University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

— Cumberland.

The wing of “Horton's Inn” that contained the room of Dunscomb,
was of considerable extent, having quite a dozen rooms in
it, though mostly of the diminutive size of an American tavern
bed-room. The best apartment in it, one with two windows, and
of some dimensions, was that appropriated to the counsellor.
The doctor and his party had a parlour, with two bed-rooms;
while, between these and the room occupied by Dunscomb, was
that of the troublesome guest — the individual who was said to
be insane. Most of the remainder of the wing, which was much
the most quiet and retired portion of the house, was used for a
better class of bed-rooms. There were two rooms, however, that
the providence of Horton and his wife had set apart for a very
different purpose. These were small parlours, in which the initiated
smoked, drank, and played.

Nothing sooner indicates the school in which a man has been
educated, than his modes of seeking amusement. One who has
been accustomed to see innocent relaxation innocently indulged,
from childhood up, is rarely tempted to abuse those habits which
have never been associated, in his mind, with notions of guilt,
and which, in themselves, necessarily imply no moral delinquency.
Among the liberal, cards, dancing, music, all games of skill and
chance that can interest the cultivated, and drinking, in moderation

and of suitable liquors, convey no ideas of wrong doing. As
they have been accustomed to them from early life, and have
seen them practised with decorum and a due regard to the habits
of refined society, there is no reason for concealment or consciousness.
On the other hand, an exaggerated morality, which has
the temerity to enlarge the circle of sin beyond the bounds for
which it can find any other warranty than its own metaphysical
inferences, is very apt to create a factitious conscience, that almost
invariably takes refuge in that vilest of all delinquency — direct
hypocrisy. This, we take it, is the reason that the reaction of
ultra godliness so generally leaves its subjects in the mire and
sloughs of deception and degradation. The very same acts assume
different characters, in the hands of these two classes of
persons; and that which is perfectly innocent with the first, affording
a pleasant, and in that respect a useful relaxation, becomes
low, vicious, and dangerous with the other, because tainted
with the corrupting and most dangerous practices of deception.
The private wing of Horton's inn, to which there has been allusion,
furnished an example in point of what we mean, within two
hours of the adjournment of the court.

In the parlour of Mrs. McBrain, late Dunscomb's Widow Updyke,
as he used to call her, a little table was set in the middle
of the room, at which Dunscomb himself, the doctor, his new
wife and Sarah were seated, at a game of whist. The door was
not locked, no countenance manifested either a secret consciousness
of wrong, or an overweening desire to transfer another's
money to its owner's pocket, although a sober sadness might be
said to reign in the party, the consequence of the interest all took
in the progress of the trial.

Within twenty feet of the spot just mentioned, and in the two
little parlours already named, was a very different set collected.
It consisted of the rowdies of the bar, perhaps two-thirds of the
reporters in attendance on Mary Monson's trial, several suitors,

four or five country doctors, who had been summoned as witnesses,
and such other equivocal gentry as might aspire to belong
to a set as polished and exclusive as that we are describing. We
will first give a moment's attention to the party around the whisttable,
in the parlour first described.

“I do not think the prosecution has made out as well, to-day,
all things considered, as it was generally supposed it would,”
observed McBrain. “There is the ace of trumps, Miss Sarah,
and if you can follow it with the king, we shall get the odd
trick.”

“I do not think I shall follow it with anything,” answered
Sarah, throwing down her cards. “It really seems heartless to
be playing whist, with a fellow-creature of our acquaintance on
trial for her life.”

“I have not half liked the game,” said the quiet Mrs. McBrain,
“but Mr. Dunscomb seemed so much bent on a rubber, I scarce
knew how to refuse him.”

“Why, true enough, Tom,” put in the doctor, “this is all
your doings, and if there be anything wrong about it, you will
have to bear the blame.”

“Play anything but a trump, Miss Sarah, and we get the
game. You are quite right, Ned” — throwing down the pack —
“the prosecution has not done as well as I feared they might.
That Mrs. Pope was a witness I dreaded, but her testimony
amounts to very little, in itself; and what she has said, has been
pretty well shaken by her ignorance of the coin.”

“I really begin to hope the unfortunate lady may be innocent,”
said the doctor.

“Innocent!” exclaimed Sarah — “surely, uncle Ned, you can
never have doubted it!”

McBrain and Dunscomb exchanged significant glances, and the
last was about to answer, when raising his eyes, he saw a strange
form glide stealthily into the room, and place itself in a dark corner.

It was a short, sturdy figure of a man, with all those signs
of squalid misery in his countenance and dress that usually denote
mental imbecility. He seemed anxious to conceal himself,
and did succeed in getting more than half of his person beneath
a shawl of Sarah's, ere he was seen by any of the party but the
counsellor. It at once occurred to the latter that this was the
being who had more than once disturbed him by his noise, and
who Mrs. Horton had pretty plainly intimated was out of his
mind; though she had maintained a singularly discreet silence
for her, touching his history and future prospects. She believed
“he had been brought to court by his friends, to get some order,
or judgment—may be, his visit had something to do with the new
code, about which 'Squire Dunscomb said so many hard things.”

A little scream from Sarah soon apprised all in the room of
the presence of this disgusting-looking object. She snatched
away her shawl, leaving the idiot, or madman, or whatever he
might be, fully exposed to view, and retreated, herself, behind
her uncle's chair.

“I fancy you have mistaken your room, my friend,” said
Dunscomb, mildly. “This, as you see, is engaged by a card-party
— I take it, you do not play.”

A look of cunning left very little doubt of the nature of the
malady with which this unfortunate being was afflicted. He
made a clutch at the cards, laughed, then drew back, and began
to mutter.

“She won't let me play,” mumbled the idiot — “she never
would.”

Whom do you mean by she?” asked Dunscomb. “Is it any
one in this house — Mrs. Horton, for instance?”

Another cunning look, with a shake of the head, for an answer
in the negative.

“Be you 'Squire Dunscomb, the great York lawyer?” asked
the stranger, with interest.

“Dunscomb is certainly my name — though I have not the
pleasure of knowing yours.”

“I haven't got any name. They may ask me from morning
to night, and I won't tell. She won't let me.”

“By she, you again mean Mrs. Horton, I suppose?”

“No I don't. Mrs. Horton's a good woman; she gives me
victuals and drink.”

“Tell us whom you do mean, then.”

“Won't you tell?”

“Not unless it be improper to keep the secret. Who is this
she?”

“Why, she.”

“Ay, but who?”

“Mary Monson. If you're the great lawyer from York, and
they say you be, you must know all about Mary Monson.”

“This is very extraordinary!” said Dunscomb, regarding his
companion, in surprise. “I do know something about Mary
Monson, but not all about her. Can you tell me anything?”

Here the stranger advanced a little from his corner, listened,
as if fearful of being surprised, then laid a finger on his lip, and
made the familiar sound for `hush.'

“Don't let her hear you; if you do, you may be sorry for it.
She's a witch!”

“Poor fellow! — she seems, in truth, to have bewitched you,
as I dare say she may have done many another man.”

“That has she! I wish you'd tell me what I want to know,
if you really be the great lawyer from York.”

“Put your questions, my friend; I'll endeavour to answer
them.”

“Who set fire to the house? Can you tell me that?”

“That is a secret yet to be discovered — do you happen to
know anything about it?”

“Do I? — I think I do. Ask Mary Monson; she can tell
you.”

All this was so strange, that the whole party now gazed at
each other in mute astonishment; McBrain bending his looks
more intently on the stranger, in order to ascertain the true nature
of the mental malady with which he was obviously afflicted.
In some respects the disease wore the appearance of idiocy;
then again there were gleams of the countenance that savoured
of absolute madness.

“You are of opinion, then, that Mary Monson knows who set
fire to the house.”

“Sartain, she does. I know, too, but I won't tell. They
might want to hang me, as well as Mary Monson, if I told. I
know too much to do anything so foolish. Mary has said they
would hang me, if I tell. I don't want to be hanged, a bit.”

A shudder from Sarah betrayed the effect of these words on
the listeners; and Mrs. McBrain actually rose with the intention
of sending for her daughter, who was then in the gaol, consoling
the much-injured prisoner, as Anna Updyke firmly believed her
to be, by her gentle but firm friendship. A word from the doctor,
however, induced her to resume her seat, and to await the
result with a greater degree of patience.

“Mary Monson would seem to be a very prudent counsellor,”
rejoined Dunscomb.

“Yes; but she isn't the great counsellor from York — you be
that gentleman, they tell me.”

“May I ask who told you anything about me?”

“Nancy Horton — and so did Mary Monson. Nancy said if
I made so much noise, I should disturb the great counsellor from
York, and he might get me hanged for it. I was only singing
hymns, and they say it is good for folks in trouble to sing hymns.
If you be the great counsellor from York, I wish you would tell
me one thing. Who got the gold that was in the stocking?”

“Do you happen to know anything of that stocking, or of the
gold?”

“Do I —” looking first over one shoulder, then over the other,
but hesitating to proceed. “Will they hang me, if I tell?”

“I should think not; though I can only give you an opinion.
Do not answer, unless it be agreeable to you.”

“I want to tell — I want to tell all, but I'm afeard. I don't
want to be hanged.”

“Well, then, speak out boldly, and I will promise that you
shall not be hanged. Who got the gold that was in the
stocking?”

“Mary Monson. That's the way she has got so much
money.”

“I cannot consent to leave Anna another instant in such company!”
exclaimed the anxious mother. “Go, McBrain, and
bring her hither at once.”

“You are a little premature,” coolly remarked Dunscomb.
“This is but a person of weak mind; and too much importance
should not be attached to his words. Let us hear what further
he may have to say.”

It was too late. The footstep of Mrs. Horton was heard in
the passage; and the extraordinary being vanished as suddenly
and as stealthily as he had entered.

“What can be made of this?” McBrain demanded, when a
moment had been taken to reflect.

“Nothing, Ned; I care not if Williams knew it all. The
testimony of such a man cannot be listened to for an instant. It
is wrong in us to give it a second thought; though I perceive
that you do. Half the mischief in the world is caused by misconceptions,
arising from a very numerous family of causes; one
of which is a disposition to fancy a great deal from a little. Do
you pronounce the man an idiot — or is he a madman?”

“He does not strike me as absolutely either. There is something

peculiar in his case; and I shall ask permission to look
into it. I suppose we are done with the cards — shall I go for
Anna?”

The anxious mother gave a ready assent; and McBrain went
one way, while Dunscomb retired to his own room, not without
stopping before his neighbour's door, whom he heard muttering
and menacing within.

All this time the two little parlours mentioned were receiving
their company. The law is doubtless a very elevated profession,
when its practice is on a scale commensurate with its true objects.
It becomes a very different pursuit, however, when its higher
walks are abandoned, to choose a path amid its thickets and quagmires.
Perhaps no human pursuit causes a wider range of character
among its votaries, than the practice of this profession.
In the first place, the difference, in an intellectual point of view,
between the man who sees only precedents, and the man who
sees the principles on which they are founded, is as marked as
the difference between black and white. To this great distinction
in mind, is to be added another that opens a still wider chasm,
the results of practice, and which depends on morals. While
one set of lawyers turn to the higher objects of their calling,
declining fees in cases of obviously questionable right, and
struggle to maintain their honesty in direct collision with the
world and its temptations, another, and much the largest, falls
readily into the practices of their craft — the word seems admirably
suited to the subject—and live on, encumbered and endangered
not only by their own natural vices, but greatly damaged
by those that in a manner they adopt, as it might be ex officio.
This latter course is unfortunately that taken by a vast number
of the members of the bar all over the world, rendering them
loose in their social morality, ready to lend themselves and their
talents to the highest bidder, and causing them to be at first
indifferent, and in the end blind, to the great features of right

and wrong. These are the moralists who advance the doctrine
that “the advocate has a right to act as his client would act;”
while the class first named allow that “the advocate has a right
to do what his client has a right to do,” and no more.

Perhaps there was not a single member of the profession present
that night in the two little parlours of Mrs. Horton, who
recognized the latter of these rules; or who did not, at need,
practise on the former. As has been already said, these were
the rowdies of the Duke's county bar. They chewed, smoked,
drank, and played, each and all coarsely. To things that were
innocent in themselves they gave the aspect of guilt by their
own manners. The doors were kept locked; even amid their
coarsest jokes, their ribaldry, their oaths that were often revolting
and painfully frequent, there was an uneasy watchfulness, as
if they feared detection. There was nothing frank and manly
in the deportment of these men. Chicanery, management, double-dealing,
mixed up with the outbreakings of a coarse standard of
manners, were visible in all they said or did, except, perhaps, at
those moments when hypocrisy was paying its homage to virtue.
This hypocrisy, however, had little, or at most a very indirect
connection with anything religious. The offensive offshoots of
the exaggerations that were so abounding among us half a century
since, are giving place to hypocrisy of another school. The
homage that was then paid to principles, however erroneous and
forbidding, is now paid to the ballot-boxes. There was scarcely
an individual around those card-tables, at which the play was so
obviously for the stakes as to render the whole seene revolting,
who would not have shrunk from having his amusements known.
It would seem as if conscience consulted taste. Everything was
coarse and offensive; the attitudes, oaths, conversation, liquors,
and even the manner of drinking them. Apart from the dialogue,
little was absolutely done that might not have been made to lose
most of its repulsiveness, by adopting a higher school of manners;

but of this these scions of a noble stock knew no more than they
did of the parent stem.

It is scarcely necessary to say that both Williams and Timms
were of this party. The relaxation was, in fact, in conformity
with their tastes and practices; and each of these excrescences
of a rich and beneficent soil counted on the meetings in Mrs.
Horton's private rooms, as the more refined seek pleasure in the
exercise of their tastes and habits.

“I say, Timms,” bawled out an attorney of the name of
Crooks — “You play'd a trump, sir — all right — go ahead —
first rate — good play, that — ours dead. I say, Timms, you're
going to save Mary Monson's neck. When I came here, I
thought she was a case; but the prosecution is making out
miserably.”

“What do you say to that, Williams?” put in Crooks's partner,
who was smoking, playing, and drinking, with occasional
`asides' of swearing, all, as might be, at the same time. “I
trump that, sir, by your leave — what do you say to that, Williams?”

“I say that this is not the court; and trying such a cause
once ought to satisfy a reasonable man.”

“He's afraid of showing his hand, which I am not,” put in
another, exposing his cards as he spoke. “Williams always has
some spare trumps, however, to get him out of all his difficulties.”

“Yes, Williams has a spare trump, and there it is, giving me
the trick,” answered the saucy lawyer, as coolly as if he had
been engaged in an inferior slander-suit. “I shall be at Timms
pretty much by the same process to-morrow.”

“Then you will do more than you have done to-day, Master
Williams. This Mrs. Jane Pope may be a trump, but she is not
the ace. I never knew a witness break down more completely.”

“We'll find the means to set her up again — I think that

knave is yours, Green — yes, I now see my game, which is to
take it with the queen — very much, Timms, as we shall beat
you to-morrow. I keep my trump card always for the last play,
you know.”

“Come, come, Williams,” put in the oldest member of the
bar, a man whose passions were cooled by time, and who had
more gravity than most of his companions — “Come, come, Williams,
this is a trial for a life, and joking is a little out of place.”

“I believe there is no juror present, Mr. Marvin, which is all
the reserve the law exacts.”

“Although the law may tolerate this levity, feeling will not.
The prisoner is a fine young woman; and for my part, though I
wish to say nothing that may influence any one's opinion, I have
heard nothing yet to justify an indictment, much less a conviction.”

Williams laid down his cards, rose, stretched his arms, gaped,
and taking Timms by the arm, he led the latter from the room.
Not content with this, the wary limb of the law continued to
move forward, until he and his companion were in the open air.

“It is always better to talk secrets outside than inside of a
house,” observed Williams, as soon as they were at a safe distance
from the inn-door. “It is not too late yet, Timms — you
must see how weak we are, and how bunglingly the District Attorney
has led off. Half those jurors will sleep to-night with a
feeling that Mary Monson has been hardly dealt by.”

“They may do the same to-morrow night, and every night in
the month,” answered Timms.

“Not unless the arrangement is made. We have testimony
enough to hang the governor.”

“Show us your list of witnesses, then, that we may judge of
this for ourselves.”

“That would never do. They might be bought off for half
the money that is necessary to take us out of the field. Five

thousand dollars can be no great matter for such a woman and
her friends.”

“Whom do you suppose to be her friends, Williams?—If you
know them, you are better informed than her own counsel.”

“Yes, and a pretty point that will make, when pressed against
you. No, no, Timms; your client has been ill-advised, or she is
unaccountably obstinate. She has friends, although you may not
know who they are; and friends who can, and who would very
promptly help her, if she would consent to ask their assistance.
Indeed, I suspect she has cash enough on hand to buy us off.”

“Five thousand dollars is a large sum, Williams, and is not
often to be found in Biberry gaol. But, if Mary Monson has
these friends, name them, that we may apply for their assistance.”

“Harkee, Timms; you are not a man so ignorant of what is
going on in the world, as to require to be told the letters of the
alphabet. You know that there are extensive associations of
rogues in this young country, as well as in most that are older.”

“What has that to do with Mary Monson and our case?”

“Everything. This Mary Monson has been sent here to get
at the gold of the poor old dolt, who has not been able to conceal
her treasure after it was hoarded. She made a sub-treasury of
her stocking, and exhibited the coin, like any other sub-treasurer.
Many persons like to look at it, just to feast their eyes.”

“More to finger it; and you are of the number, Williams!”

“I admit it. The weakness is general in the profession, I
believe. But this is idle talk, and we are losing very precious
time. Will you, or will you not, apply again to your client for
the money?”

“Answer me candidly, a question or two, and I will do as you
desire. You know, Williams, that we are old friends, and never
had any serious difficulty since we have been called to the bar.”

“Oh, assuredly,” answered Williams, with an ironical smile

that it might have been fortunate for the negotiation the obscurity
concealed from his companion; “excellent friends from the beginning,
Timms, and likely to continue so, I trust, to the last.
Men who know each other as well as you and I, ought to be on
the best of terms. For my part, I never harboured a wrangle
at the bar in my mind five minutes after I left the court. Now
for your question.”

“You surely do not set down Mary Monson as the stool-pigeon
of a set of York thieves!”

“Who, or what else can she be, Mr. Timms? Better educated,
and belonging to an `upper ten' in villany, but of a company
of rogues. Now, these knaves stand by each other much
more faithfully than the body of the citizens stand by the law;
and the five thousand will be forthcoming for the asking.”

“Are you serious in wishing me to believe you think my client
guilty!”

Here Williams made no bones of laughing outright. It is
true that he suppressed the noise immediately, lest it should
attract attention; but laugh he did, and with right good will.

“Come, Timms, you have asked your question, and I leave
you to answer it yourself. One thing I will say, however, in
the way of admonition, which is this—we shall make out such a
case against her to-morrow as would hang a governor, as I have
already told you.”

“I believe you've done your worst already — why not let me
know the names of your witnesses?”

“You know the reason. We wish the whole sum ourselves,
and have no fancy to its being scattered all over Duke's. I give
you my honour, Timms — and you know what that is — I give
you my honour that we hold this testimony in reserve.”

“In which case the District Attorney will bring the witnesses
on the stand; and we shall gain nothing, after all, by your withdrawal.”

“The District Attorney has left the case very much to me. I
have prepared his brief, and have taken care to keep to myself
enough to turn the scales. If I quit, Mary Monson will be
acquitted — if I stay, she will be hanged. A pardon for her will
be out of the question — she is too high among the `upper ten'
to expect that — besides, she is not an anti-renter.”

“I wonder the thieves do not combine, as well as other folks,
and control votes!”

“They do — these anti-renters belong to the gangs, and have
already got their representatives in high places. They are `land-pirates,'
while your client goes for the old stockings. The difference
in principle is by no means important, as any clear-headed
man may see. It is getting late, Timms.”

“I cannot believe that Mary Monson is the sort of person you
take her for! Williams, I've always looked upon you, and
treated you, as a friend. You may remember how I stood by
you in the Middlebury case?”

“Certainly — you did your duty by me in that matter, and I
have not forgot it.”

The cause alluded to was an action for a “breach of promise,”
which, at one time, threatened all of Williams's “future usefulness,”
as it is termed; but which was put to sleep in the end by
means of Timms's dexterity in managing the “out-door” points
of a difficult case.

“Well, then, be my friend in this matter. I will be honest
with you, and acknowledge that, as regards my client, I have
had — that is provided she is acquitted, and her character comes
out fair — that I have had — and still have, for that matter — what—”

“Are called `ulterior views.' I understand you, Timms, and
have suspected as much these ten days. A great deal depends on
what you consider a fair character. Taking the best view of her
situation, Mary Monson will have been tried for murder and arson.”

“Not if acquitted of the first. I have the District Attorney's
promise to consent to a nolle prosequi on the last indictment, if
we traverse the first successfully.”

“In which case Mary Monson will have been tried for murder
only,” returned Williams, smiling. “Do you really think, Timms,
that your heart is soft enough to receive and retain an impression
as deep as that made by the seal of the court?”

“If I thought, as you do, that my client is or has been connected
with thieves, and burglars, and counterfeiters, I would not
think of her for a moment as a wife. But there is a vast difference
between a person overtaken by sudden temptation and one
who sins on calculation, and by regular habit. Now, in my
own case, I sometimes act wrong — yes, I admit as much as
that—”

“It is quite unnecessary,” said Williams, drily.

“It is not according to Christian doctrine to visit old offences
on a sinner's head, when repentance has washed away the crime.”

“Which means, Timms, that you will marry Mary Monson,
although she may be guilty; provided always, that two very important
contingencies are favourably disposed of.”

“What contingencies do you allude to, Williams? I know
of none.”

“One is, provided she will have you; the other is, provided
she is not hanged.”

“As to the first, I have no great apprehension; women that
have been once before a court, on a trial for a capital offence, are
not very particular. On my side, it will be easy enough to persuade
the public that, as counsel in a most interesting case, I
became intimately acquainted with her virtues, touched by her
misfortunes, captivated by her beauty and accomplishments, and
finally overcome by her charms. I don't think, Williams, that
such an explanation would fail of its effect, before a caucus even.
Men are always favourably disposed to those they think worse

off than they are themselves. A good deal of capital is made
on that principle.”

“I do not know that it would. Now-a-days the elections
generally turn more on public principles than on private conduct.
The Americans are a most forgiving people, unless you tell them
the truth. That they will not pardon.”

“Nor any other nation, I fancy. Human natur' revolts at it.
But that” — snapping his fingers — “for your elections; it is the
caucuses that I lay myself out to meet. Give me the nomination,
and I am as certain of my seat as, in the old countries, a first-born
is to his father's throne.”

“It is pretty safe as a rule, I allow; but nominations sometimes
fail.”

“Not when regular, and made on proper principles. A nomination
is almost as good as popularity.”

“Often better; for men are just asses enough to work in the
collar of party, even when overloaded. But all this time the
night is wearing away. If I go into court in the morning, it
will be too late. This thing must be settled at once, and that in
a very explicit manner.”

“I wish I knew what you have picked up concerning Mary
Monson's early life!” said Timms, like a man struggling with doubt

“You have heard the rumour as well as myself. Some say
she is a wife already; while others think her a rich widow. My
opinion you know; I believe her to be the stool-pigeon of a York
gang, and no better than she should be.”

This was plain language to be addressed to a lover; and Williams
meant it to be so. He had that sort of regard for Timms
which proceeds from a community in practices, and was disposed
to regret that a man with whom he had been so long connected,
either as an associate or an antagonist, should marry a woman of
the pursuits that he firmly believed marked the career of Mary
Monson.

The gentlemen of the bar are no more to be judged by appearances
than the rest of mankind. They will wrangle, and seem
to be at sword's points with each other, at one moment; when
the next may find them pulling together in harmony in the next
case on the calendar. It was under this sort of feeling that
Williams had a species of friendship for his companion.

“I will try, Williams,” said the last, turning towards the
gaol. “Yes, I will make one more trial.”

“Do, my good fellow — and, Timms — remember one thing;
you can never marry a woman that has been hanged.”