The Experiences of a Barrister, and Confessions of an Attorney by Samuel Warren

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The evidence was soon given. The game-keepers, on the night of the 24th
of February, were apprised that poachers were in the plantations. Taking
with them a stronger force than usual, all well-armed, they discovered
the objects of their search, in a lane leading out into the fields, and
shouted to them to surrender. They distinctly saw their figures flying
before them, and when they approached them, one of the fugitives turned
round and fired, wounding one of the keepers' legs with a quantity of
small shot. The keeper immediately fired in return, and brought down a
poacher; old Ralph's voice was heard shouting to them to desist, and upon
coming up they found him standing by the side of Martin Harvey, who had
fallen severely wounded. Three guns lay by them, one of which had been
discharged, but no one could swear who had fired it; search was made all
night for the other man, but without success.

When the prisoners were called on for their defence, they looked at one
another for a moment as if neither wished to speak first; Ralph, however,
began. He had little to say. Casting a look of defiance at Sir George and
his lady, who sat in a side-gallery above the court, he freely confessed
that hatred to the man who had injured him in his youth, and who had
treated him with harshness on his return from abroad, had been the motive
of his encouraging and aiding in these midnight depredations; he
expressed sorrow for having occasioned trouble to his neighbor Harvey.
"What I can say will be of little use to me here," said Martin Harvey, in
a hollow voice; "I am ruined, beyond redress; but I was a very poor man
when I first joined, with others, in snaring game; I often wanted bread,
and saw my wife and child pinched for food also. The rich people say game
belongs to them; but--well--all I can say more is, that I take God to
witness I never lifted a murderous gun against my fellow-man; he who did
it has escaped; and I have suffered this broken limb--but that I don't
mind--I have worse than that to bear--I have broken my wife's heart, and
my child will be left an orphan."

His voice failed. There was an uneasy movement among the audience: and
a lady, who had been leaning over the rails of the side-gallery
listening with deep attention, fainted, and was carried out of court.
The prisoner's pale wife, who had bowed her head behind him in silent
endurance, heard a whisper among the bystanders that it was Lady
Roberts, and a hope entered her mind that the lady's tender heart might
feel for them.

"Have you any witnesses to call?" asked the Judge.

Martin looked round with a vacant gaze; the attorney whispered to him,
and beckoned to Alfred Gray.

Alfred went into the witness-box, and told of the honesty, sobriety, and
good conduct of Martin Harvey, during all the years he was in his
father's house--"He was there before I was born," said the young man,
"and only left when I was obliged to leave also, sixteen years after. A
better man never broke bread--he was beloved by every body who knew him.
Till now his character was never tainted. It's the one black spot."

The Judge commenced summing up; it was evident to all who had paid
attention to the evidence, that the conviction of two of the prisoners
was certain. Alfred Gray knew this, and strove to induce the wife to
leave with him before the fatal close of proceedings; but she shook her
head and would not go. "I shall have strength to bear it," she said.

He sat down by her side, and heard the fearful verdict of "guilty"
pronounced against her husband and Ralph Somers; and then the dreaded
doom of transportation for life awarded to them. As they turned to leave
the dock, Martin looked down upon the crushed and broken-hearted being
whom he had sworn to protect and cherish through life, and in spite of
every effort to repress it, a cry of agony burst from his lips; it was
answered by a fainter sound, and Alfred Gray lifted the helpless,
lifeless woman from the ground, and carried her into the open air.

Months passed; and on the day when the convict ship, with its freight of
heavy hearts, began its silent course over the greatwaters, the widowed
wife took her fatherless child by the hand, and again traversed the weary
road which led them to their desolated home.

The kindness of the Grays had supplied a few immediate necessaries. Some
one had told her of women having, by the aid of friends, managed to meet
their husbands once more in those distant parts of the earth; and this
knowledge once in her agitated mind, raised a hope which inspired her to
pursue her daily task without fainting, and to watch an opportunity of
making an attempt which she had meditated, even during that dreadful day
of Martin's trial. She resolved to seek admission into Sir George
Roberts' mansion, and appeal to the pity of his wife. It was told in the
village that Lady Roberts had implored her husband to interpose in behalf
of the men; that his angry and passionate refusal had caused a breach
between them; that they had lived unhappily ever since; that he had
strictly forbidden any one to mention the subject, or to convey to Lady
Roberts any remarks that were made in the neighborhood.

Susan Harvey trembled when she entered the mansion, and timidly asked
leave to speak to Lady Roberts.

The servant she addressed had known her husband, and pitied her distress;
and, fearing lest Sir George might pass, he led her into his pantry,
watching an opportunity to let the lady know of her being there.

After a time Lady Roberts' maid came, and beckoned her to follow
up-stairs. In a few moments the soft voice of the lady of the mansion was
cheering her with kind words, and encouraging her to disclose her wishes.

Before she had concluded, a step was heard without, at which the lady
started and turned pale. Before there was time for retreat Sir George
hastily entered the apartment.

"Who have you here, Lady Roberts?"

"One who has a request to make, I believe," said the lady, mildly. "I
wish a few moments with her."

"Have the goodness to walk out of this house," said the baronet to Susan.
"Lady Roberts, I know this woman and I will not allow you to harbor such
people here."

Although the convict's wife never again ventured into that house, her
wants, and those of her child, were, during three years, ministered to by
the secret agency of the Good Heart that lived so sadly there; and when,
at the expiration of that period, Lady Roberts died, a trusty messenger
brought to the cottage a little legacy--sufficient, if ever news came of
Martin, to enable the wife and child, from whom he was separated, to make
their way across the earth, and to meet him again.

But during those weary years no tidings of his fate had reached either
his wife or Alfred Gray--to whom he had promised to write when he reached
his destination. Another year dragged its slow course over the home of
affliction, and poor Susan's hopes grew fainter day by day. Her sinking
frame gave evidence of the sickness that cometh from the heart.

One summer evening, in the next year, Alfred Gray, entered his uncle's
garden with a letter, and was soon seated in the summer-house reading it
aloud to his uncle and Martha. Tears stood in the old man's eyes, as some
touching detail of suffering or privation was related. And, indeed, the
letter told of little beside. It was from Martin. Soon after his arrival
in the settlement, Martin had written to Alfred, but the letter had never
reached England--not an unusual occurrence in those times. After waiting
long, and getting no reply, he was driven by harsh treatment, and the
degradation attending the life he led, to attempt, with old Ralph, an
escape from the settlement. In simple language, he recorded the dreary
life they led in the woods; how, after a time, old Ralph sickened and
died; and how, in a desolate place, where the footsteps of man had,
perhaps, never trod before, Martin Harvey had dug a grave, and buried his
old companion. After that, unable to endure the terrible solitude, he had
sought his way back to his former master, and had been treated more
harshly than before. Fever and disease had wasted his frame, until he had
prayed that he might die and be at rest; but God had been merciful to
him, and had inclined the heart of one for whom he labored, who listened
with compassion to his story, took him under his roof, and restored him
to health. And now, Martin had obtained a ticket of leave, and served his
kind master for wages, which he was carefully hoarding to send to Alfred
Gray, as soon as he should hear from him that those he loved were still
preserved, and would come and embrace him once more in that distant land.

"They shall go at once, Alfred," said old Mr. Gray, the moment the last
sentence was read; "they shall not wait; we will provide the
means--hey, Martha?"

He did not now fear to appeal to his companion. Martha had grown kinder
of late, and she confessed she had learned of her cousin what gives most
comfort to those who are drawing near their journey's end. "I can help
them a little," she said.

"We will all help a little," Alfred replied. "I shall be off at break of
day to-morrow, on neighbor Collins's pony, and shall give him no rest
until he sets me down at Uffeulme."

Accordingly, early next morning, Alfred Gray was riding briskly along
through the pleasant green lanes which led toward his native village. It
was the middle of June, bright, warm, sunny weather; and the young man's
spirits was unusually gay, everything around him tending to heighten the
delight which the good news he carried had inspired him with. The pony
stepped out bravely, and was only checked when Alfred came in sight of
the dear old home of his childhood, and heard the well-known chimes
calling the villagers to their morning service, for it was Sunday. Then
for a few moments the young man proceeded more slowly, and his
countenance wore a more saddened look, as the blessed recollections of
early loves and affections with which the scene was associated in his
mind, claimed their power over all other thoughts. The voice of an old
friend, from an apple-orchard hard by, recalled him from his reveries.

He shook hands through the hedge. "I will come and see you in the
evening, Fred. I must hasten on now. She will go to church this morning,
and I must go with her."

"Who?" asked the other.

Alfred pointed to the cottage where Susan Harvey dwelt. "I bring her good
news--I have a letter. Martin is living and well."

The friend shook his head.

Alfred dismounted, and walked towards Susan Harvey's cottage. The door
was closed, and when he looked through the window he could see no one
inside. He lifted the latch softly and entered. There was no one there;
but his entrance had been heard, and a moment after, a fine stout lad
came out of the inner chamber, took Alfred's proffered hand, and in
answer to his inquiries, burst into tears.

"She says she cannot live long, sir; but she told me last night, that
before she died, you would come and tell us news of father. She has been
saying all the past week that we should hear from him soon."

Whilst the boy spoke, Alfred heard a weak voice, calling his name from
the inner room.

"Go in," he said, "and tell her I am here."

The boy did so, and then beckoned him to enter.

Susan's submissive features were but little changed, from the time when
her husband was taken from her; but the weak and wasted form that strove
to raise itself in vain, as Alfred approached the bed-side, too plainly
revealed that the struggle was drawing to a close--that the time of rest
was at hand.

"Thank God, you are come," she said; "you have heard from him? Tell me
quickly, for my time is short."

"I come to tell you good news, Susan. You may yet be restored to him."

"I shall not see Martin in this world again, Mr. Gray; but I shall close
my eyes in peace. If you know where he is, and can tell me that my boy
shall go and be with him, and tell him how, through these long weary
years, we loved him, and thought of him, and prayed for him--" Here she
broke off, and beckoned the boy to her. She held his hands within her
own, whilst Alfred Gray read from the letter all that would comfort her.

When he had done, she said, "God will bless you--you have been very good
to us in our misery. Now, will you promise me one thing more? Will you
send my boy to his father, when I am gone?"

The promise was made; and the boy knelt long by her bedside, listening
to the words of love and consolation which, with her latest breath, she
uttered for the sake of him who, she hoped, would hear them again from
his child's lips.

* * * * *

Nearly forty years have passed since they laid her among the graves of
the humble villagers of Uffeulme. Few remain now who remember her story
or her name--but, on the other side of the world, amid scenery all
unlike to that in which she dwelt, there stands a cheerful settler's
home, and under the shadow of tall acacia trees which surround the
little garden in which some few English flowers are blooming, there are
sitting, in the cool of the summer evening, a group whose faces are all
of the Anglo-Saxon mould. A happy looking couple, in the prime of life,
are there, with children playing around them; and one little gentle
girl, they call Susan, is sitting on the knee of an aged, white-haired
man, looking lovingly into his face, and wondering why his eye so
watches the setting sun every night, as it sinks behind the blue waters
in the distance. Two tall, handsome lads, with guns on their shoulders,
enter the garden, and hasten to show the old man the fruits of their
day's exploits.

"We have been lucky to-day, grandfather," says the younger; "but Alfred
says these birds are not like the birds in old England."

"You should hear the sailors talk about the game in England, Martin,"
replies the brother.

"Grandfather has told us all about England, except the 'birds.' He thinks
we should run away, if he were to describe them."

The old man looks steadily at the boys for a moment, and his eyes fill
with tears. "It is a glorious land," he says, with a faltering voice; "it
is our country; but, Alfred, Martin, you will never leave this happy home
to go there. Birds there are the rich man's property, and you would not
dare carry those guns of yours over English ground. If ever you go there,
your father will tell you where there is a church-yard--and among the
graves of the poor, there is one--"

He stopped, for Edward Harvey came to the place where his father sat, and
took his trembling hand within his own; the boys obeyed their mother's
signal, and followed her into the house; the two men remained sitting
together, until the silent stars came out.

Then the aged man, leaning on his son's arm, rejoined the family at the
supper-table--and the peace of God rested on the solitary home. Edward
Harvey had faithfully kept within his heart, the memory of his mother's
dying commands.

Martin, his father, had nobly effaced the one Black Spot.

THE GENTLEMAN BEGGAR.

One morning, about five years ago, I called by appointment on Mr. John
Balance, the fashionable pawnbroker, to accompany him to Liverpool, in
pursuit of a Levanting customer--for Balance, in addition to pawning,
does a little business in the sixty per cent. line. It rained in torrents
when the cab stopped at the passage which leads past the pawning-boxes to
his private door. The cabman rang twice, and at length Balance appeared,
looming through the mist and rain in the entry, illuminated by his
perpetual cigar. As I eyed him rather impatiently, remembering that
trains wait for no man, something like a hairy dog, or a bundle of rags,
rose up at his feet, and barred his passage for a moment. Then Balance
cried out with an exclamation, in answer apparently to a something I
could not hear, "What, man alive!--slept in the passage!--there, take
that, and get some breakfast, for Heaven's sake!" So saying, he jumped
into the "Hansom," and we bowled away at ten miles an hour, just catching
the Express as the doors of the station were closing. My curiosity was
full set--for although Balance can be free with his money, it is not
exactly to beggars that his generosity is usually displayed; so when
comfortably ensconced in a _coupe_ I finished with--

"You are liberal with your money this morning; pray, how often do you
give silver to street-cadgers?--because I shall know now what walk to
take when flats and sharps leave off buying law."

Balance, who would have made an excellent parson if he had not been bred
to a case-hardening trade, and has still a soft bit left in his heart
that is always fighting with his hard head, did not smile at all, but
looked as grim as if squeezing a lemon into his Saturday night's punch.
He answered slowly, "A cadger--yes; a beggar--a miserable wretch, he is
now; but, let me tell you, Master David, that that miserable bundle of
rags was born and bred a gentleman--the son of a nobleman, the husband of
an heiress, and has sat and dined at tables where you and I, Master
David, are only allowed to view the plate by favor of the butler. I have
lent him thousands, and been well paid. The last thing I had from him was
his court-suit; and I hold now his bill for one hundred pounds that will
be paid, I expect, when he dies."

"Why, what nonsense you are talking! you must be dreaming this morning.
However, we are alone; I'll light a weed, in defiance of Railway-law,
while you spin that yarn; for, true or untrue, it will fill up the time
to Liverpool."

"As for yarn," replied Balance, "the whole story is short enough; and as
for truth, that you may easily find out if you like to take the trouble.
I thought the poor wretch was dead, and I own it put me out meeting him
this morning, for I had a curious dream last night."

"Oh, hang your dreams! Tell us about this gentleman beggar that bleeds
you of half-crowns--that melts the heart even of a pawnbroker!"

"Well, then, that beggar is the illegitimate son of the late Marquis of
Hoopborough by a Spanish lady of rank. He received a first rate
education, and was brought up in his father's house. At a very early age
he obtained an appointment in a public office, was presented by the
marquis at court, and received into the first society, where his handsome
person and agreeable manners made him a great favorite. Soon after coming
of age, he married the daughter of Sir E. Bumper, who brought him a very
handsome fortune, which was strictly settled on herself. They lived in
splendid style, kept several carriages, a house in town, and a place in
the country. For some reason or other, idleness, or to please his lady's
pride he said, he resigned his appointment. His father died, and left him
nothing; indeed, he seemed at that time very handsomely provided for.

"Very soon Mr. and Mrs. Molinos Fitz-Roy began to disagree. She was cold,
correct--he was hot and random. He was quite dependent on her, and she
made him feel it. When he began to get into debt, he came to me. At
length some shocking quarrel occurred--some case of jealousy on the
wife's side, not without reason, I believe; and the end of it was, Mr.
Fitz-Roy was turned out of doors. The house was his wife's, the furniture
was his wife's, and the fortune was his wife's--he was, in fact, her
pensioner. He left with a few hundred pounds ready money, and some
personal jewelry, and went to a hotel. On these and credit he lived.
Being illegitimate, he had no relations--being a fool, when he spent his
money, he lost his friends. The world took his wife's part, when they
found she had the fortune, and the only parties who interfered were her
relatives, who did their best to make the quarrel incurable. To crown
all, one night he was run over by a cab, was carried to a hospital, and
lay there for months, and was, during several weeks of the time,
unconscious. A message to the wife, by the hands of one of his debauched
companions, sent by a humane surgeon, obtained an intimation that 'if he
died, Mr. Croak, the undertaker to the family, had orders to see to the
funeral,' and that Mrs. Molinos was on the point of starting for the
Continent, not to return for some years. When Fitz-Roy was discharged, he
came to me, limping on two sticks, to pawn his court-suit, and told me
his story. I was really sorry for the fellow--such a handsome,
thoroughbred-looking man. He was going then into the west somewhere, to
try to hunt out a friend. 'What to do, Balance,' he said, 'I don't know.
I can't dig, and unless somebody will make me their gamekeeper, I must
starve, or beg, as my Jezebel bade me, when we parted!'

"I lost sight of Molinos for a long time, and when I next came upon him
it was in the Rookery of Westminster, in a low lodging-house, where I was
searching with an officer for stolen goods. He was pointed out to me as
the 'gentleman-cadger,' because he was so free with his money when 'in
luck.' He recognized me, but turned away then. I have since seen him, and
relieved him more than once, although he never asks for anything. How he
lives, Heaven knows. Without money, without friends, without useful
education of any kind, he tramps the country, as you saw him, perhaps
doing a little hop-picking or hay-making, in season, only happy when he
obtains the means to get drunk. I have heard through the kitchen whispers
that you know come to me, that he is entitled to some property; and I
expect if he were to die his wife would pay the hundred pound bill I
hold; at any rate, what I have told you I know to be true, and the bundle
of rags I relieved just now is known in every thieves' lodging in England
as the 'gentleman cadger.'"

This story produced an impression on me: I am fond of speculation, and
like the excitement of a legal hunt as much as some do a fox-chase. A
gentleman, a beggar--a wife rolling in wealth--rumors of unknown property
due to the husband;--it seemed as if there were pickings for me amidst
this carrion of pauperism.

Before returning from Liverpool, I had purchased the gentleman beggar's
acceptance from Balance. I then inserted in the "Times" the following
advertisement: "_Horatio Molinos Fitz-Roy_.--If this gentleman will apply
to David Discount, Esq., Solicitor, St. James's, he will hear of
something to his advantage. Any person furnishing Mr. R's correct
address, shall receive L1 1s. reward. He was last seen," &c. Within
twenty-four hours I had ample proof of the wide circulation of the
"Times." My office was besieged with beggars of every degree, men and
women, lame and blind, Irish, Scotch, and English--some on crutches, some
in bowls, some in go-carts. They all knew him as "the gentleman," and I
must do the regular fraternity of tramps the justice to say, that not one
would answer a question until he made certain that I meant the
"gentleman" no harm.

One evening, about three weeks after the appearance of the advertisement,
my clerk announced "another beggar." There came in an old man leaning
upon a staff, clad in a soldier's greatcoat, all patched and torn, with a
battered hat, from under which a mass of tangled hair fell over his
shoulders and half concealed his face. The beggar, in a weak, wheezy,
hesitating tone, said, "You have advertized for Molinos Fitz-Roy. I hope
you don't mean him any harm; he is sunk, I think, too low for enmity now;
and surely no one would sport with such misery as his." These last words
were uttered in a sort of piteous whisper.

I answered quickly, "Heaven forbid I should sport with misery--I mean and
hope to do him good, as well as myself."

"Then, sir, I am Molinos Fitz-Roy!"

While we were conversing candles had been brought in. I have not very
tender nerves--my head would not agree with them--but I own I started and
shuddered when I saw and knew that the wretched creature before me was
under thirty years of age, and once a gentleman. Sharp, aquiline
features, reduced to literal skin and bone, were begrimed and covered
with dry fair hair; the white teeth of the half-open mouth chattered with
eagerness, and made more hideous the foul pallor of the rest of the
countenance. As he stood leaning on a staff half bent, his long, yellow
bony fingers clasped over the crutch-head of his stick, he was indeed a
picture of misery, famine, squalor, and premature age, too horrible to
dwell upon. I made him sit down, sent for some refreshment which he
devoured like a ghoul, and set to work to unravel his story. It was
difficult to keep him to the point; but with pains I learned what
convinced me that he was entitled to some property, whether great or
small there was no evidence. On parting, I said, "Now, Mr. F, you must
stay in town while I make proper inquiries. What allowance will be enough
to keep you comfortably?"

He answered humbly after much pressing, "Would you think ten shillings
too much?"

I don't like, if I do those things at all, to do them shabbily--so I
said, "Come every Saturday and you shall have a pound." He was profuse in
thanks, of course, as all such men are as long as distress lasts.

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