“From his brimstone bed at break of day,
A walking the devil is gone,
To visit his little snug farm of the earth,
And see how his stock went on.”
_Coleridge._
Dunscomb was as good as his word. Next morning he was on his way to
Biberry. He was thoughtful; had laid a bundle of papers on the front
seat of the carriage, and went his way musing and silent. Singularly
enough, his only companion was Anna Updyke, who had asked a seat in the
carriage timidly, but with an earnestness that prevailed. Had Jack
Wilmeter been at Biberry, this request would not have been made; but she
knew he was in town, and that she might make the little excursion
without the imputation of indelicacy, so far as he was concerned. Her
object will appear in the course of the narrative.
The “best tavern” in Biberry was kept by Daniel Horton. The wife of this
good man had a native propensity to talk that had been essentially
cultivated in the course of five-and-twenty years’ practice in the inn
where she had commenced her career as maid; and was now finishing it as
mistress. As is common with persons of her class, she knew hundreds of
those who frequented her house; calling each readily by name, and
treating every one with a certain degree of professional familiarity
that is far from uncommon in country inns.
“Mr. Dunscomb, I declare!” cried this woman, as she entered the room,
and found the counsellor and his companion in possession of her best
parlour. “This is a pleasure I did not expect until the circuit. It’s
quite twenty years, ’Squire, since I had the pleasure of first waiting
on you in this house. And a pleasure it has always been; for I’ve not
forgotten the ejectment suit that you carried for Horton when we was
only new-beginners. I am glad to see you, sir; welcome to Biberry, as is
this young lady, who is your daughter, I presume, Mr. Dunscomb?”
“You forget that I am a bachelor, Mrs. Horton—no marrying man, in any
sense of the word.”
“I might have known that, had I reflected a moment; for they say Mary
Monson employs none but bachelors and widowers in her case; and you are
her counsel, I know.”
“This is a peculiarity of which I was not aware. Timms is a bachelor,
certainly, as well as myself; but to whom else can you allude? Jack
Wilmeter, my nephew, can hardly be said to be employed at all; nor, for
that matter, Michael Millington; though neither is married.”
“Yes, sir; we know both of the last well, they having lodged with us. If
young Mr. Wilmeter is single, I fancy it is not his own fault”—here Mrs.
Horton looked very wise, but continued talking—“Young gentlemen of a
good appearance and handsome fortunes commonly have not much difficulty
in getting wives—not as much as young ladies; for you men make the law,
and you give your own sex the best chance, almost as a matter of
course——”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Horton,” interrupted Dunscomb, a little formally, like
one who felt great interest in the subject—“you were remarking that we
have the best chance of getting married; and here have I been a bachelor
all my life, trying in vain to enter into the happy state of
matrimony—if, indeed, it deserve to be so termed.”
“It could not be very difficult for _you_ to find a companion,” said the
landlady, shaking her head; “and for the reason I have just given.”
“Which was——?”
“That you men have made the laws and profit by them. _You_ can _ask_
whom you please; but a woman is obliged to wait to be asked.”
“You never were in a greater mistake in your life, I do assure you, my
good Mrs. Horton. There is no such law on the subject. Any woman may put
the question, as well as any man. This _was_ the law, and I don’t think
the Code has changed it.”
“Yes, I know that well enough, and get laughed at, and pointed at, for
her pains. I know that a good deal is said about leap-year; but who ever
heard of a woman’s putting the question? I fancy that even Mary Monson
would think twice before she took so bold a step once.”
“Mary Monson!” exclaimed Dunscomb, suddenly turning towards his
hostess—“Has she a reputation for being attentive to gentlemen?”
“Not that I know of; but——”
“Then allow me to say, my good Mrs. Horton,” interrupted the celebrated
counsellor, with a manner that was almost austere, “that you have been
greatly to blame in hazarding the sort of remark you did. If you _know_
nothing of the character you certainly insinuated, you should have said
nothing. It is very extraordinary that women, alive as they must be to
the consequences to one of their own sex, are ever more ready than men
to throw out careless, and frequently malicious hints, that take away a
reputation, and do a melancholy amount of harm in the world. Slander is
the least respectable, the most unchristianlike, and the most
unlady-like vice, of all the secondary sins of your sex. One would think
the danger you are all exposed to in common, would teach you greater
caution.”
“Yes, sir, that is true; but this Mary Monson is in such a pickle
already, that it is not easy to make _her_ case much worse,” answered
Mrs. Horton, a good deal frightened at the austerity of Dunscomb’s
rebuke; for his reputation was too high to render his good or bad
opinion a matter of indifference to her. “If you only knew the half that
is said of her in Duke’s, you wouldn’t mind a careless word or so about
her. Everybody thinks her guilty; and a crime, more or less, can be of
no great matter to the likes of _her_.”
“Ah, Mrs. Horton, these careless words do a vast deal of harm. They
insinuate away a reputation in a breath; and my experience has taught me
that they who are the most apt to use them, are persons whose own
conduct will least bear the light. Women with a whole log-heap of beams
in their own eyes, are remarkable for discovering motes. Give me the
female who floats along quietly in her sphere, unoffending and
charitable, wishing for the best, and as difficult to be brought to
_think_ as to _do_ evil. But, they talk a good deal against my client,
do they?”
“More than I have ever known folks talk against any indicted person, man
or woman. The prize-fighters, who were in for murder, had a pretty hard
time of it; but nothing to Mary Monson’s. In short, until ’Squire Timms
came out in her favour, she had no chance at all.”
“This is not very encouraging, certainly—but what is said, Mrs. Horton,
if you will suffer me to put the question?”
“Why, ’Squire Dunscomb,” answered the woman, pursing up a very pretty
American mouth of her own, “a body is never sure that you won’t call
what she says slander——”
“Poh—poh—you know me better than that. I never meddle with that vile
class of suits. I am employed to defend Mary Monson, you know——”
“Yes, and are well paid for it too, ’Squire Dunscomb, if all that a body
hears is true,” interrupted Mrs. Horton, a little spitefully. “Five
thousand dollars, they say, to a cent!”
Dunscomb, who was working literally without other reward than the
consciousness of doing his duty, smiled, while he frowned at this fresh
instance of the absurdities into which rumour can lead its votaries.
Bowing a little apology, he coolly lighted a segar, and proceeded.
“Where is it supposed that Mary Monson can find such large sums to
bestow, Mrs. Horton?” he quietly asked, when his segar was properly
lighted. “It is not usual for young and friendless women to have pockets
so well lined.”
“Nor is it usual for young women to rob and murder old ones, ’Squire.”
“Was Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking thought to be large enough to hold sums
like that you have mentioned?”
“Nobody knows. Gold takes but little room, as witness Californy. There
was General Wilton—every one thought him rich as Cæsar——”
“Do you not mean Crœsus, Mrs. Horton?”
“Well, Cæsar or Crœsus; both were rich, I do suppose, and General Wilton
was thought the equal of either; but, when he died, his estate wouldn’t
pay his debts. On the other hand, old Davy Davidson was set down by
nobody at more than twenty thousand, and he left ten times that much
money. So I say nobody knows. Mrs. Goodwin was always a saving woman,
though Peter would make the dollars fly, if he could get at them. There
was certainly a weak spot in Peter, though known to but a very few.”
Dunscomb now listened attentively. Every fact of this nature was of
importance just then; and nothing could be said of the murdered couple
that would not induce all engaged in the cause to prick up their ears.
“I have always understood that Peter Goodwin was a very respectable sort
of a man,” observed Dunscomb, with a profound knowledge of human nature,
which was far more likely to induce the woman to be communicative, in
the way of opposition, than by any other process—“as respectable a man
as any about here.”
“So he might be, but he had his weak points as well as other respectable
men; though, as I have said already, his’n wasn’t generally known.
Everybody is respectable, I suppose, until they’re found out. But Peter
is dead and gone, and I have no wish to disturb his grave, which I
believe to be a sinful act.”
This sounded still more ominously, and it greatly increased Dunscomb’s
desire to learn more. Still he saw that great caution must be used, Mrs.
Horton choosing to affect much tenderness for her deceased neighbour’s
character. The counsellor knew human nature well enough to be aware that
indifference was sometimes as good a stimulant as opposition; and he now
thought it expedient to try the virtue of that quality. Without making
any immediate answer, therefore, he desired the attentive and anxious
Anna Updyke to perform some little office for him; thus managing to get
her out of the room, while the hostess stayed behind. Then his segar did
not quite suit him, and he tried another, making divers little delays
that set the landlady on the tenter-hooks of impatience.
“Yes, Peter is gone—dead and buried—and I hope the sod lies lightly on
his remains!” she said, sighing ostentatiously.
“Therein you are mistaken, Mrs. Horton,” the counsellor coolly
remarked—“the remains of neither of those found in the ruins of the
house are under ground yet; but are kept for the trial.”
“What a time we shall have of it!—so exciting and full of mystery!”
“And you might add ‘custom,’ Mrs. Horton. The reporters alone, who will
certainly come from town like an inroad of Cossacks, will fill your
house.”
“Yes, and themselves too. To be honest with you, ’Squire Dunscomb, too
many of those gentry wish to be kept for nothing to make them pleasant
boarders. I dare say, however, we shall be full enough next week. I
sometimes wish there was no such thing as justice, after a hard-working
Oyer and Terminer court.”
“You should be under no concern, my good Mrs. Horton, on that subject.
There is really so little of the thing you have mentioned, that no
reasonable woman need make herself unhappy about it. So Peter Goodwin
was a faultless man, was he?”
“As far from it as possible, if the truth was said of him; and seeing
the man is not absolutely under ground, I do not know why it may not be
told. I can respect the grave, as well as another; but, as he is not
buried, one may tell the truth. Peter Goodwin was, by no means, the man
he seemed to be.”
“In what particular did he fail, my good Mrs. Horton?”
To be _good_ in Dunscomb’s eyes, the landlady well knew, was a great
honour; and she was flattered as much by the manner in which the words
were uttered, as by their import. Woman-like, Mrs. Horton was overcome
by this little bit of homage; and she felt disposed to give up a secret
which, to do her justice, had been religiously kept now for some ten or
twelve years between herself and her husband. As she and the counsel
were alone, dropping her voice a little, more for the sake of
appearances than for any sufficient reason, the landlady proceeded.
“Why, you must know, ’Squire Dunscomb, that Peter Goodwin was a member
of meetin’, and a professing Christian, which I suppose was all the
better for him, seeing that he was to be murdered.”
“And do you consider his being a ‘professing Christian,’ as you call it,
a circumstance to be concealed?”
“Not at all, sir—but I consider it a good reason why the facts I am
about to tell you, ought not to be generally known. Scoffers abound; and
I take it that the feelings of a believer ought to be treated more
tenderly than those of an unbeliever, for the church’s sake.”
“That is a fashion of the times too—one of the ways of the hour, whether
it is to last or not. But, proceed if you please, my good Mrs. Horton; I
am quite curious to know by what particular sin Satan managed to
overcome this ‘professing Christian?’”
“He drank, ’Squire Dunscomb—no, he _guzzled_, for that is the best word.
You must know that Dolly was avarice itself—that’s the reason she took
this Mary Monson in to board, though her house was no ways suited for
boarders, standing out of the way, with only one small spare bed-room,
and that under the roof. Had she let this stranger woman come to one of
the regular houses, as she might have done, and been far better
accommodated than it was possible for her to be in a garret, it is not
likely she would have been murdered. She lost her life, as I tell
Horton, for meddling with other people’s business.”
“If such were the regular and inevitable punishment of that particular
offence, my good landlady, there would be a great dearth of ladies,”
said Tom Dunscomb, a little drily—“but, you were remarking that Peter
Goodwin, the member of meeting, and Mary Monson’s supposed victim, had a
weakness in favour of strong liquor?”
“Juleps were his choice—I’ve heard of a part of the country, somewhere
about Virginny, I believe it is, where tee-totallers make an exception
in favour of juleps—it may do _there_, Squire Dunscomb, but it won’t do
_here_. No liquor undoes a body, in this part of the country, sooner
than mint juleps. I will find you ten constitutions that can hold out
ag’in brandy, or plain grog, or even grog, beer and cider, all three
together, where you can find me one that will hold out ag’in juleps. I
always set down a reg’lar julep fancier as a case—that is, in this part
of the country.”
“Very true, my good landlady, and very sensible and just. I consider you
a sensible and just woman, whose mind has been enlarged by an extensive
acquaintance with human nature——”
“A body does pick up a good deal in and around a bar, ’Squire Dunscomb!”
“Pick up, indeed—I’ve known ’em picked up by the dozen myself. And Peter
_would_ take the juleps?”
“Awfully fond of them! He no more dared to take one at home, however,
than he dared to go and ask Minister Watch to make him one. No, he
know’d better where the right sort of article was to be had, and always
came down to our house when he was dry. Horton mixes stiff, or we should
have been a good deal better off in the world than we are—not that we’re
mis’rable, as it is. But Horton takes it strong himself, and he mixes
strong for others. Peter soon found this out, and he fancied his juleps
more, as he has often told me himself, than the juleps of the great
Bowery-man, who has a name for ’em, far and near. Horton _can_ mix a
julep, if he can do nothing else.”
“And Peter Goodwin was in the habit of frequenting your house privately,
to indulge this propensity.”
“I’m almost ashamed to own that he did—perhaps it was sinful in us to
let him; but a body must carry out the idee of trade—our trade is
tavern-keeping, and it’s our business to mix liquors, though Minister
Watch says, almost every Sabbath, that professors should do nothing out
of sight that they wouldn’t do before the whole congregation. I don’t
hold to that, however; for it would soon break up tavern-keeping
altogether. Yes, Peter did drink awfully, in a corner.”
“To intoxication, do you mean, Mrs. Horton?”
“To delirrum tremus, sir—yes, full up to that. His way was to come down
to the village on the pretence of business, and to come right to our
house, where I’ve known him to take three juleps in the first half-hour.
Sometimes he’d pretend to go to town to see his sister, when he would
stay two or three days upstairs in a room that Horton keeps for what he
calls his _cases_—he has given the room the name of his
_ward_—hospital-ward he means.”
“Is the worthy Mr. Horton a member of the meeting also, my good
landlady?”
Mrs. Horton had the grace to colour; but she answered without
stammering, habit fortifying us in moral discrepancies much more serious
than even this.
“He was, and I don’t know but I may say he is yet; though he hasn’t
attended, now, for more than two years. The question got to be between
meetin’ and the bar; and the bar carried the day, so far as Horton is
concerned. I’ve held out better, I hope, and expect to gain a victory.
It’s quite enough to have one backslider in a family, I tell my husband,
’Squire.”
“A sufficient supply, ma’am—quite a sufficiency. So Peter Goodwin lay in
your house drunk, days at a time?”
“I’m sorry to say he did. He was here a week once, with delirrum tremus
on him; but Horton carried him through by the use of juleps; for
_that_’s the time to take ’em, everybody says; and we got him home
without old Dolly’s knowing that he hadn’t been with his sister the
whole time. That turn satisfied Peter for three good months.”
“Did Peter pay as he went, or did you keep a score?”
“Ready money, sir. Catch us keeping an account with a man when his wife
ruled the roast! No, Peter paid like a king, for every mouthful he
swallowed.”
“I am far from certain that the comparison is a good one, kings being in
no degree remarkable for paying their debts. But, is it not possible
that Peter may have set his own house on fire, and thus have caused all
this calamity, for which my client is held responsible?”
“I’ve thought that over a good deal since the murder, ’Squire, but don’t
well see how it can be made out. Setting the building on fire is simple
enough; but who killed the old couple, and who robbed the house, unless
this Mary Monson did both?”
“The case has its difficulties, no doubt; but I have known the day to
dawn after a darker night than this. I believe that Mrs. Goodwin and her
husband were very nearly of the same height?”
“Exactly; I’ve seen them measure, back to back. He was a very short man,
and she a very tall woman!”
“Do you know anything of a German female who is said to have lived with
the unfortunate couple?”
“There has been some talk of such a person since the fire; but Dolly
Goodwin kept no help. She was too stingy for that; then she had no need
of it, being very strong and stirring for her time of life.”
“Might not a boarder, like Miss Monson, have induced her to take this
foreigner into her family for a few weeks? The nearest neighbours, those
who would be most likely to know all about it, say that no wages were
given; the woman working for her food and lodging.”
“’Squire Dunscomb, you’ll never make it out that any German killed Peter
and his wife.”
“Perhaps not; though even that is possible. Such, however, is not the
object of my present enquiries—but, here comes my associate counsel, and
I will take another occasion to continue this conversation, my good Mrs.
Horton.”
Timms entered with a hurried air. For the first time in his life he
appeared to his associate and old master to be agitated. Cold,
calculating, and cunning, this man seldom permitted himself to be so
much thrown off his guard as to betray emotion; but now he actually did.
There was a tremor in his form that extended to his voice; and he seemed
afraid to trust the latter even in the customary salutations. Nodding
his head, he drew a chair and took his seat.
“You have been to the gaol?” asked Dunscomb.
A nod was the answer.
“You were admitted, and had an interview with our client?”
Nod the third was the only reply.
“Did you put the questions to her, as I desired?”
“I did, sir; but I would sooner cross-examine all Duke’s, than undertake
to get anything she does not wish to tell, out of that one young lady!”
“I fancy most young ladies have a faculty for keeping such matters to
themselves as they do not wish to reveal. Am I to understand that you
got no answers?”
“I really do not know, ’Squire. She was polite, and obliging, and
smiling—but, somehow or other, I do not recollect her replies.”
“You must be falling in love, Timms, to return with such an account,”
retorted Dunscomb, a cold but very sarcastic smile passing over his
face. “Have a care, sir; ’tis a passion that makes a fool of a man
sooner than any other. I do not think there is much danger of the lady’s
returning your flame; unless, indeed, you can manage to make her
acquittal a condition of the match.”
“I am afraid—dreadfully afraid, her acquittal will be a very desperate
affair,” answered Timms, passing his hands down his face, as if to wipe
away his weakness. “The deeper I get into the matter, the worse it
appears!”
“Have you given our client any intimation to this effect?”
“I hadn’t the heart to do it. She is just as composed, and calm, and
tranquil, and judicious—yes, and ingenious, as if _she_ were only the
counsel in this affair of life and death! I couldn’t distrust so much
tranquillity. I wish I knew her history!”
“My interrogatories pointed out the absolute necessity of her furnishing
us with the means of enlightening the court and jury on that most
material point, should the worst come to the worst.”
“I know they did, sir; but they no more got at the truth than my own
pressing questions. I should like to see that lady on the stand, above
all things! I think she would bother saucy Williams, and fairly put him
out of countenance. By the way, sir, I hear he is employed against us by
the nephew, who is quite furious about the loss of the money, which he
pretends was a much larger sum than the neighbourhood has commonly
supposed.”
“I have always thought the relations would employ some one to assist the
public prosecutor in a case of this magnitude. The theory of our
government is that the public virtue will see the laws executed; but, in
my experience, Timms, this public virtue is a very acquiescent and
indifferent quality, seldom troubling itself even to abate a nuisance,
until its own nose is offended, or its own pocket damaged.”
“Roguery is always more active than honesty—I found that out long since,
’Squire. But, it is nat’ral for a public prosecutor not to press one on
trial for life, and the accused a woman, closer than circumstances seem
to demand. It is true, that popular feeling is strong ag’in Mary Monson;
but it was well in the nephew to fee such a bull-dog as Williams, if he
wishes to make a clean sweep of it.”
“Does our client know this?”
“Certainly; she seems to know all about her case, and has a strange
pleasure in entering into the mode and manner of her defence. It would
do your heart good, sir, to see the manner in which she listens, and
advises, and consults. She’s wonderful handsome at such times!”
“You are in love, Timms; and I shall have to engage some other
assistant. First Jack, and then you! Umph! This is a strange world, of a
verity.”
“I don’t think it’s quite as bad with me as that,” said Timms, this time
rubbing his shaggy eye-brows as if to ascertain whether or not he were
dreaming, “though I must own I do not feel precisely as I did a month
since. I wish you would see our client yourself, sir, and make her
understand how important it is to her interest that we should know
something of her past history.”
“Do you think her name is rightfully set forth in the indictment?”
“By no means—but, as she has called herself Mary Monson, she cannot
avail herself of her own acts.”
“Certainly not—I asked merely as a matter of information. She must be
made to feel the necessity of fortifying us on that particular point,
else it will go far towards convicting her. Jurors do not like aliases.”
“She knows this already; for I have laid the matter before her, again
and again. Nothing seems to move her, however; and as to apprehension,
she appears to be above all fear.”
“This is most extraordinary!—Have you interrogated the maid?”
“How can I? She speaks no English; and I can’t utter a syllable in any
foreign tongue.”
“Ha! Does she pretend to that much ignorance? Marie Moulin speaks very
intelligible English, as I know from having conversed with her often.
She is a clever, prudent Swiss, from one of the French cantons, and is
known for her fidelity and trustworthiness. With me she will hardly
venture to practise this deception. If she has feigned ignorance of
English, it was in order to keep her secrets.”
Timms admitted the probability of its being so; then he entered into a
longer and more minute detail of the state of the case. In the first
place, he admitted that, in spite of all his own efforts to the
contrary, the popular feeling was setting strong against their client.
“Frank Williams,” as he called the saucy person who bore that name, had
entered into the struggle might and main, and was making his customary
impressions.
“His fees must be liberal,” continued Timms, “and I should think are in
some way dependent on the result; for I never saw the fellow more
engaged in my life.”
“This precious Code does allow such a bargain to be made between the
counsel and his client, or any other bargain that is not downright
conspiracy,” returned Dunscomb; “but I do not see what is to be shared,
even should Mary Monson be hanged.”
“Do not speak in that manner of so agreeable a person,” cried Timms,
actually manifesting emotion—“it is unpleasant to think of. It is true,
a conviction will not bring money to the prosecution, unless it should
bring to light some of Mrs. Goodwin’s hoards.”
Dunscomb shrugged his shoulders, and his associate proceeded with his
narrative. Two of the reporters were offended, and their allusions to
the cause, which were almost daily in their respective journals, were
ill-natured, and calculated to do great harm, though so far covered as
to wear an air of seeming candour. The natural effect of this “constant
dropping,” in a community accustomed to refer everything to the common
mind, had been “to wear away the stone.” Many of those who, at first,
had been disposed to sustain the accused, unwilling to believe that one
so young, so educated, so modest in deportment, so engaging in manners,
and of the gentler sex, could possibly be guilty of the crimes imputed,
were now changing their opinions, under the control of this potent and
sinister mode of working on the public sentiment. The agents employed by
Timms to counteract this malign influence had failed of their object;
they working merely for money, while those of the other side were
resenting what they regarded as an affront.
The family of the Burtons, the nearest neighbours of the Goodwins, no
longer received Timms with the frank cordiality that they had manifested
in the earlier period of his intercourse with them. Then, they had been
communicative, eager to tell all that they knew, and, as the lawyer
fancied, even a little more; while they were now reserved, uneasy, and
indisposed to let one-half of the real facts within their knowledge be
known. Timms thought they had been worked upon, and that they might
expect some hostile and important testimony from that quarter. The
consultation ended by an exclamation from Dunscomb on the subject of the
abuses that were so fast creeping into the administration of justice,
rendering the boasted freemen of America, though in a different mode,
little more likely to receive its benefit from an unpolluted stream,
than they who live under the worn out and confessedly corrupt systems of
the old world. Such is the tendency of things, and such one of the ways
of the hour.