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"I must beg you to search thoroughly every room," Miss Durrant was saying. "It is not that I am nervous, but I think it only right to satisfy ourselves that there is no man concealed upon the premises."
"To be sure, ma'am, to be sure," the valet replied. "I only wish I could ketch the man; but I'm afraid he's had time to get away."
Gus could not see the fierce manner in which the valet brandished his weapon as he spoke; but the words were enough. With a hare-like instinct, the boy rushed for the nearest covert. Between him and the door was the bed. Curtains hung at the head, the sheet was folded back, the large downy pillows, with frilled edges, were invitingly exposed. Straight at the bed dashed Gus.
As he slipped behind the curtain, his quick eyes saw an aperture at the back of the pillows which seemed to offer him a hiding-place. Quick as thought, he sprang up, and wriggled himself along till he lay, as small as possible, between the bolster and the wooden board at the head of the bedstead. Had he not been very thin and slight, he could not have worked himself into such a position without disarranging the bed. But with such eel-like dexterity did he move that when, a few minutes later, the armed force entered the room, the bed looked pretty much as the housemaid had left it before she went out.
The valet, poker in hand, advanced into the room, followed by Martha, who carried the tongs. Then came Miss Durrant, who had armed herself with a finely polished brass poker, one of the ornamental kind which rarely see actual service; next was cook, and Edith brought up the rear, because no one else was willing to come last, there being a general impression that if the burglar were passed by the van-guard, he would be likely to fall upon the rear.
The valet courageously looked under the bed and under the skirt of the dressing-table. At Miss Durrant's suggestion, he opened her wardrobe, and passed his hand through the dresses that hung there. Emboldened by his example, cook passed her hand cautiously over the surface of the feather-bed, but did not think of looking behind the pillows, though it did occur to her to look in the coal-box, which could not have sheltered a "Tom Thumb" of burglars.
"I can't help thinking it was nothing but an old cat," remarked Martha, keeping, in spite of this assertion, close to the side of their gallant protector.
"You think it a cat, do you?" replied cook, with a snort. "Well, all I can say is, I never knew before that you was so mighty afraid of cats. One would think you was a mouse."
The resources of Miss Durrant's room seeming to be exhausted, the band passed on to the next. Gus, who had hardly dared to breathe whilst they were in the room, drew a long sigh of relief as he heard them passing up the corridor.
Tramp, tramp, tramp went the procession, now in the servants' rooms, now in the attic, finally descending again to the lower regions. The valet, who had got out on the roof and examined the cistern, was certain that some living creature had fallen into it; but the splashes on the slates and the shattered plank gave no conclusive evidence as to the size and nature of the intruder. He readily adopted the idea suggested by Martha, and amused himself with twitting the cook with having mistaken a cat for a man.
The policeman, who arrived late at the scene of excitement, leaned towards the same opinion; and though he went round the grounds with his bull's-eye, failed to discover the ladder hidden amongst the shrubs, or to see any traces of the burglars.
Martha's explanation was accepted by every one save the cook. Miss Durrant even went so far as to say she was certain it was a cat, and that if cook had only exercised proper self-control the house and neighbourhood need not have been alarmed. She repudiated the idea of being nervous herself, but was, nevertheless, very restless and fidgety during the remainder of the evening.
As the commotion in the house gradually died away, Gus no longer listened intently to every sound. Drowsiness crept over him as he lay warm and snug behind the pillows. At last, notwithstanding every cause for uneasiness, he fell fast asleep.
AN INNOCENT BURGLAR.
HOW long Gus had slept, he could not have told, when he was awakened by the sound of voices in the room. For a moment he imagined, with a thrill of fear, that Lucas and Jack were at hand, ready to execute the violent threats with which they had driven him into the house. But the voices, one high and thin, the other low and sweet, could not well be mistaken for those of men. Hot and half-suffocated in the narrow space in which he lay, Gus gradually remembered how he came to be in such a position, and knew that the voices he heard were those of Miss Durrant and her niece.
"I feel convinced now, Edith, that it was only a cat."
"That is very likely, aunt."
"You have looked under the bed, Edith?"
"Yes, and there is certainly no cat there."
"No; there is really nothing to be alarmed at. I am not at all nervous, still, I am glad that Mr. Thornton has allowed his man to sleep below to-night. It is well to have a man on the premises."
"Yes, in case the cat should create another disturbance."
"Or cook be ridiculous again."
"Martha seemed in more danger of such an attack when they went to bed; but in either case the eloquence of Mr. Thornton's valet would be of service."
"It is a strange thing," said Miss Durrant thoughtfully, without heeding her niece's words. "I should much like to know what it really was that jumped out of the window and fell into the cistern."
At that moment a curious muffled sound came from the back of the bedstead. A sudden sense of the absurdity of the situation had smitten Gus, and a laugh escaped him almost unawares.
"What is that?" exclaimed Miss Durrant, with a start. "Edith, did you hear it?"
"I noticed nothing, aunt. What sort of noise did you hear? I daresay it was only a mouse."
"A mouse! How can you name such a thing to me, Edith? You know I should faint if I saw a mouse."
"Would you, aunt—you, with all your self-control! Is a mouse so much worse than a cat?"
"Don't laugh at me, Edith. I am not nervous of ordinary things, but I cannot endure a mouse. There! What was that?"
"It was only the bedstead that creaked; old furniture will creak sometimes, you know," Edith replied.
"Well, I have been thinking that in case there should be any disturbance to-night, it would be nice—don't you think so?—for us to be together. It is not that I am nervous; but you have a cold, and you would be warmer here than in your own room, so I think you had better come and sleep with me."
"Very well, aunt, if you wish it; but I really do not think you need fear another disturbance. However, if you feel nervous—"
"I am not nervous, Edith; you mistake me quite, if you think that. It was only that I thought you, with your cold, would be better here."
"Oh, my cold is almost gone, so if that is all, I would rather sleep in my own room. Good-night, aunt. There is nothing to be afraid of now."
"I am aware of that, thank you. Good-night, Edith," said her aunt, in rather severe accents.
She followed her niece to the door, which she closed after her, and secured both by lock and bolt. Then casting a nervous glance round her, she began to take off her dress.
Whilst aunt and niece had been talking, Gus had been wriggling about in search of some loophole that would afford him a view into the room. None such presenting itself, he drew himself to the edge of the bed, and cautiously thrust out his head. Even so it was not easy to see, and his position was perilous in the extreme, as he tried to turn his head so as to get a look into the room.
By the time he had succeeded in so poising himself that he could see what was going on, the lady stood at her dressing-table, engaged in brushing her hair. In her young days, her abundant brown tresses had been much admired. They were no longer abundant, and their hue had faded, but their possessor, scarce conscious of the change Time had wrought, took pride in them still. She stood before her mirror regarding complacently the reflection it presented whilst she slowly brushed her hair. Every now and then she paused for a few moments of breathless listening; but no sound broke the stillness of the house, and gradually the fears that haunted her grew less insistent. At last, with a sigh, she laid down the brush, rolled her hair into a neat little knob at the back of her head, and then moved to the fireside to warm her feet before going to bed.
And now Gus became seriously uneasy. He was tired of lying in that close, cramped position; he could not remain there all night. Besides, he had grave misgivings as to how his position would be affected by the lady's getting into bed. Would her head rest less easily because he lay there behind the bolster? Would she be likely to discover his presence?
It seemed to Gus that his position would be improved if he could manage to slip noiselessly out of the bed, and hide himself beneath it for the rest of the night. So he edged himself further and further out of the bed, till quite half his body was exposed to view behind the curtain, and his hands firmly rested on the floor. But how to draw out his legs and drop down and out of sight without making any noise was a difficult problem.
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And just as he became aware of the exceeding difficulty of his position, Miss Durrant rose, and moved towards the bed. Gus tried to wriggle back into his lair, but that was not to be done in a moment. The lady was conscious of a strange movement behind the curtain. She drew it aside, then, arrested by terror, stood for a moment staring into the eyes that met hers; the next she shrieked wildly, and ran for the door. She struggled desperately with lock and bolt; she tore the door open; she rushed into the passage, screaming at the top of her voice:
"Murder, murder!"
A second or two of silence, and then a sudden rush and stir through the house. Doors opened, voices, steps made themselves heard. Edith was the first to appear in response to those wild screams. She came running from her room, white and trembling from the shock of alarm; but she was brave.
"A man in my room! A man in my bed!" shrieked her aunt, like one distracted. "In my very bed—waiting to murder me! Don't go in, Edith; don't go near! He'll kill you! Oh, where is that man-servant?"
The individual demanded appeared at that moment. He was armed with the poker, but he looked white and dazed.
"Where is he?" he asked, his teeth chattering as he spoke.
"Don't go in, Mr. Simpkins—don't, now!" cried Martha imploringly, from over the banisters. "He's a ferocious burglar, and he'll brain you—for a dead certainty he will. Go and fetch a policeman, but don't go in yourself."
Mr. Simpkins did not like the prospect of being brained, and the advice struck him as excellent.
"Well, I am only one man," he admitted, as though it were possible he had been mistaken for half a dozen; "so perhaps it would be best to make fast the door, and go in search of a policeman."
"You must not leave us, Mr. Simpkins; we cannot be left!" cried a chorus of female voices, and Miss Durrant sobbed out that they might all be murdered before he came back.
"We'll lock the door, any way," said Simpkins, with reviving spirits. "Where's the key?"
The key was of course on the other side of the door. Miss Durrant had slammed the door behind her as she rushed from the room.
Simpkins looked at the door, and hesitated. Edith, whose wits were not paralysed by fright, had observed that all this while no sound came from the room. Neither window nor door had been opened. She began to feel incredulous concerning her aunt's burglar.
"I'll get the key," she said; "I'm not afraid to open the door. I daresay it is only another cat."
"A cat, Edith!" cried her aunt indignantly. "Why, I saw the man's eyes—such fierce eyes—gleaming at me, and his hair all tangled over his face. Oh, Edith!"
For Edith at that moment opened the door, and peeped cautiously round it. She saw the burglar at once. He had emerged from his hiding-place, feeling further concealment useless, and now stood on the hearth-rug in his ragged, clinging garments, with his fair hair falling disordered over his face, which expressed the utmost confusion and shame.
"Why, it's a boy!" said Edith, and she advanced into the room.
Gus came forward to meet her, his hands outstretched imploringly. "Oh, teacher, I'm so sorry!" he said. "I would not have come, but I couldn't help it. Lucas brought me; he made me come into the house."
"You young scoundrel!" cried Simpkins, valiant once more, as he came forward and seized the lad roughly. "I'll teach you to find your way into people's houses; I'll give you up to the police! Now, tell me, what have you taken?"
"I have touched nothing," said Gus. "Lucas told me to take the watches and things; but I would not do it. I would rather die!"
"A likely story that!" said the valet, with a sneer.
"I believe him," said Edith. "I know this boy; he was in my class one Sunday, and he came here the other day. Now, Gus, tell me all about it."
Encouraged by her kindness, Gus simply and without hesitation told the whole story of his acquaintance with Lucas, and how Lucas had first brought him to the house to make inquiries, and to-night had tried to make a tool of him, in order to gain possession of the ladies' valuables.
Miss Durrant had fled to the top of the house when Edith opened the door of her bedroom, but presently she found courage to return, and when she saw the diminutive proportions of the burglar, her dignity also revived.
"You will remember, Edith," she said, "that I told you how dangerous it was to encourage such a young scamp."
"You did, aunt," said her niece quietly; "but I cannot believe that this boy came here with an evil purpose."
"He's told you a parcel of lies, that's what he's a-done," said Simpkins. "I'll take him right away to the police-station; it ain't too late."
"Yes, take him; take him by all means," said Miss Durrant; and Edith in vain remonstrated.
But for the faithful Martha, who protested that it was not safe for Mr. Simpkins to go alone, since some of the gang might be lurking at hand ready to rescue the boy at the cost of Mr. Simpkins' life, Gus would have soon been consigned into the hands of the guardians of the peace.
"Let's lock him in the cellar for the night," suggested the humane Martha; "he can't do no harm there, and he can't possibly get out."
"But the cold, Martha," said Edith; "the cellar will be miserably cold."
"Oh, I'll warm him, the young scoundrel!" said Simpkins, giving Gus a premonitory shake.
"Stay, Simpkins, I cannot have him ill-treated," said Edith firmly. "You must make him a warm bed in the cellar, if you put him there for the night. And, Martha, see that he has something warm to put on in the place of these damp clothes. I rely on you to attend to my wishes. To-morrow morning grandpapa will return, and he will decide what shall be done with the poor little prisoner."
Miss Edith was a favourite with her grandfather's servants, and Martha would not lightly disregard her wishes. Simpkins held the boy by one arm, and Martha grasped the other, and they marched him off between them.
GOOD-BYE TO LAVENDER TERRACE.
THERE was considerable excitement in the house the next morning. As early as possible, the police were informed of the attempted burglary; but so much time had been lost that it seemed doubtful if they would succeed in tracing Lucas and his son. The ladder they had used was discovered lying against the wall at the back of the shrubbery, but further sign of them there was none. Doubtless they had made their escape across the fields which lay at the back of the house, and hastened to another part of London.
Policemen were about the colonel's house in the morning; they searched the grounds, asked questions, and made various suggestions, but without much result. Gus was questioned and cross-questioned, but his story never varied. He told it with such simple directness and with such a guileless look in his blue eyes, that even the policemen, accustomed to believe the worst of human nature, were impressed with a belief in his truth.
At an early hour, two policemen surprised Sally Dent by a visit. She pointed out her lodger's room to them, and said that she believed he was not yet up. The door was indeed locked; but in vain the policemen knocked on it and shook it. No sound came from within; and when they burst it open, lo, the birds had flown! They must have made their way out by the window, and across the low wall of the garden. They had left little of value behind, and Lucas had neglected to pay his last week's rent—a fact which destroyed Sally's faith in the old saying of there being honour amongst thieves.
Sally could remember that her lodger had come in some time during the evening with his workman's bag over his shoulder, and had bidden her "good-night" as he turned into his room; but she was uncertain as to the exact hour of his return. Her head was apt to be in rather a hazy condition at that period of the day.
"It might have been eight o'clock; it might have been half-past; it might have been nine; I really could not say. A civil-spoken man was Lucas," Sally said. "If indeed he were a burglar, I have never been more deceived in a man in all my life. And Gus, too! To think of what I have done for that lad, and he must needs go and take up with a lot of thieves! But have had enough of him; he shall never darken my doors again—a good-for-nothing young rascal! I'll let him know that I will only have honest folk here."
"The little lad's honest enough, if all's true that he says," replied one of the policemen. "It's a common dodge of them burglars to make a child their tool; but I think these got hold of one of the wrong sort."
About noon, Edith's grandfather returned to his disquieted household. Colonel Carruthers had seen service in the Crimea, and was now past seventy years of age; but his tall, slight figure still retained its erect, soldierly bearing, and his eyes their keen, bright glance. His expression was somewhat stern, his manner haughty; but the man was kinder than he appeared. He had known sore disappointment and pain in earlier days, and the trial had hardened his demeanour, and perhaps intensified his pride; but beneath this surface severity was concealed a warm heart—a heart that could feel the sorrows of others, a heart that could love faithfully and long. Very dear to the old colonel was his grandchild, Edith Durrant, the child of his only daughter.
The colonel listened with some impatience to Miss Durrant's account of the alarm of the past night, and did not hesitate to interrupt her now and again with a short, sharp question. He had never much patience with poor Miss Durrant; her fussiness annoyed him. Yet she had good cause to be grateful to the colonel. He had delivered her from the ill-paid, thankless position of a fine lady's companion, and given her a comfortable home as the mistress of his house and guardian of his young granddaughter, the eldest child of her brother, who was in India with his regiment.
"Where is the young rascal?" asked Colonel Carruthers, when he had been told the whole story.
He spoke gravely; but there was an amused gleam in his eyes, which Edith understood.
"He is downstairs, grandpapa," she replied; "the policeman wanted to take him away, but I thought you would like to see him."
"Like to see him, indeed! I don't know that I particularly care to see the young rogue."
"He is not at all the kind of boy you would think," said Edith. "I'll tell them to send him up."
A few minutes later Gus stood before the colonel. The boy had had a bath, and his face looked fresh and bright; but he still wore his ragged clothes. It was beyond the resources of the household to provide him with a better suit, since he was far too small to wear anything of the colonel's.
"Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?" the colonel asked with sternness, as he raised his eyes and looked keenly at the boy. Then his stern look relaxed. A strange expression came over his face. Wonder was in it, and something not unlike fear. What was there in the innocent child's look that caused the old man's glance to fall, and his lips to tremble? The blue eyes, looking out from beneath the thick curly hair all tumbled over the brow, seemed so familiar. The face was just such another sweet, innocent child's face as had once made the brightness of his own home. It was as if he were looking upon a little ghost.
The ragged, threadbare clothes seemed odd and out of place; but the face was the very image of the face that so often haunted his mind, floating in the mists of old memories, stabbing his heart with a sense of its guileless, boyish charm—the face of the boy who had loved to climb his knee and listen to his stories of camp-life, the boy who had listened with such a thoughtful, intelligent look, and had always so many questions to ask. But that was long years ago. This child was some beggar's brat, brought to the house by burglars, and the other boy—
Ah, that boy, so clever, so engaging, so full of promise, where was that boy now?
Edith wondered that her grandfather looked down and studied the blotting-pad on his desk ere he addressed another word to the boy, who made no attempt to reply to his greeting.
After a minute, the colonel looked up, and said with his former incisiveness—
"What is your name?"
"Gus," the little fellow replied.
The colonel gave a start. The effect of that name on him was like an electric shock. For that other boy, whom this one so vividly recalled, had been familiarly known as "Gus."
But the thrill passed, and the next minute he spoke in his usual tone.
"How came you to be in my house last night?"
Gus answered readily now, telling again the story he had already told so many times. The colonel had heard it from other lips before, which was as well, perhaps, for he did not now listen with the closest attention. The child's voice and look as he spoke affected his listener strangely. He said little more to the boy, but soon sent him away.
"Is it not as I said, grandpa?" Edith asked. "He is not what you would expect, not an ordinary street Arab, is he now?"
"No, indeed," said the colonel dreamily. "I wonder if his story is true."
"I have not a doubt of it," said Edith.
"Ah, he has won your heart, I see. And yet—a child put into a house to steal! Well, well, it's a strange world."
"And he is all alone in it," Edith said gently; "a child with no one to care for him."
"That's not our concern; we can't help that. We only know that he came here to steal our things."
"That he was brought here to steal them," said Edith.
"Well, have it as you will; it does not make much difference. What's to become of him now?"
"That's what I want to know, grandpa. Will you send him to the police-station?"
"Why not? It's for the State to decide what shall be done with such a young ragamuffin. They'll send him to an industrial school, I suppose."
"That is what the policeman said; but, grandpa, that boy, with his sweet face and gentle ways, to mix with boys of the worst sort—"
"Probably he is one of that class himself, Edith. Depend upon it, the young rogue knows the value of those gentle ways. Now what do you want me to do—not adopt the lad, surely?"
"No, grandpa, not that," said Edith, smiling; "but I was thinking, if we could send him to Mr. Mouncey, he would know what to do with him."
"Mouncey! What made you think of him? Upon my word, that's not a bad suggestion. Mouncey's fond of ragamuffins. He'd make something of him, if any one could. But why should we trouble about it? Better leave him to the magistrate."
"Grandpa, that little boy was in my class one Sunday afternoon; I felt strangely drawn to him; I do still. I am sure he is a good boy."
Colonel Carruthers was silent for a few moments. Across his mind had come again the vision of that other boy, with his broad, fair brow, his open, innocent gaze. His face contracted as if with pain. A heavy sigh escaped him ere he said—
"Do not trust too much to appearances, Edie. These sweet, innocent-looking children are very disappointing. This boy will most likely turn out a scoundrel. But I'll think about it; I will see what I can do."
The colonel did think about it, with the result that he decided to send Gus to Rayleigh, a village in Kent, where the colonel had a small estate, and consign him to the care of the Rev. Sebastian Mouncey, a clergyman who took a special interest in orphan lads, and had instituted a cottage home for them in his parish. But the police desired that Gus should be detained at hand for a day or two, that he might be ready to identify Lucas and his son if they were arrested. But though the police made every effort to track the burglars, and expressed confidence in their ultimate success, the two men appeared to have got well out of their reach.
Gus did not feel particularly glad when Edith told him of the plan that had been made for him. He would rather have gone back to his old life at Sally Dent's. It was a poor home he had with her, but he could hardly remember the days when he had known a better one. Sally had been kind to him in her way, and now he knew he was not to return to them, he was conscious of a strange drawing of the heart towards Sally and her children, and all the people with whom he had lived at Lavender Terrace. He became aware that he had an affection even for the baby—the heavy, fretful, exacting baby, who had so often made his arms to ache, and tried his patience to the utmost.
And Lucy—Gus thought of her with an aching heart. He longed to know what had become of her, and wondered sadly if he should ever see her again. Gus begged that he might be allowed to go and say good-bye to Sally and her children ere he went away into the country.
Edith thought the wish quite to his credit, and persuaded her grandfather to grant it. But he was still suspicious of the lad, and thinking it might be a ruse to effect an escape, he resolved to accompany Gus to Glensford.
Though Sally had declared that Gus should never darken her doors again, she received him kindly, being impressed by his appearance in the neat new suit of clothes in which Edith had seen him arrayed, and also by the stateliness of the gentleman who accompanied him.
The colonel did not enter the house, but stood on the doorstep, in a position to see that Gus escaped neither by window nor door from Sally's room, into which she had drawn him.
Sally questioned him eagerly as to all that had happened since he left her house; she admired his clothes, she pressed him to drink from her black bottle, whilst the children gathered round him, pleased to see their old friend again.
"Mrs. Dent," said Gus, when at last Sally paused, "I wish you would give me that Bible of father's. I should like to take it with me where I am going; I have nothing that belonged to him. You have it still, have you not?"
Mrs. Dent hesitated. She glanced at the high shelf on which the Bible lay, and then through the half-open door at the colonel's stately form. She longed to refuse the request. She never read the Bible, but none the less she wished to keep that handsome copy. But she knew she had no right to keep it from the boy, and she believed that if she refused, Gus would call the colonel to insist upon her giving him his own. So reluctantly she climbed on a chair, and lifted down the book. She undid the paper in which it was wrapped, and looked regretfully at the embossed covers.
"One don't often see a Bible like this," she remarked, and with that she opened it.
Strange to say, it opened at the very page on which she had last closed it, and again the warning words met her glance, "The wages of sin is death."
She started, closed the book, and thrust it from her.
"Take it!" she cried. "Take it, and welcome. I don't want it. It's not the book for me. I can't bear to be reminded of death and the grave, and all dismal things."
And of sin—she would fain forget that there was such a thing as sin, and that she was a sinner.
"What have you in that parcel?" asked the colonel, when the boy presently came out of Sally's room.
"My father's Bible, sir."
The colonel's person stiffened visibly. He elevated his chin, drew his military cloak about him with an air of annoyance, and with a commanding gesture signed to Gus to precede him as they passed out of Lavender Terrace.
"That's cant," he said to himself; "wants to do the religious, does he? His father's Bible, indeed! As if a boy whose father believed in the Bible would ever have fallen so miserably low!"
A profound distrust of those whom he was wont to describe as the "lower orders" was engrained in the colonel's character, and especially was he doubtful of any such if they professed to be religious.
RAYLEIGH.
WITH that visit to Lavender Terrace, Gus' old life came to an end. The next morning Edith and her grandfather saw him into the train for Rayleigh.
Mr. Mouncey, the energetic young vicar of Rayleigh, would meet him at the other end of his journey. Edith had no fear for him, since he was going to Mr. Mouncey; yet the boy had already won for himself such a place in her heart that she felt parting with him.
"We shall come to Rayleigh in the spring, I hope," she said, "so I shall see you then, Gus."
The boy smiled his sweet, winsome smile, but tears rose suddenly in his eyes. He was leaving this kind friend, he was leaving behind every one he had ever known, and going to a place of which he knew nothing, and his heart sank within him at the thought.
"Look here, young sir," said the colonel sharply, "mind you do your duty where you are going. You attend to what Mr. Mouncey says, and he will make a man of you."
Make a man of him! What sort of a man? Gus wondered, as Miss Edith's form receded from his view, and he knew that the train was bearing him out of London. A gentleman—such a gentleman as his father had wished him to be? That was what Gus desired to become.
Rayleigh was a long, straggling village, with few houses that were not the dwellings of working people. A deep, still river ran through the place, and supplied the need of its chief industry, the large paper mill that stood upon its banks.
Most of those who dwelt in the small brick cottages were engaged in the mill. The long lines of these cottages were not picturesque, but the village could boast the beauty of a fine old church, with an ivy-mantled tower. Close to the church was the vicarage, a large square house, once the home of a numerous family; but the former vicar had removed to another living, and his successor, being young and unmarried, seemed out of place in the big house. But he was a warm-hearted, genial man, and soon gathered plenty of life about himself.
Within a stone's throw of the vicarage was his cottage home for orphan lads, a veritable home, where, under the care of a good-natured, motherly widow, the boys lived a free and happy life. The vicar showed them a kindness which fell little short of that of a father. The boys had well-nigh the run of the vicarage. They dug and tended the garden, which was one of the best in the neighbourhood, and were rewarded with the finest of the fruit and vegetables.
Mr. Mouncey supplemented the instruction they received at the village school with informal classes held of an evening in his large old dining-room. He had had no intention of founding an orphanage. A desire to befriend a poor woman who had lost her husband, and two young lads who had been deprived of both father and elder brother by an accident at the mill, had led to the opening of the cottage. Other orphan lads in the neighbourhood, who must otherwise have been sent to the nearest workhouse, were, as time went on, placed in it. Sometimes friends at a distance asked the vicar to take charge of a forlorn lad; but, as a rule, the inmates of the cottage were boys whose antecedents were well known to Sebastian Mouncey. Gus was the first who came there with a stigma upon him—a boy who had associated with thieves.
But Mr. Mouncey had a welcome for him, not alone because of the generous way in which the colonel, whilst prophesying to Mr. Mouncey the disappointment of his hopes, had been ever ready to open his purse to increase the funds by which the cottage home was maintained; but also because the utter friendlessness of the boy was a sure passport to Sebastian's heart.
He kept to himself all that the colonel had told him of Gus' history. The boy should not begin his new life at Rayleigh with an ill name. And whatever fears the vicar might have concerning his new charge, he showed no suspicion of him. Nothing could be kinder than the way in which he welcomed Gus.
Gus, as he looked into his face, and met the glance of Mr. Mouncey's kind, earnest eyes, said to himself, "A gentleman—one of the right sort." And this conviction deepened in the boy's mind as he came to know Sebastian Mouncey better. His was indeed the gentle heart from which springs the gentle life.
As for Mr. Mouncey, he was delightfully surprised at the appearance of the boy committed to his care. Simple-hearted as a child himself, and frank almost to eccentricity, he was quick to feel the charm of the boy's artless grace. Gus was not at all the kind of boy he expected to see. He was not a boy of a low type. There was no sign of deceit, meanness, or rascality on his small, well-formed features. The clergyman looked at him, and marvelled.
It was curious how quickly the two came to understand each other. A bond was forged between them from the hour of their meeting.
Gus got on well with the boys in the cottage home. He was friendly with them all, but he made no special friend of any one. It was the vicar who was his friend.
Mr. Mouncey soon discovered that the boy had unusual abilities. He took trouble and sacrificed time in order to give Gus further instruction than he obtained at the village school. He began to teach him Latin, and was astonished at the rapidity with which he mastered the rudiments of that language. Once when the vicar was teaching him, Gus let fall a word which showed that his father had understood Latin.
"Your father?" said Mr. Mouncey in surprise. "Then he was an educated man?"
"My father was a gentleman once," said Gus, with unconscious dignity.
"Once!" repeated the vicar. "What do you mean?"
"He was a gentleman once," said Gus again; "but then—" The boy paused, and a deep flush of shame dyed his face.
"An educated man who lost his character, and sank to be the companion of thieves and vagabonds," thought the vicar, and forbore to question the boy further. All he said was, "You must be a true gentleman, Gus."
The boy looked at him with quick, questioning glance.
"Howe'er it be, it seems to meIt's only noble to be good—"
Quoted Mr. Mouncey.
Gus' eyes flashed a quick, comprehensive response, but he made no other reply.
The first winter which Gus spent in the country was a happy one. He now made acquaintance with the real country, which is very different from the suburban country on which London so greedily encroaches.
Gus thoroughly enjoyed the long rambles Mr. Mouncey would sometimes take with the boys on a clear, frosty day. Gus loved to see the grass and hedges all glittering with hoar-frost, or to hear the crisp silvery leaves crack beneath his tread as they walked through the woods. He thought the trees looked beautiful, with their great branches, bare save for ivy or lichen, outlined against the blue sky. He loved to watch the birds and squirrels, and even hares made tame almost by severe cold, and to learn all Mr. Mouncey could tell him of their habits. How Gus enjoyed, too, the novel delight of learning to skate on the frozen river, and the effects of the first heavy snowfall, the work of clearing the church and vicarage paths, and the snowballing, which the boys were not likely to omit.
And no less, though in a different way, he enjoyed the bright Sunday services in the beautiful old church, and the class in the vicar's dining-room on Sunday afternoons, when he talked to the boys of the one perfect life of the God-man, through the knowledge of whom we may become "partakers of the Divine Nature."
In the spring, Colonel Carruthers and his granddaughter, accompanied by Miss Durrant, came to Rayleigh.
The colonel's house was at some distance from the vicarage, at the opposite end of the village. It was an old-fashioned thatched house, with a flower garden in front of it. A fir plantation stretched to the right, and behind, just beyond the well-stocked kitchen garden, rose a bit of breezy, furzy common, the top of which commanded a view all over the village.
Looking down, one saw the river stealing along the meadows with a gentle curve, now to this side and now to that, till it reached the large stone buildings, pierced by numerous small windows, where so many hands were employed in paper-making. Near the mill stood a large house, also of stone, and an imposing structure in its way, with bay windows and turrets. This was the residence which the owner of the mill had built for himself. Observing the house and the well-laid-out gardens which surrounded it, one could hardly doubt that the business was a prosperous concern.
Yet, if rumour could be trusted, the mill had not paid well of late, and the proprietor was beset by difficulties. It was feared that a day might come when the working of the mill would be suspended; an event which threatened ruin to the hands employed. But months had passed since these rumours began to circulate, and the mill had gone on working all the same. And now that the winter was over, and signals of summer's approach were beginning to appear everywhere, anxiety ceased to burden the minds of the working folk.
On the April evening following that of their arrival at Rayleigh, Edith and her grandfather were walking across the common, enjoying the beauty of the sunset, when Mr. Mouncey climbed over the low stone wall, accompanied by two or three of his boys, Gus being one of the party. It was the colonel's first meeting with the vicar, and he greeted him heartily.
"This is never Gus," said Edith, turning to look at the boys, when she had shaken hands with the clergyman.
The boy had indeed greatly changed since she saw him. He had grown taller, and though slender, looked strong and well-formed. His hair, though closely cut, still showed a tendency to curl; his cheeks had now the bright hue of health; his eyes were blue as ever, and the smile which lit up his face as Edith spoke to him had all the old sweetness. But whilst it was the same sweet, boyish face, the seriousness of its expression had deepened. Gus had learned much and thought much since he left London, and his countenance revealed the quickened mental and spiritual life.
The colonel had nodded kindly to Gus. His eyes now took quick, observant survey of the boy as he stood talking to Edith. His glance seemed to sadden as it rested on the child.
"He has improved," he remarked in an undertone. "What do you think of him, Mouncey? How will he do?"
"Well," was the prompt reply; "I have not a doubt of it. I never had such a boy as Gus in my home before."
"Indeed! How does he differ from the others?"
"In every way. They are good lads, most of them, but their minds are dull and slow, their manners rough and boorish. There is a peculiar gentleness about Gus, a goodness of heart, an unselfishness, an innate charm, I hardly know how to describe. Then as to his mind—he can learn anything; he grasps my ideas in a moment. Oh, I have the highest hopes of him."
"I would not have, if I were you," said the colonel drily. "You are too sanguine, as I often tell you. Depend upon it, you will be disappointed."
"I am not afraid," said Mr. Mouncey, with a smile. "I can tell you, Gus is a little gentleman."
"Gus—Gus what?" asked the colonel abruptly. "I suppose he has another name?"
"Gus Rew," said Mr. Mouncey.
"Rew! You can't make much of that," said Colonel Carruthers. "It is not an aristocratic patronymic. But every one is a gentleman nowadays. The grand old name is indeed—
"Defamed by every charlatan,And soiled with all ignoble use.
"Still, to apply it to the son of a burglar does seem to me going too far."
"I do not think that Gus' father was a burglar," replied Mr. Mouncey.
The colonel shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
Mr. Mouncey thought it advisable to introduce another subject.
"Have you heard of the change we are to have here?" he asked, pointing towards the mill.
"I have heard nothing; I only arrived last night."
"Mr. Gibson has sold the mill. You know, perhaps, that for some time past he has been carrying it on at a loss. Now he has made over the whole concern to some one else."
"And who is the purchaser?"
"Some one from London. Philip Darnell is his name."
As it passed his lips, Mr. Mouncey saw that the name was not unknown to the colonel. The old soldier gave a slight start, his colour changed, his brow contracted, as if with pain.
"You know this gentleman, perhaps?" Mr. Mouncey ventured to suggest.
"By hearsay only," replied Colonel Carruthers stiffly. "He is of your complexion politically, Mouncey. He came forward as a candidate for one of the suburban boroughs some time ago, but was not elected. You will perhaps find him a sympathetic companion."
Mr. Mouncey shook his head, and smiled good-temperedly. "He will hardly sympathise with my politics, I fear," he said. "He must be a rich man, and few rich men can tolerate such an out-and-out Radical as I am."
Another one present had caught the name of Philip Darnell, and was no less startled by it than the colonel. Gus stood near enough to hear it, and the sound sent a thrill through his boyish frame. Philip Darnell! His father's enemy! The man he had seen on that summer morning nearly a year ago, when he had made that long tramp with his father in search of employment, and his father had refused the work when found because it was to be done for this man.
In the night that followed his father had died, and every incident of that last day together was vividly imprinted on Gus' memory. This was the man who had wrought his father's ruin, the man on whom he had promised to be revenged, if ever it was in his power. Was the chance coming to him now?
Gus remembered every word which his father had uttered concerning Philip Darnell; but other words which his father had said to him had almost faded from his mind. He had hardly given a thought since his father's death to the fact that Rew was not his real name. He had forgotten the slip of paper inserted within the lining of the old Bible; but now it suddenly flashed on his mind, and he wondered what was the long name his father had written that day.
At that moment Mr. Mouncey, was saying, "Good-evening, Colonel Carruthers."
Gus had heard the colonel's name often before; but a novel thought came to him as he heard it now. Had not the name his father had declared to be his sounded something like that—something like Carruthers? Could it be? But, no, it must be his fancy; it seemed impossible that a poor boy, such as he was, should have the same name as a gentleman like the colonel. And what did it matter what his right name was? Gus Rew was a nice, easy little name, which did very well for him.
GUS BEGINS TO WORK FOR HIMSELF.
COLONEL CARRUTHERS remained but a few weeks at Rayleigh. He did not wait to see Philip Darnell established in Mr. Gibson's late residence.
Edith was sorry to leave the country in the lovely spring-time, when woods and fields were bright with flowers and with the songs of birds; but her grandfather seemed suddenly to have taken a dislike to Rayleigh. He was not to be persuaded to extend his stay, and soon after their return to the neighbourhood of London Edith learned, to her regret, that the colonel had let the Retreat, as his country house was named, to a gentleman for a term of three years.
Edith was sorry, not alone because she loved the place, but also because she had counted on seeing, from time to time, Gus, in whom she continued to feel much interest. She knew, however, that Gus could not be better off than in the care of Mr. Mouncey, so she tried to console herself with the reflection that he did not want her now, and the boys in her Sunday class at Glensford did. But somehow, there was not one of these boys whom she loved as she loved Gus. There was something so charming about the frank, manly boy; he was at once so gentle and so bold. She was disposed to say, with Mr. Mouncey, that she had never seen a lad just like him.
The news that Mr. Gibson had sold the mill was received with sorrow by his work-people. They had served him for so many years—some of the older men had worked for his father before they worked for him—that the idea of a new master was far from agreeable to them. And if Mr. Gibson, who had known the business all his life, had failed to make it pay, was it likely, they asked, that a stranger, who, if report said truly, had never tried paper-making before, was likely to succeed?
But Philip Darnell knew what he was about; the men soon saw that plainly enough. He had not purchased the concern without shrewdly calculating ways and means, and discerning how he could get good interest for his money. Changes were made at the mill. The old foreman, sorely to his mortification, was dismissed. Several of the old hands followed him.
The management of the mill was given to a man who came from London, and brought several workmen with him. A new method of paper-making was adopted; and if the paper was not so good as formerly, it was produced at less cost, and found a readier market. Wages were cut down, and economy exercised in every direction. Some of the work-people refused to take the lower wage, and moved away from Rayleigh, in the hope of finding better-paid work elsewhere; but the majority were of opinion that a "bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," and preferred to earn what they could at Rayleigh rather than risk coming to destitution in a strange place. But the change was bitter to them, and they regarded the new master with little favour.
But Philip Darnell cared not what might be the feelings cherished towards him by those whom he employed. To him, they were merely the "hands," human machines, out of which he was determined to grind as much work as possible, at the greatest profit to himself. He came with his wife and children to spend the summer at Rayleigh, and they took possession of the Mill House, as it was called, living there in a far more extravagant and showy style than the Gibsons had adopted.
Mrs. Darnell, magnificently attired, drove about in a handsome landau, drawn by a pair of spirited bays. She expected the men to touch their hats when they saw her, and the women to drop a humble curtsey; but she made no effort to enter into friendly relations with them. She would as soon have thought of going to work at the mill as of visiting the wives and mothers in their homes, as Mrs. Gibson had been wont to do. The grand lady in her carriage saw them separated from her by a wide chasm of social inequality, across which no sense of a common womanhood could draw her.
And the people were quick to feel that they were looked down upon, and to resent the fact. As the months passed on, the spirit of discontent deepened and spread. But the mill prospered, and Philip Darnell was pleased with the success of his new enterprise. He was making money by the business, and that was all he desired. He had no idea of any higher success than that of doing well to himself; no sense of any responsibility for the well-being of those who worked for him.
Another winter came, and another. There was little outward change at Rayleigh; but quietly, yet surely, the feeling of ill-will between employer and employed was growing stronger, and taking deeper root. Philip Darnell had no consciousness of anything being wrong; he had never felt more prosperous and confident, nor more insolently disdainful of every one who tried to check the working of his will.
Sebastian Mouncey came in for a large share of contempt, because he would now and again intercede for some dismissed workman, or try in one way or another to make the mill-owner feel for his "hands" as men. It was in vain he made appeal for any sort of charity to Philip Darnell. He had no sympathy with the clergyman in his schemes for the benefit of his poor brothers and sisters; nor, though once on a Sunday his carriage—the distance was barely half a mile—carried him and his wife to the church door, had he any real belief in the truths the vicar endeavoured to teach.
Nearly three years had passed since Gus came to Rayleigh. He was "little Gus" no longer; but a strong, well-grown lad for his years. He had passed the highest standard at the village school, and had turned to good account his private lessons with the vicar.
Mr. Mouncey began to deliberate seriously concerning his future. He thought him no ordinary lad, and would have liked him to have further educational advantages. He tried to interest Colonel Carruthers, whom he still saw from time to time, whenever he had occasion to visit London, in the subject of Gus' future. But to his disappointment, the colonel hardly cared to listen to anything he could say about Gus.
"Nonsense, Mouncey!" he said once, speaking good-humouredly, but in a decided manner. "That lad has bewitched you. There is really nothing exceptional about him. He is a clever young rogue, I daresay; but in my opinion, you'll make a great mistake if you overeducate him, and try to lift him out of his true position. Can't you find him work at Rayleigh? Keep him there if you can, under your own eye, and don't send him up to London."
Unfortunately Edith Durrant was not present to take up Gus' cause. Her parents had lately returned from India, and she had left her grandfather's home, and gone to reside with them at Southampton. Mr. Mouncey knew that it was vain to seek her aunt's sympathy on behalf of Gus. Miss Durrant had never forgiven the boy for the fright he had caused her by hiding himself in her bed. She continued to regard him as a burglar in embryo. Had she been consulted with regard to his future, she would probably have suggested that, for the good of society, he should be kept in close confinement for the rest of his life.
The vicar agreed with Colonel Carruthers in deeming it undesirable that Gus should return to the neighbourhood of London; but it was with a feeling of disappointment that he set himself to find work for Gus at Rayleigh. He spoke to the manager of the mill, and learned that he was in need of a smart lad, able to write a good hand and keep accounts. He was willing to take Gus into the counting-house, and try what he could make of him; and the vicar, thinking Gus well fitted for the post, gladly accepted it for him.
He fancied Gus would be pleased to hear of the arrangement he had made; but when he told him the boy's face flushed crimson, as if with pain, and for some moments he said nothing. Was he to go into the service of Philip Darnell? Was he to work for the man whom his father had refused to serve, even when they were almost starving? The idea was most repugnant to him.
"Why, Gus, you do not like the idea?" said Mr. Mouncey in surprise. "I thought you would be glad to begin to earn money for yourself."
"So I should be, sir," said Gus slowly, "but—" He paused.
"There is something else you wish to be. Have you set your heart on becoming a gardener?" said Mr. Mouncey, remembering that Gus had of late shown much interest in certain gardening operations.
"No, sir. I never thought of such a thing. It is not that I dislike the kind of work."
"Then what is it you dislike? I can see there is something wrong."
"If it were for any one else," murmured Gus, his face growing a deeper crimson.
Mr. Mouncey caught the words, and fancied he understood what they signified. He knew well how Philip Darnell was regarded by his work-people. The things that were said of him, and even the opprobrious epithets that some of his workmen did not hesitate to apply to him, had reached the ear of the vicar. He was far from holding Philip Darnell blameless in his conduct towards his work-people; but he had no sympathy with the feelings some of them were beginning to evince.
"Come, Gus," he said, rather sharply, "what foolish notion have you in your head? What can it matter to you for whom you work? The thing you have to see to is that you do your work well and nobly, remembering that you serve, not this master or that, but the Lord Christ."
But Gus looked troubled still.
"Mr. Mouncey," he asked presently, "did you ever have an enemy?"
"An enemy!" repeated Mr. Mouncey, a gleam of amusement lighting up his bright, open face. "Why, no, Gus, I do not believe I have ever had what you could call an enemy. I have created ill-will towards myself many a time by the things I have felt obliged to do; but the feeling has soon died away. No, I never had a downright enemy. What made you think of such a thing?"
Instead of replying to this question, Gus asked another.
"Suppose you had an enemy, sir; would you be willing to work for him?"
"Certainly I would serve him, Gus, in any way that I could. If I knew that a man was my enemy, I would do my utmost to change him into a friend. That is the Christian way. What did Jesus say? 'Love your enemies.' It is not hard to serve those whom we love."
"No, but it's hard to love those who have done us wrong," said Gus thoughtfully.
"You are right; it is hard. We need to seek of God grace to forgive our enemies. In some cases, one must begin to serve before one can love. If a man tries to do good to his enemy, he will presently find that he loves him."
"Then how about revenge?" asked Gus, remembering his father's words. "Are we never to have our revenge on those who have hurt us?"
"Never," said the vicar emphatically; "the idea of revenge is mean, and low, and spiteful, unworthy of a Christian and a gentleman. Unless, indeed, we seek it in the manner St. Paul points out, 'If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink; for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.'"
Gus was silent, pondering the vicar's words. That was not the kind of revenge his father meant. No; his father had hated this man, Philip Darnell, and had deemed himself justified in hating him with the bitterest hatred. He had longed for the power to punish him for the evil he had done. It would have been joy to him to see his enemy suffer pain.
But a Christian must not hate his enemy. Gus had never heard the old saying that "A Christian is God Almighty's gentleman;" but he had long ago resolved that he would be a gentleman after the pattern of Jesus Christ, and the resolve had become a power in his life. Now by which was he most bound—the law of Christ, or the promise he had given to his father?
The boy's simple, ingenuous mind soon saw its way through the difficulty.
"When I made that promise to father," he said to himself, "I did not know what I know now. And father did not understand the beautiful ways of Jesus, and that I cannot truly be a gentleman unless I follow them; for if he had, he would not have asked me to make such a promise. I will keep the promise, though: I will seek to be revenged on Philip Darnell; but it shall be in the Christian way. I do not know how I shall do it, for he is little likely to hunger or thirst; but there may be some way in which I can heap coals of fire on his head."
Whilst these thoughts were passing through Gus' mind, Sebastian Mouncey was watching him curiously. What was working in his mind? What had he heard concerning Philip Darnell? His enemy, indeed! It was a strange fancy; but the thoughts of youth are often incomprehensible to older minds, and Sebastian Mouncey was not the man to despise them on that account. He did not press Gus to speak, but waited; and presently the boy of his own accord said—
"I will go to the mill, if you wish it, sir."
"That's right, my lad," said Mr. Mouncey heartily; "I believe it is the best opening I can find for you. The manager, Mr. Ellary, is a kind-hearted man, and you will do well with him."
So on the following Monday morning, Gus began his work in the counting-house. He would still live at the cottage, but he was now to pay a small sum for his board and lodging, and he felt proud that he could do so.
From eight in the morning till six in the evening, with the exception of an hour in the middle of the day, when he went home to have his dinner, he was in the counting-house. It seemed irksome at first to sit so long before a high desk; but he worked well, and gave satisfaction to Mr. Ellary.
It was now late autumn, and Mr. Darnell had returned to his London residence for the winter, contenting himself with coming down once a week to see that things were going right at the mill, so that Gus saw but little of him.
The title of "gentleman" had not followed Gus to Rayleigh, but he deserved it as much as he had ever done. In his new position, he showed a courtesy, kindliness, and candour which the noblest-born could hardly have surpassed. As a natural consequence, he became a general favourite with the mill-hands.
THE MILL-HANDS "STRIKE."
IT was a Saturday evening towards the end of November. The six o'clock bell had rung, and the "hands," both men and women, were streaming out of Rayleigh Mill. The atmosphere was raw and cold, yet the work-people did not hasten to their homes, as they were wont to do. They gathered in knots outside the gates, talking eagerly. Some of the faces were flushed and triumphant, some pale and anxious-looking; but each told of unusual excitement. The younger people shouted and laughed; but their elders, especially the women, looked troubled. They were thinking forebodingly of empty cupboards and fireless grates.
As the last band of workers passed through the gates, the crowd broke into a loud "Hurrah!" The mill-hands had come out "on strike," and unless Philip Darnell yielded to their demands—which he had vowed he would not do—not one would enter the mill on Monday morning.
Amongst his employés, there was only one who had refused to join the strike, and that was the young clerk, Gus Rew. In vain, the men had urged him to forsake his post; in vain, when persuasions failed, had they resorted to threats. Gus was happy in his work, and satisfied with his pay; besides, he knew that Sebastian Mouncey disapproved of the action of the men. Had they listened to his counsel, their position might have been improved without such an exhibition of between master and men; but they had turned from their old friend to listen to the florid rhetoric and ardent appeals of a trade-unionist from London.
The mill-hands had passed out, and one of the great gates was already closed when Gus appeared, accompanied by Mr. Ellary.
"Here's that conceited youngster," muttered one of the men. "Hang it! He has Ellary with him, or we'd give him a jacketing."
"He shall have it yet," said another; "we'll flog the impudence out of the young sneak. He shall learn not to set himself against those older and wiser than himself."
"You had better leave the boy alone, I can tell you; it'll be the worse for any man who lays a finger upon him," said a tall, stalwart young fellow who stood near. The appearance of Gus' champion was so formidable that the men turned away, and uttered no more threats.
As Gus passed through the crowd, unconscious of the ill-will he had excited, an old man caught him by the hand, and said kindly, with lowered voice, "Gus, lad, you must join us. There are men ready to do you a mischief if you hold out. Their blood's up, and they don't care what they do. Come, lad, why should you turn against your old friends? Why risk your life for the sake of that scoundrel?"
"I will never turn against old friends; Mike, and as to risking my life, I cannot believe that any of the men would really do me harm. Why should they? They know I am their friend. But I cannot see that it would be right of me to throw up my work. I have no grievance."
"You might take up their grievances. It looks as if you had no feeling, to hold yourself aloof."
"Indeed I do feel for them," said Gus, looking troubled, "and so does Mr. Mouncey; but—"
"Oh, parson's agin us too. Parsons always take the side of the rich against the poor."
"That's not true," said Gus, with a touch of indignation in his tone. "No one feels for the poor more than Mr. Mouncey. But he thinks the men have been too hasty."
"Oh yes; of course we're in the wrong," said Mike. "But, Gus, these men have been drinking; you had better take yourself out of their way."
Three of the roughest, most disreputable of the workmen were approaching. The dark scowl on the face of the foremost and his clenched fist boded no good to Gus; but the boy made no movement to escape. His blue eyes looked fearlessly into the angry eyes bent on him, and the calm, strong glance had its power. The man shrank and swerved before it as an animal might have done; his hand fell to his side, he muttered some contemptuous words about "a bit of a lad,"' and passed on with his comrades, one of whom dropped a large stone he had taken up, with the intention of hurling it at Gus.
"'Pon my word, you're no coward, lad!" cried Mike admiringly.
Rayleigh Mill looked dreary enough on Monday morning. Not a workman was in sight as Gus walked up to the gates at eight o'clock; but some one, unseen, was watching him, for suddenly a stone struck him on the temple, a little above the eye, with such force that the blood poured down his face. He stood outside the closed gates, trying to staunch the blood with his handkerchief, when Mr. Ellary came up.
"Who has done this, lad?" asked Mr. Ellary, with anger in his glance.
"I do not know, sir; no one was in sight when I looked round."
"A coward, whoever he was, to wound a lad for doing his duty! It is a mercy it missed your eye."
"Yes," said Gus, shivering from the shock.
"Poor boy!" said Mr. Ellary, as he drew out his keys and prepared to open the gate for himself, the gate-keeper having struck with the rest. "But the cut is not deep, I trust. There is lint and plaster in the office, and I will try what I can do as a surgeon."
The office was unswept, the fire unlit. The woman who was wont to perform those duties dared not put in an appearance that morning; so, as soon as Mr. Ellary had dressed his wound, Gus, though still feeling dizzy and sick, set to work to make a fire and put the place in order, whilst Mr. Ellary opened the letters and despatched a telegram to Philip Darnell.
Gus found many new tasks to perform that morning, and the time sped quickly. Soon after noon, Mr. Darnell appeared on the scene. He was much annoyed at what had occurred, but he was determined to carry matters with a high hand. The men should learn that he was not to be forced to do as they pleased. He would show himself master of the situation, and manage to work the mill without the help of the strikers.
Philip Darnell was conferring with the manager in his private room, when glancing through the window he saw Sebastian Mouncey approaching the office. A flush of anger mounted to his forehead. He had always disliked the clergyman; now he regarded him as the friend and supporter of the men. Doubtless he had come to urge their cause, and set forth their grievances. Instantly Darnell decided that he would not listen to the parson, would not even see him.
"Gus," he said, stepping quickly into the outer office, "Mr. Mouncey is at the door. Tell him I cannot see him. Say I am not here."
Gus looked at him in amazement.
"But, sir," he began to speak, then paused.
"Well, what?" demanded his employer angrily, as Mr. Mouncey's knock was heard.
"You are here, sir."
"I suppose I know that as well as you do; but I wish you to tell him I am not here. Say that I have returned to London."
"I cannot say that, sir," replied Gus, flushing.
"You cannot? How dare you answer me like that? Do as I bid you at once."
"I cannot," said Gus, speaking more firmly. "I will not tell a lie!"
A stinging box on the ears sent him reeling to the other side of the room.
"Take that!" roared Philip Darnell. "Take that for answering me with such impudence!"
His upraised voice brought Mr. Ellary in haste from the other room. At the sight of his astonished face, Mr. Darnell made an effort to recover his dignity.
"This young cur has grossly insulted me," he said. "Send him about his business at once. I refuse to have him longer in my employ. Why did he not join the strikers? He is one with them at heart. He only stayed that he might act the part of a sneak, a spy. Pay him, and send him off at once. I insist on it."
At this moment a succession of sharp knocks on the outer door showed that Mr. Mouncey was growing impatient.
"There's that stupid, meddlesome parson!" burst out Darnell in fresh anger. "Why can't he attend to his own business, and let mine alone? You must see him, Ellary; I will not. Go and send hint away somehow. Tell him I refuse to listen to any compromise, or to make any terms with the men."
Ellary, with a troubled face, went out, and Philip Darnell retreated into the inner room. He watched till he saw Sebastian Mouncey, with a grave, stern look on his usually cheerful face, pass out of the yard.
A little later Gus went out, and took his way to the cottage where he lived. He was somewhat soothed by a few kind, regretful words from Mr. Ellary; yet the boy's heart was sore and angry. A sense of injustice burned within him.
After all—so it seemed to him for a moment—he might as well have joined the strikers. Surely, now, it was only natural that he should hate Philip Darnell. He had shown himself his enemy, as he had been his father's enemy in days gone by. A fierce longing for revenge awoke in Gus' heart. For a while he was wholly possessed by angry, resentful feelings; but better thoughts succeeded. Like a breath of pure air from the eternal hills came to his mind the gentle words of Jesus:
"'I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you.'"
Gus paused ere he reached the cottage, and stood still in deep thought, suddenly, painfully convicted of duty. Oh, it were easier to forgive the man who threw the stone which gashed his forehead, than the one who had so misunderstood him, who had called him a sneak and a spy! Yet he must forgive both. He must put all hatred, all bitterness, out of his heart.