“I know it is dreadful! I feel the
Anguish of thy generous soul—but I was born
To murder all who love me.”
_George Barnwell._
Dunscomb was followed to his room by Millington, between whom and
himself, John Wilmeter had occasion to remark, a sudden intimacy had
sprung up. The counsellor had always liked his student, or he would
never have consented to give him his niece; but it was not usual for him
to hold as long, or seemingly as confidential conversations with the
young man, as now proved to be the case. When the interview was over,
Millington mounted a horse and galloped off, in the direction of town,
in that almost exploded manner of moving. Time was, and that within the
memory of man, when the gentlemen of New York were in their saddles
hours each day; but all this is changing with the times. We live in an
age of buggies, the gig, phaeton, and curricle having disappeared, and
the utilitarian vehicle just named having taken their places. Were it
not for the women, who still have occasion for closer carriages, the
whole nation would soon be riding about in buggies! Beresford is made,
by one of his annotators, to complain that everything like individuality
is becoming lost in England, and that the progress of great improvements
must be checked, or independent thinkers will shortly be out of the
question. If this be true of England, what might not be said on the same
subject of America? Here, where there is so much community as to have
completely engulphed everything like individual thought and action, we
take it the most imitative people on earth are to be found. This truth
is manifested in a thousand things. Every town is getting its Broadway,
thus defeating the very object of names; to-day the country is dotted
with Grecian temples, to-morrow with Gothic villages, all the purposes
of domestic architecture being sadly forgotten in each; and, as one of
the Spensers is said to have introduced the article of dress which bears
his name, by betting he could set the fashion of cutting off the skirts
of the coat, so might one who is looked up to, in this country, almost
set the fashion of cutting off the nose.
Dunscomb, however, was a perfectly original thinker. This he manifested
in his private life, as well as in his public profession. His opinions
were formed in his own way, and his acts were as much those of the
individual as circumstances would at all allow. His motives in
despatching Millington so suddenly to town were known to himself, and
will probably be shown to the reader, as the narrative proceeds.
“Well, sir, how are we getting on?” asked John Wilmeter, throwing
himself into a chair, in his uncle’s room, with a heated and excited
air. “I hope things are going to your mind?”
“We have got a jury, Jack, and that is all that can be said in the
matter,” returned the uncle, looking over some papers as the
conversation proceeded. “It is good progress, in a capital case, to get
a jury empannelled in the first forenoon.”
“You’ll have the verdict in, by this time to-morrow, sir, I’m afraid!”
“Why afraid, boy? The sooner the poor woman is acquitted, the better
will it be for _her_.”
“Ay, if she be acquitted; but I fear everything is looking dark, in the
case.”
“And this from _you_, who fancied the accused an angel of light, only a
week since!”
“She is certainly a most fascinating creature, _when she chooses to
be_,” said John, with emphasis; “but she does not always choose to
appear in that character.”
“She is most certainly a fascinating creature, _when she chooses to
be_!” returned the uncle, with very much the same sort of emphasis.
But Dunscomb’s manner was very different from that of his nephew. John
was excited, petulant, irritable, and in a state to feel and say
disagreeable things; dissatisfied with himself, and consequently not
very well pleased with others. A great change had come over his
feelings, truly, within the last week, and the image of the gentle Anna
Updyke was fast taking the place of that of Mary Monson. As the latter
seldom saw the young man, and then only at the grate, the former had got
to be the means of communication between the youthful advocate and his
client, throwing them constantly in each other’s way. On such occasions
Anna was always so truthful, so gentle, so earnest, so natural, and so
sweetly feminine, that John must have been made of stone, to remain
insensible of her excellent qualities. If women did but know how much
their power, not to say charms, are increased by gentleness, by
tenderness in lieu of coldness of manner, by keeping within the natural
circle of their sex’s feelings, instead of aping an independence and
spirit more suited to men than to their own condition, we should see
less of discord in domestic life, happier wives, better mothers, and
more reasonable mistresses. No one knew this better than Dunscomb, who
had not been an indifferent spectator of his nephew’s course, and who
fancied this a favourable moment to say a word to him, on a subject that
he felt to be important.
“This _choosing_ to be is a very material item in the female character,”
continued the counsellor, after a moment of silent and profound thought.
“Whatever else you may do, my boy, in the way of matrimony, marry a
gentle and feminine woman. Take my word for it, there is no true
happiness with any other.”
“Women have their tastes and caprices, and like to indulge them, sir, as
well as ourselves.”
“All that may be true, but avoid what is termed a woman of independent
spirit. They are usually so many devils incarnate. If they happen to
unite moneyed independence with moral independence, I am not quite
certain that their tyranny is not worse than that of Nero. A tyrannical
woman is worse than a tyrannical man, because she is apt to be
capricious. At one moment she will blow hot, at the next cold; at one
time she will give, at the next clutch back her gifts; to-day she is the
devoted and obedient wife, to-morrow the domineering partner. No, no,
Jack, marry a _woman_; which means a kind, gentle, affectionate,
thoughtful creature, whose heart is so full of _you_, there is no room
in it for herself. Marry just such a girl as Anna Updyke, if you can get
her.”
“I thank you, sir,” answered John, colouring. “I dare say the advice is
good, and I shall bear it in mind. What would you think of a woman like
Mary Monson, for a wife?”
Dunscomb turned a vacant look at his nephew, as if his thoughts were far
away, and his chin dropped on his bosom. This abstraction lasted but a
minute, however when the young man got his answer.
“Mary Monson _is_ a wife, and I fear a bad one,” returned the
counsellor. “If she be the woman I suppose her to be, her history, brief
as it is, is a very lamentable one. John, you are my sister’s son, and
my heir. You are nearer to me than any other human being, in one sense,
though I certainly love Sarah quite as well as I do you, if not a little
better. These ties of feeling are strange links in our nature! At one
time I loved your mother with a tenderness such as a father might feel
for a child; in short, with a brother’s love—a brother’s love for a
young, and pretty, and good girl, and I thought I could never love
another as I loved Elizabeth. She returned my affection, and there was a
period of many years when it was supposed that we were to pass down the
vale of life in company, as brother and sister—old bachelor and old
maid. Your father deranged all this, and at thirty-four my sister left
me. It was like pulling my heart-strings out of me, and so much the
worse, boy, because they were already sore.”
John started. His uncle spoke hoarsely, and a shudder, that was so
violent as to be perceptible to his companion, passed through his frame.
The cheeks of the counsellor were usually colourless; now they appeared
absolutely pallid.
“This, then,” thought John Wilmeter, “is the insensible old bachelor,
who was thought to live altogether for himself. How little does the
world really know of what is passing within it! Well may it be said,
‘here is a skeleton in every house.’”
Dunscomb soon recovered his self-command. Reaching forth an arm, he took
his nephew’s hand, and said affectionately—
“I am not often thus, Jack, as you must know. A vivid recollection of
days that have long been past came freshly over me, and I believe I have
been a little unmanned. To you, my early history is a blank; but a very
few words will serve to tell all you need ever know. I was about your
time of life, Jack, when I loved, courted, and became engaged to Mary
Millington—Michael’s great-aunt. Is this new to you?”
“Not entirely, sir; Sarah has told me something of the same sort—you
know the girls get hold of family anecdotes sooner than we men.”
“She then probably told you that I was cruelly, heartlessly jilted, for
a richer man. Mary married, and left one daughter; who also married
early, her own cousin, Frank Millington, the cousin of Michael’s father.
You may now see why I have ever felt so much interest in your future
brother-in-law.”
“_He_ is a good fellow, and quite free from all jilting blood, I’ll
answer for it. But, what has become of this Mrs. Frank Millington? I
remember no such person.”
“Like her mother, she died young, leaving an only daughter to inherit
her name and very ample fortune. The reason you never knew Mr. Frank
Millington is probably because he went to Paris early, where he educated
his daughter, in a great degree—there, and in England—and when he died,
Mildred Millington, the heiress of both parents, is said to have had
quite twenty thousand a year. Certain officious friends made a match for
her, I have heard, with a Frenchman of some family, but small means; and
the recent revolution has driven them to this country, where, as I have
been told, she took the reins of domestic government into her own hands,
until some sort of a separation has been the consequence.”
“Why, this account is surprisingly like the report we have had
concerning Mary Monson, this morning!” cried Jack, springing to his feet
with excitement.
“I believe her to be the same person. Many things unite to create this
opinion. In the first place, there is certainly a marked family
resemblance to her grandmother and mother; then the education, manners,
languages, money, Marie Moulin, and the initials of the assumed name,
each and all have their solution in this belief. The ‘Mademoiselle’ and
the ‘Madame’ of the Swiss maid are explained; in short, if we can
believe this Mary Monson to be Madame de Larocheforte, we can find an
explanation of everything that is puzzling in her antecedents.”
“But, why should a woman of twenty thousand a year be living in the
cottage of Peter Goodwin?”
“Because she _is_ a woman of twenty thousand a year. Mons. de
Larocheforte found her money was altogether at her own command, by this
new law, and, naturally enough, he desired to play something more than a
puppet’s part in his own abode and family. The lady clings to her
dollars, which she loves more than her husband; a quarrel ensues, and
she chooses to retire from his protection, and conceal herself, for a
time, under Peter Goodwin’s roof, to evade pursuit. Capricious and
wrong-headed women do a thousand strange things, and thoughtless
gabblers often sustain them in what they do.”
“This is rendering the marriage tie very slight!”
“It is treating it with contempt; setting at naught the laws of God and
man—one’s duties, and the highest obligations of woman. Still, many of
the sex fancy if they abstain from one great and distinct offence, the
whole catalogue of the remaining misdeeds is at their mercy.”
“Not to the extent of murder and arson, surely! Why should such a woman
commit these crimes?”
“One never knows. We are fearfully constituted, John; morally and
physically. The fairest form often conceals the blackest heart, and
_vice versa_. But I am now satisfied that there is a vein of insanity in
this branch of the Millingtons; and it is possible Madame de
Larocheforte is more to be pitied than to be censured.”
“You surely do not think her guilty, uncle Tom?”
The counsellor looked intently at his nephew, shaded his brow a moment,
gazed upward, and answered—
“I do. There is such a chain of proof against her as will scarce admit
of explanation. I am afraid, Jack—I am afraid that she has done these
deeds, terrible as they are! Such has been my opinion, now, for some
time; though my mind has vacillated, as I make no doubt will prove to be
the case with those of most of the jurors. It is a sad alternative; but
I see no safety for her except in the plea of insanity. I am in hopes
that something may be made out in that respect.”
“We are quite without witnesses to the point; are we not, sir?”
“Certainly; but Michael Millington has gone to town to send by telegraph
for the nearest connections of Madame de Larocheforte, who are in the
neighbourhood of Philadelphia. The husband himself is somewhere on the
Hudson. He must be hunted up too. Michael will see to all this. I shall
get the judge to adjourn early this evening; and we must spin out the
trial for the next day or two, in order to collect our forces. The judge
is young and indulgent. He has certain ridiculous notions about saving
the time of the public; but does not feel secure enough in his seat to
be very positive.”
At this instant Timms burst into the room, in a high state of
excitement, exclaiming, the moment he was sure that his words would not
reach any hostile ears—
“Our case is desperate! All the Burtons are coming out dead against us;
and neither ‘the new philanthropy,’ nor ‘Friends,’ nor ‘anti-gallows,’
can save us. I never knew excitement get up so fast. It’s the infernal
aristocracy that kills us!—Williams makes great use of it; and our
people will not stand aristocracy. See what a magnanimous report to the
legislature the learned Attorney-General has just made on the subject of
aristocracy. How admirably he touches up the kings and countesses!”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Dunscomb, with a contemptuous curl of the lip—“not
one in a thousand knows the meaning of the word; and he among the rest.
The report you mention is that of a refined gentleman, to be sure, and
is addressed to his equals. What exclusive political privilege does Mary
Monson possess? or what does the patroon, unless it be the privilege of
having more stolen from him, by political frauds, than any other man in
the State? This cant about social aristocracy, even in a state of
society in which the servant deserts his master with impunity, in the
midst of a dinner, is very miserable stuff! Aristocracy, forsooth! If
there be aristocracy in America, the blackguard is the aristocrat. Away,
then, with all this trash, and speak common sense in future.”
“You amaze me, sir! Why, I regard _you_ as a sort of aristocrat, Mr.
Dunscomb.”
“Me!—And what do you see aristocratic about me, pray?”
“Why, sir, you don’t _look_ like the rest of us. Your very _walk_ is
different—your language, manners, dress, habits and opinions, all differ
from those of the Duke’s county bar. Now, to my notion, that is being
exclusive and peculiar; and whatever is peculiar is aristocratic, is it
not?”
Here Dunscomb and his nephew burst out in a laugh; and, for a few
minutes, Mary Monson was forgotten. Timms was quite in earnest; for he
had fallen into the every-day notions, in this respect, and it was not
easy to get him out of them.
“Perhaps the Duke’s county bar contains the aristocrats, and I am the
cerf!” said the counsellor.
“That cannot be—you _must_ be the aristocrat, if any there be among us.
I don’t know _why_ it is so, but so it is; yes, _you_ are the
aristocrat, if there be one at our bar.”
Jack smiled, and looked funny; but he had the discretion to hold his
tongue. _He_ had heard that a Duke of Norfolk, the top of the English
aristocracy, was so remarkable for his personal habits as actually to be
offensive; a man who, according to Timms’s notions, would have been a
long way down the social ladder; but who, nevertheless, was a top-peer,
if not a top-sawyer. It was easy to see that Timms confounded a
gentleman with an aristocrat; a confusion in ideas that is very common,
and which is far from being unnatural, when it is remembered how few
formerly acquired any of the graces of deportment who had not previously
attained positive, exclusive, political rights. As for the
Attorney-General and his report, Jack had sufficient sagacity to see it
was a document that said one thing and meant another; professing
deference for a people that it did not stop to compliment with the
possession of either common honesty or good manners.
“I hope _my_ aristocracy is not likely to affect the interests of my
client.”
“No; there is little danger of that. It is the democracy of the Burtons
which will do that. I learn from Johnson that they are coming out
stronger and stronger; and I feel certain Williams is sure of their
testimony. By the way, sir, I had a hint from him, as we left the
court-house, that the five thousand dollars might _yet_ take him from
the field.”
“This Mr. Williams, as well as yourself, Timms, must be more cautious,
or the law will yet assert its power. It is very much humbled, I am
aware, under the majesty of the people and a feeble administration of
its authority; but its arm is long, and its gripe potent, when it
chooses to exert its force. Take my advice, and have no more to do with
such arrangements.”
The dinner-bell put an end to the discussion. Timms vanished like a
ghost; but Dunscomb, whose habits were gentlemanlike, and who knew that
Mrs. Horton had assigned a particular seat to him, moved more
deliberately; following his nephew about the time Timms was half through
the meal.
An American tavern-dinner, during the sitting of the circuit, is every
way worthy of a minute and graphic description; but our limits will
hardly admit of our assuming the task. If “misery makes a man acquainted
with strange bed-fellows,” so does the law. Judges, advocates,
witnesses, sheriffs, clerks, constables, and not unfrequently the
accused, dine in common, with rail-road speed. The rattling of knives,
forks, and spoons, the clatter of plates, the rushing of waiters,
landlord, landlady, chamber-maids, ostler and bar-keeper included,
produce a confusion that would do honour to the most profound
“republican simplicity.” Everything approaches a state of nature but the
eatables; and they are invariably overdone. On an evil day, some Yankee
invented an article termed a “cooking-stove;” and since its appearance
everything like good cookery has vanished from the common American
table. There is plenty spoiled; abundance abused. Of made dishes, with
the exception of two or three of very simple characters, there never
were any; and these have been burned to cinders by the baking processes
of the “cook-stoves.”
It matters little, however, to the _convives_ of a circuit-court dinner,
what the dishes are called, or of what they are composed. “Haste”
forbids “taste;” and it actually occurred that day, as it occurs almost
invariably on such occasions, that a very clever country practitioner
was asked the _materiel_ of the dish he had been eating, and he could
not tell it! Talk of the mysteries of French cookery! The “cook-stove”
produces more mystery than all the art of all the culinary artists of
Paris; and this, too, on a principle that tallies admirably with that of
the purest “republican simplicity;” since it causes all things to taste
alike.
To a dinner of this stamp Dunscomb now sat down, just ten minutes after
the first clatter of a plate was heard, and just as the only remove was
seen, in the form of slices of pie, pudding and cake. With his habits,
railroad speed or lightning-line eating could find no favour; and he and
Jack got their dinner, as best they might, amid the confusion and
remnants of the close of such a repast. Nine-tenths of those who had so
lately been at work as trencher-men were now picking their teeth,
smoking segars, or preparing fresh quids for the afternoon. A few
clients were already holding their lawyers by the button; and here and
there one of the latter led the way to his room to “settle” some slander
cause in which the plaintiff had got frightened.
It is a bad sign when eating is carried on without conversation. To
converse, however, at such a table, is morally if not physically
impossible. Morally, because each man’s mind is so intent on getting as
much as he wants, that it is almost impossible to bring his thoughts to
bear on any other subject; physically, on account of the clatter, a
movement in which an eclipse of a plate by the body of a waiter is no
unusual thing, and universal activity of the teeth. Conversation under
such circumstances would be truly a sort of ventriloquism; the portion
of the human frame included in the term being all in all just at that
moment.
Notwithstanding these embarrassments and unpleasant accompaniments,
Dunscomb and his nephew got their dinners, and were about to quit the
table as McBrain entered. The doctor would not expose his bride to the
confusion of the common table, where there was so much that is revolting
to all trained in the usages of good company, singularly blended with a
decency of deportment, and a consideration for the rights of each, that
serve to form bright spots in American character; but he had obtained a
more private room for the females of his party.
“We should do pretty well,” observed McBrain, in explaining his
accommodations, “were it not for a troublesome neighbour in an adjoining
room, who is either insane or intoxicated. Mrs. Horton has put us in
your wing, and I should think you must occasionally hear from him too?”
“The man is constantly drunk, they tell me, and is a little troublesome
at times. On the whole, however, he does not annoy me much. I shall take
the liberty of dining with you to-morrow, Ned; this eating against time
does not agree with my constitution.”
“To-morrow!—I was thinking that my examination would be ended this
afternoon, and that we might return to town in the morning. You will
remember I have patients to attend to.”
“You will have more reason for _patience_. If you get through in a week,
you will be lucky.”
“It is a curious case! I find all the local faculty ready to swear
through thick and thin against her. My own opinion is fixed—but what is
the opinion of one man against those of several in the same profession?”
“We will put that question to Mrs. Horton, who is coming to ask how we
have dined—Thank’ee, my good Mrs. Horton, we have done _remarkably_
well, considering all the circumstances.”
The landlady was pleased, and smirked, and expressed her gratification.
The _sous entendu_ of Dunscomb was lost upon her; and human vanity is
very apt to accept the flattering, and to overlook the disagreeable. She
was pleased that the great York lawyer was satisfied.
Mrs. Horton was an American landlady, in the strictest sense of the
word. This implies many features distinct from her European counterpart;
some of which tell greatly in her favour, and others not so much so.
Decency of exterior, and a feminine deportment, are so characteristic of
the sex in this country, that they need scarcely be adverted to. There
were no sly jokes, no _doubles entendres_ with Mrs. Horton; who
maintained too grave a countenance to admit of such liberties. Then, she
was entirely free from the little expedients of a desire to gain that
are naturally enough adopted in older communities, where the pressure of
numbers drives the poor to their wits’-end, in order to live. American
abundance had generated American liberality in Mrs. Horton; and if one
of her guests asked for bread, she would give him the loaf. She was,
moreover, what the country round termed “accommodating;” meaning that
she was obliging and good-natured. Her faults were a fierce love of
gossip, concealed under a veil of great indifference and modesty, a
prying curiosity, and a determination to know everything, touching
everybody, who ever came under her roof. This last propensity had got
her into difficulties, several injurious reports having been traced to
her tongue, which was indebted to her imagination for fully one-half of
what she had circulated. It is scarcely necessary to add, that, among
the right set, Mrs. Horton was a great talker. As Dunscomb was a
favourite, he was not likely to escape on the present occasion; the room
being clear of all the guests but those of his own party.
“I am glad to get a little quiet talk with you, ’Squire Dunscomb,” the
landlady commenced; “for a body can depend on what is heard from such
authority. Do they mean to hang Mary Monson?”
“It is rather premature to ask that question, Mrs. Horton. The jury is
empannelled, and there we stand at present.”
“Is it a good jury?—Some of our Duke’s county juries are none too good,
they tell me.”
“The whole institution is a miserable contrivance for the administration
of justice. Could a higher class of citizens compose the juries, the
system might still do, with a few improvements.”
“Why not elect them?” demanded the landlady, who was _ex officio_, a
politician, much as women are usually politicians in this country. In
other words, she _felt_ her opinions, without knowing their reasons.
“God forbid, my good Mrs. Horton—we have elective judges; that will do
for the present. Too much of a good thing is as injurious as the
positively bad. I prefer the present mode of drawing lots.”
“Have you got a Quaker in the box?—If you have, you are safe enough.”
“I doubt if the District Attorney would suffer that; although he appears
to be kind and considerate. The man who goes into that box must be
prepared to hang if necessary.”
“For my part, I wish all hanging was done away with. I can see no good
that hanging can do a man.”
“You mistake the object, my dear Mrs. Horton, though your argument is
quite as good as many that are openly advanced on the same side of the
question.”
“Just hear me, ’Squire,” rejoined the woman; for she loved dearly to get
into a discussion on any question that she was accustomed to hear
debated among her guests. “The country hangs a body to reform a body;
and what good can that do when a body is dead?”
“Very ingeniously put,” returned the counsellor, politely offering his
box to the landlady, who took a few grains; and then deliberately
helping himself to a pinch of snuff—“quite as ingeniously as much of the
argument that appears in public. The objection lies to the premises, and
not to the deduction, which is absolutely logical and just. A hanged
body is certainly an unreformed body; and, as you say, it is quite
useless to hang in order to reform.”
“There!” exclaimed the woman in triumph—“I told ’Squire Timms that a
gentleman who knows as much as you do must be on our side. Depend on one
thing, lawyer Dunscomb, and you too, gentlemen—depend on it, that Mary
Monson will never be hanged.”
This was said with a meaning so peculiar, that it struck Dunscomb, who
watched the woman’s earnest countenance while she was speaking, with
undeviating interest and intensity.
“It is my duty and my wish, Mrs. Horton, to believe as much, and to make
others believe it also, if I can,” he answered, now anxious to prolong a
discourse that a moment before he had found tiresome.
“You can, if you will only try. I believe in dreams—and I dreamt a week
ago that Mary Monson would be acquitted. It would be ag’in all our new
notions to hang so nice a lady.”
“Our _tastes_ might take offence at it; and taste is of _some_ influence
yet, I am bound to agree with you.”
“But you do agree with me in the uselessness of hanging, when the object
is to reform?”
“Unfortunately for the force of that argument, my dear landlady, society
does not punish for the purposes of reformation—that is a very common
blunder of superficial philanthropists.”
“Not for the purposes of reformation, ’Squire!—You astonish me! Why, for
what else should it punish?”
“For its own protection. To prevent others from committing murder. Have
you no other reason than your dream, my good Mrs. Horton, for thinking
Mary Monson will be acquitted?”
The woman put on a knowing look, and nodded her head significantly. At
the same time, she glanced towards the counsellor’s companions, as much
as to say that their presence prevented her being more explicit.
“Ned, do me the favour to go to your wife, and tell her I shall stop in,
and say a kind word as I pass her door;—and, Jack, go and bid Sarah be
in Mrs. McBrain’s parlour, ready to give me my morning’s kiss.”
The Doctor and John complied, leaving Dunscomb alone with the woman.
“May I repeat the question, my good landlady?—Why do you think Mary
Monson is to be acquitted?” asked Dunscomb, in one of his softest tones.
Mrs. Horton mused, seemed anxious to speak, but struggling with some
power that withheld her. One of her hands was in a pocket where the
jingling of keys and pence made its presence known. Drawing forth this
hand mechanically, Dunscomb saw that it contained several eagles. The
woman cast her eyes on the gold, returned it hastily to her pocket,
rubbed her forehead, and seemed the wary, prudent landlady once more.
“I hope you like your room, ’Squire,” she cried, in a thoroughly,
inn-keeping spirit. “It’s the very best in this house; though I’m
obliged to tell Mrs. McBrain the same story as to her apartment. But you
have the best. You have a troublesome neighbour between you, I’m afraid;
but he’ll not be there many days, and I do all I can to keep him quiet.”
“Is that man crazy?” asked the counsellor, rising, perceiving that he
had no more to expect from the woman just then; “or is he only drunk? I
hear him groan, and then I hear him swear; though I cannot understand
what he says.”
“He’s sent here by his friends; and your wing is the only place we have
to keep him in. When a body is well paid, ’Squire, I suppose you know
that the fee must not be forgotten? Now, inn-keepers have fees, as well
as you gentlemen of the bar. How wonderfully Timms is getting along, Mr.
Dunscomb!”
“I believe his practice increases; and they tell me he stands next to
Mr. Williams in Duke’s.”
“He does, indeed; and a ‘bright particular star,’ as the poet says, has
he got to be!”
“If he be a star at all,” answered the counsellor, curling his lip, “it
must be a very particular one, indeed. I am sorry to leave you, Mrs.
Horton; but the intermission is nearly up.”
Dunscomb gave a little friendly nod, which the landlady returned; the
former went his way with singular coolness of manner, when it is
remembered that on him rested the responsibility of defending a
fellow-creature from the gallows. What rendered this deliberation more
remarkable, was the fact that he had no faith in the virtue of Mrs.
Horton’s dream.
[Illustration]