How hard it was to be a gentleman in any degree like Jesus Christ! So hard it seemed, that Gus well-nigh despaired of such attainment; yet he felt that there was nothing else in life worth striving after. He could be satisfied with nothing less.
GUS HAS HIS REVENGE.
PHILIP DARNELL was determined that his work-people should not get the better of him. Since they had chosen to go out on strike, they must take the consequences of their folly. He would soon find others to fill their places. He went back to town that same day resolved to find men; and they were not hard to find. Ere the next day closed, he had engaged a sufficient number, and it was arranged that they should travel down to Rayleigh on the following day by a train which arrived there late in the evening.
Mr. Ellary had the difficult task of providing for their accommodation within the mill buildings. He could gain no help from the villagers. Everybody sympathised with the strikers, and one and all refused to stretch forth a finger in the service of Philip Darnell.
How it became known that he was sending men down to work at the mill no one could explain. Doubtless the sight of the large supplies of necessaries which kept arriving from London suggested the idea to the strikers, on the alert to guard their rights.
Every precaution Mr. Ellary could take failed to secure the strangers from a warm reception. The strikers collected and mobbed them as they came out of the station. Brickbats were thrown, and one man was seriously injured. The darkness of the night favoured the attacking party, and the village police were overpowered. Many of the new-comers were persuaded or frightened into turning back ere they reached the mill gates. The band of men whom Mr. Ellary at last succeeded in getting within was little more than half the number of those who had come to Rayleigh, and they were in a sadly disheartened frame of mind.
But though his new arrangement did not work well, Philip Darnell was not disposed to give in. He brought more men down from London, and established himself for a while at the Mill House, that he might be at hand to assist and support Mr. Ellary.
Week after week passed on, and the mill was kept going, though not without difficulty, owing to the inexperience of the new mill-hands. Meanwhile, the strikers and their families were suffering sorely. Children sickened and died, and their death was laid to the charge of Philip Darnell. When a spell of severe weather set in, and there still seemed no prospect of a termination of the strike, the general feeling of resentment towards Philip Darnell grew to a white heat. One day his effigy was carried the whole length of the village, followed by a mocking, hooting crowd, and finally burnt on the common behind the colonel's house.
Sebastian Mouncey began to fear that the mill-owner would not escape personal violence.
The clergyman did what he could to relieve the poor families in the straits they had brought on themselves; but he had no power to bring about a better state of things, since Mr. Darnell refused to listen to any mediator.
Nor was Gus idle. He had found plenty to do since he was dismissed from the mill. The colonel's house was now empty, and there was work for boys to do in weeding and hoeing the garden. But Gus had a way of finding tasks for himself in addition to those with which the vicar provided him. He went in and out of the cottages, greeted everywhere with a welcome; for since it became known that he, too, was a sufferer from Philip Darnell's tyranny and injustice, all the old friendliness towards him had revived.
If there was an over-worked mother to be helped, or a sick child to be amused, or any job to be done to which he could give his strength and skill, Gus was ready to meet the need. He was never so happy as when he was helping others.
Christmas was close at hand. It promised to be the gloomiest Christmas the villagers of Rayleigh had ever known. It was the night of the twentieth—a night long remembered at Rayleigh. Gus was sleeping in the tiny room he had to himself beneath the thatched roof of the cottage. He was never a heavy sleeper, and towards morning the melancholy howling of a dog roused hint from his slumber. The sound seemed to come from the direction of the mill. Sitting up in bed to listen, Gus was surprised to see a red glow in the sky. Was it the herald of the dawn?
He hurried to the little casement beneath the eaves. Then he saw that the glow came from behind the mill, and from it, showing dark against the copper-coloured sky, rose a thick column of smoke. As Gus gazed in bewilderment, unable at once to conceive the meaning of what he saw, a flame shot through the smoke.
Gus sprang from the window, and rushed to the top of the stairs, crying, "Fire! Fire!" Hustling on his clothes, he was abroad as soon as any one, and flew to rouse those who were sleeping at the mill. As he hurried along, he soon perceived whence the smoke came. It was not the mill, but Mill House that was in flames.
The men were quickly roused; but for a while the greatest confusion prevailed. There was a fire-engine belonging to the mill, but the new hands did not understand how to use the gear, and the firemen wert of course amongst the strikers. Even in this extremity they held back, mindful of their wrongs.
"Let him burn!" Gus heard a man say. "He has done his best to starve us; he would not care if we and our children perished. Let him burn, I say!"
"For shame, Ned!" cried Gus passionately. "Are you a man, and talk like that?"
There was no time for more words. The boy was working with an energy which put to shame every half-hearted man. Mr. Ellary and the vicar were now on the spot, issuing commands, and working so hard themselves that few could resist the contagion of their example. But work as they might, things seemed against them. The hose was out of order; there was a terrible delay ere it could be got to work. Meanwhile, in the still frosty air the fire was burning fiercely, and spreading all along the front of the house.
Gus was one of those who helped to drag the fire-escape round to the burning house. No sign of life was apparent in the front, where the fire raged fiercest. Happily there were few persons in the house.
In the absence of his wife and family, Mr. Darnell had been content with the services of a married couple, formerly servants of his, who had been left in the house as caretakers. These two were presently seen at an upper window at the back of the house, crying for help, in a state of the utmost terror. They had tried to escape, but the stairs which led to their rooms were in flames. In a few minutes, by means of the fire-escape, they were brought safely to the ground.
"Where is Mr. Darnell? Is he awake?" demanded several voices.
"We cannot tell," was the reply; "he sleeps at the other side of the house—the room with two windows, to the right of the great door."
The room to the right! Just where the flames were gathering most fiercely! The fire-escape was promptly brought to the spot, but the flames were now shooting outwards and upwards with such fury that it was found impossible to use it. Shout after shout was raised, but no voice responded, no sign of life was apparent anywhere.
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"He is beyond help by this time," said one of the men.
And a momentary sense of awe fell even upon those who a little before could have cried, "Serve him right!"
"There must be some way of getting to him—something can surely be done!" cried Sebastian Mouncey, aghast at the thought of Philip Darnell being thus abandoned to his fate.
But the lower rooms and the staircase were in flames; it would be madness to attempt to enter, and the amateur firemen were by no means disposed to risk their lives in an heroic effort to save that of the man they hated. All they would do was to apply the hose freely, trusting thus to check the progress of the flames.
But whilst they hung back, deeming rescue hopeless, one, who had certainly no less cause to regard Philip Darnell as his enemy, was resolved to dare his utmost rather than let him perish without making an attempt to save him.
A shout was suddenly raised, and looking up, Mr. Mouncey perceived that Gus had ascended by means of the fire-escape at a point to which the fire had not extended, and was advancing along a narrow stone coping towards a window which adjoined those of Mr. Darnell's bedroom. The ledge was so narrow that the attempt was most hazardous.
After that one instinctive shout, the crowd held their breath as they watched his slow, cautious advance. Presently he was lost in a cloud of smoke. Then again they saw him. He had reached the window, and was clinging to its framework. They saw him break the wide pane with his elbow. The heat had loosened it, the whole sheet of glass came out easily; but the smoke rolled out through the opening, and as the brave lad crawled within, they saw him no more.
The men below raised another ringing shout. Sebastian Mouncey could not join in it. A mist passed before his eyes, a sickening dread oppressed his heart.
Mr. Ellary murmured, "A hero, if ever there was one; but he cannot come out alive!"
Gus had entered the dressing-room connected with Mr. Darnell's bedroom. The rush of smoke that met him was almost overpowering, but drawing his woollen muffler closely over his mouth, he pressed through into the next room. The air was heavy with smoke; already the floor felt hot beneath his feet, but Gus stumbled across it, till he found the bed and the form stretched in stupor upon it.
There was no rousing the sleeper, and every moment passed in that suffocating atmosphere was full of danger. By main force—happily he was strong for his years—Gus dragged the unconscious form out of bed, and across the floor into the dressing-room. Here there was water, and dashing it upon the face of the sleeper, and then shaking him violently, Gus roused him to a sense of his awful peril.
Philip Darnell raised himself from the floor, but, shivering and bewildered with terror, seemed powerless to move, whilst the blinding smoke rolled towards them. Flames were already licking about the window by which Gus had entered. It was impossible to escape by that.
"Put this over your face," cried Gus, seizing a towel from the washstand, "and come with me."
Clutching his wrist, he drew him into the passage. Fresh clouds of smoke rolled to meet them. Flames were leaping upwards from the burning staircase. Philip Darnell shrank back in terror; but Gus, with the strength of desperation, dragged him on through the dense smoke down the passage, and into one of the back bedrooms, where the atmosphere was clearer. Gus made for the window, threw it up, and stepped out upon the sill. Darnell managed, with his help, to get up beside him, clinging to the casement; but the man was shaking so, that it seemed impossible that he could long retain his hold. They tried to shout; but their voices were choked, and only a faint sound escaped them.
The fire was at a distance from them now; they had only to fear the smoke, the suffocating, choking smoke. How long could they hold out against that? Would it hide them from those below?
"Is there any hope?" asked Darnell faintly.
"Yes, there is hope," Gus said. "I hear a shout. I believe the people see us. Hold on with all your might."
"I can't hold on much longer," was the reply. Then, as a thought struck him, Darnell tried to peer through the smoke at the boy who stood beside him. "I don't know you," he said; "who are you?"
In moments of extreme peril, the past comes back to us with extraordinary vividness. At that instant, there flashed upon Gus' mind all that his father had told him of his past history, and of the way in which he had been wronged by Philip Darnell. He remembered how his father had told him that he was by birth a gentleman; and the name rightfully his, though so long forgotten, stood forth distinctly before him now, as though written on the murky atmosphere in letters of fire.
There was scarce a pause ere he said calmly, in reply to his companion's question, "I am Augustus Devereux Carruthers."
Darnell's ear caught the words. He started violently, lost his balance for a moment, and, but for Gus' quick grasp, must have fallen. Gus did not loose his hold of him again.
There were more shouts from below. The people had seen them. The fire-escape was being brought to the spot. No time was lost by those below; but the waiting seemed awful to the two who stood on the window-sill.
Gus dared not look down. His head was growing dizzy, his limbs numb. His hands still kept their grasp of Philip Darnell and of the window-frame, but they were growing lax; they seemed not to belong to him.
There was another shout. The fire-escape was in position. Some one was mounting rapidly. But just as Philip Darnell's arm was grasped by Sebastian Mouncey, Gus on the other side relaxed his hold, staggered, and fell to the ground.
A REVELATION.
WHEN they lifted Gus from the ground they found that he had broken his thigh, and it was feared that he might have sustained still more serious injuries. Mr. Mouncey helped to carry him to the vicarage, which was nearer than the cottage in which he lived, and the village surgeon was soon in attendance on him.
Philip Darnell, too, was made welcome to the vicarage, and to all he stood in need of that Mr. Mouncey could supply. He was unnerved by the sudden shock and the narrow escape he had experienced, but otherwise uninjured.
Meanwhile, the best efforts that could be made with the one small engine were powerless to check the progress of the fire. After a while two fire-engines from neighbouring districts arrived on the scene; but by that time the fire had gained such a hold that it was impossible to save any portion of the house. It burned on till midday, and when evening fell the ruins were still smouldering. On the morrow, little save the outer shell of the house remained. The fire which destroyed the Mill House was a never-to-be-forgotten event in the annals of Rayleigh.
A thorough investigation was made, but the origin of the fire could not be traced. No one appeared to have known anything about it till Gus gave the alarm. Yet Philip Darnell was convinced that it was the work of an incendiary; and though Sebastian Mouncey would fain have believed otherwise, he thought it only too probable that this was the case. He had heard many a muttered threat of revenge.
What more likely than that some of the most lawless of the strikers, finding themselves baffled at every turn, and powerless to win an advantage by any overt act, should have chosen this way to strike a blow at their oppressor? But though detectives came from London to search out the matter, nothing transpired that could lead to the conviction of the criminal and his confederates, if such there were. The affair remained a mystery.
For Sebastian Mouncey, Gus formed the most absorbing interest of the next few days. The lad's injuries were so great that at first it seemed almost impossible that he could recover. Whilst he lay unconscious, Mr. Mouncey was constantly beside his bed, sharing the watch of the skilled nurse, and manifesting the devotion of a father towards the orphan lad. All the village there appeared to share his anxiety. In almost every home were those who were hoping and praying that Gus' life might be saved.
And yet, perhaps, none desired his recovery more than did Philip Darnell. He felt that if Gus died, his face would haunt him to the end of his days, like that of an accusing angel with eyes full of reproach. Was it a frenzied fancy, born of his terror and anguish, or had the boy indeed uttered that name as they stood on the window-sill, the name of the man whom he would never willingly recall, yet could not banish from his memory? Ah, he would give anything now to be able to forget the man whom he had pushed down in the world's mire, and over whose prostrate form he had then stepped to his own advancement!
"Be good enough to let me know every day how the boy is," he said to the clergyman, ere quitting Rayleigh for London; "and draw upon my purse for whatever he wants. If you think it well, I will send down a surgeon from London. I cannot forget that he has saved my life."
"Thank you," said Mr. Mouncey. "I will see to it that Gus wants for nothing. He has many friends who will be only too happy to do everything in their power for him."
"Who is he?" asked Mr. Darnell quickly. "I mean, what do you know of his history before he came to Rayleigh?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Mouncey, "except that his father was an educated man, who had sunk into the lowest depths of poverty."
"Ah," said Darnell, his colour deepening as he spoke; "was, you say; then his father is dead?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Mouncey; and no more was said about Gus.
That night, the high fever, which had been one of the gravest symptoms of Gus' condition, began to subside, and in the morning he was conscious. But he was very weak, and at first could remember little of what had happened. The awful fire, his gallant rescue of Philip Darnell, and the danger he had shared with him, seemed all part of the delirium through which he had been passing. But gradually things became clearer to him.
"There was a fire, was there not?" he said to Mr. Mouncey as he sat beside him. "I did not dream it?"
"No," said his friend; "there was indeed a fire. The Mill House was completely burned; there is nothing left of it but the walls."
"Ah, then it is as I think," said Gus; "there was a fire, and I got in at the window and I woke him—and then afterwards I fell, and that was how my leg was broken. But he did not fall, did he?"
"You mean Mr. Darnell? He was brought safely to the ground. He owes his life to you, Gus, for if you had not gone to him, he must have perished."
"I am so glad," said Gus fervently, and tears came into his eyes.
He lay still, too weak to ask more questions, and Sebastian Mouncey avoided speaking about the fire, for he feared to excite him.
From that day Gus began to improve, and though his progress was very slow, it went on steadily. One day the good woman with whom he had lived, and who had been a kind friend to him ever since he entered her home, came to see him. He asked her to let him have some of his possessions that were at the cottage, amongst other things his Bible. She promised to send one of the boys to the vicarage with them as soon as she reached home.
So it happened that when Mr. Mouncey returned from his afternoon's round of visits, and looked into the sick-room to ascertain how Gus was getting on, he saw the old Bible lying on the counterpane by his side. The large thick book, with its unusual style of binding, at once attracted his attention.
"Why, what have you here, Gus?" he asked, laying his hand on it.
"My father's Bible, sir," was the reply. "I thought I should like to read a bit, but my arms ache so when I try to hold it."
Mr. Mouncey looked at the Bible with interest. He took it up, and examined curiously the thick leather covers, with their lining of watered silk. He noted, with the keen eyes of a connoisseur, the strong yet flexible binding and the exquisitely clear type in which the paragraphs were printed.
"This is a beautiful Bible, Gus," he said; "old, yet in excellent preservation. I see it was printed in 1828."
He was standing at the window, holding the book up to the light as he spoke. The next moment a slip of paper fluttered from it to the ground.
"What is this?" asked Mr. Mouncey, as he picked it up.
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"Oh!" exclaimed Gus, in a tone of pleasure. "That is the paper father put inside with my name upon it. The silk must have come ungummed. He wrote my real name upon the paper, and slipped it inside the lining to keep it safe."
"Your real name!" said Sebastian Mouncey. "Are you not then Gus Rew?" He looked at the paper he held in his hand, and read in tones of astonishment, "'Augustus Devereux Carruthers.' Is that your real name?"
"Yes, that is my name," replied Gus; "father said so; he wrote it down that I might know it. I remember I thought it was a very long one."
Sebastian Mouncey was startled. He stood silent, lost in thought. He had heard something of the story of Colonel Carruthers' unhappy son. He knew that he had brought shame on his father, and had been cast off and disowned by him in consequence.
"Gus," he said presently, "do you know that your name is the same as the colonel's?"
"I thought it was," said Gus, "but I could not be sure. I had almost forgotten the name. Does it make any difference?"
"It might make a good deal of difference," said Mr. Mouncey gravely; "or, on the other hand, it may be only a coincidence. But it is nothing to trouble about, Gus," he added, seeing an uneasy look on the boy's face; "don't think any more of it now."
But whether Gus thought more of it or not, the possibility suggested by the discovery he had made was not to be banished from Mr. Mouncey's mind, and he could not rest till he had despatched a letter to the colonel by the night's mail.
NO LONGER A HUMAN WAIF.
GUS was too weak, and suffering too much pain in his broken limb, to think long of the words that had passed between him and Mr. Mouncey. When the pain and weariness became more than he could bear, the medical man would give him a strong sedative, under the influence of which he would sleep for hours. But for the relief thus gained, he could hardly have borne the strain of constant pain.
One afternoon, after sleeping for several hours, he woke to find a lady seated by his side. She was not young; her form was full and matronly, and her countenance was a pleasant one to look upon. She was knitting, and her expression was rather sad; but when she looked up and met Gus' gaze she smiled brightly on him. Her sweet smile and the look of her blue eyes seemed familiar to Gus; yet he felt sure he had not seen her before.
"So you are awake at last," she said, bending over him, and laying her hand tenderly on his curly hair; "and how do you feel now, Gus?"
There was a strange thrill in her voice, as of feeling resolutely restrained.
"Better," he replied, smiling back at her; "much better."
"That is right," she said brightly. "And now for the beef-tea. I must not forget nurse's instructions. Please do not begin to talk till you have had some beef-tea."
She turned quickly to the fireplace, where, keeping warm on the hob, was the beef-tea.
Gus was not particularly fond of this strengthening beverage; but somehow it looked more inviting than usual as the lady poured it out, and brought it to him on a little tray, with some tiny chips of toast daintily arranged on a plate.
"Has nurse gone away?" he asked, when he had emptied the cup.
"Yes, she was called to another, a more urgent case, and we felt obliged to let her go. I am here to take care of you, if you will let me."
"You are very kind," said Gus, regarding her with some wonder. "Are you a nurse, then?"
"Not professionally; but I have had much experience of nursing," replied the lady gently. "I believe I can take proper care of you."
"Oh, I am sure of that," said Gus quickly. "Will you tell me what your name is, please?"
"My name is Durrant," she replied; "I am Edith's mother."
"Miss Edith's mother!" said Gus looking very pleased. "Ah, to be sure! I remember hearing that you had come home from India."
"That was some time ago," said Mrs. Durrant. "Gus, will you be very much surprised if I tell you that I am not only Edith's mother, but also your aunt?"
"My aunt!" repeated Gus, in astonishment. "But how can that be? I have not an aunt."
"You did not know that you had one," said Mrs. Durrant, trying to smile, but with tears rising in her eyes. "Gus, from what Mr. Mouncey has told me, and from seeing that Bible, which I recognise as one which formerly belonged to my mother, I am convinced that your father was my only brother—the brother left so early to my care, and dearer to me than words can tell; but who—alas!—wandered into evil ways, and was lost to us whilst yet he lived."
Here, in spite of every effort to control herself, she broke down and sobbed. Gus began to sob too, for he was still very weak. Seeing his emotion, Mrs. Durrant tried hard to check her own.
"Gus," she asked presently, "did your father never speak to you about his sister Edith?"
"No," said Gus; "he never said a word about his past life, till a few weeks before he died. Then he told me what my right name was, and that he was a gentleman by birth, although he was so poor and miserable. And he made me promise that I would try to be a real gentleman. Are you sure he was your brother?"
"I have not a doubt of it, Gus. My father has gone to make what inquiries he can at the place where you lived; but he, too, I am sure, is convinced in his own mind. If I had doubted before, I should have known the truth as soon as I saw you, for you are so like what your father was at your age. Yes, Gus, I am indeed your aunt, for you are the child of my own dear, but most unhappy brother. Oh, how I love you for his sake!"
"I am so glad," said Gus, as she bent down and kissed him; "I thought I belonged to no one."
Then he said no more, for he saw that his aunt was overpowered by painful memories. He lay still, musing on the wonderful fact he had learned. Edith Durrant was his cousin, the colonel was his grandfather. How strange it was to think of it! He was glad, and yet there was sorrow in his heart. To think of what his father's early home must have been, of his father and his sister, and then to recall the misery and squalor and sin in which his days had ended! Oh, the pity of it! Gus felt that he could never cease to be conscious of that.
The same thought was wringing with anguish the heart of his grandfather. As he recalled every incident of the past, Colonel Carruthers could no longer refuse to see that he himself had been greatly to blame. He had been too fond, too indulgent a parent in his son's childhood, and too hard, too unrelenting when his son, in later life, chose to cross his will.
Why had he been so angry with his son because he had taken his wife from a social circle which he, the military man of fashion, considered inferior to his own? She was good and gentle, he had been told, and yet he had despised her. There had been no shame, no wrongdoing then. Why had he suffered the fact of his son's making a mésalliance, as he had deemed it, to alienate them so entirely? Perhaps, had he stifled his pride, and received the low-born bride with kindness, his son would never have made his swift descent into shame and misery. Ah, how bitter it was now to see, as he did so clearly, that his son's future might have been entirely different had he acted another part from that which, in his pride and resentment, he had so stiffly maintained!
It was late in the evening. Gus had had another sleep, from which he awoke refreshed. He was lying still, watching with languid enjoyment the shapely white hands of his aunt as they plied the knitting-needles, when Colonel Carruthers entered the room.
There was nothing in the least like a scene. The colonel was not one to give way to emotion under any circumstances. Whatever he felt as he gazed on the fair, open face of the boy, and saw again the strong likeness to his own son, which had struck him so forcibly when first he looked on Gus, his countenance retained its usual quiet, inflexible demeanour.
His tone was constrained and almost cold as he said, "How are you now, my boy?" At the same time extending his hand in a formal fashion.
"Much better, thank you, sir," Gus replied, timidly grasping the outstretched hand.
"That is well," said the colonel. Then observing an eager, wistful look in Gus' eyes, he said, turning to his daughter, "Have you told him, Edith?"
"Yes, father."
The colonel made no rejoinder. He seated himself in such a position that Gus could only see his side face, and sat gazing into the fire.
Thinking they would get on better alone, Mrs. Durrant quitted the room.
But still the colonel sat silently gazing into the fire, and Gus, as he watched him, grew nervously anxious for him to speak. At last, when Gus felt his endurance strained to the utmost, the colonel broke the silence.
"Gus," he said, "they tell me you saved the life of Philip Darnell."
This remark seemed to require no reply, and Gus was silent, waiting for more.
"It is a strange thing," continued the colonel after a pause, speaking in a low, bitter tone. "You could not know it, but that man was your father's worst enemy. He was the cause of your father's ruin. I had long suspected him of playing a double part, but I did not learn the truth till a few years ago, when I learned it from one of your father's former companions, who, unknown to Philip Darnell, had been in the whole secret. He was dying when he told me how Darnell had enticed and ensnared my son into the crime for which he was afterwards the first to denounce him. Yes, he revealed to me the whole conspiracy. I could confront Darnell with it, but what would be the good? He has done nothing that the law can punish, and it is all too late as far as your father is concerned. Would to God it were possible to undo the errors of the past!"
There was a wail of pain in the colonel's tone. He was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke again it was in a colder, quieter manner.
"It is useless to talk of the past," he said; "but, Gus, if you had known what I know of that man, you would not have rushed so eagerly to his rescue."
"But I did know," said Gus in a low tone; "my father told me."
"Eh, what?" exclaimed the colonel, turning quickly to look at him. "What did your father tell you?"
"We saw Mr. Darnell once. He was driving in a carriage," said Gus, "and my father pointed him out to me, and told me to remember that he was his and my worst enemy. And he bade me have my revenge on him, if ever it was in my power. I can never forget what father said, for it was only the day before he died."
"You knew that? He told you that?" said the colonel in a tone of extreme surprise. "And yet you risked your life to save that man! How could you?"
"I only wanted the more to save him because of that," replied Gus, speaking with an effort. "Don't you see, it was my revenge?"
For a few moments his grandfather was, from sheer amazement, unable to reply. He stared at Gus like one astounded. Then his eyes fell, his head drooped, and he sat silently pondering the boy's words.
"Gus," he said at last, in low, unsteady tones, "you are a gentleman."
Gus' face glowed with pleasure, but he made no reply.
There was a long pause.
The colonel was bending forward, gazing into the fire. Then he spoke again.
"Gus," he said slowly, "you are more than a gentleman; you are a Christian." And with that, he rose and went hastily from the room.
DEEDS AND THEIR FRUIT.
"GUS, I have good news for you," said Mr. Mouncey, as he entered the pleasant morning-room at the Retreat, when Gus was resting on a sofa, whilst his Cousin Edith sat near, busied in giving the last touches to a little water-colour drawing.
The colonel had again taken up his abode in his house at Rayleigh, and thither had Gus been conveyed as soon as he was strong enough to bear the removal. His aunt had been obliged to return to her home at Southampton, but Edith had come to make a long stay with her grandfather, that she might be her cousin's companion.
"Good news!" repeated Gus, looking eagerly into his friend's face. "Oh, please tell me what it is!"
"The strike is over," said Mr. Mouncey, his countenance radiant with satisfaction. "Mr. Darnell has at length decided to take back all the old hands, except a few whom he considers past work, and to give them the extra pay they asked."
"You do not mean it!" cried Gus delightedly. "Why, it hardly seems possible that it can be true. I never thought Mr. Darnell would give in."
"To tell you the truth, Gus, I think your influence has had some weight in the matter."
"Mine?" said Gus. "How could it? I never said a word to Mr. Darnell about the strike."
"Ah, but he knows which side has your sympathy. And once, when he spoke to me of your having saved his life, and said how he wished he could do something for you, I ventured to hint that he could not please you more than by helping those poor starving families in the cottages. I scarcely expected my words to have any effect, but it seems they had."
"I am so glad," said Gus, earnestly. "Oh, Mr. Mouncey, it is indeed good news!"
For a few moments Mr. Mouncey did not reply. He was thinking how such a noble deed as Gus had done enriches our human life, and how far its elevating influence may extend.
"You remember old Mike Newman?" he said presently. "I fear he will never work again; he is very ill with rheumatic fever. He has a great wish to see you, Gus. Could you get so far, do you think? There is something weighing on the poor old man's mind. Perhaps he will tell his trouble to you; I cannot draw it from him."
"I can drive you there in the pony chaise this afternoon if you like, Gus," said Edith.
And Gus willingly fell in with the suggestion. Several weeks had passed since the night of the fire, and he had made fair progress. He was now able to get about a little with the aid of crutches. It was feared that his cure would be so far imperfect that he would always walk with a slight limp. The thought of this was a trouble to his grandfather, but Gus would not let it trouble him.
When Gus entered Mike's cottage on his crutches, he found the poor old man even worse than he had been led to expect. But, though in great pain, Mike was conscious, and presently, as they talked together, it seemed to Gus that his anguish was as much that of the mind as of the body. At first his words appeared so wild and incoherent that Gus fancied he must be wandering; but gradually he found a clue to their meaning.
"Eh, Master Gus," he said, "the pain is just like a fire in my bones—a fire burning me whilst I live. And sure, if ever man deserved to be burned I'm that man. The very pains of hell have got hold on me, and it's to hell I'm going!"
"Don't say that, Mike; you need not go to hell."
"I must, lad, I must! For a man that's sinned as I have there can be no mercy. I'm as bad as a murderer, that's what I am."
"And if you are, Mike, there's mercy even for such. Don't you remember how Jesus Christ prayed for His murderers?—'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!'"
"Ah, but I knew what I was doing. I knew it was a crime for which I might be hanged; but I didn't care. If I'd seen what it would all lead to! I never thought, Gus, that you would suffer! To see you come limping in, so mild and patient, was almost more than I could bear. And yet it would have been worse if he had died. You've saved me from the guilt of blood."
"Mike, what do you mean? Of what are you thinking?"
"Can't ye guess, Gus?"
"Are you thinking of the fire, Mike? Do you know more about it than I?"
"I know more about it than any one else, lad. Oh, if I dared to tell you! Maybe you wouldn't be so hard on me as some. Oh, this fire, this fire in my bones! I shall not rest in my grave, I'm thinking, if I don't confess the truth."
"If there's anything on your conscience, Mike, you'd better confess it to God, not to me."
"I can't, I can't!" groaned the old man. "Besides, God knows. Isn't He punishing me for it now?"
"Mike," said Gus gravely, "do you know how the fire began?"
"Do I know?" muttered Mike. "Who should know if I do not?" Then, suddenly turning his eyes on Gus, he asked in shrill, sharp tones—
"Lad, do you think that fire was kindled without hands?"
"Mike!" exclaimed Gus, with consternation in his voice. "You don't mean to say that any one was wicked enough to set fire to the house on purpose?"
"Ah, truly," was the reply, in broken, quavering tones; "there was one wicked enough, and that was Mike Newman. You are horrified, Gus; but it made me mad to feel that I was ground down and trampled on by a man no better than myself, just because he was rich and I was poor.
"The strike brought more trouble into my home than into any other in the village. My daughter, poor soul, when her husband's wages ceased, made a brave struggle to live on almost nothing. How she managed I cannot tell. She grew to be mere skin and bone, for many a meal she would go without for the sake of her children. But then they sickened, and Willie—you remember our brave, bonny little Willie—was the first to go. The twins followed, and she, poor soul, could not bear up after the loss of her babes. She was soon laid beside them. They're all four sleeping under the old elm in the churchyard.
"Do you wonder I felt wild with Darnell? How could I bear to think of his living in ease and plenty, his wife and children wanting nothing, and ours starved like that! I said there was no such thing as justice in heaven or earth. God was against us too. He was the God of the rich, not of the poor. I thirsted for revenge. I longed to do something with this weak old arm that should make Darnell smart. I used to long for a gun, that I might take a shot at him some night after dark. But I knew my aim would be unsteady, and that I should miss my mark. Then the thought struck me that I would set fire to his house. That was not easy; but when the devil tempts a man to sin, he opens up the way for him.
"I was hanging about that night near Darnell's house. It was midnight. I had been to the Rising Sun. A man from London had been there speaking to us chaps, and when he'd said his say, he treated us to a glass all round. His words had stirred my blood, and mayhap the liquor was too strong for me, for I had tasted scarce a morsel that day. I was passing the door leading into the court at the back of the house, when a sudden gust of wind blew it open. No one is afeard of thieves at Rayleigh, and Brown and his wife had forgotten to make it fast before they went to bed.
"Something said within me, 'Now's your time.' I went in and looked about. The lights was all out; every one in the house was abed. There are no shutters to the kitchen window. I broke a pane, and opened it with little trouble. I climbed in, found a box of matches, and then went down to the cellar. I knew my way, for I'd had a job of cutting and piling wood there once. There was wood stored there then, and on the other side of the cellar stood a barrel of paraffin oil. I carried the wood over, an armful at a time, and piled it about the barrel; I found some straw, and added that, and then I set fire to the heap. I only waited to see that it would burn, and then I hurried away. No one saw me, and the fire destroyed all traces of my having entered the house. I went home and to bed, but I could not sleep; and before morning the rheumatics had seized on me so that I could not move. The pain has never left me since."
"Oh, Mike! How could you do such a thing?" cried Gus aghast. "How did you feel when you knew the house was burning away, and nothing could check the flames?"
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"Feel! I felt like a fiend that night. I chuckled to myself, and thought how cleverly I had done it. I hoped Darnell would be burned. But afterwards—ah, lad, afterwards, it was as if there were a fire burning within me. I knew I had done the devil's work. And when they told me how you had risked your life to save Darnell—you whom he had misjudged and struck, to whom he had been no better than to me and mine—oh, Gus, I felt real bad then! Your conduct showed me the blackness of mine. I was thankful Darnell was saved; but I knew that all the same I was as bad as a murderer."
"Thank God I got to him in time!" cried Gus, much moved. "Oh, Mike, I might have done as you did, for I felt very bad towards him at one time, only I remembered—I had learned the best way of being revenged."
"What is that?" asked Mike.
"'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,'" repeated Gus.
"I've heard them words before; they're in the Bible, ar'n't they?" said Mike. "I used to learn the Bible when I was a boy. But I should never have thought of acting that way; and who does? Even those who pretend to be religious, do they do as the Bible tells them? Look at Darnell now—don't he go to church?"
"That other people fail to do as they ought is no reason why we should not try to obey the Bible," said Gus.
"P'raps not," said Mike; "and yet I don't see it's fair to expect us poor folks to behave better than those who have everything they wants. But the Bible's true; I know that. It says the 'wicked shall be turned into hell,' and that's where I'm going. I shall be tormented in flames, longing for a drop of water to cool my tongue. 'Where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.' There's Bible words for you."
"And these, too, are Bible words," said Gus, and he repeated: "'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' So you see, Mike, God will forgive your sin, if you ask Him."
The old man shook his head mournfully. "Nay, nay, lad; it's too late for that. There's no hope for me, none. I am a murderer, and my part is in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone."
"But there is hope," said Gus earnestly; "Jesus will receive sinners. Oh, Mike, if you will not listen to me, will you not tell Mr. Mouncey all?"
"Nay, lad, I can tell no one but you. I said to myself I would tell you, if you came in, but no one else."
"Then will you let me tell Mr. Mouncey what you have told me?" asked Gus.
After much persuasion, Mike consented to this.
Gus lost no time in seeking Sebastian Mouncey, and repeating to him the sad story he had heard. He did not see Mike again.
On the following evening, Mr. Mouncey came to tell him that the poor old man was dead.
Gus was shocked. He had not thought the end so near.
"I thought he would have lingered longer," said Mr. Mouncey. "Poor fellow! He bitterly repented of his sin. He would have seen Mr. Darnell and asked his forgiveness, had there been time. Now it is for me to make his confession known. I think he died in peace, believing God had forgiven him; but there is something inexpressibly sad in such a death. Who dare judge him harshly? God only knows the true history of his life, and how far the sin of others was accountable for the bitter feelings which drove him to that mad act. Oh, when will men learn to recognise the bond of their common brotherhood? When will each understand that he is indeed bound to be his brother's keeper?"
The sad revelation made a profound impression upon Gus, as on many at Rayleigh.
But when spring flowers were blooming in the hedgerows, and spring breezes blew over the fields, the winter, with its gloom and misery, passed from the minds of the younger folk like a dismal dream. It was a busy time at the mill. The "hands" were beginning to recover some measure of prosperity. Their homes once more wore an air of comfort, their faces a look of health and cheerfulness.
But the Mill House stood a gaunt, grim ruin, and it was thought that Philip Darnell would never care to rebuild it. He seldom came to Rayleigh, and left the management of the mill almost entirely to Mr. Ellary. And no one regretted the proprietor's absence. He had had the chance of winning the love and esteem of his work-people, and he had let it slip. No concession he might now make could alter the feelings with which they regarded him.
The colonel began to talk of returning to London for the season. Gus was strong now, save for the limp that would never be overcome. One day his grandfather spoke to him of the plans he had made for his future.
"I have engaged a tutor for you, Gus, with whom I hope you will work your hardest, till you are sufficiently advanced to study with other young fellows of your age. I know you have good abilities, and, thanks to the kindness of Mr. Mouncey, you have already received a far better education than could have been expected under the circumstances. Still, there are certain things that are necessary to fit you for the position of a gentleman. Of course I mean you to go to Oxford when you are old enough. I should have liked you to follow in my steps; I believe you have the making of a soldier in you, but that unfortunate weakness—"
"I could never be a soldier!" exclaimed Gus involuntarily.
"And why not?" asked the colonel, looking at him with some severity.
"I could never bear to kill others," said Gus, with a shiver; "I should like work that saved life, not destroyed it."
"That is not the way to look at the subject," said the colonel proudly. "I maintain that a true soldier saves life when he fights for his country and his Queen; but really, to hear the way some people talk, you would think a soldier was a mere butcher. There is no finer profession for a gentleman than the army."
Gus mused for a few moments over his grandfather's words; then he said, with some abruptness, "I don't know that I care to follow the profession of a gentleman."
"What do you mean?" asked the colonel sharply. "Not lead the life of a gentleman! I thought that was what you had always meant to be."
"Yes, I mean to be a gentleman," said Gus; "but I should not mind if people did not consider me one. It seems to me that there are two sorts of gentlemen in the world—the gentleman like Jesus Christ, and the gentleman who only cares for himself, his pleasures, his ease, his beautiful things, and does not mind how others toil and slave for him, nor what they suffer, as long as he gets all he wants."
Colonel Carruthers looked gravely at his young grandson, and was silent for a minute or two.
"I believe you are right, Gus," he said at last, with somewhat of an effort. "The experience of life has humbled my pride, and I see some things now in a different light from that in which I used to view them.
"There are two kinds of gentlemen—the conventional gentleman and the ideal gentleman. The highest gentleman in the land, as the world ranks men, has for his motto the words, 'I serve.' And He whom we reverence as our Lord and Saviour has taught us that true greatness consists in service.
"I would not for the world have you a useless, fine gentleman, Gus. But, my dear boy, you need training for the highest service. You must make the most of the talents God has given you. Since you have the power to do so, it is right that you should endeavour to attain the highest culture possible to you, in order that you may serve others in the best way that you can."
"I will do whatever you wish, sir," Gus replied, feeling the truth of his grandfather's words. "I am sure that father would have wished me to learn all that I can."
He spoke impulsively, but when he saw the shadow that fell on his grandfather's face, he would fain have recalled his last words.
CONCLUSION.
TEN years have passed, and their fleet steps have left enduring traces. Colonel Carruthers' tall, spare figure is less erect than formerly, his sight less keen, his memory less certain. He can no longer refuse to recognise the fact that he is an old man. He is glad to lean on the strong arm of his grandson when they walk together, glad to depend on him in many ways.
Miss Durrant continues to be the colonel's housekeeper, and is still a prey to nervous terrors, whilst believing herself one of the most strong-minded of her sex. The colonel's daughter and her younger children are frequent guests at his house; the young people are ardently attached to their cousin Gus, who is often to be found there, whilst their mother could hardly love him better if he were her son. Edith's visits to her grandfather's home are less frequent and of less duration than formerly; for some years since she went to a home of her own, and that none other than the old vicarage at Rayleigh.
At one time Colonel Carruthers would hardly have deemed Sebastian Mouncey a match for the granddaughter he loved so well; but his regard for the hardworking clergyman has strengthened considerably since he discovered in Mr. Mouncey's protégé the child of his own lost son; and, moreover, the colonel has learned to esteem goodness the highest nobility.
Edith was never ambitious in the world's sense; she has the noble ambition to serve others and make their lives brighter and better, so in working for the cottagers at Rayleigh she has found her right vocation, and is proving a true help-meet to the busy pastor.
And Gus. Let us look at him as on a March morning he enters the city hospital, in which he is studying as a medical student. He has given himself to the profession of medicine with all the enthusiasm of his warm, sound nature. He has the highest ideal of what the life of a physician should be, and the more material aspects of his calling cannot destroy it. To him, it seems to present the grandest possibility of following in the steps of the Lord Christ, and in little things as in great exhibiting the spirit of that "first true Gentleman that ever breathed."
He has applied himself with such energy to his studies, that already he is looked upon as one who promises to take a high position in his profession. No day, no hour scarcely of the past ten years, has been suffered to slip by without yielding him some permanent gain.
He is a man now. On his brow are the perpendicular lines which indicate hard thinking; his expression is grave and earnest, but he has still somewhat of the old boyish grace. His blue eyes have the same frank, kindly glance, and when he smiles, as one of his comrades addresses him playfully, it is with the bright, winsome smile of yore.
As Gus enters the women's medical ward, and passes along it, his eyes are quick to observe a fresh patient. A young woman, with a white, worn, patient face, lies in a bed to his left. She looks very ill; but it is not her suffering appearance which makes him halt suddenly before her. There is something familiar in that patient countenance, in those sad, grey eyes.
"Lucy!" he exclaims, in a tone of astonishment. "Lucy!"
"That is my name," she replies, with a startled look; "but I do not know—"
"Lucy Lucas," he returns; "Lucy Lucas, who used to live at Lavender Terrace."
A hot, painful flush dyes the face of the young woman.
"Yes," she replies, "I was called by that name once; but it is long ago, and I cannot understand how you should know about me."
"Have you forgotten Gus?" he asks. "Poor, ragged little Gus?"
"Gus!" she exclaims, looking pleased. "You don't mean to say that you are that little Gus! 'Gentleman Gus' they used to call you. Oh, I have so often wondered what had become of you; but I little thought to find you here! And to think that you should know me again!"
"You have not altered much," says Gus; "only I am sorry to see you looking ill. I, too, have often wondered about you, and where you went when you left the Terrace so suddenly. But never mind that now," he adds gently, as he sees her look of pain. "You shall tell me about that by-and-by; I'll tell my story first."
And, regardless of the fact that the work of the day is before him, he sits down beside her, and tells her the history of his life since they parted. She listens with close attention; but presently, he has to hurry away, with the promise that he will see her again in the evening.
It is growing dusk when again he finds himself at leisure to sit and talk with her; but he has found time during the day to inquire of the house surgeon concerning her. He learned that she was very ill. The long-seated hip disease had taken a new development; terrible abscesses were sapping her strength, which had been reduced, the surgeon thought, by poor living and close, sedentary occupation. As he heard it, Gus resolved within himself that there should be no more of that for Lucy. He was relieved to hear the surgeon say he did not consider the case a hopeless one.
"Lucy," says Gus gently, as he sits beside her, "will you not tell me about your life since last I saw you? You need not fear to speak freely to me. Where is your father?"
Once more the warm colour of shame rises in poor Lucy's face. For a few moments she cannot speak; then she summons courage to whisper—
"In prison, Gus."
Gus' face reflects the sorrow on hers.
"Oh, I am so sorry, Lucy," he says. "And yet—perhaps—"
"It is best," she murmurs; "it was terrible living as we did before. Do you remember the great burglary at Harrow, two years ago, when the burglars were captured?"
"To be sure, I remember it," says Gus; "there were three men, but their names—"
"Oh, my father never passed long by the same name. Our real name is Smith. My father and Jack were both concerned in the robbery; but they only sentenced Jack for seven years. My father shot a man in the struggle. He did not kill him, happily, but it made his guilt the greater, and he was sentenced for fourteen years."
"And you have been alone ever since?"
"Yes, I have been trying to earn money by needlework; but it has been so hard. They pay so little for it at the shops."
"My poor Lucy!" says Gus, with a sad smile. "I can see you have had a hard struggle; but you shall not go back to that life, Lucy. We will do all we can for you here; you must make up your mind to get well quickly, and when you are strong enough, I will send you to a pretty country place, where a lady, my cousin, will take good care of you, and find plenty of work for your clever needle. Don't cry; there are brighter days before you, I believe."
"You are very kind, Gus; you always were kind," Lucy replies, in a voice choked by tears. "I should not wish to get well; I have still the old longing for rest; but I have learned that our lives are in the hands of One who loves us, and knows better than we what is good for us, and whilst there is any chance of my helping father I would not die. I pray for him every day, and I trust that he may yet be saved from sin."
"God grant it!" says Gus earnestly. "Never give up hoping and praying, Lucy. There is no sinner whom Jesus Christ cannot save. I have learned that."
Leaving the hospital, Gus turns his steps towards a house in a quiet street close by, where he lodges from Monday till Saturday, for his grandfather's house at Norwood is too far from the hospital for him to return thither every night. It is a neat, respectable-looking house. The doorstep is clean; the window curtains as white as the London smoke will permit.
As Gus stands on the step, feeling for his latchkey, the door is opened from within, and a stout, comely woman, in middle life, appears with a tall, gaunt, anxious-looking woman by her side. Does the reader recognise an old acquaintance? In her tidy black dress and white apron, with her abundant tresses smoothly brushed and braided, and a more subdued expression than she wore in the old days, Sally Dent is indeed changed almost past recognition. And the big awkward-looking lad of about fourteen, who is now visible at the end of the passage, was the unwieldy baby whom Gus used to carry about with such good-will.
Sally's eyes brighten as she sees Gus, and she exclaims, "Oh, Mr. Carruthers, I am glad you're come in! This is Mrs. Minn, as used to live in Lavender Terrace. Maybe you remember her? She's in great trouble about her daughter, as is took very bad. She wants to get her into the 'ospital. I told her I knew you'd be willing to do what you could."
Gus does remember Mrs. Minn. He shakes hands with her kindly, and makes many inquiries concerning her husband and family. He takes her into his own room, hears all about her daughter's case, clearly explains to her the steps she must take to secure admission to the hospital, and promises such help as he can give.
When at length, cheered by his kindness, Mrs. Minn takes her departure, she pauses for a moment at the door to say confidentially to Sally Dent, "He's a good one, he is. He ain't a bit ashamed to remember that he was once as poor as any of us. There are not many like he."
"No, indeed," responds Sally, and then a lump seems to rise in her throat, and check further utterance. She is thinking of all Gus has done for her,—how he sought her out in her wretched home; how he befriended her when she had sunk low in sin and shame. A poor, degraded wreck of womanhood, others would have cried, "Let the wreck lie; its recovery is hopeless!"
But not so he. How he had striven to win her back to sobriety! She herself had despaired of ever breaking from the sore slavery of drink; but he had encouraged her to persevere with the struggle. She had signed the pledge only to break it; she had relapsed again and again, and begged him to leave her to herself; but he would not give her up. It was through his kindness that she had been settled in this house, with medical students for her lodgers, and he had helped to place her children in respectable positions.
And now she is saved, redeemed in body and spirit, by the grace of Christ, from the awful power of sin! Work as she may—and she has learned what work means—can she ever do enough to show her gratitude to him who, under God, has been her deliverer?
The thought of it all well-nigh overpowers her, and what she feels is not to be expressed. When words become possible, she only says in her most emphatic manner, "Ay, he is a gentleman, he is."
THE END.
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney Ld., London and Aylesbury.