University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

George Barnwell.

Dunscomb was followed to his room by Millington, between
whom and himself, John Wilmeter had occasion to remark, a
sudden intimacy had sprung up. The counsellor had always
liked his student, or he would never have consented to give him
his niece; but it was not usual for him to hold as long, or seemingly
as confidential conversations with the young man, as now
proved to be the case. When the interview was over, Millington
mounted a horse and galloped off, in the direction of town, in
that almost exploded manner of moving. Time was, and that
within the memory of man, when the gentlemen of New York
were in their saddles hours each day; but all this is changing
with the times. We live in an age of buggies, the gig, phaeton,
and curricle having disappeared, and the utilitarian vehicle just
named having taken their places. Were it not for the women, who
still have occasion for closer carriages, the whole nation would
soon be riding about in buggies! Beresford is made, by one of
his annotators, to complain that everything like individuality is
becoming lost in England, and that the progress of great improvements
must be checked, or independent thinkers will shortly be
out of the question. If this be true of England, what might not
be said on the same subject of America? Here, where there is
so much community as to have completely engulphed everything

like individual thought and action, we take it the most imitative
people on earth are to be found. This truth is manifested in a
thousand things. Every town is getting its Broadway, thus defeating
the very object of names; to-day the country is dotted
with Grecian temples, to-morrow with Gothic villages, all the
purposes of domestic architecture being sadly forgotten in each;
and, as one of the Spensers is said to have introduced the article
of dress which bears his name, by betting he could set the fashion
of cutting off the skirts of the coat, so might one who is looked
up to, in this country, almost set the fashion of cutting off the nose.

Dunscomb, however, was a perfectly original thinker. This
he manifested in his private life, as well as in his public profession.
His opinions were formed in his own way, and his acts
were as much those of the individual as circumstances would at
all allow. His motives in despatching Millington so suddenly
to town were known to himself, and will probably be shown to
the reader, as the narrative proceeds.

“Well, sir, how are we getting on?” asked John Wilmeter,
throwing himself into a chair, in his uncle's room, with a heated
and excited air. “I hope things are going to your mind?”

“We have got a jury, Jack, and that is all that can be said
in the matter,” returned the uncle, looking over some papers as
the conversation proceeded. “It is good progress, in a capital
case, to get a jury empannelled in the first forenoon.”

“You'll have the verdict in, by this time to-morrow, sir, I'm
afraid!”

“Why afraid, boy? The sooner the poor woman is acquitted,
the better will it be for her.”

“Ay, if she be acquitted; but I fear everything is looking
dark, in the case.”

“And this from you, who fancied the accused an angel of
light, only a week since!”

“She is certainly a most fascinating creature, when she chooses

to be,” said John, with emphasis; “but she does not always
choose to appear in that character.”

“She is most certainly a fascinating creature, when she chooses
to be!” returned the uncle, with very much the same sort of
emphasis.

But Dunscomb's manner was very different from that of his
nephew. John was excited, petulant, irritable, and in a state to
feel and say disagreeable things; dissatisfied with himself, and
consequently not very well pleased with others. A great change
had come over his feelings, truly, within the last week, and the
image of the gentle Anna Updyke was fast taking the place of
that of Mary Monson. As the latter seldom saw the young
man, and then only at the grate, the former had got to be the
means of communication between the youthful advocate and his
client, throwing them constantly in each other's way. On such
occasions Anna was always so truthful, so gentle, so earnest, so
natural, and so sweetly feminine, that John must have been
made of stone, to remain insensible of her excellent qualities.
If women did but know how much their power, not to say charms,
are increased by gentleness, by tenderness in lieu of coldness of
manner, by keeping within the natural circle of their sex's feelings,
instead of aping an independence and spirit more suited to
men than to their own condition, we should see less of discord in
domestic life, happier wives, better mothers, and more reasonable
mistresses. No one knew this better than Dunscomb, who had
not been an indifferent spectator of his nephew's course, and who
fancied this a favourable moment to say a word to him, on a subject
that he felt to be important.

“This choosing to be is a very material item in the female
character,” continued the counsellor, after a moment of silent
and profound thought. “Whatever else you may do, my boy,
in the way of matrimony, marry a gentle and feminine woman.
Take my word for it, there is no true happiness with any other.”

“Women have their tastes and caprices, and like to indulge
them, sir, as well as ourselves.”

“All that may be true, but avoid what is termed a woman of
independent spirit. They are usually so many devils incarnate.
If they happen to unite moneyed independence with moral independence,
I am not quite certain that their tyranny is not worse
than that of Nero. A tyrannical woman is worse than a tyrannical
man, because she is apt to be capricious. At one moment
she will blow hot, at the next cold; at one time she will give,
at the next clutch back her gifts; to-day she is the devoted and
obedient wife, to-morrow the domineering partner. No, no, Jack,
marry a woman; which means a kind, gentle, affectionate,
thoughtful creature, whose heart is so full of you, there is no
room in it for herself. Marry just such a girl as Anna Updyke,
if you can get her.”

“I thank you, sir,” answered John, colouring. “I dare say
the advice is good, and I shall bear it in mind. What would
you think of a woman like Mary Monson, for a wife?”

Dunscomb turned a vacant look at his nephew, as if his
thoughts were far away, and his chin dropped on his bosom.
This abstraction lasted but a minute, however when the young
man got his answer.

“Mary Monson is a wife, and I fear a bad one,” returned the
counsellor. “If she be the woman I suppose her to be, her history,
brief as it is, is a very lamentable one. John, you are my
sister's son, and my heir. You are nearer to me than any other
human being, in one sense, though I certainly love Sarah quite
as well as I do you, if not a little better. These ties of feeling
are strange links in our nature! At one time I loved your mother
with a tenderness such as a father might feel for a child; in
short, with a brother's love — a brother's love for a young, and
pretty, and good girl, and I thought I could never love another
as I loved Elizabeth. She returned my affection, and there was

a period of many years when it was supposed that we were to
pass down the vale of life in company, as brother and sister —
old bachelor and old maid. Your father deranged all this, and
at thirty-four my sister left me. It was like pulling my heartstrings
out of me, and so much the worse, boy, because they
were already sore.”

John started. His uncle spoke hoarsely, and a shudder, that
was so violent as to be perceptible to his companion, passed
through his frame. The cheeks of the counsellor were usually
colourless; now they appeared absolutely pallid.

“This, then,” thought John Wilmeter, “is the insensible old
bachelor, who was thought to live altogether for himself. How
little does the world really know of what is passing within it!
Well may it be said, `there is a skeleton in every house.”'

Dunscomb soon recovered his self-command. Reaching forth
an arm, he took his nephew's hand, and said affectionately
—

“I am not often thus, Jack, as you must know, A vivid
recollection of days that have long been past came freshly over
me, and I believe I have been a little unmanned. To you, my
early history is a blank; but a very few words will serve to tell
all you need ever know. I was about your time of life, Jack,
when I loved, courted, and became engaged to Mary Millington
— Michael's great-aunt. Is this new to you?”

“Not entirely, sir; Sarah has told me something of the same
sort — you know the girls get hold of family anecdotes sooner
than we men.”

“She then probably told you that I was cruelly, heartlessly
jilted, for a richer man. Mary married, and left one daughter;
who also married early, her own cousin, Frank Millington, the
cousin of Michael's father. You may now see why I have ever
felt so much interest in your future brother-in-law.”

“He is a good fellow, and quite free from all jilting blood,

I'll answer for it. But, what has become of this Mrs. Frank
Millington? I remember no such person.”

“Like her mother, she died young, leaving an only daughter
to inherit her name and very ample fortune. The reason you
never knew Mr. Frank Millington is probably because he went
to Paris early, where he educated his daughter, in a great degree
— there, and in England — and when he died, Mildred Millington,
the heiress of both parents, is said to have had quite twenty
thousand a year. Certain officious friends made a match for her,
I have heard, with a Frenchman of some family, but small means;
and the recent revolution has driven them to this country, where,
as I have been told, she took the reins of domestic government
into her own hands, until some sort of a separation has been the
consequence.”

“Why, this account is surprisingly like the report we have
had concerning Mary Monson, this morning!” cried Jack, springing
to his feet with excitement.

“I believe her to be the same person. Many things unite to
create this opinion. In the first place, there is certainly a marked
family resemblance to her grandmother and mother; then the
education, manners, languages, money, Marie Moulin, and the
initials of the assumed name, each and all have their solution in
this belief. The `Mademoiselle' and the `Madame' of the Swiss
maid are explained; in short, if we can believe this Mary Monson
to be Madame de Larocheforte, we can find an explanation
of everything that is puzzling in her antecedents.”

“But, why should a woman of twenty thousand a year be living
in the cottage of Peter Goodwin?”

“Because she is a woman of twenty thousand a year. Mons.
de Larocheforte found her money was altogether at her own command,
by this new law, and, naturally enough, he desired to play
something more than a puppet's part in his own abode and family.
The lady clings to her dollars, which she loves more than her

husband; a quarrel ensues, and she chooses to retire from his
protection, and conceal herself, for a time, under Peter Goodwin's
roof, to evade pursuit. Capricious and wrong-headed women do
a thousand strange things, and thoughtless gabblers often sustain
them in what they do.”

“This is rendering the marriage tie very slight!”

“It is treating it with contempt; setting at naught the laws
of God and man — one's duties, and the highest obligations of
woman. Still, many of the sex fancy if they abstain from one
great and distinct offence, the whole catalogue of the remaining
misdeeds is at their merey.”

“Not to the extent of murder and arson, surely! Why should
such a woman commit these crimes?”

“One never knows. We are fearfully constituted, John;
morally and physically. The fairest form often conceals the
blackest heart, and vice versa. But I am now satisfied that there
is a vein of insanity in this branch of the Millingtons; and it is
possible Madame de Larocheforte is more to be pitied than to be
censured.”

“You surely do not think her guilty, uncle Tom?”

The counsellor looked intently at his nephew, shaded his brow
a moment, gazed upward, and answered—

“I do. There is such a chain of proof against her as will
scarce admit of explanation. I am afraid, Jack — I am afraid
that she has done these deeds, terrible as they are! Such has
been my opinion, now, for some time; though my mind has
vacillated, as I make no doubt will prove to be the case with
those of most of the jurors. It is a sad alternative; but I see
no safety for her except in the plea of insanity. I am in hopes
that something may be made out in that respect.”

“We are quite without witnesses to the point; are we not,
sir?”

“Certainly; but Michael Millington has gone to town to send

by telegraph for the nearest connections of Madame de Larocheforte,
who are in the neighbourhood of Philadelphia. The
husband himself is somewhere on the Hudson. He must be
hunted up too. Michael will see to all this. I shall get the
judge to adjourn early this evening; and we must spin out the
trial for the next day or two, in order to collect our forces. The
judge is young and indulgent. He has certain ridiculous notions
about saving the time of the public; but does not feel secure
enough in his seat to be very positive.”

At this instant Timms burst into the room, in a high state of
excitement, exclaiming, the moment he was sure that his words
would not reach any hostile ears—

“Our case is desperate! All the Burtons are coming out dead
against us; and neither `the new philanthropy,' nor `Friends,'
nor `anti-gallows,' can save us. I never knew excitement get up
so fast. It's the infernal aristocracy that kills us! — Williams
makes great use of it; and our people will not stand aristocracy.
See what a magnanimous report to the legislature the learned
Attorney-General has just made on the subject of aristocracy.
How admirably he touches up the kings and countesses!”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Dunscomb, with a contemptuous curl
of the lip — “not one in a thousand knows the meaning of the
word; and he among the rest. The report you mention is that
of a refined gentleman, to be sure, and is addressed to his equals.
What exclusive political privilege does Mary Monson possess?
or what does the patroon, unless it be the privilege of having
more stolen from him, by political frauds, than any other man in
the State? This cant about social aristocracy, even in a state of
society in which the servant deserts his master with impunity, in
the midst of a dinner, is very miserable stuff! Aristocracy, forsooth!
If there be aristocracy in America, the blackguard is the
aristocrat. Away, then, with all this trash, and speak common
sense in future.”

“You amaze me, sir! Why, I regard you as a sort of aristocrat,
Mr. Dunscomb.”

“Me! — And what do you see aristocratic about me, pray?”

“Why, sir, you don't look like the rest of us. Your very
walk is different — your language, manners, dress, habits and
opinions, all differ from those of the Duke's county bar. Now,
to my notion, that is being exclusive and peculiar; and whatever
is peculiar is aristocratic, is it not?”

Here Dunscomb and his nephew burst out in a laugh; and,
for a few minutes, Mary Monson was forgotten. Timms was
quite in earnest; for he had fallen into the every-day notions, in
this respect, and it was not easy to get him out of them.

“Perhaps the Duke's county bar contains the aristocrats, and
I am the cerf!” said the counsellor.

“That cannot be—you must be the aristocrat, if any there be
among us. I don't know why it is so, but so it is; yes, you are
the aristocrat, if there be one at our bar.”

Jack smiled, and looked funny; but he had the discretion to
hold his tongue. He had heard that a Duke of Norfolk, the top
of the English aristocracy, was so remarkable for his personal
habits as actually to be offensive; a man who, according to
Timms's notions, would have been a long way down the social
ladder; but who, nevertheless, was a top-peer, if not a top-sawyer.
It was easy to see that Timms confounded a gentleman with
an aristocrat; a confusion in ideas that is very common, and
which is far from being unnatural, when it is remembered how
few formerly acquired any of the graces of deportment who had
not previously attained positive, exclusive, political rights. As
for the Attorney-General and his report, Jack had sufficient
sagacity to see it was a document that said one thing and meant
another; professing deference for a people that it did not stop to
compliment with the possession of either common honesty or
good manners.

“I hope my aristocracy is not likely to affect the interests of
my client.”

“No; there is little danger of that. It is the democracy of
the Burtons which will do that. I learn from Johnson that they
are coming out stronger and stronger; and I feel certain Williams
is sure of their testimony. By the way, sir, I had a hint from
him, as we left the court-house, that the five thousand dollars
might yet take him from the field.”

“This Mr. Williams, as well as yourself, Timms, must be
more cautious, or the law will yet assert its power. It is very
much humbled, I am aware, under the majesty of the people
and a feeble administration of its authority; but its arm is long,
and its gripe potent, when it chooses to exert its force. Take
my advice, and have no more to do with such arrangements.”

The dinner-bell put an end to the discussion Timms vanished
like a ghost; but Dunscomb, whose habits were gentlemanlike,
and who knew that Mrs. Horton had assigned a particular seat
to him, moved more deliberately; following his nephew about
the time Timms was half through the meal.

An American tavern-dinner, during the sitting of the circuit,
is every way worthy of a minute and graphic description; but
our limits will hardly admit of our assuming the task. If
“misery makes a man acquainted with strange bed-fellows,” so
does the law. Judges, advocates, witnesses, sheriffs, clerks, constables,
and not unfrequently the accused, dine in common, with
rail-road speed. The rattling of knives, forks, and spoons, the
clatter of plates, the rushing of waiters, landlord, landlady, chamber-maids,
ostler and bar-keeper included, produce a confusion
that would do honour to the most profound “republican simplicity.”
Everything approaches a state of nature but the eatables;
and they are invariably overdone. On an evil day, some Yankee
invented an article termed a “cooking-stove;” and since its appearance
everything like good cookery has vanished from the

common American table. There is plenty spoiled; abundance
abused. Of made dishes, with the exception of two or three of
very simple characters, there never were any; and these have
been burned to cinders by the baking processes of the “cook-stoves.”

It matters little, however, to the convives of a circuit-court
dinner, what the dishes are called, or of what they are composed.
“Haste” forbids “taste;” and it actually occurred that day, as
it occurs almost invariably on such occasions, that a very clever
country practitioner was asked the materiel of the dish he had
been eating, and he could not tell it! Talk of the mysteries of
French cookery! The “cook-stove” produces more mystery than
all the art of all the culinary artists of Paris; and this, too, on a
principle that tallies admirably with that of the purest “republican
simplicity;” since it causes all things to taste alike.

To a dinner of this stamp Dunscomb now sat down, just ten
minutes after the first clatter of a plate was heard, and just as
the only remove was seen, in the form of slices of pie, pudding
and cake. With his habits, railroad speed or lightning-line eating
could find no favour; and he and Jack got their dinner, as best
they might, amid the confusion and remnants of the close of such
a repast. Nine-tenths of those who had so lately been at work
as trencher-men were now picking their teeth, smoking segars,
or preparing fresh quids for the afternoon. A few clients were
already holding their lawyers by the button; and here and there
one of the latter led the way to his room to “settle” some slander
cause in which the plaintiff had got frightened.

It is a bad sign when eating is carried on without conversation.
To converse, however, at such a table, is morally if not physically
impossible. Morally, because each man's mind is so intent on
getting as much as he wants, that it is almost impossible to bring
his thoughts to bear on any other subject; physically, on account
of the clatter, a movement in which an eclipse of a plate by the

body of a waiter is no unusual thing, and universal activity of
the teeth. Conversation under such circumstances would be
truly a sort of ventriloquism; the portion of the human frame
included in the term being all in all just at that moment.

Notwithstanding these embarrassments and unpleasant accompaniments,
Dunscomb and his nephew got their dinners, and were
about to quit the table as McBrain entered. The doctor would
not expose his bride to the confusion of the common table, where
there was so much that is revolting to all trained in the usages
of good company, singularly blended with a decency of deportment,
and a consideration for the rights of each, that serve to
form bright spots in American character; but he had obtained a
more private room for the females of his party.

“We should do pretty well,” observed McBrain, in explaining
his accommodations, “were it not for a troublesome neighbour
in an adjoining room, who is either insane or intoxicated. Mrs.
Horton has put us in your wing, and I should think you must
occasionally hear from him too?”

“The man is constantly drunk, they tell me, and is a little
troublesome at times. On the whole, however, he does not annoy
me much. I shall take the liberty of dining with you to-morrow,
Ned; this eating against time does not agree with my constitution.”

“To-morrow! — I was thinking that my examination would
be ended this afternoon, and that we might return to town in the
morning. You will remember I have patients to attend to.”

“You will have more reason for patience. If you get through
in a week, you will be lucky.”

“It is a curious case! I find all the local faculty ready to
swear through thick and thin against her. My own opinion is
fixed—but what is the opinion of one man against those of several
in the same profession?”

“We will put that question to Mrs. Horton, who is coming to

ask how we have dined — Thank'ee, my good Mrs. Horton, we
have done remarkably well, considering all the circumstances.”

The landlady was pleased, and smirked, and expressed her
gratification. The sous entendu of Dunscomb was lost upon her;
and human vanity is very apt to accept the flattering, and to overlook
the disagreeable. She was pleased that the great York lawyer
was satisfied.

Mrs. Horton was an American landlady, in the strictest sense
of the word. This implies many features distinct from her European
counterpart; some of which tell greatly in her favour, and
others not so much so. Decency of exterior, and a feminine
deportment, are so characteristic of the sex in this country, that
they need scarcely be adverted to. There were no sly jokes, no
doubles entendres with Mrs. Horton; who maintained too grave
a countenance to admit of such liberties. Then, she was entirely
free from the little expedients of a desire to gain that are naturally
enough adopted in older communities, where the pressure of
numbers drives the poor to their wits'-end, in order to live. American
abundance had generated American liberality in Mrs. Horton;
and if one of her guests asked for bread, she would give
him the loaf. She was, moreover, what the country round termed
“accommodating;” meaning that she was obliging and good-natured.
Her faults were a fierce love of gossip, concealed under
a veil of great indifference and modesty, a prying curiosity, and a
determination to know everything, touching everybody, who ever
came under her roof. This last propensity had got her into
difficulties, several injurious reports having been traced to her
tongue, which was indebted to her imagination for fully one-half
of what she had circulated. It is scarcely necessary to add, that,
among the right set, Mrs. Horton was a great talker. As Dunscomb
was a favourite, he was not likely to escape on the present
occasion; the room being clear of all the guests but those of his
own party.

“I am glad to get a little quiet talk with you, `Squire Dunscomb,”
the landlady commenced; “for a body can depend on
what is heard from such authority. Do they mean to hang Mary
Monson?”

“It is rather premature to ask that question, Mrs. Horton.
The jury is empannelled, and there we stand at present.”

“Is it a good jury? — Some of our Duke's county juries are
none too good, they tell me.”

“The whole institution is a miserable contrivance for the
administration of justice. Could a higher class of citizens compose
the juries, the system might still do, with a few improvements.”

“Why not elect them?” demanded the landlady, who was,
ex officio, a politician, much as women are usually politicians in
this country. In other words, she felt her opinions, without
knowing their reasons.

“God forbid, my good Mrs. Horton—we have elective judges;
that will do for the present. Too much of a good thing is as
injurious as the positively bad. I prefer the present mode of
drawing lots.”

“Have you got a Quaker in the box? — If you have, you are
safe enough.”

“I doubt if the District Attorney would suffer that; although
he appears to be kind and considerate. The man who goes into
that box must be prepared to hang if necessary.”

“For my part, I wish all hanging was done away with. I
can see no good that hanging can do a man.”

“You mistake the object, my dear Mrs. Horton, though your
argument is quite as good as many that are openly advanced on
the same side of the question.”

“Just hear me, 'Squire,” rejoined the woman; for she loved
dearly to get into a discussion on any question that she was accustomed
to hear debated among her guests. “The country

hangs a body to reform a body; and what good can that do when
a body is dead?”

“Very ingeniously put,” returned the counsellor, politely
offering his box to the landlady, who took a few grains; and
then deliberately helping himself to a pinch of snuff — “quite
as ingeniously as much of the argument that appears in public.
The objection lies to the premises, and not to the deduction,
which is absolutely logical and just. A hanged body is certainly
an unreformed body; and, as you say, it is quite useless to hang
in order to reform.”

“There!” exclaimed the woman in triumph—“I told 'Squire
Timms that a gentleman who knows as much as you do must be
on our side. Depend on one thing, lawyer Dunscomb, and you
too, gentlemen — depend on it, that Mary Monson will never be
hanged.”

This was said with a meaning so peculiar, that it struck Dunscomb,
who watched the woman's earnest countenance while she
was speaking, with undeviating interest and intensity.

“It is my duty and my wish, Mrs. Horton, to believe as much,
and to make others believe it also, if I can,” he answered, now
anxious to prolong a discourse that a moment before he had found
tiresome.

“You can, if you will only try. I believe in dreams — and I
dreamt a week ago that Mary Monson would be acquitted. It
would be ag'in all our new notions to hang so nice a lady.”

“Our tastes might take offence at it; and taste is of some influence
yet, I am bound to agree with you.”

“But you do agree with me in the uselessness of hanging,
when the object is to reform?”

“Unfortunately for the force of that argument, my dear
landlady, society does not punish for the purposes of reformation
— that is a very common blunder of superficial philanthropists.”

“Not for the purposes of reformation, 'Squire!—You astonish
me! Why, for what else should it punish?”

“For its own protection. To prevent others from committing
murder. Have you no other reason than your dream, my good
Mrs. Horton, for thinking Mary Monson will be acquitted?”

The woman put on a knowing look, and nodded her head
significantly. At the same time, she glanced towards the counsellor's
companions, as much as to say that their presence prevented
her being more explicit.

“Ned, do me the favour to go to your wife, and tell her I shall
stop in, and say a kind word as I pass her door;—and, Jack, go
and bid Sarah be in Mrs. McBrain's parlour, ready to give me
my morning's kiss.”

The Doctor and John complied, leaving Dunscomb alone with
the woman.

“May I repeat the question, my good landlady? — Why do
you think Mary Monson is to be acquitted?” asked Dunscomb,
in one of his softest tones.

Mrs. Horton mused, seemed anxious to speak, but struggling
with some power that withheld her. One of her hands was in a
pocket where the jingling of keys and pence made its presence
known. Drawing forth this hand mechanically, Dunscomb saw
that it contained several eagles. The woman cast her eyes on
the gold, returned it hastily to her pocket, rubbed her forehead,
and seemed the wary, prudent landlady once more.

“I hope you like your room, 'Squire,” she cried, in a thoroughly,
inn-keeping spirit. “It's the very best in this house;
though I'm obliged to tell Mrs. McBrain the same story as to
her apartment. But you have the best. You have a troublesome
neighbour between you, I'm afraid; but he'll not be there
many days, and I do all I can to keep him quiet.”

“Is that man crazy?” asked the counsellor, rising, perceiving
that he had no more to expect from the woman just then; “or

is he only drunk? I hear him groan, and then I hear him swear;
though I cannot understand what he says.”

“He's sent here by his friends; and your wing is the only
place we have to keep him in. When a body is well paid, 'Squire,
I suppose you know that the fee must not be forgotten? Now,
inn-keepers have fees, as well as you gentlemen of the bar. How
wonderfully Timms is getting along, Mr. Dunscomb!”

“I believe his practice increases; and they tell me he stands
next to Mr. Williams in Duke's.”

“He does, indeed; and a `bright particular star,' as the poet
says, has he got to be!”

“If he be a star at all,” answered the counsellor, curling his
lip, “it must be a very particular one, indeed. I am sorry to
leave you, Mrs. Horton; but the intermission is nearly up.”

Dunscomb gave a little friendly nod, which the landlady
returned; the former went his way with singular coolness of
manner, when it is remembered that on him rested the responsibility
of defending a fellow-creature from the gallows. What
rendered this deliberation more remarkable, was the fact that he
had no faith in the virtue of Mrs. Horton's dream.