An Unfortunate Likeness.
Next day Harold Drewitt was brought before Mr. Boice, charged with
having on the first of August, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred
and fifty-four, stolen two thousand pounds, the property of the Dundalk
and Drogheda Banking Company; when the following evidence was produced:—
Jeremiah Kearns having been sworn, deposed, that on the day in question
he was an up passenger by the five o’clock express train from Dundalk to
Drogheda. Had with him two thousand pounds in notes, and one thousand
pounds in gold and silver. The gold and silver was packed in a wooden
box hooped with iron; the notes he carried in a black bag. Asked the
guard not to put any one in the carriage with him, and his request was
complied with, until the train arrived at Dunleer, about eight miles
from Drogheda. At that station the guard said he would be obliged to
give him a fellow-passenger, but it was only a young gentleman going on
to Dublin. Seeing the prisoner, made no objection, and they travelled on
together to Drogheda, where the witness got out.
When he reached the Bank, he found he had lost his bag; spoke to the
car-driver about it, but the car-driver was positive no bag had been
among the luggage, nothing but a portmanteau and the box. Telegraphed at
once to Dublin to search the carriages on the arrival of the train in
Amiens-street. Telegraphed also that the guard would recollect witness’s
fellow-passenger.
Telegraphed, and sent messages to all their branches, stopping payment
of the notes.
Several of the notes had been changed by Dublin shopkeepers during the
period which had elapsed between the first and the fifteenth.
Had received a telegram from the inspector on the previous evening, and
identified the prisoner at the police-station. He was dressed
differently on the day in question, and his hair was now a little
longer, but he had no hesitation in swearing to him as the youth who had
got in at Dunleer.
Prisoner assisted him to lift the box out at Drogheda, and made a remark
to the effect that it must have something of value inside. Witness did
not suspect such a respectable-looking lad, travelling first class, and
belonging apparently to the upper ranks, of stealing his bag. He thought
he, witness, had forgotten the bag, and that if any other passengers got
in between Drogheda and Dublin, prisoner would be able to give
information concerning them. Had heard the description given by several
Dublin tradesmen of the person who had changed the notes, and identified
that description as answering to his fellow-passenger and the prisoner
at the bar.
Had no hesitation in declaring the two to be one and the same person.
Was confident he never mentioned that he was carrying money with him;
but thought the guard made some joke about there being no fear of that
young gentleman robbing him. Was in the habit of taking money from one
bank to another; the guard knew him perfectly well.
Peter Monaghan being sworn, stated, that on the night in question he was
acting as guard on the up express train, which arrived at Dundalk at
five minutes to five o’clock. Recollected Mr. Kearns getting in at that
station, and requesting him, witness, to keep the compartment he
occupied empty if possible. Knew Mr. Kearns well. At Dunleer there were
an unusual number of passengers waiting for the up train, and
consequently asked Mr. Kearns’ permission to put prisoner in the same
compartment. He was such a genteel-looking young gentleman that he
thought there could be no objection. Believed he did make some remark to
that effect, but could not be just certain. At Drogheda Mr. Kearns got
out, and bade witness good-evening. When witness collected the tickets
prisoner was in the train. When the express reached Dublin the
station-master told witness about the telegraphic message, and they both
asked the prisoner if Mr. Kearns had left a bag in the carriage.
Prisoner said, not to his knowledge—that he had not noticed any article
at all when the gentleman got out at Drogheda. Had he done so, he would
have mentioned it to him, witness, at Balbriggan. Several passengers got
into the same compartment at Balbriggan, and one lady who got in at
Drogheda travelled on to Malahide, where every one in that particular
carriage got out except the prisoner. About a mile on the Dublin side of
Malahide a black bag was found next morning by a labourer working on the
line. It must have been thrown out of the right-hand window of the
carriage, as it lay between the metals on the down line. He thought from
the young gentleman’s manner that Mr. Kearns must have taken the bag out
of the train, and lost it between the station and the Bank. Never
suspected the prisoner.
Had identified him at the station-house the previous evening, but should
not have known him in the “wide-awake” he wore. He had on a hat at
Dunleer. A hat was sent for and tried on. He was able to swear to him
then, though he had fallen away in flesh during the fortnight.
Michael Brinny, tobacconist, was then sworn and examined. Had a shop in
College Green. Recollected the first of August. Just as his shutters
were being put up on the evening of that day, prisoner came in, and
bought a pipe and some Cavendish tobacco. He had not silver enough to
pay for these articles, and so he laid down a pound-note, out of which
witness returned him twelve and threepence change. Never saw him before,
and never saw him since, until the previous afternoon, when he came to
his shop again, and purchased three dozen of cigars, offering a Bank of
Ireland one-pound note in payment.
Witness made an excuse about having to send out for change, and kept him
in conversation till his assistant fetched a policeman. Prisoner was
very violent, struck the policeman in the face, declared he did not know
what they were talking about, and gave a great deal of trouble before he
was removed to the station-house. Knew him the moment he came into the
shop, though his hair had grown longer, and his face thinner since he
changed the first note. Thought he tried to disguise his voice, and that
he spoke with more of a West of Ireland accent than when he bought the
Cavendish.
John Garvan, Daniel Laharan, Thomas Molrhany, and several other
respectable shopkeepers identified the prisoner as having made small
purchases, and changed notes at their establishments; while Barry
Croggan, who appeared with a great lump on his forehead, gave an account
of the assault committed on him by the prisoner; and stated that, but
for the assistance rendered by Mr. Brinny and his shopman, he could not
have retained his prisoner until another policeman came to help him.
In answer to all these charges, Harold, having been duly cautioned not
to criminate himself, stated that there must be some mistake; that he
never was at Drogheda in his life; that he knew nothing whatever of the
robbery, never having even heard of it till the policeman told him about
it the previous day. Very earnestly Harold protested his innocence; he
said he had not gone out of Dublin the whole summer, except for a week,
the entire of which time he had spent with Mr. Pryor, of Durrow Park.
Being asked by the magistrate if he could recollect where he was on the
first of August, he said he could not; but upon being told what day of
the week the first fell on, he declared he had spent the whole of it in
the company of Mr. Francis Gyton, who could swear to the fact.
Being requested to send for Mr. Francis Gyton, he said he did not know
where that gentleman was; which reply produced a malevolent chuckle from
the “cloud of witnesses,” and a statement from police constable Croggan
to the effect that prisoner was anything but a respectable young
gentleman, though he believed he had respectable friends. Many of
Harold’s proceedings were recounted for the magistrate’s edification;
and whilst every old sin, every mad prank, every boyish folly was
brought up in judgment against him, the lad leaned forward and covered
his face with his hands to hide the tears of shame and mortification
that he had not strength enough to keep back.
He had never been alone in any trouble before—never; and now, in the
hour of his bitterest trial, he had not a soul to speak a word in his
favour.
“If you give me time, sir,” he said at last, looking up and addressing
the magistrate, “I will be able to prove I never was near the place;
that it is all a mistake—” and then he gave a cry of joy, for Brian, who
he thought was far away from Dublin, entered the court at the moment,
and offered to find bail to any amount for his reappearance.
If he had not assaulted the officer, most probably his brother’s
application would have been listened to; but as it was, the magistrate
refused to entertain the idea even for a moment.
He could not think of accepting bail in so serious a case, he remarked,
and remanded the prisoner.
“I am innocent, Brian. I know nothing about the money. Don’t let them
take me back there!” panted out the poor lad in his terror and distress;
but Brian could do nothing except go to a solicitor and place the case
in his hands, write to Mr. Pryor, and send a telegram to London begging
that Mr. Gyton would, if possible, come back to Dublin without delay.
Then he went home, and it was the hardest day’s work Brian Drewitt ever
performed, facing his mother without Harold. Poor lady! poor mother!
though she did not believe one word of the accusation they had brought
against her youngest born, still she wept till she had no more tears
left to shed at the thought of her boy being in prison—of her darling
being dragged to the dock and tried like a common felon.
“I did all I could,” said Brian, hoarsely. “I offered to get bail, but
they refused it. I was not there time enough to get a solicitor for him,
but I have found one since. I have written to Mr. Pryor and telegraphed
for Mr. Gyton. Is there anything else you would like tried? Is there
anywhere else you would like me to go? Tell me. You have nothing to do
but say what you would wish, and I will endeavour to accomplish it,
mother.”
It would not be possible in a whole volume to describe the intense
tenderness—the womanly compassion Brian managed to put into that one
word; and as he spoke it Mrs. Drewitt went up to him and, without
speaking a sentence, flung her arms round his neck and kissed him over
and over again.
“Mother,” he said, “mother darling,” and he touched her hair, which was
growing grey, grey, and he kissed her forehead, and he let her poor
weary head lie on his breast, but her plaint was still, “Harold, Harold,
my boy, my boy!”
“I could do no more, mother,” Brian repeated, “and nobody can do
anything more for a week yet. Mr. Gyton will be over here by that time,
and then Harold is sure to be liberated at once.”
“Brian,” the dear fingers fidgeted with his neck-tie—with the studs in
his shirt, “Brian.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Where did Harold get all the money he has lately had to spend?”
“I have given him some,” answered Brian.
“But not enough. I should fear not enough.”
In a moment Brian saw where the sting lay; in an instant he perceived
that though she would not believe, still that she dreaded.
“Make your mind easy,” he answered confidently. “Wherever Harold had his
money from, it was not got dishonestly. There is some great mistake, but
I could stake my life he is as innocent as I am; whatever the world may
think, we must not turn against him—must we?”
She placed a hand on each shoulder, and looked Brian full in the face.
“You are not saying that to comfort me?” she asked. “You have no doubt
yourself?”
“Not the slightest.”
“You feel confident he was with Mr. Gyton?”
“I know he was. At least, I remember your writing to me on the evening
of the first that Mr. Gyton had passed that day through Dublin on his
way to Durrow, and that Harold had seen him off from the Broadstone
Station. Harold could not have been at Broadstone and Drogheda on the
same day; besides, he says he never was at Drogheda in his life. And
whatever his faults may be, he is neither a thief nor a liar. Make your
mind easy. It is a case of mistaken identity; but it is confoundedly
hard lines for Harold to be locked up instead of the fellow who really
did steal the notes.”
“You think they were stolen then?” said Mrs. Drewitt.
“They were certainly stolen, and by some one very like Harold; but I
have never seen anybody like Harold in my life. It is a strange
business, and we must wait with patience for the mystery to be
explained.”
“It is not easy to have patience, Brian,” remarked Mrs. Drewitt, and
then she began crying again about her boy—her poor delicate boy, while
Brian thought within himself that if the one-half he had heard during
the day concerning Harold’s mode of life were true, it was no wonder he
grew delicate, and pale, and thin.
“Not home any night till well on in the small hours, Mister Brian, as I
am a living sinner,” remarked Mary-of-all-work to him, “and dhrunk five
nights out of the six, and not at the office regular as he ought be. I’m
just telling _you_,” she finished, “for I wouldn’t like that the
misthress would hear anything of it. Dear pity her poor sowl! She thinks
the sun was made to rise and set for him.” All of which was exceedingly
agreeable information for a young man to hear who had his own way to
make in the world, and who had not found his path so far strewed at all
with roses.
“Never mind,” he thought, as he flung himself wearily on his bed, “it is
all in the day’s work, we shall find rest sometime.”
Possibly, but the day occasionally proves very long, and the rest is
frequently delayed for an unreasonable period. So Brian discovered, as
the years went on, bringing little repose with them.
The Dublin papers were posted as regularly to Kincorth as “The Times” to
Durrow, and accordingly Mr. Maxwell Drewitt had the pleasure of seeing
his cousin’s name figuring largely in a column headed,
“Robbery on the Dublin and Drogheda Railway. Arrest of the Supposed
Thief.”
“That is the end of you, Master Harold, is it?” remarked Maxwell, as he
finished reading the report. “I wish it had been Brian instead. Why,
bless my soul! he must have been caught the very day he returned from
Galway. I will go up to hear if he can prove his alibi, though I dare
swear it is a lie, and that he was not with Gyton at all. He will very
likely be transported.” Having settled Harold’s affairs in which summary
fashion, Maxwell went about the house and grounds in his usual manner,
and slept soundly, not knowing what the post was bringing to him.
He got his missive while he sat at breakfast, and opened it dreading no
evil.
“I should like to see you at once,” he read. “Come to Dublin
immediately, if possible. It is important that you should do so.”
“What can the fellow mean?” marvelled the owner of Kincorth. “What on
earth can he want?” Then all in a moment he remembered the trial, and
connected the two things together.
“My God!” he thought, “can he have been mixed up in that? Have they
mistaken the one for the other?”
He looked for the newspaper which he had put aside in his desk, and
spelled over every word of the evidence. “Thinner—hair longer—more of a
Connaught accent—did not know him till he put on a hat,” he repeated to
himself, “and they have got that other boy locked up for it.”
He put the paper away again, told his servant to pack his portmanteau,
and to order post-horses, “For I must catch the night mail from Galway
to Dublin,” he explained to the man, who did not seem to understand
things, while he invoked a hundred curses on the head of his wife, who
querulously remarked that he was always going from home.
“And always likely to do till you are out of it,” he answered, savagely.
They had been living a more wretched life than ever, lately, for Lady
Emmeline had unexpectedly turned restive, and refused to fall in with
her husband’s plans, as he had fondly hoped she would.
“Anything but that,” she said, firmly. “Anything but another woman’s
child;” and she relapsed into hysterics whenever he ventured to approach
the subject, and adopting the mode of warfare most in favour with her
sex, of digging a moat round her citadel and filling it with tears,
rendered her position alike invulnerable to threats and entreaties.
He might have known he had no chance of success with her, and by holding
his tongue have kept peace, at any rate; but he preferred trying to
compass his end, and the result was a state of domestic warfare which
caused the servants to declare emphatically that Kincorth was like hell.
“They never are but bickering and quarrelling, and snapping at one
another from morning till night,” said Lady Emmeline’s maid to a select
assemblage in the servants’ hall. “It was only this morning I heard
master saying he could wait till she was dead; and mistress answered she
would live to spite him.”
This was what marriage had done for Maxwell Drewitt and for Lady
Emmeline. He had paid his price and got the article he coveted, and this
was the result. No wonder he spent much of his time in Dublin; no wonder
his heart—for he had some human feelings, some need for human
affection—turned hopefully towards his son, whom he meant to make a
great man of one day.
A great man! Alas! already his dream castle was tottering to its
foundation. It was to prop it up and save it he hastened to Dublin,
where the first person he went to seek was a schoolmaster, grave and
discreet, who resided near that loveliest of all sea-bathing villages,
Bray.
“You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Blosse,” began Maxwell; he had travelled
all night and looked haggard and exhausted. “You wanted to speak to me.”
“Yes, Mr. Drewitt, particularly,” was the reply. “I think we might take
a walk if you are not tired. I should like to say what I have got to say
out of doors.”
“Let us go then,” and Maxwell put on his hat.
“You will have some breakfast?”
“Not any; I am ready to go if you are.”
“Will you not take a glass of wine?”
“At this hour? no, thank you, Mr. Blosse; let us go,” and he moved
nervously towards the door.
When they were once out into the open air, he turned towards his
companion inquiringly; but Mr. Blosse said, “Not yet,” and they walked
on—on to the very top of Bray Head; where, unmindful of the view,
unmindful of everything in earth, or sea, or heaven, Maxwell demanded
what was the matter; what Mr. Blosse had to say.
“That trial, Mr. Drewitt—you know the trial I mean?”
“Yes,” Maxwell answered.
“Is not the accused some relative of yours?”
“My first cousin—go on.”
“I take it for granted there must be some extraordinary likeness between
him and Arthur,” continued Mr. Blosse.
“I do not know why you should take anything of the kind for granted, Mr.
Blosse,” said Maxwell, stiffly. “I really do not.”
“The youth who is in custody did not take that money, Mr. Drewitt,”
observed Mr. Blosse, “and Arthur did; therefore I say some extraordinary
likeness must exist between them.”
He had been expecting this all along. He had hoped for nothing different
from the moment he opened his letters the previous morning. He had faced
the question as he drove past the desolate lakes, under the shadow of
the lonely hills. He had not concealed the probability of such an
announcement greeting him on his arrival at Bray; and yet now, when the
blow did fall, Maxwell felt it in every nerve of his body—in every vein
of his heart.
He did not know till then what hopes he had built on the chance of what
this handsome illegitimate flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood
might turn out. He had not realized what dreams he had cherished about
him; how he had been turning year after year more and more to this one
thing which belonged to him, which he called his own on earth, till,
standing on Bray Head, with the blue sea washing a far different strand
from that whereon he was accustomed to gaze below him, with the clear
sky above him, he heard Mr. Blosse speak words that might have been read
out of a death-warrant, judging by the effect they produced.
For a long time Maxwell stood silent; for a long time he remained
staring down on the sea, while he swallowed, drop by drop, the contents
of that bitter cup. Then when at last he could speak—when at last his
voice would answer to his will, he asked Mr. Blosse to explain
himself—to tell him all the particulars.
“Begin at the beginning,” said Maxwell, “and do not stop till you get to
the end.”
“He spent his holidays, as you know,” commenced Mr. Blosse, “partly at
Killarney, with you, and partly with one of his schoolfellows, whose
father has a property near Carlow. He was to have returned here on the
first of August; but he never made his appearance until the evening of
the third, when he stated that he had gone down with a friend to the
North, and that he had come back from Derry that day. I asked him who
his friend was? and he said an officer who was going to be married to
Grey’s sister. I knew Grey’s sister was engaged to an officer, and so I
never thought of disbelieving his story at the time, though I have since
had reason to think he did not go to Derry at all, but only to
Carlingford, in company with some not very desirable acquaintances.”
“Go on,” interrupted Maxwell. “It is the last part of the story I want
to hear. What makes you think Arthur——”
“Is the culprit? I think so—because I found the notes secreted in his
bedroom. I noticed something strange about him ever since his return,
and determined to watch his movements. I remarked that he was
perpetually making excuses to leave the library; that he was always
going upstairs; that——”
“Go on!” entreated Maxwell. “I do not want to know what you noticed; I
want to know what you found.”
“I found there was a short piece of board loose in his room, and that
these notes were under it—or, rather, not under it, but pushed far away
to one side below the sound boards. I should never have guessed it but
for his own over-anxiety. He could not rest away from the packet; he was
always fancying somebody had discovered it.”
Maxwell tried hard to keep his hands off the man who had dogged and
watched and trapped his son; and who now sat and told him—not without a
certain subdued triumph—how his sagacity had been rewarded—his trouble
repaid. He dug his nails into his flesh, and looked at his clenched
fists, with the dark look of his wicked youth gathering deeper and
deeper about his eyes.
“Go on!” he repeated; and Mr. Blosse went on.
“I had heard of the robbery,” he said; “I had listened to the story
without any great interest, as one does listen to such things, unless
there is some circumstance of special importance connected with them;
but when I saw the notes I taxed Arthur with the theft, and he confessed
all. How Mr. Kearns left the bag behind him——”
“You can stop now,” Maxwell interrupted; “you have told me all I care to
hear. Now listen to me. I know exactly all you would say, and I can
guess your questions without hearing one of them. First of all, the
money must be sent back to this precious Drogheda Banking Company.
Secondly, this boy—this Harold Drewitt—he must be cleared. He can do
that for himself, I know. Mr. Gyton did leave Dublin for Galway on the
first, and Harold was in his company all the afternoon, at any rate.
Thirdly, you want Arthur out of your house, and you want no fuss,
because you think a fuss would damage you with the parents of your other
pupils. I will take Arthur away with me; and last, but not least, you
desire a pecuniary acknowledgment from me—a suitable thank-offering for
the silence you have maintained, and will maintain, on this subject. Is
there anything which I have overlooked, Mr. Blosse?”
“Nothing. You are thoughtfulness itself,” was the reply.
“Now, you can go back to your house and leave me here for half an hour,”
said Maxwell; “at the end of that time I shall want to see Arthur.”
“But, Mr. Drewitt——”
“I know my own business, sir, and shall transact it after my own
fashion,” interrupted the owner of Kincorth, and he followed the
retreating figure with his eyes as it grew less and less in the
distance—followed it till it was mixed up among other figures, and lost
to view; then Maxwell himself descended slowly to the shore, and walking
along the beach, which was bare and dry, the tide being out, he kicked
the pebbles before him just as he had done so many years previously when
he lounged home to Kincorth by the edge of Duranmore Bay.
He had been worsted, and a man like Maxwell Drewitt does not bear such
an indignity patiently. He had longed to kick Mr. Blosse—to taunt him—to
dare him—to defy him; but he was afraid. Mr. Blosse could transport the
boy. He had father and son in his power, and he only refrained from
using that power because he thought it might injure his reputation as an
instructor of the sons of the “nobility and gentry” if it were known a
felon had come out of such an unexceptionable establishment.
“He has the ball,” reflected Maxwell, “and can make what terms he
chooses, damn him!” and at this point Mr. Drewitt lit a fresh cigar, and
walked on more slowly and leisurely than ever.
He was thinking—thinking what to do with Arthur. “I will take him to
England,” he decided. “I will put him under the care of some good
clergyman, if there is such a _rara avis_ to be found. I will try to
reform him, for he is mine, and he is all I have.”
Oh! lonely and desolate, poor and unregarded. There was something about
the departure of that pair—of that father and son, from under his roof
which touched even Mr. Blosse.
“You may depend upon me, Mr. Drewitt, you may, indeed,” were his parting
words, and he spoke them with a certain warmth of manner upon which
Maxwell’s reply fell like ice.
“I do not doubt it, Mr. Blosse, for you know it will be to your interest
to remain true to me,” and having uttered this pleasant speech, Maxwell
turned his back on Mr. Blosse, and telling the car-driver to take them
leisurely to Kingston, he and Arthur left Bray behind them.
Maxwell did not breathe freely until they reached Holyhead, and were
speeding along through the darkness to Chester. He had never reproached
his son—never spoken to him, in fact, on the subject, and he did not
mean to do so till they were safe in London. The notes were in his
possession; but he could do nothing with them for the present.
Harold was still a prisoner, and “he must remain a prisoner unless Mr.
Gyton can prove a satisfactory alibi,” thought Maxwell. “After all, he
is out of harm’s way where he is, which is more than could be said if he
were at large.” And so far Maxwell was right, for Harold had nothing to
do the whole day long except form good resolutions, and vow, and
declare, and swear he would turn over a new leaf when once he got out of
his present scrape.
He had been up again before the magistrate, but his solicitor had
procured another remand. Mr. Gyton was in the south of France with his
father, but he would return to England immediately. Mr. Pryor pledged
himself to that, and in order to make assurance doubly sure, started off
in search of his nephew. Brian grew dreadfully anxious as day after day
passed over and still brought no tidings of Mr. Gyton’s movements. He
began to feel on how slight a thread Harold’s chance of escape was
hanging. If anything happened to Frank Gyton—if he were killed in a
railway accident—if he caught a fever and died—if he could not swear to
the date—if, like Mrs. Drewitt, Geraldine, and Harold’s employers, he
had attached no definite memory to the day, or the hour, or the date,
why, then Harold would be convicted; without doubt he would be
convicted.
“And he never could live out his sentence,” thought Brian, in despair,
“and it would kill my mother; her hair is getting quite white with this
suspense, and that certainly would kill her.”
He was making some observation of the kind to the solicitor who had
undertaken Harold’s defence, when a telegram arrived from Mr. Gyton.
“Am in London,” ran the message; “shall be in Dublin to-morrow morning.”
“I hope he will,” said the lawyer; “for your brother, remember, is to be
brought up again on Thursday, and nothing can save him but a miracle or
an alibi.”
Which speech sounded anything rather than consolatory, under the
circumstances.