“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[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.”