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| 29. | CHAPTER XXIX. |
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 | CHAPTER XXIX. The ways of the hour |  |
29. CHAPTER XXIX.
“Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer,
Imaginary ills, and fancied tortures?”
Cato.
The scene must now be shifted to Rattletrap. Biberry was
deserted. Even the rumours with which its streets had been so
lately filled, were already forgotten. None have memories as
frail as the gossip. Not only does this class of persons — and a
numerous class it is, including nearly all whose minds are not
fitted to receive more elevated materials — not only, we say, does
this class of persons overlook the contradictions and absurdities
of the stories they repeat, but they forget the stories themselves
almost as soon as heard. Such was now the case at Biberry.
Scarce an individual could be found in the place who would acknowledge
that he or she had ever heard that Mary Monson was
connected with robbers, or who could recollect that he once fancied
the accused guilty.
We may as well say here, that nothing has ever been done
with Sarah Burton. She is clearly guilty; but the law, in these
times of progress, disdains to pursue the guilty. Their crimes
are known; and of what use can it be to expose those whom
every one can see are offenders! No; it is the innocent who
have most reason to dread the law. They can be put to trouble,
cost, vexation and loss, if they cannot be exactly condemned.
We see how thousands regard the law in a recent movement in
of most of the large landed proprietors, with the very honest and
modest proposal annexed, that their cases shall be prejudged, and
the landlords deprived of the means of defending themselves, by
sequestering their rents! Everybody says this is the freest country
on earth; the only country that is truly free; but we must
be permitted to say, that such a law, like twenty more that have
been passed in the same interest within the last ten years, savours
a good deal of the character of a Ukase.
Our characters, with the exception of McBrain and his bride,
were now assembled at Rattletrap. Dunscomb had ascertained all
it was necessary to know concerning Mildred, and had taken the
steps necessary to protect her. Of her qualified insanity he did
not entertain a doubt; though it was a madness so concealed
by the blandishments of education and the graces of a refined
woman, that few saw it, and fewer still wished to believe it true.
On most subjects this unhappy lady was clear-minded and intelligent
enough, more especially on that of money; for, while her
expenditures were generous, and her largesses most liberal, she
manifested wonderful sagacity in taking care of her property. It
was this circumstance that rendered it so difficult to take any
steps to deprive her of its control; though Dunscomb had seen
enough, in the course of the recent trial, to satisfy him that such
a measure ought to be resorted to in the interest of her own
character.
It was in cunning, and in all the low propensities connected
with that miserable quality, that Mildred Millington, as she now
insisted on calling herself, most betrayed her infirmity. Many
instances of it have been incidentally related in the course of
our narrative, however unpleasant such an exhibition has been.
There is nothing more repugnant to the principles or tastes of
the right thinking and right feeling, than the practices which
cunning engenders. Timms, however, was a most willing agent
puzzled him by their elaborate duplicity, as much as they had
astounded him by their boldness. These were the schemes that
had their origin in obliquity of mind. Still, they were not without
merit in the eyes of Timms, who was cunning without being
mad.
Before quitting Biberry, Timms was liberally paid and dismissed.
Dunscomb explained to him the situation of his handsome
client, without adverting to the state of her mind; when
the attorney at once caught at the chances of a divorce. Among
the other “ways of the hour,” that of dissolving the marriage
tie has got to be a sort of fashionable mania. Neither time, nor
duties, nor children, seem to interpose any material obstacle;
and, if our own laws do not afford the required facilities, those
of some of our more liberal neighbours do. Timms keeps this
principle in his mind, and is at this moment ruminating on the
means by which he can liberate his late client from her present
chains, and bind her anew in some of his own forging. It is
scarcely necessary to add, that Mildred troubles herself very little
in the premises, so far as this covert lover is concerned.
The ridicule of Williams was, at first, the sorest portion of
Timms's disappointment. Bachelors alike, and rivals for popular
favour, these two worthies had long been looking out for advantageous
marriages. Each had the sagacity to see that his chances
of making a more and more eligible connexion were increasing
slowly, and that it was a great thing for a rising man to ascend
without dragging after him a wife chosen from among those that
prop the base of the great social ladder. It was nuts to one of
these competitors for the smiles of the ladies to discover that his
rival was in love with a married woman; and this so much the
more, because the prospects of Timms's success, arising from his
seeming intimacy with the fair occupant of the gaol, had given
Williams a very serious fright. Place two men in competition,
rivalry. Again and again, had these two individuals betrayed
their mutual jealousy; and now that one of them had placed
himself in a position so false, not to say ridiculous, the other did
not fail to enjoy his disappointment to the top of his bent. It
was in this manner that Saucy Williams took his revenge for the
defeat in the trial.
Mrs. Gott was also at Rattletrap. Dunscomb retained much
of his original tenderness for Mildred, the grandmother of his
guest of that name, and he granted her descendant every indulgence
she could ask. Among other things, one of the requests
of the liberated prisoner was to be permitted to manifest this
sense of her gratitude for the many acts of kindness received
from the wife of the sheriff. Gott, accordingly, was left to take
care of himself, while his nice little companion was transported
to a scene that she found altogether novel, or a temporary residence
in a gentleman's dwelling. Sarah's housekeeping, Sarah's
good nature, attentions, neatness, attire and attractions, would
have been themes to monopolize all of the good little woman's
admiration, had not Anna Updyke, then on a visit at Rattletrap,
quite fairly come in for her full share. She might almost be
said to be in love with both.
It was just after breakfast that Mildred locked an arm in that
of Anna, and led her young friend by one of the wooded paths
that runs along the shores of the Hudson, terminating in a summer-house,
with a most glorious view. In this, there was nothing
remarkable; the eye rarely resting on any of the `bits'
that adorn the banks of that noble stream, without taking in
beauties to enchant it. But to all these our two lovely young
women were momentarily as insensible as they were to the fact
that their own charming forms, floating among shrubbery as fragrant
as themselves, added in no slight degree to the beauty of
the scene. In manner, Mildred was earnest, if not ardent, and
sensitive; changing colour without ceasing, as her thoughts were
drawn nearer and nearer to that theme which now included the
great object of her existence.
“Your uncle brought me letters from town last evening, Anna
dear,” commenced the liberated lady: “one of them is from
Mons de Larocheforte. Is that not strange?”
“What is there so strange in a husband's writing to his wife?
To me, it seems the most natural thing in the world.”
“It does?—I am surprised to hear you say so—you, Anna,
whom I regarded as so truly my friend. I have discarded Mons.
de Larocheforte, and he ought to respect my pleasure.”
“It would have been better, my dear mamma, had you discarded
him before marriage, instead of after.”
“Ah — your dear mamma, indeed! I was your school mamma,
Anna, and well had it been for me had I been left to finish
my education in my own country. Then, I should have escaped
this most unfortunate marriage! Do not marry, Anna — take
my advice, and never marry. Matrimony is unsuited to ladies.”
“How long have you been of this opinion, dear mamma?”
asked the young girl, smiling.
“Just as long as I have been made to feel how it crushes a
woman's independence, and how completely it gives her a master,
and how very, very humiliating and depressing is the bondage it
inflicts. Do you not feel the force of my reasons?”
“I confess I do not,” answered Anna, in a subdued, yet clear
and distinct voice. “I see nothing humiliating or depressing in
a woman's submission to her husband. It is the law of nature,
and why should we wish to alter it? My mother has ever inculcated
such opinions, and you will excuse me if I say I think
the bible does, also.”
“The bible! — Yes, that is a good book, though I am afraid
it is very little read in France. I ought, perhaps, to say, `read
themselves, are not one half as negligent of their duties, in this
respect, as are the strangers who go to reside among them.
When the roots, that have grown to any size in their native soil,
are violently transplanted to another, it is not often that the tree
obtains its proper dimensions and grace. I wish I had never
seen France, Anna, in which case I should never have been
Mad. de Larocheforte — vicomtesse, by the old law, and I am
afraid it was that idle appellation that entrapped me. How much
more truly respectable I should have been as Mrs. John Smith,
or Mrs. John Brown, or Mrs. David Smith, the wife of a countryman,
if I must be a wife, at all!”
“Choose at least some name of higher pretension,” said Anna,
laughing. “Why not a Mrs. Van Rensselaer, or a Mrs. Van
Cortlandt, or a Mrs. Livingston, or a Mrs. Somebody else, of one
of our good old families?”
“Families!—Do you know, child, it is treason to talk of families
in this age of anti-rentism. They tell me that the man who
makes an estate, may enjoy it, should he happen to know how,
and this, though he may have cheated all he ever dealt with, in
order to become rich; but, that he who inherits an estate, has no
claim. It is his tenants who have the high moral claim to his
father's property.”
“I know nothing of all this, and would rather talk of things
I understand.”
“By which you mean wedlock, and its cares! No, my dear,
you little understand what matrimony is, or how much humiliation
is required of us women to become wives, or you would
never think of marrying.”
“I have never told you that I do think of marrying — that is,
not much.”
“There spoke your honest nature, which will not permit even
an unintended deception. This it was that so much attached me
I can admire the quality in another.”
“This admission does not exactly prove the truth of your
words, mamma!” said Anna, smiling.
“No matter — let us talk of matrimony. Has John Wilmeter
proposed to you, Anna?”
This was a home question; no wonder the young lady started.
After a short, musing pause, however, the native candour of
Anna Updyke prevailed, and she admitted that he had.
“Thank you for this confidence; but you must go further.
Remember, I am your mamma. Is the gentleman accepted?”
A rosy blush, succeeded by a nod of the head, was the answer.
“I am sorry I was not consulted, before all this happened;
though I have managed my own matters so ill, as to have very
few claims to your confidence. You scarce know what you undertake,
my child.”
“I undertake to become Jack Wilmeter's wife,” answered the
betrothed, in a very low but a very firm voice; “and I hope I
shall make him a good one. Most of all, do I pray to be obedient
and submissive.”
“To no man that breathes, Anna! — no, to no man breathing!
It is their business to submit to us; not we to them!”
“This is not my reading of the great rule of woman's conduct.
In my view of our duties, it is the part of woman to be affectionate,
mild, patient and sympathizing,—if necessary, forgiving. I
firmly believe that, in the end, such a woman cannot fail to be
as happy as is permitted to us to be, here on earth.”
“Forgiving!” repeated Mildred, her eyes flashing; “yes, that
is a word often used, yet how few truly practise its teachings!
Why should I forgive any one that has wronged me? Our
nature tells us to resent, to punish, if necessary, as you say — to
revenge.”
A slight shudder passed through the frame of Anna, and she
arms still continued locked.
“There must be a great difference between France and America,
if revenge is ever taught to a woman, as a part of her duty,”
returned the younger female, now speaking with an earnestness
she had not before betrayed; “here, we are told that Christianity
forbids the very thought of it, and that to forgive is among the
very first of our duties. My great instructor in such things, has
told me that one of the surest evidences of a hopeful state of the
feelings, is the banishment of every thing like resentment, and a
desire to be at peace with all around us — to have a perception
that we love the race as beings of our own wants and hopes.”
“Is this the sort of love, then, with which you give your hand
to young Wilmeter?”
Scarlet is not brighter than was the colour that now glowed
in the cheeks of Anna, stole into her temples, and even diffused
itself over her neck and chest. To herself it seemed as if her
very hands blushed. Then the power of innocence came to sustain
her, and she became calm and steady.
“It is not the feeling with which I shall marry John,” she
said. “Nature has given us another sentiment, and I shall not
endeavour to be superior to all of my sex and class. I love
John Wilmeter, I own; and I hope to make him happy.”
“To be a dutiful, obedient wife, for ever studying his tastes
and caprices!”
“I trust I shall not be for ever studying the indulgence of my
own. I see nothing degrading to a woman, in her filling the
place nature and Christianity have assigned to her, and in her
doing her duty, as a wife.”
“These are not my feelings, receiving your terms as you wish
them to be understood. But several have told me I ought
never to have married; I myself know that I should have been
an American, and not a French wife.”
“I have ever heard that greater latitude is given to our sex,
in France, than in this country.”
“That is true in part only. Nothing can exceed the retenue
of a French girl, or anything that is decent exceed the want of
it that is manifested by many Americans. On the other hand,
a married woman here, has no privileges at all, not even in
society; while in France, under an air of great seeming propriety,
she does very much as she sees fit. It is a mistake, however,
to suppose that faithful wives, and devoted mothers, most
especially the last, are not to be found all over Europe — in
France, in particular.”
“I am glad to hear it,” cried Anna, with a really gratified
air; “it gives me pleasure when I hear of any of our sex behaving
as they should behave.”
“Should behave! I fear, Anna, a little covert reproach is
intended, in that remark. Our estimate of the conduct of our
friends must depend on our notions of our own duties. Now,
hearken to my manner of reasoning on this subject. In a physical
sense, man is strong, woman is weak; while, in a moral
sense, woman is strong and man is weak. You admit my
premises?”
“The first part of them, certainly,” said Anna, laughing,
“while I pretend to no knowledge of the last.”
“You surely do not believe that John Wilmeter is as pure,
ingenuous, good, as you are yourself?”
“I see no reason why he should not be. I am far from certain
Jack is not even better.”
“It is useless to discuss such a subject with you. The principle
of pride is wanting, without which you can never enter into
my feelings.”
“I am glad it is so. I fancy John will be all the happier for
it. Ah! my dear mamma, I never knew any good come of what
you call this `principle of pride.' We are told to be humble,
that rulers are given to us here, in the persons of our husbands.”
“Anna Updyke, do you marry John Wilmeter with the feeling
that he is to rule? You overlook the signs of the times,
the ways of the hour, child, if you do aught so weak! Look
around you, and see how everybody, almost everything, is becoming
independent, our sex included. Formerly, as I have
heard elderly persons say, if a woman suffered in her domestic
relations, she was compelled to suffer all. The quarrel lasted for
a life. Now, no one thinks of being so unreasonably wretched.
No, the wronged wife, or even the offended wife — Monsieur de
Larocheforte snuffs abominably — abominably — yes, abominably
— but no wife is obliged, in these times of independence and
reason, to endure a snuffy husband—”
“No,” broke in Dunscomb, appearing from an adjoining path,
“she has only to pack up her spoons and be off. The Code can
never catch her. If it could on one page, my life for it there is
a hole for her to get out of its grasp on the next. Your servant,
ladies; I have been obliged to overhear more of your conversation
than was intended for my ears, perhaps; these paths running
so close to each other, and you being so animated — and now, I
mean to take an old man's privilege, and speak my mind. In
the first place, I shall deal with the agreeable. Anna, my love,
Jack is a lucky fellow—far luckier than he deserves to be. You
carry the right sentiment into wedlock. It is the right of the
husband to be the head of his family; and the wife who resists
his authority is neither prudent nor a Christian. He may abuse
it, it is true; but, even then, so long as criminality is escaped, it
were better to submit. I approve of every word you have uttered,
dear, and thank you for it all in my nephew's name. And now,
Mildred, as one who has a right to advise you, by his avowed
love for your grandmother, and recent close connection with yourself,
let me tell you what I think of those principles that you
in this country. In the first place, he is no true friend of your
sex who teaches it this doctrine of independence. I should think
— it is true, I am only a bachelor, and have no experience to
back me — but, I should think that a woman who truly loves
her husband, would find a delight in her dependence—”
“Oh! certainly!” exclaimed Anna — biting her tongue at the
next instant, and blushing scarlet at her own temerity.
“I understand you, child, and approve again — but there
comes Jack, and I shall have to turn you over to him, that you
may receive a good scolding from head-quarters, for this abject
servitude feeling, that you have betrayed. Go — go — his arm
is held out already — and harkee, young folk, remember that a
new maxim in morals has come in with the Code — `Principles
depend on Circumstances.' That is the rule of conduct now-a-days
— that, and anti-rentism, and `republican simplicity,' and
the `cup-and-saucer law,” and — and — yes — and the everblessed
Code!”
Dunscomb was obliged to stop for breath, which gave the
young couple an opportunity to walk away. As for Mildred, she
stood collected, extremely lady-like in mien, but with a slight
degree of hauteur expressed in her countenance.
“And now, sir, that we are alone,” she said, “permit me to
inquire what my part of the lecture is to be. I trust you will
remember, however, that, while I am Mildred Millington by
birth, the law which you so much reverence and admire, makes
me Madame de Larocheforte.”
“You mean to say that I have the honour of conversing with
a married woman?”
“Exactly so, Mr. Dunscomb.”
“I comprehend you, ma'am, and shall respect your position.
You are not about to become my niece, and I can claim no right
to exceed the bounds of friendship—”
“Nay, my dear sir, I do not wish to say this. You have
every right to advise. To me, you have been a steady and well-judging
friend, and this, in the most trying circumstances. I am
ready to hear you, sir, in deference, if not in your beloved humility.”
“That which I have to say refers solely to your own happiness,
Mildred. Your return to America has, I fear, been most
inopportune. Among other innovations that are making on
every side of us, even to the verge of the dissolution of civilized
society, comes the liberty of woman. Need I tell you, what will
be the next step in this downward career?”
“You needs must, Mr. Dunscomb—I do not comprehend you.
—What will that step be?”
“Her licentiousness. No woman can throw off the most
sacred of all her earthly duties, in this reckless manner, and
hope to escape from the doom of her sex. After making a proper
allowance for the increase of population, the increase in separated
married people is getting to be out of all proportion.
Scarce a month passes that one does not hear of some wife who
has left her husband, secreted herself with a child perhaps, as
you did, in some farm-house, passing by a different name, and
struggling for her rights, as she imagines. Trust me, Mildred,
all this is as much opposed to nature as it is to prescribed duties.
That young woman spoke merely what an inward impulse, that
is incorporated with her very being, prompted her to utter. A
most excellent mother—oh! what a blessing is that to one of
your sex—how necessary, how heavenly, how holy!—an excellent
mother has left her in ignorance of no one duty, and her
character has been formed in what I shall term harmony with
her sex. I must be plain, Mildred—you have not enjoyed this
advantage. Deprived of your parent young, known to be rich,
and transplanted to another soil, your education has necessarily
been entrusted to hirelings, flatterers, or persons indifferent to
of their instruction, and have paid the most attention to
those arts which soonest strike the eye, and most readily attract
admiration. In this, their success has been complete.”
“While you think it has not been so much so, sir, in more
material things?” said the lady, haughtily.
“Let me be sincere. It is due to my relation to you—to your
grandmother—to the past—to the present time. I know the
blood that runs in your veins, Mildred. You are self-willed by
descent, rich by inheritance, independent by the folly of our
legislators. Accident has brought you home, at the very moment
when our ill-considered laws are unhinging society in many of its
most sacred interests; and, consulting only an innate propensity,
you have ventured to separate from your husband, to conceal
yourself in a cottage, a measure, I dare say, that comported well
with your love of the romantic—”
“Not so—I was oppressed, annoyed, unhappy at home, and
sought refuge in that cottage. Mons. de Larocheforte has such
a passion for snuff!—He uses it night and day.”
“Then followed the serious consequences which involved you
in so many fearful dangers—”
“True,” interrupted the lady, laying her small, gloved hand
hastily on his arm—“very true, dear Mr. Dunscomb; but how
cleverly I contrived to escape them all!—how well I managed
your Mr. Timms, good Mrs. Gott, the puffy, pompous sheriff,
that wily Williams too, whose palm felt the influence of my gold
—oh! the excitement of the last two months has been a gift of
paradise to me, and, for the first time since my marriage, have I
known what true happiness was!”
Dunscomb turned, astonished, to his companion, and stared
her in the face. Never was the countenance more lovely to the
cursory glance, the eye brighter, the cheek with a richer glow
on it, or the whole air, mien and attitude more replete with
of the lawyer penetrated beyond all these, and detected the unhappy
spirit which had gained possession of a tenement so
lovely. The expression of the countenance denoted the very
triumph of cunning. We pretend not to a knowledge of the
areana of nature, to be able to detect the manner in which the
moving principles prompt to good or evil, but we must reject all
sacred history, and no small portion of profane, not to believe
that agencies exist that are not visible to our ordinary senses;
and that our boasted reason, when abandoned to its own support,
becomes the victim of those that are malign. We care not by
what names these agents are called, imps, demons, evil spirits,
or evil passions; but this we do know, let him beware who submits
to their control. Better, far better, were it that such an
one had never been born!
Three days later Mildred Millington was in a state that left
no doubt of her infirmity. The lucid intervals were long, however,
and at such times her mind seemed clear enough on all
subjects but one. Divorce was her “ruling passion,” and, in
order to effect her purpose, all the extraordinary ingenuity of a
most fertile mind was put in requisition. Although means were
promptly, but cautiously, taken to see that she did not squander
her large pecuniary resources, Dunscomb early saw that they
were uncalled for. Few persons were better qualified to look
after their money than was this unfortunate lady, in the midst
of the dire visitation that intellectually reduced her below the
level of most around her. On this head her sagacity was of
proof; though her hand was not closed in the gripe of a miser.
Accustomed, from childhood, to a liberal expenditure, she was
willing still to use the means that an inscrutable Providence had
so liberally placed in her way, her largesses and her charities
continuing the same as ever. Down to the present moment the
fund-holder, the owner of town property, the mortgagee, and the
of the demagogue with his rights; but how much longer this
exception is to last, is known only to the Being who directs the
destinies of nations; or, at least, not to any who are now on
earth, surrounded equally by the infirmities and ignorance of the
present state.
But Mildred was, and is yet, permitted to exercise her rights
over her own property, though care is had to see that no undue
advantage is taken of her sex, years, and ignorance. Beyond
this her control was not disputed, and she was suffered to manage
her own affairs. She set about the matter of a divorce with the
whole energy of her nature, and the cunning of her malady.
Timms was again summoned to her service, unknown to Dunscomb,
who would never have winked at the measures that were
taken, though so much in accordance with “the ways of the
hour.”
Provided with proper credentials, this managing agent sought
an interview with Mons. de Larocheforte, a worn-out debauchee
of some rank, who, sooth to say, had faults even graver than that
of taking snuff. Notwithstanding the great personal attractions
of Mildred, the motive for marrying her had been money: as is
usually the case in a very great proportion of the connections of
the old world, among persons of condition. Love is to succeed,
and not to precede, matrimony. Mildred had been taught that
lesson, and grievously had she been disappointed. The snuff
got into her eyes. Mons. de Larocheforte — Mons. le Vicomte
as he had been, and was still determined to be, and in all probability
will be, in spite of all the French “republican simplicity”
that was ever summoned to a nation's rescue — Mons. le Vicomte
was directly approached by Timms, and a proposal made that he
should put himself in a condition to be divorced, for a stipulated
price. Notwithstanding the opinion of the learned Attorney-General
of this great state, of the European aristocracy, and
as it might be, Mons. de Larocheforte declined lending himself
to so vile a proposition, Frenchman and noble as he was. Nor
did the husband believe that the discreditable proposal came from
his wife. He compelled Timms to admit as much, under a
menace of losing his case. That worthy was puzzled at this result,
for he had made the proposal on his “own hook,” as he
afterwards explained the matter to Williams, in the fullest confidence
of “republican simplicity,” and was astonished at meeting
with the self-respect of a gentleman, if with no very elevated
principles in a nobleman! It was accordingly necessary to have
recourse to some other mode of proceeding.
Luckily for the views of Timms and his fair client, one can
scarcely go amiss in this country, when a divorce is desired.
Although a few of the older states remain reasonably inflexible
on this subject, in some respects unreasonably so, indeed, they
are generally surrounded by communities that are more indulgent.
By means of some hocus pocus of the law, that we pretend not
to explain, the names of Gabriel Jules Vincent Jean Baptiste de
Larocheforte ads. Mildred de Larocheforte, were just beginning
to steal on the dawn of the newspapers, in a case that, ere long,
might blaze in the meridian of gossip.
Dunscomb frowned, and reproached, but it was too late to recede.
He has told Mildred, and he has told Timms, that nuptial knots
tied in one community, cannot be so readily unloosed in another,
as many imagine; and that there must, at least, be good faith —
the animus revertendi — in the change of residence that usually
precedes the application. But money is very powerful, and
smooths a thousand difficulties. No one could predict the termination;
and, as the vicomte, though only to be approached in a
more delicate way than that adopted by Timms, was as tired of the
connection as his wife, and was very anxious to obtain a larger
share of the fortune than the “cup and saucer” law will give
be a quasi divorce, that would at least enable each party to take his
or her own course, without fear of molestation from the other.
In the mean time, Millington was married very shortly after
the trial. The engagement had not been long, but the parties
had known each other intimately for years. The bridegroom, in
one sense, was the head of his family, though by no means possessed
of its largest fortune. In this character, it devolved on
him to care for the interests of his fair relative. Although as
much opposed as Dunscomb to the course she was taking, he did
not shrink from his duties as a relative; and it is understood
that his house is Mildred's home when in town. Rattletrap
opened its hospitable doors to the unfortunate woman, whenever
she chose to visit the place; and Timbully has also claims on
her time and presence.
Dunscomb announced his intention to retire from practice at
the end of a twelvemonth, the morning that Michael and Sarah
were married. In the intervening time, John Wilmeter and his
new nephew were received as partners, and the worthy bachelor
is now sedulously but silently transferring as respectable and
profitable a list of clients, as any man in the courts can claim.
His own advice is promised, at all times, to his old friends; and,
as not a soul has objected, and the young men bid fair, there is
every reason to hope that useful and profitable labour will keep
both out of mischief.
| CHAPTER XXIX. The ways of the hour | |