“And can you by no drift of conference
Get from him, why he puts on this confusion—”
_Hamlet._
There is something imaginative, if not very picturesque, in the manner
in which the lawyers of Manhattan occupy the buildings of Nassau street,
a thoroughfare which connects Wall street with the Tombs. There they
throng, resembling the remains of so many monuments along the Appian
way, with a “_siste viator_” of their own, to arrest the footsteps of
the wayfarer. We must now transfer the scene to a building in this
street, which stands about half-way between Maiden Lane and John Street,
having its front plastered over with little tin signs, like a debtor
marked by writs, or what are now called “complaints.” Among these signs,
which afforded some such pleasant reading as an almanac, was one that
bore this simple and reasonably intelligent inscription:
“Thomas Dunscomb, 2d floor, in front.”
It is somewhat singular that terms as simple as those of first floor,
second floor, &c., should not signify the same things in the language of
the mother country, and that of this land of progress and liberty.
Certain it is, nevertheless, that in American parlance, more especially
in that of Manhattan, a first floor is never up one pair of stairs, as
in London, unless indeed the flight is that by which the wearied
foot-passenger climbs the high stoop to gain an entrance into the
building. In other words, an English first floor corresponds with an
American second; and, taking that as the point of departure, the same
difference exists throughout. Tom Dunscomb’s office (or offices would be
the better term) occupied quite half of the second story of a large
double house, that had once been the habitation of some private family
of note, but which had long been abandoned to the occupation of these
ministers of the law. Into those offices it has now become our duty to
accompany one who seemed a little strange in that den of the profession,
at the very moment he was perfectly at home.
“Lawyer Dunscomb in?” demanded this person, who had a decided rustic
mien, though his dress had a sort of legal dye on it, speaking to one of
the five or six clerks who raised their heads on the stranger’s
entrance.
“In, but engaged in a consultation, I believe,” answered one who, being
paid for his services, was the working clerk of the office; most of the
others being students who get no remuneration for their time, and who
very rarely deserve it.
“I’ll wait till he is through,” returned the stranger, helping himself
coolly to a vacant chair, and taking his seat in the midst of dangers
that might have alarmed one less familiar with the snares, and quirks,
and quiddities of the law. The several clerks, after taking a good look
each at their guest, cast their eyes down on their books or foolscap,
and seemed to be engrossed with their respective occupations. Most of
the young men, members of respectable families in town, set the stranger
down for a rustic client; but the working-clerk saw at once, by a
certain self-possessed and shrewd manner, that the stranger was a
country practitioner.
In the course of the next half hour, Daniel Lord and George Wood came
out of the sanctum, attended as far as the door by Dunscomb himself.
Exchanging “good morning” with his professional friends, the last caught
a glimpse of his patient visitor, whom he immediately saluted by the
somewhat brief and familiar name of Timms, inviting him instantly, and
with earnestness, to come within the limits of the privileged. Mr. Timms
complied, entering the _sanctum_ with the air of one who had been there
before, and appearing to be in no manner overcome by the honour he
enjoyed. And now, as a faithful chronicler of events, it is here become
our painful, not to say revolting duty, to record an act on the part of
the man who was known throughout Duke’s county as ’Squire Timms, which
it will never do to overlook, since it has got to be perfectly
distinctive and characteristic of late years, not of an individual, but
of large classes who throng the bar, the desk, the steamboats, the
taverns, the streets. A thousand paragraphs have been written on the
subject of American spitting, and not one line, as we can remember, on
the subject of an equally common and still grosser offence against the
minor morals of the country, if decency in manners may be thus termed.
Our meaning will be explained more fully in the narrative of the
stranger’s immediate movements on entering the sanctum.
“Take a seat, Mr. Timms,” said Dunscomb, motioning to a chair, while he
resumed his own well-cushioned seat, and deliberately proceeded to light
a segar, not without pressing several with a species of intelligent
tenderness, between his thumb and finger. “Take a seat, sir; and take a
segar.”
Here occurred the great _tour de force_ in manners of ’Squire Timms.
Considerately turning his person quartering towards his host, and
seizing himself by the nose, much as if he had a quarrel with that
member of his face, he blowed a blast that sounded sonorously, and which
fulfilled all that it promised. Now a better mannered man than Dunscomb
it would not be easy to find. He was not particularly distinguished for
elegance of deportment, but he was perfectly well-bred. Nevertheless, he
did not flinch before this broad hint from vulgarity, but stood it
unmoved. To own the truth, so large has been the inroad from the base of
society, within the last five-and-twenty years, on the habits of those
who once exclusively dwelt together, that he had got hardened even to
_this_ innovation. The fact is not to be concealed, and, as we intend
never to touch upon the subject again, we shall say distinctly that Mr.
Timms blowed his nose with his fingers, and that, in so doing, he did
not innovate one half as much, to-day, on the usages of the Upper Ten
Thousand, as he would have done had he blowed his nose with his thumb
only, a quarter of a century since.
Dunscomb bore this infliction philosophically; and well he might, for
there was no remedy. Waiting for Timms to use his handkerchief, which
was produced somewhat tardily for such an operation, he quietly opened
the subject of their interview.
“So the grand jury has actually found a bill for murder and arson, my
nephew writes me,” Dunscomb observed, looking enquiringly at his
companion, as if really anxious for further intelligence.
“Unanimously, they tell me, Mr. Dunscomb,” answered Timms. “I understand
that only one man hesitated, and he was brought round before they came
into court. That piece of money damns our case in old Duke’s.”
“Money saves more cases than it damns, Timms; and no one knows it better
than yourself.”
“Very true, sir. Money may defy even the new code. Give me five hundred
dollars, and change the proceedings to a civil action, and I’ll carry
anything in my own county that you’ll put on the calendar, barring some
twenty or thirty jurors I could name. There _are_ about thirty men in
the county that I can do nothing with—for that matter, whom I dare not
approach.”
“How the deuce is it, Timms, that you manage your causes with so much
success? for I remember you have given me a good deal of trouble in
suits in which law and fact were both clearly enough on my side.”
“I suppose those must have been causes in which we ‘horse-shedded’ and
‘pillowed’ a good deal.”
“Horse-shedded and pillowed! Those are legal terms of which I have no
knowledge!”
“They are country phrases, sir, and country customs too, for that
matter. A man might practise a long life in town, and know nothing about
them. The Halls of Justice are not immaculate; but they can tell us
nothing of horse-shedding and pillowing. They do business in a way of
which we in the country are just as ignorant as you are of our mode.”
“Have the goodness, Timms, just to explain the meaning of your terms,
which are quite new to me. I will not swear they are not in the Code of
Practice, but they are in neither Blackstone nor Kent.”
“Horse-shedding, ’Squire Dunscomb, explains itself. In the country, most
of the jurors, witnesses, &c., have more or less to do with the
horse-sheds, if it’s only to see that their beasts are fed. Well, we
keep proper talkers there, and it must be a knotty case, indeed, into
which an ingenious hand cannot thrust a doubt or an argument. To be
frank with you, I’ve known three pretty difficult suits summed up under
a horse-shed in one day; and twice as many opened.”
“But how is this done?—do you present your arguments directly, as in
court?”
“Lord bless you, no. In court, unless the jury happen to be unusually
excellent, counsel have to pay some little regard to the testimony and
the law; but, in horse-shedding, one has no need of either. A skilful
horse-shedder, for instance, will talk a party to pieces, and not say a
word about the case. That’s the perfection of the business. It’s against
the law, you know, Mr. Dunscomb, to talk of a case before a juror—an
indictable offence—but one may make a case of a party’s general
character, of his means, his miserly qualities, or his aristocracy; and
it will be hard to get hold of the talker for any of them qualities.
Aristocracy, of late years, is a capital argument, and will suit almost
any state of facts, or any action you can bring. Only persuade the jury
that the plaintiff or defendant fancies himself better than they are,
and the verdict is certain. I got a thousand dollars in the Springer
case, solely on that ground. Aristocracy did it! It is going to do us a
great deal of harm in this murder and arson indictment.”
“But Mary Monson is no aristocrat—she is a stranger, and unknown. What
privileges does she enjoy, to render her obnoxious to the charge of
aristocracy?”
“More than will do her any good. Her aristocracy does her almost as much
harm in old Duke’s as the piece of gold. I always consider a cause as
half lost, when there is any aristocracy in it.”
“Aristocracy means exclusive political privileges in the hands of a few;
and it means nothing else. Now, what exclusive political privileges does
this unfortunate young woman enjoy? She is accused of two of the highest
crimes known to the laws; is indicted, imprisoned, and will be tried.”
“Yes, and by her _peers_,” said Timms, taking out a very
respectable-looking box, and helping himself liberally to a pinch of cut
tobacco. “It’s wonderful, ’Squire Dunscomb, how much breadth the
_peerage_ possesses in this country! I saw a trial, a year or two since,
in which one of the highest intellects of the land was one of the
parties, and in which a juror asked the judge to explain the meaning of
the word ‘bereaved.’ _That_ citizen had his rights referred to his
peers, with a vengeance!”
“Yes; the venerable maxim of the common law is, occasionally, a little
caricatured among us. This is owing to our adhering to antiquated
opinions after the facts in which they had their origin have ceased to
exist. But, by your manner of treating the subject, Timms, I infer that
you give up the aristocracy.”
“Not at all. Our client will have more risks to run on account of
_that_, than on account of any other weak spot in her case. I think we
might get along with the piece of gold, as a life is in question; but it
is not quite so easy to see how we are to get along with the
aristocracy.”
“And this in the face of her imprisonment, solitary condition,
friendless state, and utter dependence on strangers for her future fate?
I see no one feature of aristocracy to reproach her with.”
“But I see a great many, and so does the neighbourhood. It is already
getting to be the talk of half the county. In short, all are talking
about it, but they who know better. You’ll see, ’Squire Dunscomb, there
are two sorts of aristocracy in the eyes of most people; _your_ sort,
and _my_ sort. _Your_ sort is a state of society that gives privileges
and power to a few, and keeps it there. That is what I call
old-fashioned aristocracy, about which nobody cares anything in this
country. We have no such aristocrats, I allow, and consequently they
don’t signify a straw.”
“Yet they are the only true aristocrats, after all. But what, or who are
yours.”
“Well now, ’Squire, _you_ are a sort of aristocrat yourself, in a
certain way. I don’t know how it is—I’m admitted to the bar as well as
you—have just as many rights—”
“More, Timms, if leading jurors by the nose, and horse-shedding, can be
accounted rights.”
“Well, more, in some respects, may be. Notwithstanding all this, there
is a difference between us—a difference in our ways, in our language, in
our ideas, our manner of thinking and acting, that sets you up above me
in a way I should not like in any other man. As you did so much for me
when a boy, sir, and carried me through to the bar on your shoulders, as
it might be, I shall always look up to you; though I must say that I do
not always like even _your_ superiority.”
“I should be sorry, Timms, if I ever so far forget my own great defects,
as to parade unfeelingly any little advantages I may happen to possess
over you, or over any other man, in consequence of the accidents of
birth and education.”
“You do not parade them unfeelingly, sir; you do not _parade_ them at
all. Still, they will show themselves; and they are just the things I do
not like to look at. Now, what is true of me, is true of all my
neighbours. We call anything aristocracy that is a touch above us, let
it be what it may. I sometimes think ’Squire Dunscomb is a sort of an
aristocrat in the law! Now, as for our client, she has a hundred ways
with her that are not the ways of Duke’s, unless you go among the
tip-toppers.”
“The Upper Ten——”
“Pshaw! I know better than that myself, ’Squire. Their Upper Ten should
be upper one, or two, to be common sense. Rude and untaught as I was
until you took me by the hand, sir, I can tell the difference between
those who wear kids, and ride in their coaches, and those who are fit
for either. Our client has none of this, sir; and that it is which
surprises me. She has no Union Place, or Fifth Avenue, about her; but is
the true coin. There is one thing in particular that I’m afraid may do
her harm.”
“It is the true coin which usually passes with the least trouble from
hand to hand. But what is this particular source of uneasiness?”
“Why, the client has a lady-friend——”
A little exclamation from Dunscomb caused the speaker to pause, while
the counsellor removed the segar from his mouth, knocked off its ashes,
and appeared to ponder for a moment, touching the best manner of
treating a somewhat delicate subject. At length, native frankness
overcame all scruples, and he spoke plainly, or as the familiar
instructor might be expected to address a very green pupil.
“If you love me, Timms, never repeat that diabolical phrase again,” said
Dunscomb, looking quite serious, however much there might have been of
affectation in his aspect. “It is even worse than Hurlgate, which I have
told you fifty times I cannot endure. ‘Lady friend’ is infernally
vulgar, and I _will_ not stand it. You may blow your nose with your
fingers, if it give you especial satisfaction, and you may blow out
against aristocracy as much as you please; but you shall not talk to me
about ‘lady-friends’ or ‘Hurlgate.’ I am no dandy, but a respectable
elderly gentleman, who professes to speak English, and who wishes to be
addressed in his own language. Heaven knows what the country is coming
to! There is Webster, to begin with, cramming a Yankee dialect down our
throats for good English; then comes all the cant of the day,
flourishing finical phrases, and new significations to good old homely
words, and changing the very nature of mankind by means of terms. Last
of all, is this infernal Code, in which the ideas are as bad as
possible, and the terms still worse. But whom do you mean by your
‘lady-friend?’”
“The French lady that has been with our client, now, for a fortnight.
Depend on it, _she_ will do us no good when we are on. She is too
aristocratic altogether.”
Dunscomb laughed outright. Then he passed a hand across his brow, and
seemed to muse.
“All this is very serious,” he at length replied, “and is really no
laughing matter. A pretty pass are we coming to, if the administration
of the law is to be influenced by such things as these! The doctrine is
openly held that the rich shall not, ought not to embellish their
amusements at a cost that the poor cannot compass; and here we have a
member of the bar telling us a prisoner shall not have justice because
she has a foreign maid-servant!”
“A servant! Call her anything but that, ’Squire, if you wish for
success! A prisoner accused of capital crimes, with a servant, would be
certain to be condemned. Even the court would hardly stand _that_.”
“Timms, you are a shrewd, sagacious fellow, and are apt to laugh in your
sleeve at follies of this nature, as I well know from long acquaintance;
and here you insist on one of the greatest of all the absurdities.”
“Things are changed in Ameriky, Mr. Dunscomb. The people are beginning
to govern; and when they can’t do it legally, they do it without law.
Don’t you see what the papers say about having operas and play-houses at
the people’s prices, and the right to hiss? There’s Constitution for
you! I wonder what Kent and Blackstone would say to _that_?”
“Sure enough. They would find some novel features in a liberty which
says a man shall not set the price on the seats in his own theatre, and
that the hissing may be done by an audience in the _streets_. The facts
are, Timms, that all these abuses about O. P.’s, and controlling other
persons’ concerns under the pretence that the public has rights where,
as a public, it has no rights at all, come from the reaction of a
half-way liberty in other countries. Here, where the people are really
free, having all the power, and where no political right is hereditary,
the people ought, at least, to respect their own ordinances.”
“Do you not consider a theatre a public place, ’Squire Dunscomb?”
“In one sense it is, certainly; but not in the sense that bears on this
pretended power over it. The very circumstance that the audience pay for
their seats, makes it, in law as in fact, a matter of covenant. As for
this newfangled absurdity about its being a duty to furnish low-priced
seats for the poor, where they may sit and look at pretty women because
they cannot see them elsewhere, it is scarcely worth an argument. If the
rich should demand that the wives and daughters of the poor should be
paraded in the pits and galleries, for _their_ patrician eyes to feast
on, a pretty clamour there would be! If the state requires cheap
theatres, and cheap women, let the state pay for them, as it does for
its other wants; but, if these amusements are to be the object of
private speculations, let private wisdom control them. I have no respect
for one-sided liberty, let it cant as much as it may.”
“Well, I don’t know, sir; I have read some of these articles, and they
seemed to me——”
“What—convincing?”
“Perhaps not just that, ’Squire; but very _agreeable_. I’m not rich
enough to pay for a high place at an opera or a theatre; and it is
pleasant to fancy that a poor feller can get one of the best seats at
half-price. Now, in England, they tell me, the public won’t stand prices
they don’t like.”
“Individuals of the public may refuse to purchase, and there their
rights cease. An opera, in particular, is a very expensive amusement;
and in all countries where the rates of admission are low, the
governments contribute to the expenditures. This is done from policy, to
keep the people quiet, and possibly to help civilize them; but, if we
are not far beyond the necessity of any such expedients, our
institutions are nothing but a sublime mystification.”
“It is wonderful, ’Squire, how many persons see the loose side of
democracy, who have no notion of the tight! But, all this time, our
client is in gaol at Biberry, and must be tried next week. Has nothing
been done, ’Squire, to choke off the newspapers, who have something to
say about her almost every day. It’s quite time the other side should be
heard.”
“It is very extraordinary that the persons who control these papers
should be so indifferent to the rights of others as to allow such
paragraphs to find a place in their columns.”
“Indifferent! What do they care, so long as the journal sells? In our
case, however, I rather suspect that a certain reporter has taken
offence; and when men of that class get offended, look out for news of
the colour of their anger. Isn’t it wonderful, ’Squire Dunscomb, that
the people don’t see and feel that they are sustaining low tyrants, in
two-thirds of their silly clamour about the liberty of the press?”
“Many do see it; and I think this engine has lost a great deal of its
influence within the last few years. As respects proceedings in the
courts, there never will be any true liberty in the country, until the
newspapers are bound hand and foot.”
“You are right enough in one thing, ’Squire, and that is in the ground
the press has lost. It has pretty much used itself up in Duke’s; and I
would pillow and horse-shed a cause through against it, the best day it
ever saw!”
“By the way, Timms, you have not explained the pillowing process to me.”
“I should think the word itself would do that, sir. You know how it is
in the country. Half a dozen beds are put in the same room, and two in a
bed. Waal, imagine three or four jurors in one of these rooms, and two
chaps along with ’em, with instructions how to talk. The conversation is
the most innocent and nat’ral in the world; not a word too much or too
little; but it sticks like a bur. The juror is a plain, simple-minded
countryman, and swallows all that his room-mates say, and goes into the
box next day in a beautiful frame of mind to listen to reason and
evidence! No, no; give me two or three of these pillow-counsellors, and
I’ll undo all that the journals can do, in a single conversation. You’ll
remember, ’Squire, that we get the last word by this system; and if the
first blow is half the battle in war, the last word is another half in
the law. Oh! it’s a beautiful business, is this trial by jury.”
“All this is very wrong, Timms. For a long time I have known that you
have exercised an extraordinary influence over the jurors of Duke’s; but
this is the first occasion on which you have been frank enough to reveal
the process.”
“Because this is the first occasion on which we have ever had a capital
case together. In the present state of public opinion in Duke’s, I much
question whether we can get a jury empannelled in this trial at all.”
“The Supreme Court will then send us to town, by way of mending the
matter. Apropos, Timms——”
“One word if you please, ’Squire; what does _à propos_ really mean? I
hear it almost every day, but never yet knew the meaning.”
“It has shades of difference in its signification—as I just used it, it
means ‘speaking of _that_.’”
“And is it right to say à propos _to_ such a thing?”
“It is better to say à propos _of_, as the French do. In old English it
was always _to_; but in our later mode of speaking, we say ‘of.’”
“Thank you, sir. You know how I glean my knowledge in driblets; and out
in the country not always from the highest authorities. Plain and
uncouth as I know I appear to you, and to Miss Sarah, I have an ambition
to be a gentleman. Now, I have observation enough to see that it is
these little matters, after all, and not riches and fine clothes, that
make gentlemen and ladies.”
“I am glad you have so much discrimination, Timms; but, you must permit
me to remark, that you will never make a gentleman until you learn to
let your nose alone.”
“Thank you, sir—I am thankful for even the smallest hints on manners.
It’s a pity that so handsome and so agreeable a young lady should be
hanged, Mr. Dunscomb!”
“Timms, you are as shrewd a fellow, in your own way, as I know. Your law
does not amount to any great matter, nor do you take hold of the strong
points of a case very often; but you perform wonders with the weaker. In
the way of an opinion on facts, I know few men more to be relied on.
Tell me, then, frankly, what do you think of the guilt or innocence of
Mary Monson?”
Timms screwed up his mouth, passed a hand over his brow, and did not
answer for near a minute.
“Perhaps it is right, after all, that we should understand each other on
this subject,” he then said. “We are associated as counsel, and I feel
it a great honour to be so associated, ’Squire Dunscomb, I give you my
word; and it is proper that we should be as free with each other as
brothers. In the first place, then, I never saw such a client before, as
this same lady—for lady I suppose we must call her until she is
convicted——”
“Convicted!—You cannot think there is much danger of _that_, Timms?”
“We never know, sir; we never know. I have lost cases of which I was
sure, and gained them of which I had no hopes—cases which I certainly
ought not to have gained—ag’in all law and the facts.”
“Ay, that came of the horse-shed, and the sleeping of two in a bed.”
“Perhaps it did, ’Squire,” returned Timms, laughing very freely, though
without making any noise; “perhaps it did. When the small-pox is about,
there is no telling who may take it. As for this case, ’Squire Dunscomb,
it is my opinion we shall have to run for disagreements. If we can get
the juries to disagree once or twice, and can get a change of _venue_,
with a couple of charges, the deuce is in it if a man of your experience
don’t corner them so tightly, they’ll give the matter up, rather than
have any more trouble about it. After all, the state can’t gain much by
hanging a young woman that nobody knows, even if she be a little
aristocratical. We must get her to change her dress altogether, and some
of her ways too; which, in her circumstances, I call downright hanging
ways; and the sooner she is rid of them, the better.”
“I see that you do not think us very strong on the merits, Timms, which
is as much as admitting the guilt of our client. I was a good deal
inclined to suspect the worst myself; but two or three more interviews,
and what my nephew Jack Wilmeter tells me, have produced a change. I am
now strongly inclined to believe her innocent. She has some great and
secret cause of apprehension, I will allow; but I do not think these
unfortunate Goodwins have anything to do with it.”
“Waal, one never knows. The verdict, if ‘not guilty,’ will be just as
good as if she was as innocent as a child a year old. I see how the work
is to be done. All the law, and the summing up, will fall to your share;
while the outdoor work will be mine. We _may_ carry her through—though
I’m of opinion that, if we do, it will be more by means of bottom than
by means of foot. There is one thing that is very essential, sir—the
money must hold out.”
“Do you want a refresher so soon, Timms?—Jack tells me that she has
given you two hundred and fifty dollars already!”
“I acknowledge it, sir; and a very respectable fee it is—_you_ ought to
have a thousand, ’Squire.”
“I have not received a cent, nor do I mean to touch any of her money. My
feelings are in the case, and I am willing to work for nothing.”
Timms gave his old master a quick but scrutinizing glance. Dunscomb was
youthful, in all respects, for his time of life; and many a man has
loved, and married, and become the parent of a flourishing family, who
had seen all the days he had seen. That glance was to inquire if it were
possible that the uncle and nephew were likely to be rivals, and to
obtain as much knowledge as could be readily gleaned in a quick, jealous
look. But the counsellor was calm as usual, and no tinge of colour, no
sigh, no gentleness of expression, betrayed the existence of the master
passion. It was reported among the bachelor’s intimates that formerly,
when he was about five-and-twenty, he had had an affair of the heart,
which had taken such deep hold that even the lady’s marriage with
another man had not destroyed its impression. That marriage was said not
to have been happy, and was succeeded by a second, that was still less
so; though the parties were affluent, educated, and possessed all the
means that are commonly supposed to produce felicity. A single child was
the issue of the first marriage, and its birth had shortly preceded the
separation that followed. Three years later the father died, leaving the
whole of a very ample fortune to this child, coupled with the strange
request that Dunscomb, once the betrothed of her mother, should be the
trustee and guardian of the daughter. This extraordinary demand had not
been complied with, and Dunscomb had not seen any of the parties from
the time he broke with his mistress. The heiress married young, died
within the year, and left another heiress; but no further allusion to
our counsellor was made, in any of the later wills and settlements.
Once, indeed, he had been professionally consulted concerning the
devises in favour of the granddaughter—a certain Mildred Millington—who
was a second-cousin to Michael of that name, and as rich as he was poor.
For some years, a sort of vague expectation prevailed that those two
young Millingtons might marry; but a feud existed in the family, and
little or no intercourse was permitted. The early removal of the young
lady to a distant school prevented such a result; and Michael, in due
time, fell within the influence of Sarah Wilmeter’s gentleness, beauty,
and affection.
Timms came to the conclusion that his old master was not in love.
“It is very convenient to be rich, ’Squire,” this singular being
remarked; “and I dare say it may be very pleasant to practise for
nothing, when a man has his pocket full of money. I am poor, and have
particular satisfaction in a good warm fee. By the way, sir, my part of
the business requires plenty of money I do not think I can even commence
operations with less than five hundred dollars.”
Dunscomb leaned back, stretched forth an arm, drew his cheque-book from
its niche, and filled a cheque for the sum just mentioned. This he
quietly handed to Timms, without asking for any receipt; for, while he
knew that his old student and fellow-practitioner was no more to be
trusted in matters of practice than was an eel in the hand, he knew that
he was scrupulously honest in matters of account. There was not a man in
the state to whom Dunscomb would sooner confide the care of uncounted
gold, or the administration of an estate, or the payment of a legacy,
than this very individual; who, he also well knew, would not scruple to
set all the provisions of the law at naught, in order to obtain a
verdict, when his feelings were really in the case.
“There, Timms,” said the senior counsel, glancing at his draft before he
handed it to the other, in order to see that it was correct; “there is
what you ask for. Five hundred for expenses, and half as much as a fee.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope this is not gratuitous, as well as the
services?”
“It is not. There is no want of funds, and I am put in possession of
sufficient money to carry us through with credit; but it is as a
trustee, and not as a fee. This, indeed, is the most extraordinary part
of the whole affair;—to find a delicate, educated, accomplished lady,
with her pockets well lined, in such a situation!”
“Why, ’Squire,” said Timms, passing his hand down his chin, and trying
to look simple and disinterested, “I am afraid clients like ours are
often flush. I have been employed about the Tombs a good deal in my
time, and I have gin’rally found that the richest clients were the
biggest rogues.”
Dunscomb gave his companion a long and contemplative look. He saw that
Timms did not entertain quite as favourable an opinion of Mary Monson as
he did himself, or rather that he was fast getting to entertain; for his
own distrust originally was scarcely less than that of this hackneyed
dealer with human vices. A long, close, and stringent examination of all
of Timms’s facts succeeded—facts that had been gleaned by collecting
statements on the spot. Then a consultation followed, from which it
might be a little premature, just now, to raise the veil.