“I’ve not wrong’d her.”
“Far be it from my fears.”
“Then why this argument?”
“My lord, my nature’s jealous, and you’ll bear it.”
_Otway._
So great was the confidence of Sarah Wilmeter and Anna Updyke in the
innocence of their friend, that almost every step that the trial
advanced, appeared to them as so much progress towards an eventual
acquittal. It was perhaps a little singular, that the party most
interested, she who knew her own guilt or innocence, became dejected,
and for the first half hour after they had left the court-room, she was
silent and thoughtful. Good Mrs. Gott was quite in despair, and detained
Anna Updyke, with whom she had established a sort of intimacy, as she
opened the door of the gallery for the admission of the party, in order
to say a word on the subject that lay nearest to her heart.
“Oh! Miss Anna,” said the sheriff’s wife, “it goes from bad to worse! It
was bad enough last evening, and it is worse to-night.”
“Who tells you this, Mrs. Gott? So far from thinking as you do, I regard
it as appearing particularly favourable.”
“You must have heard what Burton said, and what his wife said, too. They
are the witnesses I dread.”
“Yes, but who will mind what such persons say! I am sure if fifty Mr.
and Mrs. Burtons were to testify that Mary Monson had taken money that
did not belong to her, I should not believe them.”
“You are not a Duke’s county jury! Why, Miss Anna, these men will
believe almost anything you tell them. Only swear to it, and there’s no
accounting for their credulity. No; I no more believe in Mary Monson’s
guilt, than I do in my own; but law is law, they say, and rich and poor
must abide by it.”
“You view the matter under a false light, my kind-hearted Mrs. Gott, and
after a night’s rest will see the case differently. Sarah and I have
been delighted with the course of things. You must have remarked no one
said that Mary Monson had been seen to set fire to the house, or to harm
the Goodwins, or to touch their property, or to do anything that was
wrong; and of course she must be acquitted.”
“I wish that piece of gold had not been found in her pocket! It’s that
which makes all the trouble.”
“I think nothing of that, my good friend. There is nothing remarkable in
two pieces of money having the same marks on them; I have seen that
often, myself. Besides, Mary Monson explains all that, and her
declaration is as good as that of this Mrs. Burton’s, any day.”
“Not in law, Miss Anna; no, not in law. Out of doors it might be much
better, and probably is; but not in court, by what they tell me. Gott
says it is beginning to look very dark, and that we, in the gaol, here,
must prepare for the very worst. I tell him, if I was he, I’d resign
before I’d execute such a beautiful creature!”
“You make me shudder with such horrid thoughts, Mrs. Gott, and I will
thank you to open the door. Take courage, we shall never have to lament
such a catastrophe, or your husband to perform so revolting a duty.”
“I hope not—I’m sure I hope not, with all my heart. I would prefer that
Gott should give up all hopes of ever rising any higher, than have him
do this office. One never knows, Miss Anna, what is to happen in life,
though I was as happy as a child when he was made sheriff. If my words
have any weight with him, and he often says they have, I shall never let
him execute Mary Monson. You are young, Miss Anna; but you’ve heard the
tongue of flattery, I make no doubt, and know how sweet it is to woman’s
ear.”
Mrs. Gott had been wiping her eyes with one hand, and putting the key
into the lock with the other, while talking, and she now stood regarding
her young companion with a sort of motherly interest, as she made this
appeal to her experience. Anna blushed ‘rosy red,’ and raised her gloved
hand to turn the key, as if desirous of getting away from the earnest
look of the matron.
“That’s just the way with all of us, Miss Anna!” continued Mrs. Gott.
“We listen, and listen, and listen; and believe, and believe, and
believe, until we are no longer the gay, light-hearted creatures that we
were, but become mopy, and sighful, and anxious, to a degree that makes
us forget father and mother, and fly from the paternal roof.”
“Will you have the kindness, now, to let me into the gaol?” said Anna,
in the gentlest voice imaginable.
“In a minute, my dear—I call you my dear, because I like you; for I
never use what Gott calls ‘high flown.’ There is Mr. John Wilmeter, now,
as handsome and agreeable a youth as ever came to Biberry. He comes here
two or three times a day, and sits and talks with me in the most
agreeable way, until I’ve got to like him better than any young man of
my acquaintance. He talks of you, quite half the time; and when he is
not _talking_ of you, he is _thinking_ of you, as I know by the way he
gazes at this very door.”
“Perhaps his thoughts are on Mary Monson,” answered Anna, blushing
scarlet. “You know she is a sort of client of his, and he has been here
in her service, for a good while.”
“She hardly ever saw him; scarcely ever, except at this grate. His foot
never crossed this threshold, until his uncle came; and since, I believe
he has gone in but once. Mary Monson is not the being he worships.”
“I trust he worships the Being we all worship, Mrs. Gott,” struggling
gently to turn the key, and succeeding. “It is not for us poor frail
beings to talk of being worshipped.”
“Or of worshipping, as I tell Gott,” said the sheriff’s wife, permitting
her companion to depart.
Anna found Mary Monson and Sarah walking together in the gallery,
conversing earnestly.
“It is singular that nothing reaches us from Michael Millington!”
exclaimed the last, as Anna interlocked arms with her, and joined the
party. “It is now near eight-and-forty hours since my uncle sent him to
town.”
“On my business?” demanded Mary Monson, quickly.
“Certainly; on no other—though what it was that took him away so
suddenly, I have not been told. I trust you will be able to overturn all
that these Burtons have said, and to repair the mischief they have
done?”
“Fear nothing for me, Miss Wilmeter,” answered the prisoner, with
singular steadiness of manner—“I tell you, as I have often told your
friend, _I must be acquitted_. Let justice take its course, say I, and
the guilty be punished. I have a clue to the whole story, as I believe,
and must make provision for to-morrow. Do you two, dear, warm-hearted
friends as you are, now leave me; and when you reach the inn, send Mr.
Dunscomb hither, as soon as possible. Not that Timms; but noble, honest,
upright Mr. Dunscomb. Kiss me, each of you, and so good night. Think of
me in your prayers. I am a great sinner, and have need of your prayers.”
The wishes of Mary Monson were obeyed, and the young ladies left the
gaol for the night. Ten minutes later Dunscomb reached the place, and
was admitted. His conference with his client was long, intensely
interesting, and it quite unsettled the notions he had now, for some
time, entertained of her guilt. She did not communicate any thing
concerning her past life, nor did she make any promises on that subject;
but she did communicate facts of great importance, as connected with the
result of her trial. Dunscomb left her, at a late hour, with views
entirely changed, hopes revived, and his resolution stimulated. He made
ample entries in his brief; nor did he lay his head on his pillow until
it was very late.
The little court-house bell rang as usual, next morning, and judge,
jurors, witnesses, lawyers, and the curious in general, collected as
before, without any ceremony, though in decent quiet. The case was now
getting to be so serious, that all approached it as truly a matter of
life and death; even the reporters submitting to an impulse of humanity,
and viewing the whole affair less in a business point of view, than as
one which might carry a singularly gifted woman into the other world.
The first act of the day opened by putting Mrs. Burton on the stand, for
her cross-examination. As every intelligent person present understood
that on her testimony depended the main result, the fall of a pin might
almost have been heard, so profound was the general wish to catch what
was going on. The witness, however, appeared to be calm, while the
advocate was pale and anxious. He had the air of one who had slept
little the past night. He arranged his papers with studied care, made
each movement deliberately, compressed his lips, and seemed to be
bringing his thoughts into such a state of order and distinctness that
each might be resorted to as it was needful. In point of fact, Dunscomb
foresaw that a human life depended very much on the result of this
cross-examination, and like a conscientious man, he was disposed to do
his whole duty. No wonder, then, that he paused to reflect, was
deliberate in his acts, and concentrated in feeling.
“We will first give our attention to this piece of gold, Mrs. Burton,”
the counsel for the prisoner mildly commenced, motioning to the coroner,
who was in court, to show the witness the piece of money so often
examined. “Are you quite certain that it is the very coin that you saw
in the possession of Mrs. Goodwin?”
“Absolutely certain, sir. As certain as I am of anything in the world.”
“Mrs. Burton, I wish you to remember that the life of the prisoner at
the bar will, most probably, be affected by your testimony. Be kind
enough, then, to be very guarded and close in your answers. Do you still
say that this is the precise coin that you once saw in Mrs. Goodwin’s
stocking?”
The witness seemed suddenly struck with the manner of the advocate. She
trembled from head to foot. Still, Dunscomb spoke mildly, kindly even;
and the idea conveyed in the present, was but a repetition of that
conveyed in the former question. Nevertheless, those secret agencies, by
means of which thought meets thought, unknown to all but their
possessors; that set in motion, as it might be, all the covert currents
of the mind, causing them to flow towards similar streams in the mind of
another, were now at work, and Dunscomb and the witness had a clue to
each other’s meaning that entirely escaped the observation of all around
them. There is nothing novel in this state of secret intelligence. It
doubtless depends on a mutual consciousness, and a common knowledge of
certain material facts, the latter being applied by the former, with
promptitude and tact. Notwithstanding her sudden alarm, and the change
it brought over her entire manner, Mrs. Burton answered the question as
before; what was more, she answered it truly. The piece of gold found in
Mary Monson’s purse, and now in possession of the coroner, who had kept
it carefully, in order to identify it, had been in Dorothy Goodwin’s
stocking.
“Quite certain, sir. I know that to be the same piece of money that I
saw, at different times, in Mrs. Goodwin’s stocking.”
“Did you ever have that gold coin in your own hand, Mrs. Burton,
previously to this trial?”
This was a very natural and simple interrogatory; one that might be, and
probably was, anticipated; yet it gave the witness uneasiness, more from
the manner of Dunscomb, perhaps, than from anything in the nature of the
inquiry itself. The answer, however, was given promptly, and, as before,
with perfect truth.
“On several occasions, sir. I saw that notch, and talked with Mrs.
Goodwin about it, more than once.”
“What was the substance of Mrs. Goodwin’s remarks, in relation to that
notch?”
“She asked me, one time, if I thought it lessened the weight of the
coin; and if so, how much I thought it might take away from its value?”
“What was your answer?”
“I believe I said I did not think it could make any great difference.”
“Did Mrs. Goodwin ever tell you how, or where, she got that piece of
money?”
“Yes, sir, she did. She told me it came from Mary Monson.”
“In pay for board; or, for what purpose did it pass from one to the
other?”
This, too, was a very simple question, but the witness no longer
answered promptly. The reader will remember that Mary Monson had said,
before the coroner, that she had two of these coins, and that she had
given one of them to the poor unfortunate deceased, and had left the
other in her own purse. This answer had injured the cause of the
accused, inasmuch as it was very easy to tell such a tale, while few in
Biberry were disposed to believe that gold passed thus freely, and
without any consideration, from hand to hand. Mrs. Burton remembered all
this, and, for a reason best known to herself, she shrunk a little from
making the required reply. Still she did answer this question also, and
answered it truly.
“I understood aunt Dolly to say that Mary Monson made her a present of
that piece of money.”
Here Timms elevated his nose, and looked around him in a meaning manner,
that appealed to the audience to know if his client were not a person of
veracity. Sooth to say, this answer made a strong impression in favour
of the accused, and Dunscomb saw with satisfaction that, in-so-much, he
had materially gained ground. He was not a man to gain it, however, by
dramatic airs; he merely paused for a few moments, in order to give full
effect to this advantage.
“Mrs. Goodwin, then, owned to you that she had the coin from Mary
Monson, and that it was a present?” was the next question.
“She did, sir.”
“Did she say anything about Mary Monson’s having another piece of money,
like the one before you, and which was given by her to Dorothy Goodwin?”
A long pause succeeded. The witness raised a hand to her brow, and
appeared to meditate. Her reputation for taciturnity and gravity of
deportment was such, that most of those in court believed she was
endeavouring to recollect the past, in order to say neither more nor
less than the truth. In point of fact, she was weighing well the effect
of her words, for she was a person of extreme caution, and of great
reputed probity of character. The reply came at length—
“She did speak on the subject,” she said, “and did state something of
the kind.”
“Can you recollect her words—if so, give them to the jury—if not her
very words, their substance.”
“Aunt Dolly had a way of her own in talking, which makes it very
difficult to repeat her precise words; but she said, in substance, that
Mary Monson had two of these pieces of money, one of which was given to
_her_.”
“Mary Monson, then, kept the other?”
“So I understood it, sir.”
“Have you any knowledge yourself, on this subject?—If so, state it to
the jury.”
Another pause, one even longer than before, and again the hand was
raised to the brow. The witness now spoke with extreme caution, seeming
to feel her way among the facts, as a cat steals on its prey.
“I believe I have—a little—some—I have seen Mary Monson’s purse, and I
_believe_ I saw a piece of money in it which resembled this.”
“Are you not _certain_ of the fact?”
“Perhaps I am.”
Here Dunscomb’s face was lighted with a smile; he evidently was
encouraged.
“Were you present, Mrs. Burton, when Mary Monson’s purse was examined,
in presence of the inquest?”
“I was.”
“Did you then see its contents?”
“I did”—after the longest pause of all.
“Had you that purse in your hand, ma’am?”
The brow was once more shaded, and the recollection seemingly taxed.
“I think I had. It was passed round among us, and I believe that I
touched it, as well as others.”
“Are you not certain that you did so?”
“Yes, sir. Now, I reflect, I know that I did. The piece of money found
in Mary Monson’s purse, was passed from one to another, and to me, among
the rest.”
“This was very wrong,” observed his honour.
“It was wrong, sir; but not half as wrong as the murders and arson,”
coolly remarked Williams.
“Go on, gentlemen—time is precious.”
“Now, Mrs. Burton, I wish to ask you a very particular question, and I
beg that your answer may be distinct and guarded—did you ever have
access to the piece of gold found, or said to be found, in Mary Monson’s
purse, except on the occasion of the inquest?”
The longest pause of all, and the deepest shading of the brow. So long
was the self-deliberation this time, as to excite a little remark among
the spectators. Still, it was no more than prudent to be cautious, in a
cause of so much importance.
“I certainly have, sir,” was the reply that came at last. “I saw it in
Dorothy Goodwin’s stocking, several times; had it in my hand, and
examined it. This is the way I came to discover the notch. Aunt Dolly
and I talked about that notch, as I have already told the court.”
“Quite true, ma’am, we remember that; all your answers are carefully
written out—”
“I’m sure nothing that I have said can be written out, which is not
true, sir.”
“We are to suppose that. And now, ma’am, permit me to ask if you ever
saw that piece of money at any other time than at those you have
mentioned. Be particular in the answer.”
“I may,” after a long pause.
“Do you not _know_?”
“I do not, sir.”
“Will you say, on your oath, that you cannot recollect any one occasion,
other than those you have mentioned, on which you have seen and handled
that piece of money?”
“When aunt Dolly showed it to me, before the coroner, and here in court.
I recollect no other time.”
“Let me put this question to you again, Mrs. Burton—recalling the
solemnity of the oath you have taken—have you, or have you not, seen
that piece of money on any other occasion than those you have just
mentioned?”
“I do not remember ever to have seen it at any other time,” answered the
woman, firmly.
Mary Monson gave a little start, and Dunscomb appeared disappointed.
Timms bit his lip, and looked anxiously at the jury, while Williams once
more cocked _his_ nose, and looked around him in triumph. If the witness
spoke the truth, she was now likely to adhere to it; if, on the other
hand, there were really any ground for Dunscomb’s question, the witness
had passed the Rubicon, and would adhere to her falsehood even more
tenaciously than she would adhere to the truth. The remainder of this
cross-examination was of very little importance. Nothing further was
obtained from the witness that went to shake her testimony.
Our limits will not permit a detailed account of all the evidence that
was given in behalf of the prosecution. All that appeared before the
inquest was now introduced, methodized and arranged by Williams;
processes that rendered it much more respectable than it had originally
appeared to be. At length it came to the turn of the defence to open.
This was a task that Dunscomb took on himself, Timms, in his judgment,
being unequal to it. His opening was very effective, in the way of
argument, though necessarily not conclusive, the case not making in
favour of his client.
The public expected important revelations as to the past history of the
prisoner, and of this Timms had apprised Dunscomb. The latter, however,
was not prepared to make them. Mary Monson maintained all her reserve,
and Millington did not return. The cause was now so far advanced as to
render it improbable that any facts, of this nature, could be obtained
in sufficient season to be used, and the counsel saw the necessity of
giving a new turn to this particular point in the case. He consequently
complained that the prosecution had neglected to show anything in the
past life of the accused to render it probable she had been guilty of
the offences with which she was charged. “Mary Monson appears here,” he
went on to say, “with a character as fair as that of any other female in
the community. This is the presumption of law, and you will truly regard
her, gentlemen, as one that is innocent until she is proved to be
guilty.” The inference drawn from the silence of the prosecution was not
strictly logical, perhaps; but Dunscomb managed at least to mystify the
matter in such a way as to prepare the jury to hear a defence that would
be silent on this head, and to leave a doubt whether this silence were
not solely the fault of the counsel for the prosecution. While he was
commenting on this branch of the subject, Williams took notes furiously,
and Timms foresaw that he meant to turn the tables on them, at the
proper moment.
Pretty much as a matter of course, Dunscomb was compelled to tell the
court and jury that the defence relied principally on the insufficiency
of the evidence of the other side. This was altogether circumstantial;
and the circumstances, as he hoped to be able to convince the jury, were
of a nature that admitted of more than one construction. Whenever this
was the case, it was the duty of the jury to give the accused the full
benefit of these doubts. The rest of the opening had the usual character
of appeals to the sympathy and justice of the jury, very prudently and
properly put.
Dr. McBrain was now placed upon the stand, when the customary questions
were asked, to show that he was a witness entitled to the respect of the
court. He was then further interrogated, as follows:—
“Have you seen the two skeletons that are now in court, and which are
said to have been taken from the ruins of the house of the Goodwins?”
“I have. I saw them before the inquest; and I have again examined them
here, in court.”
“What do you say, as to their sex?”
“I believe them both to be the skeletons of females.”
“Do you feel certain of this fact?”
“Reasonably so, but not absolutely. No one can pronounce with perfect
certainty in such a case; more especially when the remains are in the
state in which these have been found. We are guided principally by the
comparative size of the bones; and, as these are affected by the age of
the subject, it is hazardous to be positive. I can only say that I think
both of these skeletons belonged to female subjects; particularly the
shortest.”
“Have you measured the skeletons?”
“I have, and find one rather more than an inch and a half shorter than
the other. The longest measures quite five feet seven and a half, in the
state in which it is; while the shortest measures a trifle less than
five feet six. If women, both were of unusual stature; particularly the
first. I think that the bones of both indicate that they belonged to
females; and I should have thought the same had I known nothing of the
reports which have reached my ears touching the persons whose remains
these are said to be.”
“When you first formed your opinion of the sex of those to whom these
remains belonged, had you heard that there was a German woman staying in
the house of the Goodwins at the time of the fire?”
“I think not; though I have taken so little heed of these rumours as to
be uncertain when I first heard this circumstance. I do remember,
however, that I was under the impression the remains were, beyond a
doubt, those of Peter Goodwin and his wife, when I _commenced_ the
examination of them; and I very distinctly recollect the surprise I felt
when the conviction crossed my mind that both were the skeletons of
women. From the nature of this feeling, I rather think I could not have
heard anything of the German female at that time.”
The cross-examination of Dr. McBrain was very long and searching; but it
did not materially affect the substance of his testimony. On the
contrary, it rather strengthened it; since he had it in his power to
explain himself more fully under the interrogatories of Williams, than
he could do in an examination in chief. Still, he could go no farther
than give his strong belief; declining to pronounce positively on the
sex of either individual, in the state in which the remains were found.
Although nothing positive was obtained from this testimony, the minds of
the jurors were pointedly directed to the circumstance of the sudden and
unexplained disappearance of the German woman; thus making an opening
for the admission of a serious doubt connected with the fate of that
person.
It was a sad thing to reflect that, beyond this testimony of McBrain,
there was little other direct evidence to offer in behalf of the
accused. It is true, the insufficiency of that which had been produced
by the prosecution might avail her much; and on this Dunscomb saw that
his hopes of an acquittal must depend; but he could not refrain from
regretting, and that bitterly, that the unmoved resolution of his client
not to let her past life be known, must so much weaken his case, were
she innocent, and so much fortify that of the prosecution, under the
contrary supposition. Another physician or two were examined to sustain
McBrain; but, after all, the condition of the remains was such as to
render any testimony questionable. One witness went so far as to say, it
is true, that he thought he could distinguish certain unerring signs of
the sex in the length of the lower limbs, and in other similar proof;
but even McBrain was forced to admit that such distinctions were very
vague and unsatisfactory. His own opinion was formed more from the size
of the bones, generally, than from any other proof. In general, there
was little difficulty in speaking of the sex of the subject, when the
skeleton was entire and well preserved, and particularly when the teeth
furnished some clue to the age; but, in this particular case, as has
already been stated, there could be no such thing as absolute certainty.
It was with a heavy heart, and with many an anxious glance cast towards
the door, in the hope of seeing Michael Millington enter, that Dunscomb
admitted the prisoner had no further testimony to offer. He had spun out
the little he did possess, in order to give it an appearance of
importance which it did not actually bring with it, and to divert the
minds of the jurors from the impression they had probably obtained, of
the remains necessarily being those of Goodwin and his wife.
The summing up on both sides was a grave and solemn scene. Here Williams
was thrown out, the District Attorney choosing to perform his own duty
on an occasion so serious. Dunscomb made a noble appeal to the justice
of the court and jury; admonishing both of the danger of yielding too
easily to circumstantial evidence. It was the best possible proof, he
admitted, when the circumstances were sufficiently clear and
sufficiently shown to be themselves beyond controversy. That Mary Monson
dwelt with the Goodwins, was in the house at the time of the arson and
murder, if such crimes were ever committed at all; that she escaped and
all her property was saved, would of themselves amount to nothing. The
testimony, indeed, on several of these heads, rather told in her favour
than the reverse. The witnesses for the prosecution proved that she was
in her room, beneath the roof, when the flames broke out, and was saved
with difficulty. This was a most material fact, and Dunscomb turned it
to good account. Would an incendiary be apt to place herself in a
situation in which her own life was in danger; and this, too, under
circumstances that rendered no such measure necessary? Then, all the
facts connected with Mary Monson’s residence and habits told in her
favour. Why should she remain so long at the cottage, if robbery was her
only purpose? The idea of her belonging to a gang that had sent her to
make discoveries and to execute its plans, was preposterous; for what
hindered any of the men of that gang from committing the crimes in the
most direct manner, and with the least loss of time? No; if Mary Monson
were guilty, she was undoubtedly guilty on her own account; and had been
acting with the uncertain aim and hand of a woman. The jury must discard
all notions of accomplices, and consider the testimony solely in
connection with the acts of the accused. Accomplices, and those of the
nature supposed, would have greatly simplified the whole of the wretched
transaction. They would have rendered both the murders and arson
unnecessary. The bold and strong do not commit these crimes, except in
those cases in which resistance renders them necessary. Here was clearly
no resistance, as was shown by the quiet positions in which the
skeletons had been found. If a murder was directly committed, it must
have been by the blow on the heads; and the jury was asked to consider
whether a delicate female like Mary Monson had even the physical force
necessary to strike such a blow. With what instrument was it done?
Nothing of the sort was found near the bodies; and no proof of any such
blow was before the jury. One witness had said that the iron-work of a
plough lay quite near the remains; and it had been shown that Peter
Goodwin kept such articles in a loft over his bed-room. He would suggest
the possibility of the fire’s having commenced in that loft, through
which the pipe of a cooking-stove led; of its having consumed the beams
of the floor; letting down this plough and share upon the heads of the
sleeping couple below, stunning, if not killing them; thus leaving them
unresisting subjects to the action of the element. McBrain had been
examined on this point, which we omitted to state in its place, to
prevent repetition. He, and the two other doctors brought forward for
the defence, had tried to place the ploughshare on the skulls; and were
of opinion that the injuries might have been inflicted by that piece of
iron. But Mary Monson could not use such an instrument. This was beyond
all dispute. If the ploughshare inflicted the blow—and the testimony on
this point was at least entitled to respect—then was Mary Monson
innocent of any murder committed by _direct_ means. It is true, she was
responsible for all her acts; and if she set fire to the building, she
was probably guilty of murder as well as of arson. But would she have
done this, and made no provision for her own escape? The evidence was
clear that she was rescued by means of a ladder, and through a window;
and that there were no other means of escape.
Dunscomb reasoned on these several points with great force and
ingenuity. So clear were his statements, so logical his inferences, and
so candid his mode of arguing, that he had produced a great effect ere
he closed this branch of his subject. It is true, that one far more
difficult remained to be met; to answer which he now set about with fear
and trembling.
We allude to the piece of money alleged to have been found in Mary
Monson’s purse. Dunscomb had very little difficulty in disposing of the
flippant widow Pope; but the Burton family gave him more trouble.
Nevertheless, it was his duty to endeavour to get rid of them, or at
least so far to weaken their testimony as to give his client the benefit
of the doubt. There was, in truth, but one mode of doing this. It was to
impress on the jury the probability that the coin had been changed in
passing from hand to hand. It is true, it was not easy to suggest any
plausible reason why such an act of treachery should have been
committed; but it was a good legal point to show that this piece of
money had not, at all times, been absolutely under the eye or within the
control of the coroner. If there were a possibility of a change, the
fact should and ought to tell in favour of his client. Mrs. Burton had
made admissions on this point which entitled the prisoner to press the
facts on the minds of the jurors; and her counsel did not fail so to do,
with clearness and energy. After all, this was much the most difficult
point of the case; and it would not admit of a perfectly satisfactory
solution.
The conclusion of Dunscomb’s summing up was manly, touching, even
eloquent. He spoke of a lone and defenceless female, surrounded by
strangers, being dragged to the bar on charges of such gravity; pointed
to his client where she sat enthralled by his language, with all the
signs of polished refinement on her dress, person, and manners;
delicate, feminine, and beautiful; and asked if any one, who had the
soul and feelings of a man, could believe that such a being had
committed the crimes imputed to Mary Monson.
The appeal was powerful, and was dwelt on just long enough to give it
full and fair effect. It left the bench, the bar, the jury-box, the
whole audience in fact, in tears. The prisoner alone kept an unmoistened
eye; but it was in a face flushed with feeling. Her self-command was
almost supernatural.