“I will have no parley with one who has brought dishonour on my name. Go!”
Henry Blewton cast one longing look at his mother and sister, and then walked straight into the hall, took his hat off the peg, and, as the door closed on him, Mrs. Blewton screamed in her agony, and fell into a faint that looked like death.
The Rev. Stanley Blewton was a man with a sense of honour pushed to its extremest point. He had no forgiveness for the sinner who brought discredit on an honest name. Like all good Christians, he was bound, I presume, to accept the story of the thief on the cross. But as long as there remained another text in the Bible he would never select that particular scripture as the text of a discourse. His only son had through his influence obtained a good appointment in a clerical insurance office, in which the reverend gentleman was a shareholder. He had been accused by his superiors of peculation. His father’s position, backing his remonstrances, kept the case from coming into the police court. The matter was “squared,” as the slang term has it. A public scandal was averted. But certain persons at least would know the secret. The Blewton name was smirched. This his reverence would never forgive.
Henry walked with a rapid pace down Brixton Hill, for on that reputable eminence his father’s house was situated; passed through Kennington, along the Westminster Bridge Road, crossed the bridge, passed under the shadow of the clock tower, and went up to a recruiting sergeant who stood at the corner of Parliament Street.
During that walk the circumstances of Henry Blewton underwent many important changes. To begin with, he had changed his name, his age, and his occupation. He enlisted, passed the doctor with credit, and blossomed eventually into Private Nott of a valiant regiment of the line.
From that moment all trace of Henry Blewton became lost to his friends and relatives, and for years they mourned for him as people mourn for the dead. His concluding prophecy, delivered with such meaning to his father, came true. Time set him right. He had not been a year in the army before the real delinquent was discovered; and, as the genuine sinner had no influential acquaintances on the directorate of the company, his case was remitted to the Old Bailey for the consideration of a judge and jury. He was found guilty, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Thus was the character of Henry Blewton vindicated.
Useless, alas! now were the regrets and repentances of his reverend father. Vain were the efforts of the private detectives whom he engaged. The advertisements that he caused to be inserted in the papers brought no response, and, after five years of fruitless labour and unavailing self-reproach, his family came to the conclusion that he was dead. He had perished from hunger, perhaps, or had hurried himself into the presence of his Maker, goaded to distraction by the paternal taunts. The reflection that his innocence had been established ameliorated to some little extent the pangs of mother and sister. But the very thought which gave them consolation added to the poignancy of the father’s feelings. He mourned in secret, and cried with the man of yore,—
“Would to God I had died for him! My son, my son!”
At the very point where Brixton Rise merges into Brixton Hill there is an avenue. It is a very well-kept avenue, and a stately row of young trees runs along each side of it. A notice-board informs the passers-by that there is “No Thoroughfare,” and that this trimly-kept approach is “Private.” On some fine days honest people are beguiled by the spectacle of half-a-dozen men with cropped hair and unbecoming uniform repairing the roadway. These operators are directed by another person. He is also in uniform, and carries side arms and a musket—for the avenue leads to Brixton Gaol, and the sullen road-menders are inmates of that suburban retreat. It is perhaps within the knowledge of the reader that military prisoners are now received in the Brixton seminary; if not, the reader must take it from me that it is so.
One wild November morning the gates of Brixton Gaol opened and let loose a prisoner who had been confined for an assault on his superior officer, that gallant captain having contributed somewhat to the offence by dubbing the man a thief. He was a fine, soldierly-looking young fellow of two-and-twenty, though he looked much more. When he came to the end of the avenue he found the chaplain waiting there, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather.