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THE WAYS OF THE HOUR.

The Theft
The Ways of the Hour

“This bears some resemblance, Mr.[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.

BY

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.

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.

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.[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.[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.”[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.[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.[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.”[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.[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!’[‘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.[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.[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[respecting] his profession, length of practice, residence, &c., when the examination turned more on the matter immediately under investigation.[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.[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 cranium, 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[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.[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[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.[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.

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[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[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.[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[“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[“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 address, for the distinctive qualities lie much deeper than the surface. But so it is; a gentleman can hardly be brought into the company of man or woman, without his at once perceiving whether he or she belong to his own social caste or not. What is more, if a man of the world, he detects almost instinctively the degrees of caste, as well as the greater subdivisions, and knows whether his strange companions have seen much, or little; whether their gentility is merely the result of the great accident, with its customary advantages, or has been smoothed over by a liberal intercourse with the better classes of a general society. Most of all, may a travelled person be known—and that more especially in a provincial country, like our own—from one that has not travelled; though the company kept in other lands necessarily draws an obvious distinction between the last. Now, John Wilmeter, always mingling with the best society of his own country, had also been abroad, and had obtained that “second sight” which so insensibly, but certainly, increases the vision of all Americans who enjoy the advantage of acquiring it. What is more, though his years and the plans of his uncle for his future welfare, had prevented his staying in Europe long enough to receive all the benefit such a tour can bestow, he had remained long enough to pass beyond the study of merely physical things; and had made certain acquisitions in other matters, more essential to tastes, if not to character. When an American returns from an excursion into the old world, with “I come back better satisfied than ever with my own country,” it is an infallible sign that he did not stay long enough abroad; and when he returns only to find fault, it is equally proof that he has stayed too long. There is a happy medium which teaches something near the truth, and that would tell us that there are a thousand things to be amended and improved at home, while there are almost as many enjoyed, that the oldest and most polished people on earth might envy. John Wilmeter had not reached the point that enabled him to make the nicest distinctions, but he was sufficiently advanced to have detected what he conceived to be signs that this singular young creature, unknown, unsupported by any who appeared to take an interest in her, besides himself and the accidental acquaintances formed under the most painful circumstances, had been abroad; perhaps, had been educated there. The regulated tones of one of the sweetest voices he had ever heard, the distinctness and precision of her utterance, as far as possible removed from mouthing and stiffness, but markedly quiet and even, with a total absence of all the affectations of boarding-school grammar, were so many proofs of even a European education, as he fancied; and before that week was terminated, John had fully made up his mind that Mary Monson—though an American by birth, about which there could be no dispute—had been well taught in some of the schools of the old world.

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

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

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

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

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

“Safe!—Secure!—What, in a gaol?”

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

“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.[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.[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[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.

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.[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.

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[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.[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 upheld 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.