University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Merchant of Venice.

Such was the substance of the communication that Doctor
McBrain now made to his friend, Tom Dunscomb. The latter
had listened with an interest he did not care to betray, and when
the other was done he gaily cried—

“I 'll tell the widow Updyke of you, Ned!”

“She knows the whole story already, and is very anxious lest
you should have left town, to go to the Rockland circuit, where
she has been told you have an important case to try.”

“The cause goes over on account of the opposite counsel's
being in the court of appeals. Ah's me! I have no pleasure in
managing a cause since this Code of Procedure has innovated on
all our comfortable and venerable modes of doing business. I
believe I shall close up my affairs, and retire, as soon as I can
bring all my old cases to a termination.”

“If you can bring those old cases to a termination, you will
be the first lawyer who ever did.”

“Yes, it is true, Ned,” answered Dunscomb, coolly taking a
pinch of snuff, “you doctors have the advantage of us, in this
behalf; your cases certainly do not last for ever.”

“Enough of this, Tom — you will go to Biberry, I take it for
granted?”

“You have forgotten the fee. Under the new code, compensation
is a matter of previous agreement.”

“You shall have a pleasant excursion, over good roads, in the
month of May, in an easy carriage, and drawn by a pair of as
spirited horses as ever trotted on the Third Avenue.”

“The animals you have just purchased in honour of Mrs.
Updyke that is — Mrs. McBrain that is to be—” touching the
bell, and adding to the very respectable black who immediately
answered the summons, “Tell Master Jack and Miss Sarah I
wish to see them. So, Ned, you have let the widow know all
about it, and she does not pout or look distrustful — that is a
good symptom, at least.”

“I would not marry a jealous woman, if I never had a wife!”

“Then you will never marry at all. Why, Dr. McBrain, it
is in the nature of woman to be distrustful — to be jealous — to
fancy things that are merely figments of the brain.”

“You know nothing about them, and would be wisest to be
silent — but here are the young people already, to ask your
pleasure.”

“Sarah, my dear,” resumed the uncle in a kind and affectionate
tone of voice, one that the old bachelor almost universally
held towards that particular relative, “I must give you a
little trouble. Go into my room, child, and put up, in my smallest
travelling bag, a clean shirt, a handkerchief or two, three or
four collars, and a change all round, for a short expedition into
the country.”

“Country! Do you quit us to-day, sir?”

“Within an hour, at latest,” looking at his watch. “If we
leave the door at ten, we can reach Biberry before the inquest
reassembles. You told those capital beasts of yours, Ned, to
come here?”

“I told Stephen to give them a hint to that effect. You may
rely on their punctuality.”

“Jack, you had better be of our party. I go on some legal
business of importance, and it may be well for you to go along,
in order to pick up an idea, or two.”

“And why not Michael also, sir? He has as much need of
ideas as I have myself.”

A pretty general laugh succeeded, though Sarah, who was just
quitting the room, did not join in it. She rather looked grave,
as well as a little anxiously towards the last-named neophyte of
the law.

“Shall we want any books, sir?” demanded the nephew.

“Why, yes — we will take the Code of Procedure. One can
no more move without that, just now, than he can travel in some
countries without a passport. Yes, put up the code, Jack, and
we'll pick it to pieces as we trot along.”

“There is little need of that, sir, if what they say be true. I
hear, from all quarters, that it is doing that for itself, on a
gallop.”

“Shame on thee, lad — I have half a mind to banish thee to
Philadelphia! But put up the code; thy joke can't be worse
than that joke. As for Michael, he can accompany us if he
wish it; but you must both be ready by ten. At ten, precisely,
we quit my door, in the chariot of Phœbus, eh, Ned?”

“Call it what you please, so you do but go. Be active, young
gentlemen, for we have no time to throw away. The jury meet
again at two, and we have several hours of road before us. I
will run round and look at my slate, and be here by the time
you are ready.

On this suggestion everybody was set in active motion. John
went for his books, and to fill a small rubber bag for himself;
Michael did the same, and Sarah was busy in her uncle's room.
As for Dunscomb, he made the necessary disposition of some
papers, wrote two or three notes, and held himself at the command
of his friend. This affair was just the sort of professional

business in which he liked to be engaged. Not that he had any
sympathy with crime, for he was strongly averse to all communion
with rogues; but it appeared to him, by the representations
of the doctor, to be a mission of mercy. A solitary, young, unfriended
female, accused, or suspected, of a most heinous crime,
and looking around for a protector and an adviser, was an object
too interesting for a man of his temperament to overlook, under
the appeal that had been made. Still he was not the dupe of his
feelings. All his coolness, sagacity, knowledge of human nature,
and professional attainments, were just as active in him as they
ever had been in his life. Two things he understood well: that
we are much too often deceived by outward signs, mistaking
character by means of a fair exterior, and studied words, and
that neither youth, beauty, sex, nor personal graces were infallible
preventives of the worst offences, on the one hand; and that,
on the other, men nurture distrust, and suspicion, often, until it
grows too large to be concealed, by means of their own propensity
to feed the imagination and to exaggerate. Against these two
weaknesses he was now resolved to arm himself; and when the
whole party drove from the door, our counsellor was as clear-headed
and impartial, according to his own notion of the matter,
as if he were a judge.

By this time the young men had obtained a general notion of
the business they were on, and the very first subject that was
started, on quitting the door, was in a question put by John
Wilmeter, in continuation of a discussion that had been commenced
between himself and his friend.

“Mike and I have a little difference of opinion, on a point
connected with this matter, which I could wish you to settle for
us, as an arbiter. On the supposition that you find reason to
believe that this young woman has really committed these horrible
crimes, what would be your duty in the case — to continue
to befriend her, and advise her, and use your experience and

talents in order to shield her against the penalties of the law, or
to abandon her at once?”

“In plain English, Jack, you and your brother student wish
to know whether I am to act as a palladium, or as a runagate, in
this affair. As neophytes in your craft, it may be well to suggest
to you, in the first place, that I have not yet been fee'd. I
never knew a lawyer's conscience trouble him about questions in
casuistry, until he had received something down.”

“But you can suppose that something paid, in this case, sir,
and then answer our question.”

“This is just the case in which I can suppose nothing of the
sort. Had McBrain given me to understand I was to meet a
client, with a well-lined purse, who was accused of arson and
murder, I would have seen him married to two women, at the
same time, before I would have budged. It's the want of a fee
that takes me out of town, this morning.”

“And the same want, I trust, sir, will stimulate you to solve
our difficulty.”

The uncle laughed, and nodded his head, much as if he would
say, “Pretty well for you;” then he gave a thought to the point
in professional ethics that had started up between his two
students.

“This is a very old question with the profession, gentlemen,”
Dunscomb answered, a little more gravely. “You will find
men who maintain that the lawyer has, morally, a right to do
whatever his client would do; that he puts himself in the place
of the man he defends, and is expected to do everything precisely
as if he were the accused party himself. I rather think
that some vague notion, quite as loose as this, prevails pretty
generally among what one may call the minor moralists of the
profession.”

“I confess, sir, that I have been given to understand that
some such rule ought to govern our conduct,” said Michael Millington,

who had been in Dunscomb's office only for the last six
months.

“Then you have been very loosely and badly instructed in the
duties of an advocate, Mr. Michael. A more pernicious doctrine
was never broached, or one better suited to make men scoundrels.
Let a young man begin practice with such notions, and two or
three thieves for clients will prepare him to commit petit larceny,
and a case or two of perjury would render him an exquisite at
an affidavit. No, my boys, here is your rule in this matter:
an advocate has a right to do whatever his client has a right to
do — not what his client would do.”

“Surely, sir, an advocate is justified in telling his client to
plead not guilty, though guilty; and in aiding him to persuade
a jury to acquit him, though satisfied himself he ought to be
convicted!”

“You have got hold of the great point in the case, Jack, and
one on which something may be said on both sides. The law is
so indulgent, as to permit an accused who has formally pleaded
`guilty,' thus making a distinct admission of his crime, to withdraw
that plea, and put in another of `not guilty.' Now, had
the same person made a similar admission out of court, and under
circumstances that put threats or promises out of the question,
the law would have accepted that admission as the best possible
evidence of his guilt. It is evident, therefore, that an understanding
exists, to which the justice of the country is a party,
that a man, though guilty, shall get himself out of the scrape, if
he can do so by legal means. No more importance is attached
to the `not guilty,' than to the `not at home' to a visitor; it
being understood, by general convention, that neither means anything.
Some persons are so squeamish, as to cause their servants
to say `they are engaged,' by way of not telling a lie;
but a lie consists in the intentional deception, and `not in' and
`not guilty' mean no more, in the one case, than `you can't see

my master,' and in the other, than `I'll run the chances of a
trial.”'

“After all, sir, this is going pretty near the wind, in the way
of morals.”

“It certainly is. The Christian man who has committed a
crime, ought not to attempt to deny it to his country, as he certainly
cannot to his God. Yet, nine hundred and ninety-nine
in a thousand of the most strait-laced Christians in the community
would so deny their guilt, if arraigned. We must not
tax poor human nature too heavily, though I think the common
law contains many things, originating in a jealousy of hereditary
power, that it is great folly for us to preserve. But, while we
are thus settling principles, we forget facts. You have told me
nothing of your client, Ned.”

“What would you wish to know?”

“You called her young, I remember; what may be her precise
age?”

“That is more than I know; somewhere between sixteen and
five-and-twenty.”

“Five-and-twenty! Is she as old as that?”

“I rather think not; but I have been thinking much of her
this morning, and I really do not remember to have seen another
human being who is so difficult to describe.”

“She has eyes, of course?”

“Two—and very expressive they are; though, sworn, I could
not tell their colour.”

“And hair?”

“In very great profusion; so much of it, and so very fine and
shining, that it was the first thing about her person which I observed.
But I have not the least notion of its colour.”

“Was it red?”

“No; nor yellow, nor golden, nor black, nor brown,—and yet
a little of all blended together, I should say.”

“Ned, I'll tell the Widow Updyke of thee, thou rogue!”

“Tell her, and welcome. She has asked me all these questions
herself, this very morning.”

“Oh, she has, has she? Umph! Woman never changes her
nature. You cannot say anything about the eyes, beyond the
fact of their being very expressive?”

“And pleasing; more than that, even—engaging; winning, is
a better term.”

“Ned, you dog, you have never told the widow one-half!”

“Every syllable. I even went farther, and declared I had
never beheld a countenance that, in so short an interview, made
so deep an impression on me. If I were not to see this young
woman again, I should never forget the expression of her face—
so spirited, so sad, so gentle, so feminine, and so very intelligent.
It seemed to me to be what I should call an illuminated countenance.”

“Handsome?”

“Not unusually so, among our sweet American girls, except
through the expression. That was really wonderful; though,
you will remember, I saw her under very peculiar circumstances.”

“Oh, exceedingly peculiar. Dear old soul; what a thump she
has given him! How were her mouth and her teeth? — complexion,
stature, figure, and smile?”

“I can tell you little of all these. Her teeth are fine; for she
gave me a faint smile, such as a lady is apt to give a man in
quitting him, and I saw just enough of the teeth to know that
they are exceedingly fine. You smile, young gentlemen; but you
may have a care for your hearts, in good truth; for if this strange
girl interests either of you one-half as much as she has interested
me, she will be either Mrs. John Wilmeter, or Mrs. Michael
Millington, within a twelvemonth.”

Michael looked very sure that she would never fill the last

situation, which was already bespoke for Miss Sarah Wilmeter;
and as for Jack, he laughed outright.

“We'll tell Mrs. Updyke of him, when we get back, and break
off that affair, at least,” cried the uncle, winking at the nephew,
but in a way his friend should see him; “then there will be one
marriage the less in the world.”

“But is she a lady, doctor?” demanded John, after a short
pause. “My wife must have some trifling claims in that way, I
can assure you.”

“As for family, education, association and fortune, I can say
nothing, — I know nothing. Yet will I take upon myself to
say she is a lady, — and that, in the strict signification of the
term.”

“You are not serious now, Ned!” exclaimed the counsellor,
quickly. “Not a bony fide, as some of our gentlemen have it?
You cannot mean exactly what you say.”

“I do, though; and that literally.”

“And she suspected of arson and murder! Where are her
connections and friends, — those who made her a lady? Why
is she there alone, and, as you say, unfriended?”

“So it seemed to me. You might as well ask me why she
is there, at all. I know nothing of all this. I heard plenty
of reasons in the street, why she ought to be distrusted, — nay,
convicted; for the feeling against her had got to be intense, before
I left Biberry; but no one could tell me whence she came,
or why she was there.”

“Did you learn her name?”

“Yes; that was in every mouth, and I could not help hearing
it. She was called Mary Monson by the people of Biberry—
but I much doubt if that be her real name.”

“So, your angel in disguise will have to be tried under an
`alias!' That is not much in her favour, Ned. I shall ask no
more questions, but wait patiently to see and judge for myself.”

The young men put a few more interrogatories, which were
civilly answered, and then the subject was dropped. Well it has
been said that “God made the country; man made the town.”
No one feels this more than he who has been shut up between
walls of brick and stone for many months, on his first escape into
the open, unfettered fields and winding pleasant roads. Thus
was it now with Dunscomb. He had not been out of town
since the previous summer, and great was his delight at smelling
the fragrance of the orchards, and feasting his eyes on their
beauties. All the other charms of the season came in aid of
these, and when the carriage drove into the long, broad, and we
might almost say single street of Biberry, Dunscomb in particular
was in a most tranquil and pleasant state of mind. He had
come out to assist a friendless woman, cheerfully and without a
thought of the sacrifice, either as to time or money, though in
reflecting on all the circumstances he began to have his doubts
of the wisdom of the step he had taken. Nevertheless, he preserved
his native calmness of manner, and coolness of head.

Biberry was found to be in a state of high excitement. There
were at least a dozen physicians collected there, all from the
county, and five or six reporters had come from town. Rumours
of all sorts were afloat, and Mary Monson was a name in every
person's mouth. She had not been arrested, however, it having
been deemed premature for that; but she was vigilantly watched,
and two large trunks of which she was the mistress, as well as
an oilskin-covered box of some size, if not absolutely seized, were
so placed that their owner had no access to them. This state of
things, however, did not seem to give the suspected girl any
uneasiness; she was content with what a carpet-bag contained,
and with which she said she was comfortable. It was a question
with the wiseacres whether she knew that she was suspected or
not.

Had Dunscomb yielded to McBrain's solicitations, he would

have gone at once to the house in which Mary Monson was now
lodged, but he preferred adopting a different course. He thought
it the most prudent to be a looker-on, until after the next examination,
which was now close at hand. Wary by long habit, and
cool by temperament, he was disposed to observe the state of
things before he committed himself. The presence of the reporters
annoyed him; not that he stood in any dread of the low
tyranny that is so apt to characterize this class of men, for no
member of the bar had held them, and the puny efforts of many
among them to build up and take away professional character, in
greater contempt than he had done; but he disliked to have his
name mixed up with a cause of this magnitude, unless he had
made up his mind to go through with it. In this temper, then,
no communication was held with Mary Monson, until they met,
at the hour appointed for the inquest, in the court-house.

The room was crowded, at least twice as many having collected
on this occasion as had got together on the sudden call of the
previous examination. Dunscomb observed that the coroner
looked grave, like a man who felt he had important business on
his hands, while a stern expectation was the expression common
to nearly all the others present. He was an utter stranger, himself,
even by sight, to every being present, his own party and
two or three of the reporters excepted. These last no sooner
observed him, however, than out came their little note-books, and
the gold pens were at work, scribbling something. It was probably
a sentence to say, “we observed among the crowd Thomas
Dunscomb, Esquire, the well-known counsel from the city;” but
Dunscomb cared very little for such vulgarisms, and continued
passive.

As soon as the inquest was organized, the coroner directed a
physician of the neighbourhood to be put on the stand. It had
gone forth that a “city doctor” had intimated that neither of the
skeletons was that of Peter Goodwin, and there was a common

wish to confront him with a high country authority. It was
while the medical man now in request was sent for, that McBrain
pointed out to Dunscomb the person of Mary Monson. She sat
in a corner different from that she had occupied the day before,
seemingly for the same purpose, or that of being alone. Alone
she was not, strictly, however; a respectable-looking female, of
middle age, being at her side. This was a Mrs. Jones, the wife
of a clergyman, who had charitably offered the suspected young
stranger a home under her own roof, pending the investigation.
It was thought, generally, that Mary Monson had but very vague
notions of the distrust that rested on her, it being a part of the
plan of those who were exercising all their wits to detect the
criminal, that she was first to learn this fact in open court, and
under circumstances likely to elicit some proofs of guilt. When
Dunscomb learned this artifice, he saw how ungenerous and unmanly
it was, readily imagined a dozen signs of weakness that a
female might exhibit in such a strait, that had no real connection
with crime, and felt a strong disposition to seek an interview, and
put the suspected party on her guard. It was too late for this,
however, just then; and he contented himself, for the moment,
with studying such signs of character and consciousness as his
native sagacity and long experience enabled him to detect.

Although nothing could be more simple or unpretending than
the attire of Mary Monson, it was clearly that of a lady. Everything
about her denoted that station, or origin; though everything
about her, as Dunscomb fancied, also denoted a desire to bring
herself down, as nearly as possible, to the level of those around
her, most probably that she might not attract particular attention.
Our lawyer did not exactly like this slight proof of management,
and wished it were not so apparent. He could see the hands,
feet, figure, hair, and general air of the female he was so strangely
called on to make the subject of his investigations, but he could
not yet see her face. The last was again covered with a cambric

handkerchief, the hand which held it being ungloved. It was a
pretty little American hand; white, well-proportioned, and delicate.
It was clear, that neither its proportions nor its colour had
been changed by uses unsuited to its owner's sex or years. But
it had no ring, in this age of be-jewelled fingers. It was the left
hand, moreover, and the fourth finger, like all the rest, had no
ornament, or sign of matrimony. He inferred from this, that the
stranger was unmarried; one of the last things that a wife usually
lays aside being her wedding-ring. The foot corresponded with
the hand, and was decidedly the smallest, best-formed, and best-decorated
foot in Biberry. John Wilmeter thought it the
prettiest he had ever seen. It was not studiously exhibited,
however, but rested naturally and gracefully in its proper place.
The figure generally, so far as a capacious shawl would allow of
its being seen, was pleasing, graceful, and a little remarkable for
accuracy of proportions, as well as of attire.

Once or twice Mrs. Jones spoke to her companion; and it was
when answering some question thus put, that Dunscomb first got
a glimpse of his intended client's face. The handkerchief was
partly removed, and remained so long enough to enable him to
make a few brief observations. It was then that he felt the perfect
justice of his friend's description. It was an indescribable
countenance, in all things but its effect; which was quite as
marked on the lawyer, as it had been on the physician. But the
arrival of Dr. Coe put an end to these observations, and drew all
eyes on that individual, who was immediately sworn. The customary
preliminary questions were put to this witness, respecting
his profession, length of practice, residence, &c., when the examination
turned more on the matter immediately under investigation.

“You see those objects on the table, doctor?” said the coroner.
“What do you say they are?”

“Ossa hominum, human bones, much defaced and charred
by heat.”

“Do you find any proof about them of violence committed,
beyond the damage done by fire?”

“Certainly. There is the os frontis of each fractured by a
blow; a common blow, as I should judge.”

“What do you mean, sir, by a common blow? An accidental,
or an intentional blow?”

“By common blow, I mean that one blow did the damage to
both cranys.”

“Crany? — how do you spell that word, doctor? Common
folks get put out by foreign tongues.”

“Cranys, in the plural, sir. We say cranium, for one skull, and
crany, for two.”

“I wonder what he would say for numskull?” whispered John
to Michael.

“Yes, sir; I understand you, now. I trust the reporters will
get it right.”

“Oh! they never make any mistakes, especially in legal proceedings,”
quietly remarked Mr. Dunscomb to the doctor. “In
matters of law and the constitution, they are of proof! Talk of
letters on the constitution! What are equal to those that come
to us, hibernally, as one may say, from Washington?”

“Hibernially would be the better word,” answered McBrain,
in the same under tone.

“You ought to know; your grandfather was an Irishman,
Ned. But listen to this examination.”

“And now, Dr. Coe, have the goodness to look at these skeletons,”
resumed the coroner, “and tell us whether they belong to
man, woman, or child. Whether they are the remains of adults,
or of children.”

“Of adults, certainly. On that point, sir, I conceive there can
be no doubt.”

“And as to the sex?”

“I should think that is equally clear. I have no doubt that

one are the remains of Peter Goodwin, and the other those of
his wife. Science can distinguish between the sexes, in ordinary
cases, I allow; but this is a case in which science is at fault, for
want of facts; and taking all the known circumstances into consideration,
I have no hesitation in saying that, according to my
best judgment, those are the remains of the missing man and
woman — man and wife.”

“Am I to understand that you recognize the particular skeletons
by any outward, visible proofs?”

“Yes; there is the stature. Both of the deceased were well
known to me; and I should say, that making the usual allowance
for the absence of the musculi, the pellis, and other known substances_____

“Doctor, would it be just as agreeable to you to use the common
dialect?” demanded a shrewd-looking farmer, one of the
jury, who appeared equally amused and vexed at this display of
learning.

“Certainly, sir—certainly, Mr. Blore; musculi means muscles, and pellis is the skin. Abstract the muscles and skin, and the
other intermediate substances, from the bones, and the apparent
stature would be reduced, as a matter of course. Making those
allowances, I see in those skeletons the remains of Peter and
Dorothy Goodwin. Of the fact, I entertain no manner of doubt.”

As Dr. Coe was very sincere in what he said, he expressed
himself somewhat earnestly. A great many eyes were turned
trinmphantly towards the stranger who had presumed to intimate
that the bones of both the remains were those of women, when
everybody in and about Biberry knew Peter Goodwin so well,
and knew that his wife, if anything, was the taller of the two.
No one in all that crowd doubted as to the fact, except McBrain
and his friend; and the last doubted altogether on the faith of
the doctor's science. He had never known him mistaken, though
often examined in court, and was aware that the bar considered

him one of the safest and surest witnesses they could employ in
all cases of controverted facts.

Dr. Coe's examination proceeded.

“Have you a direct knowledge of any of the circumstances
connected with this fire?” demanded the coroner.

“A little, perhaps. I was called to visit a patient about midnight,
and was obliged to pass directly before the door of Goodwin's
house. The jury knows that it stood on a retired road, and
that one would not be likely to meet with any person travelling
it, so early in the morning. I did pass, however, two men, who
were walking very fast, and in the direction of Goodwin's. I
could not see their faces, nor did I know them by their figures
and movements. As I see everybody, and know almost everybody,
hereabouts, I concluded they were strangers. About four,
I was on my return along the same road, and as my sulky rose
to the top of Windy Hill, I got a view of Goodwin's house.
The flames were just streaming out of the east end of the roof,
and the little wing on that end of the building, in which the old
folks slept, was in a bright blaze. The other end was not much
injured; and I saw at an upper window the figure of a female—
she resembled, as well as I could judge by that light, and at that
distance, the young lady now present, and who is said to have
occupied the chamber under the roof, in the old house, for some
time past; though I can't say I have ever seen her there, unless
I saw her then, under the circumstances mentioned. The old
people could not have been as ailing this spring as was common
with them, as I do not remember to have been stopped by them
once. They never were in the habit of sending for the doctor,
but seldom let me go past the door, without calling me in.”

“Did you see any one beside the figure of the female at the
window?”

“Yes. There were two men beneath that window, and they
appeared to me to be speaking to, or holding some sort of communication

with, the female. I saw gestures, and I saw one or
two articles thrown out of the window. My view was only for a
minute; and when I reached the house, a considerable crowd had
collected, and I had no opportunity to observe, particularly in a
scene of such confusion.”

“Was the female still at the upper window, when you reached
the house?”

“No. I saw the lady now present standing near the burning
building, and held by a man—Peter Davidson, I think it was—
who told me she wanted to rush into the house to look for the
old folks.”

“Did you see any efforts of that sort in her?”

“Certainly. She struggled to get away from Peter, and acted
like a person who wished to rush into the burning building.”

“Were the struggles natural — or might they not have been
affected?”

“They might. If it was acting, it was good acting. I have
seen as good, however, in my life.”

The doctor had a meaning manner, that said more than his
words. He spoke very low—so low as not to be audible to those
who sat in the farther parts of the room; which will explain the
perfect indifference to his testimony, that was manifested by the
subject of his remarks. An impression, however, was made on
the jury, which was composed of men much disposed to push distrust
to demonstration.

The coroner now thought it time to spring the principal mine,
which had been carefully preparing during the recess in the investigation;
and he ordered “Mary Monson” to be called — a
witness who had been regularly summoned to attend, among the
crowd of persons that had received similar notices.