University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

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.

Anne 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. Anne, her mother's namesake, was at the sweet age
of nineteen, and the very counterpart of what the elder Anne
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, than in those of younger and fairer subjects of the
passion. To own the truth, Mrs. Updyke was profoundly in love,
while her betrothed met her inclination with an answering sympathy
that, to say the least, was fully equal to any tender sentiment
he had succeeded in awakening.

All this was to Tom Dunscomb what he called “nuts.” Three
times had he seen his old friend in this pleasant state of feeling,
and three times was he chosen to be an attendant at the altar;
once in the recognised character of a groomsman, and on the
other two occasions in that of a chosen friend. Whether the
lawyer had himself completely escaped the darts of the little
god, no one could say, so completely had he succeeded in veiling
this portion of his life from observation; but, whether he had or
not, he made those who did submit to the passion the theme of
his untiring merriment.

Children usually regard these tardy inclinations of their parents
with surprise, if not with downright distaste. Some little surprise
the pretty Anna Updyke may have felt, when she was told
by a venerable great-aunt that her mother was about to be married;
but of distaste there was none. She had a strong regard
for her new step-father, that was to be; and thought it the most
natural thing in the world to love. Sooth to say, Anna Updyke
had not been out two years—the American girls are brought out
so young! — without having sundry suitors. Manhattan is the
easiest place in the world for a pretty girl, with a good fortune,
to get offers. Pretty girls with good fortunes are usually in
request everywhere; but it requires the precise state of society
that exists in the “Great Commercial Emporium,” to give a
young woman the highest chance in the old lottery. There,

where one-half of the world came from other worlds some half a
dozen years since; where a good old Manhattan name is regarded
as upstart among a crowd that scarcely knows whence it was itself
derived, and whither it is destined, and where few have any real
position in society, and fewer still know what the true meaning
of the term is, money and beauty are the constant objects of
pursuit. Anna Updyke formed no exception. She had declined,
in the gentlest manner possible, no less than six direct offers,
coming from those who were determined to lose nothing by diffidence;
had thrown cold water on more than twice that number
of little flames that were just beginning to burn; and had thrown
into the fire some fifteen or sixteen anonymous effusions, in prose
and verse, that came from adventurers who could admire from a
distance, at the opera and in the streets, but who had no present
means of getting any nearer than these indirect attempts at communication.
We say “thrown into the fire;” for Anna was too
prudent, and had too much self-respect, to retain such documents,
coming, as they did, from so many “Little Unknowns.” The
anonymous effusions were consequently burnt — with one exception.
The exception was in the case of a sonnet, in which her
hair — and very beautiful it is — was the theme. From some of
the little free-masonry of the intercourse of the sexes, Anna
fancied these lines had been written by Jack Wilmeter, one of
the most constant of her visiters, as well as one of her admitted
favourites. Between Jack and Anna there had been divers
passages of gallantry, which had been very kindly viewed by
McBrain and the mother. The parties themselves did not understand
their own feelings; for matters had not gone far, when
Mary Monson so strangely appeared on the stage, and drew Jack
off, on the trail of wonder and mystery, if not on that of real
passion. As Sarah Wilmeter was the most intimate friend of
Anna Updyke, it is not extraordinary that this singular fancy of
the brother's should be the subject of conversation between the
two young women, each of whom probably felt more interest in
his movements than any other persons on earth. The dialogue
we are about to relate took place in Anna's own room, the morning
of the day which preceded that of the wedding, and followed
naturally enough, as the sequence of certain remarks which had
been made on the approaching event.

“If my mother were living, and must be married,” said Sarah
Wilmeter, “I should be very well content to have such a man as
Dr. McBrain for a step-father. I have known him all my life,
and he is, and ever has been, so intimate with uncle Tom, that I
almost think him a near relation.”

“And I have known him as long as I can remember,” Anna
steadily rejoined, “and have not only a great respect, but a warm
regard for him. Should I ever marry myself, I do not believe I
shall have one-half the attachment for my father-in-law as I am
sure I shall feel for my step-father.”

“How do you know there will be any father-in-law in the
case? I am sure John has no parent.”

“John!” returned Anna, faintly —“What is John to me?”

“Thank you, my dear — he is something, at least, to me.”

“To be sure—a brother naturally is — but Jack is no brother
of mine, you will please to remember.”

Sarah cast a quick, inquiring look at her friend; but the eyes
of Anna were thrown downward on the carpet, while the bloom
on her cheek spread to her temples. Her friend saw that, in
truth, Jack was no brother of hers.

“What I mean is this”—continued Sarah, following a thread
that ran through her own mind, rather than anything that had
been already expressed — “Jack is making himself a very silly
fellow just now.”

Anna now raised her eyes; her lip quivered a little, and the
bloom deserted even her cheek. Still, she made no reply. Women
can listen acutely at such moments; but it commonly exceeds

their powers to speak. The friends understood each other, as
Sarah well knew, and she continued her remarks precisely as if
the other had answered them.

“Michael Millington brings strange accounts of Jack's behaviour
at Biberry! He says that he seems to do nothing, think
of nothing, talk of nothing, but of the hardship of this Mary
Monson's case.”

“I'm sure it is cruel enough to awaken the pity of a rock,”
said Anna Updyke, in a low tone; “a woman, and she a lady,
accused of such terrible crimes — murder and arson!”

“What is arson, child? — and how do you know anything
about it?”

Again Anna coloured, her feelings being all sensitiveness on
this subject; which had caused her far more pain than she had
experienced from any other event in her brief life. It was, however,
necessary to answer.

“Arson is setting fire to an inhabited house,” she said, after a
moment's reflection; “and I know it from having been told its
signification by Mr. Dunscomb.”

“Did uncle Tom say anything of this Mary Monson, and of
Jack's singular behaviour?”

“He spoke of his client as a very extraordinary person, and
of her accomplishments, and readiness, and beauty. Altogether,
he does not seem to know what to make of her.”

“And what did he say about Jack? — You need have no reserve
with me, Anna; I am his sister.”

“I know that very well, dear Sarah — but Jack's name was
not mentioned, I believe — certainly not at the particular time,
and in the conversation to which I now refer.”

“But at some other time, my dear, and in some other conversation.”

“He did once say something about your brother's being very
attentive to the interests of the person he calls his Duke's county

client — nothing more, I do assure you. It is the duty of young
lawyers to be very attentive to the interests of their clients, I
should think.”

“Assuredly — and that most especially when the client is a
young lady with a pocket full of money. But Jack is above
want, and can afford to act right at all times and on all occasions.
I wish he had never seen this strange creature.”

Anna Updyke sat silent for some little time, playing with the
hem of her pocket-handkerchief. Then she said timidly, speaking
as if she wished an answer, even while she dreaded it—

“Does not Marie Moulin know something about her?”

“A great deal, if she would only tell it. But Marie, too, has
gone over to the enemy, since she has seen this siren. Not a
word can I get out of her, though I have written three letters,
beyond the fact that she knows Mademoiselle, and that she cannot
believe her guilty.”

“The last, surely, is very important. If really innocent, how
hard has been the treatment she has received! It is not surprising
that your brother feels so deep an interest in her. He is
very warm-hearted and generous, Sarah; and it is just like him
to devote his time and talents to the service of the oppressed.”

It was Sarah's turn to be silent and thoughtful. She made no
answer, for she well understood that an impulse very different
from that mentioned by her friend was, just then, influencing her
brother's conduct.

We have related this conversation as the briefest mode of
making the reader acquainted with the true state of things in
and about the neat dwelling of Mrs. Updyke in Eighth-street.
Much, however, remains to be told; as the morning of the very
day which succeeded that on which the foregoing dialogue was
held, was the one named for the wedding of the mistress of the
house.

At the very early hour of six, the party met at the church

door, one of the most gothic structures in the new quarter of the
town; and five minutes sufficed to make the two one. Anna
sobbed as she saw her mother passing away from her, as it then
appeared to her; and the bride herself was a little overcome.
As for McBrain, as his friend Dunscomb expressed it, in a description
given to a brother bachelor, who met him at dinner—

“He stood fire like a veteran! You're not going to frighten
a fellow who has held forth the ring three times. You will remember
that Ned has previously killed two wives, besides all the
other folk he has slain; and I make no doubt the fellow's confidence
was a good deal increased by the knowledge he possesses
that none of us are immortal—as husbands and wives, at least.”

But Tom Dunscomb's pleasantries had no influence on his
friend's happiness. Odd as it may appear to some, this connection
was one of a warm and very sincere attachment. Neither
of the parties had reached the period of life when nature begins
to yield to the pressure of time; and there was the reasonable
prospect before them of their contributing largely to each other's
future happiness. The bride was dressed with great simplicity,
but with a proper care; and she really justified the passion that
McBrain insisted, in his conversations with Dunscomb, that he
felt for her. Youthful, for her time of life, modest in demeanour
and aspect, still attractive in person, the `Widow Updyke' became
Mrs. McBrain, with as charming an air of womanly feeling as
might have been exhibited by one of less than half her age.
Covered with blushes, she was handed by the bridegroom into
his own carriage, which stood at the church-door, and the two
proceeded to Timbully.

As for Anna Updyke, she went to pass a week in the country
with Sarah Dunscomb; even a daughter being a little de trop,
in a honey-moon. Rattletrap was the singular name Tom Dunscomb
had given to his country-house. It was a small villa-like
residence, on the banks of the Hudson, and within the island of

Manhattan. Concealed in a wood, it was a famous place for a
bachelor to hide his oddities in. Here Dunscomb concentrated
all his out-of-the-way purchases, including ploughs that were never
used, all sorts of farming utensils that were condemned to the
same idleness, and such contrivances in the arts of fishing and
shooting as struck his fancy; though the lawyer never handled a
rod or levelled a fowling-piece. But Tom Dunscomb, though he
professed to despise love, had fancies of his own. It gave him a
certain degree of pleasure to seem to have these several tastes;
and he threw away a good deal of money in purchasing these
characteristic ornaments for Rattletrap. When Jack Wilmeter
ventured, one day, to ask his uncle what pleasure he could find
in collecting so many costly and perfectly useless articles, implements
that had not the smallest apparent connection with his
ordinary pursuits and profession, he got the following answer:—

“You are wrong, Jack, in supposing that these traps are useless.
A lawyer has occasion for a vast deal of knowledge that
he will never get out of his books. One should have the elements
of all the sciences, and of most of the arts, in his mind, to make
a thoroughly good advocate; for their application will become
necessary on a thousand occasions, when Blackstone and Kent
can be of no service. No, no; I prize my professions highly,
and look upon Rattletrap as my Inn of Court.”

Jack Wilmeter had come over from Biberry to attend the
wedding, and had now accompanied the party into the country,
as it was called; though the place of Dunscomb was so near
town that it was not difficult, when the wind was at the southward,
to hear the fire-bell on the City Hall. The meeting between
John Wilmeter and Anna Updyke had been fortunately a
little relieved by the peculiar circumstances in which the latter
was placed. The feeling she betrayed, the pallor of her cheek,
and the nervousness of her deportment, might all, naturally
enough, be imputed to the emotions of a daughter, who saw her

own mother standing at the altar, by the side of one who was
not her natural father. Let this be as it might, Anna had the
advantage of the inferences which those around her made on
these facts. The young people met first in the church, where
there was no opportunity for any exchange of language or looks.
Sarah took her friend away with her alone, on the road to Rattletrap,
immediately after the ceremony, in order to allow Anna's
spirits and manner to become composed, without being subjected
to unpleasant observation. Dunscomb and his nephew drove out
in a light vehicle of the latter's; and Michael Millington appeared
later at the villa, bringing with him to dinner, Timms,
who came on business connected with the approaching trial.

There never had been any love-making, in the direct meaning
of the term, between John Wilmeter and Anna Updyke. They
had known each other so long and so intimately, that both regarded
the feeling of kindness that each knew subsisted, as a
mere fraternal sort of affection. “Jack is Sarah's brother,”
thought Anna, when she permitted herself to reason on the
subject at all; “and it is natural that I should have more friendship
for him than for any other young man.” “Anna is Sarah's
most intimate friend,” though Jack, “and that is the long and
short of my attachment for her. Take away Sarah, and Anna
would be nothing to me; though she is so pretty, and clever,
and gentle, and lady-like. I must like those Anna likes, or it
might make us both unhappy.” This was the reasoning of
nineteen, and when Anna Updyke was just budding into young
womanhood; at a later day, habit had got to be so much in the
ascendant, that neither of the young people thought much on the
subject at all. The preference was strong in each — so strong,
indeed, as to hover over the confines of passion, and quite near
to its vortex; though the long accustomed feeling prevented
either from entering into its analysis. The attachments that
grow up with our daily associations, and get to be so interwoven

with our most familiar thoughts, seldom carry away those who
submit to them, in the whirlwind of passion; which are much
more apt to attend sudden and impulsive love. Cases do certainly
occur in which the parties have long known each other,
and have lived on for years in a dull appreciation of mutual
merit — sometimes with prejudices and alienation active between
them; when suddenly all is changed, and the scene that was
lately so tranquil and tame becomes tumultuous and glowing,
and life assumes a new charm, as the profound emotions of passion
chase away its dulness; substituting hope, and fears, and
lively wishes, and soul-felt impressions in its stead. This is not
usual in the course of the most wayward of all our impulses;
but it does occasionally happen, brightening existence with a
glow that might well be termed divine, were the colours bestowed
derived from a love of the Creator, in lieu of that of one of his
creatures. In these sudden awakenings of dormant feelings,
some chord of mutual sympathy, some deep-rooted affinity is
aroused, carrying away their possessors in a torrent of the feelings.
Occasionally, wherever the affinity is active, the impulse
natural and strongly sympathetic, these sudden and seemingly
wayward attachments are the most indelible, colouring the whole
of the remainder of life; but oftener do they take the character
of mere impulse, rather than that of deeper sentiment, and disappear,
as they were first seen, in some sudden glow of the
horizon of the affections.

In this brief analysis of some of the workings of the heart,
we may find a clue to the actual frame of mind in which John
Wilmeter returned from Biberry, where he had now been, like a
sentinel on post, for several weeks, in vigilant watchfulness over
the interests of Mary Monson. During all that time, however,
he had not once been admitted within the legal limits of the
prison; holding his brief, but rather numerous conferences with
his client, at the little grate in the massive door that separated

the gaol from the dwelling of the sheriff. Kind-hearted Mrs.
Gott would have admitted him to the gallery, whenever he chose
to ask that favour; but this act of courtesy had been forbidden
by Mary Monson herself. Timms she did receive, and she conferred
with him in private on more than one occasion, manifesting
great earnestness in the consultations that preceded the approaching
trial. But John Wilmeter she would receive only at the
grate, like a nun in a well-regulated convent. Even this coyness
contributed to feed the fire that had been so suddenly lighted in
the young man's heart, on which the strangeness of the prisoner's
situation, her personal attractions, her manners, and all the other
known peculiarities of person, history, education and deportment,
had united to produce a most lively impression, however fleeting
it was to prove in the end.

Had there been any direct communications on the subject of
the attachment that had so long, so slowly, but so surely been
taking root in the hearts of John and Anna, any reciprocity in
open confidence, this unlooked-for impulse in a new direction
could not have overtaken the young man. He did not know how
profound was the interest that Anna took in him; nor, for that
matter, was she aware of it herself, until Michael Millington
brought the unpleasant tidings of the manner in which his friend
seemed to be entranced with his uncle's client at Biberry. Then,
indeed, Anna was made to feel that surest attendant of the liveliest
love, a pang of jealousy; and, for the first time in her young
and innocent life, she became aware of the real nature of her
sentiments in behalf of John Wilmeter. On the other hand,
drawn aside from the ordinary course of his affections by sudden,
impulsive, and exciting novelties, John was fast submitting to
the influence of the charms of the fair stranger, as has been more
than once intimated in our opening pages, as the newly-fallen
snow melts under the rays of a noon-day sun.

Such, then, was the state of matters in this little circle, when

the wedding took place, and John Wilmeter joined the family-party.
Although Dunscomb did all he could to make the dinner
gay, Rattletrap had seldom entertained a more silent company
than that which sat down at its little round table on this occasion.
John thought of Biberry and Mary Monson; Sarah's imagination
was quite busy in wondering why Michael Millington stayed
away so long; and Anna was on the point of bursting into tears
half-a-dozen times, under the depression produced by the joint
events of her mother's marriage, and John Wilmeter's obvious
change of deportment towards her.

“What the deuce has kept Michael Millington and that fellow
Timms, from joining us at dinner,” said the master of the house,
as the fruit was placed upon the table; and, closing one eye, he
looked with the other through the ruby rays of a glass of well-cooled
Madeira—his favourite wine. “Both promised to be
punctual; yet here are they both sadly out of time. They knew
the dinner was to come off at four.”

“As is one, sir, so are both,” answered John. “You will
remember they were to come together?”

“True—and Millington is rather a punctual man—especially
in visiting at Rattletrap”—here Sarah blushed a little; but the
engagement in her case being announced, there was no occasion
for any particular confusion. “We shall have to take Michael with
us into Duke's next week, Miss Wilmeter; the case being too
grave to neglect bringing up all our forces.”

“Is Jack, too, to take a part in the trial, uncle Tom?” demanded
the niece, with a little interest in the answer.

“Jack, too—everybody, in short. When the life of a fine
young woman is concerned, it behooves her counsel to be active
and diligent. I have never before had a cause into which my
feelings have so completely entered—no, never.”

“Do not counsel always enter, heart and hand, into their clients'
interests, and make themselves, as it might be, as you gentlemen

of the bar sometimes term these things, a `part and parcel' of
their concerns?”

This question was put by Sarah, but it caused Anna to raise
her eyes from the fruit she was pretending to eat, and to listen
intently to the reply. Perhaps she fancied that the answer might
explain the absorbed manner in which John had engaged in the
service of the accused.

“As far from it as possible, in many cases,” returned the uncle;
“though there certainly are others in which one engages with all
his feelings. But every day lessens my interest in the law, and
all that belongs to it.”

“Why should that be so, sir?—I have heard you called a devotee
of the profession.”

“That's because I have no wife. Let a man live a bachelor,
and ten to one he gets some nickname or other. On the other
hand, let him marry two or three times, like Ned McBrain—beg
your pardon, Nanny, for speaking disrespectfully of your papa—
but let a fellow just get his third wife, and they tack `family' to
his appellation at once. He's an excellent family lawyer, or a
capital family physician, or a supremely pious—no, I don't know
that they've got so far as the parsons, for they are all family fellows.”

“You have a spite against matrimony, uncle Tom.”

“Well, if I have, it stops with me, as a family complaint.
You are free from it, my dear; and I'm half inclined to think
Jack will marry before he is a year older. But, here are the
tardies at last.”

Although the uncle made no allusion to the person his nephew
was to marry, everybody but himself thought of Mary Monson
at once. Anna turned pale as death; Sarah looked thoughtful,
and even sad; and John became as red as scarlet. But the entrance
of Michael Millington and Timms caused the conversation
to turn on another subject, as a matter of course.

“We expected you to dinner, gentlemen,” Dunscomb drily
remarked, as he pushed the bottle to his guests.

“Business before eating is my maxim, `Squire Dunscomb,”
Timms replied. “Mr. Millington and I have been very busy in
the office, from the moment Dr. McBrain and his lady—”

“Wife—say `wife,' Timms, if you please. Or, `Mrs. McBrain,'
if you like that better.”

“Well, sir, I used the word I did, out of compliment to the
other ladies present. They love to be honoured and signalized
in our language, when we speak of them, sir, I believe.”

“Poh! poh! Timms; take my advice, and let all these small
matters alone. It takes a life to master them, and one must begin
from the cradle. When all is ended, they are scarce worth
the trouble they give. Speak good, plain, direct, and manly
English, I have always told you, and you'll get along well
enough; but make no attempts to be fine. `Dr. McBrain and
lady,' is next thing `to going through Hurlgate,' or meeting a
`lady friend.' You'll never get the right sort of a wife, until
you drop all such absurdities.”

“I'll tell you how it is, 'Squire: so far as law goes, or even
morals, and I don't know but I may say general government
politics, I look upon you as the best adviser I can consult. But,
when it comes to matrimony, I can't see how you should know
any more about it than I do myself. I do intend to get married
one of these days, which is more, I fancy, than you ever had in
view.”

“No; my great concern has been to escape matrimony; but a
man may get a very tolerable notion of the sex while manœuvring
among them, with that intention. I am not certain that he who
has had two or three handsomely managed escapes, doesn't learn
as much as he who has had two or three wives—I mean of
useful information. What do you think of all this, Millington?”

“That I wish for no escapes, when my choice has been free
and fortunate.”

“And you, Jack?”

“Sir!” answered the nephew, starting, as if aroused from a
brown study. “Did you speak to me, uncle Tom?”

“He'll not be of much use to us next week, Timms,” said
the counsellor, coolly, filling his own and his neighbour's glass
as he spoke, with iced Madeira — “These capital cases demand
the utmost vigilance; more especially when popular prejudice
sets in against them.”

“Should the jury find Mary Monson to be guilty, what would
be the sentence of the court?” demanded Sarah, smiling, even
while she seemed much interested — “I believe that is right,
Mike—the court `sentences,' and the jury `convicts.' If there
be any mistake, you must answer for it.”

“I am afraid to speak of laws, or constitutions, in the presence
of your uncle, since the rebuke Jack and I got in that affair of
the toast,” returned Sarah's betrothed, arching his eye-brows.

“By the way, Jack, did that dinner ever come off?” demanded
the uncle, suddenly; “I looked for your toasts in the journals,
but do not remember ever to have seen them.”

“You could not have seen any of mine, sir; for I went to
Biberry that very morning, and only left there last evening” —
Anna's countenance resembled a lily, just as it begins to droop —
“I believe, however, the whole affair fell through, as no one seems
to know, just now, who are and who are not the friends of liberty.
It is the people to-day; the pope next day; some prince to-morrow;
and, by the end of the week, we may have a Massaniello
or a Robespierre uppermost. The times seem sadly out of joint,
just now, and the world is fast getting to be upside-down.”

“It's all owing to this infernal Code, Timms, which is enough
to revolutionize human nature itself!” cried Dunscomb, with an
animation that produced a laugh in the young folk, (Anne excepted,)

and a simper in the person addressed. “Ever since this
thing has come into operation among us, I never know when a
case is to be heard, the decision had, or the principles that are
to come uppermost. Well, we must try and get some good out
of it, if we can, in this capital case.”

“Which is drawing very near, 'Squire; and I have some facts
to communicate in that affair which it may be well to compare
with the law, without much more delay.”

“Let us finish this bottle — if the boys help us, it will not be
much more than a glass apiece.”

“I don't think the 'Squire will ever be 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.' ”