“I’ll brave her to her face:
I’ll give my anger its free course against her.
Thou shalt see, Phœnix, how I’ll break her pride.”
_The Distressed Mother._
The District Attorney was fully impressed with the importance of the
duty that had now devolved on him. Although we have daily proofs on all
sides of us, of the truth of that remark of Bacon’s, “that no man rises
to eminence in the State without a mixture of great and mean qualities,”
this favourite of the people had his good points as well as another. He
was a humane man; and, contrary to the expectations, and greatly to the
disappointment of Williams, he now took on himself the office of summing
up.
The public functionary commenced in a mild, quiet manner, manifesting by
the key on which he pitched his voice a natural reluctance to his
painful duty; but he was steady and collected. He opened with a brief
summary of the facts. A strange female, of high personal pretensions,
had taken lodgings in an humble dwelling. That dwelling contained a
considerable sum of money. Some counted it by thousands; all by
hundreds. In either case, it was a temptation to the covetous and
ill-disposed. The lodgings were unsuited to the habits of the guest; but
she endured them for several weeks. A fire occurred, and the house was
consumed. The remains of the husband and wife were found, as the jury
saw them, with marks of violence on their skulls. A deadly blow had been
struck by some one. The bureau containing the money was found locked,
but the money itself was missing. One piece of that money was known, and
it was traced to the purse of the female lodger. This stranger was
arrested; and, in her mode of living in the gaol, in her expenditures of
every sort, she exhibited the habits and profusion of one possessed of
considerable sums. Doubtless many of the reports in circulation were
false; exaggerations ever accompanied each statement of any unusual
occurrence; but enough was proved to show that Mary Monson had a
considerable amount of money at command. Whence came these funds? That
which was lightly obtained went lightly. The jury were exhorted to
reject every influence but that which was sustained by the evidence. All
that had been here stated rested on uncontradicted, unresisted
testimony.
There was no desire to weaken the force of the defence. This defence had
been ingeniously and powerfully presented; and to what did it amount.
The direct, unequivocal evidence of Mrs. Burton, as to her knowledge of
the piece of money, and all that related to it, and this evidence
sustained by so much that was known to others, the coroner included, was
met by a _conjecture._ This conjecture was accompanied by an insinuation
that some might suppose reflected on the principal witness; but it was
only an insinuation. There were two legal modes of attacking the
credibility of a witness. One was by showing habitual mendacity; the
other by demonstrating from the evidence itself, that the testimony
could not be true. Had either been done in the present instance? The
District Attorney thought not. One, and this the most common course, had
not even been attempted. Insinuations, rather than just deductions, he
was compelled to say, notwithstanding his high respect for the learned
counsel opposed to him, had been the course adopted. That counsel had
contended that the circumstances were not sufficient to justify a
verdict of guilty. Of this, the jury were the sole judges. If they
believed Mrs. Burton, sustained as she was by so much other testimony,
they must admit that Dorothy Goodwin’s money was found in Mary Monson’s
purse. This was the turning point of the case. All depended on the
construction of this one fact. He left it to the jury, to their good
sense, to their consciences.
On the part of the defence, great stress had been laid on the
circumstance that Mary Monson was herself rescued from the flames with
some difficulty. But for assistance, she would most probably have
perished. The District Attorney desired to deny nothing that could
justly go to prove the prisoner’s innocence. The fact was unquestionably
as stated. But for assistance, Mary Monson _might_ have perished. But
assistance was _not_ wanting; for strangers were most _opportunely_ at
hand, and they did this piece of good service. They remained until all
was over, and vanished. No one knew them; whence they came, or whither
they went. Important agents in saving a life, they had gone without
their reward, and were not even named in the newspaper accounts of the
occurrence. Reporters generally tell more than happens; in this
instance, they were mute.
As for the danger of the prisoner, it might have happened in a variety
of ways that affected neither her guilt nor her innocence. After
committing the murders, she may have gone into her room and been
unexpectedly enclosed by the flames; or the whole may have been
previously planned, in order to give her the plea of this very dangerous
situation, as a proof of innocence. Such immaterial circumstances were
not to overshadow the very material facts on which the prosecution
rested.
Another important question was to be asked by the jury. If Mary Monson
did not commit these crimes, who did? It had been suggested that the
house might have taken fire by accident, and that the ploughshare was
the real cause of the death of its owners. If this were so, did the
ploughshare remove the money?—did the ploughshare put the notched piece
in Mary Monson’s purse?
Such is an outline of the manner in which the District Attorney reasoned
on the facts. His summing up made a deep impression; the moderation of
the manner in which he pressed the guilt of the accused, telling
strongly against her. Nothing was said of aristocracy, or harps, or
manners, or of anything else that did not fairly belong to the subject.
A great deal more was said, of course; but we do not conceive it
necessary to advert to it.
The charge was exceedingly impartial. The judge made a full exposition
of all the testimony, pointed out its legitimate bearing, and dissected
its weak points. As for the opinion of McBrain and his associates, the
court conceived it entitled to a great deal of consideration. Here were
several highly respectable professional men testifying that, in their
judgment, both the skeletons were those of females. The German woman was
missing. What had become of her? In any case, the disappearance of that
woman was very important. She may have committed the crimes, and
absconded; or one of the skeletons may have been hers. It was in
evidence that Peter Goodwin and his wife did not live always in the most
happy mood; and he may have laid hands on the money, which was probably
his in the eyes of the law, and left the place. He had not been seen
since the fire. The jury must take all the facts into their
consideration, and decide according to their consciences.
This charge was deemed rather favourable to the accused than otherwise.
The humanity of the judge was conspicuous throughout; and he leaned
quite obviously to Dunscomb’s manner of treating the danger of Mary
Monson from the flames, and dwelt on the fact that the piece of money
was not sufficiently watched to make out an absolute case of identity.
When he had done, the impression was very general that the prisoner
would be acquitted.
As it was reasonably supposed that a case of this importance would
detain the jury a considerable time, the court permitted the prisoner to
withdraw. She left the place, attended by her two friends; the latter in
tears, while Mary herself was still seemingly unmoved. The thoughtful
Mrs. Gott had prepared refreshments for her; and, for the first time
since her trial commenced, the fair prisoner ate heartily.
“I shall owe my triumph, not to money, my dear girls,” she said, while
at table, “not to friends, nor to a great array of counsel; but to
truth. I did not commit these crimes; and on the testimony of the State
alone, with scarcely any of my own, the jury will have to say as much.
No stain will rest on my character, and I can meet my friends with the
unclouded brow of innocence. This is a very precious moment to me; I
would not part with it for all the honours that riches and rank can
bestow.”
“How strange that you, of all women, my dear mamma,” said Anna, kissing
her cheek, “should be accused of crimes so horrible to obtain a little
money; for this poor Mrs. Goodwin could have had no great sum after all,
and you are so rich!”
“More is the pity that I have not made a better use of my money. You are
to be envied, girls, in having the fortunes of gentlewomen, and in
having no more. I do believe it is better for our sex barely to be
independent in their respective stations, and not to be rendered rich.
Man or woman, money is a dangerous thing, when we come to consider it as
a part of our natural existence; for it tempts us to fancy that money’s
worth gives rights that nature and reason both deny. I believe I should
have been much happier, were I much poorer than I am.”
“But those who are rich are not very likely to rob!”
“Certainly not, in the sense that you mean, my dear. Send Marie Moulin
on some errand, Anna; I wish to tell you and Sarah what I think of this
fire, and of the deaths for which I am now on trial.”
Anna complied; and the handsome prisoner, first looking cautiously
around to make certain she was not overheard, proceeded with her
opinion.
“In the first place, I make no doubt Dr. McBrain is right, and that both
the skeletons are those of women. The German woman got to be very
intimate with Mrs. Goodwin; and as the latter and her husband quarrelled
daily, and fiercely, I think it probable that she took this woman into
her bed, where they perished together. I should think the fire purely
accidental, were it not for the missing stocking.”
“That is just what the District Attorney said,” cried Anna, innocently.
“Who, then, _can_ have set the house on fire?”
Mary Monson muttered to herself; and she smiled as if some queer fancies
crowded her brain; but no one was the wiser for her ruminations. These
she kept to herself, and continued.
“Yes, that missing stocking renders the arson probable. The question is,
who did the deed; I, or Mrs. Burton?”
“Mrs. Burton!” exclaimed both the girls in a breath. “Why, her character
is excellent—no one has ever suspected her! You cannot suppose that she
is the guilty person!”
“It is she, or it is I; which, I will leave you to judge. I was aware
that the notch was in the coin; for I was about to give the other piece
to Mrs. Goodwin, but preferred to keep the perfect specimen myself. The
notched piece must have been in the stocking until _after_ the fire; and
it was changed by some one while my purse was under examination.”
“And you suppose that Mrs. Burton did it?”
“I confess to a suspicion to that effect. Who else could or _would_ have
done it? I have mentioned this distrust to Mr. Dunscomb, and he
cross-examined in reference to this fact; though nothing very
satisfactory was extracted. After my acquittal, steps will be taken to
push the inquiry further.”
Mary Monson continued discussing this subject for quite an hour; her
wondering companions putting questions. At the end of that time, Mr.
Gott appeared to say that the jury had come into court; and that it was
his duty to take the prisoner there to meet them.
Perhaps Mary Monson never looked more lovely than at that moment. She
had dressed herself with great simplicity, but with exceeding care;
excitement gave her the richest colour; hope, even delight, was glowing
in her eyes; and her whole form was expanding with the sentiment of
triumph. There is no feeling more general than sympathy with success.
After the judge’s charge, few doubted of the result; and on every side,
as she walked with a light firm step to her chair, the prisoner read
kindness, sympathy, and exultation. After all that had been said, and
all the prejudices that had been awakened, Mary Monson was about to be
acquitted! Even the reporters became a little humanized; had juster
perceptions than common of the rights of their fellow-creatures; and a
more smiling, benignant assembly was never collected in that hall. In a
few minutes, silence was obtained, and the jurors were called. Every man
answered to his name, when the profound stillness of expectation
pervaded the place.
“Stand up, Mary Monson, and listen to the verdict,” said the clerk, not
without a little tremor in his voice. “Gentlemen, what do you say—is the
prisoner guilty or not guilty?”
The foreman arose, stroked down a few scattering grey hairs, then, in a
voice barely audible, he pronounced the portentous word “guilty.” Had a
bomb suddenly exploded in the room, it could not have produced greater
astonishment, and scarcely more consternation. Anna Updyke darted
forward, and, as with a single bound, Mary Monson was folded in her
arms.
“No, no!” cried this warm-hearted girl, totally unconscious of the
impropriety of her acts; “she is _not_ guilty. You do not know her. I
_do_. She was my school mamma. She is a lady, incapable of being guilty
of such crimes. No, no, gentlemen, you will think better of this, and
alter your verdict—perhaps it was a mistake, and you meant to say, ‘not
guilty!’”
“Who is this young lady?” asked the judge, in a tremulous voice—“a
relative of the prisoner’s?”
“No, sir,” answered the excited girl, “no relative, but a very close
friend. She was my ‘school mamma’ once, and I know she is not a person
to rob, and murder, and set fire to houses. Her birth, education,
character, all place her above it. You will think better of this,
gentlemen, and change your verdict. Now, go at once and do it, or you
may distress her!”
“Does any one know who this young lady is?” demanded his honour, his
voice growing more and more tremulous.
“I am Anna Updyke—Dr. McBrain’s daughter, now, and uncle Tom’s niece,”
answered Anna, scarce knowing what she said. “But never mind _me_—it is
Mary Monson, here, who has been tried, and who has so wrongfully been
found guilty. She never committed these crimes, I tell you, sir—is
incapable of committing them—had no motive for committing them; and I
beg you will put a stop to these proceedings, before they get so far as
to make it difficult to recede. Just tell the jury to alter their
verdict. No, no, Mary Monson is no murderess! She would no more hurt the
Goodwins, or touch a particle of their gold, than either of us all. You
do not know her, sir. If you did, you would smile at this mistake of the
jury, for it is all a cruel mistake. Now do, my dear sir, send them
away, again, and tell them to be more reasonable.”
“The young lady had better be removed,” interposed the judge, wiping his
eyes. “Such scenes may be natural, and the court looks on them
leniently; but time is precious, and my duty renders it necessary to
interpose my authority to maintain the order of our proceedings. Let
some of the ladies remove the young lady; she is too delicate for the
touch of a constable—but time is precious.”
The judge was not precisely conscious, himself, of what he was saying,
though he knew the general drift of his remarks. The process of blowing
his nose interrupted his speech, more than once, and Anna was removed by
the assistance of Marie Moulin, Sarah Wilmeter, and good Mrs. Gott; the
latter sobbing like a child, while the other two scarce realized the
consequences of the momentous word that had just been pronounced.
Dunscomb took care that the whole group should quit the building, and be
removed to the tavern.
If the bar, and the spectators in general, had been surprised at the
calmness of exterior maintained by the prisoner, previously to the
verdict, their wonder was sensibly increased by the manner which
succeeded it. Mary Monson’s beauty shone with increasing radiance as the
justice of her country seemed to threaten her existence more and more;
and at the particular moment when she was left alone, by the withdrawal
of her female companions, many present fancied that she had increased in
stature. Certainly, it was a rare sight to observe the illuminated
countenance, the erect mien, and the offended air, with which one of the
weaker sex, and one so youthful and charming, met a doom so terrible. Of
the jury, she took no notice. Her eye was on the judge, who was
endeavouring to muster sufficient fortitude to pronounce the final
decision of the law.
“Before the court pronounces sentence, Mr. Dunscomb,” observed that
functionary, “it will cheerfully hear anything you may have to offer in
behalf of the prisoner, or it will hear the prisoner herself. It is
better, on every account, that all my painful duties be discharged at
once, in order that the prisoner may turn her attention to the only two
sources of mercy that now remain open to her—the earthly and the
heavenly. My duty, as you well know, cannot now be avoided; and the
sooner it is performed, perhaps, the better for all concerned. It shall
be my care to see that the condemned has time to make all her appeals,
let them be to the authorities here, or to the more dreaded power
above.”
“I am taken so much by surprise, your honour, at a verdict that, to say
the least, is given on very doubtful testimony, that I hardly know what
to urge. As the court, however, is disposed to indulgence, and there
will be time to look at the law of the case, as well as to address our
petitions and affidavits to the authority at Albany, I shall interpose
no objection; and, as your honour well remarks, since the painful duty
_must_ be discharged, it were better, perhaps, that it were discharged
now.”
“Prisoner at the bar,” resumed the judge, “you have heard the finding of
the jury, in your case. A verdict of ‘guilty’ has been rendered, and it
has become my painful duty to pronounce the awful sentence of the law.
If you have anything to say previously to this, the last and most
painful of all my duties, the court will give your words a kind and
lenient hearing.”
In the midst of a stillness that seemed supernatural, the sweet,
melodious voice of Mary Monson was heard, “first gentle, almost
inaudible,” but gathering strength as she proceeded, until it became
clear, distinct, and silvery. There are few things that impart a higher
charm than the voice; and the extraordinary prisoner possessed an organ
which, while it was feminine and sweet, had a depth and richness that at
once denoted her power in song. On the present occasion, it was not even
tremulous.
“I believe I understand you, sir,” Mary Monson commenced. “I have been
tried and found guilty of having murdered Peter and Dorothy Goodwin,
after having robbed them, and then of setting fire to the house.”
“You have been tried for the murder of Peter Goodwin, only, the
indictments for the second murder, and for the arson, not having yet
been tried. The court has been obliged to separate the cases, lest the
law be defeated on mere technicalities. This verdict renders further
proceedings unnecessary, and the two remaining indictments will probably
never be traversed.”
“I believe I still understand you, sir; and I thank you sincerely for
the kind manner in which you have communicated these facts, as well as
for the consideration and gentleness you have manifested throughout
these proceedings. It has been very kind in you, sir; and whatever may
come of this, God will remember and reward you for it.”
“The court will hear you, Mary Monson, if you have anything to say,
before sentence be passed.”
“Perhaps I might say and do much to affect your decision, sir,” returned
the prisoner, leaning her fair brow, for a moment, on her hand, “but
there would be little satisfaction in it. It was my wish to be acquitted
on the testimony of the State. I did hope that this jury would not have
seen the proofs of guilt, in the evidence that has been brought against
me; and I confess there would be very little satisfaction to me in any
other acquittal. As I understand the case, should I be acquitted as
respects Peter Goodwin, I must still be tried as respects his wife; and
lastly, for setting fire to the house.”
“You are not acquitted of the murder of Peter Goodwin,” mildly
interposed the judge; “the finding of the court has been just to the
contrary.”
“I am aware of this, sir. America has many enemies. I have lived in
foreign lands, and know this from near and long observation. There are
those, and those, too, who are in power, that would gladly see the great
example in prosperity, peace and order, that this country has hitherto
given to the world, beaten down by our own vices, and the mistaken uses
to which the people put the blessings of Divine Providence. I do not
reverence the justice of my country, as I did: it is impossible that I
should do so. I now see plainly that its agents are not all of the
character they should be; and that, so far from Justice’s being blind
through her impartiality alone, she is also blind through her ignorance.
Why am I found guilty of this act? On what evidence—or even on what
probability? The whole of the proof is connected with that piece of
money. Mrs. Burton has testified that Mrs. Goodwin, herself, admitted
that I had given her that coin—just what I told the coroner, and which I
then saw was not believed, for it has been my misfortune to be tried by
strangers. Will these gentlemen ask themselves why I have committed the
crime of which they have found me guilty? It could not be for money; as
of that I have, of my own, more than I want, more, perhaps, than it is
good for me to be mistress of.”
“Why have not these facts been shown to the jury, at the proper time and
in the proper manner, if true?” demanded the judge, kindly. “They are
material, and might have influenced the verdict.”
The jury was discharged, but not one of them all had left the box. One
or two of them now arose, and looks of doubt and indecision began to
flicker over their countenances. They had been influenced by one man, a
friend and political confidant of Williams, who had led the undecided to
his own opinions. We do not mean to say that this man was perjured, or
that he was himself conscious of the extent of the wrong he was doing;
but his mind had been perverted by the serpent-like report, and he had
tried the cause under the influence of rumours, which had no foundation
in truth. The case was one of honest doubt, as no one will deny; but
instead of giving the accused the benefit of this doubt, as by law and
in reason he was bound to do, he had taken a bias altogether from
outside influences, and that bias he communicated to others, until by
the sheer force of numbers, the few who wavered were driven into a
corner, and soon capitulated. Then, there was a morbid satisfaction in
the minds of several of the jurors, in running counter to the charge of
the judge. This was a species of independence that is grateful to some
men, and they are guided by their vanity, when they fancy they are only
led by conscience. These malign influences were unknown to themselves;
for not one of the twelve was absolutely corrupt, but neither of them
all was qualified by nature, or education, to be a judge, freed from the
influence of the bench, in a case affecting a human life.
Any one in the least observant of what is going on around him, must have
had many opportunities of perceiving how strangely juries render their
verdicts, and how much the last appear to be opposed to the inferences
of the looker-on, as well as to the expressed opinions of the courts.
The falling off in the power of the judges over the minds of the jurors,
we suppose to be derived from a combination of causes. The tendency of
the times is to make men confident in their own judgments, and to defer
less than formerly to knowledge and experience. Seeing this very general
trait, the judges themselves defer to the tendency, manifest less
confidence in their station and knowledge, and perhaps really feel it;
while the unceasing cry of the infallibility of the common mind, induces
the vulgar, or average intellect, to shrink from any collision with that
which wears the semblance, even though simulated, of the popular will.
In this way is the institution of the jury gradually getting to be
perverted, rendering that which is safe as an human tribunal can well
be, when under the guidance of the court, as dangerous as ignorance,
party, self-will and obstinacy can well make it.
“I do not know,” resumed Mary Monson, “that one is yet obliged, in
America, to lay open her account-books, and show her rent-roll, or her
bonds and mortgages, in order to avoid the gallows. I have been told
that crime must be brought home by unanswerable proof, in order to
convict. Who can say that such proof has been adduced in my case? It has
not even been made certain that a man was killed, at all. Most
respectable witnesses have testified that they believe those revolting
remains of poor humanity, belonged once to women. Nor has it been shown
that any one has been murdered. The fire may have been accidental, the
deaths a simple consequence of the fire, and no one guilty.”
“You forget, Mary Monson,” interposed the judge, mildly “that the
robbery, and the piece of money found in your purse, give a colour to
the supposition of crime. The jury have doubtless been influenced by
these facts, and important facts they are. No one can deny this; and I
think you overlook that feature of your case. If, however, your counsel
has any good reason to offer why sentence should not now be pronounced,
the court will hear it. There is no impatience on the part of justice,
which would much rather draw in than stretch forth its arm. Perhaps,
Mary Monson, you might do well to leave to your counsel the objections
you wish to urge, and let them be presented to us in a form that we can
recognise.”
“I see no great use in deferring the sentence,” Dunscomb remarked,
quietly enough for the circumstances. “It must be pronounced; and any
question of law, should one occur to my mind, though I confess none does
at present, can as well be raised after this ceremony as before.”
“I am disposed to wait, if a good reason can be urged for the delay. I
will acknowledge that the case is one involved in a great deal of doubt
and uncertainty, and am much inclined to do all the law will sanction.
Still, I leave you to decide on your own course.”
“In my judgment, may it please your honour, we shall have to go to the
executive, and it were, perhaps, better to get all the most revolting
parts of the case over, while the accused—”
“Convicted, Mr. Dunscomb—it is a distinction painful to make, but one
that cannot now be avoided.”
“I beg pardon of the court—convicted.”
“Yes,” said Mary Monson, solemnly, “I am convicted, and of the revolting
crime of murder. All my hopes of a triumphant acquittal are blasted;
and, whatever may be the termination of this extraordinary affair, a
dark spot will always rest on my name. Sir, I am as innocent of this
crime as the youngest child in your county. I may have been wilful,
perverse, ill-judging, unwise, and have a hundred other failings; but
neither Peter nor Dorothy Goodwin did I ever harm. I had not been long
in the house before I discovered that the old couple were not happy
together. They quarrelled often, and bitterly. The wife was managing,
dictatorial, and sordidly covetous, while he used every shilling he
could obtain, for the purchase of liquors. His mind was affected by his
debauches, and he drivelled. In this state, he came to me for sympathy
and advice. There were passages in my own past life, short as it has
been, which disposed me to feel for one who was not happy in the married
state. It is no matter what my own experience has been; I had sympathy
for that poor man. So far from wishing to do him harm, I desired to do
him good. I advised him to quit the house, and live apart from his wife,
for a time, at least; and this he consented to do, if I would furnish
him with the means. Those means I promised; and, that he might not
suffer, being of only feeble intellect, and in order to keep him from
liquor, I had directed two of my agents to come to the house early in
the morning of the very day that the fire happened, that they might
convey Peter Goodwin to another residence, where he would be secret and
safe, until his wife might repent of her treatment of him. It was
fortunate for me that I had done this. Those two men, servants of my
own, in the dress of countrymen, were the instruments of saving my life;
without their aid, I should have perished in the flames. What they did,
and how they did it, it would be premature now to say. Alas! alas! I
have not been acquitted as I desired to be, and a dark shadow will for
ever rest on my name!”
For the first time, a doubt of the sanity of the prisoner, crossed the
mind of the judge. It was not so much the incoherence of her language,
as her eye, the flushed cheek, and a certain air of stealthy cunning,
that awakened this distrust. Nevertheless, Mary Monson’s manner was
sincere, her language chosen and perfectly proper, and her explanations
not without their force. There was something so strange, however, in a
portion of her statements; so irreconcileable with a sound discretion,
that, taken with the little which had come to light concerning this
singular woman’s past life, the doubt arose.
“Perhaps it were better, Mr. District Attorney,” the judge observed, “if
we delay the sentence.”
“As your honour may think fit. The state is not over-anxious for life.”
“What say you, Mr. Dunscomb—shall there be delay, or shall I sentence?”
“As the sentence _must_ come, the sooner it is over, the better. We have
no ground on which to carry up the case, the jury being judges of the
facts. Our principal hope must be in the discretion of the governor.”
“Mary Monson,” continued the judge, evidently treating the affair as
purely a matter of form, “you have been tried for feloniously depriving
Peter Goodwin of his life—”
“I never did it,” interrupted the prisoner, in a voice so low as to be
melodious, yet so clear as to be audible as the sound of a clarion.
“These men have been influenced by the rumours they have heard, and were
not fit to act as my judges. Men should have minds superior to mere
reports, to sit in that box.”
“My duty is to pronounce the sentence of the law. After a fair trial,
and, so far as it appears to us, by an impartial jury, you have been
found guilty. For reasons that are of sufficient weight to my mind, I
shall not dwell on the character of the awful change you will have to
undergo, should this decree be put in force, but confine myself simply
to the duty of pronouncing the sentence of the law, which is this: that
you be carried back to the gaol, and there be guarded, until Friday, the
sixth day of September next, when between the hours of twelve and two,
P. M., you be carried to the place of execution, and hanged by the neck,
until you are dead—and God have mercy on your soul!”
A shudder passed through the audience, at hearing language like this
applied to a person of Mary Monson’s appearance, education and sex. This
feeling might have manifested itself more strongly, had not Mrs. Horton
attracted attention to herself, by forcing her way through the crowd,
until she stood within the bar. Here the good woman, accustomed to bandy
words with her guests, did not scruple to make her presence known to the
court, by calling out—
“They tell me, your honour, that Mary Monson has just been found guilty
of the murder of Peter Goodwin?”
“It is so, my good woman—but that case is ended. Mr. Sheriff, remove the
prisoner—time is precious—”
“Yes, your honour, and so is eternity. Mary Monson is no more guilty of
taking the life of Peter Goodwin than I am guilty. I’ve always said some
great disgrace would befall our juries, one of these days, and now my
prophecy will come true. Duke’s is disgraced. Constable, let that poor
man come within the bar.”
The drivelling creature who entered the room of McBrain tottered
forward, when twenty voices cried aloud the name of “_Peter Goodwin._”
Every word that Mary Monson had stated was true!