundred and fifty feet in
length, an area that would have almost justified its being termed a
‘park,’ in the nomenclature of the town. This yard Sarah had caused to
be well garnished with shrubbery, and, for its dimensions, it was really
a sort of oasis, in that wilderness of bricks.

The family was not alone that morning. A certain Michael Millington was
a guest of Jack’s, and seemingly quite at home in the little circle. The
business of eating and drinking was pretty well through with, though
each of the four cups had its remains of tea or coffee, and Sarah sat
stirring hers idly, while her soft eyes were turned with interest on the
countenances of the two young men. The last had a sheet of writing-paper
lying between them, and their heads were close together, as both studied
that which was written on it in pencil. As for Mr. Dunscomb, himself, he
was fairly surrounded by documents of one sort and another. Two or three
of the morning papers, glanced at but not read, lay opened on the floor;
on each side of his plate was a brief, or some lease or release; while a
copy of the new and much talked of code was in his hand. As we say in
our American English, Mr. Dunscomb was ‘emphatically’ a common-law
lawyer; and, as our transatlantic brethren would remark in their
sometime cockney dialect, he was not at all ‘agreeable’ to this great
innovation on ‘the perfection of human reason.’ He muttered occasionally
as he read, and now and then he laid down the book, and seemed to muse.
All this, however, was quite lost on Sarah, whose soft blue eyes still
rested on the interested countenances of the two young men. At length
Jack seized the paper, and wrote a line or two hurriedly, with his
pencil.

“There, Mike,” he said, in a tone of self-gratulation, “I think _that_
will do!”

“It has one merit of a good toast,” answered the friend, a little
doubtingly; “it is sententious.”

“As all toasts ought to be. If we are to have this dinner, and the
speeches, and all the usual publications afterwards, I choose that we
should appear with some little credit. Pray, sir,” raising his eyes to
his uncle, and his voice to correspond, “what do you think of it, now?”

“Just as I always have, Jack. It will never do at all. Justice would
halt miserably under such a system of practice. Some of the forms of
pleadings are infernal, if pleadings they can be called at all. I detest
even the names they give their proceedings—complaints and answers!”

“They are certainly not as formidable to the ear,” returned Jack, a
little saucily, “as rebutters and sur-rebutters. But I was not thinking
of the code, sir; I was asking your opinion of my new toast.”

“Even a fee could not extract an opinion, unless I heard it read.”

“Well, sir, here it is: ‘The constitution of the United States; the
palladium of our civil and religious liberties,’ Now, I do not think I
can much better that, uncle Tom!”

“I’m very sorry to hear you say so, Jack.”

“Why so, sir? I’m sure it is good American sentiment; and what is more,
it has a flavour of the old English principles that you so much admire,
about it, too. Why do you dislike it, sir?”

“For several reasons—it would be common-place, which a toast should
never be, were it true; but there happens not to be a word of truth in
your sentiment, sonorous as it may sound in your ears.”

“Not true! Does not the constitution guaranty to the citizen religious
liberty?”

“Not a bit of it.”

“You amaze me, sir! Why, here, just listen to its language, if you
please.”

Hereupon Jack opened a book, and read the clause on which he relied to
confute one of the ablest constitutional lawyers and clearest heads in
America. Not that Mr. Dunscomb was what is called an “expounder,” great
or small; but he never made a mistake on the subject in hand, and had
often caused the best of the “expounders” to retrace their steps. He was
an original thinker, but of the safest and most useful sort; one who
distinguished between the _institutions_ of England and America, while
he submitted to the fair application of minor principles that are so
common to both. As for his nephew, he knew no more of the great
instrument he held in his hand, than he had gleaned from ill-digested
newspaper remarks, vapid speeches in Congress, and the erroneous notions
that float about the country, coming from “nobody knows whom,” and
leading literally to nothing. The ignorance that prevails on such
subjects is really astounding, when one remembers the great number of
battles that are annually fought over this much-neglected compact.

“Ay, here is the clause—just please to hear it, sir,” continued
Jack.—“‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of
religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the
freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably
to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of
grievances.’ There, I think that will go far towards justifying the
whole toast, Mike.”

This was said a little triumphantly, and not a little confidently. The
only answer Mr. Dunscomb condescended to make, was an expressive “Umph!”
As for Michael Millington, he was a little timid about expressing an
opinion, and that for two reasons; he had often experienced Mr.
Dunscomb’s superior wisdom, and he knew that Sarah heard all that
passed.

“I wish your uncle would lay aside that code for a minute, Jack, and let
us know what he thinks of our authorities,” said Michael, in an under
tone.

“Come, Uncle Tom,” cried the more hardy nephew—“come out of your
reserve, and face the constitution of your country. Even Sarah can see
that, for once, _we_ are right, and that my toast is of proof.”

“It is a very good proof-_sheet_, Jack, not only of your own mind, but
of half the minds in the country. Ranker nonsense cannot be uttered,
however, than to say that the Constitution of the United States is the
palladium of anything in which civil or religious liberty is concerned.”

“You do not dispute the fidelity of my quotation, sir?”

“By no means. The clause you read is a very useless exhibition of
certain facts that existed just as distinctly before it was framed, as
they do to-day. Congress had no power to make an established religion,
or abridge the freedom of speech, or that of the press, or the right of
the people to petition, before that amendment was introduced, and
consequently the clause itself is supererogatory. You take nothing by
your motion, Jack.”

“I do not understand you, sir. To me, it seems that I have the best of
it.”

“Congress has no power but what has been conceded to it directly, or by
necessary connection. Now, there happens to be nothing said about
granting any such authority to Congress, and consequently the
prohibition is not necessary. But, admitting that Congress did really
possess the power to establish a religion previously to the adoption of
this amendment, the constitution would not prove a palladium to
religious liberty, unless it prohibited everybody else from meddling
with the opinions of the citizen. Any state of this Union that pleases,
may establish a religion, and compel its citizens to support it.”

“Why, sir, our own state constitution has a provision similar to this,
to prevent it.”

“Very true; but our own state constitution can be altered in this
behalf, without asking permission of any one but our own people. I think
that even Sarah will understand that the United States is no palladium
of religious liberty, if it cannot prevent a state from establishing
Mohamedanism, as soon as a few forms can be complied with.”

Sarah coloured, glanced timidly at Michael Millington, but made no
reply. She did not understand much of what she had just heard, though
rather an intelligent girl, but had hoped that Jack and his friend were
nearer right than was likely to turn out to be the case. Jack, himself,
being a young limb of the law comprehended what his uncle meant, and had
the grace to colour, too, at the manner in which he had manifested his
ignorance of the great national compact. With a view to relieve himself
from his dilemma, he cried, with a ready dexterity,—

“Well, since this won’t do, I must try the jury. ‘The trial by jury, the
palladium of our liberties.’ How do you like that, sir?”

“Worse than the other, boy. God protect the country that has no better
shield against wrong, than that which a jury can hold before it.”

Jack looked at Michael, and Michael looked at Jack; while Sarah looked
at both in turn.

“You surely will not deny, sir, that the trial by jury is one of the
most precious of the gifts received from our ancestors?” said the first,
a little categorically, Sarah brightening up at this question, as he
fancied that her brother had now got on solid ground.

“Your question cannot be answered in a breath, Jack,” returned the
uncle. “The trial by jury _was_ undoubtedly a most precious boon
bestowed on a people among whom there existed an hereditary ruling
power, on the abuses of which it was often a most salutary check.”

“Well, sir, is it not the same check here; assuring to the citizens
independent justice?”

“Who compose the ruling power in America, Jack?”

“The people, to be sure, sir.”

“And who the jurors?”

“The people, too, I suppose,” answered the nephew, hesitating a little
before he replied.

“Well, let us suppose a citizen has a conflict of rights with the
public, which is the government, who will compose the tribunal that is
to decide the question?”

“A jury, to be sure, sir. The trial by jury is guarantied by the
constitution, to us all.”

“Ay,” said Mr. Dunscomb, smiling, “much as are our religious and
political liberties. But according to your own admission, this is very
much like making one of the parties a judge in his own case. A. insists
that he has a right to certain lands, for instance, which the public
claims for itself. In such a case, part of the public compose the
tribunal.”

“But is it not true, Mr. Dunscomb,” put in Millington, “that the popular
prejudice is usually against government, in all cases with private
citizens?”

Sarah’s face looked brighter now than ever, for she felt sure that Mike,
as her brother familiarly called his friend, had asked a most apposite
question.

“Certainly; you are right as to particular sets of cases, but wrong as
to others. In a commercial town like this, the feeling is against
government in all cases connected with the collection of the revenue, I
admit; and you will see that the fact makes against the trial by jury in
another form, since a judge ought to be strictly impartial; above all
prejudice whatever.”

“But, uncle, a judge and a jury are surely very different things,” cried
Sarah, secretly impelled to come to Michael’s rescue, though she scarce
knew anything of the merits of the subject.

“Quite right, my dear,” the uncle answered, nodding his head kindly,
casting a glance at his niece that caused her to blush under the
consciousness of being fully understood in her motives, if not in her
remark. “Most profoundly right; a judge and a juror ought to be very
different things. What I most complain of is the fact that the jurors
are fast becoming judges. Nay, by George, they are getting to be
legislators, making the law as well as interpreting it. How often does
it happen, now-a-days, that the court tell the jury that such is the
law, and the jury comes in with a verdict which tells the court that
such is _not_ the law? This is an every-day occurrence, in the actual
state of public opinion.”

“But the court will order a new trial, if the verdict is against law and
evidence,” said Michael, determined that Sarah should be sustained.

“Ay, and another jury will be quite likely to sustain the old one.
No—no—the trial by jury is no more a palladium of our liberties, than
the Constitution of the United States.”

“Who, or what is, then, sir?” demanded Jack.

“God! Yes, the Deity, in his Divine Providence; if anything is to save
us. It may not be his pleasure to let us perish, for it would seem that
some great plan for the advancement of civilization is going on, and it
may be a part of it to make us important agents. All things regarded, I
am much inclined to believe such is the fact. But, did the result depend
on us, miserable instruments in the Almighty hands as we are, woeful
would be the end!”

“You do not look at things _couleur de rose_, Uncle Tom,” Sarah
smilingly observed.

“Because I am not a young lady of twenty, who is well satisfied with
herself and her advantages. There is but one character for which I have
a greater contempt than that of a senseless grumbler, who regards all
things _à tort et à travers_, and who cries, there is nothing good in
the world.”

“And what is the exception, sir?”

“The man who is puffed up with conceit, and fancies all around him
perfection, when so much of it is the reverse; who ever shouts
‘liberty,’ in the midst of the direst oppression.”

“But direst oppression is certainly no term to be applied to anything in
New York!”

“You think not? What would you say to a state of society in which the
law is available to one class of citizens only, in the way of
compulsion, and not at all, in the way of protection?”

“I do not understand you, sir; here, it is our boast that all are
protected, alike.”

“Ay, so far as _boasting_ goes, we are beyond reproach. But what are the
facts? Here is a man that owes money. The law is appealed to, to compel
payment. Verdict is rendered, and execution issued. The sheriff enters
his house, and sells his very furniture, to extort the amount of the
debt from him.”

“That is his misfortune, sir. Such things must happen to all debtors who
cannot, or will not, pay.”

“If this were true, I should have nothing to say. Imagine this very
debtor to be also a creditor; to have debts due to him, of many times
the sums that he owes, but which the law will _not_ aid him in
collecting. For him, the law is all oppression—no protection.”

“But, surely, Uncle Tom, nothing of the sort exists here!”

“Surely, Miss Sarah Wilmeter, such things _do_ exist here in practice,
whatever may be the theory on the subject; what is more, they exist
under the influence of facts that are directly connected with the
working of the institutions. My case is not supposititious, at all, but
real. Several landlords have quite recently felt all the rigours of the
law as debtors, when it was a dead letter to them, in their character of
creditors. This has actually happened, and that more than once; and it
might happen a hundred times, were the landlords more in debt. In the
latter case, it would be an every-day occurrence.”

‘What, sir,’ exclaimed Michael Millington; ‘the law enforce, when it
will not protect?’

“That it does, young man, in many interests that I could point out to
you. But here is as flagrant a case of unmitigated tyranny as can be
cited against any country in Christendom. A citizen is sold out of house
and home, under process of law, for debt; and when he asks for the use
of the same process of law to collect his undeniable dues, it is, in
effect, denied him. And this among the people who boast that their
independence is derived from a spirit that would not be taxed! A people
who are hourly shouting hosannas in honour of their justice!”

‘It cannot be, Uncle Tom, that this is done, in terms,’ cried the
astounded nephew.

“If, by terms, you mean professions of justice, and liberty, and equal
rights, they are fair enough; in all those particulars we are
irreproachable. As ‘_professors_’ no people can talk more volubly or
nearer to the point—I allude only to facts.”

“But these facts may be explained—qualified—are not as flagrant as they
seem under your statement?”

“In what manner?”

“Why, sir, this is but a _temporary_ evil, perhaps.”

“It has lasted, not days, nor weeks, nor months, but years. What is
more, it is an evil that has not occurred in a corner, where it might be
overlooked; but it exists within ten miles of your capital, in plain
sight of your legislators, and owes its impunity solely to their
profound deference to votes. In a word, it is a part of the political
system under which we live; and that far more so than any disposition to
tyranny that might happen to manifest itself in an individual king.”

“Do not the tenants who refuse to pay, fancy that their landlords have
no right to their estates, and does not the whole difficulty arise from
misapprehension?” asked Michael, a little timidly.

“What would that have to do with the service of process, if it were
true? When a sheriff’s officer comes among these men, they take his
authority from him, and send him away empty. Rights are to be determined
only by the law, since they are derived from the law; and he who meets
the law at the threshold, and denies it entrance, can never seriously
pretend that he resists because the other party has no claims. No, no,
young gentleman—this is all a fetch. The evil is of years’ standing; it
is of the character of the direst oppression, and of oppression of the
worst sort, that of many oppressing a few; cases in which the sufferer
is cut off from sympathy, as you can see by the apathy of the community,
which is singing hosannas to its own perfection, while this great wrong
is committed under its very nose. Had a landlord oppressed his tenants,
their clamour would have made itself heard throughout the land. The
worst feature in the case, is that which connects the whole thing so
very obviously with the ordinary working of the institutions. If it were
merely human covetousness struggling against the institutions, the last
might prove the strongest; but it is cupidity, of the basest and most
transparent nature, _using_ the institutions themselves to effect its
purpose.”

“I am surprised that something was not done by the last convention to
meet the evil!” said Jack, who was much struck with the enormity of the
wrong, placed before his eyes in its simplest form, as it had been by
his direct-minded and clear-headed kinsman.

“That is because you do not know what a convention has got to be. Its
object is to push principles into impracticable extremes, under the
silly pretension of progress, and not to abate evils. I made a
suggestion myself, to certain members of that convention, which, in my
poor judgment, would have effectually cured this disease; but no member
had the courage to propose it. Doubtless, it would have been useless had
it been otherwise.”

“It was worth the trial, if such were likely to be its result. What was
your plan, sir?”

“Simply to disfranchise any district in which the law could not be
enforced by means of combinations of its people. On application to the
highest court of the state, an order might be granted that no polls
should be held in one, or more, towns, or counties, in which
combinations existed of a force sufficient to prevent the laws from
being put in force. Nothing could be more just than to say that men who
will not obey the law shall not have a voice in making it, and to me it
really seems that some such provision would be the best possible
expedient to check this growing evil. It would be choking the enemy with
his own food.”

“Why was it not done, sir?”

“Simply because our sages were speculating on votes, and not on
principles. They will talk to you like so many books touching the vices
of all foreign systems, but are ready to die in defence of the
perfection of their own.”

“Why was it necessary to make a new constitution, the other day,” asked
Sarah, innocently, “if the old one was so very excellent?”

“Sure enough—the answer might puzzle wiser heads than yours, child.
Perfection requires a great deal of tinkering, in this country. We
scarcely adopt one plan that shall secure everybody’s rights and
liberties, than another is broached, to secure some newly-discovered
rights and liberties. With the dire example before them, of the manner
in which the elective franchise is abused, in this anti-rent movement,
the sages of the land have just given to the mass the election of
judges; as beautiful a scheme for making the bench coalesce with the
jury-box as human ingenuity could invent!”

As all present knew that Mr. Dunscomb was bitterly opposed to the new
constitution, no one was surprised at this last assertion. It did create
wonder, however, in the minds of all three of the ingenuous young
persons, when the fact—an undeniable and most crushing one it is, too,
so far as any high pretension to true liberty is concerned—was plainly
laid before them, that citizens were to be found in New York _against_
whom the law was rigidly enforced, while it was powerless in their
behalf. We have never known this aspect of the case presented to any
mind, that it did not evidently produce a deep impression, _for the
moment_; but, alas! “what is everybody’s business is nobody’s business,”
and few care for the violation of a principle when the wrong does not
affect themselves. These young folk were, like all around them,
unconscious even that they dwelt in a community in which so atrocious a
wrong was daily done, and, for the moment, were startled when the truth
was placed before their eyes. The young men, near friends, and, by
certain signs, likely to be even more closely united, were much addicted
to speculating on the course of events, as they conceived them to be
tending, in other countries. Michael Millington, in particular, was a
good deal of a general politician, having delivered several orations, in
which he had laid some stress on the greater happiness of the people of
this much favoured land, over those of all other countries, and
especially on the subject of equal rights. He was too young, yet, to
have learned the wholesome truth, that equality of rights, in practice,
exists nowhere; the ingenuity and selfishness of man finding the means
to pervert to narrow purposes, the most cautious laws that have ever
been adopted in furtherance of a principle that would seem to be so
just. Nor did he know that the Bible contains all the wisdom and
justice, transmitted as divine precepts, that are necessary to secure to
every man all that it is desirable to possess here below.

The conversation was terminated by the entrance of a fourth colloquist,
in the person of Edward McBrain, M. D., who was not only the family
physician, but the bosom friend of the lawyer. The two liked each other
on the principle of loving their opposites. One was a bachelor, the
other was about to marry his third wife; one was a little of a cynic,
the other much of a philanthropist; one distrustful of human nature, the
other too confiding; one cautious to excess, the other absolutely
impetuous, whenever anything strongly interested his feelings. They were
alike in being Manhattanese by birth, somewhat a novelty in a New
Yorker; in being equally graduates of Columbia, and classmates; in a
real love of their fellow-creatures; in goodness of heart, and in
integrity. Had either been wanting in these last great essentials, the
other could not have endured him.

CHAPTER II.

O change!—stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod;
The sun eternal breaks—
The new immortal wakes—
Wakes with his God.
_Mrs. Southey._

As Dr. McBrain entered the room, the two young men and Sarah, after
saluting him like very familiar acquaintances, passed out into what the
niece called her “garden.” Here she immediately set her scissors at work
in clipping roses, violets, and other early flowers, to make bouquets
for her companions. That of Michael was much the largest and most
tasteful; but this her brother did not remark, as he was in a brown
study, reflecting on the singularity of the circumstance that the
Constitution of the United States should not be the “palladium of his
political and religious liberties.” Jack saw, for the first time in his
life, that a true knowledge of the constitution was not to be found
floating about in society, and that “there was more in the nature of the
great national compact than was dreamt of in his philosophy.”

“Well, Ned,” said the lawyer, holding out his hand kindly but not rising
from his chair, “what has brought you here so early? Has old Martha
spoilt your tea?”

“Not at all; I have paid this visit, as it might be, professionally.”

“Professionally! I never was better in my life; and set you down as a
false prophet, or no doctor, if you like that better, for the gout has
not even given a premonitory hint, this spring; and I hope, now I have
given up Sauterne altogether, and take but four glasses of Madeira at
dinner——”

“Two, too many.”

“I’ll engage to drink nothing but sherry, Ned, if you’ll consent to
four, and that without any of those forbidding looks.”

“Agreed; sherry has less acidity, and consequently less gout, than
Madeira. But my business here this morning, though professional, does
not relate to my craft, but to your own.”

“To the law? Now I take another look at you, I do see trouble in your
physiognomy; am I not to draw the marriage settlements, after all?”

“There are to be none. The new law gives a woman the entire control of
all her property, they tell me, and I suppose she will not expect the
control of mine.”

“Umph! Yes, she ought to be satisfied with things as they are, for she
will remain mistress of all her cups and saucers, even,—ay, and of her
houses and lands, in the bargain. Hang me, if I would ever marry, when
the contract is so one-sided.”

“You never did, when the contract was t’other-sided. For my part, Tom,
I’m disposed to leave a woman mistress of her own. The experiment is
worth the trial, if it be only to see the use she will make of her
money.”

“You are always experimenting among the women, and are about to try a
third wife. Thank Heaven, I’ve got on sixty years, quite comfortably,
without even one.”

“You have only half lived your life. No old bachelor—meaning a man after
forty—knows anything of real happiness. It is necessary to be married,
in order to be truly happy.”

“I wonder you did not add, ‘two or three times.’ But you may make this
new contract with greater confidence than either of the others. I
suppose you have seen this new divorce project that is, or has been,
before the legislature?”

“Divorce! I trust no such foolish law will pass. This calling marriage a
‘contract,’ too, is what I never liked. It is something far more than a
‘contract,’ in my view of the matter.”

“Still, that is what the law considers it to be. Get out of this new
scrape, Ned, if you can with any honour, and remain an independent
freeman for the rest of your days. I dare say the widow could soon find
some other amorous youth to place her affections on. It matters not much
whom a woman loves, provided she love. Of this, I’m certain, from seeing
the sort of animals so many _do_ love.”

“Nonsense; a bachelor talking of love, or matrimony, usually makes a
zany of himself. It is _terra incognita_ to you, my boy, and the less
you say about it, the better. You are the only human being, Tom, I ever
met with, who has not, some time or other, been in love. I really
believe you never knew what the passion is”

“I fell in love, early in life, with a certain my lord Coke, and have
remained true to my first attachment. Besides, I saw I had an intimate
friend who would do all the marrying that was necessary for two, or even
for three; so I determined, from the first, to remain single. A man has
only to be firm, and he may set Cupid at defiance. It is not so with
women, I do believe; it is part of their nature to love, else would no
woman admire you, at your time of life.”

“I don’t know that—I am by no means sure of that. Each time I had the
misfortune to become a widower, I was just as determined to pass the
remainder of my days in reflecting on the worth of her I had lost, as
you can be to remain a bachelor; but somehow or other, I don’t pretend
to account for it, not a year passed before I have found inducements to
enter into new engagements. It is a blessed thing, is matrimony, and I
am resolved not to continue single an hour longer than is necessary.”

Dunscomb laughed out, at the earnest manner in which his friend spoke,
though conversations, like this we have been relating, were of frequent
occurrence between them.

“The same old sixpence, Ned! A Benedict as a boy, a Benedict as a man,
and a Benedict as a dotard——”

“Dotard! My good fellow, let me tell you——”

“Poh! I don’t desire to hear it. But as you came on business connected
with the law, and that business is not a marriage-settlement, what is
it? Does old Kingsborough maintain his right to the Harlem lot?”

“No, he has given the claim up, at last. My business, Tom, is of a very
different nature. What are we coming to, and what is to be the end of it
all!”

As the doctor looked far more than he expressed, Dunscomb was struck
with his manner. The Siamese twins scarce understand each other’s
impulses and wishes better than these two men comprehended each other’s
feelings; and Tom saw at once that Ned was now very much in earnest.

“Coming to?” repeated Dunscomb. “Do you mean the new code, or the
‘Woman-hold-the-Purse Law,’ as I call it? I don’t believe you look far
enough ahead to foresee all the damnable consequences of an elective
judiciary.”

“It is not that—this, or that—I do not mean codes, constitutions, or
pin-money. What is the _country_ coming to, Tom Dunscomb—that is the
question, I ask.”

“Well, and has the country nothing to do with constitutions, codes, and
elective judges? I can tell you, Master Ned McBrain, M. D., that if the
patient is to be saved at all, it must be by means of the judiciary, and
I do not like the advice that has just been called in.”

“You are a croaker. They tell me the new judges are reasonably good.”

“‘Reasonably’ is an expressive word. The new judges are _old_ judges, in
part, and in so much they do pretty well, by chance. Some of the new
judges are excellent—but one of the very best men on the whole bench was
run against one of the worst men who could have been put in his place.
At the next heat I fear the bad fellow will get the track. If you do not
mean what I have mentioned, what do you mean?”

“I mean the increase of crime—the murders, arsons, robberies, and other
abominations that seem to take root among us, like so many exotics
transplanted to a genial soil.”

“‘Exotics’ and ‘genial’ be hanged! Men are alike everywhere. No one but
a fool ever supposed that a republic is to stand, or fall, by its
virtue.”

“Yet, the common opinion is that such must be the final test of our
institutions.”

“Jack has just been talking nonsense on this subject, and now _you_ must
come to aid him. But, what has your business with me, this morning, to
do with the general depreciation in morals?”

“A great deal, as you will allow, when you come to hear my story.”

Dr. McBrain then proceeded forthwith to deliver himself of the matter
which weighed so heavily on his mind. He was the owner of a small place
in an adjoining county, where it was his custom to pass as much time,
during the pleasant months, as a very extensive practice in town would
allow. This was not much, it is true, though the worthy physician so
contrived matters, that his visits to Timbully, as the place was called,
if not long, were tolerably numerous. A kind-hearted, as well as a
reasonably-affluent man, he never denied his professional services to
his country neighbours, who eagerly asked his advice whenever there was
need of it. This portion of the doctor’s practice flourished on two
accounts,—one being his known skill, and the other his known generosity.
In a word, Dr. McBrain never received any compensation for his advice,
from any in the immediate neighbourhood of his country residence. This
rendered him exceedingly popular; and he might have been sent to Albany,
but for a little cold water that was thrown on the project by a shrewd
patriot, who suggested that while the physician was attending to affairs
of state, he could not be administering to the ailings of his Timbully
neighbours. This may have checked the doctor’s advancement, but it did
not impair his popularity.

Now, it happened that the bridegroom-expectant had been out to Timbully,
a distance of less than fifteen miles from his house in Bleecker street,
with a view to order matters for the reception of the bride, it being
the intention of the couple that were soon to be united to pass a few
days there, immediately after the ceremony was performed. It was while
at his place, attending to this most important duty, that an express
came from the county town, requiring his presence before the coroner,
where he was expected to give his evidence as a medical man. It seems
that a house had been burned, and its owners, an aged couple, had been
burnt in it. The remains of the bodies had been found, and an inquest
was about to be held on them. This was pretty much all that the
messenger could tell, though he rather thought that it was suspected the
house had been set on fire, and the old people, consequently, murdered.

As a matter of course, Dr. McBrain obeyed the summons. A county town, in
America, is often little more than a hamlet, though in New York they are
usually places of some greater pretensions. The state has now near a
dozen incorporated cities, with their mayors and aldermen, and with one
exception, we believe these are all county towns. Then come the
incorporated villages, in which New York is fast getting to be rich,
places containing from one to six or seven thousand souls, and which, as
a rule, are steadily growing into respectable provincial towns. The
largest of these usually contain “the county buildings,” as it is the
custom to express it. But, in the older counties, immediately around the
great commercial capital of the entire republic, these large villages do
not always exist; or when they do exist, are not sufficiently central to
meet the transcendental justice of democratic equality—a quality that is
sometimes of as exacting pretension, as of real imbecility; as witness
the remarks of Mr Dunscomb, in our opening chapter.

The county buildings of —— happen to stand in a small village, or what
is considered a small village, in the lower part of the state. As the
events of this tale are so recent, and the localities so familiar to
many persons, we choose to call this village “Biberry,” and the county
“Dukes.” Such was once the name of a New York county, though the
appellation has been dropped, and this not from any particular distaste
for the strawberry leaves; “Kings,” “Queens,” and “Duchess” having been
wisely retained—wisely, as names should be as rarely changed as public
convenience will allow.

Dr. McBrain found the village of Biberry in a high state of excitement;
one, indeed, of so intense a nature as to be far from favourable to the
judicial enquiry that was then going on in the court-house. The old
couple who were the sufferers in this affair had been much respected by
all who knew them; he as a common-place, well-meaning man, of no
particular capacity, and she as a managing, discreet, pious woman, whose
greatest failing was a neatness that was carried somewhat too near to
ferocity. Nevertheless, Mrs. Goodwin was, generally, even more respected
than her husband, for she had the most mind, transacted most of the
business of the family, and was habitually kind and attentive to every
one who entered her dwelling; provided, always, that they wiped their
feet on her mats, of which it was necessary to pass no less than six,
before the little parlour was reached, and did not spit on her carpet,
or did not want any of her money. This popularity added greatly to the
excitement; men, and women also, commonly feeling a stronger desire to
investigate wrongs done to those they esteem, than to investigate wrongs
done to those concerning whom they are indifferent.

Doctor McBrain found the charred remains of this unfortunate couple laid
on a table in the court-house, the coroner in attendance, and a jury
empanelled. Much of the evidence concerning the discovery of the fire
had been gone through with, and was of a very simple character. Some one
who was stirring earlier than common had seen the house in a bright
blaze, had given the alarm, and had preceded the crowd from the village,
on the road to the burning dwelling. The Goodwins had resided in a neat,
retired cottage, at the distance of near two miles from Biberry, though
in sight from the village; and by the time the first man from the latter
reached the spot, the roof had fallen in, and the materials were mostly
consumed. A dozen, or more, of the nearest neighbours were collected
around the ruins, and some articles of household furniture had been
saved; but, on the whole, it was regarded as one of the most sudden and
destructive fires ever known in that part of the country. When the
engine arrived from the village, it played briskly on the fire, and was
the means of soon reducing all within the outer walls, which were of
stone, to a pile of blackened and smouldering wood. It was owing to this
circumstance that any portion of the remains of the late owners of the
house had been found, as was done in the manner thus described, in his
testimony, by Peter Bacon, the person who had first given the alarm in
Biberry.

“As soon as ever I seed it was Peter Goodwin’s house that made the
light,” continued this intelligent witness, in the course of his
examination,—“I guv’ the alarm, and started off on the run, to see what
I could do. By the time I got to the top of Brudler’s Hill, I was fairly
out of breath, I can tell you, Mr. Coroner and Gentlemen of the Jury,
and so I was obliged to pull up a bit. This guv’ the fire a so much
better sweep, and when I reached the spot, there was little chance for
doing much good. We got out a chest of drawers, and the young woman who
boarded with the Goodwins was helped down out of the window, and most of
her clothes, I b’lieve, was saved, so far as I know.”

“Stop,” interrupted the coroner; “there was a young woman in the house,
you say.”

“Yes; what I call a young woman, or a gal like; though other some calls
her a young woman. Waal, she was got out; and her clothes was got out;
but nobody could get out the old folks. As soon as the ingyne come up we
turned on the water, and that put out the fire about the quickest. Arter
that we went to diggin’, and soon found what folks call the remains,
though to my notion there is little enough on ’em that is left.”

“You dug out the remains,” said the coroner, writing; “in what state did
you find them?”

“In what I call a pretty poor state; much as you see ’em there, on the
table.”

“What has become of the young _lady_ you have mentioned?” enquired the
coroner, who, as a public functionary, deemed it prudent to put all of
the sex into the same general category.

“I can’t tell you, ’squire; I never see’d her arter she was got out of
the window.”

“Do you mean that she was the hired-girl of the family,—or had the old
lady no help?”

“I kinder think she was a boarder, like; one that paid her keepin’,”
answered the witness, who was not a person to draw very nice
distinctions, as the reader will have no difficulty in conceiving, from
his dialect. “It seems to me I heer’n tell of another help in the
Goodwin family—a sorter Jarman, or Irish lady.”

“Was any such woman seen about the house this morning, when the ruins
were searched?”

“Not as _I_’ner. We turned over the brands and sticks, until we come
across the old folks; then everybody seemed to think the work was pretty
much done.”

“In what state, or situation, were these remains found?”

“Burnt to a crisp, just as you see ’em, ’squire, as I said afore; a
pretty poor state for human beings to be in.”

“But where were they lying, and were they near each other?”

“Close together. Their heads, if a body can call them black lookin’
skulls heads, at all, almost touched, if they didn’t quite touch, each
other; their feet lay further apart.”

“Do you think you could place the skeletons in the same manner, as
respects each other, as they were when you first saw them? But let me
first enquire, if any other person is present, who saw these remains
before they had been removed?”

Several men, and one or two women, who were in attendance to be
examined, now came forward, and stated that they had seen the remains in
the condition in which they had been originally found. Selecting the
most intelligent of the party, after questioning them all round, the
coroner desired that the skeletons might be laid, as near as might be,
in the same relative positions as those in which they had been found.
There was a difference of opinion among the witnesses, as to several of
the minor particulars, though all admitted that the bodies, or what
remained of them, had been found quite close together; their heads
touching, and their feet some little distance apart. In this manner
then, were the skeletons now disposed; the arrangement being completed
just as Dr. McBrain entered the court-room. The coroner immediately
directed the witnesses to stand aside, while the physician made an
examination of the crisped bones.

“This looks like foul play!” exclaimed the doctor, almost as soon as his
examination commenced. “The skulls of both these persons have been
fractured; and, if this be anything near the positions in which the
skeletons were found, as it would seem, by the same blow.”

He then pointed out to the coroner and jury, a small fracture in the
frontal bone of each skull, and so nearly in a line as to render his
conjecture highly probable. This discovery gave an entirely new
colouring to the whole occurrence, and every one present began to
speculate on the probability of arson and murder being connected with
the unfortunate affair. The Goodwins were known to have lived at their
ease, and the good woman, in particular, had the reputation of being a
little miserly. As everything like order vanished temporarily from the
court-room, and tongues were going in all directions, many things were
related that were really of a suspicious character, especially by the
women. The coroner adjourned the investigation for the convenience of
irregular conversation, in order to obtain useful clues to the
succeeding enquiries.

“You say that old Mrs. Goodwin had a good deal of specie?” enquired that
functionary of a certain Mrs. Pope, a widow woman who had been free with
her communications, and who very well might know more than the rest of
the neighbours, from a very active propensity she had ever manifested,
to look into the affairs of all around her. “Did I understand you, that
you had seen this money yourself.”

“Yes, sir; often and often. She kept it in a stocking of the old
gentleman’s, that was nothing but darns; so darny, like, that nobody
could wear it. Miss Goodwin wasn’t a woman to put away anything that was
of use. A clusser body wasn’t to be found, anywhere near Biberry.”

“And some of this money was gold, I think I heard you say. A stocking
pretty well filled with gold and silver.”

“The foot was cramming full, when I saw it, and that wasn’t three months
since. I can’t say there was any great matter in the leg. Yes, there was
gold in it, too. She showed me the stocking the last time I saw it, on
purpose to ask me what might be the valie of a piece of gold that was
almost as big as half a dollar.”

“Should you know that piece of gold, were you to see it, again?”

“That I should. I didn’t know its name, or its valie, for I never seed
so big a piece afore, but I told Miss Goodwin I thought it must be ra’al
Californy. Them’s about now, they tell me, and I hope poor folks will
come in for their share. Old as I am—that is, not so very old
neither—but such as I am, I never had a piece of gold in my life.”

“You cannot tell, then, the name of this particular coin?”

“I couldn’t; if I was to have it for the telling, I couldn’t. It wasn’t
a five dollar piece; that I know, for the old lady had a good many of
_them_, and this was much larger, and yellower, too; better gold, I
conclude.”

The coroner was accustomed to garrulous, sight-seeing females, and knew
how to humour them.

“Where did Mrs. Goodwin keep her specie?” he enquired. “If you saw her
put the stocking away, you must know its usual place of deposit.”

“In her chest of drawers,” answered the woman eagerly. “That very chest
of drawers which was got out of the house, as sound as the day it went
into it, and has been brought down into the village for safe keeping.”

All this was so, and measures were taken to push the investigation
further, and in that direction. Three or four young men, willing
volunteers in such a cause, brought the bureau into the court-room, and
the coroner directed that each of the drawers should be publicly opened,
in the presence of the jurors. The widow was first sworn, however, and
testified regularly to the matter of the stocking, the money, and the
place of usual deposit.

“Ah! you’ll not find it there,” observed Mrs. Pope, as the village
cabinet-maker applied a key, the wards of which happened to fit those of
the locks in question. “She kept her money in the lowest draw of all.
I’ve seen her take the stocking out, first and last, at least a dozen
times.”

The lower draw was opened, accordingly. It contained female apparel, and
a goodly store of such articles as were suited to the wants of a
respectable woman in the fourth or fifth of the gradations into which
all society so naturally, and unavoidably, divides itself. But there was
no stocking full of darns, no silver, no gold. Mrs. Pope’s busy and
nimble fingers were thrust hastily into an inner corner of the drawer,
and a silk dress was unceremoniously opened, that having been the
precise receptacle of the treasure as she had seen it last bestowed.

“It’s gone!” exclaimed the woman. “Somebody must have taken it!”

A great deal was now thought to be established. The broken skulls, and
the missing money, went near to establish a case of murder and robbery,
in addition to the high crime of arson. Men, who had worn solemn and
grave countenances all that morning, now looked excited and earnest. The
desire for a requiting justice was general and active, and the dead
became doubly dear, by means of their wrongs.

All this time Dr. McBrain had been attending, exclusively, to the part
of the subject that most referred to his own profession. Of the
fractures in the two skulls, he was well assured, though the appearance
of the remains was such as almost to baffle investigation. Of another
important fact he was less certain. While all he heard prepared him to
meet with the skeletons of a man and his wife, so far as he could judge,
in the imperfect state in which they were laid before him, the bones
were those of two females.

“Did you know this Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Coroner?” enquired the physician,
breaking into the more regular examination with very little ceremony;
“or was he well known to any here?”

The coroner had no very accurate knowledge of the deceased, though every
one of the jurors had been well acquainted with him. Several had known
him all their lives.

“Was he a man of ordinary size?” asked the doctor.

“Very small. Not taller than his wife, who might be set down as quite a
tall old lady.”

It often happens in Europe, especially in England, that the man and his
wife are so nearly of a height as to leave very little sensible
difference in their statures; but it is a rare occurrence in this
country. In America, the female is usually delicate, and of a
comparatively small frame, while the average height of man is something
beyond that of the European standard. It was a little out of the common
way, therefore, to meet with a couple so nearly of a size, as these
remains would make Goodwin and his wife to have been.

“These skeletons are very nearly of the same length,” resumed the
doctor, after measuring them for the fifth time. “The man could not have
been much, if any, taller than his wife.”

“He was not,” answered a juror. “Old Peter Goodwin could not have been
more than five feet five, and Dorothy was all of that, I should think.
When they came to meeting together, they looked much of a muchness.”

Now, there is nothing on which a prudent and regular physician is more
cautious than in committing himself on unknown and uncertain ground. He
has his theories, and his standard of opinions, usually well settled in
his mind, and he is ever on the alert to protect and bolster them;
seldom making any admission that may contravene either. He is apt to
denounce the water cure, however surprising may have been its effects;
and there is commonly but one of the “opathies” to which he is in the
least disposed to defer, and that is the particular “opathy” on which he
has moulded his practice. As for Dr. McBrain, he belonged strictly to
the alapathic school, and might be termed almost an ultra in his
adherence to its laws, while the number of the new schools that were
springing up around him, taught him caution, as well as great prudence,
in the expression of his opinions. Give him a patient, and he went to
work boldly, and with the decision and nerve of a physician accustomed
to practise in an exaggerated climate; but place him before the public,
as a theoretical man, and he was timid and wary. His friend Dunscomb had
observed this peculiarity, thirty years before the commencement of our
tale, and had quite recently told him, “You are bold in the only thing
in which I am timid, Ned, and that is in making up to the women. If Mrs.
Updyke were a newfangled theory, now, instead of an old-fashioned widow,
as she is, hang me if I think you would have ever had the spirit to
propose.” This peculiarity of temperament, and, perhaps, we might add of
character, rendered Dr. McBrain, now, very averse to saying, in the face
of so much probability, and the statements of so many witnesses, that
the mutilated and charred skeletons that lay on the court-house table
were those of two females, and not those of a man and his wife. It was
certainly possible he might be mistaken; for the conflagration had made
sad work of these poor emblems of mortality; but science has a clear
eye, and the doctor was a skilful and practised anatomist. In his own
mind, there were very few doubts on the subject.

As soon as the thoughtful physician found time to turn his attention on
the countenances of those who composed the crowd in the court-room, he
observed that nearly all eyes were bent on the person of one particular
female, who sat apart, and was seemingly labouring under a shock of some
sort or other, that materially affected her nerves. McBrain saw, at a
glance, that this person belonged to a class every way superior to that
of even the highest of those who pressed around the table. The face was
concealed in a handkerchief, but the form was not only youthful but
highly attractive. Small, delicate hands and feet could be seen; such
hands and feet as we are all accustomed to see in an American girl, who
has been delicately brought up. Her dress was simple, and of studied
modesty; but there was an air about _that_, which a little surprised the
kind-hearted individual, who was now so closely observing her.

The doctor had little difficulty in learning from those near him that
this “young woman,” so all in the crowd styled _her_, though it was
their practice to term most girls, however humble their condition,
“ladies,” had been residing with the Goodwins for a few weeks, in the
character of a boarder, as some asserted, while others affirmed it was
as a _friend_. At all events, there was a mystery about her; and most of
the girls of Biberry had called her proud, because she did not join in
their frivolities, flirtations and visits. It was true, no one had ever
thought of discharging the duties of social life by calling on _her_, or
in making the advances usual to well-bred people; but this makes little
difference where there is a secret consciousness of inferiority, and of
an inferiority that is felt, while it is denied. Such things are of
every-day occurrence, in country-life in particular, while American
town-life is far from being exempt from the weakness. In older
countries, the laws of society are better respected.

It was now plain that the blight of suspicion had fallen on this
unknown, and seemingly friendless girl. If the fire had been
communicated intentionally, who so likely to be guilty as she? if the
money was gone, who had so many means of securing it as herself? These
were questions that passed from one to another, until distrust gathered
so much head, that the coroner deemed it expedient to adjourn the
inquest, while the proof might be collected, and offered in proper form.

Dr. McBrain was, by nature, kind-hearted; then he could not easily get
over that stubborn scientific fact, of both the skeletons having
belonged to females. It is true that, admitting this to be the case, it
threw very little light on the matter, and in no degree lessened any
grounds of suspicion that might properly rest on the “young woman”; but
it separated him from the throng, and placed his mind in a sort of
middle condition, in which he fancied it might be prudent, as well as
charitable, to doubt. Perceiving that the crowd was dispersing, though
not without much animated discussion in under tones, and that the
subject of all this conversation still remained in her solitary corner,
apparently unconscious of what was going on, the worthy doctor
approached the immovable figure, and spoke.

“You have come here as a witness, I presume,” he said, in a gentle tone;
“if so, your attendance just now will no longer be necessary, the
coroner having adjourned the inquest until to-morrow afternoon.”

At the first sound of his voice, the solitary female removed a fine
cambric handkerchief from her face, and permitted her new companion to
look upon it. We shall say nothing, here, touching that countenance or
any other personal peculiarity, as a sufficiently minute description
will be given in the next chapter, through the communications made by
Dr. McBrain to Dunscomb. Thanking her informant for his information, and
exchanging a few brief sentences on the melancholy business which had
brought both there, the young woman arose, made a slight but very
graceful inclination of her body, and withdrew.

Dr. McBrain’s purpose was made up on the spot. He saw very plainly that
a fierce current of suspicion was setting against this pleasing, and, as
it seemed to him, friendless young creature; and he determined at once
to hasten back to town, and get his friend to go out to Biberry, without
a moment’s delay, that he might appear there that very afternoon in the
character of counsel to the helpless.

CHAPTER III.

“I am informed thoroughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?”
_Merchant of Venice._

Such was the substance of the communication that Doctor McBrain now made
to his friend, Tom Dunscomb. The latter had listened with an interest he
did not care to betray, and when the other was done he gaily cried—

“I’ll tell the widow Updyke of you, Ned!”

“She knows the whole story already, and is very anxious lest you should
have left town, to go to the Rockland circuit, where she has been told
you have an important case to try.”

“The cause goes over on account of the opposite counsel’s being in the
court of appeals. Ah’s me! I have no pleasure in managing a cause since
this Code of Procedure has innovated on all our comfortable and
venerable modes of doing business. I believe I shall close up my
affairs, and retire, as soon as I can bring all my old cases to a
termination.”

“If you _can_ bring those old cases to a termination, you will be the
first lawyer who ever did.”

“Yes, it is true, Ned,” answered Dunscomb, coolly taking a pinch of
snuff, “you doctors _have_ the advantage of us, in this behalf; _your
cases_ certainly do not last for ever.”

“Enough of this, Tom—you will go to Biberry, I take it for granted?”

“You have forgotten the fee. Under the new code, compensation is a
matter of previous agreement.”

“You shall have a pleasant excursion, over good roads, in the month of
May, in an easy carriage, and drawn by a pair of as spirited horses as
ever trotted on the Third Avenue.”

“The animals you have just purchased in honour of Mrs. Updyke that
is—Mrs. McBrain that is to be—” touching tho bell, and adding to the
very respectable black who immediately answered the summons, “Tell
Master Jack and Miss Sarah I wish to see them. So, Ned, you have let the
widow know all about it, and she does not pout or look distrustful—that
is a good symptom, at least.”

“I would not marry a jealous woman, if I never had a wife!”

“Then you will never marry at all. Why, Dr. McBrain, it is in the nature
of woman to be distrustful—to be jealous—to fancy things that are merely
figments of the brain.”

“You know nothing about them, and would be wisest to be silent—but here
are the young people already, to ask your pleasure.”

“Sarah, my dear,” resumed the uncle in a kind and affectionate tone of
voice, one that the old bachelor almost universally held towards that
particular relative, “I must give you a little trouble. Go into my room,
child, and put up, in my smallest travelling bag, a clean shirt, a
handkerchief or two, three or four collars, and a change all round, for
a short expedition into the country.”

“Country! Do you quit us to-day, sir?”

“Within an hour, at latest,” looking at his watch. “If we leave the door
at ten, we can reach Biberry before the inquest reassembles. You told
those capital beasts of yours, Ned, to come here?”

“I told Stephen to give them a hint to that effect. You may rely on
their punctuality.”

“Jack, you had better be of our party. I go on some legal business of
importance, and it may be well for you to go along, in order to pick up
an idea, or two.”

“And why not Michael also, sir? He has as much need of ideas as I have
myself.”

A pretty general laugh succeeded, though Sarah, who was just quitting
the room, did not join in it. She rather looked grave, as well as a
little anxiously towards the last-named neophyte of the law.

“Shall we want any books, sir?” demanded the nephew.

“Why, yes—we will take the Code of Procedure. One can no more move
without _that_, just now, than he can travel in some countries without a
passport. Yes, put up the code, Jack, and we’ll pick it to pieces as we
trot along.”

“There is little need of that, sir, if what they say be true. I hear,
from all quarters, that it is doing that for itself, on a gallop.”

“Shame on thee, lad—I have half a mind to banish thee to Philadelphia!
But put up the code; thy joke can’t be worse than that joke. As for
Michael, he can accompany us if he wish it; but you must both be ready
by ten. At ten, precisely, we quit my door, in the chariot of Phœbus,
eh, Ned?”

“Call it what you please, so you do but go. Be active, young gentlemen,
for we have no time to throw away. The jury meet again at two, and we
have several hours of road before us. I will run round and look at my
slate, and be here by the time you are ready.”

On this suggestion everybody was set in active motion. John went for his
books, and to fill a small rubber bag for himself; Michael did the same,
and Sarah was busy in her uncle’s room. As for Dunscomb, he made the
necessary disposition of some papers, wrote two or three notes, and held
himself at the command of his friend. This affair was just the sort of
professional business in which he liked to be engaged. Not that he had
any sympathy with crime, for he was strongly averse to all communion
with rogues; but it appeared to him, by the representations of the
doctor, to be a mission of mercy. A solitary, young, unfriended female,
accused, or suspected, of a most heinous crime, and looking around for a
protector and an adviser, was an object too interesting for a man of his
temperament to overlook, under the appeal that had been made. Still he
was not the dupe of his feelings. All his coolness, sagacity, knowledge
of human nature, and professional attainments, were just as active in
him as they ever had been in his life. Two things he understood well:
that we are much too often deceived by outward signs, mistaking
character by means of a fair exterior, and studied words, and that
neither youth, beauty, sex, nor personal graces were infallible
preventives of the worst offences, on the one hand; and that, on the
other, men nurture distrust, and suspicion, often, until it grows too
large to be concealed, by means of their own propensity to feed the
imagination and to exaggerate. Against these two weaknesses he was now
resolved to arm himself; and when the whole party drove from the door,
our counsellor was as clear-headed and impartial, according to his own
notion of the matter, as if he were a judge.

By this time the young men had obtained a general notion of the business
they were on, and the very first subject that was started, on quitting
the door, was in a question put by John Wilmeter, in continuation of a
discussion that had been commenced between himself and his friend.

“Mike and I have a little difference of opinion, on a point connected
with this matter, which I could wish you to settle for us, as an
arbiter. On the supposition that you find reason to believe that this
young woman has really committed these horrible crimes, what would be
your duty in the case—to continue to befriend her, and advise her, and
use your experience and talents in order to shield her against the
penalties of the law, or to abandon her at once?”

“In plain English, Jack, you and your brother student wish to know
whether I am to act as a palladium, or as a runagate, in this affair. As
neophytes in your craft, it may be well to suggest to you, in the first
place, that I have not yet been fee’d. I never knew a lawyer’s
conscience trouble him about questions in casuistry, until he had
received something down.”

“But you can suppose that something paid, in this case, sir, and then
answer our question.”

“This is just the case in which I can suppose nothing of the sort. Had
McBrain given me to understand I was to meet a client, with a well-lined
purse, who was accused of arson and murder, I would have seen him
married to two women, at the same time, before I would have budged. It’s
the want of a fee that takes me out of town, this morning.”

“And the same want, I trust, sir, will stimulate you to solve our
difficulty.”

The uncle laughed, and nodded his head, much as if he would say, “Pretty
well for _you_;” then he gave a thought to the point in professional
ethics that had started up between his two students.

“This is a very old question with the profession, gentlemen,” Dunscomb
answered, a little more gravely. “You will find men who maintain that
the lawyer has, morally, a right to do whatever his client would do;
that he puts himself in the place of the man he defends, and is expected
to do everything precisely as if he were the accused party himself. I
rather think that some vague notion, quite as loose as this, prevails
pretty generally among what one may call the minor moralists of the
profession.”

“I confess, sir, that I have been given to understand that some such
rule _ought_ to govern our conduct,” said Michael Millington, who had
been in Dunscomb’s office only for the last six months.

“Then you have been very loosely and badly instructed in the duties of
an advocate, Mr. Michael. A more pernicious doctrine was never broached,
or one better suited to make men scoundrels. Let a young man begin
practice with such notions, and two or three thieves for clients will
prepare him to commit petit larceny, and a case or two of perjury would
render him an exquisite at an affidavit. No, my boys, here is your rule
in this matter: an advocate has a _right_ to do whatever his client has
a _right_ to do—not what his client _would_ do.”

“Surely, sir, an advocate is justified in telling his client to plead
not guilty, though guilty; and in aiding him to persuade a jury to
acquit him, though satisfied himself he ought to be convicted!”

“You have got hold of the great point in the case, Jack, and one on
which something may be said on both sides. The law is so indulgent, as
to permit an accused who has formally pleaded ‘guilty,’ thus making a
distinct admission of his crime, to withdraw that plea, and put in
another of ‘not guilty.’ Now, had the same person made a similar
admission _out_ of court, and under circumstances that put threats or
promises out of the question, the law would have accepted _that_
admission as the best possible evidence of his guilt. It is evident,
therefore, that an understanding exists, to which the justice of the
country is a party, that a man, though guilty, shall get himself out of
the scrape, if he can do so by legal means. No more importance is
attached to the ‘not guilty,’ than to the ‘not at home’ to a visitor; it
being understood, by general convention, that neither means anything.
Some persons are so squeamish, as to cause their servants to say ‘they
are engaged,’ by way of not telling a lie; but a lie consists in the
intentional deception, and ‘not in’ and ‘not guilty’ mean no more, in
the one case, than ‘you can’t see my master,’ and in the other, than
‘I’ll run the chances of a trial.’”

“After all, sir, this is going pretty near the wind, in the way of
morals.”

“It certainly is. The Christian man who has committed a crime, ought not
to attempt to deny it to his country, as he certainly cannot to his God.
Yet, nine hundred and ninety-nine in a thousand of the most strait-laced
Christians in the community would so deny their guilt, if arraigned. We
must not tax poor human nature too heavily, though I think the common
law contains many things, originating in a jealousy of hereditary power,
that it is great folly for us to preserve. But, while we are thus
settling principles, we forget facts. You have told me nothing of your
client, Ned.”

“What would you wish to know?”

“You called her young, I remember; what may be her precise age?”

“That is more than I know; somewhere between sixteen and
five-and-twenty.”

“Five-and-twenty! Is she as old as that?”

“I rather think not; but I have been thinking much of her this morning,
and I really do not remember to have seen another human being who is so
difficult to describe.”

“She has eyes, of course?”

“Two—and very expressive they are; though, sworn, I could not tell their
colour.”

“And hair?”

“In very great profusion; so much of it, and so very fine and shining,
that it was the first thing about her person which I observed. But I
have not the least notion of its colour.”

“Was it red?”

“No; nor yellow, nor golden, nor black, nor brown,—and yet a little of
all blended together, I should say.”

“Ned, I’ll tell the Widow Updyke of thee, thou rogue!”

“Tell her, and welcome. She has asked me all these questions herself,
this very morning.”

“Oh, she has, has she? Umph! Woman never changes her nature. You cannot
say anything about the eyes, beyond the fact of their being very
expressive?”

“And pleasing; more than that, even—engaging; winning, is a better
term.”

“Ned, you dog, you have never told the widow one-half!”

“Every syllable. I even went farther, and declared I had never beheld a
countenance that, in so short an interview, made so deep an impression
on me. If I were not to see this young woman again, I should never
forget the expression of her face—so spirited, so sad, so gentle, so
feminine, and so very intelligent. It seemed to me to be what I should
call an illuminated countenance.”

“Handsome?”

“Not unusually so, among our sweet American girls, except through the
expression. That was really wonderful; though, you will remember, I saw
her under very peculiar circumstances.”

“Oh, exceedingly peculiar. Dear old soul; what a thump she has given
him! How were her mouth and her teeth?—complexion, stature, figure, and
smile?”

“I can tell you little of all these. Her teeth are fine; for she gave me
a faint smile, such as a lady is apt to give a man in quitting him, and
I saw just enough of the teeth to know that they are exceedingly fine.
You smile, young gentlemen; but _you_ may have a care for your hearts,
in good truth; for if this strange girl interests either of you one-half
as much as she has interested me, she will be either Mrs. John Wilmeter,
or Mrs. Michael Millington, within a twelvemonth.”

Michael looked very sure that she would never fill the last situation,
which was already bespoke for Miss Sarah Wilmeter; and as for Jack, he
laughed outright.

“We’ll tell Mrs. Updyke of him, when we get back, and break off that
affair, at least,” cried the uncle, winking at the nephew, but in a way
his friend should see him; “then there will be one marriage the less in
the world.”

“But is she a lady, doctor?” demanded John, after a short pause. “My
wife must have some trifling claims in that way, I can assure you.”

“As for family, education, association and fortune, I can say nothing,—I
know nothing. Yet will I take upon myself to say she _is_ a lady,—and
that, in the strict signification of the term.”

“You are not serious now, Ned!” exclaimed the counsellor, quickly. “Not
a _bony fide_, as some of our gentlemen have it? You cannot mean
_exactly_ what you say.”

“I do, though; and that literally.”

“And she suspected of arson and murder! Where are her connections and
friends,—those who made her a lady? Why is she there alone, and, as you
say, unfriended?”

“So it seemed to me. You might as well ask me why she is there, at all.
I know nothing of all this. I heard plenty of reasons in the street, why
she ought to be distrusted,—nay, convicted; for the feeling against her
had got to be intense, before I left Biberry; but no one could tell me
whence she came, or why she was there.”

“Did you learn her name?”

“Yes; that was in every mouth, and I could not help hearing it. She was
called Mary Monson by the people of Biberry—but I much doubt if that be
her real name.”

“So, your angel in disguise will have to be tried under an ‘alias!’ That
is not much in her favour, Ned. I shall ask no more questions, but wait
patiently to see and judge for myself.”

The young men put a few more interrogatories, which were civilly
answered, and then the subject was dropped. Well it has been said that
“God made the country; man made the town.” No one feels this more than
he who has been shut up between walls of brick and stone for many
months, on his first escape into the open, unfettered fields and winding
pleasant roads. Thus was it now with Dunscomb. He had not been out of
town since the previous summer, and great was his delight at smelling
the fragrance of the orchards, and feasting his eyes on their beauties.
All the other charms of the season came in aid of these, and when the
carriage drove into the long, broad, and we might almost say single
street of Biberry, Dunscomb in particular was in a most tranquil and
pleasant state of mind. He had come out to assist a friendless woman,
cheerfully and without a thought of the sacrifice, either as to time or
money, though in reflecting on all the circumstances he began to have
his doubts of the wisdom of the step he had taken. Nevertheless, he
preserved his native calmness of manner, and coolness of head.

Biberry was found to be in a state of high excitement. There were at
least a dozen physicians collected there, all from the county, and five
or six reporters had come from town. Rumours of all sorts were afloat,
and Mary Monson was a name in every person’s mouth. She had not been
arrested, however, it having been deemed premature for that; but she was
vigilantly watched, and two large trunks of which she was the mistress,
as well as an oilskin-covered box of some size, if not absolutely
seized, were so placed that their owner had no access to them. This
state of things, however, did not seem to give the suspected girl any
uneasiness; she was content with what a carpet-bag contained, and with
which she said she was comfortable. It was a question with the wiseacres
whether she knew that she was suspected or not.

Had Dunscomb yielded to McBrain’s solicitations, he would have gone at
once to the house in which Mary Monson was now lodged, but he preferred
adopting a different course. He thought it the most prudent to be a
looker-on, until after the next examination, which was now close at
hand. Wary by long habit, and cool by temperament, he was disposed to
observe the state of things before he committed himself. The presence of
the reporters annoyed him; not that he stood in any dread of the low
tyranny that is so apt to characterize this class of men, for no member
of the bar had held them, and the puny efforts of many among them to
build up and take away professional character, in greater contempt than
he had done; but he disliked to have his name mixed up with a cause of
this magnitude, unless he had made up his mind to go through with it. In
this temper, then, no communication was held with Mary Monson, until
they met, at the hour appointed for the inquest, in the court-house.

The room was crowded, at least twice as many having collected on this
occasion as had got together on the sudden call of the previous
examination. Dunscomb observed that the coroner looked grave, like a man
who felt he had important business on his hands, while a stern
expectation was the expression common to nearly all the others present.
He was an utter stranger, himself, even by sight, to every being
present, his own party and two or three of the reporters excepted. These
last no sooner observed him, however, than out came their little
note-books, and the gold pens were at work, scribbling something. It was
probably a sentence to say, “we observed among the crowd Thomas
Dunscomb, Esquire, the well-known counsel _from the city_;” but Dunscomb
cared very little for such vulgarisms, and continued passive.

As soon as the inquest was organized, the coroner directed a physician
of the neighbourhood to be put on the stand. It had gone forth that a
“city doctor” had intimated that neither of the skeletons was that of
Peter Goodwin, and there was a common wish to confront him with a high
country authority. It was while the medical man now in request was sent
for, that McBrain pointed out to Dunscomb the person of Mary Monson. She
sat in a corner different from that she had occupied the day before,
seemingly for the same purpose, or that of being alone. Alone she was
not, strictly, however; a respectable-looking female, of middle age,
being at her side. This was a Mrs. Jones, the wife of a clergyman, who
had charitably offered the suspected young stranger a home under her own
roof, pending the investigation. It was thought, generally, that Mary
Monson had but very vague notions of the distrust that rested on her, it
being a part of the plan of those who were exercising all their wits to
detect the criminal, that she was first to learn this fact in open
court, and under circumstances likely to elicit some proofs of guilt.
When Dunscomb learned this artifice, he saw how ungenerous and unmanly
it was, readily imagined a dozen signs of weakness that a female might
exhibit in such a strait, that had no real connection with crime, and
felt a strong disposition to seek an interview, and put the suspected
party on her guard. It was too late for this, however, just then; and he
contented himself, for the moment, with studying such signs of character
and consciousness as his native sagacity and long experience enabled him
to detect.

Although nothing could be more simple or unpretending than the attire of
Mary Monson, it was clearly that of a lady. Everything about her denoted
that station, or origin; though everything about her, as Dunscomb
fancied, also denoted a desire to bring herself down, as nearly as
possible, to the level of those around her, most probably that she might
not attract particular attention. Our lawyer did not exactly like this
slight proof of management, and wished it were not so apparent. He could
see the hands, feet, figure, hair, and general air of the female he was
so strangely called on to make the subject of his investigations, but he
could not yet see her face. The last was again covered with a cambric
handkerchief, the hand which held it being ungloved. It was a pretty
little American hand; white, well-proportioned, and delicate. It was
clear, that neither its proportions nor its colour had been changed by
uses unsuited to its owner’s sex or years. But it had no ring, in this
age of be-jewelled fingers. It was the left hand, moreover, and the
fourth finger, like all the rest, had no ornament, or sign of matrimony.
He inferred from this, that the stranger was unmarried; one of the last
things that a wife usually lays aside being her wedding-ring. The foot
corresponded with the hand, and was decidedly the smallest, best-formed,
and best-decorated foot in Biberry. John Wilmeter thought it the
prettiest he had ever seen. It was not studiously exhibited, however,
but rested naturally and gracefully in its proper place. The figure
generally, so far as a capacious shawl would allow of its being seen,
was pleasing, graceful, and a little remarkable for accuracy of
proportions, as well as of attire.

Once or twice Mrs. Jones spoke to her companion; and it was when
answering some question thus put, that Dunscomb first got a glimpse of
his intended client’s face. The handkerchief was partly removed, and
remained so long enough to enable him to make a few brief observations.
It was then that he felt the perfect justice of his friend’s
description. It was an indescribable countenance, in all things but its
effect; which was quite as marked on the lawyer, as it had been on the
physician. But the arrival of Dr. Coe put an end to these observations,
and drew all eyes on that individual, who was immediately sworn. The
customary preliminary questions were put to this witness, respecting his
profession, length of practice, residence, &c., when the examination
turned more on the matter immediately under investigation.

“You see those objects on the table, doctor?” said the coroner. “What do
you say they are?”

“_Ossa hominum_; human bones, much defaced and charred by heat.”

“Do you find any proof about them of violence committed, beyond the
damage done by fire?”

“Certainly. There is the _os frontis_ of each fractured by a blow; a
common blow, as I should judge.”

“What do you mean, sir, by a common blow? An accidental, or an
intentional blow?”

“By common blow, I mean that one blow did the damage to both _cranys_.”

“_Crany?_—how do you spell that word, doctor? Common folks get put out
by foreign tongues.”

“Cranys, in the plural, sir. We say cran_ium_, for _one_ skull, and
crany, for two.”

“I wonder what he would say for numskull?” whispered John to Michael.

“Yes, sir; I understand you, now. I trust the reporters will get it
right.”

“Oh! they never make any mistakes, especially in legal proceedings,”
quietly remarked Mr. Dunscomb to the doctor. “In matters of law and the
constitution, they are of proof! Talk of letters on the constitution!
What are equal to those that come to us, _hibernally_, as one may say,
from Washington?”

“Hibernially would be the better word,” answered McBrain, in the same
under tone.

“You ought to know; your grandfather was an Irishman, Ned. But listen to
this examination.”

“And now, Dr. Coe, have the goodness to look at those skeletons,”
resumed the coroner, “and tell us whether they belong to man, woman, or
child. Whether they are the remains of adults, or of children.”

“Of adults, certainly. On that point, sir, I conceive there can be no
doubt.”

“And as to the sex?”

“I should think that is equally clear. I have no doubt that one are the
remains of Peter Goodwin, and the other those of his wife. Science can
distinguish between the sexes, in ordinary cases, I allow; but this is a
case in which science is at fault, for want of facts; and taking all the
known circumstances into consideration, I have no hesitation in saying
that, according to my best judgment, those are the remains of the
missing man and woman—man and wife.”

“Am I to understand that you recognize the particular skeletons by any
outward, visible proofs?”

“Yes; there is the stature. Both of the deceased were well known to me;
and I should say, that making the usual allowance for the absence of the
_musculi_, the _pellis_, and other known substances——

“Doctor, would it be just as agreeable to you to use the common
dialect?” demanded a shrewd-looking farmer, one of the jury, who
appeared equally amused and vexed at this display of learning.

“Certainly, sir—certainly, Mr. Blore; _musculi_ means muscles, and
_pellis_ is the skin. Abstract the muscles and skin, and the other
intermediate substances, from the bones, and the apparent stature would
be reduced, as a matter of course. Making those allowances, I see in
those skeletons the remains of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin. Of the fact, I
entertain no manner of doubt.”

As Dr. Coe was very sincere in what he said, he expressed himself
somewhat earnestly. A great many eyes were turned triumphantly towards
the stranger who had presumed to intimate that the bones of both the
remains were those of women, when everybody in and about Biberry knew
Peter Goodwin so well, and knew that his wife, if anything, was the
taller of the two. No one in all that crowd doubted as to the fact,
except McBrain and his friend; and the last doubted altogether on the
faith of the doctor’s science. He had never known him mistaken, though
often examined in court, and was aware that the bar considered him one
of the safest and surest witnesses they could employ in all cases of
controverted facts.

Dr. Coe’s examination proceeded.

“Have you a direct knowledge of any of the circumstances connected with
this fire?” demanded the coroner.

“A little, perhaps. I was called to visit a patient about midnight, and
was obliged to pass directly before the door of Goodwin’s house. The
jury knows that it stood on a retired road, and that one would not be
likely to meet with any person travelling it, so early in the morning. I
did pass, however, two men, who were walking very fast, and in the
direction of Goodwin’s. I could not see their faces, nor did I know them
by their figures and movements. As I see everybody, and know almost
everybody, hereabouts, I concluded they were strangers. About four, I
was on my return along the same road, and as my sulky rose to the top of
Windy Hill, I got a view of Goodwin’s house. The flames were just
streaming out of the east end of the roof, and the little wing on that
end of the building, in which the old folks slept, was in a bright
blaze. The other end was not much injured; and I saw at an upper window
the figure of a female—she resembled, as well as I could judge by that
light, and at that distance, the young lady now present, and who is said
to have occupied the chamber under the roof, in the old house, for some
time past; though I can’t say I have ever seen her there, unless I saw
her then, under the circumstances mentioned. The old people could not
have been as ailing this spring as was common with them, as I do not
remember to have been stopped by them once. They never were in the habit
of sending for the doctor, but seldom let me go past the door, without
calling me in.”

“Did you see any one beside the figure of the female at the window?”

“Yes. There were two men beneath that window, and they appeared to me to
be speaking to, or holding some sort of communication with, the female.
I saw gestures, and I saw one or two articles thrown out of the window.
My view was only for a minute; and when I reached the house, a
considerable crowd had collected, and I had no opportunity to observe,
particularly in a scene of such confusion.”

“Was the female still at the upper window, when you reached the house?”

“No. I saw the lady now present standing near the burning building, and
held by a man—Peter Davidson, I think it was—who told me she wanted to
rush into the house to look for the old folks.”

“Did you see any efforts of that sort in her?”

“Certainly. She struggled to get away from Peter, and acted like a
person who wished to rush into the burning building.”

“Were the struggles natural—or might they not have been affected?”

“They might. If it was acting, it was _good_ acting. I have seen as
good, however, in my life.”

The doctor had a meaning manner, that said more than his words. He spoke
very low—so low as not to be audible to those who sat in the farther
parts of the room; which will explain the perfect indifference to his
testimony, that was manifested by the subject of his remarks. An
impression, however, was made on the jury, which was composed of men
much disposed to push distrust to demonstration.

The coroner now thought it time to spring the principal mine, which had
been carefully preparing during the recess in the investigation; and he
ordered “Mary Monson” to be called—a witness who had been regularly
summoned to attend, among the crowd of persons that had received similar
notices.

CHAPTER IV.

My deed’s upon my head! I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
_Shylock._

The eyes of Dunscomb were fastened intently on the female stranger, as
she advanced to the place occupied by the witnesses. Her features
denoted agitation, certainly; but he saw no traces of guilt. It seemed
so improbable, moreover, that a young woman of her years and appearance
should be guilty of so dark an offence, and that for money, too, that
all the chances were in favour of her innocence. Still, there were
suspicious circumstances, out of all question, connected with her
situation; and he was too much experienced in the strange and
unaccountable ways of crime, not to be slow to form his conclusions.

The face of Mary Monson was now fully exposed; it being customary to
cause female witnesses to remove their hats, in order that the jurors
may observe their countenances. And what a countenance it was! Feminine,
open, with scarce a trace of the ordinary passions about it, and
illuminated from within, as we have already intimated. The girl might
have been twenty, though she afterwards stated her age to be a little
more than twenty-one—perhaps the most interesting period of a female’s
existence. The features were not particularly regular, and an artist
might have discovered various drawbacks on her beauty, if not positive
defects; but no earthly being could have quarrelled with the expression.
That was a mixture of intelligence, softness, spirit, and feminine
innocence, that did not fail to produce an impression on a crowd which
had almost settled down into a firm conviction of her guilt. Some even
doubted, and most of those present thought it very strange.

The reporters began to write, casting their eyes eagerly towards this
witness; and John Dunscomb, who sat near them, soon discovered that
there were material discrepancies in their descriptions. These, however,
were amicably settled by comparing notes; and when the accounts of that
day’s examination appeared in the journals of the time, they were
sufficiently consistent with each other; much more so, indeed, than with
the truth in its severer aspects. There was no wish to mislead,
probably; but the whole system has the capital defect of making a trade
of news. The history of passing events comes to us sufficiently clouded
and obscured by the most vulgar and least praiseworthy of all our lesser
infirmities, even when left to take what may be termed its natural
course; but, as soon as the money-getting principle is applied to it,
facts become articles for the market, and go up and down, much as do
other commodities, in the regular prices-current.

Mary Monson trembled a little when sworn; but she had evidently braced
her nerves for the trial. Women are very capable of self-command, even
in situations as foreign to their habits as this, if they have time to
compose themselves, and to come forward under the influence of
resolutions deliberately formed. Such was probably the state of mind of
this solitary and seemingly unfriended young woman; for, though pale as
death, she was apparently composed. We say unfriended—Mrs. Jones,
herself, having given all her friends to understand that she had invited
the stranger to her house under a sense of general duty, and not on
account of any private or particular interest she felt in her affairs.
She was as much a stranger to her, as to every one else in the village.

“Will you be so good as to tell us your name, place of ordinary
residence, and usual occupation?” asked the coroner, in a dry, cold
manner, though not until he had offered the witness a seat, in
compliment to her sex.

If the face of Mary Monson was pale the instant before, it now flushed
to scarlet. The tint that appears in the August evening sky, when
heat-lightning illuminates the horizon, is scarce more bright than that
which chased the previous pallid hue from her cheeks. Dunscomb
understood her dilemma, and interposed. She was equally unwilling to
tell her real name, and to give a false one, under the solemn
responsibility of an oath. There is, probably, less of deliberate,
calculated false-swearing, than of any other offence against justice;
few having the nerve, or the moral obtuseness, that is necessary to
perjury. We do not mean by this, that all which legal witnesses say is
true, or the half of it; for ignorance, dull imaginations working out
solutions of half-comprehended propositions, and the strong propensity
we all feel to see things as we have expected to find them, in a measure
disqualifies fully half of those on whom the law has devolved a most
important duty, to discharge it with due intelligence and impartiality.

“As a member of the bar, I interfere in behalf of the witness,” said
Dunscomb, rising. “She is evidently unacquainted with her true position
here, and consequently with her rights. Jack, get a glass of water for
the young lady;” and never did Jack obey a request of his uncle with
greater alacrity. “A witness cannot, with propriety, be treated as a
criminal, or one suspected, without being apprised that the law does not
require of those thus circumstanced, answers affecting themselves.”

Dunscomb had listened more to his feelings than to his legal knowledge,
in offering this objection, inasmuch as no very searching question had,
as yet, been put to Mary Monson. This the coroner saw, and he did not
fail to let it be understood that he was aware of the weakness of the
objection.

“Coroners are not governed by precisely the same rules as ordinary
committing magistrates,” he quietly observed, “though we equally respect
the rules of evidence. No witness is obliged to answer a question before
an inquest, that will criminate himself, any more than at the Oyer and
Terminer. If the lady will say she does not wish to tell her real name,
_because it may criminate her_, I shall not press the question myself,
or allow it to be pressed by others.”

“Very true, sir; but the law requires, in these preliminary proceedings,
no more than such accuracy as is convenient in making out the records. I
conceive that in this particular case the question might be varied by
asking, ‘You are known by the name of Mary Monson, I believe?’”

“What great harm can it be to this young female to give her real name,
Mr. Dunscomb, as I understand you are that distinguished counsellor, if
she be perfectly innocent of the death of the Goodwins?”

“A perfectly innocent person may have good reasons for wishing to
conceal her name. These reasons obtain additional force when we look
around us, and see a committee of reporters, who stand ready to transmit
all that passes to the press;—but, it might better serve the ends of
justice to allow me to confer with the witness in private.”

“With all my heart, sir. Take her into one of the jury rooms, and I will
put another physician on the stand. When you are through with your
consultation, Mr. Dunscomb, we shall be ready to proceed with your
client.”

Dunscomb offered his arm to the girl, and led her through the crowd,
while a third medical man was sworn. This witness corroborated all of
Dr. Coe’s opinions, treating the supposition that both the skeletons
were those of women with very little respect. It must be admitted that
the suspected stranger lost a great deal of ground in the course of that
half-hour. In the first place, the discussion about the name was
received very much as an admission of guilt; for Dunscomb’s argument
that persons who were innocent might have many reasons for concealing
their names, did not carry much weight with the good people of Biberry.
Then any doubts which might have been raised by McBrain’s suggestion
concerning the nature of the skeletons, were effectually removed by the
corroborating testimony of Dr. Short, who so fully sustained Dr. Coe. So
much are the Americans accustomed to refer the decision of nearly all
questions to numbers, it scarcely exaggerates the truth to say that, on
the stand, the opinion of half-a-dozen country surveyors touching a
problem in geometry, would be very apt to overshadow that of a professor
from West Point, or old Yale. Majorities are the primum mobile of the
common mind, and he who can get the greatest number on his side is very
apt to be considered right, and to reap the benefits of being so.

A fourth and a fifth medical man were examined, and they concurred in
the opinions of Dr. Coe and his neighbours. All gave it as the result of
their enquiries, that they believed the two skulls had been broken with
the same instrument, and that the blow, if it did not cause immediate
death, must have had the effect to destroy consciousness. As regards the
sex, the answers were given in a tone somewhat supercilious.

“Science is a very good thing in its place,” observed one of these last
witnesses; “but science is subject to known facts We all know that Peter
Goodwin and his wife lived in that house; we all know that Dorothy
Goodwin was a large woman, and that Peter Goodwin was a small man,—that
they were about of a height, in fact,—and that these skeletons very
accurately represent their respective statures. We also know that the
house is burnt, that the old couple are missing, that these bones were
found in a wing in which they slept, and that no other bones have been
found there. Now, to my judgment, these facts carry as much weight, ay,
even more weight, than any scientific reasoning in the premises. I
conclude, therefore, that these are the remains of Peter and Dorothy
Goodwin—have no doubt that they are, indeed.”

“Am I permitted to ask this witness a question, Mr. Coroner?” demanded
Dr. McBrain.

“With all my heart, sir. The jury wishes to ascertain all they can, and
our sole object is justice. Our inquests are not very rigid as to forms,
and you are welcome to examine the witness as much as you please.”

“You knew Goodwin?” asked McBrain, directly of the witness.

“I did, sir; quite well.”

“Had he all his teeth, as you remember?”

“I think he had.”

“On the supposition that his front upper teeth were all gone, and that
the skeleton you suppose to be his _had_ all the front upper teeth,
would you still regard the facts you have mentioned as better, or even
as good proof, as the evidence of science, which tells us that the man
who has lost his teeth cannot possess them?”

“I scarcely call that a scientific fact, at all, sir. Any one may judge
of that circumstance, as well as a physician. If it were as you say, I
should consider the presence of the teeth pretty good proof that the
skeleton was that of some other person, unless the teeth were the work
of a dentist.”

“Then why not put any other equally sure anatomical fact in opposition
to what is generally supposed, in connection with the wing, the presence
of the men, and all the other circumstances you have mentioned?”

“If there were any other sure anatomical fact, so I would. But, in the
condition in which those remains are, I do not think the best anatomist
could say that he can distinguish whether they belonged to a man or to a
woman.”

“I confess that the case has its difficulties,” McBrain quietly
answered. “Still I incline to my first opinion. I trust, Mr. Coroner,
that the skeletons will be carefully preserved, so long as there may be
any reason to continue these legal enquiries?”

“Certainly, sir. A box is made for that purpose, and they will be
carefully deposited in it, as soon as the inquest adjourns for the day.
It is no unusual thing, gentlemen, for doctors to disagree.”

This was said with a smile, and had the effect to keep the peace.
McBrain, however, had all the modesty of knowledge, and was never
disposed to show off his superior attainments in the faces of those who
might be supposed to know less than himself. Nor was he, by any means,
certain of his fact; though greatly inclined to believe that both the
skeletons were those of females. The heat had been so powerful as to
derange, in some measure, if not entirely to deface, his proofs; and he
was not a man to press a fact, in a case of this magnitude, without
sufficient justification. All he now wanted, was to reserve a point that
might have a material influence hereafter, in coming to a correct
conclusion.

It was fully an hour before Dunscomb returned, bringing Mary Monson on
his arm. John followed the latter closely, for, though not admitted to
the room in which this long private conference had been held, he had not
ceased to pace the gallery in front of its door during the whole time.
Dunscomb looked very grave, and, as McBrain thought, and he was very
expert in interpreting the language of his friend’s countenance,
disappointed. The girl herself had evidently been weeping, and that
violently. There was a paleness of the face, and a tremor in the frame,
too, that caused the observant physician to suppose that, for the first
time, she had been made to comprehend that she was the object of such
dire distrust. No sooner were the two in their old seats, than the
coroner prepared to renew the suspended examination.

“Witness,” repeated that functionary with marked formality, “what is
your name?”

The answer was given in a tremulous voice, but with sufficient
readiness, as if previously prepared.

“I am known, in and around Biberry, by the name of Mary Monson.”

The coroner paused, passed a hand over his brow, mused a moment, and
abandoned a half-formed determination he had made, to push this
particular enquiry as far as he could. To state the truth, he was a
little afraid of Mr. Thomas Dunscomb, whose reputation at the bar was of
too high a character to have escaped his notice. On the whole,
therefore, he decided to accept the name of Mary Monson, reserving the
right of the state to enquire further, hereafter.

“Where do you reside?”

“At present, in this place—lately, in the family of Peter Goodwin, whose
remains are supposed to be in this room.”

“How long had you resided in that family?”

“Nine weeks, to a day. I arrived in the morning, and the fire occurred
at night.”

“Relate all that you know concerning that fire, if you please, Miss—I
call you Miss, supposing you to be unmarried?”

Mary Monson merely made a slight inclination of her head, as one
acknowledges that a remark is heard and understood. This did not more
than half satisfy the coroner, his wife, for reasons of her own, having
particularly desired him to ask the “Monson girl,” when she was put on
the stand, whether she was or was not married. But it was too late, just
then, to ascertain this interesting fact, and the examination proceeded.

“Relate all that you know concerning the fire, if you please, ma’am.”

“I know very little. I was awakened by a bright light—arose, and dressed
myself as well as I could, and was about to descend the stairs, when I
found I was too late. I then went to a window, and intended to throw my
bed out, and let myself down on it, when two men appeared, and raised a
ladder, by which I got safely out.”

“Were any of your effects saved?”

“All, I believe. The same two persons entered my room, and passed my
trunks, box, and carpet-bag, writing-desk, and other articles, out of
the room, as well as most of its furniture. It was the part of the
building last on fire, and it was safe entering the room I occupied, for
near half an hour after I escaped.”

“How long had you known the Goodwins?”

“From the time when I first came to live in their house.”

“Did you pass the evening of the night of the fire in their company?”

“I did not. Very little of my time was passed in their company, unless
it was at meals.”

This answer caused a little stir among the audience, of whom much the
larger portion thought it contained an admission to be noted. Why should
not a young woman who lived in a house so much apart from a general
neighbourhood, not pass most of her time in the company of those with
whom she dwelt? “If they were good enough to live with, I should think
they might be good enough to associate with,” whispered one of the most
active female talkers of Biberry, but in a tone so loud as to be heard
by all near her.

This was merely yielding to a national and increasing susceptibility to
personal claims; it being commonly thought aristocratic to refuse to
associate with everybody, when the person subject to remark has any
apparent advantages to render such association desirable. All others may
do as they please.

“You did not, then, make one of the family regularly, but were there for
some particular purpose of your own?” resumed the coroner.

“I think, sir, on reflection, that you will see this examination is
taking a very irregular course,” interposed Dunscomb. “It is more like
an investigation for a commitment, than an inquest.”

“The law allows the freest modes of enquiry in all such cases, Mr.
Dunscomb. Recollect, sir, there have been arson and murder—two of the
highest crimes known to the books.”

“I do not forget it; and recognise not only all your rights, sir, but
your duties. Nevertheless, this young lady has rights, too, and is to be
treated distinctly in one of two characters; as a witness, or as a party
accused. If in the latter, I shall at once advise her to answer no more
questions in this state of the case. My duty, as her counsel, requires
me to say as much.”

“She has, then, regularly retained you, Mr. Dunscomb?” the coroner
asked, with interest.

“That, sir, is a matter between her and myself. I appear here as
counsel, and shall claim the rights of one. I know that you can carry on
this inquest without my interference, if you see fit; but no one can
exclude the citizen from the benefit of advice. Even the new code, as
extravagant and high-flying an invention as ever came from the misguided
ingenuity of man, will allow of this.”

“There is no wish, Mr. Dunscomb, to put any obstacles in your way. Let
every man do his whole duty. Your client can certainly refuse to answer
any questions she may please, on the ground that the answer may tend to
criminate herself; and so may any one else.”

“I beg your pardon, sir; the law is still more indulgent in these
preliminary proceedings. A party who knows himself to be suspected, has
a right to evade questions that may militate against his interests; else
would the boasted protection which the law so far throws around every
one, that he need not be his own accuser, become a mere pretence.”

“I shall endeavour to put my questions in such a way, as to give her the
benefit of all her rights. Miss Monson, it is said that you have been
seen, since the fire, to have some gold in your possession; have you any
objection to let that gold be seen by the jury?”

“None in the world, sir. I have a few gold pieces—here they are, in my
purse. They do not amount to much, either in numbers or value. You are
at liberty to examine them as much as you please.”

Dunscomb had betrayed a little uneasiness at this question; but the
calm, steady manner in which the young woman answered, and the coolness
with which she put her purse into the coroner’s hand, reassured, or
rather surprised him. He remained silent, therefore, interposing no
objection to the examination.

“Here are seven half-eagles, two quarter-eagles, and a strange coin that
I do not remember ever to have seen before,” said the coroner. “What do
you call this piece, Mr. Dunscomb?”

“I cannot tell you, sir; I do not remember ever to have seen the coin
before, myself.”

“It is an Italian coin, of the value of about twenty dollars, they tell
me,” answered Mary, quietly. “I think it is called after the reigning
sovereign, whoever he may be. I got it, in exchange for some of our own
money, from an emigrant from Europe, and kept it as a thing a little out
of the common way.”

The simplicity, distinctness, not to say nerve, with which this was
said, placed Dunscomb still more at his ease, and he now freely let the
enquiry take its course. All this did not prevent his being astonished
that one so young, and seemingly so friendless, should manifest so much
coolness and self-possession, under circumstances so very trying. Such
was the fact, however; and he was fain to await further developments, in
order better to comprehend the character of his client.

“Is Mrs. Pope present?” enquired the coroner. “The lady who told us
yesterday she had seen the specie of the late Mrs. Goodwin, during the
life-time of the latter?”

It was almost superfluous to ask if any particular person were present,
as nearly all Biberry were in, or about, the court-house. Up started the
widow, therefore, at this appeal, and coming forward with alacrity, she
was immediately sworn, which she had not been the previous day, and went
on the stand as a regular witness.

“Your name?” observed the coroner.

“Abigail Pope—folks write ‘relict of John Pope, deceased,’ in all my law
papers.”

“Very well, Mrs. Pope; the simple name will suffice for the present
purposes. Do you reside in this neighbourhood?”

“In Biberry. I was born, brought up, married, became a widow, and still
dwell, all within half-a-mile of this spot. My maiden name was Dickson.”

Absurd and forward as these answers may seem to most persons, they had
an effect on the investigation that was then going on in Biberry. Most
of the audience saw, and felt, the difference between the frank
statements of the present witness, and the reserve manifested by the
last.

“Now, why couldn’t that Mary Monson answer all these questions, just as
well as Abigail Pope?” said one female talker to a knot of listeners.
“She has a glib enough tongue in her head, if she only sees fit to use
it! I’ll engage no one can answer more readily, when she wishes to let a
thing out. There’s a dreadful history behind the curtain, in my
judgment, about that same young woman, could a body only get at it.”

“Mr. Sanford _will_ get at it, before he has done with her, I’ll
engage,” answered a friend. “I have heard it said he is the most
investigating coroner in the state, when he sets about a case in good
earnest. He’ll be very apt to make the most of this, for we never have
had anything one-half so exciting in Biberry, as these murders! I have
long thought we were rather out of the way of the rest of the world,
until now; but our time has come, and we shan’t very soon hear the last
of it!”

“It’s all in the papers, already!” exclaimed a third. “Biberry looks as
grand as York, or Albany, in the columns of every paper from town, this
morning! I declare it did me good to see our little place holding up its
head among the great of the earth, as it might be——”

What else, in the way of local patriotism, may have escaped this
individual, cannot now be known, the coroner drawing off her auditors,
by the question next put to the widow.

“Did you ever see any gold coins in the possession of the late Mrs.
Goodwin?” asked that functionary.

“Several times—I don’t know but I might say often. Five or six times, at
least. I used to sew for the old lady, and you know how it is when a
body works, in that way, in a family—it’s next thing, I do suppose, to
being a doctor, so far as secrets go.”

“Should you know any of that coin were you to see it again, Mrs. Pope?”

“I think I might. There’s one piece, in partic’lar, that I suppose I
should know, anywhere. It’s a wonderful looking piece of money, and true
Californy, I conclude.”

“Did any of Mrs. Goodwin’s gold coins bear a resemblance to this?”
showing a half-eagle.

“Yes, sir—that’s a five-dollar piece—I’ve had one of them myself, in the
course of my life.”

“Mrs. Goodwin had coins similar to this, I then understand you to say?”

“She had as many as fifty, I should think. Altogether, she told me she
had as much as four hundred dollars in that stocking! I remember the
sum, for it sounded like a great deal for anybody to have, who wasn’t a
bank, like. It quite put me in mind of the _place ers_.”

“Was there any coin like this?” showing the widow the Italian piece.

“That’s the piece! I’d know it among a thousand! I had it in my hands as
much as five minutes, trying to read the Latin on it, and make it out
into English. All the rest was American gold, the old lady told me; but
this piece she said was foreign.”

This statement produced a great sensation in the court-room. Although
Mrs. Pope was flippant, a gossip, and a little notorious for meddling
with her neighbours’ concerns, no one suspected her of fabricating such
a story, under oath. The piece of gold passed from juror to juror; and
each man among them felt satisfied that he would know the coin again,
after an interval of a few weeks. Dunscomb probably put less faith in
this bit of testimony, than any other person present; and he was curious
to note its effect on his client. To his great surprise, she betrayed no
uneasiness; her countenance maintaining a calm that he now began to
apprehend denoted a practised art; and he manifested a desire to examine
the piece of gold for himself. It was put in his hand, and he glanced at
its face a little eagerly. It was an unusual coin; but it had no defect
or mark that might enable one to distinguish between it and any other
piece of a similar impression. The coroner interpreted the meaning of
his eye, and suspended the examination of the widow, to question Mary
Monson herself.

“Your client sees the state of the question, Mr. Dunscomb,” he said;
“and you will look to her rights. Mine authorize me, as I understand
them, to enquire of her concerning a few facts in relation to this piece
of money.”

“I will answer your questions, sir, without any hesitation,” the accused
replied, with a degree of steadiness that Dunscomb deemed astonishing.

“How long has this piece of gold been in your possession, if you please,
Miss?”

“About a twelvemonth. I began to collect the gold I have, very nearly a
year since.”

“Has it been in your possession, uninterruptedly, all that time?”

“So far as I know, sir, it has. A portion of the time, and a large
portion of it, it has not been kept in my purse; but I should think no
one could have meddled with it, when it has been elsewhere.”

“Have you anything to remark on the testimony just given?”

“It is strictly true. Poor Mrs. Goodwin certainly had the store of gold
mentioned by Mrs. Pope, for she once showed it to me. I rather think she
was fond of such things; and had a pleasure in counting her hoards, and
showing them to other persons. I looked over her coins; and finding she
was fond of those that are a little uncommon, I gave her one or two of
those that I happened to own. No doubt, Mrs. Pope saw the counterpart of
this piece, but surely not the piece itself.”

“I understand you to say, then, that Mrs. Goodwin had a gold coin
similar to this, which gold coin came from yourself. What did Mrs.
Goodwin allow you in the exchange?”

“Sir?”

“How much did you estimate the value of that Italian piece at, and in
what money did Mrs. Goodwin pay you for it? It is necessary to be
particular in these cases.”

“She returned me nothing for the coin, sir. It was a present from me to
her, and of course not to be paid for.”

This answer met with but little favour. It did not appear to the people
of Biberry at all probable that an unknown, and seemingly friendless
young woman, who had been content to dwell two months in the
“garret-room” of the “old Goodwin house,” faring none of the best,
certainly, and neglecting so many superior tenements and tables that
were to be met with on every side of her, would be very likely to give
away a piece of gold of that unusual size. It is true, we are living in
a marvellous age, so far as this metal is concerned; but the Californian
gold had not then arrived in any great quantity, and the people of the
country are little accustomed to see anything but silver and paper,
which causes them to attach an unwonted value to the more precious
metal. Even the coroner took this view of the matter; and Dunscomb saw
that the explanation just made by his client was thought to prove too
much.

“Are you in the habit, Miss, of giving away pieces of gold?” asked one
of the jurors.

“That question is improper,” interposed Mr. Dunscomb. “No one can have a
right to put it.”

The coroner sustained this objection, and no answer was given. As Mrs.
Pope had suggested that others, besides herself, had seen Mrs. Goodwin’s
stocking, four more witnesses were examined to this one point. They were
all females, who had been admitted by the deceased, in the indulgence of
her passion, to feast their eyes with a sight of her treasure. Only one,
however, of these four professed to have any recollection of the
particular coin that had now become, as it might be, the pivoting point
in the enquiry; and her recollections were by no means as clear as those
of the widow. She _thought_ she had seen such a piece of gold in Mrs.
Goodwin’s possession, though she admitted she was not allowed to touch
any of the money, which was merely held up, piece by piece, before her
admiring eyes, in the hands of its proper owner. It was in this stage of
the enquiry that Dunscomb remarked to the coroner, that “it was not at
all surprising a woman who was so fond of exposing her treasure should
be robbed and murdered!” This remark, however, failed of its intended
effect, in consequence of the manner in which suspicion had become
riveted, as it might be, through the testimony of Mrs. Pope, on the
stranger who had so mysteriously come to lodge with the Goodwins. The
general impression now appeared to be that the whole matter had been
previously arranged, and that the stranger had come to dwell in the
house expressly to obtain facilities for the commission of the crime.

A witness who was related to the deceased, who was absent from home, but
had been told, by means of the wires, to return, and who had intimated
an intention to comply, was still wanting; and the inquest was again
adjourned for an hour, in order to allow of the arrival of a stage from
town. During this interval, Dunscomb ascertained how strongly the
current was setting against his client. A hundred little circumstances
were cited, in confirmation of suspicions that had now gained a firm
footing, and which were so nearly general as to include almost every
person of any consequence in the place. What appeared strangest to
Dunscomb, was the composure of the young girl who was so likely to be
formally accused of crimes so heinous. He had told her of the nature of
the distrust that was attached to her situation, and she received his
statement with a degree of emotion that, at first, had alarmed him. But
an unaccountable calmness soon succeeded this burst of feeling, and he
had found it necessary to draw confidence in the innocence of his
client, from that strangely illuminated countenance, to study which was
almost certain to subdue a man by its power. While thus gazing at the
stranger, he could not believe her guilty; but, while reflecting on all
the facts of the case, he saw how difficult it might be to persuade
others to entertain the same opinion. Nor were there circumstances
wanting to shake his own faith in expression, sex, years, and all the
other probabilities. Mary Monson had declined entering at all into any
account of her previous life; evaded giving her real name even to him;
carefully abstained from all allusions that might furnish any clue to
her former place of abode, or to any fact that would tend to betray her
secret.

At the appointed hour the stage arrived, bringing the expected witness.
His testimony went merely to corroborate the accounts concerning the
little hoard of gold that his kinswoman had undeniably possessed, and to
the circumstance that she always kept it in a particular drawer of her
bureau. The bureau had been saved, for it did not stand in the
sleeping-room of the deceased, but had formed a principal embellishment
of her little parlour, and the money was not in it. What was more, each
drawer was carefully locked, but no keys were to be found. As these were
articles not likely to be melted under any heat to which they might have
been exposed, a careful but fruitless search had been made for them
among the ruins. They were nowhere to be seen.

About nine o’clock in the evening, the jury brought in the result of
their inquest. It was a verdict of murder in the first degree,
committed, in the opinion of the jurors, by a female who was known by
the name of Mary Monson. With the accusation of arson, the coroner’s
inquest, as a matter of course, had no connection. A writ was
immediately issued, and the accused arrested.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

“It was the English,” Kasper cried,
“Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous victory.”
_Southey._

The following day, after an early breakfast, Dunscomb and his friend the
doctor were on their way back to town. The former had clients and
courts, and the latter patients, who were not to be neglected, to say
nothing of the claims of Sarah and Mrs. Updyke. John and Michael
remained at Biberry; the first being detained there by divers
commissions connected with the comforts and treatment of Mary Monson,
but still more by his own inclinations; and the last remaining, somewhat
against his wishes, as a companion to the brother of her who so strongly
drew him back to New York.

As the commitment was for offences so serious, crimes as grave as any
known to the law, bail would not have been accepted, could any have been
found. We ought not to speak with too much confidence, however, on this
last point; for Dr. McBrain, a man of very handsome estate, the result
of a liberal profession steadily and intelligently pursued, was more
than half disposed to offer himself for one of the sureties, and to go
and find a second among his friends. Nothing, indeed, prevented his
doing so; but Dunscomb’s repeated assurances that no bondsmen would be
received. Even charming young women, when they stand charged with murder
and arson, must submit to be incarcerated, until their innocence is
established in due form of law; or, what is the same thing in effect,
until the caprice, impulses, ignorance, or corruption of a jury acquits
them.

The friends did not entirely agree in their manner of viewing this
affair. The doctor was firmly impressed with the conviction of Mary
Monson’s innocence; while Dunscomb, more experienced in the ways of
crime and the infirmities of the human heart, had his misgivings. So
many grounds of suspicion had occurred, or been laid open to his
observation, during the hour of private communication, that it was not
easy for one who had seen so much of the worst side of human nature, to
cast them off under the mere influence of a graceful form, winning
manner, and bright countenance. Then, the secondary facts, well
established, and, in one important particular, admitted by the party
accused, were not of a character to be overlooked. It often happens, and
Dunscomb well knew it, that innocence appears under a repulsive
exterior, while guilt conceals itself in forms and aspects so fair, as
to deceive all but the wary and experienced.

“I hope that the comfort of Miss Monson has been properly attended to,
since she must be confined for a few days,” said McBrain, while he took
a last look at the little gaol, as the carriage passed the brow of a
hill. “Justice can ask no more than security.”

“It is a blot on the character of the times, and on this country in
particular,” answered Dunscomb, coldly, “that so little attention is
paid to the gaols. We are crammed with false philanthropy in connection
with convicted rogues, who ought to be made to feel the penalties of
their offences; while we are not even just in regard to those who are
only accused, many of whom are really innocent. But for my interference,
this delicate and friendless girl would, in all probability, have been
immured in a common dungeon.”

“What! before her guilt is established?”

“Relatively, her treatment after conviction, would be far more humane
than previously to that event. Comfortable, well-furnished, but secure
apartments, ought to be provided for the accused in every county in the
state, as acts of simple justice, before another word of mawkish
humanity is uttered on the subject of the treatment of recognised
criminals. It is wonderful what a disposition there is among men to run
into octaves, in everything they do, forgetting that your true melody is
to be found only in the simpler and more natural notes. There is as much
of the _falsetto_, now-a-days, in philanthropy, as in music.”

“And this poor girl is thrust into a dungeon?”

“No; it is not quite as bad as that. The gaol has one decent apartment,
that was fitted up for the comfort of a prize-fighter, who was confined
in it not long since; and as the room is sufficiently secure, I have
persuaded the gaoler’s wife to put Mary Monson in it. Apart from loss of
air and exercise, and the happiness of knowing herself respected and
beloved, the girl will not be very badly off there. I dare say, the room
is quite as good as that she occupied under the roof of those
unfortunate Goodwins.”

“How strange, that a female of her appearance should have been the
inmate of such a place! She does not seem to want money, either. You saw
the gold she had in her purse?”

“Ay; it were better had that gold not been there, or not seen. I
sincerely wish it had been nothing but silver.”

“You surely do not agree with that silly woman, the Widow Pope, as they
call her, in believing that she has got the money of those persons who
have been murdered?”

“On that subject, I choose to suspend my opinion—I may, or I may not; as
matters shall turn up. She has money; and in sufficient quantity to buy
herself out of jeopardy. At least, she offered me a fee of a hundred
dollars, in good city paper.”

“Which you did not take, Tom?”

“Why not? It is my trade, and I live by it. Why not take her fee, if you
please, sir? Does the Widow Updyke teach you such doctrines? Will you
drive about town for nothing? Why not take her fee, Master Ned?”

“Why not, sure enough! That girl has bewitched me, I believe; and that
is the solution.”

“I’ll tell you what, Ned, unless there is a stop put to this folly, I’ll
make Mrs. Updyke acquainted with the whole matter, and put an end to
nuptials No. 3. Jack is head and ears in love, already; and here you are
flying off at a tangent from all your engagements and professions, to
fall at the feet of an unknown girl of twenty, who appears before you,
on a first interview, in the amiable light of one accused of the highest
crimes.”

“And of which I no more believe her guilty, than I believe you to be
guilty of them.”

“Umph! ‘Time will show;’ which is the English, I suppose, of the ‘_nous
verrons_,’ that is flying about in the newspapers. Yes, she has money to
buy three or four journals, to get up a ‘sympathy’ in her behalf; when
her acquittal would be almost certain, if her trial were not a legal
impossibility. I am not sure it is not her safest course, in the actual
state of the facts.”

“Would you think, Dunscomb, of advising any one who looked up to you for
counsel, to take such a course?”

“Certainly not—and you know it, well enough, McBrain; but that does not
lessen, or increase, the chances of the expedient. The journals have
greatly weakened their own power, by the manner in which they have
abused it; but enough still remains to hoodwink, not to say to
overshadow, justice. The law is very explicit and far-sighted as to the
consequences of allowing any one to influence the public mind in matters
of its own administration; but in a country like this, in which the
virtue and intelligence of the people are said to be the _primum mobile_
in everything, there is no one to enforce the ordinances that the wisdom
of our ancestors has bequeathed to us. Any editor of a newspaper who
publishes a sentence reflecting on the character or rights of a party to
a pending suit, is guilty, at common law, of what the books call a
‘libel on the courts of justice,’ and can be punished for it, as for any
other misdemeanor; yet, you can see for yourself, how little such a
provision, healthful and most wise—nay, essential as it is to justice—is
looked down by the mania which exists, of putting everything into print.
When one remembers that very little of what he reads is true, it is
fearful to reflect that a system, of which the whole merit depends on
its power to extract facts, and to do justice on their warranty, should
be completely overshadowed by another contrivance which, when stripped
of its pretension, and regarded in its real colours, is nothing more
than one of the ten thousand schemes to make money that surround us,
with a little higher pretension than common to virtue.”

“‘Completely overshadowed’ are strong words, Dunscomb!”

“Perhaps they are, and they may need a little qualifying. Overshadowed
often—much too often, however, is not a particle stronger than I am
justified in using. Every one, who thinks at all, sees and feels the
truth of this; but here is the weak side of a popular government. The
laws are enforced by means of public virtue, and public virtue, like
private virtue, is very frail. We all are willing enough to admit the
last, as regards our neighbours at least, while there seems to exist, in
most minds, a species of idolatrous veneration for the common sentiment,
as sheer a quality of straw, as any image of a lover drawn by the most
heated imagination of sixteen.”

“You surely do not disregard public opinion, Tom, or set it down as
unworthy of all respect!”

“By no means; if you mean that opinion which is the result of deliberate
judgment, and has a direct connection with our religion, morals, and
manners. That is a public opinion to which we all ought to defer, when
it is fairly made up, and has been distinctly and independently
pronounced; most especially when it comes from high quarters, and not
from low. But the country is full of simulated public opinion, in the
first place, and it is not always easy to tell the false from the true.
Yes, the country is full of what I shall call an artificial public
opinion, that has been got up to effect a purpose, and to that no wise
man will defer, if he can help it. Now, look at our scheme of
administering justice. Twelve men taken out of the bosom of the
community, by a species of lottery, are set apart to pronounce on your
fortune, or mine—nay, to utter the fearful words of ‘guilty,’ or ‘not
guilty.’ All the accessories of this plan, as they exist here, make
against its success. In the first place, the jurors are paid, and that
just enough to induce the humblest on the list to serve, and not enough
to induce the educated and intelligent. It is a day-labourer’s wages,
and the day-labourer will be most likely to profit by it. Men who are
content to toil for seventy-five cents a day are very willing to serve
on juries for a dollar; while those whose qualifications enable them to
obtain enough to pay their fines, disregard the penalty, and stay away.”

“Why is not an evil as flagrant as this remedied? I should think the
whole bar would protest against it.”

“With what result? Who cares for the bar? Legislators alone can change
this system, and men very different from those who are now sent must go
to the legislature, before one is found, honest enough, or bold enough,
to get up and tell the people they are not all fit to be trusted. No,
no; this is not the way of the hour. We have a cycle in opinion to make,
and it may be that when the round is fairly made, men may come back to
their senses, and perceive the necessity of fencing in justice by some
of the useful provisions that we are now so liberally throwing away. To
tell you the truth, Ned, the state is submitting to the influence of two
of the silliest motives that can govern men—ultra conservatism, and
ultra progress; the one holding back, often, to preserve that which is
not worth keeping; and the other ‘going ahead,’ as it is termed, merely
for the sake of boasting of their onward tendencies. Neither course is
in the least suited to the actual wants of society, and each is
pernicious in its way.”

“It is thought, however, that when opinion thus struggles with opinion,
a healthful compromise is made, in which society finds its advantage.”

“The cant of mediocrity, depend on it, Ned. In the first place, there is
no compromise about it; one side or the other gains the victory; and as
success is sustained by numbers, the conquerors push their advantages to
the utmost. They think of their own grosser interests, their passions
and prejudices, rather than of any ‘healthful compromise,’ as you term
it. What compromise is there in this infernal code?”—Dunscomb was an
ultra himself, in opposition to a system that has a good deal of that
which is useful, diluted by more that is not quite so good—“or what in
this matter of the election of judges by the people? As respects the
last, for instance, had the tenure of office been made ‘good behaviour,’
there would have been something like a compromise; but, no—the
conquerors took all; and what is worse, the conquerors were actually a
minority of the voters, so easy is it to cow even numbers by political
chicanery. In this respect, democracy is no more infallible, than any
other form of government.”

“I confess, I do not see how this is shown, since the polls were free to
every citizen.”

“The result fairly proves it. Less than half of the known number of the
electors voted for the change. Now, it is absurd to suppose that men who
really and affirmatively wished a new constitution would stay away from
the polls.”

“More so, than to suppose that they who did not wish it, would stay
away, too?”

“More so; and for this reason. Thousands fancied it useless to stem the
current of what they fancied a popular movement, and were passive in the
matter. Any man, of an extensive acquaintance, may easily count a
hundred such idlers. Then a good many stood on their legal rights, and
refused to vote, because the manner of producing the change was a
palpable violation of a previous contract; the old constitution pointing
out the manner in which the instrument could be altered, which was not
the mode adopted. Then tens of thousands voted for the new constitution,
who did not know anything about it. They loved change, and voted for
change’s sake; and, possibly, with some vague notion that they were to
be benefited by making the institutions as popular as possible.”

“And is not this the truth? Will not the mass be all the better off, by
exercising as much power as they can?”

“No; and for the simple reason that masses cannot, in the nature of
things, exercise more than a very limited power. You, yourself, for
instance, one of the mass, cannot exercise this very power of choosing a
judge, as it ought to be exercised, and of course are liable to do more
harm than good.”

“The deuce I cannot! Why is not my vote as good as your own? or that of
any other man?”

“For the simple reason, that you are ignorant of the whole matter. Ask
yourself the question, and answer it like an honest man: would
you—_could_ you, with the knowledge you possess, lay your finger on any
man in this community, and say, ‘I make you a judge?’”

“Yes; my finger would be laid on you, in a minute.”

“Ah, Ned, that will do, as a friend; but how would it do as a judicious
selection of a judge you do not know? You are ignorant of the law, and
must necessarily be ignorant of the qualifications of any particular
person to be an interpreter of it. What is true of you, is equally true
of a vast majority of those who are now the electors of our judges.”

“I am not a little surprised, Tom, to hear _you_ talk in this way; for
you profess to be a democrat!”

“To the extent of giving the people all power, in the last resort—all
power that they can intelligently and usefully use; but not to the
extent of permitting them to make the laws, to execute the laws, and to
interpret the laws. All that the people want, is sufficient power to
secure their liberties, which is simply such a state of things as shall
secure what is right between man and man. Now, it is the want of this
all-important security, in a practical point of view, of which I
complain. Rely on it, Ned, the people gain nothing by exercising an
authority that they do not know how to turn to good account. It were far
better for them, and for the state, to confine themselves to the choice
of general agents, of whose characters they may know something, and then
confide all other powers to servants appointed by those named by these
agents, holding all alike to a rigid responsibility. As for the judges,
they will soon take decided party characters; and men will as blindly
accuse, and as blindly defend them, as they now do their other leading
partisans. What between the bench and the jury-box, we shall shortly
enjoy a legal pandemonium.”

“Yet there are those who think the trial by jury is the palladium of our
liberties.”

Dunscomb laughed outright, for he recollected his conversation with the
young men, which we have already related. Then suppressing his risible
propensity, he continued gravely—

“Yes, one or two papers, well fee’d by this young woman’s spare cash,
might do her more good than any service I can render her. I dare say the
accounts now published, or soon to be published, will leave a strong
bias against her.”

“Why not fee a reporter as well as a lawyer, eh, Tom? There is no great
difference, as I can see.”

“Yes you can, and will, too, as soon as you look into the matter. A
lawyer is paid for a known and authorized assistance, and the public
recognises in him one engaged in the interests of his client, and
accepts his statements and efforts accordingly. But the conductor of a
public journal sets up a claim to strict impartiality, in his very
profession, and should tell nothing but what he believes to be true,
neither inventing nor suppressing. In his facts, he is merely the
publisher of a record; in his reasoning, a judge; not an advocate.”

The doctor now laughed, in his turn, and well he might; few men being so
ignorant as not to understand how far removed from all this are most of
those who control the public journals.

“After all, it is a tremendous power to confide to irresponsible men!”
he exclaimed.

“That it is, and there is nothing among us that so completely
demonstrates how far, very far, the public mind is in the rear of the
facts of the country, than the blind, reckless manner in which the press
is permitted to tyrannize over the community, in the midst of all our
hosannas to the Goddess of Liberty. Because, forsooth, what is termed a
free press is useful, and has been useful in curbing an irresponsible,
hereditary power, in other lands, we are just stupid enough to think it
is of equal importance here, where no such power exists, and where all
that remains to be done, is to strictly maintain the equal rights of all
classes of citizens. Did we understand ourselves, and our own real
wants, not a paper should be printed in the state, that did not make a
deposit to meet the legal penalties it might incur by the abuse of its
trust. This is or was done in France, the country of all others that
best respects equality of rights in theory, if not in practice!”

“You surely would not place restrictions on the press!”

“I would though, and very severe restrictions, as salutary checks on the
immense power it wields. I would, for instance, forbid the publication
of any statement whatever, touching parties in the courts, whether in
civil or criminal cases, pending the actions, that the public mind might
not be tainted, by design. Give the right to publish, and it will be,
and is abused, and that most flagrantly, to meet the wishes of
corruption. I tell you, Ned, as soon as you make a trade of news, you
create a stock market that will have its rise and fall, under the
impulses of fear, falsehood, and favour, just like your money
transactions. It is a perversion of the nature of things, to make of
news more than a simple statement of what has actually occurred.”

“It is surely natural to lie!”

“That is it, and this is the very reason we should not throw
extraordinary protection around a thousand tongues which speak by means
of types, that we do not give to the natural member. The lie that is
told by the press is ten thousand times a lie, in comparison with that
which issues from the mouth of man.”

“By George, Tom, if I had your views, I would see that some of this
strange young woman’s money should be used in sustaining her, by means
of the agents you mention!”

“That would never do. This is one of the cases in which ‘want of
principle’ has an ascendancy over ‘principle.’ The upright man cannot
consent to use improper instruments, while the dishonest fellows seize
on them with avidity. So much the greater, therefore, is the necessity
for the law’s watching the interests of the first with the utmost
jealousy. But, unfortunately, we run away with the sound, and overlook
the sense of things.”

We have related this conversation at a length which a certain class of
our readers will probably find tedious, but it is necessary to a right
comprehension of various features in the picture we are about to draw.
At the Stag’s Head the friends stopped to let the horses blow, and,
while the animals were cooling themselves under the care of Stephen
Hoof, McBrain’s coachman, the gentlemen took a short walk in the hamlet.
At several points, as they moved along, they overheard the subject of
the murders alluded to, and saw divers newspapers, in the hands of
sundry individuals, who were eagerly perusing accounts of the same
events; sometimes by themselves, but oftener to groups of attentive
listeners. The travellers were now so near town as to be completely
within its moral, not to say physical, atmosphere—being little more than
a suburb of New York. On their return to the inn, the doctor stopped
under the shed to look at his horses, before Stephen checked them up
again, previously to a fresh start. Stephen was neither an Irishman nor
a black; but a regular, old-fashioned, Manhattannese coachman; a class
apart, and of whom, in the confusion of tongues that pervades that
modern Babel, a few still remain, like monuments of the past, scattered
along the Appian Way.

“How do your horses stand the heat, Stephen?” the doctor kindly
enquired, always speaking of the beasts as if they were the property of
the coachman, and not of himself. “Pill looks as if he had been well
warmed this morning.”

“Yes, sir, he takes it somewhat hotter than Poleus, in the spring of the
year, as a gineral thing. Pill vill vork famously, if a body vill only
give him his feed in vhat I calls a genteel vay; but them ’ere country
taverns has nothing nice about ’em, not even a clean manger; and a town
horse that is accustomed to a sweet stable and proper company, won’t
stand up to the rack as he should do, in one of their holes. Now, Poleus
I calls a gineral feeder; it makes no matter vith him vhether he is at
home, or out on a farm—he finishes his oats, but it isn’t so vith Pill,
sir—his stomach is delicate, and the horse that don’t get his proper
food vill sweat, summer or vinter.”

“I sometimes think, Stephen, it might be better to take them both off
their oats for a few days, and let blood, perhaps; they say that the
fleam is as good for a horse as the lancet is for a man.”

“Do n’t think on’t, sir, I beg of you! I’m sure they has doctor-stuff in
their names, not to crowd ’em down vith any more, jist as varm veather
is a settin’ in. Oats is physic enough for a horse, and vhen the
creaturs vants anything more, sir, jist leave ’em to me. I knows as
peculiar a drench as ever vas poured down a vheeler’s throat, vithout
troublin’ that academy in Barclay street, vhere so many gentlemen goes
two or three times a veek, and vhere they do say, so many goes in as
never comes out whole.”

“Well, Stephen, I’ll not interfere with your treatment, for I confess to
very little knowledge of the diseases of horses. What have you got in
the paper there, that I see you have been reading?”

“Vhy, sir,” answered Stephen, scratching his head, “it’s all about our
affair, up yonder.”

“Our affair! Oh! you mean the inquest, and the murder. Well, what does
the paper say about it, Hoof?”

“It says it’s a most ‘thrilling a’count,’ sir, and an ‘awful tragedy’;
and it vonders vhat young vomen is a coming to, next. I am pretty much
of the same vay of thinking, sir, myself.”

“You are in the habit of thinking very much as the newspapers do, are
you not, Stephen?” asked Dunscomb.

“Vell, ’Squire Dunscomb, you’ve hit it! There is an onaccountable
resemblance, like, in our thoughts. I hardly ever set down to read a
paper, that, afore I’ve got half vay through it, I find it thinking just
as I do! It puzzles me to know how them that writes for these papers
finds out a body’s thoughts so vell!”

“They have a way of doing it; but it is too long a story to go over now.
So this paper has something to say about our young woman, has it,
Stephen? and it mentions the Biberry business?”

“A good deal, ’Squire; and vhat I calls good sense, too Vhy, gentlemen,
vhat shall we all come to, if young gals of fifteen can knock us in the
head, matched, like, or in pairs, killing a whole team at one blow, and
then set fire to the stables, and burn us up to our anatomies?”

“Fifteen! Does your account say that Miss Monson is only fifteen, Hoof?”

“‘She appears to be of the tender age of fifteen, and is of extr’ornary
personal attractions.’ Them’s the werry vords, sir; but perhaps you’d
like to read it yourselves, gentlemen?”

As Stephen made this remark, he very civilly offered the journal to
Dunscomb, who took it; but was not disposed to drop the conversation
just then to read it, though his eye did glance at the article, as he
continued the subject. This was a habit with him; his clerks often
saying, he could carry the chains of arguments of two subjects in his
mind at the same moment. His present object, was to ascertain from this
man what might be the popular feeling in regard to his client, at the
place they had just left, and the scene of the events themselves.

“What is thought and said, at Biberry, among those with whom you talked,
Stephen, concerning this matter?”

“That it’s a most awful ewent, ’Squire! One of the werry vorst that has
happened in these werry vicked times, sir. I heard one gentleman go over
all the murders that has taken place about York during these last ten
years, and a perdigious sight on ’em there vas; so many, that I began to
vonder I vasn’t one of the wictims myself; but he counted ’em off on his
fingers, and made this out to be one of the werry vorst of ’em all, sir.
He did, indeed, sir.”

“Was he a reporter, Stephen? one of the persons who are sent out by the
papers to collect news?”

“I believe he vas, sir. Quite a gentleman; and vith something to say to
all he met. He often came out to the stables, and had a long
conwersation vith as poor a feller as I be.”

“Pray, what could he have to say to you, Stephen?” demanded the doctor,
a little gravely.

“Oh! lots of things, sir. He began by praising the horses, and asking
their names. I give him _my_ names, sir, not _yourn_; for I thought he
might get it into print, somehow, that Dr. McBrain calls his
coach-horses after his physic, Pill and Poleus”—“Bolus,” was the real
appellation that the owner had been pleased to give this beast; but as
Stephen fancied the word had some connection with “pole-horse,” he chose
to pronounce it as written—“Yes, I didn’t vish _your_ names to get into
the papers, sir; and so I told him ‘Pill’ vas called ‘Marygoold,’ and
‘Poleus,’ ‘Dandelion.’ He promised an article about ’em, sir; and I give
him the ages, blood, sires, and dams, of both the beauties. He told me
he thought the names delightful; and I’m in hopes, sir, you’ll give up
_yourn_, arter all, and take to _mine_, altogether.”

“We shall see. And he promised an article, did he?”

“Yes, sir, quite woluntary. I know’d that the horses couldn’t be
outdone, and told him as much as that; for I thought, as the subject vas
up, it might be as vell to do ’em all the credit I could. Perhaps, vhen
they gets to be too old for vork, you might vish to part vith ’em, sir,
and then a good newspaper character could do ’em no great harm.”

Stephen was a particularly honest fellow, as to things in general; but
he had the infirmity which seems to be so general among men, that of a
propensity to cheat in a transfer of horse-flesh. Dunscomb was amused at
this exhibition of character, of which he had seen so much in his day,
and felt disposed to follow it up.

“I believe you had some difficulty in choosing one of the horses,
Stephen”—McBrain commissioned his coachman to do all the bargaining of
this sort, and had never lost a cent by his confidence—“Pill, I think it
was, that didn’t bring as good a character as he might have done?”

“Beg your pardon, ’Squire, ’twas n’t he, but Marygoold. Vhy, the thing
vas this: a gentleman of the church had bought Marygoold to go in a
buggy; but soon vanted to part vith him, ’cause of his shyin’ in single
harness, vhich frightened his vife, _as he said_. Now, all the
difficulty vas in this one thing: not that I cared at all about the
creatur’s shyin’, vhich vas no great matter in double harness, you know,
sir, and a body could soon coax him out of the notion on it, by
judgematical drivin’; but the difficulty vas here—if the owner of a
horse owned so much ag’in his character, there must be a great deal
behind, that a feller must find out as vell as he could. I’ve know’d a
foundered animal put off under a character for shyin’.”

“And the owner a clergyman, Stephen?”

“Perhaps not, sir. But it makes no great matter in tradin’ horses;
church and the vorld is much of a muchness.”

“Did that reporting gentleman ask any questions concerning the owner, as
well as concerning the horses?”

“Vhy, yes, sir; vhen he vas done vith the animals, he did make a few
obserwations about the doctor. He vanted to know if he vas married yet,
and vhen it vas to happen; and how much I thought he might be vorth, and
how much Mrs. Updyke vas counted for; and if there vas children; and
vhich house the family vas to live in; and vhere he should keep the
slate, arter the veddin’ had come off; and how much the doctor’s
practice vas vorth; and vhether he vas vhig or locy; and, most of all,
he vanted to know vhy he and you, sir, should go to Biberry about this
murder.”

“What did you tell him, Stephen, in reference to the last?”

“Vhat could I, sir? I don’t know, myself. I’ve druv’ the doctor often
and often to see them that has died soon arter our wisit; but I never
druv’ him, afore, to wisit the dead. That gentleman seemed to think he
vas much mistaken about the skeletons; but it’s all in the paper, sir.”

On hearing this, Dunscomb quickly turned to the columns of the journal
again, and was soon reading their contents aloud to his friend; in the
meantime, Stephen set Marygoold and Dandelion in motion once more.

The account was much as Dunscomb expected to find it; so written as to
do no possible good, while it might do a great deal of harm. The
intention was to feed a morbid feeling in the vulgar for exaggerated
accounts of the shocking—the motive being gain. Anything that would
sell, was grist for this mill; and the more marvellous and terrible the
history of the event could be made, the greater was the success likely
to be. The allusions to Mary Monson were managed with a good deal of
address; for, while there was a seeming respect for her rights, the
reader was left to infer that her guilt was not only beyond a question,
but of the darkest dye. It was while reading and commenting on these
articles, that the carriage entered Broadway, and soon set Dunscomb down
at his own door. There the doctor left it; choosing to walk as far as
Mrs. Updyke’s, rather than give Stephen more materials for the reporter.

CHAPTER VI.

“Then none was for a party;
Then all were for the state;
Then the great man help’d the poor,
And the poor man lov’d the great:
Then lands were fairly portion’d;
Then spoils were fairly sold;
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.”
_Macaulay._

It has been said that John Wilmeter was left by his uncle at Bilberry,
to look after the welfare of their strange client. John, or Jack, as he
was commonly called by his familiars, including his pretty sister, was
in the main a very good fellow, though far from being free from the
infirmities to which the male portion of the human family are subject,
when under the age of thirty. He was frank, manly, generous, disposed to
think for himself, and what is somewhat unusual with his countrymen, of
a temperament that led him to make up his mind suddenly, and was not to
be easily swayed by the notions that might be momentarily floating about
in the neighbourhood. Perhaps a little of a spirit of opposition to the
feeling that was so rapidly gaining head in Biberry, inclined him to
take a warmer interest in the singular female who stood charged with
such enormous crimes, than he might otherwise have done.

The instructions left by Mr. Dunscomb with his nephew, also gave the
latter some uneasiness. In the first place, they had been very ample and
thoughtful on the subject of the prisoner’s comforts, which had been
seen to in a way that is by no means common in a gaol. Money had been
used pretty freely in effecting this object, it is true; but, out of the
large towns, money passes for much less on such occasions, in America,
than in most other countries. The people are generally kind-hearted, and
considerate for the wants of others; and fair words will usually do
quite as much as dollars. Dunscomb, however, had made a very judicious
application of both, and beyond the confinement and the fearful nature
of the charges brought against her, Mary Monson had very little to
complain of in her situation.

The part of his instructions which gave John Wilmeter most uneasiness,
which really vexed him, related to the prisoner’s innocence or guilt.
The uncle distrusted; the nephew was all confidence. While the first had
looked at the circumstances coolly, and was, if anything, leaning to the
opinion that there might be truth in the charges; the last beheld in
Mary Monson an attractive young person of the other sex, whose innocent
countenance was the pledge of an innocent soul. To John, it was
preposterous to entertain a charge of this nature against one so
singularly gifted.

“I should as soon think of accusing Sarah of such dark offences, as of
accusing this young lady!” exclaimed John to his friend Michael
Millington, while the two were taking their breakfast next day. “It is
preposterous—wicked—monstrous, to suppose that a young, educated female,
would, or could, commit such crimes! Why, Mike, she understands French
and Italian, and Spanish; and I think it quite likely that she can also
read German, if, indeed, she cannot speak it!”

“How do you know this?—Has she been making a display of her knowledge?”

“Not in the least—it all came out as naturally as possible. She asked
for some of her own books to read, and when they were brought to her, I
found that she had selected works in all four of these languages. I was
quite ashamed of my own ignorance, I can assure you; which amounts to no
more than a smattering of French, in the face of her Spanish, Italian
and German!”

“Poh! I shouldn’t have minded it, in the least,” Michael very coolly
replied, his mouth being half-full of beefsteak. “The girls lead us in
such things, of course. No man dreams of keeping up with a young lady
who has got into the living languages. Miss Wilmeter might teach us
both, and laugh at our ignorance, in the bargain.”

“Sarah! Ay, she is a good enough girl, in her _way_—but no more to be
compared——”

Jack Wilmeter stopped short, for Millington dropped his knife with not a
little clatter, on his plate, and was gazing at his friend in a sort of
fierce astonishment.

“You don’t dream of comparing your sister to this unknown and suspected
stranger!” at length Michael got out, speaking very much like one whose
head has been held under water until his breath was nearly exhausted.
“You ought to recollect, John, that virtue should never be brought
unnecessarily in contact with vice.”

“Mike, and do you, too, believe in the guilt of Mary Monson?”

“I believe that she is committed under a verdict given by an inquest,
and think it best to suspend my opinion as to the main fact, in waiting
for further evidence. Remember, Jack, how often your uncle has told us
that, after all, good witnesses were the gist of the law. Let us wait
and see what a trial may bring forth.”

Young Wilmeter covered his face with his hands, bowed his head to the
table, and ate not another morsel that morning. His good sense
admonished him of the prudence of the advice just given; while feelings,
impetuous, and excited almost to fierceness, impelled him to go forth
and war on all who denied the innocence of the accused. To own the
truth, John Wilmeter was fast becoming entangled in the meshes of love.

And, sooth to say, notwithstanding the extreme awkwardness of her
situation, the angry feeling that was so fast rising up against her in
Biberry and its vicinity, and the general mystery that concealed her
real name, character and history, there was that about Mary Monson, in
her countenance, other personal advantages, and most of all in her
manner and voice, that might well catch the fancy of a youth of warm
feelings, and through his fancy, sooner or later, touch his heart. As
yet, John was only under the influence of the new-born sentiment, and
had he now been removed from Biberry, it is probable that the feelings
and interest which had been so suddenly and powerfully awakened in him
would have passed away altogether, or remained in shadow on his memory,
as a melancholy and yet pleasant record of hours past, under
circumstances in which men live fast, if they do not always live well.
Little did the uncle think of the great danger to which he exposed his
nephew, when he placed him, like a sentinel in law, on duty near the
portal of his immured client. But the experienced Dunscomb was anxious
to bring John into active life, and to place him in situations that
might lead him to think and execute for himself; and it had been much
his practice, of late, to put the young man forward, when ever
circumstances would admit of it. Although the counsellor was more than
at his ease in fortune, and John and Sarah each possessed very
respectable means, that placed them altogether above dependence, he was
exceedingly anxious that his nephew should succeed to his own business,
as the surest mode of securing his happiness and respectability in a
community where the number of the idle is relatively so small as to
render the pursuits of a class that is by no means without its uses,
where it can be made to serve the tastes and manners of a country,
difficult of attainment. He had the same desire in behalf of his niece,
or that she should become the wife of a man who had something to do; and
the circumstance that Millington, though of highly reputable
connections, was almost entirely without fortune, was no objection in
his eyes to the union that Sarah was so obviously inclined to form. The
two young men had been left on the ground, therefore, to take care of
the interests of a client whom Dunscomb was compelled to admit was one
that interested him more than any other in whose services he had ever
been employed, strongly as he was disposed to fear that appearances
might be deceitful.

Our young men were not idle. In addition to doing all that was in their
power to contribute to the personal comforts of Miss Monson, they were
active and intelligent in obtaining, and making notes of, all the facts
that had been drawn out by the coroner’s inquest, or which could be
gleaned in the neighbourhood. These facts, or rumours, John classed into
the “proved,” the “reported,” the “probable” and the “improbable;”
accompanying each division with such annotations as made a very useful
sort of brief for any one who wished to push the inquiries further.

“There, Millington,” he said when they reached the gaol, on their return
from a walk as far as the ruins of the house which had been burnt, and
after they had dined, “there; I think we have done tolerably well for
one day, and are in a fair way to give uncle Tom a pretty full account
of this miserable business. The more I see and learn of it, the more I
am convinced of the perfect innocence of the accused. I trust it strikes
you in the same way, Mike?”

But Mike was by no means as sanguine as his friend. He smiled faintly at
this question, and endeavoured to evade a direct answer. He saw how
lively were the hopes of Tom, and how deeply his feelings were getting
to be interested in the matter, while his own judgment, influenced,
perhaps, by Mr. Dunscomb’s example, greatly inclined him to the worst
foreboding of the result. Still he had an honest satisfaction in saying
anything that might contribute to the gratification of Sarah’s brother,
and a good opportunity now offering, he did not let it escape him.

“There is one thing, Jack, that seems to have been strangely
overlooked,” he said, “and out of which some advantage may come, if it
be thoroughly sifted. You may remember it was stated by some of the
witnesses, that there was a German woman in the family of the Goodwins,
the day that preceded the fire—one employed in housework?”

“Now you mention it, I do! Sure enough; what has become of that woman?”

“While you were drawing your diagram of the ruins, and projecting your
plan of the out-buildings, garden, fields and so on, I stepped across to
the nearest house, and had a chat with the ladies. You may remember I
told you it was to get a drink of milk; but I saw petticoats, and
thought something might be learned from woman’s propensity to talk?”

“I know you left me, but was too busy, just then, to see on what errand,
or whither you went.”

“It was to the old stone farm-house that stands only fifty rods from the
ruins. The family in possession is named Burton, and a more talkative
set I never encountered in petticoats.”

“How many had you to deal with, Mike?” John enquired, running his eyes
over his notes as he asked the question, in a way that showed how little
he anticipated from this interview with the Burtons. “If more than one
of the garrulous set I pity you, for I had a specimen of them yesterday
morning myself, in a passing interview.”

“There were three talkers, and one silent body. As is usual, I thought
that the silent member of the house knew more than the speakers, if she
had been inclined to let out her knowledge.”

“Ay, that is a way we have of judging of one another; but it is as often
false as true. As many persons are silent because they have nothing to
say, as because they are reflecting; and of those who _look_ very wise,
about one-half, as near as I can judge, _look_ so as a sort of apology
for being very silly.”

“I can’t say how it was with Mrs. Burton, the silent member of the
family, in this case; but I do know that her three worthy sisters-in-law
are to be classed among the foolish virgins.”

“Had they no oil to trim their lamps withal?”

“It had all been used to render their tongues limber. Never did three
damsels pour out words in so full a rivulet, as I was honoured with for
the first five minutes. By the end of that time, I was enabled to put a
question or two; after which they were better satisfied to let me
interrogate, while they were content to answer.”

“Did you learn anything, Mike, to reward you for all this trouble?”
again glancing at his notes.

“I think I did. With a good deal of difficulty in _eliminating_ the
surplussage, if I may coin a word for the occasion, I got these
facts:—It would seem that the German woman was a newly-arrived
immigrant, who had strolled into the country, and offered to work for
her food, &c. Mrs. Goodwin usually attended to all her own domestic
matters; but she had an attack of the rheumatism that predisposed her to
receive this offer, and that so much the more willingly, because the
‘help’ was not to be paid. It appears that the deceased female was an
odd mixture of miserly propensities with a love of display. She hoarded
all she could lay her hands on, and took a somewhat uncommon pleasure in
showing her hoards to her neighbours. In consequence of this last
weakness, the whole neighbourhood knew not only of her gold, for she
turned every coin into that metal, before it was consigned to her
stocking; but of the amount to a dollar, and the place where she kept
it. In this all agreed, even to the silent matron.”

“And what has become of this German woman?” asked John closing his notes
with sudden interest. “Why was she not examined before the inquest? and
where is she now?”

“No one knows. She has been missing ever since the fire and a few fancy
that she may, after all, be the person who has done the whole mischief.
It does wear a strange look, that no trace can be heard of her!”

“This must be looked into closely, Mike. It is unaccountably strange
that more was not said of her before the coroner. Yet, I fear one thing,
too. Dr. McBrain is a man of the highest attainments as an anatomist,
and you will remember that he inclines to the opinion that both the
skeletons belonged to females. Now, it may turn out that this German
woman’s remains have been found; which will put her guilt out of the
question.”

“Surely, Jack, you would not be sorry to have it turn out that any human
being should be innocent of such crimes!”

“By no means; though it really does seem to me more probable that an
unknown straggler should be the guilty one in this case, than an
educated young female, who has every claim in the way of attainments to
be termed a lady. Besides, Michael, these German immigrants have brought
more than their share of crime among us. Look at the reports of murders
and robberies for the last ten years, and you will find that an undue
proportion of them have been committed by this class of immigrants. To
me, nothing appears more probable than this affair’s being traced up to
that very woman.”

“I own you are right, in saying what you do of the Germans. But it
should be remembered, that some of their states are said to have adopted
the policy of sending their rogues to America. If _England_ were to
attempt that, now, I fancy Jonathan would hardly stand it!”

“He ought not to stand it for an hour, from any nation on earth. If
there ever was a good cause for war, this is one. Yes, yes; that German
immigrant must be looked up, and examined.”

Michael Millington smiled faintly at John Wilmeter’s disposition to
believe the worst of the High Dutch; touching the frailties of whom,
however, neither of the two had exaggerated anything. Far more than
their share of the grave crimes of this country have, within the period
named, been certainly committed by immigrants from Germany; whether the
cause be in the reason given, or in national character. This is not
according to ancient opinion, but we believe it to be strictly according
to fact. The Irish are clannish, turbulent, and much disposed to knock
each other on the head; but it is not to rob, or to pilfer, but to
quarrel. The Englishman will pick your pocket, or commit burglary, when
inclined to roguery, and frequently he has a way of his own of
extorting, in the way of vails. The Frenchmen may well boast of their
freedom from wrongs done to persons or property in this country; no
class of immigrants furnishing to the prisons, comparatively, fewer
criminals. The natives, out of all proportion, are freest from crime, if
the blacks be excepted, and when we compare the number of the convicted
with the number of the people. Still, such results ought not to be taken
as furnishing absolute rules by which to judge of large bodies of men;
since unsettled lives on the one hand, and the charities of life on the
other, may cause disproportions that would not otherwise exist.

“If one of these skeletons be that of the German woman, and Dr. McBrain
should prove to be right,” said John Wilmeter, earnestly, “what has
become of the remains of Mr. Goodwin? There was a husband as well as a
wife, in that family.”

“Very true,” answered Millington; “and I learned something concerning
him, too. It seems that the old fellow drank intensely, at times, when
he and his wife made the house too hot to hold them. All the Burtons
agreed in giving this account of the good couple. The failing was not
generally known, and had not yet gone so far as to affect the old man’s
general character, though it would seem to have been known to the
immediate neighbours.”

“And not one word of all this, is to be found in any of the reports in
the papers from town! Not a particle of testimony on the point before
the inquest! Why, Mike, this single fact may furnish a clue to the whole
catastrophe.”

“In what way?” Millington very quietly enquired.

“Those bones are the bones of females; old Goodwin has robbed the house,
set fire to it, murdered his wife and the German woman in a drunken
frolic, and run away. Here is a history for Uncle Tom, that will delight
him; for if he do not feel quite certain of Mary Monson’s innocence now,
he would be delighted to learn its truth!”

“You make much out of a very little, Jack, and imagine far more than you
can prove. Why should old Goodwin set fire to his own house—for I
understand the property was his—steal his own money—for, though married
women did then hold a separate estate in a bed-quilt, or a gridiron, the
law could not touch the previous accumulations of a feme coverte—and
murder a poor foreigner, who could neither give nor take away anything
that the building contained? Then he is to burn his own house, and make
himself a vagrant in his old age—and that among strangers! I learn he
was born in that very house, and has passed his days in it. Such a man
would not be very likely to destroy it.”

“Why not, to conceal a murder? Crime must be concealed, or it is
punished.”

“Sometimes,” returned Michael, drily. “This Mary Monson will be hanged,
out of all question, should the case go against her, for she understands
French, and Italian, and German, you say; either of which tongues would
be sufficient to hang her; but had old Mrs. Goodwin murdered _her_,
philanthropy would have been up and stirring, and no rope would be
stretched.”

“Millington, you have a way of talking, at times, that is quite
shocking! I do wish you could correct it. What use is there in bringing
a young lady like Miss Monson down to the level of a common criminal?”

“She will be brought down as low as that, depend on it, if guilty. There
is no hope for one who bears about her person, in air, manner, speech,
and deportment, the unequivocal signs of a lady. Our sympathies are all
kept for those who are less set apart from the common herd. Sympathy
goes by majorities, as well as other matters.”

“You think her, at all events, a lady?” said John, quickly. “How, then,
can you suppose it possible that she has been guilty of the crimes of
which she stands accused?”

“Simply, because my old-fashioned father has given me old-fashioned
notions of the meaning of terms. So thin-skinned have people become
lately, that even language must be perverted to gratify their conceit.
The terms ‘gentleman’ and ‘lady’ have as defined meanings as any two
words we possess—signifying persons of cultivated minds, and of certain
refinements in tastes and manners. Morals have nothing to do with
either, necessarily, as a ‘gentleman’ or ‘lady’ may be very wicked; nay,
often are. It is true there are particular acts, partaking of
meannesses, rather than anything decidedly criminal, that, by a
convention, a gentleman or lady may not commit; but there are a hundred
others, that are far worse, which are not prohibited. It is unlady-like
to _talk_ scandal; but it is not deemed always unlady-like to give
grounds to scandal. Here is a bishop who has lately been defining a
gentleman, and, as usually happens with such men, unless they were
originally on a level with their dioceses, he describes a ‘Christian,’
rather than a ‘gentleman.’ This notion of making converts by means of
enlisting our vanity and self-love in the cause, is but a weak one, at
the best.”

“Certainly, Mike; I agree with you in the main. As large classes of
polished people do exist, who have loose enough notions of morals, there
ought to be terms to designate them, as a class, as well as to give any
other name, when we have the thing. Use has applied those of ‘gentlemen’
and ‘ladies,’ and I can see no sufficient reason for changing them.”

“It comes wholly from the longings of human vanity. As a certain
distinction is attached to the term, everybody is covetous of obtaining
it, and all sorts of reasoning is resorted to, to drag them into the
categories. It would be the same, if it were a ground of distinction to
have but one ear. But this distinction will be very likely to make
things go hard with our client, Jack, if the jury say ‘guilty’.”

“The jury never can—never _will_ render such a verdict! I do not think
the grand jury will even return a bill. Why should they? The testimony
wouldn’t convict an old state-prison-bird.”

Michael Millington smiled, a little sadly, perhaps—for John Wilmeter was
Sarah’s only brother—but he made no reply, perceiving that an old negro,
named Sip, or Scipio, who lived about the jail by a sort of sufferance,
and who had now been a voluntary adherent of a place that was usually so
unpleasant to men of his class for many years, was approaching, as if he
were the bearer of a message. Sip was an old-school black, grey-headed,
and had seen more than his three-score years and ten. No wonder, then,
that his dialect partook, in a considerable degree, of the peculiarities
that were once so marked in a Manhattan “nigger.” Unlike his brethren of
the present day, he was courtesy itself to all “gentlemen,” while his
respect for “common folks” was a good deal more equivocal. But chiefly
did the old man despise “yaller fellers;” these he regarded as a mongrel
race, who could neither aspire to the pure complexion of the Circassian
stock, nor lay claim to the glistening dye of Africa.

“Mrs. Gott, she want to see masser,” said Scipio, bowing to John,
grinning—for a negro seldom loses his teeth—and turning civilly to
Millington, with a respectful inclination of a head that was as white as
snow. “Yes, sah; she want to see masser, soon as conbe’nent; and soon as
he can come.”

Now, Mrs. Gott was the wife of the sheriff, and, alas! for the dignity
of the office! the sheriff was the keeper of the county gaol. This is
one of the fruits born on the wide-spreading branches of the tree of
democracy. Formerly, a New York sheriff bore a strong resemblance to his
English namesake. He was one of the county gentry, and executed the
duties of his office with an air and a manner; appeared in court with a
sword, and carried with his name a weight and an authority, that now are
nearly wanting. Such men would scarcely become gaolers. But that
universal root of all evil, the love of money, made the discovery that
there was profit to be had in feeding the prisoners, and a lower class
of men aspired to the offices, and obtained them; since which time, more
than half of the sheriffs of New York have been their own gaolers.

“Do you know _why_ Mrs. Gott wishes to see me, Scipio?” demanded
Wilmeter.

“I b’lieve, sah, dat ’e young woman, as murders ole Masser Goodwin and
he wife, ask her to send for masser.”

This was plain enough, and it caused Jack a severe pang; for it showed
how conclusively and unsparingly the popular mind had made up its
opinion touching Mary Monson’s guilt. There was no time to be lost,
however; and the young man hastened towards the building to which the
gaol was attached, both standing quite near the court-house. In the door
of what was her dwelling, for the time-being, stood Mrs. Gott, the wife
of the high sheriff of the county, and the only person in all Biberry
who, as it appeared to John, entertained his own opinions of the
innocence of the accused. But Mrs. Gott was, by nature, a kind hearted
woman; and, though so flagrantly out of place in her united characters,
was just such a person as ought to have the charge of the female
department of a prison. Owing to the constant changes of the democratic
principle of rotation in office, one of the most impudent of all the
devices of a covetous envy, this woman had not many months before come
out of the bosom of society, and had not seen enough of the ways of her
brief and novel situation to have lost any of those qualities of her
sex, such as extreme kindness, gentleness of disposition, and feminine
feeling, that are anything but uncommon among the women of America. In
many particulars, she would have answered the imaginative bishop’s
description of a “lady;” but she would have been sadly deficient in some
of the requisites that the opinions of the world have attached to the
character. In these last particulars, Mary Monson, as compared with this
worthy matron, was like a being of another race; though, as respects the
first, we shall refer the reader to the events to be hereafter related,
that he may decide the question according to his own judgment.

“Mary Monson has sent for you, Mr. Wilmeter,” the good Mrs. Gott
commenced, in a low, confidential sort of tone, as if she imagined that
she and John were the especial guardians of this unknown and seemingly
ill-fated young woman’s fortunes. “She is wonderfully resigned and
patient—a great deal more patient than I should be, if I was obliged to
live in this gaol—that is, on the other side of the strong doors; but
she told me, an hour ago, that she is not sure, after all, her
imprisonment is not the very best thing that could happen to her!”

“That was a strange remark!” returned John. “Did she make it under a
show of feeling, as if penitence, or any other strong emotion, induced
her to utter it?”

“With as sweet a smile, as composed a manner, and as gentle and soft a
voice as a body ever sees, or listens to! What a wonderfully soft and
musical voice she has, Mr. Wilmeter!”

“She has, indeed. I was greatly struck with it, the moment I heard her
speak. How much like a lady, Mrs. Gott, she uses it,—and how correct and
well-pronounced are her words!”

Although Mrs. Gott and John Wilmeter had very different ideas, at the
bottom, of the requisites to form a lady, and the pronunciation of the
good woman was by no means faultless, she cordially assented to the
truth of the young man’s eulogy. Indeed, Mary Monson, for the hour, was
her great theme; and, though still a young woman herself, and good
looking withal, she really seemed never to tire of uttering her praises.

“She has been educated, Mr. Wilmeter, far above any female hereabout,
unless it may be some of the ——s and ——s,” the good woman continued.
“Those families, you know, are our upper crust—not upper ten thousand,
as the newspapers call it, but upper hundred, and them ladies may know
as much as Mary; but, beyond _them_, no female hereabouts can hold a
candle to her! Her books have been brought in, and I looked them
over—there isn’t more than one in three that I can read at all. What is
more, they don’t seem to be all in one tongue, the foreign books, but in
three or four!”

“She certainly has a knowledge of several of the living languages, and
an accurate knowledge, too. I know a little of such things myself, but
my friend Millington is quite strong in both the living and dead
languages, and he says that what she knows she knows well.”

“That is comforting—for a young lady that can speak so many different
tongues would hardly think of robbing and murdering two old people, in
their beds. Well, sir, perhaps you had better go to the door and see
her, though I could stay here and talk about her all day. Pray Mr.
Wilmeter, which of the languages is really dead?”

John smiled, but civilly enlightened the sheriff’s lady on this point,
and then, preceded by her, he went to the important door which separated
the dwelling of the family from the rooms of the gaol. Once opened, an
imperfect communication is obtained with the interior of the last, by
means of a grating in an inner door. The gaol of Dukes county is a
recent construction, and is built on a plan that is coming much into
favour, though still wanting in the highest proof of civilization, by
sufficiently separating criminals, and in treating the accused with a
proper degree of consideration, until the verdict of a jury has
pronounced them guilty.

The construction of this gaol was very simple. A strong, low, oblong
building had been erected on a foundation so filled in with stones as to
render digging nearly impossible. The floors were of large, massive
stones, that ran across the whole building a distance of some thirty
feet, or if there were joints, they were under the partition walls,
rendering them as secure as if solid. The cells were not large,
certainly, but of sufficient size to admit of light and air. The
ceilings were of the same enormous flat stones as the floors, well
secured by a load of stones, and beams to brace them, and the partitions
were of solid masonry. There the prisoner is encased in stone, and
nothing can be more hopeless than an attempt to get out of one of these
cells, provided the gaoler gives even ordinary attention to their
condition. Above and around them are erected the outer walls of the
gaol. The last comprise an ordinary stone house, with roof, windows, and
the other customary appliances of a human abode. As these walls stand
several feet without those of the real prison, and are somewhat higher,
the latter axe an _imperium in imperio_; a house within a house. The
space between the walls of the two buildings forms a gallery extending
around all the cells. Iron grated gates divide the several parts of this
gallery into so many compartments, and in the gaol of Biberry care has
been had so to arrange these subdivisions that those within any one
compartment may be concealed from those in all of the others, but the
two that immediately join it. The breezes are admitted by means of the
external windows, while the height of the ceiling in the galleries, and
the space above the tops of the cells, contribute largely to comfort and
health in this important particular. As the doors of the cells stand
opposite to the windows, the entire gaol can be, and usually is, made
airy and light. Stoves in the galleries preserve the temperature, and
effectually remove all disagreeable moisture. In a word, the place is as
neat, convenient, and decent as the gaol of convicts need ever to be;
but the proper sort of distinction is not attended to between them and
those who are merely accused. Our civilization in this respect is
defective. While the land is filled with senseless cries against an
aristocracy which, if it exist at all, exists in the singular
predicament of being far less favoured than the democracy, involving a
contradiction in terms; against a feudality that consists in men’s
having bargained to pay their debts in chickens, no one complaining in
behalf of those who have entered into contracts to do the same in wheat;
and against _rent_, while _usury_ is not only smiled on, but encouraged,
and efforts are made to legalize extortion; the public mind is quiet on
the subject of the treatment of those whom the policy of government
demands should be kept in security until their guilt or innocence be
established. What reparation, under such circumstances, can be made to
him to whom the gates are finally opened, for having been incarcerated
on charges that are groundless? The gaols of the Christian world were
first constructed by an irresponsible power, and to confine the weak. We
imitate the vices of the system with a cool indifference, and shout
“feudality” over a bantam, or a pound of butter, that are paid under
contracted covenants for rent!

CHAPTER VII.

“Sir, this is the house; please it you, that I call?”
_Taming of the Shrew._

The grated window which John Wilmeter now approached, commanded nearly
an entire view of the gallery that communicated with the cell of Mary
Monson. It also commanded a partial view of the cell itself. As he
looked through the grates, he saw how neat and comfortable the last had
been made by means of Mrs. Gott’s care, aided, doubtless, by some of the
prisoner’s money—that gold which was, in fact, the strongest and only
very material circumstance against her. Mrs. Gott had put a carpet in
the cell, and divers pieces of furniture that were useful, as well as
two or three that were intended to be ornamental, rendering the
otherwise gloomy little apartment tolerably cheerful. The gallery, much
to John’s surprise, had been furnished, also. Pieces of new carpeting
were laid on the flags, chairs and table had been provided, and among
other articles of this nature, was a very respectable looking-glass.
Everything appeared new, and as if just sent from the different shops
where the various articles were sold. Wilmeter fancied that not less
than a hundred dollars had been expended in furnishing that gallery. The
effect was surprising; taking away from the place its chilling,
jail-like air, and giving to it, what it had never possessed before, one
of household comfort.

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 _ad_dress, 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.”

“Happy!”

“Yes; by comparison, happy. I tell you this the more willingly, for I
plainly see you feel a generous interest in my welfare—an interest which
exceeds that of the counsel in his client——”

“A thousand times exceeds it, Miss Monson!—Nay—is not to be named with
it!”

“I thank you, Mr. Wilmeter—from my heart I thank you,” returned the
prisoner, a slight flush passing over her features, while her eyes were
cast towards the floor. “I believe you are one of strong feelings and
quick impulses, and am grateful that these have been in my favour, under
circumstances that might well have excused you for thinking the worst.
From the hints of this kind woman, Mrs. Gott, I am afraid that the
opinion of Biberry is less consoling?”

“You must know how it is in country villages, Miss Monson,—every one has
something to say, and every one brings all things down to the level of
his own knowledge and understanding.”

Mary Monson smiled, again; this time more naturally, and without any
painful expression to lessen the bright influence that lighting up of
her features gave to a countenance so remarkable for its appearance of
illumination from within.

“Is not such the case in towns, as well as in villages, Mr. Wilmeter?”
she asked.

“Perhaps it is—but I mean that the circle of knowledge is more confined
in a place like this, than in a large town, and that the people here
could not well go beyond it.”

“Biberry is so near New York, that I should think, taking class against
class, no great difference can be found in their inhabitants. That which
the good folk of Biberry think of my case, I am afraid will be thought
of it by those of your own town.”

“_My_ own town?—and are you not really from New York, Miss Monson?”

“In no manner,” answered Mary, once more smiling; this time, however,
because she understood how modestly and readily her companion was
opening a door by which she might let a secret she had declined to
reveal to his uncle, escape. “I am not what you call a Manhattanese, in
either descent, birth, or residence; in no sense, whatever.”

“But, surely, you have never been educated in the country?—You must
belong to some large town—your manners show that—I mean that you——”

“Do not belong to Biberry. In that you are quite right, sir. I had never
seen Biberry three months since; but, as for New York, I have not passed
a month there, in my whole life. The longest visit I ever paid you, was
one of ten days, when I landed, coming from Havre, about eighteen months
since.”

“From Havre! Surely, you are an American, Miss Monson—our own
countrywoman?”

“Your own countrywoman, Mr. Wilmeter, by birth, descent, and feelings.
But an American female may visit Europe.”

“Certainly; and be educated there, as I had already suspected was your
case.”

“In part it was, and in part if was not.” Here Mary paused, looked a
little arch, seemed to hesitate, and to have some doubts whether she
ought to proceed, or not; but finally added—“You have been abroad,
yourself?”

“I have. I was nearly three years in Europe; and have not been home yet,
quite a twelvemonth.”

“You went into the east, I believe, after passing a few months in the
Pyrenees?” continued the prisoner, carelessly.

“You are quite right; we travelled as far as Jerusalem. The journey has
got to be so common, that it is no longer dangerous. Even ladies make
it, now, without any apprehension.”

“I am aware of that, having made it myself——”

“You, Miss Monson! You been at Jerusalem!”

“Why not, Mr. Wilmeter? You say, yourself, that females constantly make
the journey; why not I, as well as another?”

“I scarce know, myself; but it is so strange—all about you is so very
extraordinary——”

“You think it extraordinary that one of my sex, who has been partly
educated in Europe, and who has travelled in the Holy Land, should be
shut up in this gaol in Biberry—is it not so?”

“That is one view of the matter, I will confess; but it was scarcely
less strange, that such a person should be dwelling in a garret-room of
a cottage, like that of these unfortunate Goodwins.”

“That touches on my secret, sir; and no more need be said. You may judge
how important I consider that secret, when I know its preservation
subjects me to the most cruel distrust; and that, too, in the minds of
those with whom I would so gladly stand fair. Your excellent uncle, for
instance, and—yourself.”

“I should be much flattered, could I think the last—I who have scarcely
the claim of an acquaintance.”

“You forget the situation in which your respectable and most worthy
uncle has left you here, Mr. Wilmeter; which, of itself, gives you
higher claims to my thanks and confidence than any that mere
acquaintance could bestow. Besides, we are not”—another arch, but
scarcely perceptible, smile again illuminated that remarkable
countenance—“the absolute strangers to each other, that you seem to
think us.”

“Not strangers? You amaze me! If I have ever had the honour——”

“Honour!” interrupted Mary, a little bitterly. “It is truly a great
honour to know one in my situation!”

“I esteem it an honour; and no one has a right to call in question my
sincerity. If we have ever met before, I will frankly own that I am
ignorant of both the time and place.”

“This does not surprise me, in the least. The time is long, for persons
as young as ourselves, and the place was far away. Ah! those were happy
days for me, and most gladly would I return to them! But we have talked
enough on this subject. I have declined telling my tale to your most
excellent and very respectable uncle; you will, therefore, the more
easily excuse me, if I decline telling it to you.”

“Who am not ‘most excellent and very respectable,’ to recommend me.”

“Who are too near my own age, to make you a proper confidant, were there
no other objection. The character that I learned of you, when we met
before, Mr. Wilmeter, was, however, one of which you have no reason to
be ashamed.”

This was said gently, but earnestly; was accompanied by a most winning
smile, and was instantly succeeded by a slight blush. John Wilmeter
rubbed his forehead, sooth to say, in a somewhat stupid manner, as if
expecting to brighten his powers of recollection by friction. A sudden
change was given to the conversation, however, by the fair prisoner
herself, who quietly resumed—

“We will defer this part of the subject to another time. I did not
presume to send for you, Mr. Wilmeter, without an object, having your
uncle’s authority for giving you all this trouble——”

“And my own earnest request to be permitted to serve you, in any way I
could.”

“I have not forgotten that offer, nor shall I ever. The man who is
willing to serve a woman, whom all around her frown on, has a fair claim
to be remembered. Good Mrs. Gott and yourself are the only two friends I
have in Biberry. Even your companion, Mr. Millington, is a little
disposed to judge me harshly.”

John started; the movement was so natural, that his honest countenance
would have betrayed him, had he been disposed to deny the imputation.

“That Millington has fallen into the popular notion about here, I must
allow, Miss Monson; but he is an excellent fellow at the bottom, and
will hear reason. Prejudices that are beyond reason are detestable, and
I generally avoid those whose characters manifest this weakness; but
Mike will always listen to what he calls ‘law and facts,’ and so we get
along very well together.”

“It is fortunate; since you are about to be so nearly connected——”

“Connected! Is it possible that _you_ know this circumstance?”

“You will find in the end, Mr. Wilmeter,” returned the prisoner,
smiling—this time, naturally, as one manifests satisfaction without pain
of any sort—“that I know more of your private affairs than you had
supposed. But let me come to business, if you please, sir; I have great
occasion here for a maid-servant. Do you not think that Miss Wilmeter
might send me one from town?”

“A servant! I know the very woman that will suit you. A perfect jewel,
in her way!”

“That is a very housekeeper sort of a character,” rejoined Mary,
absolutely laughing, in spite of her prison walls, and all the tenable
charges that had brought her within them; “just such a character as I
might have expected from Dr. McBrain’s intended, Mrs. Updyke——”

“And you know it, too! Why will you not tell us more, since you tell us
so much?”

“In good time, I suppose all will come out. Well, I endeavour to submit
to my fate; or to the will of God!” There was no longer anything merry,
in voice, face, or manner, but a simple, natural pathos was singularly
mixed in the tones with which these few words were uttered. Then rousing
herself, she gravely resumed the subject which had induced her to send
for John.

“You will pardon me, if I say that I would prefer a woman chosen and
recommended by your sister, Mr. Wilmeter, than one chosen and
recommended by yourself,” said Mary. “When I shall have occasion for a
footman, I will take your advice. It is very important that I should
engage a respectable, discreet woman; and I will venture to write a
line, myself, to Miss Wilmeter, if you will be so kind as to send it. I
know this is not the duty of a counsel; but you see my situation. Mrs.
Gott has offered to procure a girl for me, it is true; but the prejudice
is so strong against me in Biberry, that I doubt if the proper sort of
person could be obtained. At any rate, I should be receiving a spy into
my little household, instead of a domestic, in whom I could place
confidence.”

“Sarah would join me in recommending Marie, who has been with herself
more than two years, and only left her to take care of her father, in
his last illness. Another, equally excellent, has been taken in her
place; and now, that she wishes to return to my sister’s service, there
is no opening for her. Mike Millington is dying to return to town, and
will gladly go over this evening. By breakfast-time to-morrow, the woman
might be here, if——”

“She will consent to serve a mistress in my cruel situation. I feel the
full weight of the objection, and know how difficult it will be to get a
female, who values her character as a servant, to enter on such an
engagement. You called this woman Marie; by that, I take it she is a
foreigner?”

“A Swiss—her parents emigrated; but I knew her in the service of an
American family, abroad, and got her for Sarah. She is the best creature
in the world—if she can be persuaded to come.”

“Had she been an American, I should have despaired of succeeding unless
her feelings could have been touched; but, as she is a foreigner,
perhaps money will procure her services. Should Miss Wilmeter approve of
your selection, sir, I will intreat her to go as high as fifty dollars a
month, rather than not get the sort of person I want. You can imagine
how much importance I attach to success. To escape remarks and
gossiping, the person engaged can join me as a companion, or friend, and
not as a servant.”

“I will get Mike off in half an hour, and Sarah will at least make an
effort. Yes, Marie Moulin, or Mary Mill, as the girls call her, is just
the thing!”

“Marie Moulin! Is that the name of the woman? She who was in the service
of the Barringers, at Paris? Do you mean _that_ person—five-and-thirty,
slightly pock-marked, with light blue eyes, and yellowish hair—more like
a German, than her French name would give reason to expect?”

“The very same; and you knew her, _too_! Why not bring all your friends
around you at once, Miss Monson, and not remain here an hour longer than
is necessary.”

Mary was too intent on the subject of engaging the woman in question, to
answer this last appeal. Earnestly did she resume her instructions,
therefore, and with an eagerness of manner young Wilmeter had never
before observed in her.

“If Marie Moulin be the person meant,” she said, “I will spare no pains
to obtain her services. Her attentions to poor Mrs. Barringer, in her
last illness, were admirable; and we all loved her, I may say. Beg your
sister to tell her, Mr. Wilmeter, that an old acquaintance, in distress,
implores her assistance. That will bring Marie, sooner than money, Swiss
though she be.”

“If you would write her a line, enclosing your real name, for we are
persuaded it is not Monson, it might have more effect than all our
solicitations, in behalf of one that is unknown.”

The prisoner turned slowly from the grate, and walked up and down her
gallery for a minute or two, as if pondering on this proposal. Once she
smiled, and it almost gave a lustre to her remarkable countenance; then
a cloud passed over her face, and once more she appeared sad.

“No,” she said, stopping near the grate again, in one of her turns. “I
will not do it—it will be risking too much. I can do nothing, just now,
that will tell more of me than your sister can state.”

“Should Marie Moulin know you, she must recognise you when you meet.”

“It will be wiser to proceed a little in the dark. I confide all to your
powers of negotiation, and shall remain as tranquil as possible, until
to-morrow morning. There is still another little affair that I must
trouble you with, Mr. Wilmeter. My gold is sequestered, as you know, and
I am reduced to an insufficient amount of twos and threes. Might I ask
the favour of you to obtain smaller notes for this, without mentioning
in whose behalf it is done?”

While speaking, Mary handed through the grate a hundred dollar note of
one of the New York banks, with a manner so natural and unpretending, as
at once to convince John Wilmeter, ever so willing to be persuaded into
anything in her favour, that she was accustomed to the use of money in
considerable sums; or, what might be considered so, for the wants and
habits of a female. Luckily, he had nearly money enough in his wallet to
change the note, making up a small balance that was needed, by drawing
five half-eagles from his purse. The prisoner held the last, in the open
palm of one of the most beautiful little hands the eyes of man ever
rested on.

“This metal has been my bane, in more ways than one, Mr. Wilmeter,” she
said, looking mournfully at the coin. “Of one of its evil influences on
my fate, I may not speak, now, if ever; but you will understand me when
I say, that I fear that gold piece of Italian money is the principal
cause of my being where I am.”

“No doubt, it has been considered one of the most material of the facts
against you, Miss Monson; though it is by no means conclusive, as
evidence, even with the most bitter and prejudiced.”

“I hope not. Now, Mr. Wilmeter, I will detain you no longer; but beg you
to do my commission with your sister, as you would do it for her with
me. I would write, but my hand is so peculiar, it were better that I did
not.”

Mary Monson now dismissed the young man, with the manner of one very
familiar with the tone of good society—a term that it is much the
fashion to ridicule just now, but which conveys a meaning, that it were
better the scoffers understood. This she did, however, after again
apologising for the trouble she was giving, and thanking him earnestly
for the interest he took in her affairs. We believe in animal magnetism;
and cannot pretend to say what is the secret cause of the powerful
sympathy that is so often suddenly awakened between persons of different
sexes, and, in some instances, between those who are of the same sex;
but Mary Monson, by that species of instinct that teaches the female
where she has awakened an interest livelier than common, and possibly
where she has not, was certainly already aware that John Wilmeter did
not regard her with the same cool indifference he would have felt
towards an ordinary client of his uncle’s. In thanking him, therefore,
her own manner manifested a little of the reflected feeling that such a
state of things is pretty certain to produce. She coloured, and slightly
hesitated once, as if she paused to choose her terms with more than
usual care; but, in the main, acquitted herself well. The parting,
betrayed interest, perhaps feeling, on both sides; but nothing very
manifest escaped either of our young people.

Never had John Wilmeter been at a greater loss to interpret facts, than
he was on quitting the grate. The prisoner was truly the most
incomprehensible being he had ever met with. Notwithstanding the fearful
nature of the charges against her—charges that might well have given
great uneasiness to the firmest man—she actually seemed in love with her
prison. It is true, that worthy Mrs. Gott had taken from the place many
of its ordinary, repulsive features; but it was still a gaol, and the
sun could be seen only through grates, and massive walls separated her
that was within, from the world without. As the young man was
predisposed to regard everything connected with this extraordinary young
woman _couleur de rose_, however, he saw nothing but the surest signs of
innocence in several circumstances that might have increased the
distrust of his cooler-headed uncle; but most persons would have
regarded the gentle tranquillity that now seemed to soothe a spirit that
had evidently been much troubled of late, as a sign that her hand could
never have committed the atrocities with which she was charged.

“Is she not a sweet young thing, Mr. Wilmeter?” exclaimed kind Mrs.
Gott, while locking the doors after John, on his retiring from the
grate. “I consider it an honour to Biberry gaol, to have such a prisoner
within its walls!”

“I believe that you and I stand alone in our favourable opinion of Miss
Monson,” John answered; “so far, at least, as Biberry is concerned. The
excitement against her seems to be at the highest pitch; and I much
doubt whether a fair trial can be had in the county.”

“The newspapers won’t mend the matter, sir. The papers from town, this
morning, are full of the affair, and they all appear to lean the same
way. But it’s a long road that has no turning, Mr. Wilmeter.”

“Very true, and nothing wheels about with a quicker step than the sort
of public opinion that is got up under a cry, and runs itself out of
breath, at the start. I expect to see Mary Monson the most approved and
most extolled woman in this county, yet!”

Mrs. Gott hoped with all her heart that it might be so, though _she_
had, certainly, misgivings that the young man did not feel. Half an hour
after John Wilmeter had left the gaol, his friend, Michael Millington,
was on the road to town, carrying a letter to Sarah, with a most earnest
request that she would use all her influence with Marie Moulin to engage
in the unusual service asked of her, for a few weeks, if for no longer a
period. This letter reached its destination in due time, and greatly did
the sister marvel over its warmth, as well as over the nature of the
request.

“I never knew John to write so earnestly!” exclaimed Sarah, when she and
Michael had talked over the matter a few moments. “Were he actually in
love, I could not expect him to be more pressing.”

“I will not swear that he is not,” returned the friend, laughing. “He
sees everything with eyes so different from mine, that I scarce know
what to make of him. I have never known John so deeply interested in any
human being, as he is at this moment in this strange creature!”

“Creature! You men do not often call young ladies _creatures_, and my
brother affirms that this Mary Monson is a lady.”

“Certainly she is, so far as exterior, manner, education, and I suppose,
tastes, are concerned. Nevertheless, there is too much reason to think
she is, in some way unknown to us, connected with crime.”

“I have read accounts of persons of these attainments, who have been
leagued together, and have carried on a great system of plundering for
years, with prodigious success. That, however, was in older countries,
where the necessities of a crowded population drive men into extremes.
We are hardly sufficiently advanced, or civilized as they call it, for
such bold villany.”

“A suspicion of that nature has crossed my mind,” returned Millington,
looking askance over his shoulder, as if he apprehended that his friend
might hear him. “It will not do, however, to remotely hint to John
anything of the sort. His mind is beyond the influence of testimony.”

Sarah scarce knew what to make of the affair, though sisterly regard
disposed her to do all she could to oblige her brother. Marie Moulin,
however, was not easily persuaded into consenting to serve a mistress
who was in prison. She held up her hands, turned up her eyes, uttered
fifty exclamations, and declared, over and over again “_c’est
impossible_;” and wondered how a female in such a situation could
suppose any respectable domestic would serve her, as it would be very
sure to prevent her ever getting a good place afterwards. This last
objection struck Sarah as quite reasonable, and had not her brother been
so very urgent with her, would of itself have induced her to abandon all
attempt at persuasion. Marie, however, finally yielded to a feeling of
intense curiosity, when no bribe in money could have bought her. John
had said the prisoner knew her—had known her in Europe—and she was soon
dying with the desire to know who, of all her many acquaintances in the
old world, could be the particular individual who had got herself into
this formidable difficulty. It was impossible to resist this feeling, so
truly feminine, which was a good deal stimulated by a secret wish in
Sarah, also, to learn who this mysterious person might be; and who did
not fail to urge Marie, with all her rhetoric, to consent to go and, at
least, see the person who had so strong a wish to engage her services.
The Swiss had not so much difficulty in complying, provided she was
permitted to reserve her final decision until she had met the prisoner,
when she might gratify her curiosity, and return to town prepared to
enlighten Miss Wilmeter, and all her other friends, on a subject that
had got to be intensely interesting.

It was not late, next morning, when Marie Moulin, attended by John
Wilmeter, presented herself to Mrs. Gott, as an applicant for admission
to the gallery of Mary Monson. The young man did not show himself, on
this occasion; though he was near enough to hear the grating of the
hinges when the prison-door opened.

“C’est bien vous donc, Marie!” said the prisoner, in a quick but pleased
salutation.

“Mademoiselle!” exclaimed the Swiss. The kisses of women succeeded. The
door closed, and John Wilmeter learned no more, on that occasion.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

“And can you by no drift of conference
Get from him, why he puts on this confusion—”
_Hamlet._

There is something imaginative, if not very picturesque, in the manner
in which the lawyers of Manhattan occupy the buildings of Nassau street,
a thoroughfare which connects Wall street with the Tombs. There they
throng, resembling the remains of so many monuments along the Appian
way, with a “_siste viator_” of their own, to arrest the footsteps of
the wayfarer. We must now transfer the scene to a building in this
street, which stands about half-way between Maiden Lane and John Street,
having its front plastered over with little tin signs, like a debtor
marked by writs, or what are now called “complaints.” Among these signs,
which afforded some such pleasant reading as an almanac, was one that
bore this simple and reasonably intelligent inscription:

“Thomas Dunscomb, 2d floor, in front.”

It is somewhat singular that terms as simple as those of first floor,
second floor, &c., should not signify the same things in the language of
the mother country, and that of this land of progress and liberty.
Certain it is, nevertheless, that in American parlance, more especially
in that of Manhattan, a first floor is never up one pair of stairs, as
in London, unless indeed the flight is that by which the wearied
foot-passenger climbs the high stoop to gain an entrance into the
building. In other words, an English first floor corresponds with an
American second; and, taking that as the point of departure, the same
difference exists throughout. Tom Dunscomb’s office (or offices would be
the better term) occupied quite half of the second story of a large
double house, that had once been the habitation of some private family
of note, but which had long been abandoned to the occupation of these
ministers of the law. Into those offices it has now become our duty to
accompany one who seemed a little strange in that den of the profession,
at the very moment he was perfectly at home.

“Lawyer Dunscomb in?” demanded this person, who had a decided rustic
mien, though his dress had a sort of legal dye on it, speaking to one of
the five or six clerks who raised their heads on the stranger’s
entrance.

“In, but engaged in a consultation, I believe,” answered one who, being
paid for his services, was the working clerk of the office; most of the
others being students who get no remuneration for their time, and who
very rarely deserve it.

“I’ll wait till he is through,” returned the stranger, helping himself
coolly to a vacant chair, and taking his seat in the midst of dangers
that might have alarmed one less familiar with the snares, and quirks,
and quiddities of the law. The several clerks, after taking a good look
each at their guest, cast their eyes down on their books or foolscap,
and seemed to be engrossed with their respective occupations. Most of
the young men, members of respectable families in town, set the stranger
down for a rustic client; but the working-clerk saw at once, by a
certain self-possessed and shrewd manner, that the stranger was a
country practitioner.

In the course of the next half hour, Daniel Lord and George Wood came
out of the sanctum, attended as far as the door by Dunscomb himself.
Exchanging “good morning” with his professional friends, the last caught
a glimpse of his patient visitor, whom he immediately saluted by the
somewhat brief and familiar name of Timms, inviting him instantly, and
with earnestness, to come within the limits of the privileged. Mr. Timms
complied, entering the _sanctum_ with the air of one who had been there
before, and appearing to be in no manner overcome by the honour he
enjoyed. And now, as a faithful chronicler of events, it is here become
our painful, not to say revolting duty, to record an act on the part of
the man who was known throughout Duke’s county as ’Squire Timms, which
it will never do to overlook, since it has got to be perfectly
distinctive and characteristic of late years, not of an individual, but
of large classes who throng the bar, the desk, the steamboats, the
taverns, the streets. A thousand paragraphs have been written on the
subject of American spitting, and not one line, as we can remember, on
the subject of an equally common and still grosser offence against the
minor morals of the country, if decency in manners may be thus termed.
Our meaning will be explained more fully in the narrative of the
stranger’s immediate movements on entering the sanctum.

“Take a seat, Mr. Timms,” said Dunscomb, motioning to a chair, while he
resumed his own well-cushioned seat, and deliberately proceeded to light
a segar, not without pressing several with a species of intelligent
tenderness, between his thumb and finger. “Take a seat, sir; and take a
segar.”

Here occurred the great _tour de force_ in manners of ’Squire Timms.
Considerately turning his person quartering towards his host, and
seizing himself by the nose, much as if he had a quarrel with that
member of his face, he blowed a blast that sounded sonorously, and which
fulfilled all that it promised. Now a better mannered man than Dunscomb
it would not be easy to find. He was not particularly distinguished for
elegance of deportment, but he was perfectly well-bred. Nevertheless, he
did not flinch before this broad hint from vulgarity, but stood it
unmoved. To own the truth, so large has been the inroad from the base of
society, within the last five-and-twenty years, on the habits of those
who once exclusively dwelt together, that he had got hardened even to
_this_ innovation. The fact is not to be concealed, and, as we intend
never to touch upon the subject again, we shall say distinctly that Mr.
Timms blowed his nose with his fingers, and that, in so doing, he did
not innovate one half as much, to-day, on the usages of the Upper Ten
Thousand, as he would have done had he blowed his nose with his thumb
only, a quarter of a century since.

Dunscomb bore this infliction philosophically; and well he might, for
there was no remedy. Waiting for Timms to use his handkerchief, which
was produced somewhat tardily for such an operation, he quietly opened
the subject of their interview.

“So the grand jury has actually found a bill for murder and arson, my
nephew writes me,” Dunscomb observed, looking enquiringly at his
companion, as if really anxious for further intelligence.

“Unanimously, they tell me, Mr. Dunscomb,” answered Timms. “I understand
that only one man hesitated, and he was brought round before they came
into court. That piece of money damns our case in old Duke’s.”

“Money saves more cases than it damns, Timms; and no one knows it better
than yourself.”

“Very true, sir. Money may defy even the new code. Give me five hundred
dollars, and change the proceedings to a civil action, and I’ll carry
anything in my own county that you’ll put on the calendar, barring some
twenty or thirty jurors I could name. There _are_ about thirty men in
the county that I can do nothing with—for that matter, whom I dare not
approach.”

“How the deuce is it, Timms, that you manage your causes with so much
success? for I remember you have given me a good deal of trouble in
suits in which law and fact were both clearly enough on my side.”

“I suppose those must have been causes in which we ‘horse-shedded’ and
‘pillowed’ a good deal.”

“Horse-shedded and pillowed! Those are legal terms of which I have no
knowledge!”

“They are country phrases, sir, and country customs too, for that
matter. A man might practise a long life in town, and know nothing about
them. The Halls of Justice are not immaculate; but they can tell us
nothing of horse-shedding and pillowing. They do business in a way of
which we in the country are just as ignorant as you are of our mode.”

“Have the goodness, Timms, just to explain the meaning of your terms,
which are quite new to me. I will not swear they are not in the Code of
Practice, but they are in neither Blackstone nor Kent.”

“Horse-shedding, ’Squire Dunscomb, explains itself. In the country, most
of the jurors, witnesses, &c., have more or less to do with the
horse-sheds, if it’s only to see that their beasts are fed. Well, we
keep proper talkers there, and it must be a knotty case, indeed, into
which an ingenious hand cannot thrust a doubt or an argument. To be
frank with you, I’ve known three pretty difficult suits summed up under
a horse-shed in one day; and twice as many opened.”

“But how is this done?—do you present your arguments directly, as in
court?”

“Lord bless you, no. In court, unless the jury happen to be unusually
excellent, counsel have to pay some little regard to the testimony and
the law; but, in horse-shedding, one has no need of either. A skilful
horse-shedder, for instance, will talk a party to pieces, and not say a
word about the case. That’s the perfection of the business. It’s against
the law, you know, Mr. Dunscomb, to talk of a case before a juror—an
indictable offence—but one may make a case of a party’s general
character, of his means, his miserly qualities, or his aristocracy; and
it will be hard to get hold of the talker for any of them qualities.
Aristocracy, of late years, is a capital argument, and will suit almost
any state of facts, or any action you can bring. Only persuade the jury
that the plaintiff or defendant fancies himself better than they are,
and the verdict is certain. I got a thousand dollars in the Springer
case, solely on that ground. Aristocracy did it! It is going to do us a
great deal of harm in this murder and arson indictment.”

“But Mary Monson is no aristocrat—she is a stranger, and unknown. What
privileges does she enjoy, to render her obnoxious to the charge of
aristocracy?”

“More than will do her any good. Her aristocracy does her almost as much
harm in old Duke’s as the piece of gold. I always consider a cause as
half lost, when there is any aristocracy in it.”

“Aristocracy means exclusive political privileges in the hands of a few;
and it means nothing else. Now, what exclusive political privileges does
this unfortunate young woman enjoy? She is accused of two of the highest
crimes known to the laws; is indicted, imprisoned, and will be tried.”

“Yes, and by her _peers_,” said Timms, taking out a very
respectable-looking box, and helping himself liberally to a pinch of cut
tobacco. “It’s wonderful, ’Squire Dunscomb, how much breadth the
_peerage_ possesses in this country! I saw a trial, a year or two since,
in which one of the highest intellects of the land was one of the
parties, and in which a juror asked the judge to explain the meaning of
the word ‘bereaved.’ _That_ citizen had his rights referred to his
peers, with a vengeance!”

“Yes; the venerable maxim of the common law is, occasionally, a little
caricatured among us. This is owing to our adhering to antiquated
opinions after the facts in which they had their origin have ceased to
exist. But, by your manner of treating the subject, Timms, I infer that
you give up the aristocracy.”

“Not at all. Our client will have more risks to run on account of
_that_, than on account of any other weak spot in her case. I think we
might get along with the piece of gold, as a life is in question; but it
is not quite so easy to see how we are to get along with the
aristocracy.”

“And this in the face of her imprisonment, solitary condition,
friendless state, and utter dependence on strangers for her future fate?
I see no one feature of aristocracy to reproach her with.”

“But I see a great many, and so does the neighbourhood. It is already
getting to be the talk of half the county. In short, all are talking
about it, but they who know better. You’ll see, ’Squire Dunscomb, there
are two sorts of aristocracy in the eyes of most people; _your_ sort,
and _my_ sort. _Your_ sort is a state of society that gives privileges
and power to a few, and keeps it there. That is what I call
old-fashioned aristocracy, about which nobody cares anything in this
country. We have no such aristocrats, I allow, and consequently they
don’t signify a straw.”

“Yet they are the only true aristocrats, after all. But what, or who are
yours.”

“Well now, ’Squire, _you_ are a sort of aristocrat yourself, in a
certain way. I don’t know how it is—I’m admitted to the bar as well as
you—have just as many rights—”

“More, Timms, if leading jurors by the nose, and horse-shedding, can be
accounted rights.”

“Well, more, in some respects, may be. Notwithstanding all this, there
is a difference between us—a difference in our ways, in our language, in
our ideas, our manner of thinking and acting, that sets you up above me
in a way I should not like in any other man. As you did so much for me
when a boy, sir, and carried me through to the bar on your shoulders, as
it might be, I shall always look up to you; though I must say that I do
not always like even _your_ superiority.”

“I should be sorry, Timms, if I ever so far forget my own great defects,
as to parade unfeelingly any little advantages I may happen to possess
over you, or over any other man, in consequence of the accidents of
birth and education.”

“You do not parade them unfeelingly, sir; you do not _parade_ them at
all. Still, they will show themselves; and they are just the things I do
not like to look at. Now, what is true of me, is true of all my
neighbours. We call anything aristocracy that is a touch above us, let
it be what it may. I sometimes think ’Squire Dunscomb is a sort of an
aristocrat in the law! Now, as for our client, she has a hundred ways
with her that are not the ways of Duke’s, unless you go among the
tip-toppers.”

“The Upper Ten——”

“Pshaw! I know better than that myself, ’Squire. Their Upper Ten should
be upper one, or two, to be common sense. Rude and untaught as I was
until you took me by the hand, sir, I can tell the difference between
those who wear kids, and ride in their coaches, and those who are fit
for either. Our client has none of this, sir; and that it is which
surprises me. She has no Union Place, or Fifth Avenue, about her; but is
the true coin. There is one thing in particular that I’m afraid may do
her harm.”

“It is the true coin which usually passes with the least trouble from
hand to hand. But what is this particular source of uneasiness?”

“Why, the client has a lady-friend——”

A little exclamation from Dunscomb caused the speaker to pause, while
the counsellor removed the segar from his mouth, knocked off its ashes,
and appeared to ponder for a moment, touching the best manner of
treating a somewhat delicate subject. At length, native frankness
overcame all scruples, and he spoke plainly, or as the familiar
instructor might be expected to address a very green pupil.

“If you love me, Timms, never repeat that diabolical phrase again,” said
Dunscomb, looking quite serious, however much there might have been of
affectation in his aspect. “It is even worse than Hurlgate, which I have
told you fifty times I cannot endure. ‘Lady friend’ is infernally
vulgar, and I _will_ not stand it. You may blow your nose with your
fingers, if it give you especial satisfaction, and you may blow out
against aristocracy as much as you please; but you shall not talk to me
about ‘lady-friends’ or ‘Hurlgate.’ I am no dandy, but a respectable
elderly gentleman, who professes to speak English, and who wishes to be
addressed in his own language. Heaven knows what the country is coming
to! There is Webster, to begin with, cramming a Yankee dialect down our
throats for good English; then comes all the cant of the day,
flourishing finical phrases, and new significations to good old homely
words, and changing the very nature of mankind by means of terms. Last
of all, is this infernal Code, in which the ideas are as bad as
possible, and the terms still worse. But whom do you mean by your
‘lady-friend?’”

“The French lady that has been with our client, now, for a fortnight.
Depend on it, _she_ will do us no good when we are on. She is too
aristocratic altogether.”

Dunscomb laughed outright. Then he passed a hand across his brow, and
seemed to muse.

“All this is very serious,” he at length replied, “and is really no
laughing matter. A pretty pass are we coming to, if the administration
of the law is to be influenced by such things as these! The doctrine is
openly held that the rich shall not, ought not to embellish their
amusements at a cost that the poor cannot compass; and here we have a
member of the bar telling us a prisoner shall not have justice because
she has a foreign maid-servant!”

“A servant! Call her anything but that, ’Squire, if you wish for
success! A prisoner accused of capital crimes, with a servant, would be
certain to be condemned. Even the court would hardly stand _that_.”

“Timms, you are a shrewd, sagacious fellow, and are apt to laugh in your
sleeve at follies of this nature, as I well know from long acquaintance;
and here you insist on one of the greatest of all the absurdities.”

“Things are changed in Ameriky, Mr. Dunscomb. The people are beginning
to govern; and when they can’t do it legally, they do it without law.
Don’t you see what the papers say about having operas and play-houses at
the people’s prices, and the right to hiss? There’s Constitution for
you! I wonder what Kent and Blackstone would say to _that_?”

“Sure enough. They would find some novel features in a liberty which
says a man shall not set the price on the seats in his own theatre, and
that the hissing may be done by an audience in the _streets_. The facts
are, Timms, that all these abuses about O. P.’s, and controlling other
persons’ concerns under the pretence that the public has rights where,
as a public, it has no rights at all, come from the reaction of a
half-way liberty in other countries. Here, where the people are really
free, having all the power, and where no political right is hereditary,
the people ought, at least, to respect their own ordinances.”

“Do you not consider a theatre a public place, ’Squire Dunscomb?”

“In one sense it is, certainly; but not in the sense that bears on this
pretended power over it. The very circumstance that the audience pay for
their seats, makes it, in law as in fact, a matter of covenant. As for
this newfangled absurdity about its being a duty to furnish low-priced
seats for the poor, where they may sit and look at pretty women because
they cannot see them elsewhere, it is scarcely worth an argument. If the
rich should demand that the wives and daughters of the poor should be
paraded in the pits and galleries, for _their_ patrician eyes to feast
on, a pretty clamour there would be! If the state requires cheap
theatres, and cheap women, let the state pay for them, as it does for
its other wants; but, if these amusements are to be the object of
private speculations, let private wisdom control them. I have no respect
for one-sided liberty, let it cant as much as it may.”

“Well, I don’t know, sir; I have read some of these articles, and they
seemed to me——”

“What—convincing?”

“Perhaps not just that, ’Squire; but very _agreeable_. I’m not rich
enough to pay for a high place at an opera or a theatre; and it is
pleasant to fancy that a poor feller can get one of the best seats at
half-price. Now, in England, they tell me, the public won’t stand prices
they don’t like.”

“Individuals of the public may refuse to purchase, and there their
rights cease. An opera, in particular, is a very expensive amusement;
and in all countries where the rates of admission are low, the
governments contribute to the expenditures. This is done from policy, to
keep the people quiet, and possibly to help civilize them; but, if we
are not far beyond the necessity of any such expedients, our
institutions are nothing but a sublime mystification.”

“It is wonderful, ’Squire, how many persons see the loose side of
democracy, who have no notion of the tight! But, all this time, our
client is in gaol at Biberry, and must be tried next week. Has nothing
been done, ’Squire, to choke off the newspapers, who have something to
say about her almost every day. It’s quite time the other side should be
heard.”

“It is very extraordinary that the persons who control these papers
should be so indifferent to the rights of others as to allow such
paragraphs to find a place in their columns.”

“Indifferent! What do they care, so long as the journal sells? In our
case, however, I rather suspect that a certain reporter has taken
offence; and when men of that class get offended, look out for news of
the colour of their anger. Isn’t it wonderful, ’Squire Dunscomb, that
the people don’t see and feel that they are sustaining low tyrants, in
two-thirds of their silly clamour about the liberty of the press?”

“Many do see it; and I think this engine has lost a great deal of its
influence within the last few years. As respects proceedings in the
courts, there never will be any true liberty in the country, until the
newspapers are bound hand and foot.”

“You are right enough in one thing, ’Squire, and that is in the ground
the press has lost. It has pretty much used itself up in Duke’s; and I
would pillow and horse-shed a cause through against it, the best day it
ever saw!”

“By the way, Timms, you have not explained the pillowing process to me.”

“I should think the word itself would do that, sir. You know how it is
in the country. Half a dozen beds are put in the same room, and two in a
bed. Waal, imagine three or four jurors in one of these rooms, and two
chaps along with ’em, with instructions how to talk. The conversation is
the most innocent and nat’ral in the world; not a word too much or too
little; but it sticks like a bur. The juror is a plain, simple-minded
countryman, and swallows all that his room-mates say, and goes into the
box next day in a beautiful frame of mind to listen to reason and
evidence! No, no; give me two or three of these pillow-counsellors, and
I’ll undo all that the journals can do, in a single conversation. You’ll
remember, ’Squire, that we get the last word by this system; and if the
first blow is half the battle in war, the last word is another half in
the law. Oh! it’s a beautiful business, is this trial by jury.”

“All this is very wrong, Timms. For a long time I have known that you
have exercised an extraordinary influence over the jurors of Duke’s; but
this is the first occasion on which you have been frank enough to reveal
the process.”

“Because this is the first occasion on which we have ever had a capital
case together. In the present state of public opinion in Duke’s, I much
question whether we can get a jury empannelled in this trial at all.”

“The Supreme Court will then send us to town, by way of mending the
matter. Apropos, Timms——”

“One word if you please, ’Squire; what does _à propos_ really mean? I
hear it almost every day, but never yet knew the meaning.”

“It has shades of difference in its signification—as I just used it, it
means ‘speaking of _that_.’”

“And is it right to say à propos _to_ such a thing?”

“It is better to say à propos _of_, as the French do. In old English it
was always _to_; but in our later mode of speaking, we say ‘of.’”

“Thank you, sir. You know how I glean my knowledge in driblets; and out
in the country not always from the highest authorities. Plain and
uncouth as I know I appear to you, and to Miss Sarah, I have an ambition
to be a gentleman. Now, I have observation enough to see that it is
these little matters, after all, and not riches and fine clothes, that
make gentlemen and ladies.”

“I am glad you have so much discrimination, Timms; but, you must permit
me to remark, that you will never make a gentleman until you learn to
let your nose alone.”

“Thank you, sir—I am thankful for even the smallest hints on manners.
It’s a pity that so handsome and so agreeable a young lady should be
hanged, Mr. Dunscomb!”

“Timms, you are as shrewd a fellow, in your own way, as I know. Your law
does not amount to any great matter, nor do you take hold of the strong
points of a case very often; but you perform wonders with the weaker. In
the way of an opinion on facts, I know few men more to be relied on.
Tell me, then, frankly, what do you think of the guilt or innocence of
Mary Monson?”

Timms screwed up his mouth, passed a hand over his brow, and did not
answer for near a minute.

“Perhaps it is right, after all, that we should understand each other on
this subject,” he then said. “We are associated as counsel, and I feel
it a great honour to be so associated, ’Squire Dunscomb, I give you my
word; and it is proper that we should be as free with each other as
brothers. In the first place, then, I never saw such a client before, as
this same lady—for lady I suppose we must call her until she is
convicted——”

“Convicted!—You cannot think there is much danger of _that_, Timms?”

“We never know, sir; we never know. I have lost cases of which I was
sure, and gained them of which I had no hopes—cases which I certainly
ought not to have gained—ag’in all law and the facts.”

“Ay, that came of the horse-shed, and the sleeping of two in a bed.”

“Perhaps it did, ’Squire,” returned Timms, laughing very freely, though
without making any noise; “perhaps it did. When the small-pox is about,
there is no telling who may take it. As for this case, ’Squire Dunscomb,
it is my opinion we shall have to run for disagreements. If we can get
the juries to disagree once or twice, and can get a change of _venue_,
with a couple of charges, the deuce is in it if a man of your experience
don’t corner them so tightly, they’ll give the matter up, rather than
have any more trouble about it. After all, the state can’t gain much by
hanging a young woman that nobody knows, even if she be a little
aristocratical. We must get her to change her dress altogether, and some
of her ways too; which, in her circumstances, I call downright hanging
ways; and the sooner she is rid of them, the better.”

“I see that you do not think us very strong on the merits, Timms, which
is as much as admitting the guilt of our client. I was a good deal
inclined to suspect the worst myself; but two or three more interviews,
and what my nephew Jack Wilmeter tells me, have produced a change. I am
now strongly inclined to believe her innocent. She has some great and
secret cause of apprehension, I will allow; but I do not think these
unfortunate Goodwins have anything to do with it.”

“Waal, one never knows. The verdict, if ‘not guilty,’ will be just as
good as if she was as innocent as a child a year old. I see how the work
is to be done. All the law, and the summing up, will fall to your share;
while the outdoor work will be mine. We _may_ carry her through—though
I’m of opinion that, if we do, it will be more by means of bottom than
by means of foot. There is one thing that is very essential, sir—the
money must hold out.”

“Do you want a refresher so soon, Timms?—Jack tells me that she has
given you two hundred and fifty dollars already!”

“I acknowledge it, sir; and a very respectable fee it is—_you_ ought to
have a thousand, ’Squire.”

“I have not received a cent, nor do I mean to touch any of her money. My
feelings are in the case, and I am willing to work for nothing.”

Timms gave his old master a quick but scrutinizing glance. Dunscomb was
youthful, in all respects, for his time of life; and many a man has
loved, and married, and become the parent of a flourishing family, who
had seen all the days he had seen. That glance was to inquire if it were
possible that the uncle and nephew were likely to be rivals, and to
obtain as much knowledge as could be readily gleaned in a quick, jealous
look. But the counsellor was calm as usual, and no tinge of colour, no
sigh, no gentleness of expression, betrayed the existence of the master
passion. It was reported among the bachelor’s intimates that formerly,
when he was about five-and-twenty, he had had an affair of the heart,
which had taken such deep hold that even the lady’s marriage with
another man had not destroyed its impression. That marriage was said not
to have been happy, and was succeeded by a second, that was still less
so; though the parties were affluent, educated, and possessed all the
means that are commonly supposed to produce felicity. A single child was
the issue of the first marriage, and its birth had shortly preceded the
separation that followed. Three years later the father died, leaving the
whole of a very ample fortune to this child, coupled with the strange
request that Dunscomb, once the betrothed of her mother, should be the
trustee and guardian of the daughter. This extraordinary demand had not
been complied with, and Dunscomb had not seen any of the parties from
the time he broke with his mistress. The heiress married young, died
within the year, and left another heiress; but no further allusion to
our counsellor was made, in any of the later wills and settlements.
Once, indeed, he had been professionally consulted concerning the
devises in favour of the granddaughter—a certain Mildred Millington—who
was a second-cousin to Michael of that name, and as rich as he was poor.
For some years, a sort of vague expectation prevailed that those two
young Millingtons might marry; but a feud existed in the family, and
little or no intercourse was permitted. The early removal of the young
lady to a distant school prevented such a result; and Michael, in due
time, fell within the influence of Sarah Wilmeter’s gentleness, beauty,
and affection.

Timms came to the conclusion that his old master was not in love.

“It is very convenient to be rich, ’Squire,” this singular being
remarked; “and I dare say it may be very pleasant to practise for
nothing, when a man has his pocket full of money. I am poor, and have
particular satisfaction in a good warm fee. By the way, sir, my part of
the business requires plenty of money I do not think I can even commence
operations with less than five hundred dollars.”

Dunscomb leaned back, stretched forth an arm, drew his cheque-book from
its niche, and filled a cheque for the sum just mentioned. This he
quietly handed to Timms, without asking for any receipt; for, while he
knew that his old student and fellow-practitioner was no more to be
trusted in matters of practice than was an eel in the hand, he knew that
he was scrupulously honest in matters of account. There was not a man in
the state to whom Dunscomb would sooner confide the care of uncounted
gold, or the administration of an estate, or the payment of a legacy,
than this very individual; who, he also well knew, would not scruple to
set all the provisions of the law at naught, in order to obtain a
verdict, when his feelings were really in the case.

“There, Timms,” said the senior counsel, glancing at his draft before he
handed it to the other, in order to see that it was correct; “there is
what you ask for. Five hundred for expenses, and half as much as a fee.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope this is not gratuitous, as well as the
services?”

“It is not. There is no want of funds, and I am put in possession of
sufficient money to carry us through with credit; but it is as a
trustee, and not as a fee. This, indeed, is the most extraordinary part
of the whole affair;—to find a delicate, educated, accomplished lady,
with her pockets well lined, in such a situation!”

“Why, ’Squire,” said Timms, passing his hand down his chin, and trying
to look simple and disinterested, “I am afraid clients like ours are
often flush. I have been employed about the Tombs a good deal in my
time, and I have gin’rally found that the richest clients were the
biggest rogues.”

Dunscomb gave his companion a long and contemplative look. He saw that
Timms did not entertain quite as favourable an opinion of Mary Monson as
he did himself, or rather that he was fast getting to entertain; for his
own distrust originally was scarcely less than that of this hackneyed
dealer with human vices. A long, close, and stringent examination of all
of Timms’s facts succeeded—facts that had been gleaned by collecting
statements on the spot. Then a consultation followed, from which it
might be a little premature, just now, to raise the veil.

CHAPTER IX.

“—–Her speech is nothing,
Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
The hearers to collection. They aim at it,
And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts.”
_Hamlet._

The reader is not to be surprised at the intimacy which existed between
Thomas Dunscomb and the half-educated semi-rude being who was associated
with him as counsel in the important cause that was now soon to be
tried. Such intimacies are by no means uncommon in the course of events;
men often overlooking great dissimilarities in principles, as well as in
personal qualities, in managing their associations, so far as they are
connected with the affairs of this world. The circumstance that Timms
had studied in our counsellor’s office would, as a matter of course,
produce certain relations between them in after-life; but the student
had made himself useful to his former master on a great variety of
occasions, and was frequently employed by him whenever there was a cause
depending in the courts of Duke’s, the county in which the unpolished,
half-educated, but hard-working and successful county practitioner had
established himself. It may be questioned if Dunscomb really knew all
the agencies set in motion by his coadjutor in difficult cases; but,
whether he did or not, it is quite certain that many of them were of a
character not to see the light. It is very much the fashion of our good
republic to turn up its nose at all other lands, a habit no doubt
inherited from our great ancestors the English; and one of its standing
themes of reproach are the legal corruptions and abuses known to exist
in France, Spain, Italy, &c.; all over the world, in short, except among
ourselves. So far as the judges are concerned, there is a surprising
adherence to duty, when bribes alone are concerned, no class of men on
earth being probably less obnoxious to just imputations of this
character than the innumerable corps of judicial officers; unpaid, poor,
hard-worked, and we might almost add unhonoured, as they are. That cases
in which bribes are taken do occur, we make no doubt; it would be
assuming too much in favour of human nature to infer the contrary; but,
under the system of publicity that prevails, it would not be easy for
this crime to extend very far without its being exposed. It is greatly
to the credit of the vast judicial corps of the States, that bribery is
an offence which does not appear to be even suspected at all; or, if
there be exceptions to the rule, they exist in but few and isolated
cases. Here, however, our eulogies on American justice must cease. All
that Timms has intimated and Dunscomb has asserted concerning the juries
is true; and the evil is one that each day increases. The tendency of
everything belonging to the government is to throw power directly into
the hands of the people, who, in nearly all cases, use it as men might
be supposed to do who are perfectly irresponsible, have only a remote,
and half the time an invisible interest in its exercise; who do not feel
or understand the consequences of their own deeds, and have a pleasure
in asserting a seeming independence, and of appearing to think and act
for themselves. Under such a regime it is self-apparent that principles
and law must suffer; and so the result proves daily, if not hourly. The
institution of the jury, one of very questionable utility in its best
aspects in a country of really popular institutions, becomes nearly
intolerable, unless the courts exercise a strong and salutary influence
on the discharge of its duties. This influence, unhappily, has been
gradually lessening among us for the last half century, until it has
reached a point where nothing is more common than to find the judge
charging the law one way, and the jury determining it another. In most
cases, it is true, there is a remedy for this abuse of power, but it is
costly, and ever attended with that delay in hope “which maketh the
heart sick.” Any one, of even the dullest apprehension, must, on a
little reflection, perceive that a condition of things in which the
_ends_ of justice are defeated, or so procrastinated as to produce the
results of defeat, is one of the least desirable of all those in which
men can be placed under the social compact; to say nothing of its
corrupting and demoralizing effects on the public mind.

All this Dunscomb saw, more vividly, perhaps, than most others of the
profession, for men gradually get to be so accustomed to abuses as not
only to tolerate them, but to come to consider them as evils inseparable
from human frailty. It was certain, however, that while our worthy
counsellor so far submitted to the force of things as frequently to
close his eyes to Timms’s manœuvres, a weakness of which nearly every
one is guilty who has much to do with the management of men and things,
he was never known to do aught himself that was unworthy of his high
standing and well-merited reputation at the bar. There is nothing
unusual in this convenient compromise between direct and indirect
relations with that which is wrong.

It had early been found necessary to employ local counsel in Mary
Monson’s case, and Timms was recommended by his old master as one every
way suited to the particular offices needed. Most of the duties to be
performed were strictly legal; though it is not to be concealed that
some soon presented themselves that would not bear the light. John
Wilmeter communicated to Timms the particular state of the testimony, as
he and Michael Millington had been enabled to get at it; and among other
things he stated his conviction that the occupants of the farm nearest
to the late dwelling of the Goodwins were likely to prove some of the
most dangerous of the witnesses against their client. This family
consisted of a sister-in-law, the Mrs. Burton already mentioned, three
unmarried sisters, and a brother, who was the husband of the person
first named. On this hint Timms immediately put himself in communication
with these neighbours, concealing from them, as well as from all others
but good Mrs. Gott, that he was retained in the case at all.

Timms was soon struck with the hints and half-revealed statements of the
persons of this household; more especially with those of the female
portion of it. The man appeared to him to have observed less than his
wife and sisters; but even he had much to relate, though, as Timms
fancied, more that he had gleaned from those around him, than from his
own observations. The sisters, however, had a good deal to say; while
the wife, though silent and guarded, seemed to this observer, as well as
to young Millington, to know the most. When pressed to tell all, Mrs.
Burton looked melancholy and reluctant, frequently returning to the
subject of her own accord when it had been casually dropped, but never
speaking explicitly, though often invited so to do. It was not the cue
of the counsel for the defence to drag out unfavourable evidence; and
Timms employed certain confidential agents, whom he often used in the
management of his causes, to sift this testimony as well as it could be
done without the constraining power of the law. The result was not very
satisfactory, in any sense, more appearing to be suppressed than was
related. It was feared that the legal officers of the State would meet
with better success.

The investigations of the junior counsel did not end here. He saw that
the public sentiment was setting in a current so strongly against Mary
Monson, that he soon determined to counteract it, as well as might be,
by producing a reaction. This is a very common, not to say a very
powerful agent, in the management of all interests that are subject to
popular opinion, in a democracy. Even the applicant for public favour is
none the worse for beginning his advances by “a little aversion,”
provided he can contrive to make the premeditated change in his favour
take the aspect of a reaction. It may not be so easy to account for this
caprice of the common mind, as it is certain that it exists. Perhaps we
like to yield to a seeming generosity, have a pleasure in appearing to
pardon, find a consolation for our own secret consciousness of errors,
in thus extending favour to the errors of others, and have more
satisfaction in preferring those who are fallible, than in exalting the
truly upright and immaculate; if, indeed, any such there be. Let the
cause be what it may, we think the facts to be beyond dispute; and so
thought Timms also, for he no sooner resolved to counteract one public
opinion by means of another, than he set about the task with coolness
and intelligence—in short, with a mixture of all the good and bad
qualities of the man.

The first of his measures was to counteract, as much as he could, the
effects of certain paragraphs that had appeared in some of the New York
journals. A man of Timms’s native shrewdness had no difficulty in
comprehending the more vulgar moral machinery of a daily press.
Notwithstanding its ‘we’s,’ and its pretension to represent public
opinion, and to protect the common interests, he thoroughly understood
it was merely one mode of advancing the particular views, sustaining the
personal schemes, and not unfrequently of gratifying the low malignity
of a single individual; the press in America differing from that of
nearly all other countries in the fact that it is not controlled by
associations, and does not reflect the decisions of many minds, or
contend for principles that, by their very character, have a tendency to
elevate the thoughts. There are some immaterial exceptions as relates to
the latter characteristic, perhaps, principally growing out of the great
extra-constitutional question of slavery, that has quite unnecessarily
been drawn into the discussions of the times through the excited warmth
of zealots; but, as a rule, the exciting political questions that
elsewhere compose the great theme of the newspapers, enlarging their
views, and elevating their articles, may be regarded as settled among
ourselves. In the particular case with which Timms was now required to
deal, there was neither favour nor malice to counteract. The injustice,
and a most cruel injustice it was, was merely in catering to a morbid
desire for the marvellous in the vulgar, which might thus be turned to
profit.

Among the reporters there exists the same diversity of qualities as
among other men, beyond a question; but the tendency of the use of all
power is to abuse; and Timms was perfectly aware that these men had far
more pride in the influence they wielded, than conscience in its
exercise. A ten or a twenty dollar note, judiciously applied, would do a
great deal with this “Palladium of our Liberties,”—there being at least
a dozen of these important safeguards interested in the coming trial—our
associate counsel very well knew; and Dunscomb suspected that some such
application of the great persuader had been made, in consequence of one
or two judicious and well-turned paragraphs that appeared soon after the
consultation. But Timms’s management of the press was mainly directed to
that of the county newspapers. There were three of these; and as they
had better characters than most of the Manhattanese journals, so were
they more confided in. It is true, that the whig readers never heeded in
the least anything that was said in “The Duke’s County Democrat;” but
the friends of the last took their revenge in discrediting all that
appeared in the columns of the Biberry Whig. In this respect, the two
great parties of the country were on a par; each manifesting a faith
that, in a better cause, might suffice to move mountains; and, on the
other hand, an unbelief that drove them into the dangerous folly of
disregarding their foes. As Mary Monson had nothing to do with politics,
it was not difficult to get suitable paragraphs inserted in the hostile
columns, which was also done within eight-and-forty hours after the
return of the junior counsel to his own abode.

Timms, however, was far from trusting to the newspapers alone. He felt
that it might be well enough to set ‘fire to fight fire;’ but his main
reliance was on the services that could be rendered by a timely and
judicious use of “the little member.” _Talkers_ was what he wanted; and
well did he know where to find them, and how to get them at work. A few
he paid in a direct, business-like way; taking no vouchers for the sums
bestowed, the reader may be assured; but entering each item carefully in
a little memorandum-book kept for his own private information. These
strictly confidential agents went to work with experienced discretion
but great industry, and soon had some ten or fifteen fluent female
friends actively engaged in circulating “They says,” in their respective
neighbourhoods.

Timms had reflected a great deal on the character of the defence it
might be most prudent to get up and enlarge on. Insanity had been worn
out by too much use of late; and he scarce gave that plea a second
thought. This particular means of defence had been discussed between him
and Dunscomb, it is true; but each of the counsel felt a strong
repugnance against resorting to it; the one on account of his
indisposition to rely on anything but the truth; the other, to use his
own mode of expressing himself on the occasion in question, because he
“believed that jurors could no longer be humbugged with that plea. There
have been all sorts of madmen and madwomen—”

“Gentlemen and lady murderers”—put in Dunscomb, drily.

“I ask your pardon, ’Squire; but, since you give me the use of my nose,
I will offend as little as possible with the tongue—though, I rather
conclude”—a form of expression much in favour with Timms—“that should
our verdict be ‘guilty,’ you will be disposed to allow there may be one
lady criminal in the world.”

“She is a most extraordinary creature, Timms; bothers me more than any
client I ever had!”

“Indeed! Waal, I had set her down as just the contrary—for to me she
seems to be as unconcerned as if the wise four-and-twenty had not
presented her to justice in the name of the people.”

“It is not in that sense that I am bothered—no client ever gave counsel
less trouble than Mary Monson in that respect. To me, Timms, she does
not appear to have any concern in reference to the result.”

“Supreme innocence, or a well-practised experience. I have defended many
a person whom I knew to be guilty, and two or three whom I believed to
be innocent; but never before had as cool a client as this!”

And very true was this. Even the announcement of the presentment by the
grand jury appeared to give Mary Monson no great alarm. Perhaps she
anticipated it from the first, and had prepared herself for the event,
by an exercise of a firmness little common to her sex until the moments
of extreme trial, when their courage would seem to rise with the
occasion. On her companion, whom Timms had so elegantly styled her ‘Lady
Friend,’ certainly as thoroughly vulgar an expression as was ever drawn
into the service of the heroics in gentility, warm-hearted and faithful
Marie Moulin, the intelligence produced far more effect. It will be
remembered that Wilmeter overheard the single cry of “Mademoiselle” when
this Swiss was first admitted to the gaol; after which an impenetrable
veil closed around their proceedings. The utmost good feeling and
confidence were apparent in the intercourse between the young mistress
and her maid; if, indeed, Marie might thus be termed, after the manner
in which she was treated. So far from being kept at the distance which
it is usual to observe towards an attendant, the Swiss was admitted to
Mary Monson’s table; and to the eyes of indifferent observers she might
very well pass for what Timms had so elegantly called a “lady friend.”
But Jack Wilmeter knew too much of the world to be so easily misled. It
is true, that when he paid his short visits to the gaol, Marie Moulin
sat sewing at the prisoner’s side, and occasionally she even hummed low,
national airs while he was present; but knowing the original condition
of the maid-servant, our young man was not to be persuaded that his
uncle’s client was her peer, any more than were the jurors who,
agreeably to that profound mystification of the common law, are thus
considered and termed. Had not Jack Wilmeter known the real position of
Marie Moulin, her “Mademoiselle” would have let him deeper into the
secrets of the two than it is probable either ever imagined. This word,
in common with those of “Monsieur” and “Madame,” are used, by French
servants, differently from what they are used in general society.
Unaccompanied by the names, the domestics of France commonly and
exclusively apply them to the heads of families, or those they more
immediately serve. Thus, it was far more probable that Marie Moulin,
meeting a mere general acquaintance in the prisoner, would have called
her “Mademoiselle Marie,” or “Mademoiselle Monson,” or whatever might be
the name by which she had known the young lady, than by the general and
still more respectful appellation of “Mademoiselle.” On this peculiarity
of deportment Jack Wilmeter speculated profoundly; for a young man who
is just beginning to submit to the passion of love is very apt to fancy
a thousand things that he would never dream of seeing in his cooler
moments. Still, John had fancied himself bound in the spells of another,
until this extraordinary client of his uncle’s so unexpectedly crossed
his path. Such is the human heart.

Good and kind-hearted Mrs. Gott allowed the prisoner most of the
privileges that at all comported with her duty. Increased precautions
were taken for the security of the accused, as soon as the presentment
of the grand jury was made, by a direct order from the court; but, these
attended to, it was in the power of her whom Timms might have called the
“lady sheriff,” to grant a great many little indulgences, which were
quite cheerfully accorded, and, to all appearances, as gratefully
accepted.

John Wilmeter was permitted to pay two regular visits at the grate each
day, and as many more as his ingenuity could invent plausible excuses
for making. On all occasions Mrs. Gott opened the outer door with the
greatest good will; and, like a true woman as she is, she had the tact
to keep as far aloof from the barred window where the parties met, as
the dimensions of the outer room would allow. Marie Moulin was equally
considerate, generally plying her needle at such times, in the depth of
the cell, with twice the industry manifested on other occasions.
Nevertheless, nothing passed between the young people that called for
this delicate reserve. The conversation, it is true, turned as little as
possible on the strange and awkward predicament of one of the
colloquists, or the employment that kept the young man at Biberry. Nor
did it turn at all on love. There is a premonitory state in these
attacks of the heart, during which skilful observers may discover the
symptoms of approaching disease, but which do not yet betray the actual
existence of the epidemic. On the part of Jack himself, it is true that
these symptoms were getting to be not only somewhat apparent, but they
were evidently fast becoming more and more distinct; while, on the part
of the lady, any one disposed to be critical might have seen that her
colour deepened, and there were signs of daily increasing interest in
them, as the hours for these interviews approached. She was interested
in her young legal adviser; and interest, with women, is the usual
precursor of the master-passion. Wo betide the man who cannot interest,
but who only amuses!

Although so little to the point was said in the short dialogues between
Wilmeter and Mary Monson, there were dialogues held with the good Mrs.
Gott, by each of the parties respectively, in which less reserve was
observed; and the heart was permitted to have more influence over the
movements of the tongue. The first of these conversations that we deem
it necessary to relate, that took place after the presentment, was one
that immediately succeeded an interview at the barred window, and which
occurred three days subsequently to the consultation in town, and two
after Timms’s machinery was actively at work in the county.

“Well, how do you find her spirits to-day, Mr. Wilmington?” asked Mrs.
Gott, kindly, and catching the conventional sound of the young man’s
name, from having heard it so often in the mouth of Michael Millington.
“It is an awful state for any human being to be in, and she a young,
delicate woman; to be tried for murder, and for setting fire to a house,
and all so soon!”

“The most extraordinary part of this very extraordinary business, Mrs.
Gott,” Jack replied, “is the perfect indifference of Miss Monson to her
fearful jeopardy! To me, she seems much more anxious to be closely
immured in gaol, than to escape from a trial that one would think, of
itself, might prove more than so delicate a young lady could bear up
against.”

“Very true, Mr. Wilmington; and she never seems to think of it at all!
You see what she has done, sir?”

“Done!—Nothing in particular, I hope?”

“I don’t know what _you_ call particular; but to me it does seem to be
remarkably particular. Didn’t you hear a piano, and another musical
instrument, as you approached the gaol?”

“I did, certainly, and wondered who could produce such admirable music
in Biberry.”

“Biberry has a great many musical ladies, I can tell you, Mr.
Wilmington,” returned Mrs. Gott, a little coldly, though her good-nature
instantly returned, and shone out in one of her most friendly smiles;
“and those, too, that have been to town and heard all the great
performers from Europe, of whom there have been so many of late years. I
have heard good judges say that Duke’s county is not much behind the
Island of Manhattan with the piano in particular.”

“I remember, when at Rome, to have heard an Englishman say that some
young ladies from Lincolnshire were astonishing the Romans with their
Italian accent, in singing Italian operas,” answered Jack, smiling.
“There is no end, my dear Mrs. Gott, to provincial perfection in all
parts of the world.”

“I believe I understand you, but I am not at all offended at your
meaning. We are not very sensitive about the gaols. One thing I will
admit, however; Mary Monson’s harp is the first, I rather think, that
was ever heard in Biberry. Gott tells me”—this was the familiar manner
in which the good woman spoke of the _high_ sheriff of Duke’s, as the
journals affectedly call that functionary—“that he once met some German
girls strolling about the county, playing and singing for money, and who
had just such an instrument, but not one-half as elegant; and it has
brought to my mind a suspicion that Mary Monson may be one of these
travelling musicians.”

“What? to stroll about the country, and play and sing in the streets of
villages!”

“No, not that; I see well enough she cannot be of _that_ sort. But,
there are all descriptions of musicians, as well as all descriptions of
doctors and lawyers, Mr. Wilmington. Why may not Mary Monson be one of
these foreigners who get so rich by singing and playing? She has just as
much money as she wants, and spends it freely too. This I know, from
seeing the manner in which she uses it. For my part, I wish she had less
music and less money just now; for they are doing her no great good in
Biberry!”

“Why not? Can any human being find fault with melody and a liberal
spirit?”

“Folks will find fault with anything, Mr. Wilmington, when they have
nothing better to do. You know how it is with our villagers here, as
well as I do. Most people think Mary Monson guilty, and a few do not.
Those that think her guilty say it is insolent in her to be singing and
playing in the very gaol in which she is confined; and talk loud against
her for that very reason.”

“Would they deprive her of a consolation as innocent as that she obtains
from her harp and her piano, in addition to her other sufferings! Your
Biberry folk must be particularly hard-hearted, Mrs. Gott.”

“Biberry people are like York people, and American people, and English
people, and all other people, I fancy, if the truth was known, Mr.
Wilmington. What they don’t like they disapprove of, that’s all. Now,
was I one of them that believe Mary Monson did actually murder the
Goodwins, and plunder their drawers, and set fire to their house, it
would go ag’in _my_ feelings too, to hear her music, well as she plays,
and sweet as she draws out the sounds from those wires. Some of our
folks take the introduction of the harp into the gaol particularly
hard!”

“Why that instrument more than another? It was the one on which David
played.”

“They say it _was_ David’s favourite, and ought only to be struck to
religious words and sounds.”

“It is a little surprising that your excessively conscientious people so
often forget that charity is the chiefest of all the Christian graces.”

“They think that the love of God comes first, and that they ought never
to lose sight of his honour and glory. But I agree with you, Mr.
Wilmington; ‘feel for your fellow-creatures’ is my rule; and I’m certain
I am then feeling for my Maker. Yes; many of the neighbours insist that
a harp is unsuited to a gaol, and they tell me that the instrument on
which Mary Monson plays is a real antique.”

“Antique! What, a harp made in remote ages?”

“No, I don’t mean that exactly,” returned Mrs. Gott, colouring a little;
“but a harp made so much like those used by the Psalmist, that one could
not tell them apart.”

“I dare say David had many varieties of stringed instruments, from the
lute up; but harps are very common, Mrs. Gott—so common that we hear
them now in the streets, and on board the steamboats even. There is
nothing new in them, even in this country.”

“Yes, sir, in the streets and on board the boats; but the public will
tolerate things done for _them_, that they won’t tolerate in
individuals. I suppose you know _that_, Mr. Wilmington?”

“We soon learn as much in this country—but the gaols are made for the
public, and the harps ought to be privileged in them, as well as in
other public places.”

“I don’t know how it is—I’m not very good at reasoning—but, somehow or
another, the neighbours don’t like that Mary Monson should play on the
harp; or even on the piano, situated as she is. I do wish, Mr.
Wilmington, you could give her a hint on the subject?”

“Shall I tell her that the music is unpleasant to _you_?”

“As far from that as possible! I delight in it; but the neighbours do
not. Then she never shows herself at the grate, to folks outside, like
all the other prisoners. The public wants to see and to converse with
her.”

“You surely could not expect a young and educated female to be making a
spectacle of herself, for the gratification of the eyes of all the
vulgar and curious in and about Biberry!”

“Hush—Mr. Wilmington, you are most too young to take care of such a
cause. ’Squire Timms, now, is a man who understands Duke’s county, and
he would tell you it is not wise to talk of the vulgar hereabouts; at
least not until the verdict is in. Besides, most people would think that
folks have a right to look at a prisoner in the common gaol. I know they
act as if they thought so.”

“It is hard enough to be accused and confined, without subjecting the
party to any additional degradation. No man has a right to ask to look
at Miss Monson, but those she sees fit to receive, and the officials of
the law. It would be an outrage to tolerate mere idle curiosity.”

“Well, if you think so, Mr. Wilmington, do not let everybody know it.
Several of the clergy have either been here, or have sent to offer their
visits, if acceptable.”

“And what has been the answer?” demanded Jack, a little eagerly.

“Mary Monson has received all these offers as if she had been a queen!
politely, but coldly; once or twice, or when the Methodist and the
Baptist came, and they commonly come first, I thought she seemed hurt.
Her colour went and came like lightning. Now, she was pale as
death—next, as bright as a rose—what a colour she has at times, Mr.
Wilmington! Duke’s is rather celebrated for rosy faces; but it would be
hard to find her equal when she is not thinking.”

“Of what, my good Mrs. Gott?”

“Why, most of the neighbours say, of the Goodwins. For my part, as I do
not believe she ever hurt a hair of the head of the old man and old
woman, I can imagine that she has disagreeable things to think of that
are in nowise connected with _them_.”

“She certainly has disagreeable things to make her cheeks pale that
_are_ connected with that unfortunate couple. But, I ought to know all:
To what else do the neighbours object?”

“To the foreign tongues—they think when a grand jury has found a bill,
the accused ought to talk nothing but plain English, so that all near
her can understand what she says.”

“In a word, it is not thought sufficient to be accused of such a crime
as murder, but all other visitations must follow, to render the charge
as horrible as may be!”

“That is not the way they look at it. The public fancies that in a
public matter they have a right to know all about a thing.”

“And when there is a failure in the proof, they imagine, invent, and
assert.”

“’Tis the ways of the land. I suppose all nations have their ways, and
follow them.”

“One thing surprises me a little in this matter,” Jack rejoined, after
musing a moment; “it is this. In most cases in which women have any
connection with the law, the leaning in this country, and more
particularly of late, has been in their favour.”

“Well,” Mrs. Gott quietly but quickly interrupted, “and ought it not to
be so?”

“It ought not, unless the merits are with them. Justice is intended to
do that which is equitable; and it is not fair to assume that women are
always right, and men always wrong. I know my uncle thinks that not only
the decisions of late years, but the laws, have lost sight of the wisdom
of the past, and are gradually placing the women above the men, making
_her_ instead of _him_ the head of the family.”

“Well, Mr. Wilmington, and isn’t that quite right?” demanded Mrs. Gott,
with a good-natured nod.

“My uncle thinks it very wrong, and that by a mistaken gallantry the
peace of families is undermined, and their discipline destroyed; as, in
punishment, by a false philanthropy, rogues are petted at the expense of
honest folk. Such are the opinions of Mr. Thomas Dunscomb, at least.”

“Ay, Mr. Thomas Dunscomb is an old bachelor; and bachelors’ wives, and
bachelors’ children, as we well know, are always admirably managed. It
is a pity they are not more numerous,” retorted the indomitably
good-humoured wife of the sheriff. “But, you see that, in this case of
Mary Monson, the feeling is against, rather than in favour of a woman.
That may be owing to the fact that one of the persons murdered was a
lady also.”

“Dr. McBrain says that both were females—or lady-murdered—as I suppose
we must call them; as doubtless you have heard, Mrs. Gott. Perhaps he is
believed, and the fact may make doubly against the accused.”

“He is _not_ believed. Everybody hereabouts _knows_, that one of the
skeletons was that of Peter Goodwin. They say that the District Attorney
means to show _that_, beyond all dispute. They tell me that it is a law,
in a case of this sort, first to show there has been a murder; second,
to show who did it.”

“This is something like the course of proceeding, I believe; though I
never sat on a trial for this offence. It is of no great moment what the
district attorney does, so that he do not prove that Miss Monson is
guilty; and this, my kind-hearted Mrs. Gott, you and I do not believe he
_can_ do.”

“In that we are agreed, sir. I no more think that Mary Monson did these
things, than I think I did them myself.”

Jack expressed his thanks in a most grateful look, and there the
interview terminated.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER X.

“In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;
In war he mounts the warrior’s steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.”
_Scott._

“It is the ways of the land,” said good Mrs. Gott, in one of her remarks
in the conversation just related. Other usages prevail, in connection
with other interests; and the time is come when we must refer to one of
them. In a word, Dr. McBrain and Mrs. Updyke were about to be united in
the bands of matrimony. As yet we have said very little of the intended
bride; but the incidents of our tale render it now necessary to bring
her more prominently on the stage, and to give some account of herself
and family.

Anna Wade was the only child of very respectable and somewhat affluent
parents. At nineteen she married a lawyer of suitable years, and became
Mrs. Updyke. This union lasted but eight years, when the wife was left a
widow with two children; a son and a daughter. In the course of time
these children grew up, the mother devoting herself to their care,
education and well-being. In all this there was nothing remarkable,
widowed mothers doing as much daily, with a self-devotion that allies
them to the angels. Frank Updyke, the son, had finished his education,
and was daily expected to arrive from a tour of three years in Europe.
Anna, her mother’s namesake, was at the sweet age of nineteen, and the
very counterpart of what the elder Anna had been at the same period in
life. The intended bride was far from being unattractive, though fully
five-and-forty. In the eyes of Dr. McBrain, she was even charming;
although she did not exactly answer those celebrated conditions of
female influence that have been handed down to us in the familiar toast
of a voluptuous English prince. Though forty, Mrs. Updyke was neither
‘fat’ nor ‘fair;’ being a brunette of a well-preserved and still
agreeable person.

It was perhaps a little singular, after having escaped the temptations
of a widowhood of twenty years, that this lady should think of marrying
at a time of life when most females abandon the expectation of changing
their condition. But Mrs. Updyke was a person of a very warm heart; and
she foresaw the day when she was to be left alone in the world. Her son
was much inclined to be a rover; and, in his letters, he talked of still
longer journeys, and of more protracted absences from home. He inherited
an independency from his father, and had now been his own master for
several years. Anna was much courted by the circle to which she
belonged; and young, affluent, pretty to the very verge of beauty,
gentle, quiet, and singularly warm-hearted, it was scarcely within the
bounds of possibility that she could escape an early marriage in a state
of society like that of Manhattan. These were the reasons Mrs. Updyke
gave to her female confidants, when she deemed it well to explain the
motives of her present purpose. Without intending to deceive, there was
not a word of truth in these explanations. In point of fact, Mrs.
Updyke, well as she had loved the husband of her youth, preserved _les
beaux restes_ of a very warm and affectionate heart; and McBrain, a
well-preserved, good-looking man, about a dozen years older than
herself, had found the means to awaken its sympathies to such a degree,
as once more to place the comely widow completely within the category of
Cupid. It is very possible for a woman of forty to love, and to love
with all her heart; though the world seldom takes as much interest in
her weaknesses, if weakness it is, as in those of younger and fairer
subjects of the passion. To own the truth, Mrs. Updyke was profoundly in
love, while her betrothed met her inclination with an answering sympathy
that, to say the least, was fully equal to any tender sentiment he had
succeeded in awakening.

All this was to Tom Dunscomb what he called “nuts.” Three times had he
seen his old friend in this pleasant state of feeling, and three times
was he chosen to be an attendant at the altar; once in the recognised
character of a groomsman, and on the other two occasions in that of a
chosen friend. Whether the lawyer had himself completely escaped the
darts of the little god, no one could say, so completely had he
succeeded in veiling this portion of his life from observation; but,
whether he had or not, he made those who did submit to the passion the
theme of his untiring merriment.

Children usually regard these tardy inclinations of their parents with
surprise, if not with downright distaste. Some little surprise the
pretty Anna Updyke may have felt, when she was told by a venerable
great-aunt that her mother was about to be married; but of distaste
there was none. She had a strong regard for her new step-father, that
was to be; and thought it the most natural thing in the world to love.
Sooth to say, Anna Updyke had not been out two years—the American girls
are brought out so young!—without having sundry suitors. Manhattan is
the easiest place in the world for a pretty girl, with a good fortune,
to get offers. Pretty girls with good fortunes are usually in request
everywhere, but it requires the precise state of society that exists in
the “Great _Commercial_ Emporium,” to give a young woman the highest
chance in the old lottery. There, where one-half of the world came from
other worlds some half a dozen years since; where a good old Manhattan
name is regarded as upstart among a crowd that scarcely knows whence it
was itself derived, and whither it is destined, and where few have any
real position in society, and fewer still know what the true meaning of
the term is, money and beauty are the constant objects of pursuit. Anna
Updyke formed no exception. She had declined, in the gentlest manner
possible, no less than six direct offers, coming from those who were
determined to lose nothing by diffidence; had thrown cold water on more
than twice that number of little flames that were just beginning to
burn; and had thrown into the fire some fifteen or sixteen anonymous
effusions, in prose and verse, that came from adventurers who could
admire from a distance, at the opera and in the streets, but who had no
present means of getting any nearer than these indirect attempts at
communication. We say “thrown into the fire;” for Anna was too prudent,
and had too much self-respect, to retain such documents, coming, as they
did, from so many “Little Unknowns.” The anonymous effusions were
consequently burnt—with one exception. The exception was in the case of
a sonnet, in which her hair—and very beautiful it is—was the theme. From
some of the little free-masonry of the intercourse of the sexes, Anna
fancied these lines had been written by Jack Wilmeter, one of the most
constant of her visiters, as well as one of her admitted favourites.
Between Jack and Anna there had been divers passages of gallantry, which
had been very kindly viewed by McBrain and the mother. The parties
themselves did not understand their own feelings; for matters had not
gone far, when Mary Monson so strangely appeared on the stage, and drew
Jack off, on the trail of wonder and mystery, if not on that of real
passion. As Sarah Wilmeter was the most intimate friend of Anna Updyke,
it is not extraordinary that this singular fancy of the brother’s should
be the subject of conversation between the two young women, each of whom
probably felt more interest in his movements than any other persons on
earth. The dialogue we are about to relate took place in Anna’s own
room, the morning of the day which preceded that of the wedding, and
followed naturally enough, as the sequence of certain remarks which had
been made on the approaching event.

“If _my_ mother were living, and _must_ be married,” said Sarah
Wilmeter, “I should be very well content to have _such_ a man as Dr.
McBrain for a step-father. I have known him all my life, and he is, and
ever has been, so intimate with uncle Tom, that I almost think him a
near relation.”

“And I have known him as long as I can remember,” Anna steadily
rejoined, “and have not only a great respect, but a warm regard for him.
Should I ever marry myself, I do not believe I shall have one-half the
attachment for my father-in-law as I am sure I shall feel for my
step-father.”

“How do you know there will be any father-in-law in the case? I am sure
John has no parent.”

“John!” returned Anna, faintly—“What is John to me?”

“Thank you, my dear—he is something, at least, to _me_.”

“To be sure—a brother naturally is—but Jack is no brother of mine, you
will please to remember.”

Sarah cast a quick, inquiring look at her friend; but the eyes of Anna
were thrown downward on the carpet, while the bloom on her cheek spread
to her temples. Her friend saw that, in truth, Jack was no _brother of
hers_.

“What I mean is this”—continued Sarah, following a thread that ran
through her own mind, rather than anything that had been already
expressed—“Jack is making himself a very silly fellow just now.”

Anna now raised her eyes; her lip quivered a little, and the bloom
deserted even her cheek. Still, she made no reply. Women can listen
acutely at such moments; but it commonly exceeds their powers to speak.
The friends understood each other, as Sarah well knew, and she continued
her remarks precisely as if the other had answered them.

“Michael Millington brings strange accounts of Jack’s behaviour at
Biberry! He says that he seems to do nothing, think of nothing, talk of
nothing, but of the hardship of this Mary Monson’s case.”

“I’m sure it is cruel enough to awaken the pity of a rock,” said Anna
Updyke, in a low tone; “a woman, and she a lady, accused of such
terrible crimes—murder and arson!”

“What is arson, child?—and how do _you_ know anything about it?”

Again Anna coloured, her feelings being all sensitiveness on this
subject; which had caused her far more pain than she had experienced
from any other event in her brief life. It was, however, necessary to
answer.

“Arson is setting fire to an inhabited house,” she said, after a
moment’s reflection; “and I know it from having been told its
signification by Mr. Dunscomb.”

“Did uncle Tom say anything of this Mary Monson, and of Jack’s singular
behaviour?”

“He spoke of his client as a very extraordinary person, and of her
accomplishments, and readiness, and beauty. Altogether, he does not seem
to know what to make of her.”

“And what did he say about Jack?—You need have no reserve with me, Anna;
I am his sister.”

“I know that very well, dear Sarah—but Jack’s name was not mentioned, I
believe—certainly not at the particular time, and in the conversation to
which I now refer.”

“But at some _other_ time, my dear, and in some _other_ conversation.”

“He did once say something about your brother’s being very attentive to
the interests of the person he calls his Duke’s county client—nothing
more, I do assure you. It is the duty of young lawyers to be very
attentive to the interests of their clients, I should think.”

“Assuredly—and that most especially when the client is a young lady with
a pocket full of money. But Jack is above want, and can afford to act
right at all times and on all occasions. I wish he had never seen this
strange creature.”

Anna Updyke sat silent for some little time, playing with the hem of her
pocket-handkerchief. Then she said timidly, speaking as if she wished an
answer, even while she dreaded it—

“Does not Marie Moulin know something about her?”

“A great deal, if she would only tell it. But Marie, too, has gone over
to the enemy, since she has seen this siren. Not a word can I get out of
her, though I have written three letters, beyond the fact that she knows
_Mademoiselle_, and that she cannot believe her guilty.”

“The last, surely, is very important. If really innocent, how hard has
been the treatment she has received! It is not surprising that your
brother feels so deep an interest in her. He is very warm-hearted and
generous, Sarah; and it is just like him to devote his time and talents
to the service of the oppressed.”

It was Sarah’s turn to be silent and thoughtful. She made no answer, for
she well understood that an impulse very different from that mentioned
by her friend was, just then, influencing her brother’s conduct.

We have related this conversation as the briefest mode of making the
reader acquainted with the true state of things in and about the neat
dwelling of Mrs. Updyke in Eighth-street. Much, however, remains to be
told; as the morning of the very day which succeeded that on which the
foregoing dialogue was held, was the one named for the wedding of the
mistress of the house.

At the very early hour of six, the party met at the church door, one of
the most gothic structures in the new quarter of the town; and five
minutes sufficed to make the two one. Anna sobbed as she saw her mother
passing away from her, as it then appeared to her; and the bride herself
was a little overcome. As for McBrain, as his friend Dunscomb expressed
it, in a description given to a brother bachelor, who met him at dinner—

“He stood fire like a veteran! You’re not going to frighten a fellow who
has held forth the ring three times. You will remember that Ned has
previously killed two wives, besides all the other folk he has slain;
and I make no doubt the fellow’s confidence was a good deal increased by
the knowledge he possesses that none of us are immortal—as husbands and
wives, at least.”

But Tom Dunscomb’s pleasantries had no influence on his friend’s
happiness. Odd as it may appear to some, this connection was one of a
warm and very sincere attachment. Neither of the parties had reached the
period of life when nature begins to yield to the pressure of time; and
there was the reasonable prospect before them of their contributing
largely to each other’s future happiness. The bride was dressed with
great simplicity, but with a proper care; and she really justified the
passion that McBrain insisted, in his conversations with Dunscomb, that
he felt for her. Youthful, for her time of life, modest in demeanour and
aspect, still attractive in person, the ‘Widow Updyke’ became Mrs.
McBrain, with as charming an air of womanly feeling as might have been
exhibited by one of less than half her age. Covered with blushes, she
was handed by the bridegroom into his own carriage, which stood at the
church-door, and the two proceeded to Timbully.

As for Anna Updyke, she went to pass a week in the country with Sarah
Dunscomb; even a daughter being a little _de trop_, in a honey-moon.
Rattletrap was the singular name Tom Dunscomb had given to his
country-house. It was a small villa-like residence, on the banks of the
Hudson, and within the island of Manhattan. Concealed in a wood, it was
a famous place for a bachelor to hide his oddities in. Here Dunscomb
concentrated all his out-of-the-way purchases, including ploughs that
were never used, all sorts of farming utensils that were condemned to
the same idleness, and such contrivances in the arts of fishing and
shooting as struck his fancy; though the lawyer never handled a rod or
levelled a fowling-piece. But Tom Dunscomb, though he professed to
despise love, had fancies of his own. It gave him a certain degree of
pleasure to _seem_ to have these several tastes; and he threw away a
good deal of money in purchasing these characteristic ornaments for
Rattletrap. When Jack Wilmeter ventured, one day, to ask his uncle what
pleasure he could find in collecting so many costly and perfectly
useless articles, implements that had not the smallest apparent
connection with his ordinary pursuits and profession, he got the
following answer:—

“You are wrong, Jack, in supposing that these traps are useless. A
lawyer has occasion for a vast deal of knowledge that he will never get
out of his books. One should have the elements of all the sciences, and
of most of the arts, in his mind, to make a thoroughly good advocate;
for their application will become necessary on a thousand occasions,
when Blackstone and Kent can be of no service. No, no; I prize my
professions highly, and look upon Rattletrap as my Inn of Court.”

Jack Wilmeter had come over from Biberry to attend the wedding, and had
now accompanied the party into the country, as it was called; though the
place of Dunscomb was so near town that it was not difficult, when the
wind was at the southward, to hear the fire-bell on the City Hall. The
meeting between John Wilmeter and Anna Updyke had been fortunately a
little relieved by the peculiar circumstances in which the latter was
placed. The feeling she betrayed, the pallor of her cheek, and the
nervousness of her deportment, might all, naturally enough, be imputed
to the emotions of a daughter, who saw her own mother standing at the
altar, by the side of one who was not her natural father. Let this be as
it might, Anna had the advantage of the inferences which those around
her made on these facts. The young people met first in the church, where
there was no opportunity for any exchange of language or looks. Sarah
took her friend away with her alone, on the road to Rattletrap,
immediately after the ceremony, in order to allow Anna’s spirits and
manner to become composed, without being subjected to unpleasant
observation. Dunscomb and his nephew drove out in a light vehicle of the
latter’s; and Michael Millington appeared later at the villa, bringing
with him to dinner, Timms, who came on business connected with the
approaching trial.

There never had been any love-making, in the direct meaning of the term,
between John Wilmeter and Anna Updyke. They had known each other so long
and so intimately, that both regarded the feeling of kindness that each
knew subsisted, as a mere fraternal sort of affection. “Jack is Sarah’s
brother,” thought Anna, when she permitted herself to reason on the
subject at all; “and it is natural that I should have more friendship
for him than for any other young man.” “Anna is Sarah’s most intimate
friend,” thought Jack, “and that is the long and short of my attachment
for _her_. Take away Sarah, and Anna would be nothing to me; though she
is so pretty, and clever, and gentle, and lady-like. I must like those
Anna likes, or it might make us both unhappy.” This was the reasoning of
nineteen, and when Anna Updyke was just budding into young womanhood; at
a later day, habit had got to be so much in the ascendant, that neither
of the young people _thought_ much on the subject at all. The preference
was strong in each—so strong, indeed, as to hover over the confines of
passion, and quite near to its vortex; though the long accustomed
feeling prevented either from entering into its analysis. The
attachments that grow up with our daily associations, and get to be so
interwoven with our most familiar thoughts, seldom carry away those who
submit to them, in the whirlwind of passion; which are much more apt to
attend sudden and impulsive love. Cases do certainly occur in which the
parties have long known each other, and have lived on for years in a
dull appreciation of mutual merit—sometimes with prejudices and
alienation active between them; when suddenly all is changed, and the
scene that was lately so tranquil and tame becomes tumultuous and
glowing, and life assumes a new charm, as the profound emotions of
passion chase away its dulness; substituting hope, and fears, and lively
wishes, and soul-felt impressions in its stead. This is not usual in the
course of the most wayward of all our impulses; but it does occasionally
happen, brightening existence with a glow that might well be termed
divine, were the colours bestowed derived from a love of the Creator, in
lieu of that of one of his creatures. In these sudden awakenings of
dormant feelings, some chord of mutual sympathy, some deep-rooted
affinity is aroused, carrying away their possessors in a torrent of the
feelings. Occasionally, wherever the affinity is active, the impulse
natural and strongly sympathetic, these sudden and seemingly wayward
attachments are the most indelible, colouring the whole of the remainder
of life; but oftener do they take the character of mere impulse, rather
than that of deeper sentiment, and disappear, as they were first seen,
in some sudden glow of the horizon of the affections.

In this brief analysis of some of the workings of the heart, we may find
a clue to the actual frame of mind in which John Wilmeter returned from
Biberry, where he had now been, like a sentinel on post, for several
weeks, in vigilant watchfulness over the interests of Mary Monson.
During all that time, however, he had not once been admitted within the
legal limits of the prison; holding his brief, but rather numerous
conferences with his client, at the little grate in the massive door
that separated the gaol from the dwelling of the sheriff. Kind-hearted
Mrs. Gott would have admitted him to the gallery, whenever he chose to
ask that favour; but this act of courtesy had been forbidden by Mary
Monson herself. Timms she did receive, and she conferred with him in
private on more than one occasion, manifesting great earnestness in the
consultations that preceded the approaching trial. But John Wilmeter she
would receive only at the grate, like a nun in a well-regulated convent.
Even this coyness contributed to feed the fire that had been so suddenly
lighted in the young man’s heart, on which the strangeness of the
prisoner’s situation, her personal attractions, her manners, and all the
other known peculiarities of person, history, education and deportment,
had united to produce a most lively impression, however fleeting it was
to prove in the end.

Had there been any direct communications on the subject of the
attachment that had so long, so slowly, but so surely been taking root
in the hearts of John and Anna, any reciprocity in open confidence, this
unlooked-for impulse in a new direction could not have overtaken the
young man. He did not know how profound was the interest that Anna took
in him; nor, for that matter, was she aware of it herself, until Michael
Millington brought the unpleasant tidings of the manner in which his
friend seemed to be entranced with his uncle’s client at Biberry. Then,
indeed, Anna was made to feel that surest attendant of the liveliest
love, a pang of jealousy; and, for the first time in her young and
innocent life, she became aware of the real nature of her sentiments in
behalf of John Wilmeter. On the other hand, drawn aside from the
ordinary course of his affections by sudden, impulsive, and exciting
novelties, John was fast submitting to the influence of the charms of
the fair stranger, as has been more than once intimated in our opening
pages, as the newly-fallen snow melts under the rays of a noon-day sun.

Such, then, was the state of matters in this little circle, when the
wedding took place, and John Wilmeter joined the family party. Although
Dunscomb did all he could to make the dinner gay, Rattletrap had seldom
entertained a more silent company than that which sat down at its little
round table on this occasion. John thought of Biberry and Mary Monson;
Sarah’s imagination was quite busy in wondering why Michael Millington
stayed away so long; and Anna was on the point of bursting into tears
half-a-dozen times, under the depression produced by the joint events of
her mother’s marriage, and John Wilmeter’s obvious change of deportment
towards her.

“What the deuce has kept Michael Millington and that fellow Timms, from
joining us at dinner,” said the master of the house, as the fruit was
placed upon the table; and, closing one eye, he looked with the other
through the ruby rays of a glass of well-cooled Madeira—his favourite
wine. “Both promised to be punctual; yet here are they both sadly out of
time. They knew the dinner was to come off at four.”

“As is one, sir, so are both,” answered John. “You will remember they
were to come together?”

“True—and Millington is rather a punctual man—especially in visiting at
Rattletrap”—here Sarah blushed a little; but the engagement in her case
being announced, there was no occasion for any particular confusion. “We
shall have to take Michael with us into Duke’s next week, Miss Wilmeter;
the case being too grave to neglect bringing up all our forces.”

“Is Jack, too, to take a part in the trial, uncle Tom?” demanded the
niece, with a little interest in the answer.

“Jack, too—everybody, in short. When the life of a fine young woman is
concerned, it behooves her counsel to be active and diligent. I have
never before had a cause into which my feelings have so completely
entered—no, never.”

“Do not counsel always enter, heart and hand, into their clients’
interests, and make themselves, as it might be, as you gentlemen of the
bar sometimes term these things, a ‘part and parcel’ of their concerns?”

This question was put by Sarah, but it caused Anna to raise her eyes
from the fruit she was pretending to eat, and to listen intently to the
reply. Perhaps she fancied that the answer might explain the absorbed
manner in which John had engaged in the service of the accused.

“As far from it as possible, in many cases,” returned the uncle; “though
there certainly are others in which one engages with all his feelings.
But every day lessens my interest in the law, and all that belongs to
it.”

“Why should that be so, sir?—I have heard you called a devotee of the
profession.”

“That’s because I have no wife. Let a man live a bachelor, and ten to
one he gets some nickname or other. On the other hand, let him marry two
or three times, like Ned McBrain—beg your pardon, Nanny, for speaking
disrespectfully of your papa—but let a fellow just get his third wife,
and they tack ‘family’ to his appellation at once. He’s an excellent
_family_ lawyer, or a capital _family_ physician, or a supremely
pious—no, I don’t know that they’ve got so far as the parsons, for
_they_ are all _family_ fellows.”

“You have a spite against matrimony, uncle Tom.”

“Well, if I have, it stops with me, as a _family_ complaint. _You_ are
free from it, my dear; and I’m half inclined to think Jack will marry
before he is a year older. But, here are the tardies at last.”

Although the uncle made no allusion to the person his nephew was to
marry, everybody but himself thought of Mary Monson at once. Anna turned
pale as death; Sarah looked thoughtful, and even sad; and John became as
red as scarlet. But the entrance of Michael Millington and Timms caused
the conversation to turn on another subject, as a matter of course.

“We expected you to dinner, gentlemen,” Dunscomb drily remarked, as he
pushed the bottle to his guests.

“Business before eating is my maxim, ’Squire Dunscomb,” Timms replied.
“Mr. Millington and I have been very busy in the office, from the moment
Dr. McBrain and his lady——”

“Wife—say ‘wife,’ Timms, if you please. Or, ‘Mrs. McBrain,’ if you like
that better.”

“Well, sir, I used the word I did, out of compliment to the other ladies
present. They love to be honoured and signalized in our language, when
we speak of them, sir, I believe.”

“Poh! poh! Timms; take my advice, and let all these small matters alone.
It takes a life to master them, and one must begin from the cradle. When
all is ended, they are scarce worth the trouble they give. Speak good,
plain, direct, and manly English, I have always told you, and you’ll get
along well enough; but make no attempts to be fine. ‘Dr. McBrain and
_lady_,’ is next thing ‘to going through Hurlgate,’ or meeting a ‘lady
friend.’ You’ll never get the right sort of a wife, until you drop all
such absurdities.”

“I’ll tell you how it is, ’Squire: so far as law goes, or even morals,
and I don’t know but I may say general government politics, I look upon
you as the best adviser I can consult. But, when it comes to matrimony,
I can’t see how you should know any more about it than I do myself. I
_do_ intend to get married one of these days, which is more, I fancy,
than you ever had in view.”

“No; my great concern has been to escape matrimony; but a man may get a
very tolerable notion of the sex while manœuvring among them, with that
intention. I am not certain that he who has had two or three handsomely
managed escapes, doesn’t learn as much as he who has had two or three
wives—I mean of useful information. What do you think of all this,
Millington?”

“That I wish for no escapes, when my choice has been free and
fortunate.”

“And you, Jack?”

“Sir!” answered the nephew, starting, as if aroused from a brown study.
“Did you speak to me, uncle Tom?”

“_He_’ll not be of much use to us next week, Timms,” said the
counsellor, coolly, filling his own and his neighbour’s glass as he
spoke, with iced Madeira—“These capital cases demand the utmost
vigilance; more especially when popular prejudice sets in against them.”

“Should the jury find Mary Monson to be guilty, what would be the
sentence of the court?” demanded Sarah, smiling, even while she seemed
much interested—“I believe that is right, Mike—the court ‘sentences,’
and the jury ‘convicts.’ If there be any mistake, you must answer for
it.”

“I am afraid to speak of laws, or constitutions, in the presence of your
uncle, since the rebuke Jack and I got in that affair of the toast,”
returned Sarah’s betrothed, arching his eye-brows.

“By the way, Jack, did that dinner ever come off?” demanded the uncle,
suddenly; “I looked for your toasts in the journals, but do not remember
ever to have seen them.”

“You could not have seen any of mine, sir; for I went to Biberry that
very morning, and only left there last evening”—Anna’s countenance
resembled a lily, just as it begins to droop—“I believe, however, the
whole affair fell through, as no one seems to know, just now, who are
and who are not the friends of liberty. It is the people to-day; the
pope next day; some prince to-morrow; and, by the end of the week, we
may have a Massaniello or a Robespierre uppermost. The times seem sadly
out of joint, just now, and the world is fast getting to be
upside-down.”

“It’s all owing to this infernal Code, Timms, which is enough to
revolutionize human nature itself!” cried Dunscomb, with an animation
that produced a laugh in the young folk, (Anne excepted,) and a simper
in the person addressed. “Ever since this thing has come into operation
among us, I never know when a case is to be heard, the decision had, or
the principles that are to come uppermost. Well, we must try and get
some good out of it, if we can, in this capital case.”

“Which is drawing very near, ’Squire; and I have some facts to
communicate in that affair which it may be well to compare with the law,
without much more delay.”

“Let us finish this bottle—if the boys help us, it will not be much more
than a glass apiece.”

“I don’t think the ’Squire will ever be up_held_ at the polls by the
Temperance people,” said Timms, filling his glass to the brim; for, to
own the truth, it was seldom that he got such wine.

“As _you_ are expecting to be held _up_ by them, my fine fellow. I’ve
heard of your management, master Timms, and am told you aspire as high
as the State Senate. Well; there is room for better, but much worse men
have been sent there. Now, let us go to what I call the ‘Rattletrap
office.’”

CHAPTER XI.

“The strawberry grows underneath the nettle;
And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best,
Neighbour’d by fruit of baser quality.”
_King Henry V._

There stood a very pretty pavilion in one of the groves of Rattletrap,
overhanging the water, with the rock of the river-shore for its
foundation. It had two small apartments, in one of which Dunscomb had
caused a book-case, a table, a rocking-chair and a lounge to be placed.
The other was furnished more like an ordinary summer-house, and was at
all times accessible to the inmates of the family. The sanctum, or
office, was kept locked; and here its owner often brought his papers,
and passed whole days, during the warm months, when it is the usage to
be out of town, in preparing his cases. To this spot, then, the
counsellor now held his way, attended by Timms, having ordered a servant
to bring a light and some segars; smoking being one of the regular
occupations of the office. In a few minutes, each of the two men of the
law had a segar in his mouth, and was seated at a little window that
commanded a fine view of the Hudson, its fleet of sloops, steamers,
tow-boats and colliers, and its high, rocky western shore, which has
obtained the not inappropriate name of the Palisades.

The segars, the glass, and the pleasant scenery, teeming as was the last
with movement and life, appeared, for the moment, to drive from the
minds of the two men of the law the business on which they had met. It
was a proof of the effect of habit that a person like Dunscomb, who was
really a good man, and one who loved his fellow-creatures, could just
then forget that a human life was, in some measure, dependent on the
decisions of this very interview, and permit his thoughts to wander from
so important an interest. So it was, however; and the first topic that
arose in this consultation had no reference whatever to Mary Monson or
her approaching trial, though it soon led the colloquists round to her
situation, as it might be without their intending it.

“This is a charming retreat, ’Squire Dunscomb,” commenced Timms,
settling himself with some method in a very commodious arm-chair; “and
one that I should often frequent, did I own it.”

“I hope you will live to be master of one quite as pleasant, Timms, some
time or other. They tell me your practice, now, is one of the best in
Duke’s; some two or three thousand a year, I dare say, if the truth were
known.”

“It’s as good as anybody’s on our circuit, unless you count the bigwigs
from York. I won’t name the sum, even to as old a friend as yourself,
’Squire; for the man who lets the world peep into his purse, will soon
find it footing him up, like a sum in arithmetic. You’ve gentlemen in
town, however, who sometimes get more for a single case, than I can ’arn
in a twelvemonth.”

“Still, considering your beginning, and late appearance at the bar,
Timms, you are doing pretty well. Do you lead in many trials at the
circuit?”

“That depends pretty much on age, you know, ’Squire. Gen’rally older
lawyers are put into all my causes; but I have carried one or two
through, on my own shoulders, and that by main strength too.”

“It must have been by your facts, rather than by your law. The verdicts
turned altogether on testimony, did they not?”

“Pretty much—and _that_’s the sort of case _I_ like. A man can prepare
his evidence beforehand, and make some calculations where it will land
him; but, as for the law, I do not see that studying it as hard as I
will, makes me much the wiser. A case is no sooner settled one way, by a
judge in New York, than it is settled in another, in Pennsylvany or
Virginny.”

“And that, too, when courts were identical, and had a character! Now, we
have eight Supreme Courts, and they are beginning to settle the law in
eight different ways. Have you studied the Code pretty closely, Timms?”

“Not I, sir. They tell me things will come round under it in time, and I
try to be patient. There’s one thing about it that I _do_ like. It has
taken all the Latin out of the law, which is a great help to us poor
scholars.”

“It has that advantage, I confess; and before it is done, it will take
all the law out of the Latin. They tell me it was proposed to call the
old process of ‘_ne exeat_’ a writ of ‘no go.’”

“Well, to my mind, the last would be the best term of the two.”

“Ay, to _your_ mind, it might, Timms. How do you like the fee-bills, and
the new mode of obtaining your compensation?”

“Capital! The more they change them matters, the deeper we’ll dig into
’em, ’Squire! I never knew reform help the great body of the
community—all it favours is individdles.”

“There is more truth in that, Timms, than you are probably aware of
yourself. Reform, fully half the time, does no more than shift the
pack-saddle from one set of shoulders to another. Nor do I believe much
is gained by endeavouring to make law cheap. It were better for the
community that it should be dear; though cases do occur in which its
charges might amount to a denial of justice. It is to be regretted that
the world oftener decides under the influence of exceptions, rather than
under that of the rule. Besides, it is no easy matter to check the gains
of a thousand or two of hungry attorneys.”

“There you’re right, ’Squire, if you never hit the nail on the head
before! But the new scheme is working well for _us_, and, in one sense,
it may work well for the people. The compensation is the first thing
thought of now; and when that is the case, the client stops to think. It
isn’t every person that holds as large and as open a purse as our lady
at Biberry!”

“Ay, she continues to fee you, does she, Timms? Pray, how much has she
given you altogether?”

“Not enough to build a new wing to the Astor Library, nor to set up a
parson in a gothic temple; still, enough to engage me, heart and hand,
in her service. First and last, my receipts have been a thousand
dollars, besides money for the outlays.”

“Which have amounted to——”

“More than as much more. This is a matter of life and death, you know,
sir; and prices rise accordingly. All I have received has been handed to
me either in gold or in good current paper. The first troubled me a good
deal; for I was not certain some more pieces might not be recognized,
though they were all eagles and half-eagles.”

“Has any such recognition occurred?” demanded Dunscomb, with interest.

“To be frank with you, ’Squire Dunscomb, I sent the money to town at
once, and set it afloat in the great current in Wall Street, where it
could do neither good nor harm on the trial. It would have been very
green in me to pay out the precise coin among the people of Duke’s. No
one could say what might have been the consequences.”

“It is not very easy for me to foretell the consequences of the
substitutes which, it seems, you _did_ use. A fee to a counsel I can
understand; but what the deuce you have done, legally, with a thousand
dollars out-of-doors, exceeds my penetration I trust you have not been
attempting to purchase jurors, Timms?”

“Not I, sir. I know the penalties too well, to venture on such a
defence. Besides, it is too soon to attempt that game. Jurors may be
bought; sometimes _are_ bought, I have heard say”—here Timms screwed up
his face into a most significant mimicry of disapprobation—“but _I_ have
done nothing of the sort in the ‘State _vs_. Mary Monson.’ It is too
soon to operate, even should the testimony drive us to _that_, in the
long run.”

“I forbid all illegal measures, Timms. You know my rule of trying causes
is never to overstep the limits of the law.”

“Yes, sir; I understand your principle, which will answer, provided both
sides stick to it. But, let a man act as close to what is called honesty
as he please, what certainty has he that his adversary will observe the
same rule? This is the great difficulty I find in getting along in the
world, ’Squire; opposition upsets all a man’s best intentions. Now, in
politics, sir, there is no man in the country better disposed to uphold
respectable candidates and just principles than I am myself; but the
other side squeeze us up so tight, that before the election comes off,
I’m ready to vote for the devil, rather than get the worst of it.”

“Ay, that’s the wicked man’s excuse all over the world, Timms. In voting
for the gentleman you have just mentioned, you will remember you are
sustaining the enemy of your race, whatever may be his particular
relation to his party. But in this affair at Biberry, you will please to
remember it is not an election, nor is the devil a candidate. What
success have you had with the testimony?”

“There’s an abstract of it, sir; and a pretty mess it is! So far as I
can see, we shall have to rest entirely on the witnesses of the State;
for I can get nothing out of the accused.”

“Does she still insist on her silence, in respect of the past?”

“As close as if she had been born dumb. I have told her in the strongest
language that her life depends on her appearing before the jury with a
plain tale and a good character; but she will help me to neither. I
never had such a client before—”

“Open-handed, you mean, I suppose, Timms?”

“In that partic’lar, ’Squire Dunscomb, she is just what the profession
likes—liberal, and pays down. Of course, I am so much the more anxious
to do all I can in her case; but she will not let me serve her.”

“There must be some strong reason for all this reserve, Timms—Have you
questioned the Swiss maid, that my niece sent to her. We know _her_, and
it would seem that she knows Mary Monson. Here is so obvious a way of
coming at the past, I trust you have spoken to her?”

“She will not let me say a word to the maid. There they live together,
chatter with one another from morning to night, in French, that nobody
understands; but will see no one but me, and me only in public, as it
might be.”

“In public!—You have not asked for _private_ interviews, eh! Timms?
Remember your views upon the county, and the great danger there is of
the electors’ finding you out.”

“I well know, ’Squire Dunscomb, that your opinion of me is not very
flattering in some partic’lars; while in others I think you place me
pretty well up the ladder. As for old Duke’s, I believe I stand as well
in that county as any man in it, now the Revolutionary patriots are
nearly gone. So long as any of _them_ lasted, we modern fellows had no
chance; and the way in which relics were brought to light was wonderful!
If Washington only had an army one-tenth as strong as these patriots
make it out to be, he would have driven the British from the country
years sooner than it was actually done. Luckily, my grandfather _did_
serve a short tour of duty in that war; and my own father was a captain
of militia in 1814, lying out on Harlem Heights and Harlem Common, most
of the fall; when and where he caught the rheumatism. This was no bad
capital to start upon; and, though you treat it lightly, ’Squire, I’m a
favourite in the county—I _am_!”

“Nobody doubts it, Timms; or can doubt it, if he knew the history of
these matters. Let me see—I believe I first heard of you as a Temperance
Lecturer?”

“Excuse me; I began with the Common Schools, on which I lectured with
some success, one whole season. _Then_ came the Temperance cause, out of
which, I will own, not a little capital was made.”

“And do you stop there, Timms; or do you ride some other hobby into
power?”

“It’s my way, Mr. Dunscomb, to try all sorts of med’cines. Some folks
that wunt touch rhubarb will swallow salts; and all palates must be
satisfied. Free Sile and Emancipation Doctrines are coming greatly into
favour; but they are ticklish things, that cut like a two-edged sword,
and I do not fancy meddling with them. There are about as many opposed
to meddling with slavery in the free States, as there are in favour of
it. I wish I knew your sentiments, ’Squire Dunscomb, on this subject.
I’ve always found your doctrines touching the Constitution to be sound,
and such as would stand examination.”

“The constitutional part of the question is very simple, and presents no
difficulties whatever,” returned the counsellor, squinting through the
ruby of his glass, with an old-bachelor sort of delight, “except for
those who have special ends to obtain.”

“Has, or has not, Congress a legal right to enact laws preventing the
admission of slaves into California?”

“Congress has the legal right to govern any of its territories
despotically; of course, to admit or to receive what it may please
within their limits. The resident of a territory is not a citizen, and
has no _legal_ claim to be so considered. California, as a conquered
territory, may be thus governed by the laws of nations, unless the
treaty of cession places some restrictions on the authority of the
conqueror. A great deal of absurdity is afloat among those who should
know better, touching the powers of government in this country. You
yourself, are one of those fellows, Timms, who get things upside-down,
and fancy the Constitution is to be looked into for everything.”

“And is it not, ’Squire?—that is, in the way of theory—in practice, I
know it is a very different matter. Are we not to look into the
Constitution for all the powers of the government?”

“Of the _government_, perhaps, in one sense—but not for those of the
_nation_. Whence come the powers to make war and peace, to form treaties
and alliances, maintain armies and navies, coin money, &c.?”

“You’ll find them all in the Constitution, as I read it, sir.”

“There is just your mistake; and connected with it are most of the
errors that are floating about in our political world. The _country_
gets its legal right to do all these things from the laws of nations;
the Constitution merely saying _who_ shall be its agents in the
exercise of these powers. Thus _war_ is rendered legal by the custom
of nations; and the Constitution says Congress shall declare war. It
also says Congress shall pass all laws that become necessary to carry
out this power. It follows, Congress may pass any law that has a
legitimate aim to secure a conquest. Nor is this all the functionaries
of the government can do, on general principles, in the absence of any
special provisions by a direct law. The latter merely supersedes or
directs the power of the former. The Constitution guarantees nothing
to the territories. They are strictly subject, and may be governed
absolutely. The only protection of their people is in the sympathy and
habits of the people of the States. We give them political liberty,
not as of legal necessity, but as a boon to which they are entitled in
good-fellowship—or as the father provides for his children.”

“Then you think Congress has power to exclude slavery from California?”

“I can’t imagine a greater legal absurdity than to deny it. I see no use
in any legislation on the subject, as a matter of practice, since
California will shortly decide on this interest for itself; but, as a
right in theory, it strikes me to be madness to deny that the government
of the United States has full power over all its territories, both on
general principles and under the Constitution.”

“And in the Deestrict—you hold to the same power in the Deestrict?”

“Beyond a question. Congress can abolish domestic servitude or slavery
in the District of Columbia, whenever it shall see fit. The _right_ is
as clear as the sun at noon-day.”

“If these are your opinions, ’Squire, I’ll go for Free Sile and
Abolition in the Deestrict. They have a popular cry, and take
wonderfully well in Duke’s, and will build me up considerable. I like to
be right; but, most of all, I like to be strong.”

“If you adopt such a course, you will espouse trouble without any dower,
and that will be worse than McBrain’s three wives; and, what is more, in
the instance of the District, you will be guilty of an act of
oppression. You will remember that the possession of a legal power to do
a particular thing, does not infer a moral right to exercise it. As
respects your Free Soil, it may be well to put down a foot; and, so far
as votes legally used can be thrown, to prevent the further extension of
slavery. In this respect you are right enough, and will be sustained by
an overwhelming majority of the nation; but, when it comes to the
District, the question has several sides to it.”

“You said yourself, ’Squire, that Congress has all power to legislate
for the Deestrict?”

“No doubt it has—but the possession of a power does not necessarily
imply its use. We have power, as a nation, to make war on little
Portugal, and crush her; but it would be very wicked to do so. When a
member of Congress votes on any question that strictly applies to the
District, he should reason precisely as if his constituents all lived in
the District itself. You will understand, Timms, that liberty is closely
connected with practice, and is not a mere creature of phrases and
professions. What more intolerable tyranny could exist than to have a
man elected by New Yorkers legislating for the District on strictly New
York policy; or, if you will, on New York prejudices? If the people of
the District wish to get rid of the institution of domestic slavery,
there are ways for ascertaining the fact; and once assured of that,
Congress ought to give the required relief. But in framing such a law,
great care should be taken not to violate the comity of the Union. The
comity of nations is, in practice, a portion of their laws, and is
respected as such; how much more, then, ought we to respect this comity
in managing the relations between the several States of this Union!”

“Yes, the _sovereign_ States of the Union,” laying emphasis on the word
we have italicized.

“Pshaw—they are no more sovereign than you and I are sovereign.”

“Not sovereign, sir!” exclaimed Timms, actually jumping to his feet in
astonishment; “why this is against the National Faith—contrary to all
the theories.”

“Something so, I must confess; yet very good common sense. If there be
any sovereignty left in the States, it is the very minimum, and a thing
of show, rather than of substance. If you will look at the Constitution,
you will find that the equal representation of the States in the Senate
is the only right of sovereign character that is left to the members of
the Union separate and apart from their confederated communities.”

Timms rubbed his brows, and seemed to be in some mental trouble. The
doctrine of the “Sovereign States” is so very common, so familiar in
men’s mouths, that no one dreams of disputing it. Nevertheless, Dunscomb
had a great reputation in his set, as a constitutional lawyer; and the
“expounders” were very apt to steal his demonstrations, without giving
him credit for them. As before the nation, a school-boy would have
carried equal weight; but the direct, vigorous, common-sense arguments
that he brought to the discussions, as well as the originality of his
views, ever commanded the profound respect of the intelligent. Timms had
cut out for himself a path by which he intended to ascend in the scale
of society; and had industriously, if not very profoundly, considered
all the agitating questions of the day, in the relations they might be
supposed to bear to his especial interests. He had almost determined to
come out an abolitionist; for he saw that the prejudices of the hour
were daily inclining the electors of the northern States, more and more,
to oppose the further extension of domestic slavery, so far as surface
was concerned, which was in effect preparing the way for the final
destruction of the institution altogether. For Mr. Dunscomb, however,
this wily limb of the law, and skilful manager of men, had the most
profound respect; and he was very glad to draw him out still further on
a subject that was getting to be of such intense interest to himself, as
well as to the nation at large; for, out of all doubt, it is _the_
question, not only of the “Hour,” but for years to come.

“Well, sir, this surprises me more and more. The States not
sovereign!—Why, they _gave_ all the power it possesses to the Federal
Government!”

“Very true; and it is precisely for _that_ reason they are not
sovereign—that which is given away is no longer possessed. All the great
powers of sovereignty are directly bestowed on the Union, which alone
possesses them.”

“I will grant you that, ’Squire; but enough is retained to hang either
of us. The deuce is in it if that be not a sovereign power.”

“It does not follow from the instance cited. Send a squadron abroad, and
its officers can hang; but they are not sovereign, for the simple reason
that there is a recognised authority over them, which can increase,
sustain, or take away altogether, any such and all other power. Thus is
it with the States. By a particular clause, the Constitution can be
amended, including all the interests involved, with a single exception.
This is an instance in which the exception does strictly prove the rule.
All interests but the one excepted can be dealt with, by a species of
legislation that is higher than common. The Union can constitutionally
abolish domestic slavery altogether——”

“It can!—It would be the making of any political man’s fortune to be
able to show _that_!”

“Nothing is easier than to show it, in the way of theory, Timms; though
nothing would be harder to achieve, in the way of practice. The
Constitution can be legally amended so as to effect this end, provided
majorities in three-fourths of the States can be obtained; though every
living soul in the remaining States were opposed to it. That this is the
just construction of the great fundamental law, as it has been solemnly
adopted, no discreet man can doubt; though, on the other hand, no
discreet person would think of attempting such a measure, as the vote
necessary to success cannot be obtained. To talk of the sovereignty of a
community over this particular interest, for instance, when all the
authority on the subject can be taken from it in direct opposition to
the wishes of every man, woman and child it contains, is an absurdity.
The sovereignty, as respects slavery, is in the Union, and not in the
several States; and therein you can see the fallacy of contending that
Congress has nothing to do with the interest, when Congress can take the
initiative in altering this or any other clause of the great national
compact.”

“But, the Deestrict—the Deestrict, ’Squire Dunscomb—what can and ought
to be done there?”

“I believe in my soul, Timms, you have an aim on a seat in Congress! Why
stop short of the Presidency? Men as little likely as yourself to be
elevated to that high office have been placed in the executive chair;
and why not you as well as another?”

“It is an office ‘neither to be sought nor declined,’ said an eminent
statesman,” answered Timms, with a seriousness that amused his
companion; who saw, by his manner, that his old pupil held himself in
reserve for the accidents of political life. “But, sir, I am very
anxious to get right on the subject of the Deestrict”—Timms pronounced
this word as we have spelt it—“and I know that if any man can set me
right, it is yourself.”

“As respects the District, Mr. Timms, here is my faith. It is a
territory provided for in the Constitution for a national purpose, and
must be regarded as strictly national property, held exclusively for
objects that call all classes of citizens within its borders. Now, two
great principles, in my view, should control all legislation for this
little community. As I have said already, it would be tyranny to make
the notions and policy of New York or Vermont bear on the legislation of
the District; but, every member is bound to act strictly as a
representative of the people of the spot for whom the law is intended.
If I were in Congress, I would at any time, on a respectable
application, vote to refer the question of abolition to the people of
the District; if they said ay, I would say ay; if no, no. Beyond this I
would never go; nor do I think the man who wishes to push matters beyond
this, sufficiently respects the general principles of representative
government, or knows how to respect the spirit of the national compact.
On the supposition that the District ask relief from the institution of
slavery, great care should be observed in granting the necessary
legislation. Although the man in South Carolina has no more right to
insist that the District should maintain the ‘peculiar institution,’
because his particular State maintains it, than the Vermontese to insist
on carrying his Green Mountain notions into the District laws; yet has
the Carolinian rights in this territory that must ever he respected, let
the general policy adopted be what it may. Every American has an implied
right to visit the District on terms of equality. Now, there would be no
equality if a law were passed excluding the domestics from any portion
of the country. In the slave States, slaves exclusively perform the
functions of domestics; and sweeping abolition might very easily
introduce regulations that would be unjust towards the slave-holders. As
respects the northern man, the existence of slavery in or out of the
District is purely a speculative question; but it is not so with the
southern. This should never be forgotten; and I always feel disgust when
I hear a northern man swagger and make a parade of his morality on this
subject.”

“But the southern men swagger and make a parade of their chivalry,
’Squire, on the other hand!”

“Quite true; but, with them, there is a strong provocation. It is a
matter of life and death to the south; and the comity of which I spoke
requires great moderation on our part. As for the threats of
dissolution, of which we have had so many, like the cry of ‘wolf,’ they
have worn themselves out, and are treated with indifference.”

“The threat is still used, Mr. Dunscomb!”

“Beyond a doubt, Timms; but of one thing you may rest well assured—if
ever there be a separation between the free and the slave States of this
Union, the wedge will be driven home by northern hands; not by
indirection, but coolly, steadily, and with a thorough northern
determination to open the seam. There will be no fuss about chivalry,
but the thing will be done. I regard the measure as very unlikely to
happen, the Mississippi and its tributaries binding the States together,
to say nothing of ancestry, history, and moral ties, in a way to render
a rupture very difficult to effect; but, should it come at all, rely on
it, it will come directly from the north. I am sorry to say there is an
impatience of the threats and expedients that have so much disfigured
southern policy, that have set many at the north to ‘calculating the
value;’ and thousands may now be found where ten years since it would
not have been easy to meet with one, who deem separation better than
union with slavery. Still, the general feeling of the north is passive;
and I trust it will so continue.”

“Look at the laws for the recovery of fugitives, ’Squire, and the manner
in which they are administered.”

“Bad enough, I grant you, and full of a want of good faith. Go to the
bottom of this subject, Timms, or let it alone altogether. Some men will
tell you that slavery is a sin, and contrary to revealed religion. This
I hold to be quite untrue. At all events, if it be a sin, it is a sin to
give the son the rich inheritance of the father, instead of dividing it
among the poor; to eat a dinner while a hungrier man than yourself is
within sound of your voice; or, indeed, to do anything that is necessary
and agreeable, when the act may be still more necessary to, or confer
greater pleasure on, another. I believe in a Providence; and I make
little doubt that African slavery is an important feature in God’s Laws,
instead of being disobedience to them.—But enough of this, Timms—you
will court popularity, which is your Archimedean lever, and forget all I
tell you. Is Mary Monson in greater favour now than when I last saw
you?”

“The question is not easily answered, sir. She pays well, and money is a
powerful screw!”

“I do not inquire what you do with her money,” said Dunscomb, with the
evasion of a man who knew that it would not do to probe every weak spot
in morals, any more than it would do to inflame the diseases of the
body; “but, I own, I should like to know if our client has any
suspicions of its uses?”

Timms now cast a furtive glance behind him, and edged his chair nearer
to his companion, in a confidential way, as if he would trust _him_ with
a private opinion that he should keep religiously from all others.

“Not only does she know all about it,” he answered, with a knowing
inclination of the head, “but she enters into the affair, heart and
hand. To my great surprise, she has even made two or three suggestions
that were capital in their way! Capital! yes, sir; quite capital! If you
were not so stiff in your practice, ’Squire, I should delight to tell
you all about it. She’s sharp, you may depend on it! She’s wonderfully
sharp!”

“What!—That refined, lady-like, accomplished young woman!”

“She has an accomplishment or two you’ve never dreamed of, ’Squire. I’d
pit her ag’in the sharpest practitioner in Duke’s, and she’d come out
ahead. I thought I knew something of preparing a cause; but she has
given hints that will be worth more to me than all her fees!”

“You do not mean that she shows _experience_ in such practices?”

“Perhaps not. It seems more like mother-wit, I acknowledge; but it’s
mother-wit of the brightest sort. She understands them reporters by
instinct, as it might be. What is more, she backs all her suggestions
with gold, or current bank-notes.”

“And where can she get so much money?”

“That is more than I can tell you,” returned Timms, opening some papers
belonging to the case, and laying them a little formally before the
senior counsel, to invite his particular attention. “I’ve never thought
it advisable to ask the question.”

“Timms, you do not, _cannot_ think Mary Monson guilty?”

“I never go beyond the necessary facts of a case; and my opinion is of
no consequence whatever. We are employed to defend her; and the counsel
for the State are not about to get a verdict without some working for
it. That’s my conscience in these matters, ’Squire Dunscomb.”

Dunscomb asked no more questions. He turned gloomily to the papers,
shoved his glass aside, as if it gave him pleasure no longer, and began
to read. For near four hours he and Timms were earnestly engaged in
preparing a brief, and in otherwise getting the cause ready for trial.

CHAPTER XII.

_Hel._ O, that my prayers could such affection move!
_Her._ The more I hate, the more he follows me.
_Hel._ The more I love, the more he hateth me.
_Her._ His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_.

While Dunscomb and Timms were thus employed, the younger members of the
party very naturally sought modes of entertainment that were more in
conformity with their tastes and years. John Wilmeter had been invited
to be present at the consultation; but his old feelings were revived,
and he found a pleasure in being with Anna that induced him to disregard
the request. His sister and his friend were now betrothed, and they had
glided off along one of the pretty paths of the Rattletrap woods, in a
way that is so very common to persons in their situation. This left Jack
alone with Anna. The latter was timid, shy even; while the former was
thoughtful. Still, it was not easy to separate; and they, too, almost
unconsciously to themselves, were soon walking in that pleasant wood,
following one of its broadest and most frequented paths, however.

John, naturally enough, imputed the thoughtfulness of his companion to
the event of the morning; and he spoke kindly to her, and with a gentle
delicacy on the subject, that more than once compelled the warm-hearted
girl to struggle against her tears. After he had said enough on this
topic, the young man followed the current of his own thoughts, and spoke
of her he had left in the gaol of Biberry.

“Her case is most extraordinary,” continued John, “and it has excited
our liveliest sympathy. By ours, I mean the disinterested and
intelligent; for the vulgar prejudice is strong against her. Sarah, or
even yourself, Anna”—his companion looked more like herself, at this
implied compliment, than she had done before that day—“could not seem
less likely to be guilty of anything wrong, than this Miss Monson; yet
she stands indicted, and is to be tried for murder and arson! To me, it
seems monstrous to suspect such a person of crimes so heinous.”

Anna remained silent half a minute; for she had sufficient good sense to
know that appearances, unless connected with facts, ought to have no
great weight in forming an opinion of guilt or innocence. As Jack
evidently expected an answer, however, his companion made an effort to
speak.

“Does she say nothing of her friends, nor express a wish to have them
informed of her situation?” Anna succeeded in asking.

“Not a syllable. I could not speak to her on the subject, you know——”

“Why not?” demanded Anna, quickly.

“Why not?—You’ve no notion, Anna, of the kind of person this Miss Monson
is. You cannot talk to _her_ as you would to an every-day sort of young
lady; and, now she is in such distress, one is naturally more cautious
about saying anything to add to her sorrow.”

“Yes, I can understand _that_,” returned the generous-minded girl; “and
I think you are very right to remember all this, on every occasion.
Still, it is so natural for a female to lean on her friends, in every
great emergency, I cannot but wonder that your client——”

“Don’t call her my _client_, Anna, I beg of you. I hate the word as
applied to this lady. If I serve her in any degree, it is solely as a
friend. The same feeling prevails with Uncle Tom; for I understand he
has not received a cent of Miss Monson’s money, though she is liberal of
it to profuseness. Timms is actually getting rich on it.”

“Is it usual for you gentlemen of the bar to give their services
gratuitously to those who can pay for them?”

“As far from it as possible,” returned Jack, laughing. “We look to the
main chance like so many merchants or brokers, and seldom open our
mouths without shutting our hearts. But this is a case altogether out of
the common rule; and Mr. Dunscomb works for love, and not for money.”

Had Anna cared less for John Wilmeter, she might have said something
clever about the nephew’s being in the same category as the uncle; but
her feelings were too deeply interested to suffer her even to think what
would seem to her profane. After a moment’s pause, therefore, she
quietly said—

“I believe you have intimated that Mr. Timms is not quite so
disinterested?”

“Not he—Miss Monson has given him fees amounting to a thousand dollars,
by his own admission; and the fellow has had the conscience to take the
money. I have remonstrated about his fleecing a friendless woman in this
extravagant manner; but he laughs in my face for my pains. Timms has
good points, but honesty is not one of them. He says no woman can be
friendless who has a pretty face, and a pocket full of money.”

“You can hardly call a person unfriended who has so much money at
command, John,” Anna answered with timidity; but not without manifest
interest in the subject. “A thousand dollars sounds like a large sum to
me!”

“It is a good deal of money for a fee; though much more is sometimes
given. I dare say Miss Monson would have gladly given the same to uncle
Tom, if he would have taken it. Timms told me that she proposed offering
as much to him; but be persuaded her to wait until the trial was over.”

“And where does all this money come from, John?”

“I’m sure I do not know—I am not at all in Miss Monson’s confidence; on
her pecuniary affairs, at least. She _does_ honour me so much as to
consult me about her trial occasionally, it is true; but to me she has
never alluded to money, except to ask me to obtain change for large
notes. I do not see anything so very wonderful in a lady’s having money.
You, who are a sort of heiress yourself, ought to know that.”

“I do not get money in thousands, I can assure you, Jack; nor do I think
that I have it to get. I believe my whole income would not much more
than meet the expenditure of this strange woman——”

“Do not call her _woman_, Anna; it pains me to hear you speak of her in
such terms.”

“I beg her pardon and yours, Jack; but I meant no disrespect. We are all
women.”

“I know it is foolish to feel nervous on such a subject; but I cannot
help it. One connects so many ideas of vulgarity and crime, with
prisons, and indictments, and trials, that we are apt to suppose all who
are accused to belong to the commoner classes. Such is not the fact with
Miss Monson, I can assure you. Not even Sarah—nay, not even _yourself_,
my dear Anna, can pretend to more decided marks of refinement and
education. I do not know a more distinguished young woman——”

“There, Jack; now _you_ call her a woman yourself,” interrupted Anna, a
little archly; secretly delighted at the compliment she had just heard.

“_Young_ woman—anybody can say _that_, you know, without implying
anything common or vulgar; and _woman_ too, sometimes. I do not know how
it was; but I did not exactly like the word as you happened to use it. I
believe close and long watching is making me nervous; and I am not quite
as much myself as usual.”

Anna gave a very soft sigh, and that seemed to afford her relief, though
it was scarcely audible; then she continued the subject.

“How old is this extraordinary young lady?” she demanded, scarce
speaking loud enough to be heard.

“Old! How can I tell? She is very youthful in appearance; but, from the
circumstance of her having so much money at command, I take it for
granted she is of age. The law now gives to every woman the full command
of all her property, even though married, after she become of age.”

“Which I trust you find a very proper attention to the rights of our
sex!”

“I care very little about it; though Uncle Tom says it is of a piece
with all our late New York legislation.”

“Mr. Dunscomb, like most elderly persons, has little taste for change.”

“It is not that. He thinks that minds of an ordinary stamp are running
away with the conceit that they are on the road of progress; and that
most of our recent improvements, as they are called, are marked by
empiricism. This ‘tea-cup law,’ as he terms it, will set the women above
their husbands, and create two sets of interests where there ought to be
but one.”

“Yes; I am aware such is his opinion. He remarked, the day he brought
home my mother’s settlement for the signatures, that it was the most
ticklish part of his profession to prepare such papers. I remember one
of his observations, which struck me as being very just.”

“Which you mean to repeat to me, Anna?”

“Certainly, John, if you wish to hear it,” returned a gentle voice,
coming from one unaccustomed to refuse any of the reasonable requests of
this particular applicant. “The remark of Mr. Dunscomb was this:—He said
that most family misunderstandings grew out of money; and he thought it
unwise to set it up as a bone of contention between man and wife. Where
there was so close a union in all other matters, he thought there might
safely be a community of interests in this respect. He saw no sufficient
reason for altering the old law, which had the great merit of having
been tried.”

“He could hardly persuade rich fathers, and vigilant guardians, who have
the interests of heiresses to look after, to subscribe to all his
notions. They say that it is better to make a provision against
imprudence and misfortune, by settling a woman’s fortune on herself, in
a country where speculation tempts so many to their ruin.”

“I do not object to anything that may have an eye to an evil day,
provided it be done openly and honestly. But the income should be common
property, and like all that belongs to a family, should pass under the
control of its head.”

“It is very liberal in you to say and think this, Anna!”

“It is what every woman, who has a true woman’s heart, could wish, and
would do. For myself, I would marry no man whom I did not respect and
look up to in most things; and surely, if I gave him my heart and my
hand, I could wish to give him as much control over my means as
circumstances would at all allow. It might be prudent to provide against
misfortune by means of settlements; but this much done, I feel certain
it would afford me the greatest delight to commit all that I could to a
husband’s keeping.”

“Suppose that husband were a spendthrift, and wasted your estate?”

“He could waste but the income, were there a settlement; and I would
rather share the consequences of his imprudence with him, than sit aloof
in selfish enjoyment of that in which he did not partake.”

All this sounded very well in John’s ears; and he knew Anna Updyke too
well to suppose she did not fully mean all that she said. He wondered
what might be Mary Monson’s views on this subject.

“It is possible for the husband to partake of the wife’s wealth, even
when he does not command it,” the young man resumed, anxious to hear
what more Anna might have to say.

“What! as a dependant on her bounty? No woman who respects herself could
wish to see her husband so degraded; nay, no female, who has a true
woman’s heart, would ever consent to place the man to whom she has given
her hand, in so false a position. It is for the woman to be dependent on
the man, and not the man on the woman. I agree fully with Mr. Dunscomb,
when he says that ‘silken knots are too delicate to be rudely undone by
dollars.’ The family in which the head has to ask the wife for the money
that is to support it, must soon go wrong; as it is placing the weaker
vessel uppermost.”

“You would make a capital wife, Anna, if these are really your
opinions!”

Anna blushed, and almost repented of her generous warmth, but, being
perfectly sincere, she would not deny her sentiments.

“They ought to be the opinion of every wife,” she answered. “I could not
endure to see the man to whom I could wish on all occasions to look up,
soliciting the means on which we both subsisted. It would be my delight,
if I had money and he had none, to pour all into his lap, and then come
and ask of him as much as was necessary to my comfort.”

“If he had the soul of a man he would not wait to be asked, but would
endeavour to anticipate your smallest wants. I believe you are right,
and that happiness is best secured by confidence.”

“And in not reversing the laws of nature. Why do women vow to obey and
honour their husbands, if they are to retain them as dependants? I
declare, John Wilmeter, I should almost despise the man who could
consent to live with me on any terms but those in which nature, the
church, and reason, unite in telling us he ought to be the superior.”

“Well, Anna, this is good, old-fashioned, womanly sentiment; and I will
confess it delights me to hear it from _you_. I am the better pleased,
because, as Uncle Tom is always complaining, the weakness of the hour is
to place your sex above ours, and to reverse all the ancient rules in
this respect. Let a woman, now-a-days, run away from her husband, and
carry off the children; it is ten to one but some crotchety judge, who
thinks more of a character built up on gossip than of deferring properly
to that which the laws of God and the wisdom of man have decreed, refuse
to issue a writ of _habeas corpus_ to restore the issue to the parent.”

“I do not know, John,”—Anna hesitatingly rejoined, with a true woman’s
instinct—“it _would_ be so hard to rob a mother of her children!”

“It might be _hard_, but in such a case it would be _just_. I like that
word ‘rob,’ for it suits both parties. To me, it seems that the father
is the party robbed, when the wife not only steals away from her duty to
her husband, but deprives him of his children too.”

“It is wrong, and I have heard Mr. Dunscomb express great indignation at
what he called the ‘soft-soapiness’ of certain judges in cases of this
nature. Still, John, the world is apt to think a woman would not abandon
the most sacred of her duties without a cause. That feeling must be at
the bottom of what you call the decision, I believe, of these judges.”

“If there be such a cause as would justify a woman in deserting her
husband, and in stealing his children—for it is robbery after all, and
robbery of the worst sort, since it involves breaches of faith of the
most heinous nature—let that cause be shown, that justice may pronounce
between the parties. Besides, it is not true that women will not
sometimes forget their duties without sufficient cause. There are
capricious, and uncertain, and egotistical women, who follow their own
wayward inclinations, as well as selfish men. Some women love power
intensely, and are never satisfied with simply filling the place that
was intended for them by nature. It is hard for such to submit to their
husbands, or, indeed, to submit to any one.”

“It must be a strange female,” answered Anna, gently, “who cannot suffer
the control of the man of her choice, after quitting father and mother
for his sake.”

“Different women have different sources of pride, that make their
husbands very uncomfortable, even when they remain with them, and affect
to discharge their duties. One will pride herself on family, and take
every occasion to let her beloved partner know how much better she is
connected than he may happen to be; another is conceited, and fancies
herself cleverer than her lord and master, and would fain have him take
_her_ advice on all occasions; while a third may have the most money,
and delight in letting it be known that it is _her_ pocket that sustains
the household.”

“I did not know, John, that you thought so much of these things,” said
Anna, laughing; “though I think you are very right in your opinions.
Pray, which of the three evils that you have mentioned would you
conceive the greatest?”

“The second. I might stand family pride; though it is disgusting when it
is not ridiculous. Then the money might be got along with for its own
sake, provided the purse were in my hand; but I really do not think I
could live with a woman who fancied she knew the most.”

“But, in many things, women ought to, and _do_ know the most.”

“Oh! as to accomplishments, and small talk, and making preserves, and
dancing, and even poetry and religion—yes, I will throw in religion—I
could wish my wife to be clever—very clever—as clever as you are
yourself, Anna”—The fair listener coloured, though her eyes brightened
at this unintended but very direct compliment—“Yes, yes; all that would
do well enough. But when it came to the affairs of men, out-of-door
concerns, or politics, or law, or anything, indeed, that called for a
masculine education and understanding, I could not endure a woman who
fancied she knew the most.”

“I should think few wives would dream of troubling their husbands with
their opinions touching the law!”

“I don’t know that. You’ve no notion, Anna, to what a pass conceit can
carry a person;—you, who are so diffident and shy, and always so ready
to yield to those who ought to know best. I’ve met with women who, not
content with arraying their own charms in their own way, must fancy they
can teach us how to put on our clothes, tell us how to turn over a
wristband, or settle a shirt-collar!”

“This is not conceit, John, but good taste,” cried Anna, now laughing
outright, and appearing herself again. “It is merely female tact
teaching male awkwardness how to adorn itself. But, surely, no woman,
John, would bother herself about law, let her love of domination be as
strong as it might.”

“I’m not so sure of that. The only really complaisant thing I ever saw
about this Mary Monson”—a cloud again passed athwart the bright
countenance of Anna—“was a sort of strange predilection for law. Even
Timms has remarked it, and commented on it too.”

“The poor woman——”

“Do not use that word in speaking of her, if you please, Anna.”

“Well, lady—if you like that better——”

“No—say young lady—or Miss Monson—or Mary, which has the most agreeable
sound of all.”

“Yet, I think I have been told that none of you believe she has been
indicted by her real name.”

“Very true; but it makes no difference. Call her by that she has
assumed; but do not call her by an alias as wretched as that of ‘poor
woman.’”

“I meant no slight, I do assure you, John; for I feel almost as much
interest in Miss Monson as you do yourself. It is not surprising,
however, that one in her situation should feel an interest in the law.”

“It is not this sort of interest that I mean. It has seemed to me, once
or twice, that she dealt with the difficulties of her own case as if she
took a pleasure in meeting them—had a species of professional pleasure
in conquering them. Timms will not let me into his secrets, and I am
glad of it, for I fancy all of them would not bear the light; but he
tells me, honestly, that some of Miss Monson’s suggestions have been
quite admirable!”

“Perhaps she has been”—Anna checked herself with the consciousness that
what she was about to utter might appear to be, and what was of still
greater importance in her own eyes, might really be, ungenerous.

“Perhaps what? Finish the sentence, I beg of you.”

Anna shook her head.

“You intended to say that perhaps Miss Monson had some _experience_ in
the law, and that it gave her a certain satisfaction to contend with its
difficulties, in consequence of previous training. Am I not right?”

Anna would not answer in terms; but she gave a little nod in assent,
colouring scarlet.

“I knew it; and I will be frank enough to own that Timms thinks the same
thing. He has hinted as much as that; but the thing is impossible. You
have only to look at her, to see that such a thing is impossible.”

Anna Updyke thought that almost anything of the sort might be possible
to a female who was in the circumstances of the accused; this, however,
she would not say, lest it might wound John’s feelings, for which she
had all the tenderness of warm affection, and a woman’s self-denial. Had
the case been reversed, it is by no means probable that her impulsive
companion would have manifested the same forbearance on her account.
John would have contended for victory, and pressed his adversary with
all the arguments, facts and reasons he could muster, on such an
occasion. Not so with the gentler and more thoughtful young woman who
was now walking quietly, and a little sadly, at his side, instinct with
all the gentleness, self-denial, and warm-hearted affection of her sex.

“No, it is worse than an absurdity”—resumed John—“it is cruel, to
imagine anything of the sort of Miss ——By the way, Anna, do you know
that a very singular thing occurred last evening, before I drove over to
town, to be present at the wedding. You know Marie Mill?”

“Certainly—Marie Moulin, you should say.”

“Well, in answering one of her mistress’s questions, she said ‘oui,
_Madame_.’”

“What would you have had her say?—‘_non_, Madame?’”

“But why Madame at all?—Why not Mademoiselle?”

“It would be very vulgar to say ‘Yes, Miss,’ in English.”

“To be sure it would; but it is very different in French. One _can_
say—_must_ say Mademoiselle to a young unmarried female in that
language; though it be vulgar to say Miss, without the name, in English.
French, you know, Anna, is a much more precise language than our own;
and those who speak it, do not take the liberties with it that we take
with the English. _Madame_ always infers a married woman; unless,
indeed, it be with a woman a hundred years old.”

“No French woman is ever _that_, John—but it _is_ odd that Marie Moulin,
who so well understands the usages of her own little world, should have
said _Madame_ to a _démoiselle_. Have I not heard, nevertheless, that
Marie’s first salutation, when she was admitted to the gaol, was a
simple exclamation of ‘Mademoiselle?’”

“That is very true; for I heard it myself. What is more, that
exclamation was almost as remarkable as this; French servants always
adding the name under such circumstances, unless they are addressing
their own particular mistresses. Madame, and Mademoiselle, are
appropriated to those they serve; while it is Mademoiselle this, or
Madame that, to every one else.”

“And now she calls her _Mademoiselle_ or _Madame_! It only proves that
too much importance is not to be attached to Marie Moulin’s sayings and
doings.”

“I’m not so sure of that. Marie has been three years in this country, as
we all know. Now the young person that she left a _Mademoiselle_ might
very well have become a _Madame_ in that interval of time. When they
met, the domestic may have used the old and familiar term in her
surprise; or she may not have known of the lady’s marriage. Afterwards,
when there had been leisure for explanations between them, she gave her
mistress her proper appellation.”

“Does she habitually say Madame now, in speaking to this singular
being?”

“Habitually she is silent. Usually she remains in the cell, when any one
is with Miss—or Mrs. Monson, perhaps I ought to say”—John used this last
term with a strong expression of spite, which gave his companion a
suppressed but infinite delight—“but when any one is with the mistress,
call her what you will, the maid commonly remains in the dungeon or
cell. Owing to this, I have never been in the way of hearing the last
address the first, except on the two occasions named. I confess I begin
to think——”

“What, John?”

“Why, that our _Miss_ Monson may turn out to be a married woman, after
all.”

“She is very young, is she not? Almost too young to be a wife?”

“Not at all! What do you call too young? She is between twenty and
twenty-two or three. She may even be twenty-five or six.”

Anna sighed, though almost imperceptibly to herself; for these were ages
that well suited her companion, though the youngest exceeded her own by
a twelvemonth. Little more, however, was said on the subject at that
interview.

It is one of the singular effects of the passion of love, more
especially with the generous-minded and just of the female sex, that a
lively interest is often awakened in behalf of a successful or favoured
rival. Such was now the fact as regards the feeling that Anna Updyke
began to entertain towards Mary Monson. The critical condition of the
lady would of itself excite interest where it failed to produce
distrust; but, the circumstance that John Wilmeter saw so much to admire
in this unknown female, if he did not actually love her, gave her an
importance in the eyes of Anna that at once elevated her into an object
of the highest interest. She was seized with the liveliest desire to see
the accused, and began seriously to reflect on the possibility of
effecting such an end. No vulgar curiosity was mingled with this
new-born purpose; but, in addition to the motives that were connected
with John’s state of mind, there was a benevolent and truly feminine
wish, on the part of Anna, to be of service to one of her own sex, so
cruelly placed, and cut off, as it would seem, from all communication
with those who should be her natural protectors and advisers.

Anna Updyke gathered, through that which had fallen from Wilmeter and
his sister, that the intercourse between the former and his interesting
client had been of the most reserved character; therein showing a
discretion and self-respect on the part of the prisoner, that spoke well
for her education and delicacy. How such a woman came to be in the
extraordinary position in which she was placed, was of course as much a
mystery to her as to all others; though, like every one else who knew
aught of the case, she indulged in conjectures of her own on the
subject. Being of a particularly natural and frank disposition, without
a particle of any ungenerous or detracting quality, and filled with
woman’s kindness in her very soul, this noble-minded young woman began
now to feel far more than an idle curiosity in behalf of her who had so
lately caused herself so much pain, not to say bitterness of anguish.
All was forgotten in pity for the miserable condition of the unconscious
offender; unconscious, for Anna was sufficiently clear-sighted and just
to see and to admit that, if John had been led astray by the charms and
sufferings of this stranger, the fact could not rightfully be imputed to
the last, as a fault. Every statement of John’s went to confirm this act
of justice to the stranger.

Then, the unaccountable silence of Marie Moulin doubled the mystery and
greatly increased the interest of the whole affair. This woman had gone
to Biberry pledged to communicate to Sarah all she knew or might learn,
touching the accused; and well did Anna know that her friend would make
her the repository of her own information, on this as well as on other
subjects; but a most unaccountable silence governed the course of the
domestic, as well as that of her strange mistress. It really seemed
that, in passing the principal door of the gaol, Marie Moulin had buried
herself in a convent, where all communication with the outer world was
forbidden. Three several letters from Sarah had John handed in at the
grate, certain that they must have reached the hands of the Swiss; but
no answer had been received. All attempts to speak to Marie were
quietly, but most ingeniously evaded, by the tact and readiness of the
prisoner; and the hope of obtaining information from that source was
abandoned by Sarah, who was too proud to solicit a servant for that
which the last was reluctant to communicate. With Anna the feeling was
different. She had no curiosity on the subject, separated from a most
generous and womanly concern in the prisoner’s forlorn state; and she
thought far less of Marie Moulin’s disrespect and forgetfulness of her
word, than of Mary Monson’s desolation and approaching trial.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII.

Was it for this we sent out
Liberty’s cry from our shore?
Was it for this that her shout
Thrill’d to the world’s very core?
_Moore’s National Airs._

The third day after the interviews just related, the whole party left
Rattletrap for Timbully, where their arrival was expected by the bride
and bridegroom, if such terms can be applied to a woman of forty-five
and a man of sixty. The Duke’s county circuit and oyer and terminer were
about to be held, and it was believed that Mary Monson was to be tried.
By this time so lively an interest prevailed among the ladies of the
McBrain and Dunscomb connections in behalf of the accused, that they had
all come to a determination to be present in court. Curiosity was not so
much at the bottom of this movement as womanly kindness and sympathy.
There seemed a bitterness of misery in the condition of Mary Monson,
that appealed directly to the heart; and that silent but eloquent appeal
was answered, as has just been stated, generously and with warmth by the
whole party from town. With Anna Updyke the feeling went materially
farther than with any of her friends. Strange as it may seem, her
interest in John increased that which she felt for his mysterious
client; and her feelings became enlisted in the stranger’s behalf, so
much the more, in consequence of this triangular sort of passion.

The morning of the day on which the party crossed the country from
Rattletrap to Timbully, Timms arrived at the latter place. He was
expected, and was soon after closeted with the senior counsel in the
pending and most important cause.

“Does the District Attorney intend to move for the trial?” demanded
Dunscomb, the instant the two were alone.

“He tells me he does, sir; and that early in the week, too. It is my
opinion we should go for postponement. We are hardly ready, while the
State is too much so.”

“I do not comprehend this, Timms. The law-officers of the public would
hardly undertake to run down a victim, and she a solitary and
unprotected woman!”

“That’s not it. The law-officers of the State don’t care a straw whether
Mary Monson is found guilty or is acquitted. That is, they care nothing
about it _at present_. The case may be different when they are warmed up
by a trial and opposition. Our danger comes from Jesse Davis, who is a
nephew of Peter Goodwin, his next of kin and heir, and who thinks a
great deal of money was hoarded by the old people; much more than the
stocking ever held or could hold, and who has taken it into his wise
head that the prisoner has laid hands on this treasure, and is carrying
on her defence with his cash. This has roused him completely, and he has
retained two of the sharpest counsel on our circuit, who are beginning
to work as if the bargain has been clenched in the hard metal. Williams
has given me a great deal of trouble already. I know him; he will not
work without pay; but pay him liberally, and he is up to anything.”

“Ay, you are diamond cut diamond, Timms—outsiders in the profession. You
understand that I work only in the open court, and will know nothing of
this out-door management.”

“We do not mean to let you know anything about it, ’Squire,” returned
Timms, drily. “Each man to his own manner of getting along. I ought to
tell you, however, it has got out that you are working without a fee,
while I am paid in the most liberal manner.”

“I am sorry for that. There is no great harm in the thing itself; but I
dislike the parade of seeming to be unusually generous. I do not
remember to have spoken of this circumstance where it would be likely to
be repeated; and I beg you will be equally discreet.”

“The fact has not come from me, I can assure you, sir. It puts me in too
awkward a position to delight me; and I make it a point to say as little
as possible of what is disagreeable. I do not relish the idea of being
thought selfish by my future constituents. Giniros’ty is my cue before
_them_. But they say you work for love, sir.”

“Love!” answered Dunscomb, quickly—“Love of what?—or of _whom_?”

“Of your client—that’s the story now. It is said that you admire Miss
Monson; that she is young, and handsome, and rich; and she is to marry
you, if acquitted. If found guilty and hanged, the bargain is off, of
course. You may look displeased, ’Squire; but I give you my word such is
the rumour.”

Dunscomb was extremely vexed; but he was too proud to make any answer.
He knew that he had done that which, among the mass of this nation, is a
very capital mistake, in not placing before its observation an
intelligible _motive_—one on the level of the popular mind—to prevent
these freaks of the fancy dealing with his affairs. It is true, that the
natural supposition would be that he worked for his fee, as did Timms,
had not the contrary got out; when he became subject to all the crude
conjectures of those who ever look for the worst motives for everything.
Had he been what is termed a favourite public servant, the very reverse
would have been the case, and there was little that he might not have
done with impunity; but, having no such claims on the minds of the mass,
he came under the common law which somewhat distinguishes their control.
Too much disgusted, however, to continue this branch of the subject, the
worthy counsellor at once adverted to another.

“Have you looked over the list of the jurors, Timms?” he demanded,
continuing to sort his papers.

“That I never fail to do, sir, the first thing. It’s my brief, you know,
’Squire Dunscomb. All _safe_ York law, now-a-days, is to be found in
that learned body; especially in criminal cases. There is but one sort
of suit in which the jury counts for nothing, and might as well be
dispensed with.”

“Which is——?”

“An ejectment cause. It’s not one time in ten that they understand
anything about the matter, or care anything about it; and the court
usually leads in those actions—but our Duke’s county juries are
beginning to understand their powers in all others.”

“What do you make of the list?”

“It’s what I call reasonable, ’Squire. There are two men on it who would
not hang Cain, were he indicted for the murder of Abel.”

“Quakers, of course?”

“Not they. The time was when we were reduced to the ‘thee’s’ and the
‘thou’s’ for this sort of support; but philanthropy is abroad, sir,
covering the land. Talk of the schoolmaster!—Why, ’Squire, a new
philanthropical idee will go two feet to the schoolmaster’s one.
Pro-nigger, anti-gallows, eternal peace, woman’s rights, the people’s
power, and anything of that sort, sweeps like a tornado through the
land. Get a juror who has just come into the anti-gallows notion, and I
would defy the State to hang a body-snatcher who lived by murdering his
subjects.”

“And you count on two of these partisans for our case?”

“Lord no, sir. The District Attorney himself knows them both; and
Davis’s counsel have been studying that list for the last week, as if it
were Blackstone in the hands of a new beginner. I can tell you, ’Squire
Dunscomb, that the jury-list is a most important part of a case out here
in the country!”

“I am much afraid it is, Timms; though I never examined one in my life.”

“I can believe you, sir, from what I have seen of your practice. But
principles and facts won’t answer in an age of the world when men are
ruled by talk and prejudice. There is not a case of any magnitude tried,
now-a-days, without paying proper attention to the jury. We are pretty
well off, on the whole; and I am tolerably sanguine of a disagreement,
though I fear an acquittal is quite out of the question.”

“You rely on one or two particularly intelligent and disinterested men,
ha! Timms?”

“I rely on five or six particularly ignorant and heated partisans, on
the contrary;—men who have been reading about the abolishing of capital
punishments, and who in gin’ral, because they’ve got hold of some
notions that have been worn out as far back as the times of the Cæsars,
fancy themselves philosophers and the children of progress. The country
is getting to be full of what I call donkeys and racers; the donkey is
obstinate, and backs going up hill; while the racers will not only break
their own necks, but those of their riders too, unless they hold up long
before they reach their goal.”

“I did not know, Timms, that you think so much on such subjects. To me,
you have always appeared to be a purely working-man—no theorist.”

“It is precisely because I am a man of action, and live in the world,
and see things as they were meant to be seen, that I laugh at your
theorists. Why, sir, this country, in my judgment, for the time being,
could much better get along without preaching, than without hanging. I
don’t say always; for there is no telling yet what is to be the upshot
of preaching. It may turn out as many think; in which case human natur’
will undergo a change that will pretty much destroy our business. Such a
state of things would be worse for the bar, ’Squire, than the Code, or
the last fee-bill.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Timms; there are few things worse than this
infernal Code.”

“Well, to my taste, the fee-bill is the most disagreeable of the two. A
man can stand any sort of law, and any sort of practice; but he can’t
stand any sort of pay. I hear the circuit is to be held by one of the
new judges—a people’s man, altogether.”

“You mean by that, I suppose, Timms, one of those who did not hold
office under the old system? It is said that the new broom sweeps
clean—it is fortunate ours has not brushed away all the old incumbents.”

“No, that is to come; and come it will, as sure as the sun rises. We
must have rotation on the bench, as well as in all other matters. You
see, ’Squire, rotation is a sort of _claim_ with many men, who have no
other. They fancy the earth to have been created on a sort of Jim Crow
principle, because it turns round.”

“That is it; and it explains the clamour that is made about it. But to
return to this jury, Timms; on the whole, you like it, I should infer?”

“Not too well, by any means. There are six or eight names on the list
that I’m always glad to see; for they belong to men who are friendly to
me——”

“Good God, man—it cannot be possible that you count on such assistants
in a trial for a human life!”

“Not count on it, ’Squire Dunscomb! I count on it from an action of
trespass on the case, to this indictment—count on it, quite as much, and
a good deal more rationally, than you count on your law and evidence.
Didn’t I carry that heavy case _for_ the railroad company on that
principle altogether? The law was lead against us they say, and the
facts were against us; but the verdict was in our favour. That’s what I
call practising law!”

“Yes; I remember to have heard of that case, and it was always a wonder
with the bar how you got along with it. Had it been a verdict _against_
a corporation, no one would have thought anything of it—but to carry a
bad case _for_ a company, now-a-days, is almost an unheard-of thing.”

“You are quite right, sir. I can beat any railroad in the State, with a
jury of a neighbourhood, let the question or facts be what they may;
but, in this instance, I beat the neighbourhood, and all through the
faith the jury had in _me_. It’s a blessed institution, this of the
jury, ’Squire Dunscomb!—no doubt it makes us the great, glorious, and
free people that we are!”

“If the bench continue to lose its influence as it has done, the next
twenty years will see it a curse of the worst character. It is now
little more than a popular cabal in all cases in the least calculated to
awaken popular feeling or prejudice.”

“There’s the rub in this capital case of ours. Mary Monson has neglected
popularity altogether; and she is likely to suffer for it.”

“Popularity!” exclaimed Dunscomb, in a tone of horror—“and this in a
matter of life and death! What are we coming to in the law, as well as
in politics! No public man is to be found of sufficient moral courage,
or intellectual force, to stem this torrent; which is sweeping away
everything before it. But in what has our client failed, Timms?”

“In almost everything connected with this one great point; and what
vexes me is her wonderful power of pleasing, which is completely thrown
away. ’Squire Dunscomb, I would carry this county for Free Sile or ag’in
it, with that lady to back me, as a wife.”

“What, if she should refuse to resort to popular airs and graces?”

“I mean, of course, she aiding and abetting. I would give the world,
now, could we get the judge into her company for half an hour. It would
make a friend of him; and it is still something to have a friend in the
judge in a criminal case.”

“You may well say ‘_still_,’ Timms; how much longer it will be so, is
another matter. Under the old system it would be hopeless to expect so
much complaisance in a judge; but I will not take it on myself to say
what a people’s judge will not do.”

“If I thought the thing could be managed, by George I would attempt it!
The grand jurors visit the gaols, and why not the judges? What do you
think, sir, of an anonymous letter hinting to his honour that a visit to
Mrs. Gott—who is an excellent creature in her way—might serve the ends
of justice!”

“As I think of all underhanded movements and trickery. No, no, Timms;
you had better let our client remain unpopular, than undertake anything
of this nature.”

“Perhaps you are right, sir. Unpopular she is, and will be, as long as
she pursues her present course; whereas she might carry all classes of
men with her. For my part, ’Squire Dunscomb, I’ve found this young
lady”—here Timms paused, hemmed, and concluded by looking a little
foolish—a character of countenance by no means common with one of his
shrewdness and sagacity.

“So, so, Master Timms,” said the senior counsel, regarding the junior
with a sort of sneer—“you are as great a fool as my nephew, Jack
Wilmeter; and have fallen in love with a pretty face, in spite of the
grand jury and the gallows!”

Timms gave a gulp, seemed to catch his breath, and regained enough of
his self-command to be able to answer.

“I’m in hopes that Mr. Wilmeter will think better of this, sir,” he
said, “and turn his views to a quarter where they will be particularly
acceptable. It would hardly do for a young gentleman of his expectations
to take a wife out of a gaol.”

“Enough of this foolery, Timms, and come to the point. Your remarks
about popularity may have some sense in them, if matters have been
pushed too far in a contrary direction. Of what do you complain?”

“In the first place, she will not show herself at the windows; and that
offends a great many persons, who think it proud and aristocratic in her
not to act as other criminals act. Then, she has made a capital mistake
with a leading reporter, who sent in his name, and desired an interview;
which she declined granting. She will hear from that man, depend on it,
sir.”

“I shall look to him, then—for, though this class of men is fast putting
the law under foot, it may be made to turn on them, by one who
understands it, and has the courage to use it. I shall not allow the
rights of Mary Monson to be invaded by such a fungus of letters.”

“Fungus of letters! Ahem—if it was anybody but yourself, ’Squire, that I
was talking to, I might remind you that these funguses flourish on the
dunghill of the common mind.”

“No matter; the law _can_ be made to touch them, when in good hands; and
mine have now some experience. Has this reporter resented the refusal of
the prisoner to see him?”

“He is squinting that way, and has got himself sent to Biberry by two or
three journals, to report the progress of the trial. I know the man; he
is vindictive, impudent, and always uses his craft to indulge his
resentments.”

“Ay, many of those gentry are up to that. Is it not surprising, Timms,
that in a country for ever boasting of its freedom, men do not see how
much abuse there is of a very important interest, in suffering these
irresponsible tyrants to ride rough-shod over the community?”

“Lord, ’Squire, it is not with the reporters only, that abuses are to be
found. I was present, the other day, at a conversation between a judge
and a great town lawyer, when the last deplored the state of the juries!
‘What would you have?’ says his Honour; ‘angels sent down from Heaven to
fill the jury-boxes?’ Waal”—Timms never could get over the defects of
his early associations—“Waal, ’Squire,” he continued, with a shrewd leer
of the eyes, “I thought a few saints might be squeezed in between the
lowest angel in Heaven and the average of our Duke’s county pannels.
This is a great fashion of talking that is growing up among us to meet
an objection by crying out, ‘men are not angels;’ as if some men are not
better than others.”

“The institutions clearly maintain that some men are better than others,
Timms!”

“That’s news to me, I will own. I thought the institutions declared all
men alike—that is, all white men; I know that the niggers are
non-suited.”

“They are unsuited, at least, according to the spirit of the
institutions. If all men are supposed to be alike, what use is there in
the elections? Why not draw lots for office, as we draw lots for juries?
Choice infers inequalities, or the practice is an absurdity. But here
comes McBrain, with a face so full of meaning, he must have something to
tell us.”

Sure enough, the bridegroom-physician came into the room at that
instant; and without circumlocution he entered at once on the topic that
was then uppermost in his mind. It was the custom of the neighbourhood
to profit by the visits of this able practitioner to his country place,
by calling on him for advice in such difficult cases as existed anywhere
in the vicinity of Timbully. Even his recent marriage did not entirely
protect him from these appeals, which brought so little pecuniary
advantage as to be gratuitous; and he had passed much of the last two
days in making professional visits in a circle around his residence that
included Biberry. Such were the means by which he had obtained the
information that now escaped from him, as it might be, involuntarily.

“I have never known so excited a state of the public mind,” he cried,
“as now exists all around Biberry, on the subject of your client, Tom,
and this approaching trial. Go where I may, see whom I will, let the
disease be as serious as possible, all, patients, parents, friends and
nurses, commence business with asking me what I think of Mary Monson,
and of her guilt or innocence.”

“That’s because you are married, Ned,”—Dunscomb coolly answered—“Now, no
one thinks of putting such a question to _me_. I see lots of people, as
well as yourself; but not a soul has asked me whether I thought Mary
Monson guilty or innocent.”

“Poh! You are her counsel, and no one could take the liberty. I dare say
that even Mr. Timms, here, your associate, has never compared notes with
you on that particular point.”

Timms was clearly not quite himself; and he did not look as shrewd as he
once would have done at such a remark. He kept in the back-ground, and
was content to listen.

“I do suppose association with a brother in the law, and in a case of
life and death, is something like matrimony, Dr. McBrain. A good deal
must be taken for granted, and not a little on credit. As a man is bound
to believe his wife the most excellent, virtuous, most amiable and best
creature on earth, so is a counsel bound to consider his client
innocent. The relation, in each case, is confidential, however; and I
shall not pry into your secrets, any more than I shall betray one of my
own.”

“I asked for none, and wish none; but one may express surprise at the
intense degree of excitement that prevails all through Duke’s, and even
in the adjacent counties.”

“The murder of a man and his wife in cold blood, accompanied by robbery
and arson, are enough to arouse the community. In this particular case
the feeling of interest is increased, I make no doubt, by the
extraordinary character, as well as by the singular mystery, of the
party accused. I have had many clients, Ned, but never one like this
before; as you have had many wives, but no one so remarkable as the
present Mrs. McBrain.”

“Your time will come yet, Master Dunscomb—recollect I have always
prognosticated that.”

“You forget that I am approaching sixty. A man’s heart is as hard and
dry as a bill in chancery at that age—but, I beg your pardon, Ned; _you_
are an exception.”

“I certainly believe that a man can have affections, even at
four-score—and what is more, I believe that when the reason and judgment
come in aid of the passions——”

Dunscomb laughed outright; nay, he even gave a little shout, his
bachelor habits having rendered him more exuberant in manner than might
otherwise have been the case.

“Passions!” he cried, rubbing his hands, and looking round for Timms,
that he might have some one to share in what he regarded as a capital
joke. “The passions of a fellow of three-score! Ned, you do not flatter
yourself that you have been marrying the Widow Updyke in consequence of
any _passion_ you feel for her?”

“I do, indeed,” returned the Doctor, with spirit; mustering resolution
to carry the war into the enemy’s country—“Let me tell you, Tom
Dunscomb, that a warm-hearted fellow can love a woman dearly, long after
the age you have mentioned—that is, provided he has not let all feeling
die within him, for want of watering a plant that is the most precious
boon of a most gracious Providence.”

“Ay, if he begin at twenty, and keep even pace with his beloved down the
descent of time.”

“That may all be true; but, if it has been his misfortune to lose one
partner, a second——”

“And a third, Ned, a third—why not foot the bill at once, as they say in
the market?”

“Well, a third, too, if circumstances make that demand on him. Anything
is better than leaving the affections to stagnate for want of
cultivation.”

“Adam in Paradise, by Jove!—But, I’ll not reproach you again, since you
have got so gentle and kind a creature, and one who is twenty years your
junior——”

“Only eighteen, if you please, Mr. Dunscomb.”

“Now, I should be glad to know whether you have added those two years to
the bride’s age, or subtracted them from that of the bridegroom! I
suppose the last, however, as a matter of course.”

“I do not well see how you can suppose any such thing, knowing my age as
well as you do. Mrs. McBrain is forty-two, an age when a woman can be as
loveable as at nineteen—more so, if her admirer happens to be a man of
sense.”

“And sixty-two. Well, Ned, you are incorrigible; and, for the sake of
the excellent woman who has consented to have you, I only hope this will
be the last exhibition of your weakness. So they talk a good deal of
Mary Monson, up and down the country, do they?”

“Of little else, I can assure you. I am sorry to say, the tide seems to
be setting strongly against her.”

“That is bad news; as few jurors, now-a-days, are superior to such an
influence. What is said, in particular, Dr. McBrain?—In the way of
facts, I mean?”

“One report is that the accused is full of money; and that a good deal
of that which she is scattering broad-cast has been seen by different
persons, at different times, in the possession of the deceased Mrs.
Goodwin.”

“Let them retail that lie, far and near, ’Squire, and we’ll turn it to
good account,” said Timms, taking out his note-book, and writing down
what he had just heard. “I have reason to think that every dollar Miss
Monson has uttered since her confinement——”

“Imprisonment would be a better word, Mr. Timms,” interrupted the
Doctor.

“I see no great difference,” replied the literal attorney—“but
imprisonment, if you prefer it. I have reason to think that every dollar
Mary Monson has put in circulation since she entered the gaol at
Biberry, has come from either young Mr. Wilmeter or myself, in exchange
for hundred-dollar notes—and, in one instance, for a note of five
hundred dollars. She is well off, I can tell you, gentlemen; and if she
is to be executed, her executor will have something to do when all is
over.”

“You do not intend to allow her to be hanged, Timms?” demanded McBrain,
aghast.

“Not if I can help it, Doctor; and this lie about the money, when
clearly disproved, will be of capital service to her. Let them circulate
it as much as they please, the rebound will be in proportion to the
blow. The more they circulate that foolish rumour, the better it will be
for our client when we come to trial.”

“I suppose you are right, Timms; though I could prefer plainer dealings.
A cause in which you are employed, however, must have more or less of
management.”

“Which is better, ’Squire, than your law and evidence. But what else has
Dr. McBrain to tell us?”

“I hear that Peter Goodwin’s nephew, who it seems had some expectations
from the old people, is particularly savage, and leaves no stone
unturned to get up a popular feeling against the accused.”

“He had best beware,” said Dunscomb, his usually colourless but handsome
face flushing as he spoke. “I shall not trifle in a matter of this
sort—ha! Timms?”

“Lord bless you, ’Squire, Duke’s county folks wouldn’t understand a
denial of the privilege to say what they please in a case of this sort.
They fancy this is liberty; and ‘touch my honour, take your poker,’ is
not more sensitive than the feelin’ of liberty in these parts. I’m
afraid that not only this Joe Davis, but the reporters, will say just
what they please; and Mary Monson’s rights will whistle for it. You will
remember that our judge is not only a bran-new one, but he drew the two
years’ term into the bargain. No, I think it will be wisest to let the
law, and old principles, and the right, and _true_ liberty, quite alone;
and to bow the knee to things as they are. A good deal is said about our
fathers, and their wisdom, and patriotism, and sacrifices; but nobody
dreams of doing as they _did_, or of reasoning as they _reasoned_. Life
is made up, in reality, of these little matters in a corner; while the
great principles strut about in buckram, for men to admire them, and
talk about them. I do take considerable delight, ’Squire Dunscomb, in
hearing you enlarge on a principle, whether it be in law, morals, or
politics; but I should no more think of prac_ty_sing on ’em, than I
should think of refusing a thousand dollar fee.”

“Is that your price?” demanded McBrain, with curiosity—“Do you work for
as large a sum as that, in this case, Timms?”

“I’m paid, Doctor; just as you was”—the attorney never stuck at
grammar—“just as you was for that great operation on the Wall-Street
Millenary’ian——”

“Millionaire, you mean, Timms,” said Dunscomb, coolly—“it means one
worth a million.”

“I never attempt a foreign tongue but I stumble,” said the attorney,
simply; for he knew that both his friends were familiar with his origin,
education, and advancement in life, and that it was wisest to deny
nothing to _them_; “but since I have been so much with Mary Monson and
her woman, I do own a desire to speak the language they use.”

Again Dunscomb regarded his associate intently; something comical
gleaming in his eye.

“Timms, you have fallen in love with our handsome client,” he quietly
remarked.

“No, sir; not quite as bad as that, _yet_; though I will acknowledge
that the lady is very interesting. Should she be acquitted, and could we
only get some knowledge of her early history—why, that _might_ put a new
face on matters.”

“I must drive over to Biberry in the morning, and have another interview
with the lady myself. And now, Ned, I will join your wife, and read an
epithalamium prepared for this great occasion. You need not trouble
yourself to follow, the song being no novelty; for I have read it twice
before on your account.”

A hearty laugh at his own wit concluded the discourse on the part of the
great York counsellor; though Timms remained some time longer with the
Doctor, questioning the latter touching opinions and facts gleaned by
the physician in the course of his circuit.

CHAPTER XIV.

“From his brimstone bed at break of day,
A walking the devil is gone,
To visit his little snug farm of the earth,
And see how his stock went on.”
_Coleridge._

Dunscomb was as good as his word. Next morning he was on his way to
Biberry. He was thoughtful; had laid a bundle of papers on the front
seat of the carriage, and went his way musing and silent. Singularly
enough, his only companion was Anna Updyke, who had asked a seat in the
carriage timidly, but with an earnestness that prevailed. Had Jack
Wilmeter been at Biberry, this request would not have been made; but she
knew he was in town, and that she might make the little excursion
without the imputation of indelicacy, so far as he was concerned. Her
object will appear in the course of the narrative.

The “best tavern” in Biberry was kept by Daniel Horton. The wife of this
good man had a native propensity to talk that had been essentially
cultivated in the course of five-and-twenty years’ practice in the inn
where she had commenced her career as maid; and was now finishing it as
mistress. As is common with persons of her class, she knew hundreds of
those who frequented her house; calling each readily by name, and
treating every one with a certain degree of professional familiarity
that is far from uncommon in country inns.

“Mr. Dunscomb, I declare!” cried this woman, as she entered the room,
and found the counsellor and his companion in possession of her best
parlour. “This is a pleasure I did not expect until the circuit. It’s
quite twenty years, ’Squire, since I had the pleasure of first waiting
on you in this house. And a pleasure it has always been; for I’ve not
forgotten the ejectment suit that you carried for Horton when we was
only new-beginners. I am glad to see you, sir; welcome to Biberry, as is
this young lady, who is your daughter, I presume, Mr. Dunscomb?”

“You forget that I am a bachelor, Mrs. Horton—no marrying man, in any
sense of the word.”

“I might have known that, had I reflected a moment; for they say Mary
Monson employs none but bachelors and widowers in her case; and you are
her counsel, I know.”

“This is a peculiarity of which I was not aware. Timms is a bachelor,
certainly, as well as myself; but to whom else can you allude? Jack
Wilmeter, my nephew, can hardly be said to be employed at all; nor, for
that matter, Michael Millington; though neither is married.”

“Yes, sir; we know both of the last well, they having lodged with us. If
young Mr. Wilmeter is single, I fancy it is not his own fault”—here Mrs.
Horton looked very wise, but continued talking—“Young gentlemen of a
good appearance and handsome fortunes commonly have not much difficulty
in getting wives—not as much as young ladies; for you men make the law,
and you give your own sex the best chance, almost as a matter of
course——”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Horton,” interrupted Dunscomb, a little formally, like
one who felt great interest in the subject—“you were remarking that we
have the best chance of getting married; and here have I been a bachelor
all my life, trying in vain to enter into the happy state of
matrimony—if, indeed, it deserve to be so termed.”

“It could not be very difficult for _you_ to find a companion,” said the
landlady, shaking her head; “and for the reason I have just given.”

“Which was——?”

“That you men have made the laws and profit by them. _You_ can _ask_
whom you please; but a woman is obliged to wait to be asked.”

“You never were in a greater mistake in your life, I do assure you, my
good Mrs. Horton. There is no such law on the subject. Any woman may put
the question, as well as any man. This _was_ the law, and I don’t think
the Code has changed it.”

“Yes, I know that well enough, and get laughed at, and pointed at, for
her pains. I know that a good deal is said about leap-year; but who ever
heard of a woman’s putting the question? I fancy that even Mary Monson
would think twice before she took so bold a step once.”

“Mary Monson!” exclaimed Dunscomb, suddenly turning towards his
hostess—“Has she a reputation for being attentive to gentlemen?”

“Not that I know of; but——”

“Then allow me to say, my good Mrs. Horton,” interrupted the celebrated
counsellor, with a manner that was almost austere, “that you have been
greatly to blame in hazarding the sort of remark you did. If you _know_
nothing of the character you certainly insinuated, you should have said
nothing. It is very extraordinary that women, alive as they must be to
the consequences to one of their own sex, are ever more ready than men
to throw out careless, and frequently malicious hints, that take away a
reputation, and do a melancholy amount of harm in the world. Slander is
the least respectable, the most unchristianlike, and the most
unlady-like vice, of all the secondary sins of your sex. One would think
the danger you are all exposed to in common, would teach you greater
caution.”

“Yes, sir, that is true; but this Mary Monson is in such a pickle
already, that it is not easy to make _her_ case much worse,” answered
Mrs. Horton, a good deal frightened at the austerity of Dunscomb’s
rebuke; for his reputation was too high to render his good or bad
opinion a matter of indifference to her. “If you only knew the half that
is said of her in Duke’s, you wouldn’t mind a careless word or so about
her. Everybody thinks her guilty; and a crime, more or less, can be of
no great matter to the likes of _her_.”

“Ah, Mrs. Horton, these careless words do a vast deal of harm. They
insinuate away a reputation in a breath; and my experience has taught me
that they who are the most apt to use them, are persons whose own
conduct will least bear the light. Women with a whole log-heap of beams
in their own eyes, are remarkable for discovering motes. Give me the
female who floats along quietly in her sphere, unoffending and
charitable, wishing for the best, and as difficult to be brought to
_think_ as to _do_ evil. But, they talk a good deal against my client,
do they?”

“More than I have ever known folks talk against any indicted person, man
or woman. The prize-fighters, who were in for murder, had a pretty hard
time of it; but nothing to Mary Monson’s. In short, until ’Squire Timms
came out in her favour, she had no chance at all.”

“This is not very encouraging, certainly—but what is said, Mrs. Horton,
if you will suffer me to put the question?”

“Why, ’Squire Dunscomb,” answered the woman, pursing up a very pretty
American mouth of her own, “a body is never sure that you won’t call
what she says slander——”

“Poh—poh—you know me better than that. I never meddle with that vile
class of suits. I am employed to defend Mary Monson, you know——”

“Yes, and are well paid for it too, ’Squire Dunscomb, if all that a body
hears is true,” interrupted Mrs. Horton, a little spitefully. “Five
thousand dollars, they say, to a cent!”

Dunscomb, who was working literally without other reward than the
consciousness of doing his duty, smiled, while he frowned at this fresh
instance of the absurdities into which rumour can lead its votaries.
Bowing a little apology, he coolly lighted a segar, and proceeded.

“Where is it supposed that Mary Monson can find such large sums to
bestow, Mrs. Horton?” he quietly asked, when his segar was properly
lighted. “It is not usual for young and friendless women to have pockets
so well lined.”

“Nor is it usual for young women to rob and murder old ones, ’Squire.”

“Was Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking thought to be large enough to hold sums
like that you have mentioned?”

“Nobody knows. Gold takes but little room, as witness Californy. There
was General Wilton—every one thought him rich as Cæsar——”

“Do you not mean Crœsus, Mrs. Horton?”

“Well, Cæsar or Crœsus; both were rich, I do suppose, and General Wilton
was thought the equal of either; but, when he died, his estate wouldn’t
pay his debts. On the other hand, old Davy Davidson was set down by
nobody at more than twenty thousand, and he left ten times that much
money. So I say nobody knows. Mrs. Goodwin was always a saving woman,
though Peter would make the dollars fly, if he could get at them. There
was certainly a weak spot in Peter, though known to but a very few.”

Dunscomb now listened attentively. Every fact of this nature was of
importance just then; and nothing could be said of the murdered couple
that would not induce all engaged in the cause to prick up their ears.

“I have always understood that Peter Goodwin was a very respectable sort
of a man,” observed Dunscomb, with a profound knowledge of human nature,
which was far more likely to induce the woman to be communicative, in
the way of opposition, than by any other process—“as respectable a man
as any about here.”

“So he might be, but he had his weak points as well as other respectable
men; though, as I have said already, his’n wasn’t generally known.
Everybody is respectable, I suppose, until they’re found out. But Peter
is dead and gone, and I have no wish to disturb his grave, which I
believe to be a sinful act.”

This sounded still more ominously, and it greatly increased Dunscomb’s
desire to learn more. Still he saw that great caution must be used, Mrs.
Horton choosing to affect much tenderness for her deceased neighbour’s
character. The counsellor knew human nature well enough to be aware that
indifference was sometimes as good a stimulant as opposition; and he now
thought it expedient to try the virtue of that quality. Without making
any immediate answer, therefore, he desired the attentive and anxious
Anna Updyke to perform some little office for him; thus managing to get
her out of the room, while the hostess stayed behind. Then his segar did
not quite suit him, and he tried another, making divers little delays
that set the landlady on the tenter-hooks of impatience.

“Yes, Peter is gone—dead and buried—and I hope the sod lies lightly on
his remains!” she said, sighing ostentatiously.

“Therein you are mistaken, Mrs. Horton,” the counsellor coolly
remarked—“the remains of neither of those found in the ruins of the
house are under ground yet; but are kept for the trial.”

“What a time we shall have of it!—so exciting and full of mystery!”

“And you might add ‘custom,’ Mrs. Horton. The reporters alone, who will
certainly come from town like an inroad of Cossacks, will fill your
house.”

“Yes, and themselves too. To be honest with you, ’Squire Dunscomb, too
many of those gentry wish to be kept for nothing to make them pleasant
boarders. I dare say, however, we shall be full enough next week. I
sometimes wish there was no such thing as justice, after a hard-working
Oyer and Terminer court.”

“You should be under no concern, my good Mrs. Horton, on that subject.
There is really so little of the thing you have mentioned, that no
reasonable woman need make herself unhappy about it. So Peter Goodwin
was a faultless man, was he?”

“As far from it as possible, if the truth was said of him; and seeing
the man is not absolutely under ground, I do not know why it may not be
told. I can respect the grave, as well as another; but, as he is not
buried, one may tell the truth. Peter Goodwin was, by no means, the man
he seemed to be.”

“In what particular did he fail, my good Mrs. Horton?”

To be _good_ in Dunscomb’s eyes, the landlady well knew, was a great
honour; and she was flattered as much by the manner in which the words
were uttered, as by their import. Woman-like, Mrs. Horton was overcome
by this little bit of homage; and she felt disposed to give up a secret
which, to do her justice, had been religiously kept now for some ten or
twelve years between herself and her husband. As she and the counsel
were alone, dropping her voice a little, more for the sake of
appearances than for any sufficient reason, the landlady proceeded.

“Why, you must know, ’Squire Dunscomb, that Peter Goodwin was a member
of meetin’, and a professing Christian, which I suppose was all the
better for him, seeing that he was to be murdered.”

“And do you consider his being a ‘professing Christian,’ as you call it,
a circumstance to be concealed?”

“Not at all, sir—but I consider it a good reason why the facts I am
about to tell you, ought not to be generally known. Scoffers abound; and
I take it that the feelings of a believer ought to be treated more
tenderly than those of an unbeliever, for the church’s sake.”

“That is a fashion of the times too—one of the ways of the hour, whether
it is to last or not. But, proceed if you please, my good Mrs. Horton; I
am quite curious to know by what particular sin Satan managed to
overcome this ‘professing Christian?’”

“He drank, ’Squire Dunscomb—no, he _guzzled_, for that is the best word.
You must know that Dolly was avarice itself—that’s the reason she took
this Mary Monson in to board, though her house was no ways suited for
boarders, standing out of the way, with only one small spare bed-room,
and that under the roof. Had she let this stranger woman come to one of
the regular houses, as she might have done, and been far better
accommodated than it was possible for her to be in a garret, it is not
likely she would have been murdered. She lost her life, as I tell
Horton, for meddling with other people’s business.”

“If such were the regular and inevitable punishment of that particular
offence, my good landlady, there would be a great dearth of ladies,”
said Tom Dunscomb, a little drily—“but, you were remarking that Peter
Goodwin, the member of meeting, and Mary Monson’s supposed victim, had a
weakness in favour of strong liquor?”

“Juleps were his choice—I’ve heard of a part of the country, somewhere
about Virginny, I believe it is, where tee-totallers make an exception
in favour of juleps—it may do _there_, Squire Dunscomb, but it won’t do
_here_. No liquor undoes a body, in this part of the country, sooner
than mint juleps. I will find you ten constitutions that can hold out
ag’in brandy, or plain grog, or even grog, beer and cider, all three
together, where you can find me one that will hold out ag’in juleps. I
always set down a reg’lar julep fancier as a case—that is, in this part
of the country.”

“Very true, my good landlady, and very sensible and just. I consider you
a sensible and just woman, whose mind has been enlarged by an extensive
acquaintance with human nature——”

“A body does pick up a good deal in and around a bar, ’Squire Dunscomb!”

“Pick up, indeed—I’ve known ’em picked up by the dozen myself. And Peter
_would_ take the juleps?”

“Awfully fond of them! He no more dared to take one at home, however,
than he dared to go and ask Minister Watch to make him one. No, he
know’d better where the right sort of article was to be had, and always
came down to our house when he was dry. Horton mixes stiff, or we should
have been a good deal better off in the world than we are—not that we’re
mis’rable, as it is. But Horton takes it strong himself, and he mixes
strong for others. Peter soon found this out, and he fancied his juleps
more, as he has often told me himself, than the juleps of the great
Bowery-man, who has a name for ’em, far and near. Horton _can_ mix a
julep, if he can do nothing else.”

“And Peter Goodwin was in the habit of frequenting your house privately,
to indulge this propensity.”

“I’m almost ashamed to own that he did—perhaps it was sinful in us to
let him; but a body must carry out the idee of trade—our trade is
tavern-keeping, and it’s our business to mix liquors, though Minister
Watch says, almost every Sabbath, that professors should do nothing out
of sight that they wouldn’t do before the whole congregation. I don’t
hold to that, however; for it would soon break up tavern-keeping
altogether. Yes, Peter did drink awfully, in a corner.”

“To intoxication, do you mean, Mrs. Horton?”

“To delirrum tremus, sir—yes, full up to that. His way was to come down
to the village on the pretence of business, and to come right to our
house, where I’ve known him to take three juleps in the first half-hour.
Sometimes he’d pretend to go to town to see his sister, when he would
stay two or three days upstairs in a room that Horton keeps for what he
calls his _cases_—he has given the room the name of his
_ward_—hospital-ward he means.”

“Is the worthy Mr. Horton a member of the meeting also, my good
landlady?”

Mrs. Horton had the grace to colour; but she answered without
stammering, habit fortifying us in moral discrepancies much more serious
than even this.

“He was, and I don’t know but I may say he is yet; though he hasn’t
attended, now, for more than two years. The question got to be between
meetin’ and the bar; and the bar carried the day, so far as Horton is
concerned. I’ve held out better, I hope, and expect to gain a victory.
It’s quite enough to have one backslider in a family, I tell my husband,
’Squire.”

“A sufficient supply, ma’am—quite a sufficiency. So Peter Goodwin lay in
your house drunk, days at a time?”

“I’m sorry to say he did. He was here a week once, with delirrum tremus
on him; but Horton carried him through by the use of juleps; for
_that_’s the time to take ’em, everybody says; and we got him home
without old Dolly’s knowing that he hadn’t been with his sister the
whole time. That turn satisfied Peter for three good months.”

“Did Peter pay as he went, or did you keep a score?”

“Ready money, sir. Catch us keeping an account with a man when his wife
ruled the roast! No, Peter paid like a king, for every mouthful he
swallowed.”

“I am far from certain that the comparison is a good one, kings being in
no degree remarkable for paying their debts. But, is it not possible
that Peter may have set his own house on fire, and thus have caused all
this calamity, for which my client is held responsible?”

“I’ve thought that over a good deal since the murder, ’Squire, but don’t
well see how it can be made out. Setting the building on fire is simple
enough; but who killed the old couple, and who robbed the house, unless
this Mary Monson did both?”

“The case has its difficulties, no doubt; but I have known the day to
dawn after a darker night than this. I believe that Mrs. Goodwin and her
husband were very nearly of the same height?”

“Exactly; I’ve seen them measure, back to back. He was a very short man,
and she a very tall woman!”

“Do you know anything of a German female who is said to have lived with
the unfortunate couple?”

“There has been some talk of such a person since the fire; but Dolly
Goodwin kept no help. She was too stingy for that; then she had no need
of it, being very strong and stirring for her time of life.”

“Might not a boarder, like Miss Monson, have induced her to take this
foreigner into her family for a few weeks? The nearest neighbours, those
who would be most likely to know all about it, say that no wages were
given; the woman working for her food and lodging.”

“’Squire Dunscomb, you’ll never make it out that any German killed Peter
and his wife.”

“Perhaps not; though even that is possible. Such, however, is not the
object of my present enquiries—but, here comes my associate counsel, and
I will take another occasion to continue this conversation, my good Mrs.
Horton.”

Timms entered with a hurried air. For the first time in his life he
appeared to his associate and old master to be agitated. Cold,
calculating, and cunning, this man seldom permitted himself to be so
much thrown off his guard as to betray emotion; but now he actually did.
There was a tremor in his form that extended to his voice; and he seemed
afraid to trust the latter even in the customary salutations. Nodding
his head, he drew a chair and took his seat.

“You have been to the gaol?” asked Dunscomb.

A nod was the answer.

“You were admitted, and had an interview with our client?”

Nod the third was the only reply.

“Did you put the questions to her, as I desired?”

“I did, sir; but I would sooner cross-examine all Duke’s, than undertake
to get anything she does not wish to tell, out of that one young lady!”

“I fancy most young ladies have a faculty for keeping such matters to
themselves as they do not wish to reveal. Am I to understand that you
got no answers?”

“I really do not know, ’Squire. She was polite, and obliging, and
smiling—but, somehow or other, I do not recollect her replies.”

“You must be falling in love, Timms, to return with such an account,”
retorted Dunscomb, a cold but very sarcastic smile passing over his
face. “Have a care, sir; ’tis a passion that makes a fool of a man
sooner than any other. I do not think there is much danger of the lady’s
returning your flame; unless, indeed, you can manage to make her
acquittal a condition of the match.”

“I am afraid—dreadfully afraid, her acquittal will be a very desperate
affair,” answered Timms, passing his hands down his face, as if to wipe
away his weakness. “The deeper I get into the matter, the worse it
appears!”

“Have you given our client any intimation to this effect?”

“I hadn’t the heart to do it. She is just as composed, and calm, and
tranquil, and judicious—yes, and ingenious, as if _she_ were only the
counsel in this affair of life and death! I couldn’t distrust so much
tranquillity. I wish I knew her history!”

“My interrogatories pointed out the absolute necessity of her furnishing
us with the means of enlightening the court and jury on that most
material point, should the worst come to the worst.”

“I know they did, sir; but they no more got at the truth than my own
pressing questions. I should like to see that lady on the stand, above
all things! I think she would bother saucy Williams, and fairly put him
out of countenance. By the way, sir, I hear he is employed against us by
the nephew, who is quite furious about the loss of the money, which he
pretends was a much larger sum than the neighbourhood has commonly
supposed.”

“I have always thought the relations would employ some one to assist the
public prosecutor in a case of this magnitude. The theory of our
government is that the public virtue will see the laws executed; but, in
my experience, Timms, this public virtue is a very acquiescent and
indifferent quality, seldom troubling itself even to abate a nuisance,
until its own nose is offended, or its own pocket damaged.”

“Roguery is always more active than honesty—I found that out long since,
’Squire. But, it is nat’ral for a public prosecutor not to press one on
trial for life, and the accused a woman, closer than circumstances seem
to demand. It is true, that popular feeling is strong ag’in Mary Monson;
but it was well in the nephew to fee such a bull-dog as Williams, if he
wishes to make a clean sweep of it.”

“Does our client know this?”

“Certainly; she seems to know all about her case, and has a strange
pleasure in entering into the mode and manner of her defence. It would
do your heart good, sir, to see the manner in which she listens, and
advises, and consults. She’s wonderful handsome at such times!”

“You are in love, Timms; and I shall have to engage some other
assistant. First Jack, and then you! Umph! This is a strange world, of a
verity.”

“I don’t think it’s quite as bad with me as that,” said Timms, this time
rubbing his shaggy eye-brows as if to ascertain whether or not he were
dreaming, “though I must own I do not feel precisely as I did a month
since. I wish you would see our client yourself, sir, and make her
understand how important it is to her interest that we should know
something of her past history.”

“Do you think her name is rightfully set forth in the indictment?”

“By no means—but, as she has called herself Mary Monson, she cannot
avail herself of her own acts.”

“Certainly not—I asked merely as a matter of information. She must be
made to feel the necessity of fortifying us on that particular point,
else it will go far towards convicting her. Jurors do not like aliases.”

“She knows this already; for I have laid the matter before her, again
and again. Nothing seems to move her, however; and as to apprehension,
she appears to be above all fear.”

“This is most extraordinary!—Have you interrogated the maid?”

“How can I? She speaks no English; and I can’t utter a syllable in any
foreign tongue.”

“Ha! Does she pretend to that much ignorance? Marie Moulin speaks very
intelligible English, as I know from having conversed with her often.
She is a clever, prudent Swiss, from one of the French cantons, and is
known for her fidelity and trustworthiness. With me she will hardly
venture to practise this deception. If she has feigned ignorance of
English, it was in order to keep her secrets.”

Timms admitted the probability of its being so; then he entered into a
longer and more minute detail of the state of the case. In the first
place, he admitted that, in spite of all his own efforts to the
contrary, the popular feeling was setting strong against their client.
“Frank Williams,” as he called the saucy person who bore that name, had
entered into the struggle might and main, and was making his customary
impressions.

“His fees must be liberal,” continued Timms, “and I should think are in
some way dependent on the result; for I never saw the fellow more
engaged in my life.”

“This precious Code does allow such a bargain to be made between the
counsel and his client, or any other bargain that is not downright
conspiracy,” returned Dunscomb; “but I do not see what is to be shared,
even should Mary Monson be hanged.”

“Do not speak in that manner of so agreeable a person,” cried Timms,
actually manifesting emotion—“it is unpleasant to think of. It is true,
a conviction will not bring money to the prosecution, unless it should
bring to light some of Mrs. Goodwin’s hoards.”

Dunscomb shrugged his shoulders, and his associate proceeded with his
narrative. Two of the reporters were offended, and their allusions to
the cause, which were almost daily in their respective journals, were
ill-natured, and calculated to do great harm, though so far covered as
to wear an air of seeming candour. The natural effect of this “constant
dropping,” in a community accustomed to refer everything to the common
mind, had been “to wear away the stone.” Many of those who, at first,
had been disposed to sustain the accused, unwilling to believe that one
so young, so educated, so modest in deportment, so engaging in manners,
and of the gentler sex, could possibly be guilty of the crimes imputed,
were now changing their opinions, under the control of this potent and
sinister mode of working on the public sentiment. The agents employed by
Timms to counteract this malign influence had failed of their object;
they working merely for money, while those of the other side were
resenting what they regarded as an affront.

The family of the Burtons, the nearest neighbours of the Goodwins, no
longer received Timms with the frank cordiality that they had manifested
in the earlier period of his intercourse with them. Then, they had been
communicative, eager to tell all that they knew, and, as the lawyer
fancied, even a little more; while they were now reserved, uneasy, and
indisposed to let one-half of the real facts within their knowledge be
known. Timms thought they had been worked upon, and that they might
expect some hostile and important testimony from that quarter. The
consultation ended by an exclamation from Dunscomb on the subject of the
abuses that were so fast creeping into the administration of justice,
rendering the boasted freemen of America, though in a different mode,
little more likely to receive its benefit from an unpolluted stream,
than they who live under the worn out and confessedly corrupt systems of
the old world. Such is the tendency of things, and such one of the ways
of the hour.

CHAPTER XV

“Are those _her_ ribs through which the sun
Did peer, as through a grate;
And is that woman all her crew?
Is that a Death, and are there two?
Is Death that woman’s mate.”
_The Phantom Ship._

After a short preparatory interview with Anna Updyke, Dunscomb repaired
to the gaol, whither he had already despatched a note to announce his
intended visit. Good Mrs. Gott received him with earnest attention; for,
as the day of trial approached, this kind-hearted woman manifested a
warmer and warmer interest in the fate of her prisoner.

“You are welcome, Mr. Dunscomb,” said this well-disposed and gentle
turnkey, as she led the way to the door that opened on the gallery of
the gaol; “and welcome, again and again. I do wish this business may
fall into good hands; and I’m afraid Timms is not getting on with it as
well as he might.”

“My associate has the reputation of being a skilful attorney and a good
manager, Mrs. Gott.”

“So he has, Mr. Dunscomb; but somehow—I scarce know how myself—but
somehow, he doesn’t get along with _this_ cause, as well as I have known
him to get along with others. The excitement in the county is terrible;
and Gott has had seven anonymous letters to let him know that if Mary
Monson escape, his hopes from the public are gone for ever. I tell him
not to mind such contemptible things; but he is frightened half out of
his wits. It takes good courage, ’Squire, to treat an anonymous letter
with the contempt it merits.”

“It sometimes does, indeed. Then you think we shall have up-hill work
with the defence?”

“Dreadful!—I’ve never known a cause so generally tried out of doors as
this. What makes the matter more provoking, Mary Monson might have had
it all her own way, if she had been so minded; for, at first, she was
popularity itself with all the neighbours. Folks nat’rally like beauty,
and elegance, and youth; and Mary has enough of each to make friends
anywhere.”

“What! with the ladies?” said Dunscomb, smiling. “Surely not with your
sex, Mrs. Gott?”

“Yes, with the women, as well as with the men, if she would only use her
means; but she stands in her own light. Crowds have been round the outer
windows to hear her play on the harp—they tell me she uses the real
Jew’s Harp, ’Squire Dunscomb; such as Royal David used to play on; and
that she has great skill. There is a German in the village who knows all
about music, and he says Mary Monson has been excellently taught—by the
very best masters.”

“It is extraordinary; yet it would seem to be so. Will you have the
goodness to open the door, Mrs. Gott?”

“With all my heart,” answered this, in one sense, very singular turnkey,
though in another a very every-day character, jingling her keys, but not
taking a forward step to comply; “Mary Monson expects you. I suppose,
sir, you know that saucy Frank Williams is retained by the friends of
the Goodwins?”

“Mr. Timms has told me as much as that. I cannot say, however, that I
have any particular apprehension of encountering Mr. Williams.”

“No, sir; not _you_, I’ll engage, not in open court; but out of doors
he’s very formidable.”

“I trust this cause, one involving the life and reputation of a very
interesting female, will not be tried out of doors, Mrs. Gott. The issue
is too serious for such a tribunal.”

“So a body would think; but a great deal of law-business is settled,
they tell me, under the sheds, and in the streets, and in the taverns;
most especially in the juror’s bed-rooms, and settled in a way it ought
not to be.”

“I am afraid you are nearer right than every just-minded person could
wish. But we will talk of this another time—the door if you please,
now.”

“Yes, sir, in one minute. It would be _so_ easy for Mary Monson to be
just as popular with everybody in Biberry as she is with me. Let her
come to one of the side-windows of the gallery this evening, and show
herself to the folks, and play on that harp of hers, and Royal David
himself could not have been better liked by the Jews of old, than she
would soon be by our people hereabouts.”

“It is probably now too late. The court sits in a few days; and the
mischief, if any there be, must be done.”

“No such thing, begging your pardon, ’Squire. There’s that in Mary
Monson that can carry anything she pleases. Folks now think her proud
and consequential, because she will not just stand at one of the grates
and let them look at her a little.”

“I am afraid, Mrs. Gott, your husband has taught you a greater respect
for those you call ‘the people,’ than they deserve to receive at your
hands.”

“Gott is dreadfully afraid of them——”

“And he is set apart by the laws to see them executed on these very
people,” interrupted Dunscomb, with a sneer; “to levy on their
possessions, keep the peace, enforce the laws; in short, to make them
_feel_, whenever it is necessary, that they are _governed_!”

“Gott says ‘that the people _will_ rule.’ That’s _his_ great saying.”

“Will _seem_ to rule, is true enough; but the most that the mass of any
nation _can_ do, is occasionally to check the proceedings of their
governors. The every-day work is most effectually done by a favoured few
here, just as it is done by a favoured few everywhere else. The door,
now, if you please, my good Mrs. Gott.”

“Yes, sir, in one minute. Dear me! how odd that you should think so.
Why, I thought that you were a democrat, Mr. Dunscomb?”

“So I am, as between forms of government; but I never was fool enough to
think that the people can really rule, further than by occasional checks
and rebukes.”

“What would Gott say to this! Why, he is so much afraid of the people,
that he tells me he never does anything, without fancying some one is
looking over his shoulders.”

“Ay, that is a very good rule for a man who wishes to be chosen
_sheriff_. To be a _bishop_, it would be better to remember the
omniscient eye.”

“I do declare—oh! Gott never thinks of _that_, more’s the pity,”
applying the key to the lock. “When you wish to come out, ’Squire, just
call at this grate”—then dropping her voice to a whisper—“try and
persuade Mary Monson to show herself at one of the side grates.”

But Dunscomb entered the gallery with no such intention. As he was
expected, his reception was natural and easy. The prisoner was carefully
though simply dressed, and she appeared all the better, most probably,
for some of the practised arts of her woman. Marie Moulin, herself, kept
modestly within the cell, where, indeed, she passed most of her time,
leaving the now quite handsomely furnished gallery to the uses of her
mistress.

After the first few words of salutation, Dunscomb took the chair he was
invited to occupy, a good deal at a loss how to address a woman of his
companion’s mien and general air as a culprit about to be tried for her
life. He first attempted words of course.

“I see you have had a proper regard to your comforts in this miserable
place,” he remarked.

“Do not call it by so forbidding a name, Mr. Dunscomb,” was the answer,
given with a sorrowful, but exceedingly winning smile—“it is _my_ place
of _refuge_.”

“Do you still persist in refusing to tell me against _what_, Miss
Monson?”

“I persist in nothing that ought not to be done, I hope. At another time
I may be more communicative. But, if what Mrs. Gott tells me is correct,
I need these walls to prevent my being torn to pieces by those she calls
the people, outside.”

Dunscomb looked with amazement at the being who quietly made this remark
on her own situation. Of beautiful form, with all the signs of a gentle
origin and refined education, young, handsome, delicate, nay, dainty of
speech and acts, there she sat, indicted for arson and murder, and about
to be tried for her life, with the composure of a lady in her
drawing-room! The illuminated expression that, at times, rendered her
countenance so very remarkable, had now given place to one of sobered
sadness; though apprehension did not appear to be in the least
predominant.

“The sheriff has instilled into his wife a very healthful respect for
those she calls the people—healthful, for one who looks to their voices
for his support. This is very American.”

“I suppose it to be much the same everywhere. I have been a good deal
abroad, Mr. Dunscomb, and cannot say I perceive any great difference in
men.”

“Nor is there any, though circumstances cause different modes of
betraying their weaknesses, as well as what there is in them that is
good. But the people in this country, Miss Monson, possess a power that,
in your case, is not to be despised. As Mrs. Gott would intimate, it may
be prudent for you to remember _that_.”

“Surely _you_ would not have me make an exhibition of myself, Mr.
Dunscomb, at the window of a gaol!”

“As far from that as possible. I would have you do nothing that is
unbecoming one of your habits and opinions—nothing, in short, that would
be improper, as a means of defence, by one accused and tried by the
State. Nevertheless, it is always wiser to make friends than to make
enemies.”

Mary Monson lowered her eyes to the carpet, and Dunscomb perceived that
her thoughts wandered. They were not on her critical situation. It was
indispensably necessary, however, that he should be explicit, and he did
not shrink from his duty. Gently, but distinctly, and with a clearness
that a far less gifted mind than that of the accused could comprehend,
he now opened the subject of the approaching trial. A few words were
first ventured on its grave character, and on the vast importance it was
in all respects to his client; to which the latter listened attentively,
but without the slightest visible alarm. Next, he alluded to the stories
that were in circulation, the impression they were producing, and the
danger there was that her rights might be affected by these sinister
opinions.

“But I am to be tried by a judge and a jury, they tell me,” said Mary
Monson, when Dunscomb ceased speaking—“they will come from a distance,
and will not be prejudiced against me by all this idle gossip.”

“Judges and jurors are only men, and nothing goes farther with less
effort than your ‘idle gossip.’ Nothing is repeated accurately, or it is
very rare to find it so; and those who only half comprehend a subject
are certain to relate with exaggerations and false colourings.”

“How, then, can the electors discover the real characters of those for
whom they are required to vote?” demanded Mary Monson, smiling; “or get
just ideas of the measures they are to support or to oppose?”

“Half the time they do neither. It exceeds all our present means, at
least, to diffuse sufficient information for _that_. The consequence is,
that appearances and assertions are made to take the place of facts. The
mental food of the bulk of this nation is an opinion simulated by the
artful to answer their own purposes. But the power of the masses is
getting to be very formidable—more formidable in a way never
contemplated by those who formed the institutions, than in any way that
was foreseen. Among other things, they begin to hold the administration
of justice in the hollow of their hands.”

“I am not to be tried by the masses, I trust. If so, my fate would be
very hard, I fear, judging from what I hear in my little excursions in
the neighbourhood.”

“Excursions, Miss Monson!” repeated the astonished Dunscomb.

“Excursions, sir; I make one for the benefit of air and exercise, every
favourable night, at this fine season of the year. Surely you would not
have me cooped up here in a gaol, without the relief of a little fresh
air?”

“With the knowledge and concurrence of the sheriff, or that of his
wife?”

“Perhaps not strictly with those of either; though I suspect good Mrs.
Gott has an inkling of my movements. It would be too hard to deny myself
air and exercise, both of which are very necessary to my health, because
I am charged with these horrid crimes.”

Dunscomb passed a hand over his brow, as if he desired to clear his
mental vision by friction of the physical, and, for a moment, sat
absolutely lost in wonder. He scarce knew whether he was or was not
dreaming.

“And you have actually been outside of these walls, Miss Monson!” he
exclaimed, at length.

“Twenty times, at least. Why should I stay within them, when the means
of quitting them are always in my power?”

As Mary Monson said this, she showed her counsel a set of keys that
corresponded closely with those which good Mrs. Gott was in the habit of
using whenever she came to open the door of that particular gallery. A
quiet smile betrayed how little the prisoner fancied there was anything
remarkable in all this.

“Are you aware, Miss Monson, it is felony to assist a prisoner to
escape?”

“So they tell me, Mr. Dunscomb; but as I have not escaped, or made any
attempt to escape, and have returned regularly and in good season to my
gaol, no one can be harmed for what I have done. Such, at least, is the
opinion of Mr. Timms.”

Dunscomb did not like the expression of face that accompanied this
speech. It might be too much to say it was absolutely cunning; but there
was so much of the manœuvring of one accustomed to manage in it, that it
awakened the unpleasant distrust that existed in the earlier days of his
intercourse with this singular young woman, and which had now been
dormant for several weeks. There was, however, so much of the cold
polish of the upper classes in his client’s manner, that the offending
expression was thrown off from the surface of her looks, as light is
reflected from the ground and silvered mirror. At the very instant which
succeeded this seeming gleam of cunning, all was calm, quiet, refined,
gentle, and without apparent emotion in the countenance of the accused.

“Timms!” repeated Dunscomb, slowly. “So _he_ has known of this, and I
dare say has had an agency in bringing it about?”

“As you say it is felony to aid a prisoner to escape, I can say neither
yes nor no to this, Mr. Dunscomb, lest I betray an accomplice. I should
rather think, however, that Mr. Timms is not a person to be easily
caught in the meshes of the law.”

Again the counsellor disliked the expression; though Mary Monson looked
unusually pretty at that particular moment. He did not pause to analyze
his feelings, notwithstanding, but rather sought to relieve his own
curiosity, which had been a good deal aroused by the information just
received.

“As you have not hesitated to tell me of what you call your
‘excursions,’ Miss Monson,” he continued, “perhaps you will so far
extend your confidence as to let me know where you go?”

“I can have no objection to that. Mr. Timms tells me the law cannot
compel a counsel to betray his client’s secrets; and of course I am safe
with you. Stop—I have a duty to perform that has been too long delayed.
Gentlemen of your profession are entitled to their fees; and, as yet, I
have been very remiss in this respect. Will you do me the favour, Mr.
Dunscomb, to accept that, which you will see has been some time in
readiness to be offered.”

Dunscomb was too much of a professional man to feel any embarrassment at
this act of justice; but he took the letter, broke the seal, even before
his client’s eyes, and held up for examination a note for a thousand
dollars. Prepared as he was by Timms’s account for a liberal reward,
this large sum took him a good deal by surprise.

“This is an unusual fee, Miss Monson!” he exclaimed; “one much more
considerable than I should expect from you, were I working for
remuneration, as in your case I certainly am not.”

“Gentlemen of the law look for their reward, I believe, as much as
others. We do not live in the times of chivalry, when gallant men
assisted distressed damsels as a matter of honour; but in what has well
been termed a ‘bank-note world.’”

“I have no wish to set myself up above the fair practices of my
profession, and am as ready to accept a fee as any man in Nassau-Street.
Nevertheless, I took your case in hand with a very different motive. It
would pain me to be obliged to work for a fee, on the present unhappy
occasion.”

Mary Monson looked grateful, and for a minute she seemed to be
reflecting on some scheme by which she could devise a substitute for the
old-fashioned mode of proceeding in a case of this sort.

“You have a niece, Mr. Dunscomb,” she at length exclaimed—“as Marie
Moulin informs me? A charming girl, and who is about to be married?”

The lawyer assented by an inclination of the head, fastening his
penetrating black eyes on the full, expressive, greyish-blue ones of his
companion.

“You intend to return to town this evening?” said Mary Monson, in
continuation.

“Such is my intention. I came here to-day to confer with you and Mr.
Timms, on the subject of the trial, to see how matters stand on the
spot, by personal observation, and to introduce to you one who feels the
deepest interest in your welfare and desires most earnestly to seek your
acquaintance.”

The prisoner was now silent, interrogating with her singularly
expressive eyes.

“It is Anna Updyke, the step-daughter of my nearest friend, Dr. McBrain;
and a very sincere, warm-hearted, and excellent girl.”

“I have heard of her, too,” returned Mary Monson, with a smile so
strange, that her counsel wished she had not given this demonstration of
a feeling that seemed out of place, under all the circumstances. “They
tell me she is a most charming girl, and that she is a very great
favourite with your nephew, the young gentleman whom I have styled my
legal vidette.”

“Vidette! That is a singular term to be used by _you_!”

“Oh! you will remember that I have been much in countries where such
persons abound. I must have caught the word from some of the young
soldiers of Europe. But, Mr. John Wilmeter is an admirer of the young
lady you have named?”

“I hope he is. I know of no one with whom I think he would be more
likely to be happy.”

Dunscomb spoke earnestly, and at such times his manner was singularly
sincere and impressive. It was this appearance of feeling and nature
that gave him the power he possessed over juries; and it may be said to
have made no small part of his fortune. Mary Monson seemed to be
surprised; and she fastened her remarkable eyes on the uncle, in a way
that might have admitted of different interpretations. Her lips moved as
if she spoke to herself; and the smile that succeeded was both mild and
sad.

“To be sure,” added the prisoner, slowly, “my information is not on the
very best authority, coming, as it does, from a servant—but Marie Moulin
is both discreet and observant.”

“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. 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.

The meeting between these two charming young women was frank and
cordial, though slightly qualified by the forms of the world. A watchful
and critical observer might have detected less of nature in Mary
Monson’s manner than in that of her guest, even while the welcome she
gave her visitor was not without cordiality and feeling. It is true that
her courtesy was more elaborate and European, if one may use the
expression, than it is usual to see in an American female, and her air
was less ardent than that of Anna; but the last was highly struck with
her countenance and general appearance, and, on the whole, not
dissatisfied with her own reception.

The power of sympathy and the force of affinities soon made themselves
felt, as between these two youthful females. Anna regarded Mary as a
stranger most grievously wronged; and forgetting all that there was
which was questionable or mysterious in her situation, or remembering it
only to feel the influence of its interest, while she submitted to a
species of community of feeling with John Wilmeter, as she fancied, and
soon got to be as much entranced with the stranger as seemed to be the
fate of all who approached the circle of her acquaintance. On the other
hand, Mary Monson felt a consolation and gratification in this visit to
which she had long been a stranger. Good Mrs. Gott was kind-hearted and
a woman, but she had no claim to the refinement and peculiar
sensibilities of a lady; while Marie Moulin, discreet, respectful, even
wise as she was in her own way, was, after all, nothing but an upper
servant. The chasm between the cultivated and the uncultivated, the
polished and the unpolished, is wide; and the accused fully appreciated
the change, when one of her own class in life, habits, associations,
and, if the reader will, prejudices, so unexpectedly appeared to
sympathize with, and to console her. Under such circumstances, three or
four hours made the two fast and deeply-interested friends, on their own
accounts, to say nothing of the effect produced by the generous advances
of one, and the perilous condition of the other.

Dunscomb returned to town that evening, leaving Anna Updyke behind him,
ostensibly under the care of Mrs. Gott. Democracy has been carried so
far on the high road of ultraism in New York, as in very many interests
to become the victim of its own expedients. Perhaps the people are never
so far from exercising a healthful, or indeed, any authority at all, as
when made to seem, by the expedients of demagogues, to possess an
absolute control. It is necessary merely to bestow a power which it is
impossible for the masses to wield with intelligence, in order to effect
this little piece of legerdemain in politics, the quasi people in all
such cases becoming the passive instruments in the hands of their
leaders, who strengthen their own authority by this seeming support of
the majority. In all cases, however, in which the agency of numbers can
be felt, its force is made to prevail, the tendency necessarily being to
bring down all representation to the level of the majority. The effect
of the change has been pretty equally divided between good and evil. In
many cases benefits have accrued to the community by the exercise of
this direct popular control, while in probably quite as many the result
has been exactly the reverse of that which was anticipated. In no one
instance, we believe it will be generally admitted, has the departure
from the old practice been less advantageous than in rendering the
office of sheriff elective. Instead of being a leading and independent
man, who has a pride in his position, and regards the character of his
county as he does his own, this functionary has got to be, nine times in
ten, a mere political manœuvrer, who seeks the place as a reward for
party labours, and fills it very much for his personal benefit,
conferring no dignity on it by his own position and character, lessening
its authority by his want of the qualities calculated to increase it,
and, in a good many instances, making it quite as difficult to wrest
money from _his_ hands, as from those of the original debtor.

It is a consequence of this state of things that the sheriff has quite
lost all, or nearly all of the personal consideration that was once
connected with his office; and has sunk, in most of the strictly rural
counties, into a gaoler, and the head of the active bailiffs. His object
is altogether money; and the profit connected with the keeping of the
prisoners, now reduced almost entirely to felons, the accused, and
persons committed for misdemeanors, is one of the inducements for
aspiring to an office once so honourable.

In this state of things, it is not at all surprising that Dunscomb was
enabled to make such an arrangement with Mrs. Gott as would place Anna
Updyke in a private room in the house attached to the gaol, and which
formed the sheriff’s dwelling. The counsellor preferred leaving her with
Mrs. Horton; but to this Anna herself objected, both because she had
taken a strong dislike to the garrulous but shrewd landlady, and because
it would have separated her too much from the person she had come
especially to console and sympathize with.

The arrangement made, Dunscomb, as has already been mentioned, took his
departure for town, with the understanding that he was to return the
succeeding week; the Circuit and Oyer and Terminer sitting on Monday;
and the District Attorney, Mr. Garth, having given notice to her counsel
that the indictment against Mary Monson would be certainly traversed the
second day of the sitting, which would be on Tuesday.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVI.

“Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen,
And her eyes may be e’en any colour but green;
Be they light, gray, or black, their lustre and hue,
I swear I’ve no choice, only let her have two.”
_The Duenna._

Two days after this, Dunscomb was in his library, late at night, holding
a brief discourse with McBrain’s coachman, who has been already
introduced to the reader. Some orders had been given to the last, in
relation to another trip to Biberry, whither the master and our lawyer
were to proceed next day. The man was an old and indulged servant, and
often took great liberties in these conferences. In this respect the
Americans of his class differ very little from the rest of their
fellow-creatures, notwithstanding all that has been said and written to
the contrary. They obey the impulses of their characters much as the
rest of mankind, though not absolutely without some difference in
manner.

“I s’poses, ’Squire Dunscomb, that this is like to be the last journey
that I and the doctor will have to take soon ag’in, in _that_ quarter,”
coolly observed Stephen, when his master’s friend had told him the hour
to be at the door, with the other preparations that would be necessary;
“unless we should happen to be called in at the _post mortal_.”

“_Post mortem_, you must mean, Hoof,” a slight smile flashing on the
lawyer’s countenance, and as quickly disappearing. “So you consider it a
settled thing that my client is to be found guilty?”

“That’s what they say, sir; and things turn out, in this country, pretty
much as they say aforehand. For my part, sir, I never quite liked the
criminal’s looks.”

“Her _looks_! I do not know where you would go to find a more lovely
young woman, Stephen!”

This was said with a vivacity and suddenness that startled the coachman
a little. Even Dunscomb seemed surprised at his own animation, and had
the grace to change colour. The fact was, that he too was feeling the
influence of woman, youthful, lovely, spirited, refined, and surrounded
with difficulties. This was the third of Mary Monson’s conquests since
her arrest, if John Wilmeter’s wavering admiration could be placed in
this category; viz., Timms, the nephew, and the counsellor himself.
Neither was absolutely in love; but each and all submitted to an
interest of an unusual degree in the person, character and fortunes of
this unknown female. Timms, alone, had got so far as to contemplate a
marriage; the idea having crossed his mind that it might be almost as
useful as popularity, to become the husband of one possessed of so much
money.

“I’ll not deny her _good_ looks, ’Squire,” returned Stephen Hoof—or
Stephen Huff, as he called himself—“but it’s her _bad_ looks that isn’t
so much to my fancy. Vhy, sir, once the doctor had a horse that was
agreeable enough to the eye, having a good colour and most of the
p’ints, but who wasn’t no traveller, not a bit on’t. One that know’d the
animal could see where the fault lay, the fetlock j’int being oncommon
longish; and that’s what I call _good_ looks and _bad_ looks.”

“You mean, Stephen,” said Dunscomb, who had regained all his _sang
froid_, “that Mary Monson has a bad-looking ankle, I suppose, wherein I
think you miserably mistaken. No matter; she will not have to travel
under your lash very far. But, how is it with the reporters?—Do you see
any more of your friend that asks so many questions?”

“They be an axing set, ’Squire, if anybody can be so called,” returned
Stephen, grinning. “Would you think it, sir?—one day when I was a comin’
in from Timbully empty, one on ’em axed me for a ride! a chap as hadn’t
his foot in a reg’lar private coach since he was born, a wantin’ to
drive about in a wehicle as well known as Doctor McBrain’s best
carriage! Them’s the sort of chaps that spreads all the reports that’s
going up and down the land, they tell me.”

“They do their share of it, Stephen; though there are enough to help
them who do not openly belong to their corps. Well; what does your
acquaintance want to know now?”

“Oncommon curious, ’Squire, about the bones. He axed me more than forty
questions; what we thought of them; and about their being male or female
bones; and how we know’d; and a great many more sich matters. I answered
him accordin’ to my abilities; and so he made an article on the subject,
and has sent me the papers.”

“An article! Concerning Mary Monson, and on your information?”

“Sartain, sir; and the bones. Vhy they cut articles out of much narrower
cloth, I can tell you, ’Squire. There’s the cooks, and chambermaids, and
vaiters about town, none of vich can hold up their heads with a reg’lar,
long-established physician’s coachman, who goes far ahead of even an
omnibus driver in public estimation, as you must know, ’Squire—but such
sort of folks furnish many an article for the papers now-a-days—yes, and
articles that ladies and gentlemen read.”

“That is certainly a singular source of useful knowledge—one must hope
they are well-grounded, or they will soon cease to be ladies and
gentlemen at all. Have you the paper about you, Stephen?”

Hoof handed the lawyer a journal folded with a paragraph in view that
was so much thumbed and dirtied, it was not very easy to read it.

“We understand that the trial of Mary Monson, for the murder of Peter
and Dorothy Goodwin,” said the ‘article,’ “will come off in the
adjoining county of Dukes, at a very early day. Strong attempts have
been made to make it appear that the skeletons found in the ruins of
Goodwin’s dwelling, which our readers will remember was burned at the
time of the murders, are not human bones; but, we have been at great
pains to investigate this very material point, and have no hesitation in
giving it as our profound conviction that it will be made to appear that
these melancholy memorials are all that remain of the excellent couple
who were so suddenly taken out of existence. We do not speak lightly on
this subject, having gone to the fountain-head for our facts, as well as
for our science.”

“Hoof on McBrain!” muttered Dunscomb, arching his brows—“this is much of
a piece with quite one-half of the knowledge that is poured into the
popular mind, now-a-days. Thank you, Stephen; I will keep this paper,
which may be of use at the trial.”

“I thought our opinions was vorth something more than nothing, sir,”
answered the gratified coachman—“a body doesn’t ride at all hours, day
and night, year arter year, and come out where he started. I vishes you
to keep that ’ere paper, ’Squire, a little carefully, for it may be
wanted in the college where they reads all sorts of things, one of these
days.”

“It shall be cared for, my friend—I hear some one at the street-door
bell.—It is late for a call; and I fear Peter has gone to bed. See who
is there, and good night.”

Stephen withdrew, the ringing being repeated a little impatiently, and
was soon at the street-door. The fellow admitted the visiters, and went
ruminating homeward, Dunscomb maintaining a very respectable reputation,
in a bachelor point of view, for morals. As for the lawyer himself, he
was in the act of reading a second time the precious opinion expressed
in the journals, when the door of his library opened, a little
hesitatingly it must be confessed, and two females stood on its
threshold. Although his entirely unexpected visiters were so much
muffled in shawls and veils it was not possible to distinguish even the
outlines of their persons, Dunscomb fancied each was youthful and
handsome, the instant he cast his eyes on them. The result showed how
well he guessed.

Throwing aside the garments that concealed their forms and faces, Mary
Monson and Anna Updyke advanced into the room. The first was perfectly
self-possessed and brilliantly handsome; while her companion, flushed
with excitement and exercise, was not much behind her in this important
particular. Dunscomb started, and fancied there was felony, even in his
hospitality.

“You know how difficult it is for me to travel by daylight,” commenced
Mary Monson, in the most natural manner in the world; “that, and the
distance we had to drive, must explain the unseasonableness of this
visit. You told me once, yourself, that you are both a late and an early
man, which encouraged me to venture. Mr. Timms has written me a letter
which I have thought it might be well to show you. There it is; and when
you have cast an eye over it, we will speak of its contents.”

“Why, this is very much like a conditional proposal of marriage!” cried
Dunscomb, dropping the hand that held the letter, as soon as he had read
the first paragraph. “Conditional, so far as the result of your trial is
concerned!”

“I forgot the opening of the epistle, giving very little thought to its
purport; though Mr. Timms has not written me a line lately that has not
touched on this interesting subject. A marriage between him and me is so
entirely out of the way of all the possibilities, that I look upon his
advances as mere embellishment. I have answered him directly in the
negative once, and that ought to satisfy any prudent person. They tell
me no woman should marry a man she has once refused; and I shall plead
this as a reason for continued obduracy.”

This was said pleasantly, and without the least appearance of
resentment; but in a way to show she regarded her attorney’s proposal as
very much out of the beaten track. As for Dunscomb, he passed his hand
over his brows, and read the rest of a pretty long letter with grave
attention. The purely business part of this communication was much to
the point; important, clearly put, and every way creditable to the
writer. The lawyer read it attentively a second time, ere he once opened
his mouth in comments.

“And why is this shown to me?” he asked, a little vexed, as was seen in
his manner. “I have told you it is felony to assist a prisoner in an
attempt to escape.”

“I have shown it to you, because I have not the remotest intention, Mr.
Dunscomb, to attempt anything of the sort. I shall not quit my asylum so
easily.”

“Then why are you here, at this hour, with the certainty that most of
the night must be passed on the road, if you mean to return to your
prison ere the sun reappears?”

“For air, exercise, and to show you this letter. I am often in town, but
am compelled, for more reasons than you are acquainted with, to travel
by night.”

“May I ask where you obtain a vehicle to make these journies in?”

“I use my own carriage, and trust to a very long-tried and most faithful
domestic. I think Miss Updyke will say he drove us not only carefully,
but with great speed. On that score, we have no grounds of complaint.
But I am very much fatigued, and must ask permission to sleep for an
hour. You have a drawing-room, I take it for granted, Mr. Dunscomb?”

“My niece fancies she has two. Shall I put lights in one of them?”

“By no means. Anna knows the house as well as she does her mother’s, and
will do the honours. On no account let Miss Wilmeter be disturbed. I am
a little afraid of meeting _her_, since we have practised a piece of
treachery touching Marie Moulin. But, no matter; one hour on a sofa, in
a dark room, is all I ask. That will bring us to midnight, when the
carriage will again be at the door. You wish to see your mother, my
dear, and here is a safe and very suitable attendant to accompany you to
her house and back again.”

All this was said pleasantly, but with a singular air of authority, as
if this mysterious being were accustomed to plan out and direct the
movements of others. She had her way. In a minute or two she was
stretched on a sofa, covered with a shawl, the door was closed on her,
and Dunscomb was on his way to Mrs. McBrain’s residence, which was at
some distance from his own, with Anna leaning on his arm.

“Of course, my dear,” said the lawyer, as he and his beautiful companion
left his own door at that late hour of the night, “we shall see no more
of Mary Monson?”

“Not see her again! I should be very, very sorry to think that, sir!”

“She is no simpleton, and means to take Timms’s advice. That fellow has
written a strong letter, in no expectation of its being seen, I fancy,
in which he points out a new source of danger; and plainly advises his
client to abscond. I can see the infatuation of love in this; for the
letter, if produced, would bring him into great trouble.”

“And you suppose, sir, that Mary Monson intends to follow this advice?”

“Beyond a question. She is not only a very clever, but she is a very
cunning woman. This last quality is one that I admire in her the least.
I should be half in love with her myself”—This was exactly the state of
the counsellor’s feelings towards his client, in spite of his bravado
and affected discernment; a woman’s charms often overshadowing a
philosophy that is deeper even than his—“but for this very trait, which
I find little to my taste. I take it for granted you are sent home to be
put under your mother’s care, where you properly belong; and I am got
out of the way to save me from the pains and penalties of an indictment
for felony.”

“I think you do not understand Mary Monson, uncle Tom”—so Anna had long
called her friend’s relative, as it might be in anticipation of the time
when the appellation would be correct—“She is not the sort of person to
do as you suggest; but would rather make it a point of honour to remain,
and face any accusation whatever.”

“She must have nerves of steel to confront justice in a case like hers,
and in the present state of public feeling in Duke’s. Justice is a very
pretty thing to talk about, my dear; but we old practitioners know that
it is little more, in human hands, than the manipulations of human
passions. Of late years, the outsiders—outside barbarians they might
very properly be termed—have almost as much to do with the result of any
warmly-contested suit, as the law and evidence. ‘Who is on the jury?’ is
the first question asked now-a-days; not what are the facts. I have told
all this, very plainly, to Mary Monson——”

“To induce her to fly?” asked Anna, prettily, and a little smartly.

“Not so much that, as to induce her to consent to an application for
delay. The judges of this country are so much over-worked, so little
paid, and usually are so necessitous, that almost any application for
delay is granted. Business at chambers is sadly neglected; for that is
done in a corner, and does not address itself to the public eye, or seek
public eulogiums; but he is thought the cleverest fellow who will
soonest sweep out a crowded calendar. Causes are tried by tallow candles
until midnight, with half the jurors asleep; and hard-working men,
accustomed to be asleep by eight each night, are expected to keep their
thoughts and minds active in the face of all these obstacles.”

“Do you tell me this, uncle Tom, in the expectation that I am to
understand it?”

“I beg your pardon, child; but my heart is full of the failing justice
of the land. We shout hosannas in praise of the institutions, while we
shut our eyes to the gravest consequences that are fast undermining us
in the most important of all our interests. But here we are already; I
had no notion we had walked so fast. Yes, there is papa McBrain’s
one-horse vehicle, well emptied of its contents, I hope, by a hard day’s
work.”

“A doctor’s life must be so laborious!” exclaimed the pretty Anna. “I
think nothing could tempt me to marry a physician.”

“It is well a certain lady of our acquaintance was not of your way of
thinking,” returned Dunscomb, laughing; for his good humour always
returned when he could give his friend a rub on his matrimonial
propensities, “else would McBrain have been troubled to get his last and
best. Never mind, my dear; he is a good-natured fellow, and will make a
very kind papa.”

Anna made no reply, but rang the bell a little pettishly; for no child
likes to have a mother married a second time, there being much greater
toleration for fathers, and asked her companion in. As the wife of a
physician in full practice, the bride had already changed many of her
long-cherished habits. In this respect, however, she did no more than
follow the fortunes of woman, who so cheerfully makes any sacrifice in
behalf of him she loves. If men were only one-half as disinterested, as
self-denying, and as true as the other sex, in all that relates to the
affections, what a blessed state would that of matrimony be! Still,
there are erring, and selfish, and domineering, and capricious, vain,
heartless and self-willed females, whom nature never intended for
married life; and who are guilty of a species of profanation, when they
stand up and vow to love, honour and obey their husbands. Many of these
disregard their solemn pledges, made at the altar, and under the
immediate invocation of the Deity, as they would disregard a promise
made in jest, and think no more of the duties and offices that are so
peculiarly the province of their sex, than of the passing and idle
promises of vanity. But, if such women exist, and that they do our daily
experience proves, they are as exceptions to the great law of female
faith, which is tenderness and truth. They are not women in character,
whatever they may be in appearance; but creatures in the guise of a sex
that they discredit and caricature.

Mrs. McBrain was not a person of the disposition just described. She was
gentle and good, and bid fair to make the evening of her second
husband’s days very happy. Sooth to say, she was a good deal in love,
notwithstanding her time of life, and the still more mature years of the
bridegroom; and had been so much occupied with the duties and cares that
belonged to her recent change of condition, as to be a little forgetful
of her daughter. At no other period of their joint lives would she have
permitted this beloved child to be absent from her, under such
circumstances, without greater care for her safety and comforts; but
there is a honey-week, as well as a honey-moon; and the intenseness of
its feelings might very well disturb the ordinary round of even maternal
duties. Glad enough, however, was she now to see her daughter; when
Anna, blooming, and smiling, and blushing, flew into her mother’s arms.

“There she is, widow—Mrs. Updyke—I beg pardon—married woman, and Mrs.
McBrain,” cried Dunscomb—“Ned is such an uneasy fellow, he keeps all his
friends in a fever with his emotions, and love, and matrimony; and that
just suits him, as he has only to administer a pill and set all right
again. But there she is, safe and _unmarried_, thank heaven; which is
always a sort of consolation to me. She’s back again, and you will do
well to keep her, until my nephew, Jack, comes to ask permission to
carry her off, for good and all.”

Anna blushed more deeply than ever, while the mother smiled and embraced
her child. Then succeeded questions and answers, until Mrs. McBrain had
heard the whole story of her daughter’s intercourse with Mary Monson, so
far as it has been made known to the reader. Beyond that, Anna did not
think herself authorized to go; or, if she made any revelation, it would
be premature for us to repeat it.

“Here we are, all liable to be indicted for felony,” cried Dunscomb, as
soon as the young lady had told her tale. “Timms will be hanged, in
place of his client; and we three will have cells at Sing Sing, as
accessories before the act. Yes, my dear bride, you are what the law
terms a “particeps criminis,” and may look out for the sheriff before
you are a week older.”

“And why all this, Mr. Dunscomb?” demanded the half-amused,
half-frightened Mrs. McBrain.

“For aiding and abetting a prisoner in breaking gaol. Mary Monson is
off, beyond a question. She lay down in Sarah’s drawing-room, pretending
to be wearied, ten minutes since; and has no doubt got through with her
nap already, and is on her way to Canada, or Texas, or California, or
some other out-of-the-way country; Cuba, for aught I know.”

“Is this so, think you, Anna?”

“I do not, mamma. So far from believing Mary Monson to be flying to any
out-of-the-way place, I have no doubt that we shall find her fast asleep
on Mr. Dunscomb’s sofa.”

“_Uncle_ Dunscomb’s sofa, if you please, young lady.”

“No, sir; I shall call you uncle no longer,” answered Anna, blushing
scarlet—“until—until——”

“You have a legal claim to the use of the word. Well, that will come in
due time, I trust; if not, it shall be my care to see you have a title
to a still dearer appellation. There, widow—Mrs. McBrain, I mean—I think
that will do. But, seriously, child, you cannot imagine that Mary Monson
means ever to return to her prison, there to be tried for life?”

“If there is faith in woman, she does, sir; else would I not have
exposed myself to the risk of accompanying her.”

“In what manner did you come to town, Anna?” asked the anxious mother.
“Are you not now at the mercy of some driver of a hackney-coach, or of
some public cabman?”

“I understand that the carriage which was in waiting for us, half a mile
from Biberry, is Mrs. Monson’s——”

“Mrs.!” interrupted Dunscomb—“Is she, then, a married woman?”

Anna looked down, trembled, and was conscious of having betrayed a
secret. So very precious to herself had been the communication of Marie
Moulin on this point, that it was ever uppermost in her thoughts; and it
had now escaped her under an impulse she could not control. It was too
late, however, to retreat; and a moment’s reflection told her it would
every way be better to tell all she knew, on this one point, at least.

This was soon done; for even Marie Moulin’s means of information were
somewhat limited. This Swiss had formerly known the prisoner by another
name; though what name, she would not reveal. This was in Europe, where
Marie had actually passed three years in this mysterious person’s
employment. Marie had even come to America, in consequence of this
connection, at the death of her own mother; but, unable to find her
former mistress, had taken service with Sarah Wilmeter. Mary Monson was
single and unbetrothed when she left Europe. Such was Marie Moulin’s
statement. But it was understood she was now married; though to whom,
she could not say. If Anna Updyke knew more than this, she did not
reveal it at that interview.

“Ah! Here is another case of a wife’s elopement from her husband,”
interrupted Dunscomb, as soon as Anna reached this point in her
narration; “and I dare say something or other will be found in this
wretched Code to uphold her in her disobedience. You have done well to
marry, Mrs. McBrain; for, according to the modern opinions in these
matters, instead of providing yourself with a lord and master, you have
only engaged an upper-servant.”

“No true-hearted woman can ever look upon her husband in so degrading a
light,” answered the bride, with spirit.

“That will do for three days; but wait to the end of three years. There
are runaway wives enough, at this moment, roaming up and down the land,
setting the laws of God and man at defiance, and jingling their purses,
when they happen to have money, under their lawful husbands’ noses; ay,
enough to set up a three-tailed bashaw! But this damnable Code will
uphold them, in some shape or other, my life for it. One can’t endure
her husband because he smokes; another finds fault with his not going to
church but once a day; another quarrels with him for going three times;
another says he has too much dinner-company; and another protests she
can’t get a male friend inside of her house. All these ladies, forgetful
as they are of their highest earthly duties, forgetful as they are of
woman’s very nature, are the models of divine virtues, and lay claim to
the sympathies of mankind. They get those of fools; but prudent and
reflecting men shake their heads at such wandering deisses.”

“You are severe on us women, Mr. Dunscomb,” said the bride.

“Not on you, my dear Mrs. McBrain—never a syllable on _you_. But go on,
child; I have had the case of one of these vagrant wives in my hands,
and know how mistaken has been the disposition to pity her. Men lean to
the woman’s side; but the frequency of the abuse is beginning to open
the eyes of the public. Go on, Anna dear, and let us hear it all—or all
you have to tell us.”

Very little remained to be related. Marie Moulin, herself, knew very
little of that which had occurred since her separation from her present
mistress in France. She did make one statement, however, that Anna had
deemed very important; but which she felt bound to keep as a secret, in
consequence of the injunctions received from the Swiss.

“I should have a good deal to say about this affair,” observed Dunscomb,
when his beautiful companion was done, “did I believe that we shall find
Mary Monson on our return to my house. In that case, I should say to
you, my dear widow—Mrs. McBrain, I mean—the devil take that fellow Ned,
he’ll have half the women in town bearing his name before he is
done—Well, Heaven be praised! he can neither marry _me_, nor give me a
step-father, let him do his very best. There’s comfort in that
consideration, at any rate.”

“You were about to tell us what you would do,” put in the bride,
slightly vexed, yet too well assured of the counsellor’s attachment to
her husband to feel angry—“you must know how much value we all give to
your advice.”

“I was about to say that Anna should not return to this mysterious
convict—no, she is not _yet_ convicted, but she is indicted, and that is
something—but return she should not, were there the least chance of our
finding her, on our return home. Let her go, then, and satisfy her
curiosity, and pass the night with Sarah, who must be through with her
first nap by this time.”

Anna urged her mother to consent to this arrangement, putting forward
her engagement with Mary Monson, not to desert her. McBrain driving to
the door, from paying his last visit that night, his wife gave her
assent to the proposition; the tenderest mother occasionally permitting
another and more powerful feeling to usurp the place of maternal care.
Mrs. McBrain, it must be admitted, thought more of the bridegroom, sixty
as he was, than of her charming daughter; nor was she yet quite free
from the awkwardness that ever accompanies a new connection of this
nature when there are grown-up children; more especially on the part of
the female. Then Anna had communicated to her mother a most material
circumstance, which it does not suit our present purpose to reveal.

“Now for a dozen pair of gloves that we do not find Mary Monson,” said
the lawyer, as he walked smartly towards his own residence, with Anna
Updyke under his arm.

“Done!” cried the young lady—“and you shall _pay_ if you lose.”

“As bound in honour. Peter”—the grey-headed black who answered the
summons to the door—“will be glad enough to see us; for the old fellow
is not accustomed to let his young rogue of a master in at midnight,
with a charming young woman under his arm.”

Anna Updyke was right. Mary Monson was in a deep sleep on the sofa. So
profound was her rest, there was a hesitation about disturbing her;
though twelve, the hour set for the return of the carriage to Biberry,
was near. For a few minutes Dunscomb conversed with his agreeable
companion in his own library.

“If Jack knew of your being in the house, he would never forgive my not
having him called.”

“I shall have plenty of occasions for seeing Jack,” returned the young
lady, colouring. “You know how assiduous he is in this cause, and how
devoted he is to the prisoner.”

“Do not run away with any such notion, child; Jack is yours, heart and
soul.”

“Hist—there is the carriage; Mary must be called.”

Away went Anna, laughing, blushing, but with tears in her eyes. In a
minute Mary Monson made her appearance, somewhat refreshed and calmed by
her short nap.

“Make no excuse for waking me, Anna,” said this unaccountable woman. “We
can both sleep on the road. The carriage is as easy as a cradle; and,
luckily, the roads are quite good.”

“Still they lead to a prison, Mrs. Monson!”

The prisoner smiled, and seemed to be lost in thought. It was the first
time any of her new acquaintances had ever addressed her as a married
woman; though Marie Moulin, with the exception of her first exclamation
at their recent meeting, had invariably used the appellation of Madame.
All this, however, was soon forgotten in the leave-taking. Dunscomb
thought he had seldom seen a female of higher tone of manners, or
greater personal charms, than this singular and mysterious young woman
appeared to be, as she curtsied her adieu.

CHAPTER XVII.

“What then avail impeachments, or the law’s
Severest condemnation while the queen
May snatch him from the uplifted hand of justice?”
_Earl of Essex._

Perhaps the most certain proof that any people can give of a high moral
condition, is in the administration of justice. Absolute infallibility
is unattainable to men; but there are wide chasms in right and wrong,
between the legal justice of one state of society and that of another.
As the descendants of Englishmen, we in this country are apt to ascribe
a higher tone of purity to the courts of the mother country, than to
those of any other European nation. In this we may be right, without
inferring the necessity of believing that even the ermine of England is
spotless; for it can never be forgotten that Bacon and Jeffries once
filled her highest judicial seats, to say nothing of many others, whose
abuses of their trusts have doubtless been lost in their comparative
obscurity. Passing from the parent to its offspring, the condition of
American justice, so far as it is dependent on the bench, is a profound
moral anomaly. It would seem that every known expedient of man has been
resorted to, to render it corrupt, feeble, and ignorant; yet he would be
a hardy, not to say an audacious commentator, who should presume to
affirm that it is not entitled to stand in the very foremost ranks of
human integrity.

Ill paid, without retiring pensions, with nothing to expect in the way
of family and hereditary honours and dignities; with little, in short,
either in possession or in prospect, to give any particular inducement
to be honest, it is certain that, as a whole, the judges of this great
republic may lay claim to be classed among the most upright of which
history furnishes any account. Unhappily, popular caprice, and popular
ignorance, have been brought to bear on the selection of the
magistrates, of late; and it is easy to predict the result, which, like
that on the militia, is soon to pull down even this all-important
machinery of society to the level of the common mind.

Not only have the obvious and well-earned inducements to keep men
honest—competence, honours, and security in office—been recklessly
thrown away by the open hand of popular delusion, but all the minor
expedients by which those who cannot think might be made to feel, have
been laid aside, leaving the machinery of justice as naked as the hand.
Although the colonial system was never elaborated in these last
particulars, there were some of its useful and respectable remains, down
as late as the commencement of the present century. The sheriff appeared
with his sword, the judge was escorted to and from the court-house to
his private dwelling with some show of attention and respect, leaving a
salutary impression of authority on the ordinary observer. All this has
disappeared. The judge slips into the county town almost unknown; lives
at an inn amid a crowd of lawyers, witnesses, suitors, jurors and
horse-shedders, as Timms calls them; finds his way to the bench as best
he may; and seems to think that the more work he can do in the shortest
time is the one great purpose of his appointment. Nevertheless, these
men, _as yet_, are surprisingly incorrupt and intelligent. How long it
will remain so, no one can predict; if it be for a human life, however,
the working of the problem will demonstrate the fallibility of every
appreciation of human motives. One bad consequence of the depreciation
of the office of a magistrate, however, has long been apparent, in the
lessening of the influence of the judge on the juries; the power that
alone renders the latter institution even tolerable. This is putting an
irresponsible, usually an ignorant, and often a corrupt arbiter, in the
judgment-seat, in lieu of the man of high qualities for which it was
alone intended.

The circuit and oyer and terminer for Duke’s presented nothing novel in
its bench, its bar, its jurors, and we might add its witnesses. The
first was a cool-headed, dispassionate man, with a very respectable
amount of legal learning and experience, and a perfectly fair character.
No one suspected him of acting wrong from evil motives; and when he did
err, it was ordinarily from the pressure of business; though,
occasionally, he was mistaken, because the books could not foresee every
possible phase of a case. The bar was composed of plain, hard-working
men, materially above the level of Timms, except in connection with
mother-wit; better educated, better mannered, and, as a whole, of
materially higher origin; though, as a body, neither profoundly learned
nor of very refined deportment. Nevertheless, these persons had a very
fair portion of all the better qualities of the northern professional
men. They were shrewd, quick in the application of their acquired
knowledge, ready in their natural resources, and had that general
aptitude for affairs that probably is the fruit of a practice that
includes all the different branches of the profession. Here and there
was a usurer and extortioner among them; a fellow who disgraced his
calling by running up unnecessary bills of cost, by evading the penal
statutes passed to prevent abuses of this nature, and by cunning
attempts to obtain more for the use of his money than the law
sanctioned. But such was not the general character of the Duke’s county
bar, which was rather to be censured for winking at irregular
proceedings out of doors, for brow-beating witnesses, and for regarding
the end so intensely as not always to be particular in reference to the
means, than for such gross and positively illegal and oppressive
measures as those just mentioned. As for the jurors, they were just what
that ancient institution might be supposed to be, in a country where so
many of the body of the people are liable to be summoned. An unusually
large proportion of these men, when all the circumstances are
considered, were perhaps as fit to be thus employed as could be obtained
from the body of the community of any country on earth; but a very
serious number were altogether unsuited to perform the delicate duties
of their station. Fortunately, the ignorant are very apt to be
influenced by the more intelligent, in cases of this nature; and by this
exercise of a very natural power, less injustice is committed than might
otherwise occur. Here, however, is the opening for the “horse-shedding”
and “pillowing,” of which Timms has spoken, and of which so much use is
made around every country court-house in the state. This is the crying
evil of the times; and, taken in connection with the enormous abuse
which is rendering a competition in news a regular, money-getting
occupation, one that threatens to set at defiance all laws, principles
and facts.

A word remains to be said of the witnesses. Perhaps the rarest thing
connected with the administration of justice all over the world, is an
intelligent, perfectly impartial, clear-headed, discriminating witness;
one who distinctly knows all he says, fully appreciates the effect of
his words on the jury, and who has the disposition to submit what he
knows solely to the law and the evidence. Men of experience are of
opinion that an oath usually extracts the truth. We think so too; but it
is truth as the witness understands it; facts as he has seen them; and
opinions that, unconsciously to himself, have been warped by reports,
sneers and malice. In a country of popular sway like this, there is not
one man in a thousand, probably, who has sufficient independence of
mind, or sufficient moral courage, to fancy he has seen even a fact, if
it be of importance, differently from what the body of the community has
seen it; and nothing is more common than to find witnesses colouring
their testimony, lessening its force by feeble statements, or altogether
abandoning the truth, under this pressure from without, in cases of a
nature and magnitude to awake a strong popular feeling. It is by no
means uncommon, indeed, to persuade one class of men, by means of this
influence, that they did not see that which actually occurred before
their eyes, or that they did see that which never had an existence.

Under no circumstances do men congregate with less meritorious motives
than in meeting in and around a court of justice. The object is victory,
and the means of obtaining it will not always bear the light. The
approaching Circuit and Oyer and Terminer of Duke’s was no exception to
the rule; a crowd of evil passions, of sinister practices, and of
plausible pretences, being arrayed against justice and the law, in
two-thirds of the causes on the calendar. Then it was that Timms and
saucy Williams, or Dick Williams, as he was familiarly termed by his
associates, came out in their strength, playing off against each other
the out-door practices of the profession. The first indication that the
former now got of the very serious character of the struggle that was
about to take place between them, was in the extraordinary civility of
saucy Williams when they met in the bar-room of the inn they each
frequented, and which had long been the arena of their antagonistical
wit and practices.

“I never saw you look better, Timms,” said Williams, in the most cordial
manner imaginable; “on the whole, I do not remember to have ever seen
you looking so well. You grow younger instead of older, every day of
your life. By the way, do you intend to move on Butterfield against Town
this circuit?”

“I should be glad to do it, if you are ready. Cross-notices have been
given, you know.”

Williams knew this very well; and he also knew that it had been done to
entitle the respective parties to costs, in the event of anything
occurring to give either side an advantage; the cause being one of those
nuts out of which practitioners are very apt to extract the whole of the
kernel before they are done with it.

“Yes, I am aware of that, and I believe we are quite ready. I see that
Mr. Town is here, and I observe several of his witnesses; but I have so
much business, I have no wish to try a long slander cause; words spoken
in heat, and never thought of again, but to make a profit of them.”

“You are employed against us in the murder case, I hear?”

“I rather think the friends of the deceased so regard it; but I have
scarcely had time to look at the testimony before the coroner”—This was
a deliberate mystification, and Timms perfectly understood it as such,
well knowing that the other had given the out-door work of the case
nearly all of his time for the last fortnight—“and I don’t like to move
in one of these big matters without knowing what I am about. Your senior
counsel has not yet arrived from town, I believe?”

“He cannot be here until Wednesday, having to argue a great insurance
case before the Superior Court to-day and to-morrow.”

This conversation occurred after the grand jury had been charged, the
petit jurors sworn, and the judge had heard several motions for
correcting the calendar, laying causes over, &c. &c. Two hours later,
the District Attorney being absent in his room, engaged with the grand
jury, Williams arose, and addressed the court, which had just called the
first civil cause on the calendar.

“May it please the court,” he said, coolly, but with the grave aspect of
a man who felt he was dealing with a very serious matter—“there is a
capital indictment depending, a case of arson and murder, which it is
the intention of the State to call on at once.”

The judge looked still more grave than the counsel, and it was easy to
see that he deeply regretted it should fall to his lot to try such an
issue. He leaned forward, with an elbow on the very primitive sort of
desk with which he was furnished by the public, indented it with the
point of his knife, and appeared to be passing in review such of the
circumstances of this important case as he had become acquainted with,
judicially. We say ‘judicially;’ for it is not an easy thing for either
judge, counsel, or jurors, in the state of society that now exists, to
keep distinctly in their minds that which has been obtained under legal
evidence, from that which floats about the community on the thousand
tongues of rumour—fact from fiction. Nevertheless, the respectable
magistrate whose misfortune it was to preside on this very serious
occasion, was a man to perform all his duty to the point where public
opinion or popular clamour is encountered. The last is a bug-bear that
few have moral courage to face; and the evil consequences are visible,
hourly, daily, almost incessantly, in most of the interests of life.
This popular feeling is the great moving lever of the republic; the
wronged being placed beneath the fulcrum, while the outer arm of the
engine is loaded with numbers. Thus it is that we see the oldest
families among us quietly robbed of their estates, after generations of
possession; the honest man proscribed; the knave and demagogue deified;
mediocrity advanced to high places; and talents and capacity held in
abeyance, if not actually trampled under foot. Let the truth be said:
these are evils to which each year gives additional force, until the
tyranny of the majority has taken a form and combination which,
unchecked, must speedily place every personal right at the mercy of
plausible, but wrong-doing, popular combinations.

“Has the prisoner been arraigned?” asked the judge. “I remember nothing
of the sort.”

“No, your honour,” answered Timms, now rising for the first time in the
discussion, and looking about him as if to scan the crowd for witnesses.
“The prosecution does not yet know the plea we shall put in.”

“You are retained for the prisoner, Mr. Timms?”

“Yes, sir; I appear in her behalf. But Mr. Dunscomb is also retained,
and will be engaged in the New York Superior Court until Wednesday, in
an insurance case of great magnitude.”

“No insurance case can be of the magnitude of a trial for life,”
returned Williams. “The justice of the State must be vindicated, and the
person of the citizen protected.”

This sounded well, and it caused many a head in the crowd, which
contained both witnesses and jurors, to nod with approbation. It is
true, that every thoughtful and observant man must have had many
occasions to observe how fallacious such a declaration is, in truth; but
it sounded well, and the ears of the multitude are always open to
flattery.

“We have no wish to interfere with the justice of the State, or with the
protection of the citizen,” answered Timms, looking round to note the
effect of his words—“our object is to defend the innocent; and the great
and powerful community of New York will find more pleasure in seeing an
accused acquitted than in seeing fifty criminals condemned.”

This sentiment sounded quite as well as that of Williams’s, and heads
were again nodded in approbation. It told particularly well in a
paragraph of a newspaper that Timms had engaged to publish what he
considered his best remarks.

“It seems to me, gentlemen,” interposed the judge, who understood the
meaning of these _ad captandum_ remarks perfectly well, “that your
conversation is premature at least, if not altogether improper. Nothing
of this nature should be said until the prisoner has been arraigned.”

“I submit, your honour, and acknowledge the justice of the reproof,”
answered Williams. “I now move the court, on behalf of the District
Attorney, that Mary Monson, who stands indicted for murder and arson,
_be_ arraigned, and her pleas entered——”

“I could wish this step might be delayed until I can hear from the
leading counsel for the defence,” objected Timms, “which must now occur
in the course of a very few hours.”

“I perceive that the prisoner is a female,” said the judge, in a tone of
regret.

“Yes, your honour; she is, and young and handsome, they tell me,”
answered Williams; “for I have never been able to get a sight of her.
She is too much of a great lady to be seen at a grate, by all I can
learn of her and her proceedings. Plays on the harp, sir; has a French
_valet de chambre_, or something of that sort——”

“This is all wrong, Mr. Williams, and must be checked,” again interposed
the judge, though very mildly; for, while his experience taught him that
the object of such remarks was to create prejudice, and his conscience
prompted him to put an end to a proceeding so unrighteous, he stood in
so much awe of this particular counsel, who had half a dozen presses at
his command, that it required a strong inducement to bring him out as he
ought to be, in opposition to any of his more decided movements. As for
the community, with the best intentions as a whole, it stood passive
under this gross wrong. What ‘is everybody’s business’ is literally
‘nobody’s business,’ when the public virtue is the great moving power;
the upright preferring their ease to everything else, and the
ill-disposed manifesting the ceaseless activity of the wicked. All the
ancient barriers to this species of injustice, which have been erected
by the gathered wisdom of our fathers and the experience of ages, have
been thrown down by the illusions of a seeming liberty, and the whole
machinery of justice is left very much at the mercy of an outside public
opinion, which, in itself, is wielded by a few of the worst men in the
country. These are sober truths, as a close examination will show to any
one who may choose to enter into the investigation of the ungrateful
subject. It is not what is _said_, we very well know; but it is what is
_done_.

Williams received the mild rebuke of the judge like one who felt his
position; paying very little respect to its spirit or its letter. He
knew his own power, and understood perfectly well that this particular
magistrate was soon to run for a new term of office, and might be dealt
with more freely on that account.

“I know it is very wrong, your honour—very wrong”—rejoined the wily
counsel to what had been said—“so wrong, that I regard it as an insult
to the State. When a person is capitally indicted, man or woman, it is
his or her bounden duty to put all overboard, that there may be no
secrets. The harp was once a sacred instrument, and it is highly
improper to introduce it into our gaols and criminals’ cells——”

“There is no criminal as yet—no crime can be established without proof,
and the verdict of twelve good men and true,” interrupted Timms—“I
object, therefore, to the learned counsel’s remarks, and——”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” put in the judge, a little more pointedly than
in his former rebuke—“this is all wrong, I repeat.”

“You perceive, my brother Timms,” rejoined the indomitable Williams,
“the court is altogether against you. This is not a country of lords and
ladies, fiddles and harps, but of the _people_; and when the people find
a bill for a capital offence, capital care should be taken not to give
more offence.”

Williams had provided himself with a set of supporters that are common
enough in the courts, whose business it was to grin, and sneer, and
smile, and look knowing at particular hits of the counsel, and otherwise
to back up his wit, and humour, and logic, by the agency of sympathy.
This expedient is getting to be quite common, and is constantly
practised in suits that relate, in any manner, to politics or political
men. It is not so common, certainly, in trials for life; though it may
be, and has been, used with effect, even on such serious occasions. The
influence of these wily demonstrations, which are made to have the
appearance of public opinion, is very great on the credulous and
ignorant; men thus narrowly gifted invariably looking around them to
find support in the common mind.

The hits of Williams told, to Timms’s great annoyance; nor did he know
exactly how to parry them. Had he been the assailant himself, he could
have wielded the weapons of his antagonist with equal skill; but his
dexterity was very much confined to the offensive in cases of this
nature; for he perfectly comprehended all the prejudices on which it was
necessary to act, while he possessed but a very narrow knowledge of the
means of correcting them. Nevertheless, it would not do to let the
prosecution close the business of the day with so much of the air of
triumph, and the indomitable attorney made another effort to place his
client more favourably before the public eye.

“The harp is a most religious instrument,” he coolly observed, “and it
has no relation to the violin, or any light and frivolous piece of
music. David used it as the instrument of praise, and why should not a
person who stands charged——”

“I have told you, gentlemen, that all this is irregular, and cannot be
permitted,” cried the judge, with a little more of the appearance of
firmness than he had yet exhibited.

The truth was, that he stood less in fear of Timms than of Williams; the
connection of the last with the reporters being known to be much the
most extensive. But Timms knew his man, and understood very well what
the committal of counsel had got to be, under the loose notions of
liberty that have grown up in the country within the last twenty years.
Time was, and that at no remote period, when the lawyer who had been
thus treated for indecorum at the bar would have been a disgraced man,
and would have appealed in vain to the community for sympathy; little or
none would he have received. Men then understood that the law was their
master, established by themselves, and was to be respected accordingly.
But that feeling is in a great measure extinct. Liberty is every hour
getting to be more and more personal; its concentration consisting in
rendering every man his own legislator, his own judge, and his own
juror. It is monarchical and aristocratic, and all that is vile and
dangerous, to see power exercised by any but the people; those whom the
constitution and the laws have set apart expressly to discharge a
delegated authority being obliged, by clamours sustained by all the arts
of cupidity and fraud, to defer to the passing opinions of the hour. No
one knew this better than Timms, who had just as lively a recollection
as his opponent that this very judge was to come before the people, in
the next autumn, as a candidate for re-election. The great strain of
American foresight was consequently applied to this man’s conscience,
who, over-worked and under-paid, was expected to rise above the
weaknesses of humanity, as a sort of sublimated political theory that is
getting to be much in fashion, and which, _if true_, would supersede the
necessity of any court or any government at all. Timms knew this well,
and was not to be restrained by one who was thus stretched, as it might
be, on the tenter-hooks of political uncertainty.

“Yes, your honour,” retorted this indomitable individual, “I am fully
aware of its impropriety, and was just as much so when the counsel for
the prosecution was carrying it on to the injury of my client; I might
say almost unchecked, if not encouraged.”

“The court did its best to stop Mr. Williams, sir; and must do the same
to keep you within the proper limits of practice. Unless these
improprieties are restrained, I shall confine the counsel for the State
to the regular officer, and assign new counsel to the accused, as from
the court.”

Both Williams and Timms looked amused at this menace, neither having the
smallest notion the judge dare put such a threat in execution. What!
presume to curb licentiousness when it chose to assume the aspect of
human rights? This was an act behind the age, more especially in a
country in which liberty is so fast getting to be all means, with so
very little regard to the end.

A desultory conversation ensued, when it was finally settled that the
trial must be postponed until the arrival of the counsel expected from
town. From the beginning of the discussion, Williams knew such must be
the termination of that day’s work; but he had accomplished two great
objects by his motion. In the first place, by conceding delay to the
accused, it placed the prosecution on ground where a similar favour
might be asked, should it be deemed expedient. This resisting of motions
for delay is a common _ruse_ of the bar, since it places the party whose
rights are seemingly postponed in a situation to demand a similar
concession. Williams knew that his case was ready as related to his
brief, the testimony, and all that could properly be produced in court;
but he thought it might be strengthened out of doors, among the jurors
and the witnesses. We say, the witnesses; because even this class of men
get their impressions, quite frequently, as much from what they
subsequently hear, as from what they have seen and know. A good reliable
witness, who relates no more than he actually knows, conceals nothing,
colours nothing, and leaves a perfectly fair impression of the truth, is
perhaps the rarest of all the parties concerned in the administration of
justice. No one understood this better than Williams; and his agents
were, at that very moment, actively employed in endeavouring to persuade
certain individuals that they knew a great deal more of the facts
connected with the murders, than the truth would justify. This was not
done openly or directly; not in a way to alarm the consciences or pride
of those who were to be duped, but by the agency of hints, and
suggestions, and plausible reasonings, and all the other obvious
devices, by means of which the artful and unprincipled are enabled to
act on the opinions of the credulous and inexperienced.

While all these secret engines were at work in the streets of Biberry,
the external machinery of justice was set in motion with the usual
forms. Naked, but business-like, the blind goddess was invoked with what
is termed “republican simplicity,” one of the great principles of which,
in some men’s estimation, is to get the maximum of work at the minimum
of cost. We are no advocates for the senseless parade and ruthless
expenditure—ruthless, because extracted from the means of the poor—with
which the governments of the old world have invested their dignity; and
we believe that the reason of men may be confided in, in managing these
matters, to a certain extent; though not to the extent that it would
seem to be the fashion of the American theories, to be desirable. Wigs
of all kinds, even when there is a deficiency of hair, we hold in utter
detestation; and we shall maintain that no more absurd scheme of
clothing the human countenance with terror was ever devised, than to
clothe it with flax. Nevertheless, as comfort, decency and taste unite
in recommending clothing of some sort or other, we do not see why the
judicial functionary should not have his appropriate attire as well as
the soldier, the sailor, or the priest. It does not necessarily follow
that extravagances are to be imitated if we submit to this practice;
though we incline to the opinion that a great deal of the nakedness of
“republican simplicity,” which has got to be a sort of political idol in
the land, has its origin in a spirit that denounces the past as a
species of moral sacrifice to the present time.

Let all this be as it may, it is quite certain that “republican
simplicity”—the slang lever by means of which the artful move the
government—has left the administration of justice among us, so far as
externals are concerned, as naked as may be. Indeed, so much have the
judges become exposed to sinister influences, by means of the intimacies
with which they are invested by means of “republican simplicity,” that
it has been found expedient to make a special provision against undue
modes of approaching their ears, all of which would have been far more
efficiently secured by doubling their salaries, making a respectable
provision for old age in the way of pensions, and surrounding them with
such forms as would keep the evil-disposed at a reasonable distance.
Neither Timms nor “saucy Williams,” however, reasoned in this fashion.
They were, in a high degree, practical men, and saw things as they are;
not as they ought to be. Little was either troubled with theories,
regrets, or principles. It was enough for each that he was familiar with
the workings of the system under which he lived; and which he knew how
to pervert in a way the most likely to effect his own purposes.

The reader may be surprised at the active pertinacity with which
Williams pursued one on trial for her life; a class of persons with whom
the bar usually professes to deal tenderly and in mercy. But the fact
was that he had been specially retained by the next of kin, who had
large expectations from the abstracted hoards of his aunt; and that the
fashion of the day had enabled him to achieve such a _cent per cent_
bargain with his client, as caused his own compensation altogether to
depend on the measure of his success. Should Mary Monson be sentenced to
the gallows, it was highly probable her revelations would put the
wronged in the way of being righted, when this limb of the law would, in
all probability, come in for a full share of the recovered gold. How
different all this was from the motives and conduct of Dunscomb, the
reader will readily perceive; for, while the profession in this country
abounds with Williams’s and Timms’s, men of the highest tone of feeling,
the fairest practice, and the clearest perceptions of what is right, are
by no means strangers to the bar.

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Thou hast already racked me with thy stay;
Therefore require me not to ask thee twice:
Reply at once to all. What is concluded?”
_Mourning Bride._

During the interval between the occurrence of the scene in court that
has just been related, and the appearance of Dunscomb at Biberry, the
community was rapidly taking sides on the subject of the guilt or
innocence of Mary Monson. The windows of the gaol were crowded all day;
throngs collecting there to catch glimpses of the extraordinary female,
who was rightly enough reported to be living in a species of luxury in
so unusual a place, and who was known to play on an instrument that the
popular mind was a good deal disposed to regard as sacred. As a matter
of course, a hundred stories were in circulation, touching the
character, history, sayings and doings of this remarkable person, that
had no foundation whatever in truth; for it is an infirmity of human
nature to circulate and place its belief in falsehoods of this sort; and
more especially of human nature as it is exhibited in a country where
care has been taken to stimulate the curiosity of the vulgar, without
exactly placing them in a condition to appease its longings, either
intelligently or in a very good taste.

This interest would have been manifested, in such a case, had there been
no particular moving cause; but the secret practices of Williams and
Timms greatly increased its intensity, and was bringing the population
of Duke’s to a state of excitement that was very little favourable to an
impartial administration of justice. Discussions had taken place at
every corner, and in all the bar-rooms; and many were the alleged facts
connected with the murders, which had their sole existence in rumour,
that was adduced in the heat of argument, or to make out a
supposititious case. All this time, Williams was either in court,
attending closely to his different causes, or was seen passing between
the court-house and the tavern, with bundles of papers under his arms,
like a man absorbed in business. Timms played a very similar part,
though _he_ found leisure to hold divers conferences with several of his
confidential agents. Testimony was his aim; and, half a dozen times,
when he fancied himself on the point of establishing something new and
important, the whole of the ingenious fabric he had reared came tumbling
about his ears, in consequence of some radical defect in the foundation.

Such was the state of things on the evening of Wednesday, the day
preceding that which had been set down for the trial, when the stage
arrived bringing “’Squire Dunscomb,” his carpet-bags, his trunk, and his
books. McBrain shortly after drove up in his own carriage; and Anna was
soon in her mother’s arms. The excitement, so general in the place, had
naturally enough extended to these females; and Mrs. McBrain and her
daughter were soon closeted, talking over the affair of Mary Monson.

About eight that evening, Dunscomb and Timms were busy, looking over
minutes of testimony, briefs, and other written documents that were
connected with the approaching trial. Mrs. Horton had reserved the best
room in her house for this distinguished counsel; an apartment in a wing
that was a good deal removed from the noise and bustle of a leading inn,
during a circuit. Here Dunscomb had been duly installed, and here he
early set up “his traps,” as he termed his flesh-brushes, sponges,
briefs, and calfskin-covered volumes. Two tallow candles threw a dim,
lawyer-like light on the scene; while unrolled paper-curtains shut out
as much of night as such an imperfect screen would exclude. The odour of
segars—excellent Havannas, by the way—was fragrant in the place; and one
of the little fountains of smoke was stuck knowingly in a corner of the
eminent counsel’s mouth, while Timms had garnished his skinny lips with
the short stump of a pipe. Neither said anything; one of the parties
presenting documents that the other read in silence. Such was the state
of matters, when a slight tap at the door was succeeded by the
unexpected appearance of “saucy Williams.” Timms started, gathered
together all his papers with the utmost care, and awaited the
explanation of this unlooked-for visit with the most lively curiosity.
Dunscomb, on the other hand, received his guest with urbanity, and like
one who felt that the wrangling of the bar, in which, by the way, he had
too much self-respect and good temper to indulge, had no necessary
connection with the courtesies of private life.

Williams had scarcely a claim superior to those of Timms, to be
considered a gentleman; though he had the advantage of having been what
is termed liberally educated—a phrase of very doubtful import, when put
to the test of old-fashioned notions on such subjects. In manners, he
had the defects, and we may add the merits, of the school in which he
had been educated. All that has been said of Timms on this subject, in
the way of censure, was equally applicable to Williams; but the last
possessed a self-command, an admirable reliance on his own qualities,
which would have fitted him, as regards this one quality, to be an
emperor. Foreigners wonder at the self-possession of Americans in the
presence of the great; and it is really one of the merits of the
institutions that it causes every person to feel that he is a man, and
entitled to receive the treatment due to a being so high in the scale of
earthly creations. It is true, that this feeling often degenerates into
a vulgar and over-sensitive jealousy, frequently rendering its possessor
exacting and ridiculous; but, on the whole, the effect is manly, not to
say ennobling.

Now, Williams was self-possessed by nature, as well as by association
and education. Though keenly alive to the differences and chances of
fortune, he never succumbed to mere rank and wealth. Intriguing by
disposition, not to say by education, he could affect a deference he did
not feel; but, apart from the positive consequences of power, he was not
to be daunted by the presence of the most magnificent sovereign who ever
reigned. No wonder, then, that he felt quite at home in the company of
his present host; though fully aware that he was one of the leading
members of the New York bar. As a proof of this independence may be
cited the fact that he had no sooner paid his salutations and been
invited to be seated, than he deliberately selected a segar from the
open box of Dunscomb, lighted it, took a chair, raised one leg coolly on
the corner of a table, and began to smoke.

“The calendar is a little crowded,” observed this free-and-easy visiter,
“and is likely to carry us over into the middle of next week. Are you
retained in Daniels against Fireman’s Insurance?”

“I am not—a brief was offered by the plaintiff, but I declined taking
it.”

“A little conscientious, I suppose. Well, I leave all the sin of my
suits on the shoulders of my clients. It is bad enough to _listen_ to
their griefs, without being called on to _smart_ for them. I have heard
you are in Cogswell against Davidson?”

“In that cause I have been retained. I may as well say, at once, we
intend to move it on.”

“It’s of no great moment—if you beat us at the circuit, our turn will
come on execution.”

“I believe, Mr. Williams, your clients have a knack at gaining the day
in that mode. It is of no great interest to me, however, as I rarely
take the management of a cause after it quits the courts.”

“How do you like the Code, brother Dunscomb?”

“Damnable, sir. I am too old, in the first place, to like change. Then
change from bad to worse is adding folly to imbecility. The Common Law
practice had its faults, I allow; but this new system has no merits.”

“I do not go as far as that; and I rather begin to like the new plan of
remuneration. We are nothing out of pocket, and sometimes are a handsome
sum in. You defend Mary Monson?”

Timms felt assured that his old antagonist had now reached the case that
had really brought him to the room. He fidgeted, looked eagerly round to
see that no stray paper could fall beneath the hawk-like eye of the
other party, and then sat in comparative composure, waiting the result.

“I do,” Dunscomb quietly replied; “and I shall do it _con amore_—I
suppose you know what that means, Mr. Williams?”

A sarcastic smile passed over the steeled countenance of the other, his
appearance being literally sardonic for an instant.

“I presume I do. We know enough Latin in Duke’s to get along with such a
quotation; though our friend Timms here despises the classics. ‘Con
amore’ means, in this instance, a ‘lover’s zeal,’ I suppose; for they
tell me that all who approach the criminal submits to her power to
charm.”

“The _accused_, if you please,” put in the opposing attorney; “but no
_criminal_, until the word ‘_guilty_’ has been pronounced.”

“I am convicted. They say you are to be the happy man, Timms, in the
event of an acquittal. It is reported all over the county, that you are
to become Mr. Monson as a reward for your services; and if half that I
hear be true, you will deserve her, with a good estate in the bargain.”

Here Williams laughed heartily at his own wit; but Dunscomb looked
grave, while his associate counsel looked angry. In point of fact the
nail had been hit on the head; and consciousness lighted the spirit
within, with its calm, mild glow. The senior counsel was too proud, and
too dignified, to make any reply; but Timms was troubled with no such
feeling.

“If there are any such rumours in old Duke’s,” retorted the last, “it
will not need mesmerism to discover their author. In my opinion, the
people ought to carry on their suits in a spirit of liberality and
justice; and not in a vindictive, malicious temper.”

“We are all of the same way of thinking,” answered Williams, with a
sneer. “I consider it liberal to give you a handsome young woman with a
full purse; though no one can say how, or by whom, it has been filled.
By the way, Mr. Dunscomb, I am instructed to make a proposal to you; and
as Timms is in the court, this may be as good a moment as another to
present it for consideration. My offer is from the nephew, next of kin,
and sole heir of the late Peter Goodwin; by whom, as you probably know,
I am retained. This gentleman is well assured that his deceased
relatives had a large sum in gold by them, at the time of the murders——”

“No verdict has yet shown that there has been any murders at all,”
interrupted Timms.

“We have the verdict of the inquest, begging your pardon, brother
Timms—that is something, surely; though not enough, quite likely, to
convince your mind. But, to proceed with my proposition:—My client is
well assured that such a secret fund existed. He also knows that _your_
client, gentlemen, is flush of money, and money in gold coins that
correspond with many pieces that have been seen by different individuals
in the possession of our aunt——”

“Ay, eagles and half-eagles,” interrupted Timms—“a resemblance that
comes from the stamp of the mint.”

“Go on with your proposition, Mr. Williams”—said Dunscomb.

“We offer to withdraw all our extra counsel, myself included, and to
leave the case altogether with the State, which is very much the same
thing as an acquittal; provided you will _return_ to us five thousand
dollars in this gold coin. Not _pay_, for that might be compounding a
felony; but _return_.”

“There could be no compounding a felony, if the indictment be not
quashed, but traversed,” said the senior counsel for the defence.

“Very true; but we prefer the word ‘return.’ That leaves everything
clear, and will enable us to face the county. Our object is to get our
_rights_—let the State take care of its justice for itself.”

“You can hardly expect that such a proposition should be accepted,
Williams?”

“I am not so sure of that, Timms; life is sweeter than money even. I
should like to hear the answer of your associate, however. You, I can
see, have no intention of lessening the marriage portion, if it can be
helped.”

Such side-hits were so common in court, as between these worthies, that
neither thought much of them out of court. But Williams gave a signal
proof of the acuteness of his observation, when he expressed a wish to
know in what light his proposal was viewed by Dunscomb. That learned
gentleman evidently paid more respect to the offer than had been
manifested by his associate; and now sat silently ruminating on its
nature. Thus directly appealed to, he felt the necessity of giving some
sort of an answer.

“You have come expressly to make this proposition to us, Mr. Williams?”
Dunscomb demanded.

“To be frank with you, sir, such is the main object of my visit.”

“Of course it is sanctioned by your client, and you speak by authority?”

“It is fully sanctioned by my client, who would greatly prefer the plan;
and I act directly by his written instructions. Nothing short of these
would induce me to make the proposition.”

“Very well, sir. Will an answer by ten o’clock this evening meet your
views?”

“Perfectly so. An answer at any time between this and the sitting of the
court to-morrow morning, will fully meet our views. The terms, however,
cannot be diminished. Owing to the shortness of the time, it may be well
to understand _that_.”

“Then, Mr. Williams, I ask a little time for reflection and
consultation. We may meet again to-night.”

The other assented, rose, coolly helped himself to another segar, and
had got as far as the door, when an expressive gesture from Timms
induced him to pause.

“Let us understand each other,” said the last, with emphasis. “Is this a
truce, with a complete cessation of hostilities; or is it only a
negotiation to be carried on in the midst of war?”

“I hardly comprehend your meaning, Mr. Timms. The question is simply one
of taking certain forces—allied forces, they may be called—from the
field, and leaving you to contend only with the main enemy. There need
be nothing said of a truce, since nothing further can be done until the
court opens.”

“That may do very well, Williams, for those that haven’t practised in
Duke’s as long as myself; but it will not do for me. There is an army of
reporters here, at this moment; and I am afraid that the allies of whom
you speak have whole corps of skirmishers.”

Williams maintained a countenance so unmoved that even the judicious
Timms was a little shaken; while Dunscomb, who had all the reluctance of
a gentleman to believe in an act of meanness, felt outraged by his
associate’s suspicions.

“Come, come, Mr. Timms,” the last exclaimed, “I beg we may have no more
of this. Mr. Williams has come with a proposition worthy of our
consideration; let us meet it in the spirit in which it is offered.”

“Yes,” repeated Williams, with a look that might well have explained his
_sobriquet_ of ‘saucy;’ “yes, in the spirit in which it is offered. What
do you say to that, Timms?”

“That I shall manage the defence precisely as if no such proposition had
been made, or any negotiation accepted. You can do the same for the
prosecution.”

“Agreed!” Williams rejoined, making a sweeping gesture with his hand,
and immediately quitting the room.

Dunscomb was silent for a minute. A thread of smoke arose from the end
of his segar; but the volume no longer poured from between his lips. He
was ruminating too intensely even to smoke. Rising suddenly, he took his
hat, and motioned towards the door.

“Timms, we must go to the gaol,” he said; “Mary Monson must be spoken to
at once.”

“If Williams had made his proposition ten days ago, there might be some
use in listening to it,” returned the junior, following the senior
counsel from the room, carrying all the papers in the cause under an
arm; “but, now that all the mischief is done, it would be throwing away
five thousand dollars to listen to his proposition.”

“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. 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.”

“Acquitted! Our case is not absolutely clear, Miss Monson—it is my duty
to tell you as much!”

“I understand such to be the opinion of both Mr. Timms and yourself,
sir; I like the candour of your conduct, but am not converted to your
way of thinking. I shall be acquitted, gentlemen—yes, honourably,
triumphantly acquitted; and I cannot consent to lessen the impression of
such a termination to my affair, by putting myself in the way of being
even suspected of a collusion with a man like this saucy Williams. It is
far better to meet him openly, and to defy him to do his worst. Perhaps
some such trial, followed by complete success, will be necessary to my
future happiness.”

Anna now pressed nearer to the side of her friend; passing an arm,
unconsciously to herself, around her waist. As for Dunscomb, he gazed at
the handsome prisoner in a sort of stupefied wonder. The place, the
hour, the business of the succeeding day, and all the accessories of the
scene, had an effect to increase the confusion of his mind, and, for the
moment, to call in question the fidelity of his senses. As he gazed at
the prison-like aspect of the gallery, his eye fell on the countenance
of Marie Moulin, and rested there in surprise for half a minute. The
Swiss maid was looking earnestly at her mistress, with an expression of
concern and of care so intense, that it caused the counsellor to search
for their cause. For the first time it flashed on his mind that Mary
Monson might be a lunatic, and that the defence so often set up in
capital cases as to weary the common mind, might be rendered justly
available in this particular instance. The whole conduct of this
serving-woman had been so singular; the deportment of Mary Monson
herself was so much out of the ordinary rules; and the adhesion of Anna
Updyke, a girl of singular prudence of conduct, notwithstanding her
disposition to enthusiasm, so marked, that the inference was far from
unnatural. Nevertheless, Mary Monson had never looked more calm, more
intellectual; never manifested more of a mien of high intelligence, than
at that very instant. The singular illumination of the countenance to
which we have had occasion already to allude, was conspicuous, but it
was benignant and quiet; and the flush of the cheeks added lustre to her
eyes. Then the sentiments expressed were just and noble, free from the
cunning and mendacity of a maniac; and such as any man might be proud to
have the wife of his bosom entertain. All these considerations quickly
chased the rising distrust from Dunscomb’s mind, and his thoughts
reverted to the business that had brought him there.

“You are the best judge, ma’am, of what will most contribute to your
happiness,” rejoined the counsellor, after a brief pause. “In the
ignorance in which we are kept of the past, I might well add, the _only_
judge; though it is possible that your female companions know more, in
this respect, than your legal advisers. It is proper I should say, once
more, and probably for the last time, that your case will be greatly
prejudiced unless you enable us to dwell on your past life freely and
truly.”

“I am accused of murdering an unoffending female and her husband; of
setting fire to the dwelling, and of robbing them of their gold. These
are accusations that can properly be answered only by a complete
acquittal, after a solemn investigation. No half-way measures will do. I
must be found not guilty, or a blot rests on my character for life. My
position is singular—I had almost said cruel—in some respects owing to
my own wilfulness——”

Here Anna Updyke pressed closer to her friend’s side, as if she would
defend her against these self-accusations; while Marie Moulin dropped
her needle, and listened with the liveliest curiosity.

“In _many_ respects, perhaps,” continued Mary, after a short pause, “and
I must take the consequences. Wilfulness has ever been my greatest
enemy. It has been fed by perfect independence and too much money. I
doubt if it be good for woman to be thus tried. We were created for
dependence, Mr. Dunscomb; dependence on our fathers, on our brothers,
and perhaps on our husbands”—here there was another pause; and the
cheeks of the fair speaker flushed, while her eyes became brilliant to
light.

“_Perhaps!_” repeated the counsellor, with solemn emphasis.

“I know that men think differently from us on this subject——”

“From _us_—do you desire me to believe that most women wish to be
independent of their husbands? Ask the young woman at your side, if
_that_ be her feeling of the duties of her sex.”

Anna dropped her head on her bosom, and blushed scarlet. In all her
day-dreams of happiness with John Wilmeter, the very reverse of the
feeling now alluded to, had been uppermost in her mind; and to her
nothing had ever seemed half as sweet as the picture of leaning on him
for support, guidance, authority, and advice. The thought of
independence would have been painful to her; for a principle of nature,
the instinct of her sex, taught her that the part of woman was “to love,
honour, and obey.” As for Mary Monson, she quailed a little before the
severe eye of Dunscomb; but education, the accidents of life, and
possibly a secret principle of her peculiar temperament, united to
stimulate her to maintain her original ground.

“I know not what may be the particular notions of Miss Updyke,” returned
this singular being, “but I can feel my own longings. They are all for
independence. Men have not dealt fairly by women. Possessing the power,
they have made all the laws, fashioned all the opinions of the world, in
their own favour. Let a woman err, and she can never rise from her fall;
while men live with impunity in the midst of their guilt. If a woman
think differently from those around her, she is expected to conceal her
opinions, in order to receive those of her masters. Even in the worship
of God, the highest and most precious of all our duties, she is expected
to play a secondary part, and act as if the Christian Faith favoured the
sentiment of another, which teaches that women have no souls.”

“All this is as old as the repinings of a very treacherous nature, young
lady,” answered Dunscomb, coolly; “and I have often heard it before. It
is not surprising, however, that a young, handsome, highly-educated, and
I presume rich, person of your sex, should be seduced by notions
seemingly so attractive, and long for what she will be apt to term the
emancipation of her sex. This is an age of emancipation; prudent
grey-headed men become deluded, and exhibit their folly by succumbing to
a wild and exceedingly silly philanthropical hurrah! Even religion is
emancipated! There are churches, it is true; but they exist as
appendages of society, instead of being divine institutions, established
for the secret purposes of unerring wisdom; and we hear men openly
commending this or that ecclesiastical organization, because it has more
or less of the savour of republicanism. But one new dogma remains to be
advanced—that the government of the universe is democratical—in which
the ‘music of the spheres’ is a popular song; and the disappearance of a
world a matter to be referred to the people in their primary capacity.
Among other absurdities of the hour is a new law, giving to married
women the control of their property, and drawing a line of covetousness
across the bolster of every marriage bed in the State!”

“Surely, Mr. Dunscomb, a man of your integrity, character, manliness,
and principles, would defend the weaker sex in the maintenance of its
rights against prodigality, tyranny, and neglect!”

“These are so many words, my dear ma’am, and are totally without
meaning, when thoroughly sifted. God created woman to be a help-meet to
man—to comfort, solace, and aid him in his pursuit after worldly
happiness; but always in a dependent relation. The marriage condition,
viewed in its every-day aspect, has sufficient causes of disagreement,
without drawing in this of property. One of the dearest and nearest of
its ties, indeed, that of a perfect identification of interests, is at
once cut off by this foolish, not to say wicked attempt to light the
torch of contention in every household. It were better to teach our
women not to throw themselves away on men who cannot be trusted; to
inculcate the necessity of not marrying in haste to repent at leisure,
than to tinker the old, venerable, and long-tried usages of our fathers,
by crotchets that come far more from the feverish audacity of ignorance,
than from philosophy or wisdom. Why, unless the courts interpose their
prudence to rectify the blunders of the legislature, as they have
already done a hundred times, the labourer’s wife may have her action
against her husband for the earthen bowl he has broken; and the man may
be sued by the wife for rent! The happiness of every home is hourly put
in jeopardy, in order that, now and then, a wife may be saved from the
courses of a speculator or a spendthrift.”

“Might not this have been done before, uncle Tom, by means of
settlements?” asked Anna, with interest.

“Certainly; and that it is which renders all this silly quackery so much
the worse. In those cases in which the magnitude of the stake might seem
to demand extraordinary care, the means already existed for providing
all useful safeguards; and any new legislation was quite unnecessary.
This very law will produce twenty-fold more unhappiness in families,
than it will prevent of misery, by setting up distinct, and often
conflicting interests, among those who ought to live as ‘bone of their
bone, and flesh of their flesh.’”

“You do not give to woman her proper place in society, Mr. Dunscomb,”
returned Mary Monson, haughtily; “your comments are those of a bachelor.
I have heard of a certain Miss Millington, who once had an interest with
you, and who, if living, would have taught you juster sentiments on this
subject.”

Dunscomb turned as white as a sheet; his hand and lip quivered; and all
desire to continue the discourse suddenly left him. The gentle Anna,
ever attentive to his wishes and ailings, stole to his side, silently
offering a glass of water. She had seen this agitation before, and knew
there was a leaf in “Uncle Tom’s” history that he did not wish every
vulgar eye to read.

As for Mary Monson, she went into her cell, like one who declined any
further communication with her counsel. Timms was struck with her lofty
and decided manner; but stood too much in awe of her, to interpose a
remonstrance. After a few minutes taken by Dunscomb to regain his
self-command, and a brief consultation together, the two lawyers quitted
the prison. All this time, the accused remained in her cell, in
resentful silence, closely and anxiously watched by the searching eye of
her senior attendant.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIX.

“Methinks, if, as I guess, the fault’s but small,
It might be pardoned.”
_The Orphan._

Perhaps no surer test of high principles, as it is certain no more
accurate test of high breeding can be found, than a distaste for
injurious gossip. In woman, subject as she is unquestionably by her
education, habits, and active curiosity, to the influence of this vice,
its existence is deplorable, leading to a thousand wrongs, among the
chief of which is a false appreciation of ourselves; but, when men
submit to so vile a propensity, they become contemptible, as well as
wicked. As a result of long observation, we should say that those who
are most obnoxious to the just condemnation of the world, are the most
addicted to finding faults in others; and it is only the comparatively
good, who are so because they are humble, that abstain from meddling and
dealing in scandal.

When one reflects on the great amount of injustice that is thus
inflicted, without even the most remote hope of reparation, how far a
loose, ill-considered and ignorant remark will float on the tongues of
the idle, how much unmerited misery is oftentimes entailed by such
unweighed assertions and opinions, and how small is the return of
benefit in any form whatever, it would almost appear a necessary moral
consequence that the world, by general consent, would determine to
eradicate so pernicious an evil, in the common interest of mankind. That
it does not, is probably owing to the power that is still left in the
hands of the Father of Sin, by the Infinite Wisdom that has seen fit to
place us in this condition of trial. The parent of all lies, gossip, is
one of the most familiar of the means he employs to put his falsehoods
in circulation.

This vice is heartless and dangerous when confined to its natural
limits, the circles of society; but, when it invades the outer walks of
life, and, most of all, when it gets mixed up with the administration of
justice, it becomes a tyrant as ruthless and injurious in its way, as he
who fiddled while Rome was in flames. We have no desire to exaggerate
the evils of the state of society in which we live; but an honest regard
to truth will, we think, induce every observant man to lament the manner
in which this power, under the guise of popular opinion, penetrates into
all the avenues of the courts, corrupting, perverting, and often
destroying, the healthful action of their systems.

Biberry furnished a clear example of the truth of these remarks on the
morning of the day on which Mary Monson was to be tried. The gaol-window
had its crowd of course; and though the disposition of curtains, and
other similar means of concealment, completely baffled vulgar curiosity,
they could not cloak the resentful feelings to which this reserve gave
birth. Most of those who were drawn thither belonged to a class who
fancied it was not affliction enough to be accused of two of the highest
crimes known to the laws; but that to this grievous misfortune should be
added a submission to the stare of the multitude. It was the people’s
laws the accused was supposed to have disregarded; and it was their
privilege to anticipate punishment, by insult.

“Why don’t she show herself, and let the public look on her?” demanded
one curious old man, whose head had whitened under a steadily increasing
misconception of what the rights of this public were. “I’ve seen
murderers afore now, and ain’t a bit afeard on ’em, if they be well
ironed and look’d a’ter.”

This sally produced a heartless laugh; for, sooth to say, where _one_
feels, under such circumstances, as reason, and justice, and revelation
would tell them to feel, ten feel as the demons prompt.

“You cannot expect that a lady of fashion, who plays on the harp and
talks French, will show her pretty face to be gazed at by common folk,”
rejoined a shabby-genteel sort of personage, out of whose
waistcoat-pocket obtruded the leaves of a small note-book, and the end
of a gold pen. This man was a reporter, rendered malignant by meeting
with opposition to his views of imagining that the universe was created
to furnish paragraphs for newspapers. He was a half-educated European,
who pronounced all his words in a sort of boarding-school dialect, as if
abbreviation offended a taste ‘sicken’d over by learning.’

Another laugh succeeded this supercilious sneer; and three or four lads,
half-grown and clamorous, called aloud the name of “Mary Monson,”
demanding that she should show herself. At that moment the accused was
on her knees, with Anna Updyke at her side, praying for that support
which, as the crisis arrived, she found to be more and more necessary!

Changing from the scene to the open street, we find a pettifogger, one
secretly prompted by Williams, spreading a report that had its origin no
one knew where, but which was gradually finding its way to the ears of
half the population of Duke’s, exciting prejudice and inflicting wrong.

“It’s the curi’stest story I ever heard,” said Sam Tongue, as the
pettifogger was usually styled, though his real name was Hubbs; “and one
so hard to believe, that, though I tell it, I call on no man to believe
it. You see, gentlemen”—the little group around him was composed of
suitors, witnesses, jurors, grand-jurors, and others of a stamp that
usually mark these several classes of men—“that the account now is, that
this Mary Monson was sent abroad for her schoolin’ when only ten years
old; and that she staid in the old countries long enough to l’arn to
play the harp, and other deviltries of the same natur’. It’s a
misfortin’, as I say, for any young woman to be sent out of Ameriky for
an edication. Edication, as everybody knows, is the great glory of _our_
country; and a body would think that what can’t be l’arn’t _here_, isn’t
worth knowin’.”

This sentiment was well received, as would be any opinion that asserted
American superiority, with that particular class of listeners. Eye
turned to eye, nod answered nod, and a murmur expressive of approbation
passed through the little crowd.

“But there was no great harm in that,” put in a person named Hicks, who
was accustomed to connect consequences with their causes, and to trace
causes down to their consequences. “Anybody might have been edicated in
France as well as Mary Monson. _That_ will hardly tell ag’in her on the
trial.”

“I didn’t say it would,” answered Sam Tongue; “though it’s gin’rally
conceded that France is no country for religion or true freedom. Give me
religion and freedom, say I; a body can get along with bad crops, or
disapp’intments in gin’ral, so long as he has plenty of religion and
plenty of freedom.”

Another murmur, another movement in the group, and other nods denoted
the spirit in which this was received too.

“All this don’t make ag’in Mary Monson; ’specially as you say she was
sent abroad so young. It wasn’t her fault if her parents——”

“She had no parents—there’s the great mystery of her case. Never had, so
far as can be discovered. A gal without parents, without fri’nds of any
sort, is edicated in a foreign land, l’arns to speak foreign tongues,
plays on foreign music, and comes home a’ter she’s grown up, with her
pockets as full as if she’d been to Californy and met a vein; and no one
can tell where it all come from!”

“Well, _that_ won’t tell ag’in her, ne’ther,” rejoined Hicks, who had
now defended the accused so much that he began to take an interest in
her acquittal. “Evidence must be direct, and have a p’int, to tell ag’in
man or woman. As for Californy, it’s made lawful by treaty, if Congress
will only let it alone.”

“I know that as well as the best lawyer in Duke’s; but _character_ can
tell ag’in an accused, as is very likely to be shown in the Oyer and
Tarminer of this day. Character counts, let me tell you, when the facts
get a little confused; and this is just what I was about to say. Mary
Monson has money; where does it come from?”

“Those that think her guilty say that it comes from poor Mrs. Goodwin’s
stockin’,” returned Hicks, with a laugh; “but, for my part, I’ve _seen_
that stockin’, and am satisfied it didn’t hold five hundred dollars, if
it did four.”

Here the reporter out with his notes, scribbling away for some time.
That evening a paragraph, a little altered to give it point and
interest, appeared in an evening paper, in which the conflicting
statements of Tongue and Hicks were so presented, that neither of these
worthies could have recognised his own child. That paper was in Biberry
next morning, and had no inconsiderable influence, ultimately, on the
fortunes of the accused.

In the bar-room of Mrs. Horton, the discussion was also lively and wily
on this same subject. As this was a place much frequented by the jurors,
the agents of Timms and Williams were very numerous in and around that
house. The reader is not to suppose that these men admitted directly to
themselves even, the true character of the rascally business in which
they were engaged; for their employers were much too shrewd not to
cover, to a certain degree, the deformity of their own acts. One set had
been told that they were favouring justice, bringing down aristocratic
pride to the level of the rights of the mass, demonstrating that this
was a free country, by one of the very vilest procedures that ever
polluted the fountains of justice at their very source. On the other
hand, the agents of Timms had been persuaded that they were working in
behalf of a persecuted and injured woman, who was pressed upon by the
well-known avarice of the nephew of the Goodwins, and who was in danger
of becoming the victim of a chain of extraordinary occurrences that had
thrown her into the meshes of the law. It is true, this reasoning was
backed by liberal gifts; which, however, were made to assume the aspect
of compensation fairly earned; for the biggest villain going derives a
certain degree of satisfaction in persuading himself that he is acting
under the influence of motives to which he is, in truth, a stranger. The
homage which vice pays to virtue is on a much more extended scale than
is commonly supposed.

Williams’s men had much the best of it with the mass. They addressed
themselves to prejudices as wide as the dominion of man; and a certain
personal zeal was mingled with their cupidity. Then they had, by far,
the easiest task. He who merely aids the evil principles of our nature,
provided he conceal the cloven foot, is much more sure of finding
willing listeners than he who looks for support in the good. A very
unusual sort of story was circulated in this bar-room at the expense of
the accused, and which carried with it more credit than common, in
consequence of its being so much out of the beaten track of events as to
seem to set invention at defiance.

Mary Monson was said to be an heiress, well connected, and well
educated—or, as these three very material circumstances were stated by
the Williams’ men—“well to do herself, of friends well to do, and of
excellent schooling.” She had been married to a person of equal position
in society, wealth and character, but many years her senior—too many,
the story went, considering her own time of life; for a great
difference, when one of the parties is youthful, is apt to tax the
tastes too severely—and that connection had not proved happy. It had
been formed abroad, and more on foreign than on American principles; the
bridegroom being a Frenchman. It was what is called a _mariage de
raison_, made through the agency of friends and executors, rather than
through the sympathies and feelings that should alone bring man and
woman together in this, the closest union known to human beings. After a
year of married life abroad, the unmatched couple had come to America,
where the wife possessed a very ample fortune. This estate the recently
enacted laws gave solely and absolutely to herself; and it soon became a
source of dissension between man and wife. The husband, quite naturally,
considered himself entitled to advise and direct, and, in some measure,
to control, while the affluent, youthful, and pretty wife, was
indisposed to yield any of the independence she so much prized, but
which, in sooth, was asserted in the very teeth of one of the most
salutary laws of nature. In consequence of this very different manner of
viewing the marriage relation, a coolness ensued, which was shortly
followed by the disappearance of the wife. This wife was Mary Monson,
who had secreted herself in the retired dwelling of the Goodwins, while
the hired agents of her husband were running up and down the land in
search of the fugitive in places of resort. To this account, so strange,
and yet in many respects so natural, it was added that a vein of occult
madness existed in the lady’s family; and it was suggested that, as so
much of her conduct as was out of the ordinary course might be traced to
this malady, so was it also possible that the terrible incidents of the
fire and the deaths were to be imputed to the same deep affliction.

We are far from saying that any rumour expressed in the terms we have
used, was circulating in Mrs. Horton’s bar-room; but one that contained
all their essentials was. It is one of the curious effects of the upward
tendency of truth that almost every effort to conceal it altogether
fails; and this at the very time when idle and heartless gossip is
filling the world with lies. The tongue does a thousand times more evil
than the sword; destroys more happiness, inflicts more incurable wounds,
leaves deeper and more indelible scars. Truth is rarely met with
unalloyed by falsehood.

“This or that unmix’d, no mortal e’er shall find”—

Was the judgment of Pope a century since; nor has all the boasted
progress of these later times induced a change. It is remarkable that a
country which seems honestly devoted to improvement of every sort, that
has a feverish desire to take the lead in the warfare against all sorts
and species of falsehood, gives not the slightest heed to the necessity
of keeping the channels of intelligence _pure_, as well as _open_! Such
is the fact; and it is a melancholy but a just admission to acknowledge
that with all the means of publicity preserved by America, there is no
country in which it is more difficult to get unadulterated truth
impressed on the common mind. The same wire that transmits a true
account of the price of cotton from Halifax to New Orleans, carries a
spark that imparts one that is false. The two arrive together; and it is
not until each has done its work that the real fact is ascertained.

Notwithstanding these undoubted obstacles to the circulation of
unalloyed truth, that upward tendency to which we have alluded
occasionally brings out clear and strong rays of the divine quality,
that illumine the moral darkness on which they shine, as the sun touches
the verge of the thunder-cloud. It is in this way that an occasional
report is heard, coming from no one knows where; originating with, no
one knows whom; circulating in a sort of under-current beneath the
torrents of falsehood, that is singularly, if it be not absolutely
correct.

Of this character was the strange rumour that found its way into Biberry
on the morning of Mary Monson’s trial, touching the history of that
mysterious young woman’s past life. Wilmeter heard it, first, with a
pang of disappointment, though Anna had nearly regained her power in his
heart; and this pang was immediately succeeded by unbounded surprise. He
told the tale to Millington; and together they endeavoured to trace the
report to something like its source. All efforts of this nature were in
vain. One had heard the story from another; but no one could say whence
it came originally. The young men gave the pursuit up as useless, and
proceeded together towards the room of Timms, where they knew Dunscomb
was to be found, just at that time.

“It is remarkable that a story of this nature should be in such general
circulation,” said John, “and no one be able to tell who brought it to
Biberry. Parts of it seem extravagant. Do they not strike you so, sir?”

“There is nothing too extravagant for some women to do,” answered
Millington, thoughtfully. “Now, on such a person as Sarah, or even on
Anna Updyke, some calculations might be made—certain calculations, I
might say; but, there are women, Jack, on whom one can no more depend,
than on the constancy of the winds.”

“I admire your—‘even on Anna Updyke!’”

“Do you not agree with me?” returned the unobservant Millington. “I have
always considered Sarah’s friend as a particularly reliable and safe
sort of person.”

“Even on Anna Updyke!—and a particularly reliable and safe sort of
person!—You have thought this, Mike, because she is Sarah’s bosom
friend!”

“That _may_ have prejudiced me in her favour, I will allow; for I like
most things that Sarah likes.”

John looked at his friend and future brother-in-law with an amused
surprise; the idea of liking Anna Updyke on any account but her own,
striking him as particularly absurd. But they were soon at Timms’s door,
and the conversation dropped as a matter of course.

No one who has ever travelled much in the interior of America, can
easily mistake the character of one of the small edifices, with the
gable to the street, ornamented with what are erroneously termed
Venitian blinds, painted white, and with an air of tobacco-smoke and the
shabby-genteel about it, notwithstanding its architectural pretensions.
This is a lawyer’s office, thus brought edgeways to the street, as if
its owner felt the necessity of approaching the thoroughfare of the
world a little less directly than the rest of mankind. It often happens
that these buildings, small as they usually are, contain two, or even
three rooms; and that the occupants, if single men, sleep in them as
well as transact their business. Such was the case with Timms, his
“office,” as the structure was termed, containing his bed-room, in
addition to an inner and an outer apartment devoted to the purposes of
the law. Dunscomb was in the sanctum, while a single clerk and three or
four clients, countrymen of decent exterior and very expecting
countenances, occupied the outer room. John and Millington went into the
presence with little or no hesitation.

Wilmeter was not accustomed to much circumlocution; and he at once
communicated the substance of the strange rumour that was in
circulation, touching their interesting client. The uncle listened with
intense attention, turning pale as the nephew proceeded. Instead of
answering or making any comment, he sank upon a chair, leaned his hands
on a table and his head on his hands, for fully a minute. All were
struck with these signs of agitation; but no one dared to interfere. At
length, this awkward pause came to a close, and Dunscomb raised his
head, the face still pale and agitated. His eye immediately sought that
of Millington.

“You had heard this story, Michael?” demanded the counsellor.

“I had, sir. John and I went together to try to trace it to some
authority.”

“With what success?”

“None whatever. It is in every one’s mouth, but no one can say whence it
came. Most rumours have a clue, but this seems to have none.”

“Do you trace the connection which has struck—which has _oppressed_ me?”

“I do, sir, and was so struck the moment I heard the rumour; for the
facts are in singular conformity with what you communicated to me some
months since.”

“They are, indeed, and create a strong probability that there is more
truth in this rumour than is commonly to be found in such reports. What
has become of Timms?”

“On the ground, ’Squire,” answered that worthy from the outer room—“just
despatching my clerk”—this word he pronounced ‘clurk’ instead of
‘clark,’ by way of showing he knew how to spell—“with a message to one
of my men. He will find him, and be with us in a minute.”

In the mean time, Timms had a word to say to each client in succession;
getting rid of them all by merely telling each man, in his turn, there
was not the shadow of doubt that he would get the better of his opponent
in the trial that was so near at hand. It may be said here, as a proof
how much a legal prophet may be mistaken, Timms was subsequently beaten
in each of these three suits, to the great disappointment of as many
anxious husbandmen, each of whom fondly counted on success, from the
oily promises he had received.

In a very few minutes the agent expected by Timms appeared in the
office. He was plain-looking, rather rough and honest in appearance,
with a most wily, villanous leer of the eye. His employer introduced him
as Mr. Johnson.

“Well, Johnson, what news?” commenced Timms. “These are friends to Mary
Monson, and you can speak out, always avoiding partic’lar partic’lars.”

Johnson leered, helped himself to a chew of tobacco with great
deliberation, a trick he had when he needed a moment of thought before
he made his revelations; bowed respectfully to the great York lawyer;
took a good look at each of the young men, as if to measure their means
of doing good or harm; and then condescended to reply.

“Not very good,” was the answer. “That foreign instrument, which they
say is just such an one as David used when he played before Saul, has
done a good deal of harm. It won’t do, ’Squire Timms, to fiddle off an
indictment for murder! Mankind gets engaged in such causes; and if they
desire music on the trial, it’s the music of law and evidence that they
want.”

“Have you heard any reports concerning Mary Monson’s past life?—if so,
can you tell where they come from?”

Johnson knew perfectly well whence a portion of the rumours came; those
which told in favour of the accused; but these he easily comprehended
were not the reports to which Timms alluded.

“Biberry is full of all sorts of rumours,” returned Johnson, cautiously,
“as it commonly is in court-time. Parties like to make the most of their
causes.”

“You know my meaning—we have no time to lose; answer at once.”

“I suppose I do know what you mean, ’Squire Timms; and I have heard the
report. In my judgment, the person who set it afloat is no friend of
Mary Monson’s.”

“You think, then, it will do her damage?”

“To the extent of her neck. Eve, before she touched the apple, could not
have been acquitted in the face of such a rumour. I look upon your
client as a lost woman, ’Squire Timms.”

“Does that seem to be the common sentiment—that is, so far as you can
judge?”

“Among the jurors it does.”

“The jurors!” exclaimed Dunscomb—“what can you possibly know of the
opinions of the jurors, Mr. Johnson?”

A cold smile passed over the man’s face, and he looked steadily at
Timms, as if to catch a clue that might conduct him safely through the
difficulties of his case. A frown that was plain enough to the agent,
though admirably concealed from all others in the room, told him to be
cautious.

“I only know what I see and hear. Jurors are men, and other men can
sometimes get an insight into their feelings, without running counter to
law. I heard the rumour related myself, in the presence of seven of the
panel. It’s true, nothing was said of the murder, or the arson; but such
a history of the previous life of the accused was given as Lady
Washington couldn’t have stood up ag’in, had she been livin’, and on
trial for her life.”

“Was anything said of insanity?” asked Dunscomb.

“Ah, that plea will do no good, now-a-days; it’s worn out. They’d hang a
murderer from Bedlam. Insanity has been overdone, and can’t be depended
on any longer.”

“Was anything said on the subject?” repeated the counsellor.

“Why, to own the truth, there was; but, as that told _for_ Mary Monson,
and not _ag’in_ her, it was not pressed.”

“You think, then, that the story has been circulated by persons in
favour of the prosecution?”

“I know it. One of the other side said to me, not ten minutes
ago—‘Johnson,’ said he—‘we are old friends’—he always speaks to me in
that familiar way—‘Johnson,’ said he, ‘you’d a done better to have gi’n
up. What’s five thousand dollars to the likes of her? and them you know
is the figures.”

“This is a pretty exhibition of the manner of administering justice!”
exclaimed the indignant Dunscomb. “Long as I have been at the bar, I had
no conception that such practices prevailed. At all events, this
illegality will give a fair occasion to demand a new trial.”

“Ay, the sharpest lawyer that ever crossed Harlem bridge can l’arn
something in old Duke’s,” said Johnson, nodding “’Squire Timms will
stand to _that_. As for new trials, I only wonder the lawyers don’t get
one each time they are beaten; for the law would bear them out.”

“I should like to know how, Master Johnson,” put in Timms. “That would
be a secret worth knowing.”

“A five-dollar note will buy it.”

“There’s one of ten—now, tell me your secret.”

“Well, ’Squire, you _be_ a gentleman, whatever folks may say and think
of you. I’d rather do business with you, by one-half, than do business
with Williams; notwithstanding he has such a name, up and down the
country. Stick to it, and you’ll get the nomination to the Sinat’; and
the nomination secured, you’re sure of the seat. Nomination is the
government of Ameriky; and that’s secured by a wonderful few!”

“I believe you are more than half right, Johnson”—Here Dunscomb, his
nephew, and Millington left the office, quite unnoticed by the two
worthies, who had entered on a subject as engrossing as that of Timms’s
elevation to the Senate. And, by the way, as this book is very likely to
be introduced to the world, it may be well enough to explain that we
have two sorts of “Senates” in this country; wheels within wheels. There
is the Senate of each State, without an exception now, we believe; and
there is the Senate of the United States; the last being, in every
sense, much the most dignified and important body. It being
unfortunately true, that “nominations” are the real people of America,
unless in cases which arouse the nation, the State Senates very often
contain members altogether unsuited to their trusts; men who have
obtained their seats by party legerdemain; and who had much better, on
their own account, as well as on that of the public, be at home
attending to their own private affairs. This much may be freely said by
any citizen, of a State Senate, a collection of political partisans that
commands no particular respect; but, it is very different with that of
the United States; and we shall confine ourselves to saying, in
reference to that body, which it is the fashion of the times to
reverence as the most illustrious political body on earth, that it is
not quite as obnoxious to this judgment as the best of its sisterhood of
the several States; though very far from being immaculate, or what with
a little more honesty in political leaders, it might be.

“I believe you are half right, Johnson,” answered Timms—“Nomination _is_
the government in this country; liberty, people, and all! Let a man get
a nomination on the _right_ side, and he’s as good as elected. But, now
for this mode of getting new trials, Johnson?”

“Why, ’Squire, I’m amazed a man of your experience should ask the
question! The law is sharp enough in keeping jurors, and constables, and
door-keepers in their places; but the jurors, and constables, and
door-keepers, don’t like to be kept in their places; and there isn’t one
cause in ten, if they be of any length, in which the jurors don’t stray,
or the constables don’t get into the jury-rooms. You can’t pound
free-born Americans like cattle!”

“I understand you, Johnson, and will take the hint. I knew there was a
screw loose in this part of our jurisprudence, but did not think it as
important as I now see it is. The fact is, Johnson, we have been telling
the people so long that they are perfect, and every man that he, in his
own person, is one of these people, that our citizens don’t like to
submit to restraints that are disagreeable. Still, we are a law-abiding
people, as every one says.”

“That may be so, ’Squire; but we are not jury-room-abiding, nor be the
constables outside-of-the-door-abiding, take my word for it. As you say,
sir, every man is beginning to think he is a part of the people, and a
great part, too; and he soon gets the notion that he can do as he has a
mind to do.”

“Where is Mr. Dunscomb?”

“He stepp’d out with the young gentlemen, a few moments since. I dare
say, ’Squire Timms, he’s gone to engage men to talk down this rumour
about Mary Monson. That job should have been mine, by rights!”

“Not he, Johnson—not he. Your grand lawyers don’t meddle with such
matters; or, when they do, they pretend not to. No, he has gone to the
gaol, and I must follow him.”

At the gaol was Dunscomb, sure enough. Mary Monson, Anna and Sarah, with
Marie Moulin, all dressed for the court; the former with beautiful
simplicity, but still more beautiful care; the three last plainly, but
in attire well suited to their respective stations in life. There was a
common air of concern and anxiety; though Mary Monson still maintained
her self-command. Indeed, the quiet of her manner was truly wonderful,
for the circumstances.

“Providence has placed me in a most trying situation,” she said; “but I
see my course. Were I to shrink from this trial, evade it in any manner,
a blot would rest on my name as long as I am remembered. It is
indispensable that I should be _acquitted_. This, by God’s blessing on
the innocent, must come to pass, and I may go forth and face my friends
with a quiet mind.”

“These friends ought to be known,” answered Dunscomb, “and should be
here to countenance you with their presence.”

“They!—He!—Never—while I live, never!”

“You see this young man, Mary Monson—I believe he is known to you, by
name?”

Mary Monson turned her face towards Millington, smiled coldly, and
seemed undisturbed.

“What is he to me?—Here is the woman of his heart;—let him turn to
_her_, with all his care.”

“You understand me, Mary Monson—it is important that I should be assured
of _that_.”

“Perhaps I do, Mr. Dunscomb, and perhaps I do _not_. You are enigmatical
this morning; I cannot be certain.”

“In one short half-hour the bell of yonder court-house will ring, when
you are to be tried for your life.”

The cheek of the accused blanched a little; but its colour soon
returned, while her eye assumed a look even prouder than common.

“Let it come”—was her quiet answer—“the innocent need not tremble. These
two pure beings have promised to accompany me to the place of trial, and
to give me _their_ countenance. Why, then, should I hesitate?”

“I shall go, too”—said Millington, steadily, like one whose mind was
made up.

“You!—Well, for the sake of this dear one, you may go, too.”

“For no other reason, Mary?”

“For no other reason, sir. I am aware of the interest you and Mr.
Wilmeter have taken in my case; and I thank you both from the bottom of
my heart. Ah! kindness was never lost on me——”

A flood of tears, for the first time since her imprisonment, so far as
any one knew, burst from this extraordinary being; and, for a few
minutes, she became woman in the fullest meaning of the term.

During this interval Dunscomb retired, perceiving that it was useless to
urge anything on his client while weeping almost convulsively; and aware
that he had several things to do before the court met. Besides, he left
the place quite satisfied on an all-important point; and he and
Millington walked by themselves towards the court-house, their heads
close together, and their voices reduced nearly to whispers.

CHAPTER XX.

“I blush, and am confounded to appear
Before thy presence, Cato.”
“What’s thy crime?”
“I am a Numidian.”
_Cato._

Within the half hour mentioned by Dunscomb the court-house bell rang,
and there was a rush towards that building, in order to secure seats for
the approaching trial. All that has been related in the preceding
chapter occurred between the hours of six and nine that morning, it
being one of the “ways of the hour” in the march of improvement, to
drive the administration of justice with as near an approach to railroad
speed as is practicable. Many of the modern judges go to work as early
as eight in the morning—perhaps most do in the country circuits—and
continue to call causes until nine and ten at night, illustrating the
justice of the land by means of agents who are half asleep, and stupid
from fatigue.

We have said that everything like dignity, except as it is to be found
in the high character of its duties, and the manner in which they are
performed, has been banished from the courts of New York. Even on this
solemn occasion, when a human being was to be put on trial for her life,
and she a woman, there was no departure from the naked simplicity that
has been set up on the pedestal of reason, in open opposition to the
ancient accessories by which the Law asserted its power. It remains to
be seen whether human nature has not been as much over-estimated under
the new arrangement as it was underrated by the old. There is a medium,
in truth, that it is ever safe to respect; and there is reason to
apprehend that in throwing away the useless vestments of idle parade,
those necessary to decency were cast aside with them.

Quite a fourth of the audience assembled in Duke’s county court-house,
on this occasion, were females. The curiosity, which is said to be so
natural to the sex, was, on this occasion, quickened by the peculiar
circumstances of the case, a woman having been murdered, and a woman
accused of having committed the offence. It was said, however, that many
were summoned as witnesses, it being generally understood that the state
had subpœnaed the country far and near.

At length, a general and expecting silence succeeded the bustle of the
crowds entering and obtaining seats, and the eyes of the spectators were
very generally turned towards the door, in the wish to get a glimpse of
the principal personage in the approaching scene. We know not why it is
that the spectacle of others’ woes has so great a charm for most
persons. Nature has given us sympathy, and compassion, and a desire to
alleviate misery; yet most of us like to look upon it, as a mere
spectacle, when we have neither the wish nor the power to be more than
useless spectators. Thousands will assemble to see a man hanged, when
all know that the law has a grasp too tight to be unloosed, and that the
circle of the gallows is no place for feelings of commiseration. But, so
it is; and many a female, that day, who would have gladly alleviated any
distress that it was in her power to lessen, sat there, a curious and
interested observer of all that passed; to note the workings of the
countenance, the writhings of the inner soul, if any such there should
be, or the gleams of hope, that might, at intervals, lighten the gloom
of despair.

The court was occupied for half an hour with hearing motions, and in
granting orders, nothing seeming to impede its utilitarian progress.
Then the movement within the bar ceased, and an expectation that was
even solemn, fell on the whole mass of human beings that were collected
in that narrow space.

“This is the day for which the trial of Mary Monson was, by arrangement,
set down,” observed the judge. “Mr. District Attorney, are you ready?”

“We are, sir—entirely so, I believe. If the court please, Mr. Williams
and Mr. Wright will be associated with me in this case. It is one of
importance, and I do not like the responsibility of trying it alone.”

“The court has so understood it—who is for the accused?”

“I am retained to defend Mary Monson,” answered Dunscomb, rising with
dignity, and speaking with the self-possession of one long accustomed to
the courts. “Mr. Timms will assist me.”

“Are you ready, gentlemen?”

“I believe we are, your honour; though the prisoner has not yet been
arraigned.”

“Mr. District Attorney, we will proceed.”

As the sheriff now left the room, in person, rather an unusual thing in
bringing a prisoner into court, expectation was at its height. In the
midst of a breathing silence, the door swung round—court-room doors are
now made to swing like turnpikes, in order to prevent noise—and Mr. Gott
entered, followed by Mary Monson, Anna, Sarah, Marie Moulin, and the two
young men. The kind-hearted wife of the sheriff was already in the room,
and, by means of a constable, had managed to keep seats reserved for
those who might attend the prisoner. To these seats the party now
retired, with the exception of Marie Moulin, who attended her mistress
within the bar.

Every observer was struck with the unexpected air, manner, and attire of
the prisoner. Dunscomb saw, at a glance, that her appearance had made a
most favourable impression. This was something, and he hoped it might
counteract much of the manœuvring of Davis and Williams. The judge, in
particular, a kind-hearted and very well meaning man, was taken
altogether by surprise. There is nothing in which there is more
freemasonry than in the secret symptoms of social castes. Each
individual is more or less of a judge of these matters, up to the level
of his own associations, while all beyond is mystery. It happened that
the judge, now about to try Mary Monson, belonged to an old, historical,
New York family, a thing of rather rare occurrence in the great
movements of the times, and he possessed an hereditary tact in
discerning persons of his own habits of life. Almost at a glance, he
perceived that the prisoner had the air, manners, countenance and
finesse, of one accustomed, from infancy, to good company. The reader
may smile at this, but he must pardon us if we say the smile will betray
ignorance, rather than denote the philosophy that he may fancy controls
his opinions. Dunscomb was much gratified when the judge rather
earnestly interposed against the act of the sheriff, who was about to
place the prisoner at the bar in the little barricaded space allotted to
the use of ordinary criminals, directing him to—

“Give the prisoner a chair _within_ the bar, Mr. Sheriff. Gentlemen, be
so good as to make room, that the accused may sit near her counsel. Mr.
Attorney, let the prisoner be arraigned, as soon as she has rested from
the fatigue and agitation of appearing here.”

This ceremony, now little more than a blank form, was soon ended, and
the plea of “not guilty” was entered. The next step was to empannel the
jury, a task of infinite difficulty, and one that has got to be so much
an out-work, in the proceedings in criminal cases, as almost to baffle
the powers of the law. It is no unusual thing for the time of the court
to be occupied a week or two, in this preliminary proceeding, until the
evil has got to be so crying as to induce the executive to recommend
that the legislature may devise some mode of relief. One of the most
besetting vices of all American legislation, in those cases in which
abuses are not the offspring of party, is a false philanthropy, in which
the wicked and evil doer has been protected at the expense of the
upright and obedient. The abuse just mentioned is one of those in which
the bottom has been reached somewhat sooner than common; but, it is
hazarding little to predict, that more than half which has been done
within the last few years, under the guise of liberty and philanthropy,
will have to be undone, ere the citizen will be left to the quiet
enjoyment of his rights, or can receive the just protection of the laws.

One of the common-sense and real improvements of the day, is to swear
the jurors, in all the causes that are to be tried, by one process. This
is a saving of time; and though the ceremony might be, and ought to be
made, much more solemn and impressive than it is, as by causing all
other business to cease, and to make every one present rise, and stand
in reverential silence, while the name of the God of heaven and earth is
invoked, still it is a great improvement on the ancient mode, and has
reason to sustain it. It gives us pleasure to note such circumstances in
the “ways of the hour,” whenever a sense of right can induce one who
loathes the flattery of the people quite as much as he loathes that of
princes, and flattery of all sorts, to say aught in favour of what has
been done, or is yet doing around him.

The clerk called the name of Jonas Wattles, the first juror drawn. This
man was a respectable mechanic, of no great force in the way of mind,
but meaning well, and reputed honest. Timms gave the senior counsel a
look, which the other understood to mean, “he may do.” No objection
being made on account of the state, Jonas Wattles took his seat in the
jury-box, which was thought great good luck for a capital case.

“Ira Trueman,” cried the clerk.

A meaning pause succeeded the announcement of this name. Trueman was a
person of considerable local influence, and would probably carry great
weight in a body composed principally of men even less instructed than
he was himself. What was more, both Timms and Williams knew that their
respective agents had been hard at work to gain his ear, though neither
knew exactly with what degree of success. It was consequently equally
hazardous to accept or to oppose, and the two legal gladiators stood at
bay, each waiting for the other to betray his opinion of the man. The
judge soon became wearied, and inquired if the juror was accepted. It
was a somewhat amusing sight, now, to observe the manner in which Timms
proceeded with Williams, and Williams met Timms.

“I should like to hear the gentleman’s objections to this juror,”
observed Timms, “as I do not see that his challenge is peremptory.”

“I have not challenged the juror at all,” answered Williams, “but have
understood the challenge comes from the defence.”

“This is extr’or’nary! The gentleman looks defiance at the jurors, and
now declares he does not challenge!”

“Looks! If looks made a challenge, the state might at once suffer these
foul murders to go unpunished, for I am sure the gentleman’s countenance
is a perfect thunder-cloud—”

“I trust that counsel will recollect the gravity of this cause, and
suffer it to be conducted with the decorum that ought never to be
wanting in a court of justice,” interposed the judge. “Unless there is a
direct challenge, from one side or the other, the juror must take his
seat, of course.”

“I should like to ask the juror a question or two,” Timms replied,
speaking very cautiously, and like one who was afraid of hurting the
feelings of the party under examination; and in truth wary, lest on
investigation he might discover that Trueman was likely to be the sort
of person he wanted. “You have been at Biberry, juror, since the opening
of the court?”

Trueman nodded his head.

“Of course, you have been round among your friends and neighbours, that
you have met with here?”

Another nod from Trueman, with a sort of affirmative grunt.

“You have probably heard more or less said concerning Mary Monson—I mean
in a legal and proper way?”

A third nod of assent.

“Can you speak anything, in particular, that has been said in your
presence?”

Trueman seemed to tax his memory; then he raised his head, and answered
deliberately and with great clearness,

“I was going from the tavern to the court-house, when I met David
Johnson—”

“Never mind those particulars, Mr. Trueman,” interrupted Timms, who saw
that the juror had been talking with one of his own most confidential
agents—“what the court wishes to know is, if any one has been reporting
circumstances _unfavourable_ to Mary Monson in your presence?”

“Or in her _favour_,” put in Williams, with a sneer.

“Juror,” interposed the judge—“tell us if any one has spoken to you on
the merits of this case—for or against?”

“_Merits_”—repeated Trueman, seeming to reflect again—“No, your honour;
I can’t say that there has.”

Now, this was as bold a falsehood as was ever uttered; but Trueman
reconciled the answer to his conscience by choosing to consider that the
conversation he had heard had been on the _demerits_ of the accused.

“I do not see, gentlemen, that you can challenge for cause,” observed
his Honour—“unless you have further facts.”

“Perhaps we have, sir,” answered Williams. “You were saying, Mr.
Trueman, that you met David Johnson as you were going from the inn to
the court-house—Did I understand you correctly?”

“Just so, ’Squire. I had been having a long talk with Peter Titus”—one
of Williams’s most active and confidential agents—“when Johnson came up.
Johnson says, says he, ‘a pleasant day, gentlemen—I’m glad to see you
both out; for the faces of old friends is getting scarce——’”

“I see no objection to the juror’s being received,” Williams carelessly
remarked; satisfied that Titus had not neglected his duty in that long
talk.

“Yes, he is as good a juror as Duke’s can furnish,” observed Timms,
perfectly sure Johnson had turned to account the advantage of having the
last word. Trueman was accordingly admitted to the box, as the second
man of the twelve. The two managers of this cause were both right. Titus
_had_ crammed his old acquaintance Trueman with all that was circulating
to the prejudice of the prisoner; expressing surprise when he had said
all he had to say, at hearing that his friend was on the pannel. “Well,”
said Titus, as Johnson approached, “if questioned, you’ll remember I
said I didn’t dream of your being a juryman—but, just as like as not,
you’ll not be drawn for the case at all.” On the other hand, Johnson was
quite eloquent and pathetic in giving his old acquaintance the history
of Mary Monson’s case, whom he pronounced “a most injured and parsecuted
woman.” Trueman, a shrewd, managing fellow in general, fancied himself
just as impartial and fit to try the cause, after he had heard the
stories of the two men, as he had ever been; but in this he was
mistaken. It requires an unusually clear head, exceedingly high
principles, and a great knowledge of men, to maintain perfect
impartiality in these cases; and certainly Trueman was not the man to
boast of all these rare qualities. In general, the last word tells; but
it sometimes happens that first impressions become difficult to
eradicate. Such was the fact in the present instance; Trueman taking his
seat in the jury-box with an exceedingly strong bias against the
accused.

We are aware that these are not the colours in which it is the fashion
to delineate the venerable and much vaunted institution of the jury;
certainly a most efficient agent in curtailing the power of a prince;
but just as certainly a most irresponsible, vague, and quite often an
unprincipled means of administering the law, when men are not urged to
the desire of doing right by political pressure from without, and are
left to the perverse and free workings of a very evil nature. We
represent things as we believe them to exist, knowing that scarce a case
of magnitude occurs in which the ministers of corruption are not at work
among the jurors, or a verdict rendered in which the fingers of the
Father of Lies might not be traced, were the veil removed, and the facts
exposed to the light of day. It is true, that in trials for life, the
persecution of the prisoner rarely takes so direct a form as has been
represented in the case of Mary Monson; but the press and the tongue do
an incalculable amount of evil, even in such cases; all the ancient
safeguards of the law having been either directly removed by
ill-considered legislation, or rendered dead-letters by the “ways of the
hour.”

It was regarded as exceedingly good progress to get two jurors into the
box, in a capital case, in the first half-hour. His Honour had evidently
resigned himself to a twenty-four hours’ job; and great was his
satisfaction when he saw Wattles and Trueman safely seated on their hard
and uncomfortable seats; for it would almost seem that discomfort has
been brought into the court-houses as a sort of auxiliary to the old
practice of starving a jury into a verdict.

Whether it was owing to a suspicion, on the part of Timms, of the truth
in regard to his being over-reached in the case of Trueman, or to some
other cause, he raised no objections to either of the six jurors next
called. His moderation was imitated by Williams. Then followed two
peremptory challenges; one in behalf of the prisoner, and one in behalf
of the people, as it is termed. This was getting on so much better than
everybody expected, that all were in good humour; and it is not
exceeding the truth if we add, in a slight degree more disposed to view
the prisoner and her case with favour. On such trifles do human
decisions very often depend.

All this time, fully an hour, did Mary Monson sit in resigned submission
to her fate, composed, attentive, and singularly lady-like. The
spectators were greatly divided in their private speculations on her
guilt or innocence. Some saw in her quiet manner, curious interest in
the proceedings, and unchanging colour, proofs not only of a hardened
conscience, but of an experience in scenes similar to that in which she
was now engaged; overlooking all the probabilities, to indulge in
conjectures so severe against one so young.

“Well, gentlemen,” cried the judge, “time is precious. Let us proceed.”

The ninth juror was drawn, and it proved to be a country trader of the
name of Hatfield. This person was known to be a man of considerable
influence among persons of his own class, and to have a reputation for
judgment, if not for principles. “They might as well send the other
eleven home, and let Hatfield pronounce the verdict,” whispered one
lawyer to another; “there is no material in that box to withstand his
logic.”

“Then he will hold this young woman’s life in his hand,” was the reply.

“It will be pretty much so. The glorious institution of the jury is
admirably devised to bring about such results.”

“You forget the judge. He has the last word, you will remember.”

“Thank God it is so; else would our condition be terrible. Lynch law is
preferable to laws administered by jurors who fancy themselves so many
legislators.”

“It cannot be concealed that the spirit of the times has invaded the
jury-box; and the court has not one-half its ancient influence. I should
not like to have this Hatfield against me.”

It would seem that Williams was of the same way of thinking; for he
muttered to himself, desired the juror not to enter the box, and seemed
to be pondering on the course he ought to pursue. The truth was that he
himself had recently sued Hatfield for debt, and the proceedings had
been a little vindictive. One of the dangers that your really skilful
lawyer has to guard against is the personal animosity that is engendered
by his own professional practice. Many men have minds so constituted
that their opinions are affected by prejudices thus created; and they do
not scruple to transfer their hostility from the counsel to the cause he
is employed to defend. It is consequently incumbent on the prudent
lawyer to make his estimate of character with judgment, and be as sure
as the nature of the case will allow, that his client is not to suffer
for his own acts. As hostility to the counsel is not a legal objection
to a juror, Williams was under the necessity of presenting such as would
command the attention of the court.

“I wish the juror may be sworn true answers to make”—said Williams.

Timms now pricked up his ears; for, if it were of importance for
Williams to _oppose_ the reception of this particular individual, it was
probably of importance to Mary Monson to have him received. On this
principle, therefore, he was ready to resist the attack on the juror,
who was at once sworn.

“You reside in the adjoining town of Blackstone, I believe, Mr.
Hatfield?” asked Williams.

A simple assent was the reply.

“In practice there, in one of the learned professions?”

Hatfield was certain his interrogator knew better, for Williams had been
in his store fifty times; but he answered with the same innocent manner
as that with which the question was put.

“I’m in trade.”

“In trade!—Keep a store, I dare say, Mr. Hatfield?”

“I do—and one in which I have sold you hundreds myself.”

A general smile succeeded this sally; and Timms looked round at the
audience, with his nose pointing upwards, as if he scented his game.

“I dare say—I pay as I go,” returned Williams; “and my memory is not
loaded with such transactions——”

“Mr. Williams,” interrupted the judge, a little impatiently, “the time
of the court is very precious.”

“So is the dignity of the outraged laws to the State, your Honour. We
shall soon be through, sir—Many people in the habit of frequenting your
store, Mr. Hatfield?”

“As much so as is usual in the country.”

“Ten or fifteen at a time, on some occasions?”

“I dare say there may be.”

“Has the murder of Peter Goodwin ever been discussed by your customers
in your presence?”

“I don’t know but it has—such a thing is very likely; but one hears so
much, I can’t say.”

“Did you never join in such a discussion yourself?”

“I may, or I may not.”

“I ask you, now, distinctly, if you had no such discussion on the 26th
of May last, between the hours of eleven and twelve in the forenoon?”

The sharpness of the manner in which this question was put, the
minuteness of the details, and the particularity of the interrogatories,
quite confounded the juror, who answered accordingly.

“Such a thing _might_ have taken place, and it might _not_. I do not
remember.”

“Is Jonas White (a regular country loafer) in the habit of being in your
store?”

“He is—it is a considerable lounge for labouring men.”

“And Stephen Hook?”

“Yes; he is there a good deal of his time.”

“Now, I beg you to remember—did not such a conversation take place, in
which you bore a part, between the hours of eleven and twelve in the
forenoon; White and Hook being present?”

Hatfield seemed perplexed. He very conscientiously desired to tell the
truth, having nothing to gain by an opposite course; but he really had
no recollection of any such discussion, as well might be the case; no
such conversation ever having taken place. Williams knew the habits of
the loafers in question, had selected the time a little at random, and
adopted the particularity merely as a means of confounding the juror, of
whom he was seriously afraid.

“Such a thing _may_ have happened,” answered Hatfield, after a pause—“I
don’t remember.”

“It _may_ have happened—Now, sir, allow me to ask you if, in that
conversation, you did not express an opinion that you did not, and
_could_ not believe that a lady educated and delicate, like the prisoner
at the bar, did, or would, under any circumstances, commit the offence
with which Mary Monson is charged?”

Hatfield grew more and more confounded; for Williams’s manner was more
and more confident and cool. In this state of feeling he suffered the
reply to escape him—

“I _may_ have said as much—it seems quite natural.”

“I presume, after this,” observed Williams, carelessly, “your Honour
will order the juror not to enter the box?”

“Not so fast—not so fast, brother Williams,” put in Timms, who felt it
was now his turn to say a word, and who was thumbing a small
pocket-almanac very diligently the while.

“This discussion, I understand the learned gentleman, took place in the
juror’s store?”

“It did, sir,” was the answer—“a place where such discussions are very
apt to occur. Hook and White loaf half their time away in that store.”

“All quite likely—very likely to happen—Mr. Hatfield, do you open your
store on the Sabbath?”

“Certainly not—I am very particular to do nothing of the sort.”

“A church-member, I suppose, sir?”

“An undeserving one, sir.”

“Never, on any account, in the practice of opening your store of a
Sabbath, I understand you to say?”

“Never, except in cases of sickness. We must all respect the wants of
the sick.”

“Are Hook and White in the habit of loafing about on your premises of a
Sunday?”

“Never—I wouldn’t tolerate it. The store is a public place of a
week-day, and they can come in if they please; but I wouldn’t tolerate
such visits on the Sabbath.”

“Yet, if the court please, the 26th of last May happened to fall on the
Sabbath day! My brother Williams forgot to look into the almanac before
he made up his brief.”

Here Timms sat down, cocking his nose still higher, quite certain of
having made a capital hit towards his views on the Senate, though he
actually gained nothing for the cause. There was a general simper in the
audience; and Williams felt that he had lost quite as much as his
opponent had gained.

“Well, gentlemen, time is precious—let us get on,” interposed the
judge—“Is the juror to enter the box or not?”

“I trust a trifling mistake as to the day of the month is not about to
defeat the ends of justice,” answered Williams, raising himself higher
on his stilts, as he found himself sinking lower in his facts. “I put it
on the 26th by a miscalculation, I can now see. It was probably on the
25th—Saturday is the loafer’s holiday;—yes, it must have been on
Saturday the 25th that the conversation took place.”

“Do you remember this fact, juror?”

“I remember, now so much has been said on the subject,” answered
Hatfield, firmly, “that I was not at home at all between the 20th and
the 27th of May last. I could have held no such conversation on the 25th
or 26th of May; nor do I know that I think Mary Monson either innocent
or guilty.”

As all this was true, and was uttered with the confidence of truth, it
made an impression on the audience. Williams doubted; for so fine was
his skill in managing men, that he often succeeded in gaining jurors by
letting them understand he suspected them of being prejudiced against
his case. With the weak and vain, this mode of proceeding has frequently
more success than a contrary course; the party suspected being doubly
anxious to illustrate his impartiality in his verdict. This was what
Williams, and indeed the bar, very generally calls “standing so erect as
to lean backward.”

“Mr. Williams,” said the judge, “you must challenge peremptorily, or the
juror will be received.”

“No, your Honour, the State will accept the juror; I now see that my
information has been wrong.”

“We challenge for the defence,” said Timms, deciding on the instant, on
the ground that if Williams was so ready to change his course of
proceeding, there must be a good reason for it. “Stand aside, juror.”

“Peter Bailey,” called the clerk.

No objection being made, Peter Bailey took his seat. The two next jurors
were also received unquestioned; and it only remained to draw the
twelfth man. This was so much better luck than commonly happens in
capital cases, that everybody seemed more and more pleased, as if all
were anxious to come to the testimony. The judge evidently felicitated
himself, rubbing his hands with very great satisfaction. The bar,
generally, entered into his feelings; for it helped along its business.

“On the whole,” observed one of the lawyers who was in extensive
practice, speaking to another at his side, “I would as soon try one of
these murder-cases as to go through with a good water-cause.”

“Oh! _they_ are excruciating! Get into a good water-cause, with about
thirty witnesses on a side, and you are in for a week. I was three days
at one, only last circuit.”

“Are there many witnesses in this case?”

“About forty, I hear,” glancing towards the benches where most of the
females sat. “They tell me there will be a very formidable array as to
character. Ladies from York by the dozen!”

“They will be wanted, if all they say is true.”

“If all you hear is true, we have reached a new epoch in the history of
mankind. I have never seen the day when half of that I hear is more than
half true. I set the rest down as ‘leather and prunella.’”

“Robert Robinson,” cried the clerk.

A respectable-looking man of fifty presented himself, and was about to
enter the box without stopping to ascertain whether or not he would be
welcome there. This person had much more the air of the world than
either of the other jurors; and with those who are not very particular,
or very discriminating in such matters, might readily enough pass for a
gentleman. He was neatly dressed, wore gloves, and had certain chains,
an eye-glass, and other appliances of the sort, that it is not usual to
see at a country circuit. Neither Williams nor Timms seemed to know the
juror; but each looked surprised, and undecided how he ought to act. The
peremptory challenges were not exhausted; and there was a common impulse
in the two lawyers, first to accept one so respectable in mien, and
attire, and general air; and then, by a sudden revolution of feeling, to
reject one of whom they knew nothing.

“I suppose the summons is all right,” Williams carelessly remarked. “The
juror resides in Duke’s?”

“I do,” was the answer.

“Is a freeholder, and entitled to serve?”

A somewhat supercilious smile came over the countenance of the juror;
and he looked round at the person who could presume to make such a
remark, with something very like an air of contempt.

“I am _Doctor_ Robinson,” he then observed, laying emphasis on his
learned appellation.

Williams seemed at a loss; for, to say the truth, he had never heard of
any such physician in the county. Timms was quite as much mystified;
when a member of the bar leaned across a table, and whispered to
Dunscomb that the juror was a celebrated quack, who made pills that
would cure all diseases; and who, having made a fortune, had bought a
place in the county, and was to all legal purposes entitled to serve.

“The juror can stand aside,” said Dunscomb, rising in his slow dignified
manner. “If it please the court, _we_ challenge peremptorily.”

Timms looked still more surprised; and when told the reason for the
course taken by his associate, he was even sorry.

“The man is a _quack_,” said Dunscomb, “and there is quackery enough in
this system of a jury, without calling in assistance from the more open
practitioners.”

“I’m afraid, ’Squire, he is just the sort of man we want. I can work on
such spirits, when I fail altogether with more everyday-kind of men. A
little quackery does no harm to some causes.”

“Ira Kingsland,” called out the clerk.

Ira Kingsland appeared, a staid, solid, respectable husbandman—one of
those it is a mistaken usage of the country to term yeomen; and of a
class that contains more useful information, practical good sense and
judgment, than might be imagined, under all the circumstances.

As no objection was raised, this juror was received, and the pannel was
complete. After cautioning the jurors about listening and talking, in
the usual way, the judge adjourned the court for dinner.

CHAPTER XXI.

“I know it is dreadful! I feel the
Anguish of thy generous soul—but I was born
To murder all who love me.”
_George Barnwell._

Dunscomb was followed to his room by Millington, between whom and
himself, John Wilmeter had occasion to remark, a sudden intimacy had
sprung up. The counsellor had always liked his student, or he would
never have consented to give him his niece; but it was not usual for him
to hold as long, or seemingly as confidential conversations with the
young man, as now proved to be the case. When the interview was over,
Millington mounted a horse and galloped off, in the direction of town,
in that almost exploded manner of moving. Time was, and that within the
memory of man, when the gentlemen of New York were in their saddles
hours each day; but all this is changing with the times. We live in an
age of buggies, the gig, phaeton, and curricle having disappeared, and
the utilitarian vehicle just named having taken their places. Were it
not for the women, who still have occasion for closer carriages, the
whole nation would soon be riding about in buggies! Beresford is made,
by one of his annotators, to complain that everything like individuality
is becoming lost in England, and that the progress of great improvements
must be checked, or independent thinkers will shortly be out of the
question. If this be true of England, what might not be said on the same
subject of America? Here, where there is so much community as to have
completely engulphed everything like individual thought and action, we
take it the most imitative people on earth are to be found. This truth
is manifested in a thousand things. Every town is getting its Broadway,
thus defeating the very object of names; to-day the country is dotted
with Grecian temples, to-morrow with Gothic villages, all the purposes
of domestic architecture being sadly forgotten in each; and, as one of
the Spensers is said to have introduced the article of dress which bears
his name, by betting he could set the fashion of cutting off the skirts
of the coat, so might one who is looked up to, in this country, almost
set the fashion of cutting off the nose.

Dunscomb, however, was a perfectly original thinker. This he manifested
in his private life, as well as in his public profession. His opinions
were formed in his own way, and his acts were as much those of the
individual as circumstances would at all allow. His motives in
despatching Millington so suddenly to town were known to himself, and
will probably be shown to the reader, as the narrative proceeds.

“Well, sir, how are we getting on?” asked John Wilmeter, throwing
himself into a chair, in his uncle’s room, with a heated and excited
air. “I hope things are going to your mind?”

“We have got a jury, Jack, and that is all that can be said in the
matter,” returned the uncle, looking over some papers as the
conversation proceeded. “It is good progress, in a capital case, to get
a jury empannelled in the first forenoon.”

“You’ll have the verdict in, by this time to-morrow, sir, I’m afraid!”

“Why afraid, boy? The sooner the poor woman is acquitted, the better
will it be for _her_.”

“Ay, if she be acquitted; but I fear everything is looking dark, in the
case.”

“And this from _you_, who fancied the accused an angel of light, only a
week since!”

“She is certainly a most fascinating creature, _when she chooses to
be_,” said John, with emphasis; “but she does not always choose to
appear in that character.”

“She is most certainly a fascinating creature, _when she chooses to
be_!” returned the uncle, with very much the same sort of emphasis.

But Dunscomb’s manner was very different from that of his nephew. John
was excited, petulant, irritable, and in a state to feel and say
disagreeable things; dissatisfied with himself, and consequently not
very well pleased with others. A great change had come over his
feelings, truly, within the last week, and the image of the gentle Anna
Updyke was fast taking the place of that of Mary Monson. As the latter
seldom saw the young man, and then only at the grate, the former had got
to be the means of communication between the youthful advocate and his
client, throwing them constantly in each other’s way. On such occasions
Anna was always so truthful, so gentle, so earnest, so natural, and so
sweetly feminine, that John must have been made of stone, to remain
insensible of her excellent qualities. If women did but know how much
their power, not to say charms, are increased by gentleness, by
tenderness in lieu of coldness of manner, by keeping within the natural
circle of their sex’s feelings, instead of aping an independence and
spirit more suited to men than to their own condition, we should see
less of discord in domestic life, happier wives, better mothers, and
more reasonable mistresses. No one knew this better than Dunscomb, who
had not been an indifferent spectator of his nephew’s course, and who
fancied this a favourable moment to say a word to him, on a subject that
he felt to be important.

“This _choosing_ to be is a very material item in the female character,”
continued the counsellor, after a moment of silent and profound thought.
“Whatever else you may do, my boy, in the way of matrimony, marry a
gentle and feminine woman. Take my word for it, there is no true
happiness with any other.”

“Women have their tastes and caprices, and like to indulge them, sir, as
well as ourselves.”

“All that may be true, but avoid what is termed a woman of independent
spirit. They are usually so many devils incarnate. If they happen to
unite moneyed independence with moral independence, I am not quite
certain that their tyranny is not worse than that of Nero. A tyrannical
woman is worse than a tyrannical man, because she is apt to be
capricious. At one moment she will blow hot, at the next cold; at one
time she will give, at the next clutch back her gifts; to-day she is the
devoted and obedient wife, to-morrow the domineering partner. No, no,
Jack, marry a _woman_; which means a kind, gentle, affectionate,
thoughtful creature, whose heart is so full of _you_, there is no room
in it for herself. Marry just such a girl as Anna Updyke, if you can get
her.”

“I thank you, sir,” answered John, colouring. “I dare say the advice is
good, and I shall bear it in mind. What would you think of a woman like
Mary Monson, for a wife?”

Dunscomb turned a vacant look at his nephew, as if his thoughts were far
away, and his chin dropped on his bosom. This abstraction lasted but a
minute, however when the young man got his answer.

“Mary Monson _is_ a wife, and I fear a bad one,” returned the
counsellor. “If she be the woman I suppose her to be, her history, brief
as it is, is a very lamentable one. John, you are my sister’s son, and
my heir. You are nearer to me than any other human being, in one sense,
though I certainly love Sarah quite as well as I do you, if not a little
better. These ties of feeling are strange links in our nature! At one
time I loved your mother with a tenderness such as a father might feel
for a child; in short, with a brother’s love—a brother’s love for a
young, and pretty, and good girl, and I thought I could never love
another as I loved Elizabeth. She returned my affection, and there was a
period of many years when it was supposed that we were to pass down the
vale of life in company, as brother and sister—old bachelor and old
maid. Your father deranged all this, and at thirty-four my sister left
me. It was like pulling my heart-strings out of me, and so much the
worse, boy, because they were already sore.”

John started. His uncle spoke hoarsely, and a shudder, that was so
violent as to be perceptible to his companion, passed through his frame.
The cheeks of the counsellor were usually colourless; now they appeared
absolutely pallid.

“This, then,” thought John Wilmeter, “is the insensible old bachelor,
who was thought to live altogether for himself. How little does the
world really know of what is passing within it! Well may it be said,
‘here is a skeleton in every house.’”

Dunscomb soon recovered his self-command. Reaching forth an arm, he took
his nephew’s hand, and said affectionately—

“I am not often thus, Jack, as you must know. A vivid recollection of
days that have long been past came freshly over me, and I believe I have
been a little unmanned. To you, my early history is a blank; but a very
few words will serve to tell all you need ever know. I was about your
time of life, Jack, when I loved, courted, and became engaged to Mary
Millington—Michael’s great-aunt. Is this new to you?”

“Not entirely, sir; Sarah has told me something of the same sort—you
know the girls get hold of family anecdotes sooner than we men.”

“She then probably told you that I was cruelly, heartlessly jilted, for
a richer man. Mary married, and left one daughter; who also married
early, her own cousin, Frank Millington, the cousin of Michael’s father.
You may now see why I have ever felt so much interest in your future
brother-in-law.”

“_He_ is a good fellow, and quite free from all jilting blood, I’ll
answer for it. But, what has become of this Mrs. Frank Millington? I
remember no such person.”

“Like her mother, she died young, leaving an only daughter to inherit
her name and very ample fortune. The reason you never knew Mr. Frank
Millington is probably because he went to Paris early, where he educated
his daughter, in a great degree—there, and in England—and when he died,
Mildred Millington, the heiress of both parents, is said to have had
quite twenty thousand a year. Certain officious friends made a match for
her, I have heard, with a Frenchman of some family, but small means; and
the recent revolution has driven them to this country, where, as I have
been told, she took the reins of domestic government into her own hands,
until some sort of a separation has been the consequence.”

“Why, this account is surprisingly like the report we have had
concerning Mary Monson, this morning!” cried Jack, springing to his feet
with excitement.

“I believe her to be the same person. Many things unite to create this
opinion. In the first place, there is certainly a marked family
resemblance to her grandmother and mother; then the education, manners,
languages, money, Marie Moulin, and the initials of the assumed name,
each and all have their solution in this belief. The ‘Mademoiselle’ and
the ‘Madame’ of the Swiss maid are explained; in short, if we can
believe this Mary Monson to be Madame de Larocheforte, we can find an
explanation of everything that is puzzling in her antecedents.”

“But, why should a woman of twenty thousand a year be living in the
cottage of Peter Goodwin?”

“Because she _is_ a woman of twenty thousand a year. Mons. de
Larocheforte found her money was altogether at her own command, by this
new law, and, naturally enough, he desired to play something more than a
puppet’s part in his own abode and family. The lady clings to her
dollars, which she loves more than her husband; a quarrel ensues, and
she chooses to retire from his protection, and conceal herself, for a
time, under Peter Goodwin’s roof, to evade pursuit. Capricious and
wrong-headed women do a thousand strange things, and thoughtless
gabblers often sustain them in what they do.”

“This is rendering the marriage tie very slight!”

“It is treating it with contempt; setting at naught the laws of God and
man—one’s duties, and the highest obligations of woman. Still, many of
the sex fancy if they abstain from one great and distinct offence, the
whole catalogue of the remaining misdeeds is at their mercy.”

“Not to the extent of murder and arson, surely! Why should such a woman
commit these crimes?”

“One never knows. We are fearfully constituted, John; morally and
physically. The fairest form often conceals the blackest heart, and
_vice versa_. But I am now satisfied that there is a vein of insanity in
this branch of the Millingtons; and it is possible Madame de
Larocheforte is more to be pitied than to be censured.”

“You surely do not think her guilty, uncle Tom?”

The counsellor looked intently at his nephew, shaded his brow a moment,
gazed upward, and answered—

“I do. There is such a chain of proof against her as will scarce admit
of explanation. I am afraid, Jack—I am afraid that she has done these
deeds, terrible as they are! Such has been my opinion, now, for some
time; though my mind has vacillated, as I make no doubt will prove to be
the case with those of most of the jurors. It is a sad alternative; but
I see no safety for her except in the plea of insanity. I am in hopes
that something may be made out in that respect.”

“We are quite without witnesses to the point; are we not, sir?”

“Certainly; but Michael Millington has gone to town to send by telegraph
for the nearest connections of Madame de Larocheforte, who are in the
neighbourhood of Philadelphia. The husband himself is somewhere on the
Hudson. He must be hunted up too. Michael will see to all this. I shall
get the judge to adjourn early this evening; and we must spin out the
trial for the next day or two, in order to collect our forces. The judge
is young and indulgent. He has certain ridiculous notions about saving
the time of the public; but does not feel secure enough in his seat to
be very positive.”

At this instant Timms burst into the room, in a high state of
excitement, exclaiming, the moment he was sure that his words would not
reach any hostile ears—

“Our case is desperate! All the Burtons are coming out dead against us;
and neither ‘the new philanthropy,’ nor ‘Friends,’ nor ‘anti-gallows,’
can save us. I never knew excitement get up so fast. It’s the infernal
aristocracy that kills us!—Williams makes great use of it; and our
people will not stand aristocracy. See what a magnanimous report to the
legislature the learned Attorney-General has just made on the subject of
aristocracy. How admirably he touches up the kings and countesses!”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Dunscomb, with a contemptuous curl of the lip—“not
one in a thousand knows the meaning of the word; and he among the rest.
The report you mention is that of a refined gentleman, to be sure, and
is addressed to his equals. What exclusive political privilege does Mary
Monson possess? or what does the patroon, unless it be the privilege of
having more stolen from him, by political frauds, than any other man in
the State? This cant about social aristocracy, even in a state of
society in which the servant deserts his master with impunity, in the
midst of a dinner, is very miserable stuff! Aristocracy, forsooth! If
there be aristocracy in America, the blackguard is the aristocrat. Away,
then, with all this trash, and speak common sense in future.”

“You amaze me, sir! Why, I regard _you_ as a sort of aristocrat, Mr.
Dunscomb.”

“Me!—And what do you see aristocratic about me, pray?”

“Why, sir, you don’t _look_ like the rest of us. Your very _walk_ is
different—your language, manners, dress, habits and opinions, all differ
from those of the Duke’s county bar. Now, to my notion, that is being
exclusive and peculiar; and whatever is peculiar is aristocratic, is it
not?”

Here Dunscomb and his nephew burst out in a laugh; and, for a few
minutes, Mary Monson was forgotten. Timms was quite in earnest; for he
had fallen into the every-day notions, in this respect, and it was not
easy to get him out of them.

“Perhaps the Duke’s county bar contains the aristocrats, and I am the
cerf!” said the counsellor.

“That cannot be—you _must_ be the aristocrat, if any there be among us.
I don’t know _why_ it is so, but so it is; yes, _you_ are the
aristocrat, if there be one at our bar.”

Jack smiled, and looked funny; but he had the discretion to hold his
tongue. _He_ had heard that a Duke of Norfolk, the top of the English
aristocracy, was so remarkable for his personal habits as actually to be
offensive; a man who, according to Timms’s notions, would have been a
long way down the social ladder; but who, nevertheless, was a top-peer,
if not a top-sawyer. It was easy to see that Timms confounded a
gentleman with an aristocrat; a confusion in ideas that is very common,
and which is far from being unnatural, when it is remembered how few
formerly acquired any of the graces of deportment who had not previously
attained positive, exclusive, political rights. As for the
Attorney-General and his report, Jack had sufficient sagacity to see it
was a document that said one thing and meant another; professing
deference for a people that it did not stop to compliment with the
possession of either common honesty or good manners.

“I hope _my_ aristocracy is not likely to affect the interests of my
client.”

“No; there is little danger of that. It is the democracy of the Burtons
which will do that. I learn from Johnson that they are coming out
stronger and stronger; and I feel certain Williams is sure of their
testimony. By the way, sir, I had a hint from him, as we left the
court-house, that the five thousand dollars might _yet_ take him from
the field.”

“This Mr. Williams, as well as yourself, Timms, must be more cautious,
or the law will yet assert its power. It is very much humbled, I am
aware, under the majesty of the people and a feeble administration of
its authority; but its arm is long, and its gripe potent, when it
chooses to exert its force. Take my advice, and have no more to do with
such arrangements.”

The dinner-bell put an end to the discussion. Timms vanished like a
ghost; but Dunscomb, whose habits were gentlemanlike, and who knew that
Mrs. Horton had assigned a particular seat to him, moved more
deliberately; following his nephew about the time Timms was half through
the meal.

An American tavern-dinner, during the sitting of the circuit, is every
way worthy of a minute and graphic description; but our limits will
hardly admit of our assuming the task. If “misery makes a man acquainted
with strange bed-fellows,” so does the law. Judges, advocates,
witnesses, sheriffs, clerks, constables, and not unfrequently the
accused, dine in common, with rail-road speed. The rattling of knives,
forks, and spoons, the clatter of plates, the rushing of waiters,
landlord, landlady, chamber-maids, ostler and bar-keeper included,
produce a confusion that would do honour to the most profound
“republican simplicity.” Everything approaches a state of nature but the
eatables; and they are invariably overdone. On an evil day, some Yankee
invented an article termed a “cooking-stove;” and since its appearance
everything like good cookery has vanished from the common American
table. There is plenty spoiled; abundance abused. Of made dishes, with
the exception of two or three of very simple characters, there never
were any; and these have been burned to cinders by the baking processes
of the “cook-stoves.”

It matters little, however, to the _convives_ of a circuit-court dinner,
what the dishes are called, or of what they are composed. “Haste”
forbids “taste;” and it actually occurred that day, as it occurs almost
invariably on such occasions, that a very clever country practitioner
was asked the _materiel_ of the dish he had been eating, and he could
not tell it! Talk of the mysteries of French cookery! The “cook-stove”
produces more mystery than all the art of all the culinary artists of
Paris; and this, too, on a principle that tallies admirably with that of
the purest “republican simplicity;” since it causes all things to taste
alike.

To a dinner of this stamp Dunscomb now sat down, just ten minutes after
the first clatter of a plate was heard, and just as the only remove was
seen, in the form of slices of pie, pudding and cake. With his habits,
railroad speed or lightning-line eating could find no favour; and he and
Jack got their dinner, as best they might, amid the confusion and
remnants of the close of such a repast. Nine-tenths of those who had so
lately been at work as trencher-men were now picking their teeth,
smoking segars, or preparing fresh quids for the afternoon. A few
clients were already holding their lawyers by the button; and here and
there one of the latter led the way to his room to “settle” some slander
cause in which the plaintiff had got frightened.

It is a bad sign when eating is carried on without conversation. To
converse, however, at such a table, is morally if not physically
impossible. Morally, because each man’s mind is so intent on getting as
much as he wants, that it is almost impossible to bring his thoughts to
bear on any other subject; physically, on account of the clatter, a
movement in which an eclipse of a plate by the body of a waiter is no
unusual thing, and universal activity of the teeth. Conversation under
such circumstances would be truly a sort of ventriloquism; the portion
of the human frame included in the term being all in all just at that
moment.

Notwithstanding these embarrassments and unpleasant accompaniments,
Dunscomb and his nephew got their dinners, and were about to quit the
table as McBrain entered. The doctor would not expose his bride to the
confusion of the common table, where there was so much that is revolting
to all trained in the usages of good company, singularly blended with a
decency of deportment, and a consideration for the rights of each, that
serve to form bright spots in American character; but he had obtained a
more private room for the females of his party.

“We should do pretty well,” observed McBrain, in explaining his
accommodations, “were it not for a troublesome neighbour in an adjoining
room, who is either insane or intoxicated. Mrs. Horton has put us in
your wing, and I should think you must occasionally hear from him too?”

“The man is constantly drunk, they tell me, and is a little troublesome
at times. On the whole, however, he does not annoy me much. I shall take
the liberty of dining with you to-morrow, Ned; this eating against time
does not agree with my constitution.”

“To-morrow!—I was thinking that my examination would be ended this
afternoon, and that we might return to town in the morning. You will
remember I have patients to attend to.”

“You will have more reason for _patience_. If you get through in a week,
you will be lucky.”

“It is a curious case! I find all the local faculty ready to swear
through thick and thin against her. My own opinion is fixed—but what is
the opinion of one man against those of several in the same profession?”

“We will put that question to Mrs. Horton, who is coming to ask how we
have dined—Thank’ee, my good Mrs. Horton, we have done _remarkably_
well, considering all the circumstances.”

The landlady was pleased, and smirked, and expressed her gratification.
The _sous entendu_ of Dunscomb was lost upon her; and human vanity is
very apt to accept the flattering, and to overlook the disagreeable. She
was pleased that the great York lawyer was satisfied.

Mrs. Horton was an American landlady, in the strictest sense of the
word. This implies many features distinct from her European counterpart;
some of which tell greatly in her favour, and others not so much so.
Decency of exterior, and a feminine deportment, are so characteristic of
the sex in this country, that they need scarcely be adverted to. There
were no sly jokes, no _doubles entendres_ with Mrs. Horton; who
maintained too grave a countenance to admit of such liberties. Then, she
was entirely free from the little expedients of a desire to gain that
are naturally enough adopted in older communities, where the pressure of
numbers drives the poor to their wits’-end, in order to live. American
abundance had generated American liberality in Mrs. Horton; and if one
of her guests asked for bread, she would give him the loaf. She was,
moreover, what the country round termed “accommodating;” meaning that
she was obliging and good-natured. Her faults were a fierce love of
gossip, concealed under a veil of great indifference and modesty, a
prying curiosity, and a determination to know everything, touching
everybody, who ever came under her roof. This last propensity had got
her into difficulties, several injurious reports having been traced to
her tongue, which was indebted to her imagination for fully one-half of
what she had circulated. It is scarcely necessary to add, that, among
the right set, Mrs. Horton was a great talker. As Dunscomb was a
favourite, he was not likely to escape on the present occasion; the room
being clear of all the guests but those of his own party.

“I am glad to get a little quiet talk with you, ’Squire Dunscomb,” the
landlady commenced; “for a body can depend on what is heard from such
authority. Do they mean to hang Mary Monson?”

“It is rather premature to ask that question, Mrs. Horton. The jury is
empannelled, and there we stand at present.”

“Is it a good jury?—Some of our Duke’s county juries are none too good,
they tell me.”

“The whole institution is a miserable contrivance for the administration
of justice. Could a higher class of citizens compose the juries, the
system might still do, with a few improvements.”

“Why not elect them?” demanded the landlady, who was _ex officio_, a
politician, much as women are usually politicians in this country. In
other words, she _felt_ her opinions, without knowing their reasons.

“God forbid, my good Mrs. Horton—we have elective judges; that will do
for the present. Too much of a good thing is as injurious as the
positively bad. I prefer the present mode of drawing lots.”

“Have you got a Quaker in the box?—If you have, you are safe enough.”

“I doubt if the District Attorney would suffer that; although he appears
to be kind and considerate. The man who goes into that box must be
prepared to hang if necessary.”

“For my part, I wish all hanging was done away with. I can see no good
that hanging can do a man.”

“You mistake the object, my dear Mrs. Horton, though your argument is
quite as good as many that are openly advanced on the same side of the
question.”

“Just hear me, ’Squire,” rejoined the woman; for she loved dearly to get
into a discussion on any question that she was accustomed to hear
debated among her guests. “The country hangs a body to reform a body;
and what good can that do when a body is dead?”

“Very ingeniously put,” returned the counsellor, politely offering his
box to the landlady, who took a few grains; and then deliberately
helping himself to a pinch of snuff—“quite as ingeniously as much of the
argument that appears in public. The objection lies to the premises, and
not to the deduction, which is absolutely logical and just. A hanged
body is certainly an unreformed body; and, as you say, it is quite
useless to hang in order to reform.”

“There!” exclaimed the woman in triumph—“I told ’Squire Timms that a
gentleman who knows as much as you do must be on our side. Depend on one
thing, lawyer Dunscomb, and you too, gentlemen—depend on it, that Mary
Monson will never be hanged.”

This was said with a meaning so peculiar, that it struck Dunscomb, who
watched the woman’s earnest countenance while she was speaking, with
undeviating interest and intensity.

“It is my duty and my wish, Mrs. Horton, to believe as much, and to make
others believe it also, if I can,” he answered, now anxious to prolong a
discourse that a moment before he had found tiresome.

“You can, if you will only try. I believe in dreams—and I dreamt a week
ago that Mary Monson would be acquitted. It would be ag’in all our new
notions to hang so nice a lady.”

“Our _tastes_ might take offence at it; and taste is of _some_ influence
yet, I am bound to agree with you.”

“But you do agree with me in the uselessness of hanging, when the object
is to reform?”

“Unfortunately for the force of that argument, my dear landlady, society
does not punish for the purposes of reformation—that is a very common
blunder of superficial philanthropists.”

“Not for the purposes of reformation, ’Squire!—You astonish me! Why, for
what else should it punish?”

“For its own protection. To prevent others from committing murder. Have
you no other reason than your dream, my good Mrs. Horton, for thinking
Mary Monson will be acquitted?”

The woman put on a knowing look, and nodded her head significantly. At
the same time, she glanced towards the counsellor’s companions, as much
as to say that their presence prevented her being more explicit.

“Ned, do me the favour to go to your wife, and tell her I shall stop in,
and say a kind word as I pass her door;—and, Jack, go and bid Sarah be
in Mrs. McBrain’s parlour, ready to give me my morning’s kiss.”

The Doctor and John complied, leaving Dunscomb alone with the woman.

“May I repeat the question, my good landlady?—Why do you think Mary
Monson is to be acquitted?” asked Dunscomb, in one of his softest tones.

Mrs. Horton mused, seemed anxious to speak, but struggling with some
power that withheld her. One of her hands was in a pocket where the
jingling of keys and pence made its presence known. Drawing forth this
hand mechanically, Dunscomb saw that it contained several eagles. The
woman cast her eyes on the gold, returned it hastily to her pocket,
rubbed her forehead, and seemed the wary, prudent landlady once more.

“I hope you like your room, ’Squire,” she cried, in a thoroughly,
inn-keeping spirit. “It’s the very best in this house; though I’m
obliged to tell Mrs. McBrain the same story as to her apartment. But you
have the best. You have a troublesome neighbour between you, I’m afraid;
but he’ll not be there many days, and I do all I can to keep him quiet.”

“Is that man crazy?” asked the counsellor, rising, perceiving that he
had no more to expect from the woman just then; “or is he only drunk? I
hear him groan, and then I hear him swear; though I cannot understand
what he says.”

“He’s sent here by his friends; and your wing is the only place we have
to keep him in. When a body is well paid, ’Squire, I suppose you know
that the fee must not be forgotten? Now, inn-keepers have fees, as well
as you gentlemen of the bar. How wonderfully Timms is getting along, Mr.
Dunscomb!”

“I believe his practice increases; and they tell me he stands next to
Mr. Williams in Duke’s.”

“He does, indeed; and a ‘bright particular star,’ as the poet says, has
he got to be!”

“If he be a star at all,” answered the counsellor, curling his lip, “it
must be a very particular one, indeed. I am sorry to leave you, Mrs.
Horton; but the intermission is nearly up.”

Dunscomb gave a little friendly nod, which the landlady returned; the
former went his way with singular coolness of manner, when it is
remembered that on him rested the responsibility of defending a
fellow-creature from the gallows. What rendered this deliberation more
remarkable, was the fact that he had no faith in the virtue of Mrs.
Horton’s dream.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXII.

“Wilt thou behold me sinking in my woes,
And wilt thou not reach out a friendly arm,
To raise one from amidst this plunge of sorrow?”
_Addison._

“Call the names of the jurors, Mr. Clerk,” said the judge. “Mr. Sheriff,
I do not see the prisoner in her place.”

This produced a stir. The jurors were called, and answered to their
names; and shortly after, Mary Monson appeared. The last was accompanied
by the ladies, who might now be said to belong to her party, though no
one but herself and Marie Moulin came within the bar.

There was profound stillness in the hall, for it was felt that now the
issue of life or death was actually approaching. Mary Monson gazed, not
with disquietude but interest, at the twelve men who were to decide on
her innocence or guilt—men of habits and opinions so different from her
own—men so obnoxious to prejudices against those whom the accidents of
life had made objects of envy or hatred—men too much occupied with the
cares of existence to penetrate the arcana of thought, and who
consequently held their opinions at the mercy of others—men unskilled,
because without practice, in the very solemn and important office now
imposed on them by the law—men who might indeed be trusted, so long as
they would defer to the court and reason, but who were terrible and
dangerous, when they listened, as is too apt to be the case, to the
suggestions of their own impulses, ignorance and prejudice. Yet these
men were Mary Monson’s peers, in the eyes of the law—would have been so
viewed and accepted in a case involving the feelings and practices of
social castes, about which they knew absolutely nothing, or, what is
worse than nothing, a very little through the medium of
misrepresentation and mistaken conclusions.

It is the fashion to extol the institution of the jury. Our own
experience, by no means trifling, as foreman, as suitor, and as a
disinterested spectator, does not lead us to coincide in this opinion. A
narrative of the corrupt, misguided, partial, prejudiced, or ignorant
conduct that we have ourselves witnessed in these bodies, would make a
legend of its own. The power that most misleads such men, is one unseen
by themselves, half the time, and is consequently so much the more
dangerous. The feelings of neighbourhood, political hostility, or party
animosities, are among the commonest evils that justice has to
encounter, when brought in contact with tribunals thus composed. Then
come the feelings engendered by social castes, an inexhaustible source
of evil passions. Mary Monson had been told of the risks she ran from
that source; though she had also been told, and with great truth, that
so much of the spirit of God still remains in the hearts and minds of
men, as to render a majority of those who were to be the arbiters of her
fate conscientious and careful in a capital case. Perhaps, as a rule,
the singularity of his situation, with a man who finds himself, for the
first time, sitting as a juror in a trial for a human life, is one of
the most available correctives of his native tendencies to do evil.

“Mr. District Attorney, are you ready to proceed?” inquired the judge.

This functionary rose, bowed to the court and jury, and commenced his
opening. His manner was unpretending, natural, and solemn. Although high
talent and original thought are very rare in this country, as they are
everywhere else, there is a vast fund of intellect of a secondary order,
ever at the command of the public. The District Attorney of Duke’s was a
living witness of this truth. He saw all within his reach clearly, and,
possessing great experience, he did his duty, on this occasion, in a
very creditable manner. No attempt was made to awaken prejudice of any
sort against the accused. She was presented by the grand inquest, and it
was his and their painful duty, including his honour on the bench, to
investigate this matter, and make a solemn decision, on their oaths.
Mary Monson was entitled to a fair hearing, to all the advantages that
the lenity of the criminal law of a very humane state of society could
afford, and “for God’s sake let her be acquitted should the State fail
to establish her guilt!”

Mr. District Attorney then proceeded to give a narrative of the events
as he supposed them to have occurred. He spoke of the Goodwins as
“_poor_, but _honest_” people, a sort of illustration that is in much
favour, and deservedly so, when true. “It seems, gentlemen,” the
District Attorney continued, “that the wife had a propensity, or a
fancy, to collect gold pieces, no doubt as a store against the wants of
age. This money was kept in a stocking, according to the practice of
country ladies, and was often exhibited to the neighbours. We may have
occasion, gentlemen, to show you that some fifteen or twenty persons, at
different times, have seen and handled this gold. You need not be told
what natural curiosity is, but must all know how closely persons little
accustomed to see money of this sort, would be apt to examine the more
rare pieces, in particular. There happened to be several of these pieces
among the gold of Mrs. Goodwin; and one of them was an Italian or a
Dutch coin, of the value of four dollars, which commonly goes by the
name of the king whose likeness is on the piece. This Dutch or Italian
coin, no matter which, or William, was seen, and handled, and examined
by several persons, as we shall show you.

“Now, gentlemen, the stocking that contained the gold coins, was kept in
a bureau, which bureau was saved from the fire, with all its contents:
but the stocking and the gold were missing! These facts will be shown to
you by proof that puts them beyond a peradventure. We shall next show to
you, gentlemen, that on a public examination of the prisoner at the bar,
the contents of her purse were laid open, and the Dutch or Italian coin
I have mentioned was found, along with more than a hundred dollars of
other pieces, which being in American coin, cannot so readily be
identified.

“The prosecution relies, in a great degree, on the proof that will be
offered in connection with this piece of money, to establish the guilt
of the prisoner. We are aware that, when this piece of money was found
on her person, she affirmed it was hers; that she had been possessed of
_two_ such pieces, and that the one seen in Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking had
been a present from herself to that unfortunate woman.

“Gentlemen, if persons accused of crimes could vindicate themselves by
their own naked statements, there would be very few convictions. Reason
tells us that proof must be met by proof. Assertions will not be
received, as against the accused, nor will they be taken in her favour.
Your own good sense will tell you, gentlemen, that if it be shown that
Dorothy Goodwin possessed this particular piece of gold, valued it
highly, and was in the practice of hoarding all the gold she could lay
her hands on lawfully; that the said Dorothy Goodwin’s residence was
burned, she herself murdered by a savage and cruel blow or blows on the
occiput, or head; that Mary Monson, the prisoner at the bar, knew of the
existence of this little stock of gold coins, had seen it, handled it,
and doubtless _coveted_ it; residing in the same house, with easy access
to the bedside of the unhappy couple, with easy access to the bureau, to
the keys which opened that bureau, for its drawers were found locked,
just as Mrs. Goodwin was in the habit of leaving them;—but, gentlemen,
if all this be shown to you, and we then trace the aforesaid piece or
coin to the pocket of Mary Monson, we make out a _prima facie_ case of
guilt, as I conceive; a case that will throw on her the _onus_ of
showing that she came in possession of the said piece of coin lawfully,
and by no improper means. Failing of this, your duty will be plain.

“It is incumbent on the prosecution to make out its case, either by
direct proof, on the oaths of credible witnesses, or by such
circumstances as shall leave no doubt in your minds of the guilt of the
accused. It is also incumbent that we show that the crimes, of which the
prisoner is accused, have been committed, and committed by her.

“Gentlemen, we shall offer you this proof. We shall show you that the
skeletons of which I have spoken, and which lie under that pall, sad
remains of a most ruthless scene, are beyond all question the skeletons
of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin. This will be shown to you by proof; though
all who knew the parties, can almost see the likeness in these sad
relics of mortality. Peter Goodwin, as will be shown to you, was a very
short, but sturdy man, while Dorothy, his wife, was a woman of large
size. The skeletons meet this description exactly. They were found on
the charred wood of the bedstead the unhappy couple habitually used, and
on the very spot where they had passed so many previous nights in
security and peace. Everything goes to corroborate the identity of the
persons whose remains have been found, and I regret it should be my duty
to add, that everything goes to fasten the guilt of these murders on the
prisoner at the bar.

“Gentlemen, although we rely mainly on the possession of the Dutch or
Italian coin, no matter which, to establish the case for the state, we
shall offer you a great deal of sustaining and secondary proof. In the
first place, the fact that a female, young, handsome, well, nay,
expensively educated, coming from nobody knows whence, to go nobody
knows whither, should suddenly appear in a place as retired as the house
of Peter Goodwin, why no one can say, are in themselves very suspicious.
Gentlemen, ‘all is not gold that glitters.’ Many a man, and many a
woman, in places large as New York, are not what they seem to be. They
dress, and laugh, and sing, and appear to be among the gayest of the
gay, when they do not know where to lay their heads at night. Large
towns are moral blotches, they say, on the face of the community, and
they conceal many things that will not bear the light. From one of these
large towns, it is to be presumed from her dress, manners, education,
amusements, and all belonging to her, came Mary Monson, to ask an asylum
in the dwelling of the Goodwins. Gentlemen, why did she come? Had she
heard of the hoard of Mrs. Goodwin, and did she crave the possession of
the gold? These questions it will be your duty to answer in your
verdict. Should the reply be in the affirmative, you obtain, at once, a
direct clue to the motives for the murder.

“Among the collateral proof that will be offered are the following
circumstances, to which I now ask your particular attention, in order
that you may give to the testimony its proper value. It will be shown
that Mary Monson had a large sum in gold in her possession, _after_ the
arson and murders, and consequently _after_ the robbery, but no one knew
of her having any _before_. It will be shown that she has money in
abundance, scattering it right and left, as we suppose to procure her
acquittal, and this money we believe she took from the bureau of Mrs.
Goodwin—how much, is not known. It is thought that the sum was very
large; the gold alone amounted to near a thousand dollars, and two
witnesses will testify to a still larger amount in bank notes. The
Goodwins talked of purchasing a farm, valued at five thousand dollars;
and as they were known never to run in debt, the fair inference is, that
they must have had at least that sum by them. A legacy was left Dorothy
Goodwin within the last six months, which we hear was very considerable,
and we hope to be able to put a witness on the stand who will tell you
all about it.

“But, gentlemen, a circumstance worthy of all attention in an
investigation like this, is connected with an answer to this
question—Who is Mary Monson? What are her parentage, birthplace,
occupation, and place of residence? Why did she come to Biberry at all?
In a word, what is her past history? Let this be satisfactorily
explained, and a great step is taken towards her vindication from these
most grave charges. Shall we have witnesses to character? No one will be
happier to listen to them than myself. My duty is far from pleasant. I
sincerely hope the prisoner will find lawful means to convince you of
her innocence. There is not one within the walls of this building who
will hear such a verdict, if sustained by law and evidence, with greater
pleasure than it will be heard by me.”

After pursuing this vein some time longer, the worthy functionary of the
state showed a little of that cloven foot which seems to grow on all,
even to the cleanest heels, who look to the popular voice for
preferment. No matter who the man is, rich or poor, young or old,
foolish or wise, he bows down before the idol of Numbers, and there
worships. Votes being the one thing wanted, must be bought by sacrifices
on the altar of conscience. Now it is by wild, and, half the time,
impracticable schemes of philanthropy, that while they seem to work good
to the majority, are quite likely to disregard the rights of the
minority; now they are flourishes against negro slavery, or a revolution
in favour of the oppressed inhabitants of Crim-Tartary, of the real
state of which country we are all as ignorant as its inhabitants are
ignorant of us; now, it’s an exemption law, to enable a man to escape
from the payment of his just debts, directly in the teeth of the sound
policy, not to say morality, that if a man owe he should be made to pay
as long as he has anything to do it with; now, it is a hymn in praise of
a liberty that the poet neither comprehends nor cares to look into
farther than may suit his own selfish patriotism; and now, it is some
other of the thousand modes adopted by the designing to delude the
masses and advance themselves.

On this occasion the District Attorney was very cautious, but he showed
the cloven foot. He paid a passing tribute to the god of Numbers,
worshipped before the hierarchy of votes. “Gentlemen,” he continued,
“like myself, you are plain, unpretending citizens. Neither you, nor
your wives and daughters, speak in foreign tongues, or play on foreign
instruments of music. We have been brought up in republican simplicity,
[God bless it! say we, could we ever meet with it,] and lay no claims to
superiority of any sort. Our place is in the body of the nation, and
there we are content to remain. We shall pay no respect to dress,
accomplishments, foreign languages, or foreign music; but, the evidence
sustaining us, will show the world that the law frowns as well on the
great as on the little; on the pretending, as well as on the
unpretending.”

As these grandiose sentiments were uttered, several of the jurors half
rose from their seats, in the eagerness to hear, and looks of
approbation passed from eye to eye. This was accepted as good republican
doctrine; no one there seeing, or feeling, as taste and truth would have
shown, that the real pretension was on the side of an exaggerated
self-esteem, that prompted to resistance ere resistance was necessary,
under the influence of, perhaps, the lowest passion of human nature—we
allude to envy. With a little more in the same vein, the District
Attorney concluded his opening.

The great coolness, not to say indifference, with which Mary Monson
listened to this speech, was the subject of general comment among the
members of the bar. At times she had been attentive, occasionally
betraying surprise; then indignation would just gleam in her remarkable
eye; but, on the whole, an uncommon calmness reigned in her demeanour.
She had prepared tablets for notes; and twice she wrote in them as the
District Attorney proceeded. This was when he adverted to her past life,
and when he commented on the Dutch coin. While he was speaking of
castes, flattering one set under the veil of pretending humility, and
undermining their opposites, a look of quiet contempt was apparent in
every feature of her very expressive face.

“If it please the court,” said Dunscomb, rising in his deliberate way,
“before the prosecution proceeds with its witnesses, I could wish to
appeal to the courtesy of the gentlemen on the other side for a list of
their names.”

“I believe we are not bound to furnish any such list,” answered
Williams, quickly.

“Perhaps not bound exactly in law; but, it strikes me, bound in justice.
This is a trial for a life; the proceedings are instituted by the State.
The object is justice, not vengeance—the protection of society, through
the agency of an impartial, though stern justice. The State cannot wish
to effect anything by surprise. We are accused of murder and arson, with
no other notice of what is to be shown, or _how_ anything is to be
shown, than what is contained in the bill or complaint. Any one can see
how important it may be to us, to be apprised of the names of the
witnesses a little in advance, that we may inquire into character and
note probabilities. I do not insist on any _right_; but I ask a favour
that humanity sanctions.”

“If it please the court,” said Williams, “we have an important trust. I
will here say that I impute nothing improper to either of the prisoner’s
counsel; but it is my duty to suggest the necessity of our being
cautious. A great deal of money has been expended already in this case;
and there is always danger of witnesses being bought off. On behalf of
my client, I protest against the demand’s being complied with.”

“The court has no objection to the course asked by the prisoner’s
counsel,” observed the judge, “but cannot direct it. The State can never
wish its officers to be harsh or exacting; but it is their duty to be
prudent. Mr. District Attorney, are you ready with your evidence? Time
is precious, sir.”

The testimony for the prosecution was now offered. We shall merely
advert to most of it, reserving our details for those witnesses on whom
the cause might be said to turn. Two very decent-looking and
well-behaved men, farmers who resided in the vicinity of Biberry, were
put on the stand to establish the leading heads of the case. They had
known Peter and Dorothy Goodwin; had often stopped at the house; and
were familiarly acquainted with the old couple, as neighbours.
“Remembered the fire—was present at it, towards its close. Saw the
prisoner there; saw her descend, by a ladder; and assisted in saving her
effects. Several trunks, carpet-bags, bandboxes, writing-desks, musical
instruments, &c. &c. All were saved. “_It seemed to them that they had
been placed near the windows, in a way to be handy._” After the fire,
had never seen or heard anything of the old man and his wife, unless two
skeletons that had been found were their skeletons. Supposed them to be
the skeletons of Peter Goodwin and his wife”—Here the remains were for
the first time on that trial exposed to view. “Those are the same
skeletons, should say—had no doubt of it; they are about the size of the
old couple. The husband was short; the wife tall. Little or no
difference in their height. Had never seen the stocking or the gold; but
had heard a good deal of talk of them, having lived near neighbours to
the Goodwins five-and-twenty years.”

Dunscomb conducted the cross-examination. He was close, discriminating,
and judicious. Separating the hearsay and gossip from the facts known,
he at once threw the former to the winds, as matter not to be received
by the jury. We shall give a few of his questions and their answers that
have a bearing on the more material points of the trial.

“I understand you to say, witness, that you knew both Peter Goodwin and
his wife?”

“I did—I knew them well—saw them almost every day of my life.”

“For how long a time?”

“This many a day. For five-and-twenty years, or a little more.”

“Will you say that you have been in the habit of seeing Peter Goodwin
and his wife daily, or almost daily, for five-and-twenty years?”

“If not right down daily, quite often; as often as once or twice a week,
certainly.”

“Is this material, Mr. Dunscomb?” inquired the judge. “The time of the
court is very precious.”

“It _is_ material, your honour, as showing the looseness with which
witnesses testify; and as serving to caution the jury how they receive
their evidence. The opening of the prosecution shows us that if the
charge is to be made out at all against the prisoner, it is to be made
out on purely circumstantial evidence. It is not pretended that any one
_saw_ Mary Monson kill the Goodwins; but the crime is to be _inferred_
from a series of collateral facts, that will be laid before the court
and jury. I think your honour will see how important it is, under the
circumstances, to analyze the testimony, even on points that may not
seem to bear directly on the imputed crimes. If a witness testify
loosely, the jury ought to be made to see it. I have a life to defend,
your honour will remember.”

“Proceed, sir; the court will grant you the widest latitude.”

“You now say, as often as once or twice a week, witness; on reflection,
will you swear to even _that?_”

“Well, if not twice, I am sure I can say _once_.”

Dunscomb was satisfied with this answer, which went to show that the
witness could reply a little at random, and was not always certain of
his facts, when pressed.

“Are you certain that Dorothy Goodwin is dead?”

“I suppose I am as certain as any of the neighbours.”

“That is not an answer to my question. Will you, and do you swear on
your oath, that Peter Goodwin, the person named in the indictment, is
actually dead?”

“I’ll swear that I _think_ so.”

“That is not what I want. You see those skeletons—will you say, on your
oath, that you _know_ them to be the skeletons of Peter and Dorothy
Goodwin?”

“I’ll swear that I believe it.”

“That does not meet the question. Do you _know_ it?”

“How can I know it? I’m not a doctor, or a surgeon. No, I do not
absolutely _know_ it. Still, I believe that one is the skeleton of Peter
Goodwin, and the other the skeleton of his wife.”

“Which do you suppose to be the skeleton of Peter Goodwin?”

This question puzzled the witness not a little. To the ordinary eye,
there was scarcely any difference in the appearance of these sad
remains; though one skeleton had been ascertained by actual measurement
to be about an inch and a half longer than the other. This fact was
known to all in Biberry; but it was not easy to say which was which, at
a glance. The witness took the safe course, therefore, of putting his
opinion altogether on a different ground.

“I do not pretend to tell one from the other,” was the answer. “What I
know of my own knowledge is this, and this only. I knew Peter and
Dorothy Goodwin; knew the house they lived in; know that the house has
been burnt down, and that the old folks are not about their old ha’nts.
The skeletons I never saw until they were moved from the place where
they tell me they were found; for I was busy helping to get the articles
saved under cover.”

“Then you do not pretend to know which skeleton is that of a man, or
which that of a woman?”

This question was ingeniously put, and had the effect to make all the
succeeding witnesses shy on this point; for it created a belief that
there was a difference that might be recognized by those who are skilled
in such matters. The witness assented to the view of Dunscomb; and
having been so far sifted as to show he knew no more than all the rest
of the neighbours, he was suffered to quit the stand. The result was
that very little was actually established by means of this testimony. It
was evident that the jury was now on the alert, and not disposed to
receive all that was said as gospel.

The next point was to make out all the known facts of the fire, and of
the finding of the skeletons. The two witnesses just examined had seen
the close of the fire, had _heard_ of the skeletons, but had said very
little more to the purpose. Dunscomb thought it might be well to throw
in a hint to this effect in the present state of the case, as he now did
by remarking—

“I trust that the District Attorney will see precisely where he stands.
All that has yet been shown by legal proof are the facts that there were
such persons as Peter and Dorothy Goodwin; facts we are not at all
disposed to deny——”

“And that they have not appeared in the flesh since the night of the
fire?” put in Williams.

“Not to the witnesses; but, to how many others, does not appear.”

“Does the learned counsel mean to set up the defence that Goodwin and
his wife are not dead?”

“It is for the prosecution to show the contrary affirmatively. If it be
so, it is fair to presume they can do it. All I now contend for, is the
fact that we have no proof as yet that either is dead. We have proof
that the house was burnt; but we are now traversing an indictment for
murder, and not that for arson. As yet, it strikes me, therefore,
nothing material has been shown.”

“It is certainly material, Mr. Dunscomb, that there should have been
such persons as the Goodwins, and that they have disappeared since the
night of the fire; and this much is proved, unless you impeach the
witnesses,” observed the judge.

“Well, sir, that much we are not disposed to deny. There _were_ such
persons as the Goodwins, and they have disappeared from the
neighbourhood. We believe that much ourselves.”

“Crier, call Peter Bacon.”

Bacon came forward, dressed in an entire new suit of clothes, and
appearing much more respectable than was his wont. This man’s testimony
was almost word for word as it has already been given in the coroner’s
inquest. He established the facts of the fire, about which there could
be no prudent contention indeed, and of the finding of the skeletons;
for he had been one of those who aided in first searching the ruins for
the remains. This man told his story in an extremely vulgar dialect, as
we have had already occasion to show; but in a very clear, distinct
manner. He meant to tell the truth, and succeeded reasonably well; for
it does not occur to all who have the same upright intentions to effect
their purposes as well as he did himself. Dunscomb’s cross-examination
was very brief; for he perceived it was useless to attempt to deny what
had been thus proved.

“Jane Pope”—called out the District Attorney—“Is Mrs. Jane Pope in
court?”

The widow Pope was on the spot, and ready and willing to answer. She
removed her bonnet, took the oath, and was shown to the seat with which
it is usual to accommodate persons of her sex.

“Your name,” said Dunscomb, holding his pen over the paper.

“Pope—Jane Pope since my marriage; but Jane Anderson from my parents.”

Dunscomb listened politely, but recorded no more than the appellation of
the widow. Mrs. Pope now proceeded to tell her story, which she did
reasonably well, though not without a good deal of unnecessary
amplitude, and some slight contradictions. It was _her_ intention, also,
to tell nothing but the truth; but persons whose tongues move as nimbly
as that of this woman’s, do not always know exactly what they do say.
Dunscomb detected the contradictions; but he had the tact to see their
cause, saw that they were not material, and wisely abstained from
confounding whatever of justice there was in the defence with points
that the jury had probably sufficient sagacity to see were of no great
moment. He made no note, therefore, of these little oversights, and
allowed the woman to tell her whole story uninterrupted. When it came to
his turn to cross-examine, however, the duty of so doing was not
neglected.

“You say, Mrs. Pope, that you had often seen the stocking in which Mrs.
Goodwin kept her gold. Of what material was that stocking?”

“Wool—yes, of blue woollen yarn. A stocking knit by hand, and very
darny.”

“Should you know the stocking, Mrs. Pope, were you to see it again?”

“I think I might. Dolly Goodwin and I looked over the gold together more
than once; and the stocking got to be a sort of acquaintance.”

“Was this it?” continued Dunscomb, taking a stocking of the sort
described from Timms, who sat ready to produce the article at the proper
moment.

“If it please the court,” cried Williams, rising in haste, and preparing
eagerly to interrupt the examination.

“Your pardon, sir,” put in Dunscomb, with great self-command, but very
firmly—“words must not be put into the witness’s mouth, nor ideas into
her head. She has sworn, may it please your honour, to a certain
stocking; which stocking she described in her examination in chief; and
we now ask her if this is that stocking. All this is regular, I believe;
and I trust we are not to be interrupted.”

“Go on, sir,” said the judge; “the prosecution will not interrupt the
defence. But time is very precious.”

“Is this the stocking?” repeated Dunscomb.

The woman examined the stocking, looking inside and out, turning it over
and over, and casting many a curious glance at the places that had been
mended.

“It’s dreadful darney, isn’t it?” she said, looking inquiringly at the
counsellor.

“It is as you see, Ma’am. I have made no alteration in it.”

“I declare I believe this _is_ the very stocking.”

“At the proper time, your honour, we shall show that this is _not_ the
stocking, if indeed there ever was such a stocking at all,” said Timms,
rolling up the article in question, and handing it to the clerk to keep.

“You saw a certain piece of gold, you say,” resumed Dunscomb, “which
piece of gold I understand you to say was afterwards found in the pocket
of Mary Monson. Will you have the goodness to say whether the piece of
gold which you saw in Mrs. Goodwin’s possession is among these?”—showing
a dozen coins; “or whether one resembling it is here?”

The woman was greatly puzzled. She meant to be honest; had told no more
than was true, with the exception of the little embellishments that her
propensity to imagine and talk rendered almost unavoidable; but, for the
life of her, she could not distinguish the piece of money, or its
counterpart. After examining the coins for several minutes she frankly
admitted her ignorance.

“It is scarcely necessary to continue this cross-examination,” said
Dunscomb, looking at his watch. “I shall ask the court to adjourn, and
to adjourn over until morning. We have reached the hour for lighting
candles; but we have agents out in quest of most important witnesses;
and we ask the loss of this evening as a favour. It can make no great
difference as to the length of the trial; and the jurors will be all the
fresher for a good night’s rest.”

The court acquiesced, and allowed of the adjournment, giving the jury
the usual charge about conversing or making up their opinions until they
had heard the whole testimony; a charge that both Williams and Timms
took very good care to render of no use in several instances, or as
regarded particular individuals.

A decided impression was made in favour of the prisoner by Mrs. Pope’s
failure to distinguish the piece of money. In her examination in chief
she saw no difficulty in recognizing the single piece then shown to her,
and which was the Dutch coin actually found in Mary Monson’s purse; but,
when it was put among a dozen others resembling it, more or less, she
lost all confidence in herself, and, to a certain point, completely
broke down as a witness. But Dunscomb saw that the battle had not yet in
truth begun. What had passed was merely the skirmishing of light troops,
feeling the way for the advance of the heavy columns and the artillery
that were to decide the fortunes of the day.

CHAPTER XXIII.

“’Tis the wisest way, upon all tender topics, to be silent; for he who
takes upon himself to defend a lady’s reputation, only publishes her
favours to the world.”—_Cumberland._

The wing of “Horton’s Inn” that contained the room of Dunscomb, was of
considerable extent, having quite a dozen rooms in it, though mostly of
the diminutive size of an American tavern bed-room. The best apartment
in it, one with two windows, and of some dimensions, was that
appropriated to the counsellor. The doctor and his party had a parlour,
with two bed-rooms; while, between these and the room occupied by
Dunscomb, was that of the troublesome guest—the individual who was said
to be insane. Most of the remainder of the wing, which was much the most
quiet and retired portion of the house, was used for a better class of
bed-rooms. There were two rooms, however, that the providence of Horton
and his wife had set apart for a very different purpose. These were
small parlours, in which the initiated smoked, drank, and played.

Nothing sooner indicates the school in which a man has been educated,
than his modes of seeking amusement. One who has been accustomed to see
innocent relaxation innocently indulged, from childhood up, is rarely
tempted to abuse those habits which have never been associated, in his
mind, with notions of guilt, and which, in themselves, necessarily imply
no moral delinquency. Among the liberal, cards, dancing, music, all
games of skill and chance that can interest the cultivated, and
drinking, in moderation and of suitable liquors, convey no ideas of
wrong doing. As they have been accustomed to them from early life, and
have seen them practised with decorum and a due regard to the habits of
refined society, there is no reason for concealment or consciousness. On
the other hand, an exaggerated morality, which has the temerity to
enlarge the circle of sin beyond the bounds for which it can find any
other warranty than its own metaphysical inferences, is very apt to
create a factitious conscience, that almost invariably takes refuge in
that vilest of all delinquency—direct hypocrisy. This, we take it, is
the reason that the reaction of ultra godliness so generally leaves its
subjects in the mire and sloughs of deception and degradation. The very
same acts assume different characters, in the hands of these two classes
of persons; and that which is perfectly innocent with the first,
affording a pleasant, and in that respect a useful relaxation, becomes
low, vicious, and dangerous with the other, because tainted with the
corrupting and most dangerous practices of deception. The private wing
of Horton’s inn, to which there has been allusion, furnished an example
in point of what we mean, within two hours of the adjournment of the
court.

In the parlour of Mrs. McBrain, late Dunscomb’s Widow Updyke, as he used
to call her, a little table was set in the middle of the room, at which
Dunscomb himself, the doctor, his new wife and Sarah were seated, at a
game of whist. The door was not locked, no countenance manifested either
a secret consciousness of wrong, or an overweening desire to transfer
another’s money to its owner’s pocket, although a sober sadness might be
said to reign in the party, the consequence of the interest all took in
the progress of the trial.

Within twenty feet of the spot just mentioned, and in the two little
parlours already named, was a very different set collected. It consisted
of the rowdies of the bar, perhaps two-thirds of the reporters in
attendance on Mary Monson’s trial, several suitors, four or five country
doctors, who had been summoned as witnesses, and such other equivocal
gentry as might aspire to belong to a set as polished and exclusive as
that we are describing. We will first give a moment’s attention to the
party around the whist-table, in the parlour first described.

“I do not think the prosecution has made out as well, to-day, all things
considered, as it was generally supposed it would,” observed McBrain.
“There is the ace of trumps, Miss Sarah, and if you can follow it with
the king, we shall get the odd trick.”

“I do not think I shall follow it with anything,” answered Sarah,
throwing down her cards. “It really seems heartless to be playing whist,
with a fellow-creature of our acquaintance on trial for her life.”

“I have not half liked the game,” said the quiet Mrs. McBrain, “but Mr.
Dunscomb seemed so much bent on a rubber, I scarce knew how to refuse
him.”

“Why, true enough, Tom,” put in the doctor, “this is all your doings,
and if there be anything wrong about it, you will have to bear the
blame.”

“Play anything but a trump, Miss Sarah, and _we_ get the game. You are
quite right, Ned”—throwing down the pack—“the prosecution has not done
as well as I feared they might. That Mrs. Pope was a witness I dreaded,
but her testimony amounts to very little, in itself; and what she has
said, has been pretty well shaken by her ignorance of the coin.”

“I really begin to hope the unfortunate lady may be innocent,” said the
doctor.

“Innocent!” exclaimed Sarah—“surely, uncle Ned, you can never have
doubted it!”

McBrain and Dunscomb exchanged significant glances, and the last was
about to answer, when raising his eyes, he saw a strange form glide
stealthily into the room, and place itself in a dark corner. It was a
short, sturdy figure of a man, with all those signs of squalid misery in
his countenance and dress that usually denote mental imbecility. He
seemed anxious to conceal himself, and did succeed in getting more than
half of his person beneath a shawl of Sarah’s, ere he was seen by any of
the party but the counsellor. It at once occurred to the latter that
this was the being who had more than once disturbed him by his noise,
and who Mrs. Horton had pretty plainly intimated was out of his mind;
though she had maintained a singularly discreet silence for her,
touching his history and future prospects. She believed “he had been
brought to court by his friends, to get some order, or judgment—may be,
his visit had something to do with the new code, about which ’Squire
Dunscomb said so many hard things.”

A little scream from Sarah soon apprised all in the room of the presence
of this disgusting-looking object. She snatched away her shawl, leaving
the idiot, or madman, or whatever he might be, fully exposed to view,
and retreated, herself, behind her uncle’s chair.

“I fancy you have mistaken your room, my friend,” said Dunscomb, mildly.
“This, as you see, is engaged by a card-party—I take it, you do not
play.”

A look of cunning left very little doubt of the nature of the malady
with which this unfortunate being was afflicted. He made a clutch at the
cards, laughed, then drew back, and began to mutter.

“She won’t let me play,” mumbled the idiot—“she never _would_.”

“Whom do you mean by she?” asked Dunscomb. “Is it any one in this
house—Mrs. Horton, for instance?”

Another cunning look, with a shake of the head, for an answer in the
negative.

“Be you ’Squire Dunscomb, the great York lawyer?” asked the stranger,
with interest.

“Dunscomb is certainly my name—though I have not the pleasure of knowing
yours.”

“I haven’t got any name. They may ask me from morning to night, and I
won’t tell. She won’t let me.”

“By _she_, you again mean Mrs. Horton, I suppose?”

“No I don’t. Mrs. Horton’s a _good_ woman; she gives me victuals and
drink.”

“Tell us whom you do mean, then.”

“Won’t you tell?”

“Not unless it be improper to keep the secret. Who is this _she_?”

“Why, _she_.”

“Ay, but who?”

“Mary Monson. If you’re the great lawyer from York, and they say you be,
you must know all about Mary Monson.”

“This is very extraordinary!” said Dunscomb, regarding his companion, in
surprise. “I _do_ know something about Mary Monson, but not _all_ about
her. Can you tell me anything?”

Here the stranger advanced a little from his corner, listened, as if
fearful of being surprised, then laid a finger on his lip, and made the
familiar sound for ‘hush.’

“Don’t let her hear you; if you do, you may be sorry for it. She’s a
witch!”

“Poor fellow!—she seems, in truth, to have bewitched you, as I dare say
she may have done many another man.”

“That has she! I wish you’d tell me what I want to know, if you really
be the great lawyer from York.”

“Put your questions, my friend; I’ll endeavour to answer them.”

“Who set fire to the house? Can you tell me _that_?”

“That is a secret yet to be discovered—do you happen to know anything
about it?”

“Do I?—I think I do. Ask Mary Monson; _she_ can tell you.”

All this was so strange, that the whole party now gazed at each other in
mute astonishment; McBrain bending his looks more intently on the
stranger, in order to ascertain the true nature of the mental malady
with which he was obviously afflicted. In some respects the disease wore
the appearance of idiocy; then again there were gleams of the
countenance that savoured of absolute madness.

“You are of opinion, then, that Mary Monson knows who set fire to the
house.”

“Sartain, she does. I know, too, but I won’t tell. They might want to
hang me, as well as Mary Monson, if I told. I know too much to do
anything so foolish. Mary has said they would hang _me_, if I tell. I
don’t want to be hanged, a bit.”

A shudder from Sarah betrayed the effect of these words on the
listeners; and Mrs. McBrain actually rose with the intention of sending
for her daughter, who was then in the gaol, consoling the much-injured
prisoner, as Anna Updyke firmly believed her to be, by her gentle but
firm friendship. A word from the doctor, however, induced her to resume
her seat, and to await the result with a greater degree of patience.

“Mary Monson would seem to be a very prudent counsellor,” rejoined
Dunscomb.

“Yes; but she isn’t the great counsellor from York—you be that
gentleman, they tell me.”

“May I ask who told you anything about me?”

“Nancy Horton—and so did Mary Monson. Nancy said if I made so much
noise, I should disturb the great counsellor from York, and he might get
me hanged for it. I was only singing hymns, and they say it is good for
folks in trouble to sing hymns. If you be the great counsellor from
York, I wish you would tell me one thing. Who got the gold that was in
the stocking?”

“Do you happen to know anything of that stocking, or of the gold?”

“Do I—” looking first over one shoulder, then over the other, but
hesitating to proceed. “Will they hang me, if I tell?”

“I should think not; though I can only give you an opinion. Do not
answer, unless it be agreeable to you.”

“I want to tell—I want to tell _all_, but I’m afeard. I don’t want to be
hanged.”

“Well, then, speak out boldly, and I will promise that you shall not be
hanged. Who got the gold that was in the stocking?”

“Mary Monson. That’s the way she has got so much money.”

“I cannot consent to leave Anna another instant in such company!”
exclaimed the anxious mother. “Go, McBrain, and bring her hither at
once.”

“You are a little premature,” coolly remarked Dunscomb. “This is but a
person of weak mind; and too much importance should not be attached to
his words. Let us hear what further he may have to say.”

It was too late. The footstep of Mrs. Horton was heard in the passage;
and the extraordinary being vanished as suddenly and as stealthily as he
had entered.

“What can be made of this?” McBrain demanded, when a moment had been
taken to reflect.

“Nothing, Ned; I care not if Williams knew it all. The testimony of such
a man cannot be listened to for an instant. It is wrong in us to give it
a second thought; though I perceive that you do. Half the mischief in
the world is caused by misconceptions, arising from a very numerous
family of causes; one of which is a disposition to fancy a great deal
from a little. Do you pronounce the man an idiot—or is he a madman?”

“He does not strike me as absolutely either. There is something peculiar
in his case; and I shall ask permission to look into it. I suppose we
are done with the cards—shall I go for Anna?”

The anxious mother gave a ready assent; and McBrain went one way, while
Dunscomb retired to his own room, not without stopping before his
neighbour’s door, whom he heard muttering and menacing within.

All this time the two little parlours mentioned were receiving their
company. The law is doubtless a very elevated profession, when its
practice is on a scale commensurate with its true objects. It becomes a
very different pursuit, however, when its higher walks are abandoned, to
choose a path amid its thickets and quagmires. Perhaps no human pursuit
causes a wider range of character among its votaries, than the practice
of this profession. In the first place, the difference, in an
intellectual point of view, between the man who sees only precedents,
and the man who sees the principles on which they are founded, is as
marked as the difference between black and white. To this great
distinction in mind, is to be added another that opens a still wider
chasm, the results of practice, and which depends on morals. While one
set of lawyers turn to the higher objects of their calling, declining
fees in cases of obviously questionable right, and struggle to maintain
their honesty in direct collision with the world and its temptations,
another, and much the largest, falls readily into the practices of their
craft—the word seems admirably suited to the subject—and live on,
encumbered and endangered not only by their own natural vices, but
greatly damaged by those that in a manner they adopt, as it might be _ex
officio_. This latter course is unfortunately that taken by a vast
number of the members of the bar all over the world, rendering them
loose in their social morality, ready to lend themselves and their
talents to the highest bidder, and causing them to be at first
indifferent, and in the end blind, to the great features of right and
wrong. These are the moralists who advance the doctrine that “the
advocate has a right to act as his client would act;” while the class
first named allow that “the advocate has a right to do what his client
_has_ a _right_ to do,” and no more.

Perhaps there was not a single member of the profession present that
night in the two little parlours of Mrs. Horton, who recognized the
latter of these rules; or who did not, at need, practise on the former.
As has been already said, these were the rowdies of the Duke’s county
bar. They chewed, smoked, drank, and played, each and all coarsely. To
things that were innocent in themselves they gave the aspect of guilt by
their own manners. The doors were kept locked; even amid their coarsest
jokes, their ribaldry, their oaths that were often revolting and
painfully frequent, there was an uneasy watchfulness, as if they feared
detection. There was nothing frank and manly in the deportment of these
men. Chicanery, management, double-dealing, mixed up with the
outbreakings of a coarse standard of manners, were visible in all they
said or did, except, perhaps, at those moments when hypocrisy was paying
its homage to virtue. This hypocrisy, however, had little, or at most a
very indirect connection with anything religious. The offensive
offshoots of the exaggerations that were so abounding among us half a
century since, are giving place to hypocrisy of another school. The
homage that was then paid to principles, however erroneous and
forbidding, is now paid to the ballot-boxes. There was scarcely an
individual around those card-tables, at which the play was so obviously
for the stakes as to render the whole scene revolting, who would not
have shrunk from having his amusements known. It would seem as if
conscience consulted taste. Everything was coarse and offensive; the
attitudes, oaths, conversation, liquors, and even the manner of drinking
them. Apart from the dialogue, little was absolutely done that might not
have been made to lose most of its repulsiveness, by adopting a higher
school of manners; but of this these scions of a noble stock knew no
more than they did of the parent stem.

It is scarcely necessary to say that both Williams and Timms were of
this party. The relaxation was, in fact, in conformity with their tastes
and practices; and each of these excrescences of a rich and beneficent
soil counted on the meetings in Mrs. Horton’s private rooms, as the more
refined seek pleasure in the exercise of their tastes and habits.

“I say, Timms,” bawled out an attorney of the name of Crooks—“You play’d
a trump, sir—all right—go ahead—first rate—good play, that—ours dead. I
say, Timms, you’re going to save Mary Monson’s neck. When I came here, I
thought she was a case; but the prosecution is making out miserably.”

“What do you say to that, Williams?” put in Crooks’s partner, who was
smoking, playing, and drinking, with occasional ‘asides’ of swearing,
all, as might be, at the same time. “I trump that, sir, by your
leave—what do you say to that, Williams?”

“I say that this is not the court; and trying such a cause once ought to
satisfy a reasonable man.”

“He’s afraid of showing his hand, which I am not,” put in another,
exposing his cards as he spoke. “Williams always has some spare trumps,
however, to get him out of all his difficulties.”

“Yes, Williams has a spare trump, and there it is, giving me the trick,”
answered the saucy lawyer, as coolly as if he had been engaged in an
inferior slander-suit. “I shall be at Timms pretty much by the same
process to-morrow.”

“Then you will do more than you have done to-day, Master Williams. This
Mrs. Jane Pope _may be_ a trump, but she is not the ace. I never knew a
witness break down more completely.”

“We’ll find the means to set her up again—I think that knave is yours,
Green—yes, I now see my game, which is to take it with the queen—very
much, Timms, as we shall beat you to-morrow. I keep my trump card always
for the last play, you know.”

“Come, come, Williams,” put in the oldest, member of the bar, a man
whose passions were cooled by time, and who had more gravity than most
of his companions—“Come, come, Williams, this is a trial for a life, and
joking is a little out of place.”

“I believe there is no juror present, Mr. Marvin, which is all the
reserve the law exacts.”

“Although the law may tolerate this levity, feeling will not. The
prisoner is a fine young woman; and for my part, though I wish to say
nothing that may influence any one’s opinion, I have heard nothing yet
to justify an indictment, much less a conviction.”

Williams laid down his cards, rose, stretched his arms, gaped, and
taking Timms by the arm, he led the latter from the room. Not content
with this, the wary limb of the law continued to move forward, until he
and his companion were in the open air.

“It is always better to talk secrets outside than inside of a house,”
observed Williams, as soon as they were at a safe distance from the
inn-door. “It is not too late yet, Timms—you must see how weak we are,
and how bunglingly the District Attorney has led off. Half those jurors
will sleep to-night with a feeling that Mary Monson has been hardly
dealt by.”

“They may do the same to-morrow night, and every night in the month,”
answered Timms.

“Not unless the arrangement is made. We have testimony enough to hang
the governor.”

“Show us your list of witnesses, then, that we may judge of this for
ourselves.”

“That would never do. They might be bought off for half the money that
is necessary to take us out of the field. Five thousand dollars can be
no great matter for such a woman and her friends.”

“Whom do you suppose to be her friends, Williams?—If you know them, you
are better informed than her own counsel.”

“Yes, and a pretty point _that_ will make, when pressed against you. No,
no, Timms; your client has been ill-advised, or she is unaccountably
obstinate. She has friends, although you may not know who they are; and
friends who can, and who _would_ very promptly help her, if she would
consent to ask their assistance. Indeed, I suspect she has cash enough
on hand to buy us off.”

“Five thousand dollars is a large sum, Williams, and is not often to be
found in Biberry gaol. But, if Mary Monson has these friends, name them,
that we may apply for their assistance.”

“Harkee, Timms; you are not a man so ignorant of what is going on in the
world, as to require to be told the letters of the alphabet. You know
that there are extensive associations of rogues in this young country,
as well as in most that are older.”

“What has that to do with Mary Monson and our case?”

“Everything. This Mary Monson has been sent here to get at the gold of
the poor old dolt, who has not been able to conceal her treasure after
it was hoarded. She made a sub-treasury of her stocking, and exhibited
the coin, like any other sub-treasurer. Many persons like to look at it,
just to feast their eyes.”

“More to finger it; and you are of the number, Williams!”

“I admit it. The weakness is general in the profession, I believe. But
this is idle talk, and we are losing very precious time. Will you, or
will you not, apply again to your client for the money?”

“Answer me candidly, a question or two, and I will do as you desire. You
know, Williams, that we are old friends, and never had any serious
difficulty since we have been called to the bar.”

“Oh, assuredly,” answered Williams, with an ironical smile that it might
have been fortunate for the negotiation the obscurity concealed from his
companion; “excellent friends from the beginning, Timms, and likely to
continue so, I trust, to the last. Men who _know_ each other as well as
you and I, ought to be on the best of terms. For my part, I never
harboured a wrangle at the bar in my mind five minutes after I left the
court. Now for your question.”

“You surely do not set down Mary Monson as the stool pigeon of a set of
York thieves!”

“Who, or what else can she be, Mr. Timms? Better educated, and belonging
to an ‘upper ten’ in villany, but of a company of rogues. Now, these
knaves stand by each other much more faithfully than the body of the
citizens stand by the law; and the five thousand will be forthcoming for
the asking.”

“Are you serious in wishing me to believe you think my client guilty!”

Here Williams made no bones of laughing outright. It is true that he
suppressed the noise immediately, lest it should attract attention; but
laugh he did, and with right good will.

“Come, Timms, you have asked your question, and I leave you to answer it
yourself. One thing I will say, however, in the way of admonition, which
is this—we shall make out such a case against her to-morrow as would
hang a governor, as I have already told you.”

“I believe you’ve done your worst already—why not let me know the names
of your witnesses?”

“You know the reason. We wish the whole sum ourselves, and have no fancy
to its being scattered all over Duke’s. I give you my honour, Timms—and
you know what _that_ is—I give you my honour that we hold this testimony
in reserve.”

“In which case the District Attorney will bring the witnesses on the
stand; and we shall gain nothing, after all, by your withdrawal.”

“The District Attorney has left the case very much to me. I have
prepared his brief, and have taken care to keep to myself enough to turn
the scales. If I quit, Mary Monson will be acquitted—if I stay, she will
be hanged. A pardon for _her_ will be out of the question—she is too
high among the ‘upper ten’ to expect _that_—besides, she is not an
anti-renter.”

“I wonder the thieves do not combine, as well as other folks, and
control votes!”

“They do—these anti-renters belong to the gangs, and have already got
their representatives in high places. They are ‘land-pirates,’ while
_your_ client goes for the old stockings. The difference in principle is
by no means important, as any clear-headed man may see. It is getting
late, Timms.”

“I cannot believe that Mary Monson is the sort of person you take her
for! Williams, I’ve always looked upon you, and treated you, as a
friend. You may remember how I stood by you in the Middlebury case?”

“Certainly—you did your duty by me in that matter, and I have not forgot
it.”

The cause alluded to was an action for a “breach of promise,” which, at
one time, threatened all of Williams’s “future usefulness,” as it is
termed; but which was put to sleep in the end by means of Timms’s
dexterity in managing the “out-door” points of a difficult case.

“Well, then, be _my_ friend in this matter. I will be honest with you,
and acknowledge that, as regards my client, I have had—that is provided
she is acquitted, and her character comes out fair—that I have had—and
_still_ have, for that matter—what——”

“Are called ‘ulterior views.’ I understand you, Timms, and have
suspected as much these ten days. A great deal depends on what you
consider a fair character. Taking the best view of her situation, Mary
Monson will have been tried for murder and arson.”

“Not if acquitted of the first. I have the District Attorney’s promise
to consent to a _nolle prosequi_ on the last indictment, if we traverse
the first successfully.”

“In which case Mary Monson will have been tried for murder only,”
returned Williams, smiling. “Do you really think, Timms, that your heart
is soft enough to receive and retain an impression as deep as that made
by the seal of the court?”

“If I thought, as you do, that my client is or has been connected with
thieves, and burglars, and counterfeiters, I would not think of her for
a moment as a wife. But there is a vast difference between a person
overtaken by sudden temptation and one who sins on calculation, and by
regular habit. Now, in my own case, I sometimes act wrong—yes, I admit
as much as that——”

“It is quite unnecessary,” said Williams, drily.

“It is not according to Christian doctrine to visit old offences on a
sinner’s head, when repentance has washed away the crime.”

“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.

“You have heard the rumour as well as myself. Some say she is a wife
already; while others think her a rich widow. My opinion you know; I
believe her to be the stool-pigeon of a York gang, and no better than
she should be.”

This was plain language to be addressed to a lover; and Williams meant
it to be so. He had that sort of regard for Timms which proceeds from a
community in practices, and was disposed to regret that a man with whom
he had been so long connected, either as an associate or an antagonist,
should marry a woman of the pursuits that he firmly believed marked the
career of Mary Monson.

The gentlemen of the bar are no more to be judged by appearances than
the rest of mankind. They will wrangle, and seem to be at sword’s points
with each other, at one moment; when the next may find them pulling
together in harmony in the next case on the calendar. It was under this
sort of feeling that Williams had a species of friendship for his
companion.

“I will try, Williams,” said the last, turning towards the gaol. “Yes, I
will make one more trial.”

“Do, my good fellow—and, Timms—remember one thing, you can never marry a
woman that has been hanged.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

“The time is precious; I’ll about it straight.”
_Earl of Essex._

The gaol presented a very different scene. A solemn stillness reigned in
its gallery; and even good Mrs. Gott had become weary with the
excitement of the day, and had retired to rest. A single lamp was
burning in the cell; and dark forms were dimly visible in the passage,
without the direct influence of its rays. Two were seated, while a third
paced the stone but carpeted pavement, with a slow and quiet step. The
first were the shadowy forms of Anna Updyke and Marie Moulin; the last,
that of Mary Monson. For half an hour the prisoner had been on her
knees, praying for strength to endure a burthen that surpassed her
expectations; and, as is usual with those who look above for aid, more
especially women, she was reaping the benefit of her petition. Not a
syllable had she uttered, however, since quitting the cell. Her voice,
soft, melodious, and lady-like, was now heard for the first time.

“My situation is most extraordinary, Anna,” she said; “it proves almost
too much for my strength! This has been a terrible day, calm as I may
have appeared; and I fear that the morrow will be still harder to be
borne. There is an expression about the eyes of that man, Williams, that
both alarms and disgusts me. I am to expect in him a most fiery foe.”

“Why, then, do you not escape from scenes for which you are so unsuited
and leave this saucy Williams to himself, and his schemes of plunder?”

“That would not do. Several sufficient reasons exist for remaining. Were
I to avail myself of the use of the keys I possess, and quit the gaol
not to return, good Mrs. Gott and her husband would probably both be
ruined. Although they are ignorant of what money and ingenuity have done
for me, it would be difficult to induce the world to believe them
innocent. But a still higher reason for remaining is the vindication of
my own character.”

“No one will think of confounding _you_ with Mary Monson; and by going
abroad, as you say it is your intention to do, you would effectually
escape from even suspicion.”

“You little know the world, my dear. I see that all the useful lessons I
gave you, as your school-mamma, are already forgotten. The six years
between us in age have given me an experience that tells me to do
nothing of the sort. Nothing is so certain to follow us as a bad name;
though the good one is easily enough forgotten. As Mary Monson, I am
indicted for these grievous crimes; as Mary Monson will I be acquitted
of them. I feel an affection for the character, and shall not degrade it
by any act as base as that of flight.”

“Why not, then, resort to the other means you possess, and gain a speedy
triumph in open court?”

As Anna put this question, Mary Monson came beneath the light and
stopped. Her handsome face was in full view, and her friend saw an
expression on it that gave her pain. It lasted only a moment; but that
moment was long enough to induce Anna to wish she had not seen it. On
several previous occasions this same expression had rendered her uneasy;
but the evil look was soon forgotten in the quiet elegance of manners
that borrowed charms from a countenance usually as soft as the evening
sky in September. Ere she resumed her walk, Mary Monson shook her head
in dissent from the proposition of her friend, and passed on, a shadowy
but graceful form, as she went down the gallery.

“It would be premature,” she said, “and I should fail of my object. I
will not rob that excellent Mr. Dunscomb of his honest triumph. How calm
and gentlemanlike he was to-day; yet how firm and prompt, when it became
necessary to show these qualities.”

“Uncle Tom is all that is good; and we love him as we would love a
parent.”

A pause succeeded, during which Mary Monson walked along the gallery
once, in profound thought.

“Yours promises to be a happy future, my dear,” she said. “Of suitable
ages, tempers, stations, country—yes, country; for an American woman
should never marry a foreigner!”

Anna Updyke did not reply; and a silence succeeded that was interrupted
by the rattling of a key in the outer door.

“It is your new father, Anna, come to see you home. Thank you,
kind-hearted and most generous-minded girl. I feel the sacrifices that
you and your friend are making in my behalf, and shall carry the
recollection of them to the grave. On her, I had no claims at all; and
on you, but those that are very slight. You have been to me, indeed,
most excellent friends, and a great support when both were most needed.
Of my own sex, and of the same social level, I do not now see how I
should have got on without you. Mrs. Gott is kindness and good-nature
themselves; but she is so different from us in a thousand things, that I
have often been pained by it. In our intercourse with you, how
different! Knowing so much, you pry into nothing. Not a question, not a
look to embarrass me; and with a perfect and saint-like reliance on my
innocence, were I a sister, your support could not be more warm-hearted
or firm.”

After a short pause, in which this singular young woman smiled, and
appeared to be talking to herself, she continued, after kissing her
companion most affectionately for good-night, and walking with her as
far as the door of the gallery, where it had been announced that the
doctor was waiting for his step-daughter—

“I wish I knew whether the same faith goes through the connection—Mr.
John Wilmeter?”

“Oh! He is persuaded of your entire innocence. It was he who excited so
much interest in me, on your behalf, before I had the least idea of our
having ever met before.”

“He is a noble-hearted young man, and has many excellent qualities—a
little romantic, but none the worse for that, my dear, as you will find
in the end. Alas! alas! Those marriages that are made over a rent-roll,
or an inventory, need a great deal of something very different from what
they possess, to render them happy! Mr. Wilmeter has told me that _no
evidence_ could make him believe in my guilt. There is a confidence that
might touch a woman’s heart, Anna, did circumstances admit of such a
thing. I like that Michael Millington, too; the _name_ is dear to me, as
is the race of which he comes. No matter; the world _va son train_, let
us regret and repine as we may. And Uncle Tom, Anna—what do you think of
his real opinion? Is it in my favour or not?”

Anna Updyke had detected in Dunscomb a disposition to doubt, and was
naturally averse to communicating a fact so unpleasant to her friend.
Kissing the latter affectionately, she hurried away to meet McBrain,
already waiting for her without. In quitting the dwelling of the
building annexed to the gaol, the doctor and Anna met Timms hurrying
forward to seek an interview with his client before she retired to rest.
An application at once obtained permission for the limb of the law to
enter.

“I have come, Miss Mary,” as Timms now called his client, “on what I
fear will prove a useless errand; but which I have thought it my duty to
see performed, as your best friend, and one of your legal advisers. You
have already heard what I had to say on the subject of a certain
proposal of the next of kin to withdraw from the prosecution, which will
carry with him this Williams, with whom I should think you would, by
this time, be heartily disgusted. I come now to say that this offer is
repeated with a good deal of emphasis, and that you have still an
opportunity of lessening the force that is pressing on your interests,
by at least one-half. Williams may well count for more than half of the
vigour and shrewdness of what is doing for the State in your case.”

“The proposal must be more distinctly made, and you must let me have a
clear view of what is expected from me, Mr. Timms, before I can give any
reply,” said Mary Monson. “But you may wish to be alone with me before
you are more explicit. I will order my woman to go into the cell.”

“It might be more prudent were we to go into the cell ourselves, and
leave your domestic outside. These galleries carry sounds like
ear-trumpets; and we never know who may be our next neighbour in a
gaol.”

Mary Monson quietly assented to the proposal, calling to her woman in
French to remain outside, in the dark, while she profited by the light
of the lamp in the cell. Timms followed, and closed the door.

In size, form, and materials, the cell of Mary Monson was necessarily
like that of every other inmate of the gaol. Its sides, top and bottom,
were of massive stones; the two last being flags of great dimensions.
But taste and money had converted even this place into an apartment that
was comfortable in all respects but that of size. Two cells opening on
the section of gallery that the consideration of Mrs. Gott had caused to
be screened off, and appropriated to the exclusive use of the fair
prisoner, one had been furnished as a sleeping apartment, while that in
which Timms was now received had more the air of a sort of _boudoir_. It
was well carpeted, like all the rest of what might be termed the suite;
and had a variety of those little elegancies that women of cultivated
tastes and ample means are almost certain to gather about them. The harp
which had occasioned so much scandal, as well as a guitar, stood near
by; and chairs of different forms and various degrees of comfort,
crowded the room, perhaps to superfluity. As this was the first time
Timms had been admitted to the cell, he was all eyes, gazing about him
at the numerous signs of wealth it contained, with inward satisfaction.
It was a minute after he was desired to be seated before he could
comply, so lively was the curiosity to be appeased. It was during this
minute that Marie Moulin lighted four candles, that were already
arranged in bronzed candlesticks, making a blaze of light for that small
room. These candles were of spermaceti, the ordinary American substitute
for wax. Nothing that he then saw, or had ever seen in his intercourse
with his client, so profoundly impressed Timms as this luxury of light.
Accustomed himself to read and write by a couple of small inferior
articles in tallow, when he did not use a lamp, there seemed to be
something regal to his unsophisticated imagination, in this display of
brilliancy.

Whether Mary Monson had a purpose to answer in giving Timms so unusual a
reception, we shall leave the reader to discover by means of his own
sagacity; but circumstances might well lead one to the conclusion that
she had. There was a satisfied look, as she glanced around the cell and
surveyed its arrangements, that possibly led fairly enough to such an
inference. Nevertheless, her demeanour was perfectly quiet, betraying
none of the fidgeting uneasiness of an underbred person, lest all might
not be right. Every arrangement was left to the servant; and when Marie
Moulin finally quitted the cell and closed the door behind her, every
thought of the apartment and what it contained seemed to vanish from the
mind of her extraordinary mistress.

“Before you proceed to communicate the purpose of your visit, Mr.
Timms,” Mary Monson said, “I shall ask permission to put a few questions
of my own, touching the state of our cause. Have we gained or lost by
this day’s proceedings?”

“Most clearly gained, as every man at the bar will confirm by his
opinion.”

“That has been my own way of thinking; and I am glad to hear it
corroborated by such competent judges. I confess the prosecution does
not seem to me to show the strength it really possesses. This Jane Pope
made a miserable blunder about the piece of coin.”

“She has done the other side no great good, certainly.”

“How stands the jury, Mr. Timms?”

Although this question was put so directly, Timms heard it with
uneasiness. Nor did he like the expression of Mary Monson’s eyes, which
seemed to regard him with a keenness that might possibly imply distrust.
But it was necessary to answer; though he did so with caution, and with
a due regard to his own safety.

“It is pretty well,” he said, “though not quite as much opposed to
capital punishment as I had hoped for. We challenged off one of the
sharpest chaps in the county, and have got in his place a man who is
pretty much under my thumb.”

“And the stories—the reports—have they been well circulated?”

“A little too well, I’m afraid. That concerning your having married a
Frenchman, and having run away from him, has gone through all the lower
towns of Duke’s like wild-fire. It has even reached the ears of ’Squire
Dunscomb, and will be in the York papers to-morrow.”

A little start betrayed the surprise of the prisoner; and a look
accompanied it, which would seem to denote dissatisfaction that a tale
put in circulation by herself, as it would now appear, had gone quite so
far.

“Mr. Dunscomb!” she repeated, musingly. “Anna Updyke’s uncle Tom; and
one whom such a story may very well set thinking. I wish it had not
reached _him_, of all men, Mr. Timms.”

“If I may judge of his opinions by some little acts and expressions that
have escaped him, I am inclined to think he believes the story to be, in
the main, true.”

Mary Monson smiled; and, as was much her wont when thinking intensely,
her lips moved; even a low muttering became audible to a person as near
as her companion then was.

“It is now time, Mr. Timms, to set the other story in motion,” she said,
quickly. “Let one account follow the other; that will distract people’s
belief. We must be active in this matter.”

“There is less necessity for our moving in the affair, as Williams has
got a clue to it, by some means or other; and his men will spread it far
and near, long before the cause goes to the jury.”

“That is fortunate!” exclaimed the prisoner, actually clapping her
pretty gloved hands together in delight. “A story as terrible as _that_
must react powerfully, when its falsehood comes to be shown. I regard
that tale as the cleverest of all our schemes, Mr. Timms.”

“Why—yes—that is—I think, Miss Mary, it may be set down as the
_boldest_.”

“And this saucy Williams, as you call him, has got hold of it already,
and believes it true!”

“It is not surprising; there are so many small and probable facts
accompanying it.”

“I suppose you know what Shakspeare calls such an invention, Mr. Timms?”
said Mary Monson, smiling.

“I am not particularly acquainted with that author, ma’am I know there
was such a writer, and that he was thought a good deal of, in his day;
but I can’t say I have ever read him.”

The beautiful prisoner turned her large expressive blue eyes on her
companion with a gaze of wonder; but her breeding prevented her from
uttering what she certainly thought and felt.

“Shakspeare is a writer very generally esteemed,” she answered, after
one moment of muttering, and one moment to control herself; “I believe
he is commonly placed at the head of our English literature, if not at
the head of that of all times and nations—Homer, perhaps, excepted.”

“What! higher, do you think, Miss Mary, than Blackstone and Kent!”

“Those are authors of whom I know nothing, Mr. Timms; but now, sir, I
will listen to your errand here to-night.”

“It is the old matter. Williams has been talking to me again, touching
the five thousand dollars.”

“Mr. Williams has my answer. If five thousand _cents_ would buy him off,
he should not receive them from me.”

This was said with a frown; and then it was that the observer had an
opportunity of tracing in a face otherwise so lovely, the lines that
indicate self-will, and a spirit not easily controlled. Alas! that women
should ever so mistake their natural means to influence and guide, as to
have recourse to the exercise of agents that they rarely wield with
effect; and ever with a sacrifice of womanly character and womanly
grace. The person who would draw the sex from the quiet scenes that they
so much embellish, to mingle in the strifes of the world; who would
place them in stations that nature has obviously intended men should
occupy, is not their real friend, any more than the weak adviser who
resorts to reputed specifics when the knife alone can effect a cure. The
Creator intended woman for a “help-meet,” and not for the head of the
family circle; and most fatally ill-judging are the laws that would fain
disturb the order of a domestic government which is directly derived
from divine wisdom as from divine benevolence.

“I told him as much, Miss Mary,” answered Timms; “but he does not seem
disposed to take ‘no’ for an answer. Williams has the true scent for a
dollar.”

“I am quite certain of an acquittal, Mr. Timms; and having endured so
much, and hazarded so much, I do not like to throw away the triumph of
my approaching victory. There is a powerful excitement in my situation;
and I like excitement to weakness, perhaps. No, no; my success must not
be tarnished by any such covert bargain. I will not listen to the
proposal for an instant!”

“I understand that the raising of the sum required would form no
particular obstacle to the arrangement?” asked Timms, in a careless sort
of way that was intended to conceal the real interest he took in the
reply.

“None at all. The money might be in his hands before the court sits in
the morning; but it never shall be, as coming from me. Let Mr. Williams
know this definitively; and tell him to do his worst.”

Timms was a little surprised, and a good deal uneasy at this
manifestation of a spirit of defiance, which could produce no good, and
which might be productive of evil. While he was delighted to hear, for
the fourth or fifth time, how easy it would be for his fair client to
command a sum as large as that demanded, he secretly determined not to
let the man who had sent him on his present errand know the temper in
which it had been received. Williams was sufficiently dangerous as it
was; and he saw all the hazard of giving him fresh incentives to
increase his exertions.

“And now, as this matter is finally disposed of, Mr. Timms—for I desire
that it may not be again mentioned to me”—resumed the accused, “let us
say a word more on the subject of our new report. Your agent has set on
foot a story that I belong to a gang of wretches who are combined to
prey on society; and that, in this character, I came into Duke’s to
carry out one of its nefarious schemes?”

“That is the substance of the rumour we have started at your own desire;
though I could wish it were not quite so strong, and that there were
more time for the reaction.”

“The strength of the rumour is its great merit; and, as for time, we
have abundance for our purposes. Reaction is the great power of
popularity, as I have heard, again and again. It is always the most
effective, too, at the turn of the tide. Let the public once get
possessed with the notion that a rumour so injurious has been in
circulation at the expense of one in my cruel condition, and the current
of feeling will set the other way in a torrent that nothing can arrest!”

“I take the idea, Miss Mary, which is well enough for certain cases, but
a little too hazardous for this. Suppose it should be ascertained that
this report came from us?”

“It never can be, if the caution I directed was observed. You have not
neglected my advice, Mr. Timms?”

The attorney had not; and great had been his surprise at the ingenuity
and _finesse_ manifested by this singular woman, in setting afloat a
report that would certainly act to her injury, unless arrested and
disproved at a moment most critical in her future fate. Nevertheless, in
obedience to Mary Monson’s positive commands, this very bold measure had
been undertaken; and Timms was waiting with impatience for the
information by means of which he was to counteract these self-inflicted
injuries, and make them the instruments of good, on the reaction.

If that portion of society which takes delight in gossip could be made
to understand the real characters of those to whom they commit the
control of their opinions, not to say principles, there would be far
more of reserve and self-respect observed in the submission to this
social evil, than there is at present. Malice, the inward impulses of
the propagators of a lie, and cupidity, are at the bottom of half the
tales that reach our ears; and in those cases in which the world in its
ignorance fancies it has some authority for what it says, it as often
happens that some hidden motive is at the bottom of the exhibition as
the one which seems so apparent. There are a set of vulgar vices that
may be termed the “stereotyped,” they lie so near the surface of human
infirmities. They who are most subject to their influence always drag
these vices first into the arena of talk; and fully one-half of that of
this nature which we hear, has its origin as much in the reflective
nature of the gossip’s own character, as in any facts truly connected
with the acts of the subjects of his or her stories.

But Mary Monson was taking a far higher flight than the circulation of
an injurious rumour. She believed herself to be putting on foot a
master-stroke of policy. In her intercourse with Timms, so much was said
of the power of opinion, that she had passed hours, nay days, in the
study of the means to control and counteract it. Whence she obtained her
notion of the virtue of reaction it might not be easy to say; but her
theory was not without its truth; and it is certain that her means of
producing it were of remarkable simplicity and ingenuity.

Having settled the two preliminaries of the rumour and of Williams’s
proposition, Timms thought the moment favourable to making a
demonstration in his own affairs. Love he did not yet dare to propose
openly; though he had now been, for some time, making covert
demonstrations towards the tender passion. In addition to the motive of
cupidity, one of great influence with such a man, Timms’s heart, such as
it was, had really yielded to the influence of a beauty, manners,
accomplishments, and information, all of a class so much higher than he
had been accustomed to meet with, as to be subjects of wonder with him,
not to say of adoration. This man had his affections as well as another;
and, while John Wilmeter had submitted to a merely passing inclination,
as much produced by the interest he took in an unknown female’s
situation as by any other cause, poor Timms had been hourly falling more
and more in love. It is a tribute to nature, that this passion can be,
and is, felt by all. Although a purifying sentiment, the corrupt and
impure can feel its power, and, in a greater or less degree, submit to
its influence, though their homage may be tainted by the grosser
elements that are so largely mixed up with the compound of their
characters. We may have occasion to show hereafter how far the uncouth
attorney of Mary Monson succeeded in his suit with his fair client.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXV.

“I challenge envy,
Malice, and all the practices of hell,
To censure all the actions of my past
Unhappy life, and taint me if they can.”
_The Orphan._

It is to be presumed that Timms found the means to communicate to
Williams the rejection of the latter’s offer, before the court met next
morning. It is certain that the counsel associated with the
Attorney-General manifested unusual zeal in the performance of duties
that most men would have found unpleasant, if not painful, and that he
was captious, short, and ill-natured. Just as Mary Monson came within
the bar, a letter was put into the hands of Dunscomb, who quietly broke
the seal, and read it twice, as the observant Timms fancied; then put it
in his pocket, with a mien so undisturbed that no mere looker-on would
have suspected its importance. The letter was from Millington, and it
announced a general want of success in his mission. The whereabouts of
M. de Larocheforte could not be ascertained; and those who knew anything
about his movements, were of opinion that he was travelling in the West,
accompanied by his fair, accomplished, and affluent young consort. None
of those who would naturally have heard of such an event, had it
occurred, could say there had ever been a separation between the French
husband and the American wife. Millington, himself, had never seen his
kinswoman, there being a coolness of long standing between the two
branches of the family, and could give little or no information on the
subject. In a word, he could discover nothing to enable him to carry out
the clue obtained in the rumour; while, on the other hand, he found a
certain set, who occupied themselves a good deal with intelligence of
that sort, were greatly disposed to believe the report, set on foot by
herself, that Mary Monson was a stool-pigeon of a gang of marauders, and
doubtless guilty of everything of which she had been accused. Millington
would remain in town, however, another day, and endeavour to push his
inquiries to some useful result. Cool, clear-headed, and totally without
romance, Dunscomb knew that a better agent than his young friend could
not be employed, and was fain to wait patiently for the discoveries he
might eventually succeed in making. In the mean time the trial
proceeded.

“Mr. Clerk,” said his honour, “let the jury be called.”

This was done, and Mary Monson’s lips moved, while a lurking smile
lighted her countenance, as her eyes met the sympathy that was expressed
in the countenances of several of the grave men who had been drawn as
arbiters, in her case, between life and death. To her it was apparent
that her sex, her youth, perhaps her air and beauty, stood her friends,
and that she might largely count on the compassion of that small but
important body of men. One of her calculations had succeeded to the
letter. The tale of her being a stool-pigeon had been very actively
circulated, with certain additions and embellishments that it was very
easy to disprove; and another set of agents had been hard at work, all
the morning, in brushing away such of the collateral circumstances as
had, at first, been produced to confirm the main story, and which, in
now being pulled to pieces as of no account, did not fail to cast a
shade of the darkest doubt over the whole rumour. All this Mary Monson
probably understood, and understanding, enjoyed; a vein of wild
wilfulness certainly running through her character, leading in more
directions than one.

“I hope there will be no delay on account of witnesses,” observed the
judge. “Time is very precious.”

“We are armed at all points, your honour, and intend to bring the matter
to an early conclusion,” answered Williams, casting one of those glances
at the prisoner which had obtained for him the merited _sobriquet_ of
“saucy.” “Crier, call Samuel Burton.”

Timms fairly started. This was breaking ground in a new spot, and was
producing testimony from a source that he much dreaded. The Burtons had
been the nearest neighbours of the Goodwins, and were so nearly on a
social level with them, as to live in close and constant communication.
These Burtons consisted of the man, his wife, and three maiden sisters.
At one time, the last had conversed much on the subject of the murders;
but, to Timms’ great discontent, they had been quite dumb of late. This
had prevented his putting in practice a method of anticipating
testimony, that is much in vogue, and which he had deliberately
attempted with these sometime voluble females. As the reader may not be
fully initiated in the mysteries of that sacred and all-important master
of the social relations, the law, we shall set forth the manner in which
justice is often bolstered, when its interests are cared for by
practitioners of the Timms’ and Williams’ school.

No sooner is it ascertained that a particular individual has a knowledge
of an awkward fact, than these worthies of the bar set to work to
extract the dangerous information from him. This is commonly attempted,
and often effected, by inducing the witness to relate what he knows, and
by leading him on to make statements that, on being sworn to in court,
will either altogether invalidate his testimony, or throw so much doubt
on it as to leave it of very little value. As the agents employed to
attain this end are not very scrupulous, there is great danger that
their imaginations may supply the defects in the statements, and
substitute words and thoughts that the party never uttered. It is so
easy to mistake another’s meaning, with even the best intentions, that
we are not to be surprised if this should seriously happen when the
disposition is to mislead. With the parties to suits, this artifice is
often quite successful, admissions being obtained, or supposed to be
obtained, that they never, for an instant, intended to make. In the
states where speculation has cornered men, and left them loaded with
debt, these devices of the eaves-droppers and suckers are so common, as
to render their testimony no immaterial feature in nearly every cause of
magnitude that is tried. In such a state of society it is, indeed,
unsafe for a suitor to open his lips on his affairs, lest some one near
him be employed to catch up his words, and carry them into court with
shades of meaning gathered from his own imagination.

At first, Timms was under the impression that the Burtons were going to
sustain the defence, and he was placing himself on the most amiable
footing with the females, three of whom might very reasonably be placed
within the category of matrimony with this rising lawyer; but, it was
not long ere he ascertained that Williams was getting to be intimate,
and had proved to be a successful rival. Davis, the nephew and heir of
the Goodwins, was a single man, too, and it is probable that his
frequent visits to the dwelling of the Burtons had a beneficial
influence on his own interests. Let the cause be what it might, the
effect was clearly to seal the lips of the whole family, not a member of
which could be induced, by any art practised by the agents of Timms, to
utter a syllable on a subject that now really seemed to be forbidden.
When, therefore, Burton appeared on the stand, and was sworn, the two
counsel for the defence waited for him to open his lips, with a profound
and common interest.

Burton knew the deceased, had lived all his life near them, was at home
the night of the fire, went to assist the old people, saw the two
skeletons, had no doubt they were the remains of Peter Goodwin and his
wife, observed the effects of a heavy blow across the foreheads of each,
the same that was still to be seen, inferred that this blow had
destroyed them, or so far stunned them as to leave them incapable of
escaping from the fire.

This witness was then questioned on the subject of the stocking, and
Mrs. Goodwin’s hoard of money. He had seen the stocking but once, had
often heard it mentioned by his sisters, did not think his wife had ever
alluded to it, did not know the amount of the gold, but supposed it
might be very considerable, saw the bureau examined, and knew that the
stocking could not be found. In a word, his testimony in chief went
generally to sustain the impression that prevailed relative to the
murders, though it is unnecessary to repeat it in this form, as the
cross-examination will better explain his statements and opinions.

“Mr. Burton,” said Dunscomb, “you knew the Goodwins well?”

“Very well, sir. As well as near neighbours generally know each other.”

“Can you swear that those are the skeletons of Peter and Dorothy
Goodwin?”

“I can swear that I _believe_ them to be such—have no doubt of the
fact.”

“Point out that which you suppose to be the skeleton of Peter Goodwin.”

This request embarrassed the witness. In common with all around him, he
had no other clue to his facts than the circumstances under which these
vestiges of mortality had been found, and he did not know what ought to
be his reply.

“I suppose the shortest of the skeletons to be Peter Goodwin’s, and the
longest that of his wife,” he at length answered. “Peter was not as tall
as Dorothy.”

“Which is the shortest of these remains?”

“That I could not say, without measuring. I know that Goodwin was not as
tall as his wife by half an inch, for I have seen them measure.”

“Then you would say that, in your opinion, the longest of these two
skeletons is that of Dorothy Goodwin, and the shortest that of her
husband?”

“Yes, sir; that is my opinion—formed to the best of my knowledge. I have
seen them measure.”

“Was this measurement accurate?”

“Very much so. They used to dispute about their height, and they
measured several times, when I was by; generally in their stocking feet,
and once barefoot.”

“The difference being half an inch in favour of the wife?”

“Yes, sir, as near as could be; for I was umpire more than once.”

“Did Peter Goodwin and his wife live happily together?”

“Tolerable—much as other married folks get along.”

“Explain what you mean by that.”

“Why, there’s ups and downs, I suppose, in all families. Dorothy was
high-tempered, and Peter was sometimes cross-grained.”

“Do you mean that they quarrelled?”

“They got r’iled with each other, now and then.”

“Was Peter Goodwin a sober man?”

The witness now appeared to be bothered. He looked around him, and
meeting everywhere with countenances which evidently reflected ‘yes,’ he
had not the moral courage to run counter to public opinion, and say
‘no.’ It is amazing what a tyrant this concentration of minds gets to be
over those who are not very clear-headed themselves, and who are not
constituted, morally, to resist its influence. It almost possesses a
power to persuade these persons not to put faith in their own senses,
and disposes them to believe what they hear, rather than what they have
seen. Indeed, one effect is to cause them to see with the eyes of
others. As the ‘neighbours,’ those inquisitors who know so much of
persons of their association and intimacy, and so little of all others,
very generally fancied Peter a sober man, Burton scarce knew what to
answer. Circumstances had made him acquainted with the delinquency of
the old man, but his allegations would not be sustained were he to speak
the whole truth, since Peter had succeeded in keeping his infirmity from
being generally known. To a man like the witness, it was easier to
sacrifice the truth than to face a neighbourhood.

“I suppose he was much as others,” answered Burton, after a delay that
caused some surprise. “He was human, and had a human natur’.
Independence days, and other rejoicings, I’ve known him give in more
than the temperance people think is quite right; but I shouldn’t say he
was downright intemperate.”

“He drank to excess, then, on occasions?”

“Peter had a very weak head, which was his greatest difficulty.”

“Did you ever count the money in Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking?”

“I never did. There was gold and paper; but how much I do not know.”

“Did you see any strangers in or about the house of the Goodwins, the
morning of the fire?”

“Yes; two strange men were there, and were active in helping the
prisoner out of the window, and afterwards in getting out the furniture.
They were very particular in saving Mary Monson’s property.”

“Were those strangers near the bureau?”

“Not that I know. I helped carry the bureau out myself; and I was
present afterwards in court when it was examined for the money. We found
none.”

“What became of those strangers?”

“I cannot tell you. They were lost to me in the confusion.”

“Had you ever seen them before?”

“Never.”

“Nor since?”

“No, sir.”

“Will you have the goodness to take that rod, and tell me what is the
difference in length between the two skeletons?”

“I trust, your honour, that this is testimony which will not be
received,” put in Williams. “The fact is before the jury, and they can
take cognizance of it for themselves.”

Dunscomb smiled as he answered—

“The zeal of the learned gentleman runs ahead of his knowledge of the
rules of evidence. Does he expect the jury to measure the remains; or
are we to show the fact by means of witnesses?”

“This is a cross-examination; and the question is one in chief. The
witness belongs to the defence, if the question is to be put at all.”

“I think not, your honour. The witness has testified, in chief, that he
believes these remains to be those of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin; he has
further said, on his cross-examination, that Dorothy was half an inch
taller than Peter; we now wish to put to the test the accuracy of the
first opinion, by comparing the two facts—his knowledge of the
difference by the former measurement as compared with the present. It
has been said that these two skeletons are very nearly of a length. We
wish the truth to be seen.”

“The witness will answer the question,” said the judge.

“I doubt the power of the court to compel a witness to obtain facts in
this irregular mode,” observed the pertinacious Williams.

“You can note your exceptions, brother Williams,” returned the judge,
smiling; “although it is not easy to see with what useful consequences.
If the prisoner be acquitted, you can hardly expect to try her again;
and, if convicted, the prosecution will scarcely wish to press any
objection.”

Williams, who was as much influenced by a bull-dog tenacity, as by any
other motive, now submitted; and Burton took the rod and measured the
skeletons, an office he might have declined, most probably, had he seen
fit. The spectators observed surprise in his countenance; and he was
seen to repeat the measurement, seemingly with more care.

“Well, sir, what is the difference in the length of those skeletons?”
inquired Dunscomb.

“I make it about an inch and a half, if these marks are to be relied
on,” was the slow, cautious, well-considered reply.

“Do you now say that you believe these skeletons to be the remains of
Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?”

“Whose else can they be? They were found on the spot where the old
couple used to sleep.”

“I ask you to answer _my_ question; I am not here to answer _yours_. Do
you still say that you believe these to be the skeletons of Peter and
Dorothy Goodwin?”

“I am a good deal non-plussed by this measurement—though the flesh, and
skin, and muscles, may have made a considerable difference in life.”

“Certainly,” said Williams, with one of his withering sneers—sneers that
had carried many a cause purely by their impudence and sarcasm—“Every
one knows how much more muscle a man has than a woman. It causes the
great difference in their strength. A bunch of muscles, more or less in
the heel, would explain all this, and a great deal more.”

“How many persons dwelt in the house of Goodwin at the time of the
fire?” demanded Dunscomb.

“They tell me Mary Monson was there, and I saw her there during the
fire; but I never saw her there before.”

“Do you know of any other inmate besides the old couple and the
prisoner?”

“I did see a strange woman about the house for a week or two before the
fire, but I never spoke to her. They tell me she was High Dutch.”

“Never mind what they _tell_ you, Mr. Burton”—observed the
judge—“testify only to what you _know_.”

“Did you see this strange woman at the fire, or after the fire?”
continued Dunscomb.

“I can’t say that I did. I remember to have looked round for her, too;
but I did not find her.”

“Was her absence spoken of in the crowd at the time?”

“Something was said about it; but we were too much taken up with the old
couple to think a great deal of this stranger.”

This is an outline of Burton’s testimony; though the cross-examination
was continued for more than an hour, and Williams had him again examined
in chief. That intrepid practitioner contended that the defence had made
Burton its own witness in all that related to the measurement of the
skeletons; and that he had a right to a cross-examination. After all
this contest, the only fact of any moment elicited from the witness
related to the difference in stature between Goodwin and his wife, as
has been stated already.

In the mean time, Timms ascertained that the last report set on foot by
his own agents, at the suggestion of Mary Monson herself, was
circulating freely; and, though it was directly opposed to the preceding
rumour, which had found great favour with the gossips, this extravagant
tale was most greedily swallowed. We conceive that those persons who are
so constituted, morally, as to find pleasure in listening to the idle
rumours that float about society, are objects of pity; their morbid
desire to talk of the affairs of others being a disease that presses
them down beneath the level they might otherwise occupy. With such
persons, the probabilities go for nothing; and they are more inclined to
give credit to a report that excites their interest, by running counter
to all the known laws of human actions, than to give faith to its
contradiction, when sustained by every reason that experience sustains.
Thus was it on the present occasion. There was something so audacious in
the rumour that Mary Monson belonged to a gang of rogues in town, and
had been sent especially to rob the Goodwins, that vulgar curiosity
found great delight in it; the individual who heard the report usually
sending it on with additions of his own, that had their authority purely
in the workings of a dull imagination. It is in that way that this great
faculty of the mind is made to perform a double duty; which in the one
case is as pure and ennobling, as in the other it is debasing and
ignoble. The man of a rich imagination, he who is capable of throwing
the charms of poetical feeling around the world in which we dwell, is
commonly a man of truth. The high faculty which he possesses seems, in
such cases, to be employed in ferreting out facts which, on proper
occasions, he produces distinctly, manfully, and logically. On the other
hand, there is a species of subordinate imagination that is utterly
incapable of embellishing life with charms of any sort, and which
delights in the false. This last is the imagination of the gossip. It
obtains some modicum of fact, mixes it with large quantities of stupid
fiction, delights in the idol it has thus fashioned out of its own head,
and sends it abroad to find worshippers as dull, as vulgar-minded, and
as uncharitable, as itself.

Timms grew frightened at the success of his client’s scheme, and felt
the necessity of commencing the reaction at once, if the last were to
have time in which to produce its effect. He had been warmly opposed to
the project in the commencement, and had strenuously resisted its
adoption; but Mary Monson would not listen to his objections. She even
threatened to employ another, should he fail her. The conceit seemed to
have taken a strong hold on her fancy; and all the wilfulness of her
character had come in aid of this strange scheme. The thing was done;
and it now remained to prevent its effecting the mischief it was so well
adapted to produce.

All this time, the fair prisoner sat in perfectly composed silence,
listening attentively to everything that was said, and occasionally
taking a note. Timms ventured to suggest that it might be better were
she to abstain from doing the last, as it gave her the air of knowing
too much, and helped to deprive her of the interesting character of an
unprotected female; but she turned a perfectly deaf ear to his
admonitions, hints, and counsel. He was a safe adviser, nevertheless, in
matters of this sort; but Mary Monson was not accustomed so much to
follow the leadings of others, as to submit to her own impulses.

The sisters of Burton were next examined. They proved all the admitted
facts; testified as to the stocking and its contents; and two of them
recognised the piece of gold which was said to have been found in Mary
Monson’s purse, as that which had once been the property of Dorothy
Goodwin. On this head, the testimony of each was full, direct, and
explicit. Each had often seen the piece of gold, and they had noted a
very small notch or scratch near the edge, which notch or scratch was
visible on the piece now presented in court. The cross-examination
failed to shake this testimony, and well it might, for every word these
young women stated was strictly true. The experiment of placing the
piece of coin among other similar coin, failed with them. They easily
recognized the true piece by the notch. Timms was confounded; Dunscomb
looked very grave; Williams raised his nose higher than ever; and Mary
Monson was perfectly surprised. When the notch was first mentioned, she
arose, advanced far enough to examine the coin, and laid her hand on her
forehead, as if she pondered painfully on the circumstance. The
testimony that this was the identical piece found in her purse was very
ample, the coin having been sealed up and kept by the coroner, who had
brought it into court; while it must now be admitted that a very strong
case was made out to show that this foreign coin had once been among the
hoards of Dorothy Goodwin. A very deep impression was made by this
testimony on all who heard it, including the court, the bar, the jury
and the audience. Every person present, but those who were in the
immediate confidence of the accused, was firmly convinced of Mary
Monson’s guilt. Perhaps the only other exceptions to this mode of
thinking were a few experienced practitioners, who, from long habit,
knew the vast importance of hearing both sides, before they made up
their minds in a matter of so much moment.

We shall not follow Dunscomb through his long and arduous
cross-examination of the sisters of Burton; but confine ourselves to a
few of the more pertinent of the interrogatories that he put to the
eldest, and which were duly repeated when the other two were placed on
the stand.

“Will you name the persons dwelling in the house of the Goodwins at the
time of the fire?” asked Dunscomb.

“There were the two old folks, this Mary Monson, and a German woman
named Yetty (Jette), that aunt Dorothy took in to wait on her boarders.”

“Was Mrs. Goodwin your aunt, then?”

“No; we wasn’t related no how; but, being such near neighbours, and she
so old, we just called her aunt by way of a compliment.”

“I understand that,” said Dunscomb, arching his brows—“I am called
uncle, and by very charming young persons, on the same principle. Did
you know much of this German?”

“I saw her almost every day for the time she was there, and talked with
her as well as I could; but she spoke very little English. Mary Monson
was the only person who could talk with her freely; she spoke her
language.”

“Had you much acquaintance with the prisoner at the bar?”

“I was some acquainted; as a body always is, when they live such near
neighbours.”

“Were your conversations with the prisoner frequent, or at all
confidential?”

“To own the truth, I never spoke to her in my life. Mary Monson was much
too grand for me.”

Dunscomb smiled; he understood how common it was for persons in this
country to say they are “well acquainted” with this or that individual,
when their whole knowledge is derived from the common tongue. An
infinity of mischief is done by this practice; but the ordinary American
who will admit that he lives near any one, without having an
acquaintance with him, if acquaintance is supposed to confer credit, is
an extraordinary exception to a very general rule. The idea of being
“too grand” was of a nature to injure the prisoner and to impair her
rights; and Dunscomb deemed it best to push the witness a little on this
point.

“Why did you think Mary Monson was ‘too grand’ for you?” he demanded.

“Because she _looked_ so.”

“_How_ did she look?—In what way does or did her looks indicate that she
was, or thought herself ‘too grand’ for your association?”

“Is this necessary, Mr. Dunscomb?” demanded the judge.

“I beg your honour will suffer the gentleman to proceed,” put in
Williams, cocking his nose higher than ever, and looking round the
court-room with an air of intelligence that the great York counsellor
did not like. “It is an interesting subject; and we poor, ignorant,
Duke’s county folks, may get useful ideas, to teach us how to look ‘too
grand!’”

Dunscomb felt that he had made a false step; and he had the self-command
to stop.

“Had you any conversation with the German woman?” he continued, bowing
slightly to the judge to denote submission to _his_ pleasure.

“She couldn’t talk English. Mary Monson talked with her, I didn’t, to
any account.”

“Were you at the fire?”

“I was.”

“Did you see anything of this German during the fire, or afterwards?”

“I didn’t. She disappeared, unaccountable!”

“Did you visit the Goodwins as often after Mary Monson came to live with
them, as you had done previously?”

“I didn’t—grand looks and grand language isn’t agreeable to me.”

“Did Mary Monson ever speak to you?”

“I think, your honour,” objected Williams, who did not like the
question, “that this is travelling out of the record.”

“Let the gentleman proceed—time is precious, and a discussion would lose
us more of it than to let him proceed—go on, Mr. Dunscomb.”

“Did Mary Monson ever speak to you?”

“She never did, to my knowledge.”

“What, then, do you mean by ‘grand language?’”

“Why, when she spoke to aunt Dorothy, she didn’t speak as I was used to
hear folks speak.”

“In what respect was the difference?”

“She was grander in her speech, and more pretending like.”

“Do you mean louder?”

“No—perhaps she wasn’t as loud as common—but ’twas more like a book, and
uncommon.”

Dunscomb understood all this perfectly, as well as the feeling which lay
at its bottom, but he saw that the jury did not; and he was forced to
abandon the inquiry, as often happens on such occasions, on account of
the ignorance of those to whom the testimony was addressed. He soon
after abandoned the cross-examination of the sister of Burton; when his
wife was brought upon the stand by the prosecution.

This woman, coming from a different stock, had none of the family
characteristics of the sisters. As they were garrulous, forward, and
willing enough to testify, she was silent, reserved in manner,
thoughtful, and seemingly so diffident that she trembled all over, as
she laid her hand on the sacred volume. Mrs. Burton passed for a very
good woman among all who dwelt in or near Biberry; and there was much
more confidence felt in her revelations than in those of her
sisters-in-law. Great modesty, not to say timidity of manner, an air of
singular candour, a low, gentle voice, and an anxious expression of
countenance, as if she weighed the import of every syllable she uttered,
soon won for this witness the sympathy of all present, as well as
perfect credence. Every word she uttered had a direct influence on the
case; and this so much the more since she testified reluctantly, and
would gladly have been permitted to say nothing.

The account given by Mrs. Burton, in her examination in chief, did not
materially differ from that previously stated by her sisters-in-law. She
knew more, in some respects, than those who had preceded her, while, in
others, she knew less. She had been more in the confidence of Dorothy
Goodwin than any other member of her family, had seen her oftener, and
knew more of her private affairs. With the stocking and its contents she
admitted that she was familiarly acquainted. The gold exceeded twelve
hundred dollars in amount; she had counted it, in her own hands. There
was paper, also, but she did not know how much, exactly, as Dorothy kept
_that_ very much to herself. She knew, however, that her neighbours
talked of purchasing a farm, the price of which was quite five thousand
dollars, a sum that Dorothy often talked of paying down. She thought the
deceased must have had money to that amount, in some form or other.

On the subject of the piece of gold found in Mary Monson’s purse, Mrs.
Burton gave her testimony with the most amiable discretion. Every one
compared the reserve and reluctance of her manner most favourably with
the pert readiness of Mrs. Pope and the sisters. This witness appeared
to appreciate the effect of all she said, and uttered the facts she knew
with a gentleness of manner that gave great weight to her testimony.
Dunscomb soon saw that this was the witness the defence had most reason
to dread, and he used the greatest care in having every word she said
written out with precision.

Mrs. Burton swore point blank to the piece of notched gold, although she
fairly trembled as she gave her testimony. She knew it was the very
piece that she had often seen in Dorothy Goodwin’s possession; she had
examined it, at least a dozen times, and could have selected it among a
thousand similar coins, by means of its private marks. Besides the
notch, there was a slight defect in the impression of the date. This had
been pointed out to her by Dorothy Goodwin herself, who had said it was
a good mark by which to know the piece, should it be stolen. On this
head, the witness’s testimony was firm, clear, and full. As it was
corroborated by so much other evidence, the result was a deep and very
general impression of the prisoner’s guilt.

It was late when the examination in chief of Mrs. Burton terminated. She
stated that she was much fatigued, and was suffering under a severe
headache; and Williams asked, in her behalf, that the court would
adjourn over, until next day, ere the cross-examination was gone into.
This suited Dunscomb’s views altogether, for he knew he might lose an
essential advantage by allowing the witness a night to arrange her
thoughts, pending so searching a process. There being no resistance on
the part of the prisoner, to the request of the prosecution, the judge
so far waived his regard for the precious time of the court, as to
consent to adjourn at eight o’clock in the evening, instead of pushing
the case to ten or eleven. As a consequence the jurors took their rest
in bed, instead of sleeping in the jury-box.

Dunscomb left the court-house, that night, dejected, and with no great
expectation of the acquittal of his client. Timms had a better feeling,
and thought nothing had yet appeared that might not be successfully
resisted.

CHAPTER XXVI.

“I’ve not wrong’d her.”
“Far be it from my fears.”
“Then why this argument?”
“My lord, my nature’s jealous, and you’ll bear it.”
_Otway._

So great was the confidence of Sarah Wilmeter and Anna Updyke in the
innocence of their friend, that almost every step that the trial
advanced, appeared to them as so much progress towards an eventual
acquittal. It was perhaps a little singular, that the party most
interested, she who knew her own guilt or innocence, became dejected,
and for the first half hour after they had left the court-room, she was
silent and thoughtful. Good Mrs. Gott was quite in despair, and detained
Anna Updyke, with whom she had established a sort of intimacy, as she
opened the door of the gallery for the admission of the party, in order
to say a word on the subject that lay nearest to her heart.

“Oh! Miss Anna,” said the sheriff’s wife, “it goes from bad to worse! It
was bad enough last evening, and it is worse to-night.”

“Who tells you this, Mrs. Gott? So far from thinking as you do, I regard
it as appearing particularly favourable.”

“You must have heard what Burton said, and what his wife said, too. They
are the witnesses I dread.”

“Yes, but who will mind what such persons say! I am sure if fifty Mr.
and Mrs. Burtons were to testify that Mary Monson had taken money that
did not belong to her, I should not believe them.”

“You are not a Duke’s county jury! Why, Miss Anna, these men will
believe almost anything you tell them. Only swear to it, and there’s no
accounting for their credulity. No; I no more believe in Mary Monson’s
guilt, than I do in my own; but law is law, they say, and rich and poor
must abide by it.”

“You view the matter under a false light, my kind-hearted Mrs. Gott, and
after a night’s rest will see the case differently. Sarah and I have
been delighted with the course of things. You must have remarked no one
said that Mary Monson had been seen to set fire to the house, or to harm
the Goodwins, or to touch their property, or to do anything that was
wrong; and of course she must be acquitted.”

“I wish that piece of gold had not been found in her pocket! It’s that
which makes all the trouble.”

“I think nothing of that, my good friend. There is nothing remarkable in
two pieces of money having the same marks on them; I have seen that
often, myself. Besides, Mary Monson explains all that, and her
declaration is as good as that of this Mrs. Burton’s, any day.”

“Not in law, Miss Anna; no, not in law. Out of doors it might be much
better, and probably is; but not in court, by what they tell me. Gott
says it is beginning to look very dark, and that we, in the gaol, here,
must prepare for the very worst. I tell him, if I was he, I’d resign
before I’d execute such a beautiful creature!”

“You make me shudder with such horrid thoughts, Mrs. Gott, and I will
thank you to open the door. Take courage, we shall never have to lament
such a catastrophe, or your husband to perform so revolting a duty.”

“I hope not—I’m sure I hope not, with all my heart. I would prefer that
Gott should give up all hopes of ever rising any higher, than have him
do this office. One never knows, Miss Anna, what is to happen in life,
though I was as happy as a child when he was made sheriff. If my words
have any weight with him, and he often says they have, I shall never let
him execute Mary Monson. You are young, Miss Anna; but you’ve heard the
tongue of flattery, I make no doubt, and know how sweet it is to woman’s
ear.”

Mrs. Gott had been wiping her eyes with one hand, and putting the key
into the lock with the other, while talking, and she now stood regarding
her young companion with a sort of motherly interest, as she made this
appeal to her experience. Anna blushed ‘rosy red,’ and raised her gloved
hand to turn the key, as if desirous of getting away from the earnest
look of the matron.

“That’s just the way with all of us, Miss Anna!” continued Mrs. Gott.
“We listen, and listen, and listen; and believe, and believe, and
believe, until we are no longer the gay, light-hearted creatures that we
were, but become mopy, and sighful, and anxious, to a degree that makes
us forget father and mother, and fly from the paternal roof.”

“Will you have the kindness, now, to let me into the gaol?” said Anna,
in the gentlest voice imaginable.

“In a minute, my dear—I call you my dear, because I like you; for I
never use what Gott calls ‘high flown.’ There is Mr. John Wilmeter, now,
as handsome and agreeable a youth as ever came to Biberry. He comes here
two or three times a day, and sits and talks with me in the most
agreeable way, until I’ve got to like him better than any young man of
my acquaintance. He talks of you, quite half the time; and when he is
not _talking_ of you, he is _thinking_ of you, as I know by the way he
gazes at this very door.”

“Perhaps his thoughts are on Mary Monson,” answered Anna, blushing
scarlet. “You know she is a sort of client of his, and he has been here
in her service, for a good while.”

“She hardly ever saw him; scarcely ever, except at this grate. His foot
never crossed this threshold, until his uncle came; and since, I believe
he has gone in but once. Mary Monson is not the being he worships.”

“I trust he worships the Being we all worship, Mrs. Gott,” struggling
gently to turn the key, and succeeding. “It is not for us poor frail
beings to talk of being worshipped.”

“Or of worshipping, as I tell Gott,” said the sheriff’s wife, permitting
her companion to depart.

Anna found Mary Monson and Sarah walking together in the gallery,
conversing earnestly.

“It is singular that nothing reaches us from Michael Millington!”
exclaimed the last, as Anna interlocked arms with her, and joined the
party. “It is now near eight-and-forty hours since my uncle sent him to
town.”

“On my business?” demanded Mary Monson, quickly.

“Certainly; on no other—though what it was that took him away so
suddenly, I have not been told. I trust you will be able to overturn all
that these Burtons have said, and to repair the mischief they have
done?”

“Fear nothing for me, Miss Wilmeter,” answered the prisoner, with
singular steadiness of manner—“I tell you, as I have often told your
friend, _I must be acquitted_. Let justice take its course, say I, and
the guilty be punished. I have a clue to the whole story, as I believe,
and must make provision for to-morrow. Do you two, dear, warm-hearted
friends as you are, now leave me; and when you reach the inn, send Mr.
Dunscomb hither, as soon as possible. Not that Timms; but noble, honest,
upright Mr. Dunscomb. Kiss me, each of you, and so good night. Think of
me in your prayers. I am a great sinner, and have need of your prayers.”

The wishes of Mary Monson were obeyed, and the young ladies left the
gaol for the night. Ten minutes later Dunscomb reached the place, and
was admitted. His conference with his client was long, intensely
interesting, and it quite unsettled the notions he had now, for some
time, entertained of her guilt. She did not communicate any thing
concerning her past life, nor did she make any promises on that subject;
but she did communicate facts of great importance, as connected with the
result of her trial. Dunscomb left her, at a late hour, with views
entirely changed, hopes revived, and his resolution stimulated. He made
ample entries in his brief; nor did he lay his head on his pillow until
it was very late.

The little court-house bell rang as usual, next morning, and judge,
jurors, witnesses, lawyers, and the curious in general, collected as
before, without any ceremony, though in decent quiet. The case was now
getting to be so serious, that all approached it as truly a matter of
life and death; even the reporters submitting to an impulse of humanity,
and viewing the whole affair less in a business point of view, than as
one which might carry a singularly gifted woman into the other world.
The first act of the day opened by putting Mrs. Burton on the stand, for
her cross-examination. As every intelligent person present understood
that on her testimony depended the main result, the fall of a pin might
almost have been heard, so profound was the general wish to catch what
was going on. The witness, however, appeared to be calm, while the
advocate was pale and anxious. He had the air of one who had slept
little the past night. He arranged his papers with studied care, made
each movement deliberately, compressed his lips, and seemed to be
bringing his thoughts into such a state of order and distinctness that
each might be resorted to as it was needful. In point of fact, Dunscomb
foresaw that a human life depended very much on the result of this
cross-examination, and like a conscientious man, he was disposed to do
his whole duty. No wonder, then, that he paused to reflect, was
deliberate in his acts, and concentrated in feeling.

“We will first give our attention to this piece of gold, Mrs. Burton,”
the counsel for the prisoner mildly commenced, motioning to the coroner,
who was in court, to show the witness the piece of money so often
examined. “Are you quite certain that it is the very coin that you saw
in the possession of Mrs. Goodwin?”

“Absolutely certain, sir. As certain as I am of anything in the world.”

“Mrs. Burton, I wish you to remember that the life of the prisoner at
the bar will, most probably, be affected by your testimony. Be kind
enough, then, to be very guarded and close in your answers. Do you still
say that this is the precise coin that you once saw in Mrs. Goodwin’s
stocking?”

The witness seemed suddenly struck with the manner of the advocate. She
trembled from head to foot. Still, Dunscomb spoke mildly, kindly even;
and the idea conveyed in the present, was but a repetition of that
conveyed in the former question. Nevertheless, those secret agencies, by
means of which thought meets thought, unknown to all but their
possessors; that set in motion, as it might be, all the covert currents
of the mind, causing them to flow towards similar streams in the mind of
another, were now at work, and Dunscomb and the witness had a clue to
each other’s meaning that entirely escaped the observation of all around
them. There is nothing novel in this state of secret intelligence. It
doubtless depends on a mutual consciousness, and a common knowledge of
certain material facts, the latter being applied by the former, with
promptitude and tact. Notwithstanding her sudden alarm, and the change
it brought over her entire manner, Mrs. Burton answered the question as
before; what was more, she answered it truly. The piece of gold found in
Mary Monson’s purse, and now in possession of the coroner, who had kept
it carefully, in order to identify it, had been in Dorothy Goodwin’s
stocking.

“Quite certain, sir. I know that to be the same piece of money that I
saw, at different times, in Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking.”

“Did you ever have that gold coin in your own hand, Mrs. Burton,
previously to this trial?”

This was a very natural and simple interrogatory; one that might be, and
probably was, anticipated; yet it gave the witness uneasiness, more from
the manner of Dunscomb, perhaps, than from anything in the nature of the
inquiry itself. The answer, however, was given promptly, and, as before,
with perfect truth.

“On several occasions, sir. I saw that notch, and talked with Mrs.
Goodwin about it, more than once.”

“What was the substance of Mrs. Goodwin’s remarks, in relation to that
notch?”

“She asked me, one time, if I thought it lessened the weight of the
coin; and if so, how much I thought it might take away from its value?”

“What was your answer?”

“I believe I said I did not think it could make any great difference.”

“Did Mrs. Goodwin ever tell you how, or where, she got that piece of
money?”

“Yes, sir, she did. She told me it came from Mary Monson.”

“In pay for board; or, for what purpose did it pass from one to the
other?”

This, too, was a very simple question, but the witness no longer
answered promptly. The reader will remember that Mary Monson had said,
before the coroner, that she had two of these coins, and that she had
given one of them to the poor unfortunate deceased, and had left the
other in her own purse. This answer had injured the cause of the
accused, inasmuch as it was very easy to tell such a tale, while few in
Biberry were disposed to believe that gold passed thus freely, and
without any consideration, from hand to hand. Mrs. Burton remembered all
this, and, for a reason best known to herself, she shrunk a little from
making the required reply. Still she did answer this question also, and
answered it truly.

“I understood aunt Dolly to say that Mary Monson made her a present of
that piece of money.”

Here Timms elevated his nose, and looked around him in a meaning manner,
that appealed to the audience to know if his client were not a person of
veracity. Sooth to say, this answer made a strong impression in favour
of the accused, and Dunscomb saw with satisfaction that, in-so-much, he
had materially gained ground. He was not a man to gain it, however, by
dramatic airs; he merely paused for a few moments, in order to give full
effect to this advantage.

“Mrs. Goodwin, then, owned to you that she had the coin from Mary
Monson, and that it was a present?” was the next question.

“She did, sir.”

“Did she say anything about Mary Monson’s having another piece of money,
like the one before you, and which was given by her to Dorothy Goodwin?”

A long pause succeeded. The witness raised a hand to her brow, and
appeared to meditate. Her reputation for taciturnity and gravity of
deportment was such, that most of those in court believed she was
endeavouring to recollect the past, in order to say neither more nor
less than the truth. In point of fact, she was weighing well the effect
of her words, for she was a person of extreme caution, and of great
reputed probity of character. The reply came at length—

“She did speak on the subject,” she said, “and did state something of
the kind.”

“Can you recollect her words—if so, give them to the jury—if not her
very words, their substance.”

“Aunt Dolly had a way of her own in talking, which makes it very
difficult to repeat her precise words; but she said, in substance, that
Mary Monson had two of these pieces of money, one of which was given to
_her_.”

“Mary Monson, then, kept the other?”

“So I understood it, sir.”

“Have you any knowledge yourself, on this subject?—If so, state it to
the jury.”

Another pause, one even longer than before, and again the hand was
raised to the brow. The witness now spoke with extreme caution, seeming
to feel her way among the facts, as a cat steals on its prey.

“I believe I have—a little—some—I have seen Mary Monson’s purse, and I
_believe_ I saw a piece of money in it which resembled this.”

“Are you not _certain_ of the fact?”

“Perhaps I am.”

Here Dunscomb’s face was lighted with a smile; he evidently was
encouraged.

“Were you present, Mrs. Burton, when Mary Monson’s purse was examined,
in presence of the inquest?”

“I was.”

“Did you then see its contents?”

“I did”—after the longest pause of all.

“Had you that purse in your hand, ma’am?”

The brow was once more shaded, and the recollection seemingly taxed.

“I think I had. It was passed round among us, and I believe that I
touched it, as well as others.”

“Are you not certain that you did so?”

“Yes, sir. Now, I reflect, I know that I did. The piece of money found
in Mary Monson’s purse, was passed from one to another, and to me, among
the rest.”

“This was very wrong,” observed his honour.

“It was wrong, sir; but not half as wrong as the murders and arson,”
coolly remarked Williams.

“Go on, gentlemen—time is precious.”

“Now, Mrs. Burton, I wish to ask you a very particular question, and I
beg that your answer may be distinct and guarded—did you ever have
access to the piece of gold found, or said to be found, in Mary Monson’s
purse, except on the occasion of the inquest?”

The longest pause of all, and the deepest shading of the brow. So long
was the self-deliberation this time, as to excite a little remark among
the spectators. Still, it was no more than prudent to be cautious, in a
cause of so much importance.

“I certainly have, sir,” was the reply that came at last. “I saw it in
Dorothy Goodwin’s stocking, several times; had it in my hand, and
examined it. This is the way I came to discover the notch. Aunt Dolly
and I talked about that notch, as I have already told the court.”

“Quite true, ma’am, we remember that; all your answers are carefully
written out—”

“I’m sure nothing that I have said can be written out, which is not
true, sir.”

“We are to suppose that. And now, ma’am, permit me to ask if you ever
saw that piece of money at any other time than at those you have
mentioned. Be particular in the answer.”

“I may,” after a long pause.

“Do you not _know_?”

“I do not, sir.”

“Will you say, on your oath, that you cannot recollect any one occasion,
other than those you have mentioned, on which you have seen and handled
that piece of money?”

“When aunt Dolly showed it to me, before the coroner, and here in court.
I recollect no other time.”

“Let me put this question to you again, Mrs. Burton—recalling the
solemnity of the oath you have taken—have you, or have you not, seen
that piece of money on any other occasion than those you have just
mentioned?”

“I do not remember ever to have seen it at any other time,” answered the
woman, firmly.

Mary Monson gave a little start, and Dunscomb appeared disappointed.
Timms bit his lip, and looked anxiously at the jury, while Williams once
more cocked _his_ nose, and looked around him in triumph. If the witness
spoke the truth, she was now likely to adhere to it; if, on the other
hand, there were really any ground for Dunscomb’s question, the witness
had passed the Rubicon, and would adhere to her falsehood even more
tenaciously than she would adhere to the truth. The remainder of this
cross-examination was of very little importance. Nothing further was
obtained from the witness that went to shake her testimony.

Our limits will not permit a detailed account of all the evidence that
was given in behalf of the prosecution. All that appeared before the
inquest was now introduced, methodized and arranged by Williams;
processes that rendered it much more respectable than it had originally
appeared to be. At length it came to the turn of the defence to open.
This was a task that Dunscomb took on himself, Timms, in his judgment,
being unequal to it. His opening was very effective, in the way of
argument, though necessarily not conclusive, the case not making in
favour of his client.

The public expected important revelations as to the past history of the
prisoner, and of this Timms had apprised Dunscomb. The latter, however,
was not prepared to make them. Mary Monson maintained all her reserve,
and Millington did not return. The cause was now so far advanced as to
render it improbable that any facts, of this nature, could be obtained
in sufficient season to be used, and the counsel saw the necessity of
giving a new turn to this particular point in the case. He consequently
complained that the prosecution had neglected to show anything in the
past life of the accused to render it probable she had been guilty of
the offences with which she was charged. “Mary Monson appears here,” he
went on to say, “with a character as fair as that of any other female in
the community. This is the presumption of law, and you will truly regard
her, gentlemen, as one that is innocent until she is proved to be
guilty.” The inference drawn from the silence of the prosecution was not
strictly logical, perhaps; but Dunscomb managed at least to mystify the
matter in such a way as to prepare the jury to hear a defence that would
be silent on this head, and to leave a doubt whether this silence were
not solely the fault of the counsel for the prosecution. While he was
commenting on this branch of the subject, Williams took notes furiously,
and Timms foresaw that he meant to turn the tables on them, at the
proper moment.

Pretty much as a matter of course, Dunscomb was compelled to tell the
court and jury that the defence relied principally on the insufficiency
of the evidence of the other side. This was altogether circumstantial;
and the circumstances, as he hoped to be able to convince the jury, were
of a nature that admitted of more than one construction. Whenever this
was the case, it was the duty of the jury to give the accused the full
benefit of these doubts. The rest of the opening had the usual character
of appeals to the sympathy and justice of the jury, very prudently and
properly put.

Dr. McBrain was now placed upon the stand, when the customary questions
were asked, to show that he was a witness entitled to the respect of the
court. He was then further interrogated, as follows:—

“Have you seen the two skeletons that are now in court, and which are
said to have been taken from the ruins of the house of the Goodwins?”

“I have. I saw them before the inquest; and I have again examined them
here, in court.”

“What do you say, as to their sex?”

“I believe them both to be the skeletons of females.”

“Do you feel certain of this fact?”

“Reasonably so, but not absolutely. No one can pronounce with perfect
certainty in such a case; more especially when the remains are in the
state in which these have been found. We are guided principally by the
comparative size of the bones; and, as these are affected by the age of
the subject, it is hazardous to be positive. I can only say that I think
both of these skeletons belonged to female subjects; particularly the
shortest.”

“Have you measured the skeletons?”

“I have, and find one rather more than an inch and a half shorter than
the other. The longest measures quite five feet seven and a half, in the
state in which it is; while the shortest measures a trifle less than
five feet six. If women, both were of unusual stature; particularly the
first. I think that the bones of both indicate that they belonged to
females; and I should have thought the same had I known nothing of the
reports which have reached my ears touching the persons whose remains
these are said to be.”

“When you first formed your opinion of the sex of those to whom these
remains belonged, had you heard that there was a German woman staying in
the house of the Goodwins at the time of the fire?”

“I think not; though I have taken so little heed of these rumours as to
be uncertain when I first heard this circumstance. I do remember,
however, that I was under the impression the remains were, beyond a
doubt, those of Peter Goodwin and his wife, when I _commenced_ the
examination of them; and I very distinctly recollect the surprise I felt
when the conviction crossed my mind that both were the skeletons of
women. From the nature of this feeling, I rather think I could not have
heard anything of the German female at that time.”

The cross-examination of Dr. McBrain was very long and searching; but it
did not materially affect the substance of his testimony. On the
contrary, it rather strengthened it; since he had it in his power to
explain himself more fully under the interrogatories of Williams, than
he could do in an examination in chief. Still, he could go no farther
than give his strong belief; declining to pronounce positively on the
sex of either individual, in the state in which the remains were found.

Although nothing positive was obtained from this testimony, the minds of
the jurors were pointedly directed to the circumstance of the sudden and
unexplained disappearance of the German woman; thus making an opening
for the admission of a serious doubt connected with the fate of that
person.

It was a sad thing to reflect that, beyond this testimony of McBrain,
there was little other direct evidence to offer in behalf of the
accused. It is true, the insufficiency of that which had been produced
by the prosecution might avail her much; and on this Dunscomb saw that
his hopes of an acquittal must depend; but he could not refrain from
regretting, and that bitterly, that the unmoved resolution of his client
not to let her past life be known, must so much weaken his case, were
she innocent, and so much fortify that of the prosecution, under the
contrary supposition. Another physician or two were examined to sustain
McBrain; but, after all, the condition of the remains was such as to
render any testimony questionable. One witness went so far as to say, it
is true, that he thought he could distinguish certain unerring signs of
the sex in the length of the lower limbs, and in other similar proof;
but even McBrain was forced to admit that such distinctions were very
vague and unsatisfactory. His own opinion was formed more from the size
of the bones, generally, than from any other proof. In general, there
was little difficulty in speaking of the sex of the subject, when the
skeleton was entire and well preserved, and particularly when the teeth
furnished some clue to the age; but, in this particular case, as has
already been stated, there could be no such thing as absolute certainty.

It was with a heavy heart, and with many an anxious glance cast towards
the door, in the hope of seeing Michael Millington enter, that Dunscomb
admitted the prisoner had no further testimony to offer. He had spun out
the little he did possess, in order to give it an appearance of
importance which it did not actually bring with it, and to divert the
minds of the jurors from the impression they had probably obtained, of
the remains necessarily being those of Goodwin and his wife.

The summing up on both sides was a grave and solemn scene. Here Williams
was thrown out, the District Attorney choosing to perform his own duty
on an occasion so serious. Dunscomb made a noble appeal to the justice
of the court and jury; admonishing both of the danger of yielding too
easily to circumstantial evidence. It was the best possible proof, he
admitted, when the circumstances were sufficiently clear and
sufficiently shown to be themselves beyond controversy. That Mary Monson
dwelt with the Goodwins, was in the house at the time of the arson and
murder, if such crimes were ever committed at all; that she escaped and
all her property was saved, would of themselves amount to nothing. The
testimony, indeed, on several of these heads, rather told in her favour
than the reverse. The witnesses for the prosecution proved that she was
in her room, beneath the roof, when the flames broke out, and was saved
with difficulty. This was a most material fact, and Dunscomb turned it
to good account. Would an incendiary be apt to place herself in a
situation in which her own life was in danger; and this, too, under
circumstances that rendered no such measure necessary? Then, all the
facts connected with Mary Monson’s residence and habits told in her
favour. Why should she remain so long at the cottage, if robbery was her
only purpose? The idea of her belonging to a gang that had sent her to
make discoveries and to execute its plans, was preposterous; for what
hindered any of the men of that gang from committing the crimes in the
most direct manner, and with the least loss of time? No; if Mary Monson
were guilty, she was undoubtedly guilty on her own account; and had been
acting with the uncertain aim and hand of a woman. The jury must discard
all notions of accomplices, and consider the testimony solely in
connection with the acts of the accused. Accomplices, and those of the
nature supposed, would have greatly simplified the whole of the wretched
transaction. They would have rendered both the murders and arson
unnecessary. The bold and strong do not commit these crimes, except in
those cases in which resistance renders them necessary. Here was clearly
no resistance, as was shown by the quiet positions in which the
skeletons had been found. If a murder was directly committed, it must
have been by the blow on the heads; and the jury was asked to consider
whether a delicate female like Mary Monson had even the physical force
necessary to strike such a blow. With what instrument was it done?
Nothing of the sort was found near the bodies; and no proof of any such
blow was before the jury. One witness had said that the iron-work of a
plough lay quite near the remains; and it had been shown that Peter
Goodwin kept such articles in a loft over his bed-room. He would suggest
the possibility of the fire’s having commenced in that loft, through
which the pipe of a cooking-stove led; of its having consumed the beams
of the floor; letting down this plough and share upon the heads of the
sleeping couple below, stunning, if not killing them; thus leaving them
unresisting subjects to the action of the element. McBrain had been
examined on this point, which we omitted to state in its place, to
prevent repetition. He, and the two other doctors brought forward for
the defence, had tried to place the ploughshare on the skulls; and were
of opinion that the injuries might have been inflicted by that piece of
iron. But Mary Monson could not use such an instrument. This was beyond
all dispute. If the ploughshare inflicted the blow—and the testimony on
this point was at least entitled to respect—then was Mary Monson
innocent of any murder committed by _direct_ means. It is true, she was
responsible for all her acts; and if she set fire to the building, she
was probably guilty of murder as well as of arson. But would she have
done this, and made no provision for her own escape? The evidence was
clear that she was rescued by means of a ladder, and through a window;
and that there were no other means of escape.

Dunscomb reasoned on these several points with great force and
ingenuity. So clear were his statements, so logical his inferences, and
so candid his mode of arguing, that he had produced a great effect ere
he closed this branch of his subject. It is true, that one far more
difficult remained to be met; to answer which he now set about with fear
and trembling.

We allude to the piece of money alleged to have been found in Mary
Monson’s purse. Dunscomb had very little difficulty in disposing of the
flippant widow Pope; but the Burton family gave him more trouble.
Nevertheless, it was his duty to endeavour to get rid of them, or at
least so far to weaken their testimony as to give his client the benefit
of the doubt. There was, in truth, but one mode of doing this. It was to
impress on the jury the probability that the coin had been changed in
passing from hand to hand. It is true, it was not easy to suggest any
plausible reason why such an act of treachery should have been
committed; but it was a good legal point to show that this piece of
money had not, at all times, been absolutely under the eye or within the
control of the coroner. If there were a possibility of a change, the
fact should and ought to tell in favour of his client. Mrs. Burton had
made admissions on this point which entitled the prisoner to press the
facts on the minds of the jurors; and her counsel did not fail so to do,
with clearness and energy. After all, this was much the most difficult
point of the case; and it would not admit of a perfectly satisfactory
solution.

The conclusion of Dunscomb’s summing up was manly, touching, even
eloquent. He spoke of a lone and defenceless female, surrounded by
strangers, being dragged to the bar on charges of such gravity; pointed
to his client where she sat enthralled by his language, with all the
signs of polished refinement on her dress, person, and manners;
delicate, feminine, and beautiful; and asked if any one, who had the
soul and feelings of a man, could believe that such a being had
committed the crimes imputed to Mary Monson.

The appeal was powerful, and was dwelt on just long enough to give it
full and fair effect. It left the bench, the bar, the jury-box, the
whole audience in fact, in tears. The prisoner alone kept an unmoistened
eye; but it was in a face flushed with feeling. Her self-command was
almost supernatural.

CHAPTER XXVII.

“I’ll brave her to her face:
I’ll give my anger its free course against her.
Thou shalt see, Phœnix, how I’ll break her pride.”
_The Distressed Mother._

The District Attorney was fully impressed with the importance of the
duty that had now devolved on him. Although we have daily proofs on all
sides of us, of the truth of that remark of Bacon’s, “that no man rises
to eminence in the State without a mixture of great and mean qualities,”
this favourite of the people had his good points as well as another. He
was a humane man; and, contrary to the expectations, and greatly to the
disappointment of Williams, he now took on himself the office of summing
up.

The public functionary commenced in a mild, quiet manner, manifesting by
the key on which he pitched his voice a natural reluctance to his
painful duty; but he was steady and collected. He opened with a brief
summary of the facts. A strange female, of high personal pretensions,
had taken lodgings in an humble dwelling. That dwelling contained a
considerable sum of money. Some counted it by thousands; all by
hundreds. In either case, it was a temptation to the covetous and
ill-disposed. The lodgings were unsuited to the habits of the guest; but
she endured them for several weeks. A fire occurred, and the house was
consumed. The remains of the husband and wife were found, as the jury
saw them, with marks of violence on their skulls. A deadly blow had been
struck by some one. The bureau containing the money was found locked,
but the money itself was missing. One piece of that money was known, and
it was traced to the purse of the female lodger. This stranger was
arrested; and, in her mode of living in the gaol, in her expenditures of
every sort, she exhibited the habits and profusion of one possessed of
considerable sums. Doubtless many of the reports in circulation were
false; exaggerations ever accompanied each statement of any unusual
occurrence; but enough was proved to show that Mary Monson had a
considerable amount of money at command. Whence came these funds? That
which was lightly obtained went lightly. The jury were exhorted to
reject every influence but that which was sustained by the evidence. All
that had been here stated rested on uncontradicted, unresisted
testimony.

There was no desire to weaken the force of the defence. This defence had
been ingeniously and powerfully presented; and to what did it amount.
The direct, unequivocal evidence of Mrs. Burton, as to her knowledge of
the piece of money, and all that related to it, and this evidence
sustained by so much that was known to others, the coroner included, was
met by a _conjecture._ This conjecture was accompanied by an insinuation
that some might suppose reflected on the principal witness; but it was
only an insinuation. There were two legal modes of attacking the
credibility of a witness. One was by showing habitual mendacity; the
other by demonstrating from the evidence itself, that the testimony
could not be true. Had either been done in the present instance? The
District Attorney thought not. One, and this the most common course, had
not even been attempted. Insinuations, rather than just deductions, he
was compelled to say, notwithstanding his high respect for the learned
counsel opposed to him, had been the course adopted. That counsel had
contended that the circumstances were not sufficient to justify a
verdict of guilty. Of this, the jury were the sole judges. If they
believed Mrs. Burton, sustained as she was by so much other testimony,
they must admit that Dorothy Goodwin’s money was found in Mary Monson’s
purse. This was the turning point of the case. All depended on the
construction of this one fact. He left it to the jury, to their good
sense, to their consciences.

On the part of the defence, great stress had been laid on the
circumstance that Mary Monson was herself rescued from the flames with
some difficulty. But for assistance, she would most probably have
perished. The District Attorney desired to deny nothing that could
justly go to prove the prisoner’s innocence. The fact was unquestionably
as stated. But for assistance, Mary Monson _might_ have perished. But
assistance was _not_ wanting; for strangers were most _opportunely_ at
hand, and they did this piece of good service. They remained until all
was over, and vanished. No one knew them; whence they came, or whither
they went. Important agents in saving a life, they had gone without
their reward, and were not even named in the newspaper accounts of the
occurrence. Reporters generally tell more than happens; in this
instance, they were mute.

As for the danger of the prisoner, it might have happened in a variety
of ways that affected neither her guilt nor her innocence. After
committing the murders, she may have gone into her room and been
unexpectedly enclosed by the flames; or the whole may have been
previously planned, in order to give her the plea of this very dangerous
situation, as a proof of innocence. Such immaterial circumstances were
not to overshadow the very material facts on which the prosecution
rested.

Another important question was to be asked by the jury. If Mary Monson
did not commit these crimes, who did? It had been suggested that the
house might have taken fire by accident, and that the ploughshare was
the real cause of the death of its owners. If this were so, did the
ploughshare remove the money?—did the ploughshare put the notched piece
in Mary Monson’s purse?

Such is an outline of the manner in which the District Attorney reasoned
on the facts. His summing up made a deep impression; the moderation of
the manner in which he pressed the guilt of the accused, telling
strongly against her. Nothing was said of aristocracy, or harps, or
manners, or of anything else that did not fairly belong to the subject.
A great deal more was said, of course; but we do not conceive it
necessary to advert to it.

The charge was exceedingly impartial. The judge made a full exposition
of all the testimony, pointed out its legitimate bearing, and dissected
its weak points. As for the opinion of McBrain and his associates, the
court conceived it entitled to a great deal of consideration. Here were
several highly respectable professional men testifying that, in their
judgment, both the skeletons were those of females. The German woman was
missing. What had become of her? In any case, the disappearance of that
woman was very important. She may have committed the crimes, and
absconded; or one of the skeletons may have been hers. It was in
evidence that Peter Goodwin and his wife did not live always in the most
happy mood; and he may have laid hands on the money, which was probably
his in the eyes of the law, and left the place. He had not been seen
since the fire. The jury must take all the facts into their
consideration, and decide according to their consciences.

This charge was deemed rather favourable to the accused than otherwise.
The humanity of the judge was conspicuous throughout; and he leaned
quite obviously to Dunscomb’s manner of treating the danger of Mary
Monson from the flames, and dwelt on the fact that the piece of money
was not sufficiently watched to make out an absolute case of identity.
When he had done, the impression was very general that the prisoner
would be acquitted.

As it was reasonably supposed that a case of this importance would
detain the jury a considerable time, the court permitted the prisoner to
withdraw. She left the place, attended by her two friends; the latter in
tears, while Mary herself was still seemingly unmoved. The thoughtful
Mrs. Gott had prepared refreshments for her; and, for the first time
since her trial commenced, the fair prisoner ate heartily.

“I shall owe my triumph, not to money, my dear girls,” she said, while
at table, “not to friends, nor to a great array of counsel; but to
truth. I did not commit these crimes; and on the testimony of the State
alone, with scarcely any of my own, the jury will have to say as much.
No stain will rest on my character, and I can meet my friends with the
unclouded brow of innocence. This is a very precious moment to me; I
would not part with it for all the honours that riches and rank can
bestow.”

“How strange that you, of all women, my dear mamma,” said Anna, kissing
her cheek, “should be accused of crimes so horrible to obtain a little
money; for this poor Mrs. Goodwin could have had no great sum after all,
and you are so rich!”

“More is the pity that I have not made a better use of my money. You are
to be envied, girls, in having the fortunes of gentlewomen, and in
having no more. I do believe it is better for our sex barely to be
independent in their respective stations, and not to be rendered rich.
Man or woman, money is a dangerous thing, when we come to consider it as
a part of our natural existence; for it tempts us to fancy that money’s
worth gives rights that nature and reason both deny. I believe I should
have been much happier, were I much poorer than I am.”

“But those who are rich are not very likely to rob!”

“Certainly not, in the sense that you mean, my dear. Send Marie Moulin
on some errand, Anna; I wish to tell you and Sarah what I think of this
fire, and of the deaths for which I am now on trial.”

Anna complied; and the handsome prisoner, first looking cautiously
around to make certain she was not overheard, proceeded with her
opinion.

“In the first place, I make no doubt Dr. McBrain is right, and that both
the skeletons are those of women. The German woman got to be very
intimate with Mrs. Goodwin; and as the latter and her husband quarrelled
daily, and fiercely, I think it probable that she took this woman into
her bed, where they perished together. I should think the fire purely
accidental, were it not for the missing stocking.”

“That is just what the District Attorney said,” cried Anna, innocently.
“Who, then, _can_ have set the house on fire?”

Mary Monson muttered to herself; and she smiled as if some queer fancies
crowded her brain; but no one was the wiser for her ruminations. These
she kept to herself, and continued.

“Yes, that missing stocking renders the arson probable. The question is,
who did the deed; I, or Mrs. Burton?”

“Mrs. Burton!” exclaimed both the girls in a breath. “Why, her character
is excellent—no one has ever suspected her! You cannot suppose that she
is the guilty person!”

“It is she, or it is I; which, I will leave you to judge. I was aware
that the notch was in the coin; for I was about to give the other piece
to Mrs. Goodwin, but preferred to keep the perfect specimen myself. The
notched piece must have been in the stocking until _after_ the fire; and
it was changed by some one while my purse was under examination.”

“And you suppose that Mrs. Burton did it?”

“I confess to a suspicion to that effect. Who else could or _would_ have
done it? I have mentioned this distrust to Mr. Dunscomb, and he
cross-examined in reference to this fact; though nothing very
satisfactory was extracted. After my acquittal, steps will be taken to
push the inquiry further.”

Mary Monson continued discussing this subject for quite an hour; her
wondering companions putting questions. At the end of that time, Mr.
Gott appeared to say that the jury had come into court; and that it was
his duty to take the prisoner there to meet them.

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.

If the bar, and the spectators in general, had been surprised at the
calmness of exterior maintained by the prisoner, previously to the
verdict, their wonder was sensibly increased by the manner which
succeeded it. Mary Monson’s beauty shone with increasing radiance as the
justice of her country seemed to threaten her existence more and more;
and at the particular moment when she was left alone, by the withdrawal
of her female companions, many present fancied that she had increased in
stature. Certainly, it was a rare sight to observe the illuminated
countenance, the erect mien, and the offended air, with which one of the
weaker sex, and one so youthful and charming, met a doom so terrible. Of
the jury, she took no notice. Her eye was on the judge, who was
endeavouring to muster sufficient fortitude to pronounce the final
decision of the law.

“Before the court pronounces sentence, Mr. Dunscomb,” observed that
functionary, “it will cheerfully hear anything you may have to offer in
behalf of the prisoner, or it will hear the prisoner herself. It is
better, on every account, that all my painful duties be discharged at
once, in order that the prisoner may turn her attention to the only two
sources of mercy that now remain open to her—the earthly and the
heavenly. My duty, as you well know, cannot now be avoided; and the
sooner it is performed, perhaps, the better for all concerned. It shall
be my care to see that the condemned has time to make all her appeals,
let them be to the authorities here, or to the more dreaded power
above.”

“I am taken so much by surprise, your honour, at a verdict that, to say
the least, is given on very doubtful testimony, that I hardly know what
to urge. As the court, however, is disposed to indulgence, and there
will be time to look at the law of the case, as well as to address our
petitions and affidavits to the authority at Albany, I shall interpose
no objection; and, as your honour well remarks, since the painful duty
_must_ be discharged, it were better, perhaps, that it were discharged
now.”

“Prisoner at the bar,” resumed the judge, “you have heard the finding of
the jury, in your case. A verdict of ‘guilty’ has been rendered, and it
has become my painful duty to pronounce the awful sentence of the law.
If you have anything to say previously to this, the last and most
painful of all my duties, the court will give your words a kind and
lenient hearing.”

In the midst of a stillness that seemed supernatural, the sweet,
melodious voice of Mary Monson was heard, “first gentle, almost
inaudible,” but gathering strength as she proceeded, until it became
clear, distinct, and silvery. There are few things that impart a higher
charm than the voice; and the extraordinary prisoner possessed an organ
which, while it was feminine and sweet, had a depth and richness that at
once denoted her power in song. On the present occasion, it was not even
tremulous.

“I believe I understand you, sir,” Mary Monson commenced. “I have been
tried and found guilty of having murdered Peter and Dorothy Goodwin,
after having robbed them, and then of setting fire to the house.”

“You have been tried for the murder of Peter Goodwin, only, the
indictments for the second murder, and for the arson, not having yet
been tried. The court has been obliged to separate the cases, lest the
law be defeated on mere technicalities. This verdict renders further
proceedings unnecessary, and the two remaining indictments will probably
never be traversed.”

“I believe I still understand you, sir; and I thank you sincerely for
the kind manner in which you have communicated these facts, as well as
for the consideration and gentleness you have manifested throughout
these proceedings. It has been very kind in you, sir; and whatever may
come of this, God will remember and reward you for it.”

“The court will hear you, Mary Monson, if you have anything to say,
before sentence be passed.”

“Perhaps I might say and do much to affect your decision, sir,” returned
the prisoner, leaning her fair brow, for a moment, on her hand, “but
there would be little satisfaction in it. It was my wish to be acquitted
on the testimony of the State. I did hope that this jury would not have
seen the proofs of guilt, in the evidence that has been brought against
me; and I confess there would be very little satisfaction to me in any
other acquittal. As I understand the case, should I be acquitted as
respects Peter Goodwin, I must still be tried as respects his wife; and
lastly, for setting fire to the house.”

“You are not acquitted of the murder of Peter Goodwin,” mildly
interposed the judge; “the finding of the court has been just to the
contrary.”

“I am aware of this, sir. America has many enemies. I have lived in
foreign lands, and know this from near and long observation. There are
those, and those, too, who are in power, that would gladly see the great
example in prosperity, peace and order, that this country has hitherto
given to the world, beaten down by our own vices, and the mistaken uses
to which the people put the blessings of Divine Providence. I do not
reverence the justice of my country, as I did: it is impossible that I
should do so. I now see plainly that its agents are not all of the
character they should be; and that, so far from Justice’s being blind
through her impartiality alone, she is also blind through her ignorance.
Why am I found guilty of this act? On what evidence—or even on what
probability? The whole of the proof is connected with that piece of
money. Mrs. Burton has testified that Mrs. Goodwin, herself, admitted
that I had given her that coin—just what I told the coroner, and which I
then saw was not believed, for it has been my misfortune to be tried by
strangers. Will these gentlemen ask themselves why I have committed the
crime of which they have found me guilty? It could not be for money; as
of that I have, of my own, more than I want, more, perhaps, than it is
good for me to be mistress of.”

“Why have not these facts been shown to the jury, at the proper time and
in the proper manner, if true?” demanded the judge, kindly. “They are
material, and might have influenced the verdict.”

The jury was discharged, but not one of them all had left the box. One
or two of them now arose, and looks of doubt and indecision began to
flicker over their countenances. They had been influenced by one man, a
friend and political confidant of Williams, who had led the undecided to
his own opinions. We do not mean to say that this man was perjured, or
that he was himself conscious of the extent of the wrong he was doing;
but his mind had been perverted by the serpent-like report, and he had
tried the cause under the influence of rumours, which had no foundation
in truth. The case was one of honest doubt, as no one will deny; but
instead of giving the accused the benefit of this doubt, as by law and
in reason he was bound to do, he had taken a bias altogether from
outside influences, and that bias he communicated to others, until by
the sheer force of numbers, the few who wavered were driven into a
corner, and soon capitulated. Then, there was a morbid satisfaction in
the minds of several of the jurors, in running counter to the charge of
the judge. This was a species of independence that is grateful to some
men, and they are guided by their vanity, when they fancy they are only
led by conscience. These malign influences were unknown to themselves;
for not one of the twelve was absolutely corrupt, but neither of them
all was qualified by nature, or education, to be a judge, freed from the
influence of the bench, in a case affecting a human life.

Any one in the least observant of what is going on around him, must have
had many opportunities of perceiving how strangely juries render their
verdicts, and how much the last appear to be opposed to the inferences
of the looker-on, as well as to the expressed opinions of the courts.
The falling off in the power of the judges over the minds of the jurors,
we suppose to be derived from a combination of causes. The tendency of
the times is to make men confident in their own judgments, and to defer
less than formerly to knowledge and experience. Seeing this very general
trait, the judges themselves defer to the tendency, manifest less
confidence in their station and knowledge, and perhaps really feel it;
while the unceasing cry of the infallibility of the common mind, induces
the vulgar, or average intellect, to shrink from any collision with that
which wears the semblance, even though simulated, of the popular will.
In this way is the institution of the jury gradually getting to be
perverted, rendering that which is safe as an human tribunal can well
be, when under the guidance of the court, as dangerous as ignorance,
party, self-will and obstinacy can well make it.

“I do not know,” resumed Mary Monson, “that one is yet obliged, in
America, to lay open her account-books, and show her rent-roll, or her
bonds and mortgages, in order to avoid the gallows. I have been told
that crime must be brought home by unanswerable proof, in order to
convict. Who can say that such proof has been adduced in my case? It has
not even been made certain that a man was killed, at all. Most
respectable witnesses have testified that they believe those revolting
remains of poor humanity, belonged once to women. Nor has it been shown
that any one has been murdered. The fire may have been accidental, the
deaths a simple consequence of the fire, and no one guilty.”

“You forget, Mary Monson,” interposed the judge, mildly “that the
robbery, and the piece of money found in your purse, give a colour to
the supposition of crime. The jury have doubtless been influenced by
these facts, and important facts they are. No one can deny this; and I
think you overlook that feature of your case. If, however, your counsel
has any good reason to offer why sentence should not now be pronounced,
the court will hear it. There is no impatience on the part of justice,
which would much rather draw in than stretch forth its arm. Perhaps,
Mary Monson, you might do well to leave to your counsel the objections
you wish to urge, and let them be presented to us in a form that we can
recognise.”

“I see no great use in deferring the sentence,” Dunscomb remarked,
quietly enough for the circumstances. “It must be pronounced; and any
question of law, should one occur to my mind, though I confess none does
at present, can as well be raised after this ceremony as before.”

“I am disposed to wait, if a good reason can be urged for the delay. I
will acknowledge that the case is one involved in a great deal of doubt
and uncertainty, and am much inclined to do all the law will sanction.
Still, I leave you to decide on your own course.”

“In my judgment, may it please your honour, we shall have to go to the
executive, and it were, perhaps, better to get all the most revolting
parts of the case over, while the accused—”

“Convicted, Mr. Dunscomb—it is a distinction painful to make, but one
that cannot now be avoided.”

“I beg pardon of the court—convicted.”

“Yes,” said Mary Monson, solemnly, “I am convicted, and of the revolting
crime of murder. All my hopes of a triumphant acquittal are blasted;
and, whatever may be the termination of this extraordinary affair, a
dark spot will always rest on my name. Sir, I am as innocent of this
crime as the youngest child in your county. I may have been wilful,
perverse, ill-judging, unwise, and have a hundred other failings; but
neither Peter nor Dorothy Goodwin did I ever harm. I had not been long
in the house before I discovered that the old couple were not happy
together. They quarrelled often, and bitterly. The wife was managing,
dictatorial, and sordidly covetous, while he used every shilling he
could obtain, for the purchase of liquors. His mind was affected by his
debauches, and he drivelled. In this state, he came to me for sympathy
and advice. There were passages in my own past life, short as it has
been, which disposed me to feel for one who was not happy in the married
state. It is no matter what my own experience has been; I had sympathy
for that poor man. So far from wishing to do him harm, I desired to do
him good. I advised him to quit the house, and live apart from his wife,
for a time, at least; and this he consented to do, if I would furnish
him with the means. Those means I promised; and, that he might not
suffer, being of only feeble intellect, and in order to keep him from
liquor, I had directed two of my agents to come to the house early in
the morning of the very day that the fire happened, that they might
convey Peter Goodwin to another residence, where he would be secret and
safe, until his wife might repent of her treatment of him. It was
fortunate for me that I had done this. Those two men, servants of my
own, in the dress of countrymen, were the instruments of saving my life;
without their aid, I should have perished in the flames. What they did,
and how they did it, it would be premature now to say. Alas! alas! I
have not been acquitted as I desired to be, and a dark shadow will for
ever rest on my name!”

For the first time, a doubt of the sanity of the prisoner, crossed the
mind of the judge. It was not so much the incoherence of her language,
as her eye, the flushed cheek, and a certain air of stealthy cunning,
that awakened this distrust. Nevertheless, Mary Monson’s manner was
sincere, her language chosen and perfectly proper, and her explanations
not without their force. There was something so strange, however, in a
portion of her statements; so irreconcileable with a sound discretion,
that, taken with the little which had come to light concerning this
singular woman’s past life, the doubt arose.

“Perhaps it were better, Mr. District Attorney,” the judge observed, “if
we delay the sentence.”

“As your honour may think fit. The state is not over-anxious for life.”

“What say you, Mr. Dunscomb—shall there be delay, or shall I sentence?”

“As the sentence _must_ come, the sooner it is over, the better. We have
no ground on which to carry up the case, the jury being judges of the
facts. Our principal hope must be in the discretion of the governor.”

“Mary Monson,” continued the judge, evidently treating the affair as
purely a matter of form, “you have been tried for feloniously depriving
Peter Goodwin of his life—”

“I never did it,” interrupted the prisoner, in a voice so low as to be
melodious, yet so clear as to be audible as the sound of a clarion.
“These men have been influenced by the rumours they have heard, and were
not fit to act as my judges. Men should have minds superior to mere
reports, to sit in that box.”

“My duty is to pronounce the sentence of the law. After a fair trial,
and, so far as it appears to us, by an impartial jury, you have been
found guilty. For reasons that are of sufficient weight to my mind, I
shall not dwell on the character of the awful change you will have to
undergo, should this decree be put in force, but confine myself simply
to the duty of pronouncing the sentence of the law, which is this: that
you be carried back to the gaol, and there be guarded, until Friday, the
sixth day of September next, when between the hours of twelve and two,
P. M., you be carried to the place of execution, and hanged by the neck,
until you are dead—and God have mercy on your soul!”

A shudder passed through the audience, at hearing language like this
applied to a person of Mary Monson’s appearance, education and sex. This
feeling might have manifested itself more strongly, had not Mrs. Horton
attracted attention to herself, by forcing her way through the crowd,
until she stood within the bar. Here the good woman, accustomed to bandy
words with her guests, did not scruple to make her presence known to the
court, by calling out—

“They tell me, your honour, that Mary Monson has just been found guilty
of the murder of Peter Goodwin?”

“It is so, my good woman—but that case is ended. Mr. Sheriff, remove the
prisoner—time is precious—”

“Yes, your honour, and so is eternity. Mary Monson is no more guilty of
taking the life of Peter Goodwin than I am guilty. I’ve always said some
great disgrace would befall our juries, one of these days, and now my
prophecy will come true. Duke’s is disgraced. Constable, let that poor
man come within the bar.”

The drivelling creature who entered the room of McBrain tottered
forward, when twenty voices cried aloud the name of “_Peter Goodwin._”
Every word that Mary Monson had stated was true!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

“Now Marcia, now call up to thy assistance,
Thy wonted strength and constancy of mind;
Thou can’st not put it to a greater trial.”
_Addison._

Bench, bar, jury, witnesses and audience, were all astounded. The trial
had been carried on in the most perfect good faith; and not a human
being but the few who had felt the force of McBrain’s testimony, doubted
of the death of the individual who now appeared alive, if not well, in
open court. The reader can better imagine than we can describe, the
effects of a resurrection so entirely unexpected.

When the confusion naturally produced by such a scene had a little
subsided; when all had actually seen, and many had actually felt, the
supposed murdered man, as if to assure themselves of his being really in
the flesh, order was restored; and the court and bar began to reflect on
the course next to be pursued.

“I suppose, Mr. District Attorney,” observed his honour, “there is no
mistake in the person of this individual; but it were better if we had
an affidavit or two. Will you walk this way, sir?”

A long, private conference, now took place between the public prosecutor
and the judge. Each expressed his astonishment at the result, as well as
some indignation at the deception which had been practised on the court.
This indignation was a little mollified by the impression, now common to
both, that Mary Monson was a person not exactly in her right mind. There
was so much deception practised among persons accused of crimes,
however, and in connection with this natural infirmity, that public
functionaries like themselves were necessarily very cautious in
admitting the plea. The most offensive part of the whole affair was the
discredit brought on the justice of Duke’s! It was not in nature for
these individuals to be insensible to the sort of disgrace the
reappearance of Peter Goodwin entailed on the county and circuit; and
there was a very natural desire to wipe off the stain. The conference
lasted until the affidavits to establish the facts connected with
Goodwin’s case were ready.

“Had these affidavits been presented earlier,” said his honour, as soon
as the papers were read, “sentence would not have been pronounced. The
case is novel, and I shall want a little time to reflect on the course I
am to take. The sentence must be gotten rid of by some means or other;
and it shall be my care to see it done. I hope, brother Dunscomb, the
counsel for the accused have not been parties to this deception?”

“I am as much taken by surprise as your honour can possibly be,”
returned the party addressed, with earnestness, “not having had the most
remote suspicion of the existence of the man said to have been murdered;
else would all the late proceedings have been spared. As to the course
to be taken next, I would respectfully suggest that the Code be
examined. It is an omnium gatherum; and must contain something to tell
us how to undo all we have done.”

“It were better for all parties had they so been. There are still two
indictments pending over Mary Monson; one for the arson, and the other
for the murder of Dorothy Goodwin. Mr. District Attorney feels the
necessity of trying these cases, or one of them at least, in vindication
of the justice of the State and county; and I am inclined to think that,
under all the circumstances, this course should be taken. I trust we
shall have no more surprises, and that Dorothy Goodwin will be brought
forward at once, if still living—time is precious.”

“Dorothy Goodwin is dead,” said Mary Monson, solemnly. “Poor woman! she
was called away suddenly, and in her sins. Little fear of her ever
coming here to flout your justice.”

“It may be well to caution your client, Mr. Dunscomb, against hasty and
indiscreet admissions. Let the accused be arraigned, and a jury be
empannelled. Which case do you choose to move on, Mr. District
Attorney?”

Dunscomb saw that his honour was offended, and much in earnest. He was
offended himself, and half disposed to throw up his brief; but he felt
for the situation of a lovely and defenceless woman. Then his doubts
touching his client’s sanity began to take the character of certainty;
and he saw how odious it would be to abandon one so afflicted in her
emergency. He hinted his suspicion to the court; but was told that the
fact, under all the circumstances of the case, was one properly for the
jury. After reflection, the advocate determined not to desert his trust.

We pass over the preliminary proceedings. A jury was empannelled with
very little difficulty; not a challenge having been made. It was
composed, in part, of those who had been in the box on the late
occasion; and, in part, of new men. There was an air of earnestness and
business about them all, that Timms did not like; but it was too late to
raise objections. To own the truth, the senior counsel cared much less
than before for the result; feeling satisfied that his contemplated
application at Albany would meet with consideration. It is true, Mary
Monson was no anti-renter. She could not come forward with her demand
for mercy with hands dyed in the blood of an officer of that public
which lives under the deception of fancying it rules the land; murderers
who added to their crimes the hateful and pestilent fraud of attempting
to cloak robbery in the garb of righteous liberty; nor could she come
sustained by numbers around the ballot-box, and bully the executive into
acts which the reason and conscience of every honest man condemn; but
Dunscomb believed that she might come with the plea of a being visited
by the power of her Creator, in constituting her as she was, a woman not
morally accountable for her acts.

All the leading facts, as shown on the former trial, were shown on this.
When the country practitioners were called on to give their opinions
concerning the effect of the blow, they necessarily became subject to
the cross-examination of the counsel for the prisoner, who did not spare
them.

“Were you examined, sir, in the late trial of Mary Monson, for the
murder of Peter Goodwin?” demanded Dunscomb of the first of these modern
Galens who was put on the stand.

“I was, sir.”

“What did you say on that occasion”—looking at his notes of the other
trial, “touching the sex of the persons to whom those skeletons were
thought to have belonged?”

“I said I _believed_—not _knew_, but _believed_, they were the remains
of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin.”

“Did you not use stronger language than that?”

“Not that I remember—I may have done so; but I do not remember it.”

“Did you not say you had ‘_no doubt_’ that those were the remains of
Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?”

“I may have said as much as that. Now you mention the words, I believe I
did.”

“Do you think so now?”

“Certainly not. I cannot think so, after what I have seen.”

“Do you know Peter Goodwin, personally?”

“Very well. I have practised many years in this neighbourhood.”

“Whom, then, do you say that this unfortunate man here, whom we see
alive, though a driveller, really is?”

“Peter Goodwin—he who was thought to have been murdered. We are all
liable to mistakes.”

“You have testified in chief that, in your judgment, the two persons, of
whom we have the remains here in court, were stunned at least, if not
absolutely killed, by the blow that you think fractured each of their
skulls. Now, I would ask if you think the prisoner at the bar possesses
the physical force necessary to enable her to strike such a blow?”

“That would depend on the instrument she used. A human skull may be
fractured easily enough, by a moderate blow struck by a heavy
instrument.”

“What sort of instrument, for instance?”

“A sword—a bar of iron—or anything that has weight and force.”

“Do you believe those fractures were given by the same blow?”

“I do. By one and the same blow.”

“Do you think Mary Monson possesses the strength necessary to cause
those two fractures at a single blow?”

Witness had no opinion on the subject.

“Are the fractures material?”

“Certainly—and must have required a heavy blow to produce them.”

This was all that could be got from either of the witnesses on that
material point. As respected McBrain, he was subsequently examined in
reference to the same facts. Dunscomb made good use of this witness, who
now commanded the respect of all present. In the first place, he was
adroitly offered to the jury, as the professional man who had, from the
first, given it as his opinion that both the skeletons were those of
females; and this in the face of all the collected wisdom of Duke’s
county; an opinion that was now rendered so probable as almost to amount
to certainty. He (Dunscomb) believed most firmly that the remains were
those of Dorothy Goodwin and the German woman who was missing.

“Have you examined those skeletons, Dr. McBrain?” Dunscomb asked.

“I have, sir; and carefully, since the late trial.”

“How do you think the persons to whom they belonged came to their
deaths?”

“I find fractures in the skulls of both. If they lie now as they did
when the remains were found, (a fact that had been proved by several
witnesses,) I am of opinion that a single blow inflicted the injuries on
both; it may be, that blow was not sufficient to produce death; but it
must have produced a stupor, or insensibility, which would prevent the
parties from seeking refuge against the effects of the flames——”

“Is the learned witness brought here to sum up the cause?” demanded
Williams, with one of those demoniacal sneers of his, by means of which
he sometimes carried off a verdict. “I wish to know, that I may take
notes of the course of his argument.”

McBrain drew back, shocked and offended. He was naturally diffident, as
his friend used to admit, in everything but wives; and as regarded them
“he had the impudence of the devil. Ned would never give up the trade
until he had married a dozen, if the law would see him out in it. He
ought to have been a follower of the great Mahomet, who made it a point
to take a new wife at almost every new moon!” The judge did not like
this sneer of Williams; and this so much the less, because, in common
with all around him, he had imbibed a profound respect for the knowledge
of the witness. It is true, he was very much afraid of the man, and
dreaded his influence at the polls; but he really had too much
conscience to submit to everything. A judge may yet have a conscience—if
the Code will let him.

“This is very irregular, Mr. Williams, not to say improper,” his honour
mildly remarked. “The witness has said no more than he has a right to
say; and the court must see him protected. Proceed with your testimony,
sir.”

“I have little more to say, if it please the court,” resumed McBrain,
too much dashed to regain his self-possession in a moment. As this was
all Williams wanted, he permitted him to proceed in his own way; and all
the doctor had to say was soon told to the jury. The counsel for the
prosecution manifested great tact in not cross-examining the witness at
all. In a subsequent stage of the trial, Williams had the impudence to
insinuate to the jury that they did not attach sufficient importance to
his testimony, to subject him to this very customary ordeal.

But the turning point of this trial, as it had been that of the case
which preceded it, was the evidence connected with the piece of money.
As the existence of the notch was now generally known, it was easy
enough to recognise the coin that had been found in Mary Monson’s purse;
thus depriving the accused of one of her simplest and best means of
demonstrating the ignorance of the witnesses. The notch, however, was
Mrs. Burton’s great mark, under favour of which her very material
testimony was now given as it had been before.

Dunscomb was on the point of commencing the cross-examination, when the
clear melodious voice of Mary Monson herself was heard for the first
time since the commencement of the trial.

“Is it permitted to _me_ to question this witness?” demanded the
prisoner.

“Certainly,” answered the judge. “It is the right of every one who is
arraigned by the country. Ask _any_ question that you please.”

This was a somewhat liberal decision as to the right of cross-examining;
and the accused put on it a construction almost as broad as the
privilege. As for the witness, it was very apparent she had little taste
for the scrutiny that she probably foresaw she was about to undergo; and
her countenance, attitude, and answers, each and all betrayed how much
distaste she had for the whole procedure. As permission was obtained,
however, the prisoner did not hesitate to proceed.

“Mrs. Burton,” said Mary Monson, adopting, as well as she knew how, the
manner of the gentlemen of the bar, “I wish you to tell the court and
jury _when_ you first saw the notched piece of money?”

“When I first saw it? I saw it first, when aunt Dolly first showed it to
me,” answered the witness.

Most persons would have been dissatisfied with this answer, and would
probably have caused the question to be repeated in some other form; but
Mary Monson seemed content, and went on putting her questions, just as
if she had obtained answers to meet her views.

“Did you examine it well?”

“As well as I desired to. There was nothing to prevent it.”

“Did you know it immediately, on seeing it in my purse?”

“Certainly—as soon as I saw the notch.”

“Did Mrs. Goodwin point out the notch to you, or did you point out the
notch to her?”

“She pointed it out to me; she feared that the notch might lessen the
value of the coin.”

“All this I have heard before; but I now ask you, Mrs. Burton, in the
name of that Being whose eye is everywhere, did you not yourself put
that piece of money in my purse, when it was passing from hand to hand,
and take out of it the piece without a notch? Answer me, as you have a
regard for your soul?”

Such a question was altogether out of the rules regulating the queries
that may be put to witnesses, an answer in the affirmative going
directly to criminate the respondent; but the earnest manner, solemn
tones, and, we may add, illuminated countenance of Mary Monson, so far
imposed on the woman, that she quite lost sight of her rights, if she
ever knew them. What is much more remarkable, neither of the counsel for
the prosecution interposed an objection. The District Attorney was
willing that justice should have its way; and Williams began to think it
might be prudent to manifest less anxiety for a conviction than he had
done in the case in which the party murdered had been resuscitated. The
judge was entranced by the prisoner’s manner.

“I believe I have as much regard for my soul as any of the neighbours
have for theirs,” answered Mrs. Burton, sullenly.

“Let us learn that in your reply—Did you, or did you not, change those
pieces of gold?”

“Perhaps I might—It’s hard to say, when so much was said and done.”

“How came you with the other piece, with which to make the exchange?
Answer, Sarah Burton, as you fear God?”

The witness trembled like an aspen-leaf. So remarkable was the scene,
that no one thought of interfering; but the judge, the bar, and the
jury, seemed equally willing to leave the two females to themselves, as
the most efficient means of extorting the truth. Mary Monson’s colour
heightened; her mien and countenance grew, as it were, with the
occasion; while Sarah Burton’s became paler and paler, as each question
was put, and the reply pressed.

“I can have money, I hope, as well as other folks,” answered the
witness.

“That is no reply. How came you with the piece of gold that is notched,
that you could exchange it for the piece which was not notched, and
which was the one really found in my purse? Answer me that, Sarah
Burton; here, where we both stand in the presence of our great Creator?”

“There’s no need of your pressing a body so awfully—I don’t believe it’s
law.”

“I repeat the question—or I will answer it for you. When you fired the
house——”

The woman screamed, and raised her hands in natural horror

“I never set the house on fire,” she cried—“It took from the stove-pipe
in the garret, where it had taken twice before.”

“How can you know _that_, unless you saw it?—How see it, unless
present?”

“I was _not_ there, and did not see it; but I know the garret had caught
twice before from that cook-stove-pipe. Aunt Dolly was very wrong to
neglect it as she did.”

“And the blows on the head—who struck those blows, Sarah Burton?”

“How can I tell? I wasn’t there—no one but a fool could believe _you_
have strength to do it.”

“How, then, _was_ it done? Speak—I see it in your mind?”

“I saw the ploughshare lying on the heads of the skeletons; and I saw
Moses Steen throw it off, in the confusion of first raking the embers.
Moses will be likely to remember it, if sent for, and questioned.”

Here was a most important fact elicited under the impulse of
self-justification; and a corresponding expression of surprise, passed
in a murmur, through the audience. The eye of Mary Monson kindled with
triumph; and she continued with renewed powers of command over the will
and conscience of the witness.

“This is well, Sarah Burton—it is right, and what you ought to say. You
think that the fire was accidental, and that the fractured skulls came
from the fall of the plough?”

“I do. I know that the plough stood in the garret, directly over the
bed, and the stove-pipe passed quite near it. There was an elbow in that
pipe, and the danger was at that elbow.”

“This is well; and the eye above looks on you with less displeasure,
Sarah Burton”—as this was said, the witness turned her looks timidly
upwards, as if to assure herself of the fact—“Speak holy truth, and it
will soon become benignant and forgiving. Now tell me how you came by
the stocking and its contents?”

“The stocking!” said the witness, starting, and turning white as a
sheet. “Who says I took the stocking?”

“I do. I know it by that secret intelligence which has been given me to
discover truth. Speak, then, Sarah, and tell the court and jury the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Nobody saw me take it; and nobody can say I took it.”

“Therein you are mistaken. You _were_ seen to take it. I saw it, for
one; but there was another who saw it, with its motive, whose eye is
ever on us. Speak, then, Sarah, and keep nothing back.”

“I meant no harm, if I did take it. There was so many folks about, I was
afraid that some stranger might lay hands on it. That’s all.”

“You were seen to unlock the drawers, as you stood alone near the
bureau, in the confusion and excitement of the finding of the skeletons.
You did it stealthily, Sarah Burton.”

“I was afraid some one might snatch the stocking from me. I always meant
to give it up, as soon as the law said to whom it belongs. Davis wants
it, but I’m not sure it is his.”

“What key did you use? Keep nothing back.”

“One of my own. My keys unlocked many of aunt Dolly’s drawers. She knew
it, and never found any fault with it. Why should she? Her keys unlocked
_mine_!”

“Another word—where is that stocking, and where are its contents?”

“Both are safe in the third drawer of my own bureau, and here is the
key,” taking one from her bosom. “I put them there for security, as no
one opens that drawer but myself.”

Timms took the key from the unresisting hand of the woman, and followed
by Williams, Davis, and one or two more, he left the court-house. At
that instant, Sarah Burton fainted. In the confusion of removing her
into another room, Mary Monson resumed her seat.

“Mr. District Attorney, it can hardly be your intention to press this
indictment any further?” observed the judge, wiping his eyes, and much
delighted with the unexpected termination of the affair.

The functionary addressed was glad enough to be rid of his unwelcome
office, and at once signified his willingness to enter a _nolle
prosequi_, by an application to the bench, in the case of the arson, and
to submit to an acquittal in that now being traversed. After a brief
charge from the judge, the jury gave a verdict of acquittal, without
leaving the box; and just as this was done, Timms and his companions
returned, bringing with them the much-talked-of stocking.

It required months completely to elucidate the whole affair; but so much
is already known, and this part of our subject being virtually disposed
of, we may as well make a short summary of the facts, as they were
already in proof, or as they have since come to light.

The fire was accidental, as has been recently ascertained by
circumstances it is unnecessary to relate. Goodwin had left his wife,
the night before the accident, and she had taken the German woman to
sleep with her. As the garret-floor above this pair was consumed, the
plough fell, its share inflicting the blow which stunned them, if it did
not inflict even a greater injury. That part of the house was first
consumed, and the skeletons were found, as has been related, side by
side. In the confusion of the scene, Sarah Burton had little difficulty
in opening the drawer, and removing the stocking. She fancied herself
unseen; but Mary Monson observed the movement, though she had then no
idea what was abstracted. The unfortunate delinquent maintains that her
intention, at the time, was good; or, that her sole object was to secure
the gold; but, is obliged to confess that the possession of the treasure
gradually excited her cupidity, until she began to hope that this hoard
might eventually become her own. The guilty soonest suspect guilt. As to
“the pure, all things are pure,” so it is with the innocent, who are the
least inclined to suspect others of wicked actions. Thus was it with
Mrs. Burton. In the commission of a great wrong herself, she had little
difficulty in supposing that Mary Monson was the sort of person that
rumour made her out to be. She saw no great harm, then, in giving a
shove to the descending culprit. When looking into the stocking, she had
seen, and put in her own pocket, the notched piece, as a curiosity,
there being nothing more unusual in the guilty thus incurring
unnecessary risks, than there is in the moth’s temerity in fluttering
around the candle. When the purse of Mary Monson was examined, as
usually happens on such occasions, we had almost said as _always_
happens, in the management of cases that are subsequently to form a part
of the justice of the land, much less attention was paid to the care of
that purse than ought to have been bestowed on it. Profiting by the
neglect, Sarah Burton exchanged the notched coin for the perfect piece,
unobserved, as she again fancied; but once more the watchful eye of Mary
Monson was on her. The first time the woman was observed by the last, it
was accidentally; but suspicion once aroused, it was natural enough to
keep a look-out on the suspected party. The act was seen, and at the
moment that the accused thought happy, the circumstance was brought to
bear on the trial. Sarah Burton maintains that, at first, her sole
intention was to exchange the imperfect for the perfect coin; and that
she was induced to swear to the piece subsequently produced, as that
found on Mary Monson’s person, as a literal fact, ignorant of what might
be its consequences. Though the devil doubtless leads us on, step by
step, deeper and deeper, into crime and sin, it is probable that, in
this particular, the guilty woman applied a flattering unction to her
conscience, that the truth would have destroyed.

Great was the wonder, and numberless were the paragraphs that this
unexpected issue of the “great Biberry murders” produced. As respects
the last, anything that will fill a column is a god-send, and the
falsehood has even a value that is not to be found in the truth, as its
contradiction will help along quite as much as the original statements.
If the public could only be brought to see what a different thing
publicity becomes in the hands of those who turn it to _profit_, from
what it is thought to be, by those who fancy it is merely a mode of
circulating facts, a great step towards a much-needed reformation would
be taken, by confining the last within their natural limits.

Mary Monson’s name passed from one end of the Union to the other, and
thousands heard and read of this extraordinary woman, who never had the
smallest clue to her real character or subsequent history. How few
reflected on the defects of the system that condemned her to the gallows
on insufficient testimony; or, under another phase of prejudice, might
have acquitted her when guilty! The random decisions of the juries,
usually well-meaning, but so rarely discriminating, or as intelligent as
they ought to be, attract very little attention beyond the bar; and even
the members of that often strike a balance in error, with which they
learn to be content; gaining in one cause as much as they lose in
another.

There was a strong disposition in the people assembled at Biberry, on
the occasion of the trial, to make a public spectacle of Mary Monson.
The right to do this, with all things in heaven and earth, seems to
belong to “republican simplicity,” which is beginning to rule the land
with a rod of iron. Unfortunately for this feeling, the subject of
momentary sympathy was not a person likely to allow such a license. She
did not believe, because she had endured one set of atrocious wrongs,
that she was bound to submit to as many more as gaping vulgarity might
see fit to inflict. She sought the protection of good Mrs. Gott and her
gaol, some forms being necessary before the sentence of death could be
legally gotten rid of. In vain were the windows again crowded, with the
virtuous wish of seeing how Mary Monson _looked_, now she was acquitted,
just as they had been previously thronged in order to ascertain how she
looked when there was a chance of her being condemned to the gallows.
The most extraordinary part of the affair, was the circumstance that the
harp became popular; the very sentiment, act, or thing that, in one
condition of the common mind, is about to be ‘cut down and cast into the
fire,’ becoming in another, all that is noble, commendable, or
desirable. The crowd about the windows of the gaol, for the first few
hours after the acquittal, was dying to hear the prisoner sing and play,
and would gladly have tolerated the harp and a ‘foreign tongue’ to be
thus gratified.

But Mary Monson was safe from all intrusion, under the locks of the
delighted Mrs. Gott. This kind-hearted person kissed her prisoner, over
and over again, when she admitted her within the gallery, and then she
went outside, and assured several of the more respectable persons in the
crowd how thoroughly she had been persuaded, from the first, of the
innocence of her friend. The circumstances of this important trial
rendered Mrs. Gott a very distinguished person herself, in that crowd,
and never was a woman happier than she while delivering her sentiments
on the recent events.

“It’s altogether the most foolish trial we have ever had in Duke’s,
though they tell me foolish trials are getting to be only too common,”
said the kind-hearted wife of the sheriff, addressing half-a-dozen of
the more respectable of the crowd. “It gave me a big fright, I will own.
When Gott was elected sheriff, I did hope he would escape all executions
but debt executions. The more he has of _them_, the better. It’s bad
enough to escort thieves to Sing-Sing; but the gallows is a poor trade
for a decent man to meddle with. Then, to have the very first sentence,
one against Mary Monson, who is as much above such a punishment as
virtue is above vice. When I heard those dreadful words, I felt as if a
cord was round my own neck. But I had faith to the last; Mary has always
told me that she should be acquitted, and here it has all come true, at
last.”

“Do you know, Mrs. Gott,” said one of her friends, “it is reported that
this woman—or lady, I suppose one must _now_ call her—has been in the
habit of quitting the gaol whenever she saw fit.”

“Hu-s-h, neighbor Brookes; there is no need of alarming the county! I
believe you are right; though it was all done without my knowledge, or
it never would have been permitted. It only shows the power of money.
The locks are as good as any in the State; yet Mary certainly did find
means, unbeknown to me, to open them. It can’t be called breaking gaol,
since she always came back! I had a good fright the first time I heard
of it, but use reconciles us to all things. I never let Gott into the
secret, though he’s responsible, as he calls it, for all his prisoners.”

“Well, when a matter turns out happily, it does no good to be harping on
it always.”

Mrs. Gott assented, and in this case, as in a hundred others, the end
was made to justify the means. But Mary Monson was felt to be an
exception to all rules, and there was no longer any disposition to cavil
at any of her proceedings. Her innocence had been established so very
triumphantly, that every person regarded her vagaries and strange
conduct with indulgence.

At that very moment, when Mrs. Gott was haranguing her neighbours at the
door of the gaol, Dunscomb was closeted with Michael Millington at the
Inn; the young man having returned at hot-speed only as the court
adjourned. He had been successful, notwithstanding his original
disappointment, and had ascertained all about the hitherto mysterious
prisoner of the Biberry gaol. Mary Monson was, as Dunscomb suspected,
Mildred Millington by birth—Mad. de Larocheforte by marriage—and she was
the grand-daughter of the very woman to whom he had been betrothed in
youth. Her insanity was not distinctly recognised, perhaps could not
have been legally established, though it was strongly suspected by many
who knew her intimately, and was a source of great uneasiness with all
who felt an interest in her welfare. Her marriage was unhappy, and it
was supposed she had taken up her abode in the cottage of the Goodwins
to avoid her husband. The command of money gave her a power to do very
much as she pleased, and, though the breath of calumny had never yet
blown its withering blast on her name, she erred in many things that are
duties as grave as that of being chaste. The laws came in aid of her
whims and caprices. There is no mode by which an errant wife can be made
to perform her duties in boldly experimenting New York, though she can
claim a support and protection from her husband. The ‘cup and saucer’
law comes in aid of this power, and the men who cannot keep their wives
in the chains of Hymen in virtue of the affections, may just as well
submit, with a grace, to be the victims of an ill-judging and most
treacherous regard for the rights of what are called the weaker sex.

CHAPTER XXIX.

“Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer,
Imaginary ills, and fancied tortures?”
_Cato._

The scene must now be shifted to Rattletrap. Biberry was deserted. Even
the rumours with which its streets had been so lately filled, were
already forgotten. None have memories as frail as the gossip. Not only
does this class of persons—and a numerous class it is, including nearly
all whose minds are not fitted to receive more elevated materials—not
only, we say, does this class of persons overlook the contradictions and
absurdities of the stories they repeat, but they forget the stories
themselves almost as soon as heard. Such was now the case at Biberry.
Scarce an individual could be found in the place who would acknowledge
that he or she had ever heard that Mary Monson was connected with
robbers, or who could recollect that he once fancied the accused guilty.

We may as well say here, that nothing has ever been done with Sarah
Burton. She is clearly guilty; but the law, in these times of progress,
disdains to pursue the guilty. Their crimes are known; and of what use
can it be to expose those whom every one can see are offenders! No; it
is the innocent who have most reason to dread the law. _They_ can be put
to trouble, cost, vexation and loss, if they cannot be exactly
condemned. We see how thousands regard the law in a recent movement in
the legislature, by which suits have been ordered to try the titles of
most of the large landed proprietors, with the very honest and modest
proposal annexed, that their cases shall be prejudged, and the landlords
deprived of the means of defending themselves, by sequestering their
rents! Everybody says this is the freest country on earth; the only
country that is truly free; but we must be permitted to say, that such a
law, like twenty more that have been passed in the same interest within
the last ten years, savours a good deal of the character of a Ukase.

Our characters, with the exception of McBrain and his bride, were now
assembled at Rattletrap. Dunscomb had ascertained all it was necessary
to know concerning Mildred, and had taken the steps necessary to protect
her. Of her qualified insanity he did not entertain a doubt; though it
was a madness so concealed by the blandishments of education and the
graces of a refined woman, that few saw it, and fewer still wished to
believe it true. On most subjects this unhappy lady was clear-minded and
intelligent enough, more especially on that of money; for, while her
expenditures were generous, and her largesses most liberal, she
manifested wonderful sagacity in taking care of her property. It was
this circumstance that rendered it so difficult to take any steps to
deprive her of its control; though Dunscomb had seen enough, in the
course of the recent trial, to satisfy him that such a measure ought to
be resorted to in the interest of her own character.

It was in cunning, and in all the low propensities connected with that
miserable quality, that Mildred Millington, as she now insisted on
calling herself, most betrayed her infirmity. Many instances of it have
been incidentally related in the course of our narrative, however
unpleasant such an exhibition has been. There is nothing more repugnant
to the principles or tastes of the right thinking and right feeling,
than the practices which cunning engenders. Timms, however, was a most
willing agent in all the schemes of his client; though some of her
projects had puzzled him by their elaborate duplicity, as much as they
had astounded him by their boldness. These were the schemes that had
their origin in obliquity of mind. Still, they were not without merit in
the eyes of Timms, who was cunning without being mad.

Before quitting Biberry, Timms was liberally paid and dismissed.
Dunscomb explained to him the situation of his handsome client, without
adverting to the state of her mind; when the attorney at once caught at
the chances of a divorce. Among the other “ways of the hour,” that of
dissolving the marriage tie has got to be a sort of fashionable mania.
Neither time, nor duties, nor children, seem to interpose any material
obstacle; and, if our own laws do not afford the required facilities,
those of some of our more liberal neighbours do. Timms keeps this
principle in his mind, and is at this moment ruminating on the means by
which he can liberate his late client from her present chains, and bind
her anew in some of his own forging. It is scarcely necessary to add,
that Mildred troubles herself very little in the premises, so far as
this covert lover is concerned.

The ridicule of Williams was, at first, the sorest portion of Timms’s
disappointment. Bachelors alike, and rivals for popular favour, these
two worthies had long been looking out for advantageous marriages. Each
had the sagacity to see that his chances of making a more and more
eligible connexion were increasing slowly, and that it was a great thing
for a rising man to ascend without dragging after him a wife chosen from
among those that prop the base of the great social ladder. It was nuts
to one of these competitors for the smiles of the ladies to discover
that his rival was in love with a married woman; and this so much the
more, because the prospects of Timms’s success, arising from his seeming
intimacy with the fair occupant of the gaol, had given Williams a very
serious fright. Place two men in competition, no matter in what, and all
their energies become concentrated in rivalry. Again and again, had
these two individuals betrayed their mutual jealousy; and now that one
of them had placed himself in a position so false, not to say
ridiculous, the other did not fail to enjoy his disappointment to the
top of his bent. It was in this manner that Saucy Williams took his
revenge for the defeat in the trial.

Mrs. Gott was also at Rattletrap. Dunscomb retained much of his original
tenderness for Mildred, the grandmother of his guest of that name, and
he granted her descendant every indulgence she could ask. Among other
things, one of the requests of the liberated prisoner was to be
permitted to manifest this sense of her gratitude for the many acts of
kindness received from the wife of the sheriff. Gott, accordingly, was
left to take care of himself, while his nice little companion was
transported to a scene that she found altogether novel, or a temporary
residence in a gentleman’s dwelling. Sarah’s housekeeping, Sarah’s good
nature, attentions, neatness, attire and attractions, would have been
themes to monopolize all of the good little woman’s admiration, had not
Anna Updyke, then on a visit at Rattletrap, quite fairly come in for her
full share. She might almost be said to be in love with both.

It was just after breakfast that Mildred locked an arm in that of Anna,
and led her young friend by one of the wooded paths that runs along the
shores of the Hudson, terminating in a summer-house, with a most
glorious view. In this, there was nothing remarkable; the eye rarely
resting on any of the ‘bits’ that adorn the banks of that noble stream,
without taking in beauties to enchant it. But to all these our two
lovely young women were momentarily as insensible as they were to the
fact that their own charming forms, floating among shrubbery as fragrant
as themselves, added in no slight degree to the beauty of the scene. In
manner, Mildred was earnest, if not ardent, and a little excited; on the
other hand, Anna was placid, though sensitive; changing colour without
ceasing, as her thoughts were drawn nearer and nearer to that theme
which now included the great object of her existence.

“Your uncle brought me letters from town last evening, Anna dear,”
commenced the liberated lady: “one of them is from Mons. de
Larocheforte. Is that not strange?”

“What is there so strange in a husband’s writing to his wife? To me, it
seems the most natural thing in the world.”

“It does?—I am surprised to hear you say so—you, Anna, whom I regarded
as so truly my friend. I have discarded Mons. de Larocheforte, and he
ought to respect my pleasure.”

“It would have been better, my dear mamma, had you discarded him before
marriage, instead of after.”

“Ah—your dear mamma, indeed! I was your school mamma, Anna, and well had
it been for me had I been left to finish my education in my own country.
Then, I should have escaped this most unfortunate marriage! Do not
marry, Anna—take my advice, and never marry. Matrimony is unsuited to
ladies.”

“How long have you been of this opinion, dear mamma?” asked the young
girl, smiling.

“Just as long as I have been made to feel how it crushes a woman’s
independence, and how completely it gives her a master, and how very,
very humiliating and depressing is the bondage it inflicts. Do you not
feel the force of my reasons?”

“I confess I do not,” answered Anna, in a subdued, yet clear and
distinct voice. “I see nothing humiliating or depressing in a woman’s
submission to her husband. It is the law of nature, and why should we
wish to alter it? My mother has ever inculcated such opinions, and you
will excuse me if I say I think the bible does, also.”

“The bible!—Yes, that is a good book, though I am afraid it is very
little read in France. I ought, perhaps, to say, ‘read very little by
strangers resident in France.’ The French women, themselves, are not one
half as negligent of their duties, in this respect, as are the strangers
who go to reside among them. When the roots, that have grown to any size
in their native soil, are violently transplanted to another, it is not
often that the tree obtains its proper dimensions and grace. I wish I
had never seen France, Anna, in which case I should never have been Mad.
de Larocheforte—_vicomtesse_, by the old law, and I am afraid it was
that idle appellation that entrapped me. How much more truly respectable
I should have been as Mrs. John Smith, or Mrs. John Brown, or Mrs. David
Smith, the wife of a countryman, if I must be a wife, at all!”

“Choose at least some name of higher pretension,” said Anna, laughing.
“Why not a Mrs. Van Rensselaer, or a Mrs. Van Cortlandt, or a Mrs.
Livingston, or a Mrs. Somebody else, of one of our good old families?”

“Families!—Do you know, child, it is treason to talk of families in this
age of anti-rentism. They tell me that the man who makes an estate, may
enjoy it, should he happen to know how, and this, though he may have
cheated all he ever dealt with, in order to become rich; but, that he
who inherits an estate, has no claim. It is his tenants who have the
high moral claim to his father’s property.”

“I know nothing of all this, and would rather talk of things I
understand.”

“By which you mean wedlock, and its cares! No, my dear, you little
understand what matrimony is, or how much humiliation is required of us
women to become wives, or you would never think of marrying.”

“I have never told you that I _do_ think of marrying—that is, not much.”

“There spoke your honest nature, which will not permit even an
unintended deception. This it was that so much attached me to you as a
child; for, though I am not very ingenuous myself, I can admire the
quality in another.”

“This admission does not exactly prove the truth of your words, mamma!”
said Anna, smiling.

“No matter—let us talk of matrimony. Has John Wilmeter proposed to you,
Anna?”

This was a home question; no wonder the young lady started. After a
short, musing pause, however, the native candour of Anna Updyke
prevailed, and she admitted that he had.

“Thank you for this confidence; but you must go further. Remember, I am
your mamma. Is the gentleman accepted?”

A rosy blush, succeeded by a nod of the head, was the answer.

“I am sorry I was not consulted, before all this happened; though I have
managed my own matters so ill, as to have very few claims to your
confidence. You scarce know what you undertake, my child.”

“I undertake to become Jack Wilmeter’s wife,” answered the betrothed, in
a very low but a very firm voice; “and I hope I shall make him a good
one. Most of all, do I pray to be obedient and submissive.”

“To no man that breathes, Anna!—no, to no man breathing! It is _their_
business to submit to _us_; not we to them!”

“This is not my reading of the great rule of woman’s conduct. In my view
of our duties, it is the part of woman to be affectionate, mild, patient
and sympathizing,—if necessary, forgiving. I firmly believe that, in the
end, such a woman cannot fail to be as happy as is permitted to us to
be, here on earth.”

“Forgiving!” repeated Mildred, her eyes flashing; “yes, that is a word
often used, yet how few truly practise its teachings. Why should I
forgive any one that has wronged me? Our nature tells us to resent, to
punish, if necessary, as you say—to revenge.”

A slight shudder passed through the frame of Anna, and she unconsciously
moved farther from her companion, though their aims still continued
locked.

“There must be a great difference between France and America, if revenge
is ever taught to a woman, as a part of her duty,” returned the younger
female, now speaking with an earnestness she had not before betrayed;
“here, we are told that Christianity forbids the very thought of it, and
that to forgive is among the very first of our duties. My great
instructor in such things, has told me that one of the surest evidences
of a hopeful state of the feelings, is the banishment of every thing
like resentment, and a desire to be at peace with all around us—to have
a perception that we love the race as beings of our own wants and
hopes.”

“Is this the sort of love, then, with which you give your hand to young
Wilmeter?”

Scarlet is not brighter than was the colour that now glowed in the
cheeks of Anna, stole into her temples, and even diffused itself over
her neck and chest. To herself it seemed as if her very hands blushed.
Then the power of innocence came to sustain her, and she became calm and
steady.

“It is _not_ the feeling with which I shall marry John,” she said.
“Nature has given us another sentiment, and I shall not endeavour to be
superior to all of my sex and class. I love John Wilmeter, I own; and I
hope to make him happy.”

“To be a dutiful, obedient wife, for ever studying his tastes and
caprices!”

“I trust I shall not be _for ever_ studying the indulgence of my own. I
see nothing degrading to a woman, in her filling the place nature and
Christianity have assigned to her, and in her doing her duty, as a
wife.”

“These are not _my_ feelings, receiving your terms as you wish them to
be understood. But several have told me I ought never to have married; I
myself know that I should have been an American, and not a French wife.”

“I have ever heard that greater latitude is given to our sex, in France,
than in this country.”

“That is true in part only. Nothing can exceed the =retenue= of a French
girl, or anything that is decent exceed the want of it that is
manifested by many Americans. On the other hand, a married woman here,
has no privileges at all, not even in society; while in France, under an
air of great seeming propriety, she does very much as she sees fit. It
is a mistake, however, to suppose that faithful wives, and devoted
mothers, most especially the last, are not to be found all over
Europe—in France, in particular.”

“I am glad to hear it,” cried Anna, with a really gratified air; “it
gives me pleasure when I hear of any of our sex behaving as they should
behave.”

“Should behave! I fear, Anna, a little covert reproach is intended, in
that remark. Our estimate of the conduct of our friends must depend on
our notions of our own duties. Now, hearken to my manner of reasoning on
this subject. In a physical sense, man is strong, woman is weak; while,
in a moral sense, woman is strong and man is weak. You admit my
premises?”

“The first part of them, certainly,” said Anna, laughing, “while I
pretend to no knowledge of the last.”

“You surely do not believe that John Wilmeter is as pure, ingenuous,
good, as you are yourself?”

“I see no reason why he should not be. I am far from certain Jack is not
even better.”

“It is useless to discuss such a subject with you. The principle of
pride is wanting, without which you can never enter into my feelings.”

“I am glad it is so. I fancy John will be all the happier for it. Ah! my
dear mamma, I never knew any good come of what you call this ‘principle
of pride.’ We are told to be humble and not to be proud. It may be all
the better for us females that rulers are given to us here, in the
persons of our husbands.”

“Anna Updyke, do you marry John Wilmeter with the feeling that he is to
rule? You overlook the signs of the times, the ways of the hour, child,
if you do aught so weak! Look around you, and see how everybody, almost
everything, is becoming independent, our sex included. Formerly, as I
have heard elderly persons say, if a woman suffered in her domestic
relations, she was compelled to suffer all. The quarrel lasted for a
life. Now, no one thinks of being so unreasonably wretched. No, the
wronged wife, or even the offended wife—Monsieur de Larocheforte snuffs
abominably—abominably—yes, abominably—but no wife is obliged, in these
times of independence and reason, to endure a snuffy husband——”

“No,” broke in Dunscomb, appearing from an adjoining path, “she has only
to pack up her spoons and be off. The Code can never catch her. If it
could on one page, my life for it there is a hole for her to get out of
its grasp on the next. Your servant, ladies; I have been obliged to
overhear more of your conversation than was intended for my ears,
perhaps; these paths running so close to each other, and you being so
animated—and now, I mean to take an old man’s privilege, and speak my
mind. In the first place, I shall deal with the agreeable. Anna, my
love, Jack is a lucky fellow—far luckier than he deserves to be. You
carry the right sentiment into wedlock. It is the right of the husband
to be the head of his family; and the wife who resists his authority is
neither prudent nor a Christian. He may abuse it, it is true; but, even
then, so long as criminality is escaped, it were better to submit. I
approve of every word you have uttered, dear, and thank you for it all
in my nephew’s name. And now, Mildred, as one who has a right to advise
you, by his avowed love for your grandmother, and recent close
connection with yourself, let me tell you what I think of those
principles that you avow, and also of the state of things that is so
fast growing up in this country. In the first place, he is no true
friend of your sex who teaches it this doctrine of independence. I
should think—it is true, I am only a bachelor, and have no experience to
back me—but, I should think that a woman who truly loves her husband,
would find a delight in her dependence——”

“Oh! certainly!” exclaimed Anna—biting her tongue at the next instant,
and blushing scarlet at her own temerity.

“I understand you, child, and approve again—but there comes Jack, and I
shall have to turn you over to him, that you may receive a good scolding
from head-quarters, for this abject servitude feeling, that you have
betrayed. Go—go—his arm is held out already—and harkee, young folk,
remember that a new maxim in morals has come in with the
Code—‘Principles depend on Circumstances.’ That is the rule of conduct
now-a-days—that, and anti-rentism, and ‘republican simplicity,’ and the
‘cup-and-saucer law,’ and—and—yes—and the ever-blessed Code!”

Dunscomb was obliged to stop for breath, which gave the young couple an
opportunity to walk away. As for Mildred, she stood collected, extremely
lady-like in mien, but with a slight degree of hauteur expressed in her
countenance.

“And now, sir, that we are alone,” she said, “permit me to inquire what
_my_ part of the lecture is to be. I trust you will remember, however,
that, while I am Mildred Millington by birth, the law which you so much
reverence and admire, makes me Madame de Larocheforte.”

“You mean to say that I have the honour of conversing with a married
woman?”

“Exactly so, Mr. Dunscomb.”

“I comprehend you, ma’am, and shall respect your position. You are not
about to become my niece, and I can claim no right to exceed the bounds
of friendship——”

“Nay, my dear sir, I do not wish to say this. You have every right to
advise. To me, you have been a steady and well judging friend, and this,
in the most trying circumstances. I am ready to hear you, sir, in
deference, if not in your beloved humility.”

“That which I have to say refers solely to your own happiness, Mildred.
Your return to America has, I fear, been most inopportune. Among other
innovations that are making on every side of us, even to the verge of
the dissolution of civilized society, comes the liberty of woman. Need I
tell you, what will be the next step in this downward career?”

“You needs must, Mr. Dunscomb—I do not comprehend you.—What will that
step be?”

“Her licentiousness. No woman can throw off the most sacred of all her
earthly duties, in this reckless manner, and hope to escape from the
doom of her sex. After making a proper allowance for the increase of
population, the increase in separated married people is getting to be
out of all proportion. Scarce a month passes that one does not hear of
some wife who has left her husband, secreted herself with a child
perhaps, as you did, in some farm-house, passing by a different name,
and struggling for her rights, as she imagines. Trust me, Mildred, all
this is as much opposed to nature as it is to prescribed duties. That
young woman spoke merely what an inward impulse, that is incorporated
with her very being, prompted her to utter. A most excellent mother—oh!
what a blessing is that to one of your sex—how necessary, how heavenly,
how holy!—an excellent mother has left her in ignorance of no one duty,
and her character has been formed in what I shall term harmony with her
sex. I must be plain, Mildred—you have not enjoyed this advantage.
Deprived of your parent young, known to be rich, and transplanted to
another soil, your education has necessarily been entrusted to
hirelings, flatterers, or persons indifferent to your real well-being;
those who have consulted most the reputation of their instruction, and
have paid the most attention to those arts which soonest strike the eye,
and most readily attract admiration. In this, their success has been
complete.”

“While you think it has not been so much so, sir, in more material
things?” said the lady, haughtily.

“Let me be sincere. It is due to my relation to you—to your
grandmother—to the past—to the present time. I know the blood that runs
in your veins, Mildred. You are self-willed by descent, rich by
inheritance, independent by the folly of our legislators. Accident has
brought you home, at the very moment when our ill-considered laws are
unhinging society in many of its most sacred interests; and, consulting
only an innate propensity, you have ventured to separate from your
husband, to conceal yourself in a cottage, a measure, I dare say, that
comported well with your love of the romantic——”

“Not so—I was oppressed, annoyed, unhappy at home, and sought refuge in
that cottage. Mons. de Larocheforte has such a passion for snuff!—He
uses it night and day.”

“Then followed the serious consequences which involved you in so many
fearful dangers——”

“True,” interrupted the lady, laying her small, gloved hand hastily on
his arm—“very true, dear Mr. Dunscomb; but how cleverly I contrived to
escape them all!—how well I managed your Mr. Timms, good Mrs. Gott, the
puffy, pompous sheriff, that wily Williams too, whose palm felt the
influence of my gold—oh! the excitement of the last two months has been
a gift of paradise to me, and, for the first time since my marriage,
have I known what true happiness was!”

Dunscomb turned, astonished, to his companion, and stared her in the
face. Never was the countenance more lovely to the cursory glance, the
eye brighter, the cheek with a richer glow on it, or the whole air, mien
and attitude more replete with womanly loveliness, and womanly graces;
but the observant eye of the lawyer penetrated beyond all these, and
detected the unhappy spirit which had gained possession of a tenement so
lovely. The expression of the countenance denoted the very triumph of
cunning. We pretend not to a knowledge of the arcana of nature, to be
able to detect the manner in which the moving principles prompt to good
or evil, but we must reject all sacred history, and no small portion of
profane, not to believe that agencies exist that are not visible to our
ordinary senses; and that our boasted reason, when abandoned to its own
support, becomes the victim of those that are malign. We care not by
what names these agents are called, imps, demons, evil spirits, or evil
passions; but this we do know, let him beware who submits to their
control. Better, far better, were it that such an one had never been
born!

Three days later Mildred Millington was in a state that left no doubt of
her infirmity. The lucid intervals were long, however, and at such times
her mind seemed clear enough on all subjects but one. Divorce was her
“ruling passion,” and, in order to effect her purpose, all the
extraordinary ingenuity of a most fertile mind was put in requisition.
Although means were promptly, but cautiously, taken to see that she did
not squander her large pecuniary resources, Dunscomb early saw that they
were uncalled for. Few persons were better qualified to look after their
money than was this unfortunate lady, in the midst of the dire
visitation that intellectually reduced her below the level of most
around her. On this head her sagacity was of proof; though her hand was
not closed in the gripe of a miser. Accustomed, from childhood, to a
liberal expenditure, she was willing still to use the means that an
inscrutable Providence had so liberally placed in her way, her largesses
and her charities continuing the same as ever. Down to the present
moment the fund-holder, the owner of town property, the mortgagee, and
the trader is allowed to enjoy his own, without any direct interference
of the demagogue with his rights; but how much longer this exception is
to last, is known only to the Being who directs the destinies of
nations; or, at least, not to any who are now on earth, surrounded
equally by the infirmities and ignorance of the present state.

But Mildred was, and is yet, permitted to exercise her rights over her
own property, though care is had to see that no undue advantage is taken
of her sex, years, and ignorance. Beyond this her control was not
disputed, and she was suffered to manage her own affairs. She set about
the matter of a divorce with the whole energy of her nature, and the
cunning of her malady. Timms was again summoned to her service, unknown
to Dunscomb, who would never have winked at the measures that were
taken, though so much in accordance with “the ways of the hour.”

Provided with proper credentials, this managing agent sought an
interview with Mons. de Larocheforte, a worn-out debauchee of some rank,
who, sooth to say, had faults even graver than that of taking snuff.
Notwithstanding the great personal attractions of Mildred, the motive
for marrying her had been money: as is usually the case in a very great
proportion of the connections of the old world, among persons of
condition. Love is to succeed, and not to precede, matrimony. Mildred
had been taught that lesson, and grievously had she been disappointed.
The snuff got into her eyes. Mons. de Larocheforte—Mons. le Vicomte as
he had been, and was still determined to be, and in all probability will
be, in spite of all the French “republican simplicity” that was ever
summoned to a nation’s rescue—Mons. le Vicomte was directly approached
by Timms, and a proposal made that he should put himself in a condition
to be divorced, for a stipulated price. Notwithstanding the opinion of
the learned Attorney-General of this great state, of the European
aristocracy, and who is so every way qualified to give such an opinion,
_ex officio_ as it might be, Mons. de Larocheforte declined lending
himself to so vile a proposition, Frenchman and noble as he was. Nor did
the husband believe that the discreditable proposal came from his wife.
He compelled Timms to admit as much, under a menace of losing his case.
That worthy was puzzled at this result, for he had made the proposal on
his “own hook,” as he afterwards explained the matter to Williams, in
the fullest confidence of “republican simplicity,” and was astonished at
meeting with the self-respect of a gentleman, if with no very elevated
principles in a nobleman! It was accordingly necessary to have recourse
to some other mode of proceeding.

Luckily for the views of Timms and his fair client, one can scarcely go
amiss in this country, when a divorce is desired. Although a few of the
older states remain reasonably inflexible on this subject, in some
respects _unreasonably_ so, indeed, they are generally surrounded by
communities that are more indulgent. By means of some _hocus pocus_ of
the law, that we pretend not to explain, the names of Gabriel Jules
Vincent Jean Baptiste de Larocheforte ads. Mildred de Larocheforte, were
just beginning to steal on the dawn of the newspapers, in a case that,
ere long, might blaze in the meridian of gossip.

Dunscomb frowned, and reproached, but it was too late to recede. He has
told Mildred, and he has told Timms, that nuptial knots tied in one
community, cannot be so readily unloosed in another, as many imagine;
and that there must, at least, be good faith—the _animus revertendi_—in
the change of residence that usually precedes the application. But money
is very powerful, and smooths a thousand difficulties. No one could
predict the termination; and, as the vicomte, though only to be
approached in a more delicate way than that adopted by Timms, was as
tired of the connection as his wife, and was very anxious to obtain a
larger share of the fortune than the “cup and saucer” law will give him,
it was by no means improbable that the end of the affair would be a
quasi divorce, that would at least enable each party to take his or her
own course, without fear of molestation from the other.

In the mean time, Millington was married very shortly after the trial.
The engagement had not been long, but the parties had known each other
intimately for years. The bridegroom, in one sense, was the head of his
family, though by no means possessed of its largest fortune. In this
character, it devolved on him to care for the interests of his fair
relative. Although as much opposed as Dunscomb to the course she was
taking, he did not shrink from his duties as a relative; and it is
understood that his house is Mildred’s home when in town. Rattletrap
opened its hospitable doors to the unfortunate woman, whenever she chose
to visit the place; and Timbully has also claims on her time and
presence.

Dunscomb announced his intention to retire from practice at the end of a
twelvemonth, the morning that Michael and Sarah were married. In the
intervening time, John Wilmeter and his new nephew were received as
partners, and the worthy bachelor is now sedulously but silently
transferring as respectable and profitable a list of clients, as any man
in the courts can claim. His own advice is promised, at all times, to
his old friends; and, as not a soul has objected, and the young men bid
fair, there is every reason to hope that useful and profitable labour
will keep both out of mischief.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXX.

“Some curate has penn’d this invective,
And you have studied it.”
MASSINGER.

The day set apart for the nuptials of John Wilmeter and Anna Updyke
finally arrived. The ceremony was to take place in a little church that
had stood, time out of mind, in the immediate neighbourhood of Timbully.
This church was colonial in its origin, and, while so much around it has
undergone vital changes, there stands that little temple, reared in
honour of God, in its simplicity, unpretending yet solid and durable
architecture, resembling, in all these particulars, the faith it was
erected to sustain. Among the other ways of the hour that are worthy of
our notice, the church itself has sustained many rude shocks of
late—shocks from within as well as from without. The Father of Lies has
been roving through its flocks with renewed malice, damaging the
shepherds, perhaps, quite as much as the sheep, and doing things
hitherto unheard of in the brief annals of American Ecclesiastical
History. Although we deeply regret this state of things, we feel no
alarm. The hand which first reared this moral fabric will be certain to
protect it as far as that protection shall be for its good. It has
already effected a great reform. The trumpet is no longer blown in Zion
in our own honour; to boast of the effects of a particular discipline;
to announce the consequences of order, and of the orders; or, in short,
to proclaim a superiority that belongs only to the Head of all the
churches, let them be farther from, or nearer to, what are considered
distinctive principles. What the church is now enduring the country
itself most sadly wants,—a lesson in humility; a distrust of self, a
greater dependence on that wisdom which comes, not from the voices of
the people, not from the ballot-boxes, not from the halls of senates,
from heroes, godlikes, or stereotyped opinions, but from above, the
throne of the Most High.

In one of those little temples reared by our fathers in the days of the
monarchy, when, in truth, greater republican simplicity really reigned
among us, in a thousand things, than reigns to-day, the bridal party
from Timbully was assembled at an early hour of the morning. The company
was not large, though it necessarily included most of the nearest
relatives of the bride and groom. Dunscomb was there, as were Millington
and his wife; Dr. and Mrs. McBrain, of course, and two or three other
relations on the side of the bride’s father, besides Mildred. It was to
be a private wedding, a thing that is fast getting to be forgotten.
Extravagance and parade have taken such deep root among us that young
people scarce consider themselves legally united unless there are six
bride’s maids, one, in particular, to “pull off the glove;” as many
attendants of the other sex, and some three or four hundred friends in
the evening, to bow and curtsy before the young couple, utter a few
words of nonsense, and go their way to bow and curtsy somewhere else.

There was nothing of this at Timbully, on that wedding-day. Dunscomb and
his nephew drove over from Rattletrap, early in the morning, even while
the dew was glittering on the meadows, and Millington and his wife met
them at a cross-road, less than a mile from McBrain’s country-house. The
place of rendezvous was at the church itself, and thither the several
vehicles directed their way. Dunscomb was just in time to hand Mildred
from her very complete travelling-carriage, of which the horses were in
a foam, having been driven hard all the way from town. Last of all,
appeared Stephen Hoof, driving the very respectable looking Rockaway of
Mrs. McBrain—we were on the point of writing his “master,” but there are
no longer any ‘masters’ in New York. Stephen, himself, who had not a
spark of pride, except in his horses, and who was really much attached
to the person he served, always spoke of the doctor as his “boss.” Jack
Wilmeter, somewhat of a wag, had perplexed the honest coachman, on a
certain occasion, by telling him that “boss” was the Latin for “ox,” and
that it was beneath his dignity to be using Pill and Pole-us (Bolus) to
drag about “oxen.” But Stephen recovered from this shock in due time,
and has gone on ever since, calling his master “boss.” We suppose this
touch of “republican simplicity” will maintain its ground along with the
other sacred principles that certain persons hold on to so tightly that
they suffer others, of real importance, to slip through their fingers.

Stephen was proud of his office that day. He liked his new
mistress—there are no bossesses—and he particularly liked Miss Anna. His
horses were used a good deal more than formerly, it is true; but this he
rather liked too, having lived under the _régimes_ of the two first Mrs.
McBrain. He was doubly satisfied because his team came in fresh, without
having a hair turned, while that of _Madam_, as all the domestics now
called Mildred, were white with foam. Stephen took no account of the
difference in the distance, as he conceived that a careful coachman
would have had his “boss” up early enough to get over the ground in due
season, without all this haste. Little did he understand the bossess
that his brother-whip had to humour. She paid high, and had things her
own way.

Anna thought Stephen had never driven so fast as he did that morning.
The doctor handed her from the carriage, leading her and his wife
directly up to the altar. Here the party was met by John and his uncle,
the latter of whom facetiously styled himself the “groomsman.” It is a
ceremony much more easily done than undone—great as the facilities for
the last are getting to be. In about five minutes, John Wilmeter and
Anna Updyke were pronounced to be “one flesh.” In five minutes more,
Jack had his sweet, smiling, happy, tearful bride, in his own light
vehicle, and was trotting away towards a pretty little place in
Westchester, that he owns, and which was all ready to receive the young
couple. The ponies seemed to understand their duty, and soon carried the
bride and bridegroom out of sight.

“Them’s awful trotters, them nags of Mr. Jack Wilmington’s,” said
Stephen, as the double phaeton whirled away from the church door, “and
if Miss Anny doesn’t disapprove on ’em, afore long, I’m no judge of a
team. I’m glad, however, the young gentleman has married into our
family, for he does like a hoss, and the gentleman that likes a hoss
commonly likes his vife.”

His remark was overheard by Dunscomb, though intended only for the ears
of the counsellor’s coachman. It drew an answer, as might have been
foreseen.

“I am glad you approve of the connexion, Stephen,” said the counsellor
in his good-natured way. “It is a great satisfaction to know that my
nephew goes among friends.”

“Fri’nds, Sir! Admirers is a better tarm. I’m a downright admirer of Mr.
Jack, he’s sich tastes; always with his dog, or his gun, or his hoss, in
the country; and I dares to say, with his books in town.”

“Not just all that, Stephen; I wish it were so; but truth compels me to
own that the young rogue thinks quite as much of balls, and suppers, and
tailors, and the opera, as he does of Coke upon Lyttleton, or Blackstone
and Kent.”

“Vell, that’s wrong,” answered Stephen, “and I’ll uphold no man in vot’s
wrong, so long as I can do better. I know’d both them racers, having
heard tell on ’em at the time they vos run, and I’ve beard good judges
say, that timed the hosses, that Kent come in neck and neck, if justice
had been done. Mr. Jack will rectify, and come to see the truth afore
long—mattermony will do that much for him. It’s a great help to the
seekers arter truth, is mattermony, sir!”

“That is the reason you have so much of it at Timbully, I suppose,”
returned Dunscomb, nodding familiarly towards his friend the Doctor, who
had heard all that was said. “If matrimony rectifies in this way, you
must be three times right at home, Stephen.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the coachman, nodding his head in reply; “and when
a body does better and better, as often as he tries, there’s no great
harm in trying. Mr. Jack vill come round, in time.”

“I dare say he will, Stephen, when he has sown all his wild oats; though
the dog pretends to like the Code, and what is more, has the impudence
to say he understands it.”

“Yes, sir, all wrong, I dares to say. But Miss Anna will set him right,
as a righter young lady never sat on the back seat of a coach. I wish,
now we’re on the subject, ’Squire Dunscomb, to hear your ra’al opinion
about them vild oats; vether they be a true thing, or merely a fancy
consarning some vegetable that looks like the true feed. I’ve often
heard of sich things, but never seed any.”

“Nor will you, Stephen, until the doctor turns short round, and renews
his youth. Then, indeed, you may see some of the grain growing beneath
your feet. It is doctor’s food.

“Meshy, and good for the grinders of old hosses, I dares to say.

“Something of the sort. It’s the harvest that age reaps from the
broad-cast of youth. But we are keeping Mrs. McBrain waiting. Stephen
will take one less back with him, than he brought, my dear lady.”

“I trust not. Mr. McBrain has given me reason to hope for the pleasure
of your company. Your nephew has carried off my daughter; the least you
can do is to come and console me.”

“What is then to become of that dear, but unfortunate young lady?”
glancing towards Mildred.

“She goes with her relatives, the Millingtons. Next week, we are all to
meet at Rattletrap, you know.”

The next week the meeting took place, as appointed.

“Here I am,” cried Dunscomb, “truly and finally a bachelor, again. Now
for the reign of misrule, negligence, and bad housekeeping. Sarah has
left me; and John has left me; and Rattletrap will soon become the
chosen seat of discomfort and cynicism.”

“Never the last, I should think,” answered Madame de Larocheforte,
gaily, “as long as you are its master. But why should you dwell alone
here, in your declining years—why may I not come and be your
housekeeper.”

“The offer is tempting, coming, as it does, from one who cannot keep
house for herself. But you think of returning to Europe, I believe?”

“Never—or not so long as my own country is so indulgent to us women!”

“Why, yes—you are right enough in that, Mildred. This is woman’s
paradise, in a certain sense, truly; though much less attention is paid
to their weakness and wants, by the affluent, than in other lands. In
every Christian country but this, I believe, a wife may be compelled to
do her duty. Here she is free as the air she breathes, so long as she
has a care not to offend in one essential. No, you are right to remain
at home, in your circumstances; that is to say, if you still insist on
your mistaken independence; a condition in which nature never intended
your sex to exist.”

“And yourself, sir! Did not nature as much intend that you should marry,
as another?”

“It did,” answered Dunscomb, solemnly; “and I would have discharged the
obligation, had it been in my power. You well know why I have never been
a husband—the happy parent of a happy family.”

Mildred’s eyes swam with tears. She had heard the history of her
grandmother’s caprice, and had justly appreciated the wrongs of
Dunscomb. This it was not difficult for her to do, in the case of third
parties, even while so obtuse on the subject of her own duties. She took
the hand of her companion, by a stealthy and unexpected movement, and
raised it still more unexpectedly to her lips. Dunscomb started; turned
his quick glance on her face, where he read all her contrition and
regrets. It was by these sudden exhibitions of right feeling, and
correct judgment, that Madame de Larocheforte was able to maintain her
position. The proofs of insanity were so limited in the range of its
influence, occurred so rarely, now she was surrounded by those who
really took an interest in her, and this not for the sake of her money,
but for her own sake, that her feelings had become softened, and she no
longer regarded men and women as beings placed near her, to prey on her
means and to persecute her. By thus giving her affections scope, her
mind was gradually getting to be easier, and her physical existence
improved. McBrain was of opinion that, with care, and with due attention
to avoid excitement and distasteful subjects, her reason might again be
seated on its throne, and bring all the faculties of her mind in
subjection to it.

At length the time for the visit of the young people arrived. Anxious to
see happy faces assembled around him, Dunscomb had got Mildred, the
McBrains, and the Millingtons, at Rattletrap, to do honour to the bride
and groom. Good Mrs. Gott had not been overlooked, and by an accident,
Timms drove in at the gate, just as the whole party, including Jack and
his blooming wife, were sitting down to a late breakfast. The counsellor
welcomed his man of all work, for habit renders us less fastidious in
our associations than most of us imagine.

Timms was very complimentary to both of the young couples, and in a
slight degree witty, agreeably to his own mode of regarding the
offspring of that effort of the imagination.

“What do you think of Williams’s getting married, ’Squire Dunscomb?” the
attorney asked. “There’s a man for matrimony! He regards women and
niggers as inferior beings.”

“Pray how do _you_ regard them, Timms? The women only, I suppose?”

“Oh! dear, no, ’Squire; as far as possible from that! I reverence the
ladies, without whom our state in this life would be—”

“Single—I suppose you wish to say. Yes, that is a very sensible remark
of yours—without women we should certainly all get to be old bachelors,
in time. But, Timms, it is proper that I should be frank with you.
Mildred de Larocheforte may manage to get a divorce, by means of some of
the quirks of the law; but were she to be proclaimed single, by sound of
trumpet, she would never marry _you_.”

“You are sharp on me this morning, sir; no one but the lady, herself,
can say _that_.”

“There you are mistaken. I _know_ it, and am ready to give my reasons
for what I say.”

“I should be pleased to hear them, sir—always respect your reasoning
powers, though I think no man can say who a lady will or will not
marry.”

“In the first place, she does not like you. That is one sufficient
reason, Timms—”

“Her dislike may be overcome, sir.”

“Her tastes are very refined. She dislikes her present husband
principally because he takes snuff.”

“I should have thought she might have discovered her feelings on that
subject, before she went so far.”

“Not as they manage matters in Europe. There, the suitor is not
permitted to kiss his intended, as so often happens among ourselves, I
fancy; and she had no opportunity of ascertaining how unpleasant snuff
is. You chew and smoke, and she will endure neither.”

“I’ll forswear both, rather than not be agreeable to dear Mary Monson.”

“Ah! my poor Timms, I see you are deeper in this affair than I had
supposed. But I shall turn you over to Mrs. Gott, who has promised to
have an explanation with you, and who, I believe, will speak by
authority.”

Timms was not a little surprised to see his old master very
unceremoniously leave him, and the sheriff’s wife occupy his place.

“’Squire Timms,” the latter commenced, without a moment’s hesitation,
“we live in a very strange world, it must be admitted. Gott says as much
as this, and Gott is commonly right. He always maintained he never
should be called on to hang Mary Monson.”

“Mr. Gott is a very prudent man, but he would do well to take more care
of his keys.”

“I have not been able to find out how that was done! Mary laughs when I
ask her, and says it was witchcraft; I sometimes think it _must_ have
been something of the sort.”

“It was money, Mrs. Gott, which kept Goodwin concealed to the last
moment, and brought about half of all that happened.”

“You knew that Peter Goodwin was alive, and hid up at Mrs. Horton’s?”

“I was as much surprised, when he entered the court, as any one there.
My client managed it all for herself. She, and her gold.”

“Well, you have the credit of it, Timms, let me tell you, and many in
the county think it was very well done. I am your friend, and ever have
been. You stood by Gott like a man, at his election, and I honour you
for it. So I am about to give you a great proof of my friendship. Give
up all thoughts of Mary Monson; she’ll never have you.”

“What reasons have you for saying this?”

“In the first place, she is married already.”

“She may get a divorce. Besides, her present husband is not a citizen.
If I go to the senate, I intend to introduce a bill to prevent any but
citizens getting married. If foreigners want wives, let them be
naturalized!”

“You talk like a simpleton! Another reason why you should not think of
Mary Monson is that you are unsuited to be her husband?”

“In what particular, I beg leave to ask?”

“Oh! in several. You are both too sharp, and would quarrel about your
wit, in the very first month,” returned Mrs. Gott, laughing. “Take my
advice, Timms, and cast your eyes on some Duke’s county young woman, who
has a natur’ more like your own.”

Timms growled out a dissent to this very rational proposition, but the
discussion was carried on for some time longer. The woman made an
impression at last, and when the attorney left the house, it was with
greatly lessened hopes for the future, and with greatly lessened zeal on
the subject of the divorce.

It was singular, perhaps, that Mrs. Gott had not detected the great
secret of Mary Monson’s insanity. So many persons are going up and down
the country, who are mad on particular subjects, and sane on most
others, that it is not surprising the intelligence and blandishments of
a woman like Mildred should throw dust into the eyes of one as
simple-minded as Mrs. Gott. With the world at large, indeed, the
_equivoque_ was kept up, and while many thought the lady very queer,
only a few suspected the truth. It may be fortunate for most of us that
writs of lunacy are not taken out against us: few men, or women, being
under the control of a good, healthful reason at all times, and on all
subjects.

In one particular, Mad. de Larochefort was singularly situated. She was
surrounded, in her ordinary associations, with newly married persons,
who were each and all strenuously resolved to regard the relation in the
most favourable point of view! Perhaps there is nothing on earth that so
nearly resembles the pure happiness of the blessed, as the felicity that
succeeds the entire union of two hearts that are wrapped up in each
other. Such persons live principally for themselves, regarding the world
at large as little more than their abiding place. The affinity of
feeling, the community of thought, the steadily increasing confidence
which, in the end, almost incorporates the moral existence of two into
one, are so many new and precious ties, that it is not wonderful the
novices believe they are transplanted to a new and ethereal state of
being. Such was, in a measure, the condition of those with whom Mildred
was now called on to associate most intimately. It is true, that the
state of the doctor and his wife might be characterized as only happy,
while those of the young people amounted to absolute felicity. Mildred
had experienced none of the last, and very little of the first, on the
occasion of her own marriage, which had been entered into more as a
contract of reason, than a union of love. She saw how much she had
missed, and profound was the grief it occasioned her.

“You seem very happy,” she remarked one day to Anna, as they were again
threading the pretty little wood at Rattletrap—“more than that—delighted
would be a better word.”

“Jack is very kind to me, and the only complaint I have to make of him
is, that he is more fond of me than I deserve. I tell him I tremble lest
our happiness may not last!”

“Enjoy it while you may. It is so rare to find married persons who are
so completely devoted to each other, that it is a pleasant sight to look
upon. I never knew any of this, Anna.”

“I regret to hear it, dear mamma—it must be that you began wrong. There
should be a strong attachment before the nuptial benediction is
pronounced; then, with good hearts, and good principles, I should think
almost any woman might be content with her fate.”

“It may be so,” returned Mildred, with a profound sigh; “I suppose it
_must_ be so. We are created by God, to fulfil these kind offices to
each other, and to love our husbands; and there must be something very
wrong when different results follow. For myself, I ought never to have
married at all. My spirit is too independent for matrimony.”

Anna was silent; for, possibly, she might have read “headstrong” for
“independent.” The most truly independent thinkers are those who are
willing to regard all sides of a subject, and are not particularly
wedded to one. Mildred was acute enough to see that the beautiful young
bride did not exactly like the allusion she had made to her new
character.

“You do not agree with me?” she demanded quickly, bending forward to
look into her companion’s eyes.

“How can I, mamma Mildred! As I think no one, man or woman, should have
a spirit that disqualifies her for the duties imposed by nature, which
is merely the law of our great Creator, how can I agree to your notion
of so much independence. We are not intended for all this independence,
but have been placed here to do honour to God, and to try to render each
other happy. I wish—but I am too bold, for one so young and
inexperienced.”

“Speak freely, dear. I listen with pleasure—not to say with curiosity.”

“I am afraid, dear mamma, that the great guide of human conduct is not
as much studied in France, as it should be. That teaches us the great
lesson of humility. Without humility we are nothing—cannot be
Christians—cannot love our neighbours as ourselves—cannot even love God,
as it is our duty, as we ought to do.”

“This is very strange, Anna, coming from one of your age! Is it common
for American girls to reason and feel in this way?”

“Perhaps not, though I hope more so than is commonly supposed. You will
remember what a mother it is my good fortune to possess. But, since you
really wish me to be frank with you, let me finish what I have to say. I
suppose you know, Mildred, how much more you have to contend with than
most of your sex?”

“Mons. de Larocheforte, you mean?”

“Not at all,” returned Mrs. John Wilmeter, slightly smiling. “I put all
thought of contention with a husband out of the question. You know I
have not been married long enough for that, and I could almost hope that
the first day of such a scene might be the last of my life! John would
cease to love me, if I quarrelled with him.”

“You will be an extraordinary pair, my dear, if scenes, as you call
them, do not occasionally occur between you.”

“I do not expect faultlessness in Jack; and, as for myself, I know that
I have very many motes to get rid of, and which I trust may, in a
measure, be done. But let us return to the case of a woman, young,
well-educated, handsome, rich to superfluity, and intellectual.”

“All of which are very good things, my child,” observed Mad. de
Larocheforte, with a smile so covert as to be scarcely seen, though it
betrayed to her companion the consciousness of her making the
application intended—“what next?”

“Wilful, a lover of power, and what she called independent.”

“Good and bad together. The two first, very bad, I acknowledge; the
last, very good.”

“What do you understand by independence? If it mean a certain
disposition to examine and decide for ourselves, under all the
obligations of duty, then it is a good thing, a _very_ good thing, as
you say; but if it merely mean a disposition to do as one pleases, to
say what one likes, and to behave as one may at the moment fancy, then
it strikes me as a very bad thing. This independence, half the time, is
only pride and obstinacy, dear mamma!”

“Well, what if it is? Men are proud and obstinate, too; and they must be
fought with their own weapons.”

“It is easy to make smart speeches, but, by the difficulties I meet with
in endeavouring to conquer my own heart, I know it is very hard to do
right. I know I am a very young monitress—”

“Never mind that. Your youth gives piquancy to your instructions. I like
to hear you.”

“Well, I will finish what I had to say. I have ever found that the best
assistant, or it might be more reverent to say, the best mode of
subduing error, was to comport ourselves with humility. Ah! my dear
mamma, if you could understand how very strong the humble get to be in
time, you would throw aside your cherished independence, and rely on
other means to secure your happiness!”

Perhaps Mildred was as much struck with the circumstances under which
this rebuke or admonition was given as with the advice itself. It had an
effect, however, and Dunscomb coming in aid of his niece, this singular
woman was gradually drawn from the exaggerated notions she had ever
entertained of herself and her rights to the contemplation of her
duties, as they are exercised in humility.

If there were no other evidence of the divine origin of the rules of
conduct taught by the Redeemer than the profound knowledge of the human
heart, that is so closely connected with the great lessons in humility
everywhere given in his teachings, we conceive it would be sufficient in
itself to establish their claim to our reverence. If men could be made
to feel how strong they become in admitting their weaknesses; how
clearly they perceive truth, when conscious of gazing at its form amidst
the fogs of error; and how wise we may become by the consciousness of
ignorance, more than half of the great battle in morals would be gained.

Humility was, indeed, a hard lesson for Mildred Millington to study. Her
whole life had been in direct opposition to its precepts, and the great
failing of her mind had a strong leaning to a love of power.
Nevertheless, there is a still, searching process of correcting, so
interwoven with the law of the New Testament, as to be irresistible when
brought to aid us, in the manner prescribed by its own theory. No one
knew this better than Dunscomb; and he so directed the reading, thoughts
and feelings of his interesting charge, as to produce an early and a
very sensible change on her character. The tendency to insanity is still
there, and probably will ever remain; for it is not so much the
consequence of any physical derangement as of organization; but it
already promises to be so far controlled, as to leave its unhappy
subject, generally rational, and, for most of her time, reasonably
satisfied.

Dunscomb had several interviews with the vicomte—no-vicomte—whom he
found a much more agreeable person than he had been prepared to meet,
though certainly addicted to snuff. He was made acquainted with the
mental hallucinations of his wife as well as with the fact of their
being hereditary, when a great change came over the spirit of his dream!
He had married to perpetuate the family de Larocheforte, but he had no
fancy for a race of madmen. Dunscomb found him very reasonable, in
consequence, and an arrangement was soon made, under the advice of this
able counsellor, by means of which Mildred virtually became her own
mistress. M. de Larocheforte accepted an ample provision from the
estate, and willingly returned to Europe, a part of the world that is
much more agreeable, usually, to men of his class than our own “happy
country.” His absence has proved a great assistance to those who have
assumed the care of Mildred’s mental state. As all the schemes for a
divorce have been discontinued,—schemes that could have led to no
strictly legal consequence,—and her husband has left the country the
mind of Mildred has become calmer, and the means have been found to
bring her almost completely within the control of her reason.

We have very little to say of the other characters. Timms is still
himself. He boasts of the fees he got in the great Mary Monson
case. His prospects for the state senate are far from bad, and
should he succeed, we shall expect to see him whining about
“republican simplicity,” abusing “aristocracy,” which in his
secret heart, means a clean shirt, clean nails, anti-tobacco
chewing and anti-blowing-the-nose-with-the-fingers, and aiding
anti-rentism. He is scamp enough for anything.

Williams is actually married, and, in reply to Timms’s accounts of the
fees, he intimates that Peter Goodwin’s ghost would not have appeared,
had _he_ not “been choked off.” It ought to be strange that these two
men like to boast of their rascality; but it is in obedience to a law of
our nature. Their tongues merely echo their thoughts.

The McBrains seem very happy. If the wife be an “old man’s darling,” it
is not as a young woman. Dunscomb still calls her “widow,” on occasions,
but nothing can interrupt the harmony of the friends. It is founded on
mutual esteem and respect.

Michael and Sarah promise well. In that family, there is already a boy,
to its great-uncle’s delight. The parents exult in this gift, and both
are grateful.

We care little for Jack Wilmeter, though a very good fellow, in the
main. Anna loves him, however, and that gives him an interest in our
eyes, he might not otherwise enjoy. His charming wife is losing her
superfluous enthusiasm in the realities of life, but she seems to gain
in womanly tenderness and warmth of healthful feeling, precisely in the
degree in which she loses the useless tenant of her imagination.

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Transcriber’s Note

There is a paragraph on p. 373 which paraphrases testimony. The first
segment has no opening double quote, but seems to end with one. An
opening quote has been added at 373.15. An emphasized quote is embedded
in that passage, but also uses double quotes.

Beginning on p. 442, there is an extended passage which summarized the
closing argument and ends at 444.13 with a closing double quote. That
has been removed here, since there is no clear point where it would have
been opened.

The text includes three instances of ‘villany’ at 127.14, 393.11 and
‘villanous’ at 322.27. Thsese have been retained but are noted. No
instances of ‘villainy’ are found. The words ‘vister’ and ‘visitor’ each
appear four times. Both are retained.

At 172.16, a line ends ‘use,’. The following line begins ‘less’. It
seems obvious that the comma was intended as a hyphen, hence: ‘useless’.

There were numerous instances of missing periods, frequently (but not
alwasy) at the end of a line. These have been summarized here: Mr.
(i.1); confidently. (15.20); propose it. (22.29); attention. 34.27);
wear it. (36.29); opinions. (40.7); room. (45.30); not. (52.32);
investigation. (55.29); heat. (55.33); Mr. Dunscomb (69.7); Mr.
Dunscomb’s (100.1); sir. (117.29); grate. 126.1); side. (132.30);
occasion. (176.4); sir. 185.3); itself. (190.4); said. (204.1); comfort.
(204.25); enough. (207.3); place. (214.27); beginner. (218.1); liberty.
224.23); him. (226.1); hour. (245.8); Mrs. Gott. (249.5); State.
(251.8); Mrs. Horton (234.33); oment. (254.1); occasion. (254.33);
Europe. (255.32); temperament. (258.33); dwelling. 261.32); threshold.
(267.4); interview. 274.33); reigned. 298.7); Mrs[.[ Horton (304.5);
light. (307.29); terrible. (338.29); gained. (342.24); nothing.
(344.33); aristocracy. (354.17); aristocracy. (354.19); conversation.
(357.27); dream. (363.20); ignorance. 379.33); doing. (382.1); might.
(383.23); Mrs. Horton’s (390.6); cause. (404.5); _conjecture._ (447.20);
attempted. (447.28); ignorance. (457.3); force. (461.6); _Peter
Goodwin_. (462.27); astounded. (463.6); sins. (465.4); asked. (468.4);
own. (477.29); murdered. (467.1); executions. (477.30); Biberry.
(480.13); teachings. (486.29); Mildred. (491.6);

Most other errors involved missing or incorrect quotation marks or
characters. Frequently, the text has space for the missing characters.
These have been deemed as most likely to be printing errors, and have
been corrected and are noted below. Spelling anomalies have been
corrected if there is evidence of standard spelling elsewhere. The
references are to the page and line in the original.

27.10 but to your own.[’/”] Replaced.
45.27 by the time you are ready.[”] Added.
51.32 tried under an [‘]alias!’ Added.
55.27 respectin[g] his profession, Added.
57.16 this display of [l]earning. Restored.
71.3 It was almost superfl[u]ous to ask Inserted.
72.24 showing a half-eagle.[”] Removed.
83.14 All the access[a/o]ries of this plan Replaced.
92.31 and [b/h]ad never lost a cent Replaced.
103.29 [“]If one of these skeletons Added.
106.5 [‘/“]Millington, you have a way of talking Replaced.
187.22 as would stand examination.[”] Added.
219.26 who are friendly to me——[”] Added.
227.22 [“]Which is better Restored.
232.33 as any about here.[’/”] Restored.
240.28 he drew[ a] chair Restored.
248.14 on that harp of her[’]s Removed.
270.17 a case like her[’]s Removed.
271.2 sweep out a crowded calend[e/a]r Replaced.
273.15 as access[a/o]ries before the act. Replaced.
282.1 As for the jurors[,] Restored.
303.3 [“]yes, in the spirit Added.
310.22 and flesh of their flesh.[’]” Added.
320.21 safe sort of person.[”] Added.
323.28 ’Squire Timms.[’/”] Replaced.
335.13 when I met David Johnson—[”] Added.
336.5 is getting scarce——[’]” Added.
351.17 as you must know[,/.] Replaced.
375.31 [‘/“]What I know Replaced.
383.33 he saw a strange f[ro/or]m Transposed.
384.29 [“]Whom do you mean by she?” Added.
443.30 of the sleeping couple below[,] Added.
455.4 dreaded power above.[”] Added.
486.28 “yes, tha[t] Restored.
490.17 ‘cup-and-saucer law,[”/’] Replaced.
491.28 and he[r] character has been formed Restored.
510.33 would be [g]ained Restored.
512.17 “old man[ /’]s darling” Added.

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