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.”