University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

Coleridge.

Dunscomb was as good as his word. Next morning he was on
his way to Biberry. He was thoughtful; had laid a bundle of
papers on the front seat of the carriage, and went his way musing
and silent. Singularly enough, his only companion was Anna
Updyke, who had asked a seat in the carriage timidly, but with
an earnestness that prevailed. Had Jack Wilmeter been at
Biberry, this request would not have been made; but she knew
he was in town, and that she might make the little excursion
without the imputation of indelicacy, so far as he was concerned.
Her object will appear in the course of the narrative.

The “best tavern” in Biberry was kept by Daniel Horton.
The wife of this good man had a native propensity to talk that
had been essentially cultivated in the course of five-and-twenty
years' practice in the inn where she had commenced her career
as maid; and was now finishing it as mistress. As is common
with persons of her class, she knew hundreds of those who frequented
her house; calling each readily by name, and treating
every one with a certain degree of professional familiarity that is
far from uncommon in country inns.

“Mr. Dunscomb, I declare!” cried this woman, as she entered
the room, and found the counsellor and his companion in possession
of her best parlour. “This is a pleasure I did not expect

until the circuit. It's quite twenty years, 'Squire, since I had
the pleasure of first waiting on you in this house. And a pleasure
it has always been; for I've not forgotten the ejectment
suit that you carried for Horton when we was only new-beginners.
I am glad to see you, sir; welcome to Biberry, as is this young
lady, who is your daughter, I presume, Mr. Dunscomb?”

“You forget that I am a bachelor, Mrs. Horton — no marrying
man, in any sense of the word.”

“I might have known that, had I reflected a moment; for
they say Mary Monson employs none but bachelors and widowers
in her case; and you are her counsel, I know.”

“This is a peculiarity of which I was not aware. Timms is a
bachelor, certainly, as well as myself; but to whom else can you
allude? Jack Wilmeter, my nephew, can hardly be said to be
employed at all; nor, for that matter, Michael Millington; though
neither is married.”

“Yes, sir; we know both of the last well, they having lodged
with us. If young Mr. Wilmeter is single, I fancy it is not his
own fault” — here Mrs. Horton looked very wise, but continued
talking — “Young gentlemen of a good appearance and handsome
fortunes commonly have not much difficulty in getting
wives — not as much as young ladies; for you men make the
law, and you give your own sex the best chance, almost as a
matter of course—”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Horton,” interrupted Dunscomb, a little
formally, like one who felt great interest in the subject — “you
were remarking that we have the best chance of getting married;
and here have I been a bachelor all my life, trying in vain to
enter into the happy state of matrimony — if, indeed, it deserve
to be so termed.”

“It could not be very difficult for you to find a companion,”
said the landlady, shaking her head; “and for the reason I have
just given.”

“Which was—?”

“That you men have made the laws and profit by them. You
can ask whom you please; but a woman is obliged to wait to be
asked.”

“You never were in a greater mistake in your life, I do assure
you, my good Mrs. Horton. There is no such law on the subject.
Any woman may put the question, as well as any man. This
was the law, and I don't think the Code has changed it.”

“Yes, I know that well enough, and get laughed at, and
pointed at, for her pains. I know that a good deal is said about
leap-year; but who ever heard of a woman's putting the question?
I fancy that even Mary Monson would think twice before
she took so bold a step once.”

“Mary Monson!” exclaimed Dunscomb, suddenly turning towards
his hostess — “Has she a reputation for being attentive to
gentlemen?”

“Not that I know of; but—”

“Then allow me to say, my good Mrs. Horton,” interrupted
the celebrated counsellor, with a manner that was almost austere,
“that you have been greatly to blame in hazarding the sort of
remark you did. If you know nothing of the character you certainly
insinuated, you should have said nothing. It is very
extraordinary that women, alive as they must be to the consequences
to one of their own sex, are ever more ready than men
to throw out careless, and frequently malicious hints, that take
away a reputation, and do a melancholy amount of harm in the
world. Slander is the least respectable, the most unchristian-like,
and the most unlady-like vice, of all the secondary sins of
your sex. One would think the danger you are all exposed to in
common, would teach you greater caution.”

“Yes, sir, that is true; but this Mary Monson is in such a
pickle already, that it is not easy to make her case much worse,”
answered Mrs. Horton, a good deal frightened at the austerity of

Dunscomb's rebuke; for his reputation was too high to render
his good or bad opinion a matter of indifference to her. “If
you only knew the half that is said of her in Duke's, you
wouldn't mind a careless word or so about her. Everybody
thinks her guilty; and a crime, more or less, can be of no great
matter to the likes of her.”

“Ah, Mrs. Horton, these careless words do a vast deal of
harm. They insinuate away a reputation in a breath; and my
experience has taught me that they who are the most apt to use
them, are persons whose own conduct will least bear the light.
Women with a whole log-heap of beams in their own eyes, are
remarkable for discovering motes. Give me the female who
floats along quietly in her sphere, unoffending and charitable,
wishing for the best, and as difficult to be brought to think as to
do evil. But, they talk a good deal against my client, do they?”

“More than I have ever known folks talk against any indicted
person, man or woman. The prize-fighters, who were in for
murder, had a pretty hard time of it; but nothing to Mary Monson's.
In short, until 'Squire Timms came out in her favour,
she had no chance at all.”

“This is not very encouraging, certainly — but what is said,
Mrs. Horton, if you will suffer me to put the question?”

“Why, 'Squire Dunscomb,” answered the woman, pursing up
a very pretty American mouth of her own, “a body is never sure
that you won't call what she says slander_____”

“Poh—poh—you know me better than that. I never meddle
with that vile class of suits. I am employed to defend Mary
Monson, you know_____”

“Yes, and are well paid for it too, 'Squire Dunscomb, if all
that a body hears is true,” interrupted Mrs. Horton, a little
spitefully. “Five thousand dollars, they say, to a cent!”

Dunscomb, who was working literally without other reward
than the consciousness of doing his duty, smiled, while he frowned

at this fresh instance of the absurdities into which rumour can
lead its votaries. Bowing a little apology, he coolly lighted a
segar, and proceeded.

“Where is it supposed that Mary Monson can find such large
sums to bestow, Mrs. Horton?” he quietly asked, when his segar
was properly lighted. “It is not usual for young and friendless
women to have pockets so well lined.”

“Nor is it usual for young women to rob and murder old ones,
'Squire.”

“Was Mrs. Goodwin's stocking thought to be large enough to
hold sums like that you have mentioned?”

“Nobody knows. Gold takes but little room, as witness
Californy. There was General Wilton — every one thought him
rich as Cæsar_____”

“Do you not mean Crœsus, Mrs. Horton?”

“Well, Cæsar or Crœsus; both were rich, I do suppose, and
General Wilton was thought the equal of either; but, when he
died, his estate wouldn't pay his debts. On the other hand, old
Davy Davidson was set down by nobody at more than twenty
thousand, and he left ten times that much money. So I say nobody
knows. Mrs. Goodwin was always a saving woman, though
Peter would make the dollars fly, if he could get at them. There
was certainly a weak spot in Peter, though known to but a very
few.”

Dunscomb now listened attentively. Every fact of this nature
was of importance just then; and nothing could be said of the
murdered couple that would not induce all engaged in the cause
to prick up their ears.

“I have always understood that Peter Goodwin was a very
respectable sort of a man,” observed Dunscomb, with a profound
knowledge of human nature, which was far more likely to induce
the woman to be communicative, in the way of opposition, than
by any other process — “as respectable a man as any about here.”

“So he might be, but he had his weak points as well as other
respectable men; though, as I have said already, his'n wasn't
generally known. Everybody is respectable, I suppose, until
they're found out. But Peter is dead and gone, and I have no
wish to disturb his grave, which I believe to be a sinful act.”

This sounded still more ominously, and it greatly increased
Dunscomb's desire to learn more. Still he saw that great caution
must be used, Mrs. Horton choosing to affect much tenderness
for her deceased neighbour's character. The counsellor knew
human nature well enough to be aware that indifference was
sometimes as good a stimulant as opposition; and he now thought
it expedient to try the virtue of that quality. Without making
any immediate answer, therefore, he desired the attentive and
anxious Anna Updyke to perform some little office for him; thus
managing to get her out of the room, while the hostess stayed
behind. Then his segar did not quite suit him, and he tried another,
making divers little delays that set the landlady on the
tenter-hooks of impatience.

“Yes, Peter is gone — dead and buried — and I hope the sod
lies lightly on his remains!” she said, sighing ostentatiously.

“Therein you are mistaken, Mrs. Horton,” the counsellor
coolly remarked—“the remains of neither of those found in the
ruins of the house are under ground yet; but are kept for the
trial.”

“What a time we shall have of it! — so exciting and full of
mystery!”

“And you might add `custom,' Mrs. Horton. The reporters
alone, who will certainly come from town like an inroad of Cossacks,
will fill your house.”

“Yes, and themselves too. To be honest with you, 'Squire
Dunscomb, too many of those gentry wish to be kept for nothing
to make them pleasant boarders. I dare say, however, we shall
be full enough next week. I sometimes wish there was no

such thing as justice, after a hard-working Oyer and Terminer
court.”

“You should be under no concern, my good Mrs. Horton, on
that subject. There is really so little of the thing you have mentioned,
that no reasonable woman need make herself unhappy
about it. So Peter Goodwin was a faultless man, was he?”

“As far from it as possible, if the truth was said of him; and
seeing the man is not absolutely under ground, I do not know
why it may not be told. I can respect the grave, as well as another;
but, as he is not buried, one may tell the truth. Peter
Goodwin was, by no means, the man he seemed to be.”

“In what particular did he fail, my good Mrs. Horton?”

To be good in Dunscomb's eyes, the landlady well knew, was
a great honour; and she was flattered as much by the manner in
which the words were uttered, as by their import. Woman-like,
Mrs. Horton was overcome by this little bit of homage; and she
felt disposed to give up a secret which, to do her justice, had
been religiously kept now for some ten or twelve years between
herself and her husband. As she and the counsel were alone,
dropping her voice a little, more for the sake of appearances than
for any sufficient reason, the landlady proceeded.

“Why, you must know, 'Squire Dunscomb, that Peter Goodwin
was a member of meetin', and a professing Christian, which
I suppose was all the better for him, seeing that he was to be
murdered.”

“And do you consider his being a `professing Christian,' as
you call it, a circumstance to be concealed?”

“Not at all, sir—but I consider it a good reason why the facts
I am about to tell you, ought not to be generally known. Scoffers
abound; and I take it that the feelings of a believer ought to be
treated more tenderly than those of an unbeliever, for the church's
sake.”

“That is a fashion of the times too — one of the ways of the

hour, whether it is to last or not. But, proceed if you please,
my good Mrs. Horton; I am quite curious to know by what
particular sin Satan managed to overcome this `professing Christian?'
”

“He drank, 'Squire Dunscomb — no, he guzzled, for that is
the best word. You must know that Dolly was avarice itself —
that's the reason she took this Mary Monson in to board, though
her house was no ways suited for boarders, standing out of the
way, with only one small spare bed-room, and that under the
roof. Had she let this stranger woman come to one of the regular
houses, as she might have done, and been far better accommodated
than it was possible for her to be in a garret, it is not
likely she would have been murdered. She lost her life, as I tell
Horton, for meddling with other people's business.”

“If such were the regular and inevitable punishment of that
particular offence, my good landlady, there would be a great
dearth of ladies,” said Tom Dunscomb, a little drily—“but, you
were remarking that Peter Goodwin, the member of meeting, and
Mary Monson's supposed victim, had a weakness in favour of
strong liquor?”

“Juleps were his choice—I've heard of a part of the country,
somewhere about Virginny, I believe it is, where tee-totallers
make an exception in favour of juleps—it may do there, 'Squire
Dunscomb, but it won't do here. No liquor undoes a body, in
this part of the country, sooner than mint juleps. I will find
you ten constitutions that can hold out ag'in brandy, or plain
grog, or even grog, beer and cider, all three together, where you
can find me one that will hold out ag'in juleps. I always set
down a reg'lar julep fancier as a case — that is, in this part of
the country.”

“Very true, my good landlady, and very sensible and just. I
consider you a sensible and just woman, whose mind has been
enlarged by an extensive acquaintance with human nature—”

“A body does pick up a good deal in and around a bar, 'Squire
Dunscomb!”

“Pick up, indeed — I've known 'em picked up by the dozen
myself. And Peter would take the juleps?”

“Awfully fond of them! He no more dared to take one at
home, however, than he dared to go and ask Minister Watch to
make him one. No, he know'd better where the right sort of
article was to be had, and always came down to our house when
he was dry. Horton mixes stiff, or we should have been a good
deal better off in the world than we are — not that we're mis'rable,
as it is. But Horton takes it strong himself, and he mixes
strong for others. Peter soon found this out, and he fancied his
juleps more, as he has often told me himself, than the juleps of
the great Bowery-man, who has a name for 'em, far and near.
Horton can mix a julep, if he can do nothing else.”

“And Peter Goodwin was in the habit of frequenting your
house privately, to indulge this propensity.”

“I'm almost ashamed to own that he did — perhaps it was
sinful in us to let him; but a body must carry out the idee
of trade — our trade is tavern-keeping, and it's our business to
mix liquors, though Minister Watch says, almost every Sabbath,
that professors should do nothing out of sight that they wouldn't
do before the whole congregation. I don't hold to that, however;
for it would soon break up tavern-keeping altogether. Yes, Peter
did drink awfully, in a corner.”

“To intoxication, do you mean, Mrs. Horton?”

“To delirrum tremus, sir—yes, full up to that. His way was
to come down to the village on the pretence of business, and to
come right to our house, where I've known him to take three
juleps in the first half-hour. Sometimes he'd pretend to go to
town to see his sister, when he would stay two or three days upstairs
in a room that Horton keeps for what he calls his cases—he
has given the room the name of his ward—hospital-ward he means.”

“Is the worthy Mr. Horton a member of the meeting also,
my good landlady?”

Mrs. Horton had the grace to colour; but she answered without
stammering, habit fortifying us in moral discrepancies much
more serious than even this.

“He was, and I don't know but I may say he is yet; though
he hasn't attended, now, for more than two years. The question
got to be between meetin' and the bar; and the bar carried the
day, so far as Horton is concerned. I've held out better, I hope,
and expect to gain a victory. It's quite enough to have one
backslider in a family, I tell my husband, 'Squire.”

“A sufficient supply, ma'am — quite a sufficiency. So Peter
Goodwin lay in your house drunk, days at a time?”

“I'm sorry to say he did. He was here a week once, with
delirrum tremus on him; but Horton carried him through by
the use of juleps; for that's the time to take 'em, everybody
says; and we got him home without old Dolly's knowing that he
hadn't been with his sister the whole time. That turn satisfied
Peter for three good months.”

“Did Peter pay as he went, or did you keep a score?”

“Ready money, sir. Catch us keeping an account with a man
when his wife ruled the roast! No, Peter paid like a king, for
every mouthful he swallowed.”

“I am far from certain that the comparison is a good one,
kings being in no degree remarkable for paying their debts. But,
is it not possible that Peter may have set his own house on fire,
and thus have caused all this calamity, for which my client is
held responsible?”

“I've thought that over a good deal since the murder, 'Squire,
but don't well see how it can be made out. Setting the building
on fire is simple enough; but who killed the old couple, and who
robbed the house, unless this Mary Monson did both?”

“The case has its difficulties, no doubt; but I have known the

day to dawn after a darker night than this. I believe that Mrs.
Goodwin and her husband were very nearly of the same height?”

“Exactly; I've seen them measure, back to back. He was a
very short man, and she a very tall woman!”

“Do you know anything of a German female who is said to
have lived with the unfortunate couple?”

“There has been some talk of such a person since the fire;
but Dolly Goodwin kept no help. She was too stingy for that;
then she had no need of it, being very strong and stirring for her
time of life.”

“Might not a boarder, like Miss Monson, have induced her to
take this foreigner into her family for a few weeks? The nearest
neighbours, those who would be most likely to know all about it,
say that no wages were given; the woman working for her food
and lodging.”

“'Squire Dunscomb, you'll never make it out that any German
killed Peter and his wife.”

“Perhaps not; though even that is possible. Such, however,
is not the object of my present enquiries — but, here comes my
associate counsel, and I will take another occasion to continue
this conversation, my good Mrs. Horton.”

Timms entered with a hurried air. For the first time in his
life he appeared to his associate and old master to be agitated.
Cold, calculating, and cunning, this man seldom permitted himself
to be so much thrown off his guard as to betray emotion;
but now he actually did. There was a tremor in his form that
extended to his voice; and he seemed afraid to trust the latter
even in the customary salutations. Nodding his head, he drew a
chair and took his seat.

“You have been to the gaol?” asked Dunscomb.

A nod was the answer.

“You were admitted, and had an interview with our client?”

Nod the third was the only reply.

“Did you put the questions to her, as I desired?”

“I did, sir; but I would sooner cross-examine all Duke's, than
undertake to get anything she does not wish to tell, out of that
one young lady!”

“I fancy most young ladies have a faculty for keeping such
matters to themselves as they do not wish to reveal. Am I to
understand that you got no answers?”

“I really do not know, 'Squire. She was polite, and obliging,
and smiling — but, somehow or other, I do not recollect her replies.”

“You must be falling in love, Timms, to return with such an
account,” retorted Dunscomb, a cold but very sarcastic smile
passing over his face. “Have a care, sir; 'tis a passion that
makes a fool of a man sooner than any other. I do not think
there is much danger of the lady's returning your flame; unless,
indeed, you can manage to make her acquittal a condition of the
match.”

“I am afraid — dreadfully afraid, her acquittal will be a very
desperate affair,” answered Timms, passing his hands down his
face, as if to wipe away his weakness. “The deeper I get into
the matter, the worse it appears!”

“Have you given our client any intimation to this effect?”

“I hadn't the heart to do it. She is just as composed, and
calm, and tranquil, and judicious — yes, and ingenious, as if she
were only the counsel in this affair of life and death! I couldn't
distrust so much tranquillity. I wish I knew her history!”

“My interrogatories pointed out the absolute necessity of her
furnishing us with the means of enlightening the court and jury
on that most material point, should the worst come to the worst.”

“I know they did, sir; but they no more got at the truth than
my own pressing questions. I should like to see that lady on the
stand, above all things! I think she would bother saucy Williams,
and fairly put him out of countenance. By the way, sir, I hear

he is employed against us by the nephew, who is quite furious
about the loss of the money, which he pretends was a much
larger sum than the neighbourhood has commonly supposed.”

“I have always thought the relations would employ some one
to assist the public prosecutor in a case of this magnitude. The
theory of our government is that the public virtue will see the
laws executed; but, in my experience, Timms, this public virtue
is a very acquiescent and indifferent quality, seldom troubling
itself even to abate a nuisance, until its own nose is offended, or
its own pocket damaged.”

“Roguery is always more active than honesty — I found that
out long since, 'Squire. But, it is nat'ral for a public prosecutor
not to press one on trial for life, and the accused a woman, closer
than circumstances seem to demand. It is true, that popular
feeling is strong ag'in Mary Monson; but it was well in the nephew
to fee such a bull-dog as Williams, if he wishes to make a
clean sweep of it.”

“Does our client know this?”

“Certainly; she seems to know all about her case, and has a
strange pleasure in entering into the mode and manner of her
defence. It would do your heart good, sir, to see the manner in
which she listens, and advises, and consults. She's wonderful
handsome at such times!”

“You are in love, Timms; and I shall have to engage some
other assistant. First Jack, and then you! Umph! This is a
strange world, of a verity.”

“I don't think it's quite as bad with me as that,” said Timms,
this time rubbing his shaggy eye-brows as if to ascertain whether
or not he were dreaming, “though I must own I do not feel precisely
as I did a month since. I wish you would see our client
yourself, sir, and make her understand how important it is
to her interest that we should know something of her past history.”

“Do you think her name is rightfully set forth in the indictment?”

“By no means—but, as she has called herself Mary Monson,
she cannot avail herself of her own acts.”

“Certainly not — I asked merely as a matter of information.
She must be made to feel the necessity of fortifying us on that
particular point, else it will go far towards convicting her. Jurors
do not like aliases.”

“She knows this already; for I have laid the matter before
her, again and again. Nothing seems to move her, however; and
as to apprehension, she appears to be above all fear.”

“This is most extraordinary! — Have you interrogated the
maid?”

“How can I? She speaks no English; and I can't utter a
syllable in any foreign tongue.”

“Ha! Does she pretend to that much ignorance? Marie
Moulin speaks very intelligible English, as I know from having
conversed with her often. She is a clever, prudent Swiss, from
one of the French cantons, and is known for her fidelity and
trustworthiness. With me she will hardly venture to practise
this deception. If she has feigned ignorance of English, it was
in order to keep her secrets.”

Timms admitted the probability of its being so; then he entered
into a longer and more minute detail of the state of the
case. In the first place, he admitted that, in spite of all his own
efforts to the contrary, the popular feeling was setting strong
against their client. “Frank Williams,” as he called the saucy
person who bore that name, had entered into the struggle might
and main, and was making his customary impressions.

“His fees must be liberal,” continued Timms, “and I should
think are in some way dependent on the result; for I never saw
the fellow more engaged in my life.”

“This precious Code does allow such a bargain to be made

between the counsel and his client, or any other bargain that is
not downright conspiracy,” returned Dunscomb; “but I do not
see what is to be shared, even should Mary Monson be hanged.”

“Do not speak in that manner of so agreeable a person,” cried
Timms, actually manifesting emotion—“it is unpleasant to think
of. It is true, a conviction will not bring money to the prosecution,
unless it should bring to light some of Mrs. Goodwin's
hoards.”

Dunscomb shrugged his shoulders, and his associate proceeded
with his narrative. Two of the reporters were offended, and their
allusions to the cause, which were almost daily in their respective
journals, were ill-natured, and calculated to do great harm, though
so far covered as to wear an air of seeming candour. The natural
effect of this “constant dropping,” in a community accustomed
to refer everything to the common mind, had been “to wear away
the stone.” Many of those who, at first, had been disposed to
sustain the accused, unwilling to believe that one so young, so
educated, so modest in deportment, so engaging in manners, and
of the gentler sex, could possibly be guilty of the crimes imputed,
were now changing their opinions, under the control of
this potent and sinister mode of working on the public sentiment.
The agents employed by Timms to counteract this malign influence
had failed of their object; they working merely for money,
while those of the other side were resenting what they regarded
as an affront.

The family of the Burtons, the nearest neighbours of the
Goodwins, no longer received Timms with the frank cordiality that
they had manifested in the earlier period of his intercourse with
them. Then, they had been communicative, eager to tell all that
they knew, and, as the lawyer fancied, even a little more; while
they were now reserved, uneasy, and indisposed to let one-half
of the real facts within their knowledge be known. Timms
thought they had been worked upon, and that they might expect

some hostile and important testimony from that quarter. The
consultation ended by an exclamation from Dunscomb on the
subject of the abuses that were so fast creeping into the administration
of justice, rendering the boasted freemen of America,
though in a different mode, little more likely to receive its benefit
from an unpolluted stream, than they who live under the worn
out and confessedly corrupt systems of the old world. Such is
the tendency of things, and such one of the ways of the hour.