There is one matter almost of a historical character, which I mention in order to do all the justice in my power to a man who, although deserving of reprobation, is also entitled to admiration for the chivalry of his true nature. I speak of it with some hesitation, and therefore without the name. Those who are interested in his memory will know to whom I allude, and possibly be grateful for the tribute to his character, however much it may have been sullied by his temporary absence of manly discretion.
He was charged with assaulting a young lady in a railway train between Aldershot and Waterloo. There was much of the melodramatic in the incidents, and much of the righteous indignation of the public before trial. There was judgment and condemnation in every virtuous mind. The assault alleged was doubtless of a most serious character, if proved. I say nothing of what might have been proved or not proved; but, speaking as an advocate, I will not hesitate to affirm that cross-examination may sometimes save one person's character without in the least affecting that of another.
But this was not to be. Whatever line of defence my experience might have suggested, I was debarred by his express command from putting a single question.
I say to his honour that, as a gentleman and a British officer, he preferred to take to himself the ruin of his own character, the forfeiture of his commission in the army, the loss of social status, and all that could make life worth having, to casting even a doubt on the lady's veracity in the witness-box.
My instructions crippled me, but I obeyed my client, of course, implicitly in the letter and the spirit, even though to some extent he may have entailed upon himself more ignominy and greater severity of punishment than I felt he deserved.
He died in Egypt, never having been reinstated in the British army. I knew but little of him until this catastrophe occurred; but the manliness of his defence showed him to be naturally a man of honour, who, having been guilty of serious misconduct, did all he could to amend the wrong he had done; and so he won my sympathy in his sad misfortune and misery.
In the days when burglary was punished with death, there was very seldom any remission, I was in court one day at Guildford, when a respectably-dressed man in a velveteen suit of a yellowy green colour and pearl buttons came up to me. He looked like one of Lord Onslow's gamekeepers. I knew nothing of him, but seemed to recognize his features as those of one I had seen before. When he came in front of my seat he grinned with immense satisfaction, and said,—
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Orkins?"
I could not understand the man's meaning.
"No, thank you," I said. "What do you mean?"