Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
WORTHY OF HIS NAME
BY
EGLANTON THORNE
AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WORCESTER JUG," "ALDYTH'S INHERITANCE," ETC.
"Let no man predicate
That aught the name of gentleness should have,
Even in a king's estate,
Except the heart there be a gentleman's."
GUIDO GUINICELLI
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
AND 164, PICCADILLY
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
[V. HOW THE NEIGHBOURS SYMPATHISED]
[X. GUS SEES HIS TEACHER AGAIN]
[XII. A GAME OF "HIDE-AND-SEEK"]
[XIV. GOOD-BYE TO LAVENDER TERRACE]
[XVI. GUS BEGINS TO WORK FOR HIMSELF]
[XVII. THE MILL-HANDS "STRIKE"]
WORTHY OF HIS NAME.
[CHAPTER I.]
THE NEW LODGER.
"SO you like your new lodger, Sally Dent?"
"Ay, he's a gentleman, he is."
"A gentleman! That means that he pays you reg'lar, I s'pose?"
"It means a good sight more than that, though it's true he give me a fortnight's rent in advance, and said I shouldn't never be a loser by he, for he'd take 'isself off when he'd no money to pay me. I tell you, he's a real gentleman."
"That's a good 'un!" laughed a man, who stood mending a fence near enough to the women to hear what they said. "Do you think him so, because he came home as drunk as a lord last night? A pretty gentleman! But maybe you wasn't aware of that fact."
"Wasn't I? There ain't much 'appens in my 'ouse that I ain't aware on. But if he was drunk, he be'aved 'isself like a gentleman, and didn't make no noise. We've all our little weaknesses, and I 'opes I knows how to make allowance."
Sally Dent's appearance accorded with her tolerant tone. She was a tall, fine woman, who might have been comely had she taken more care of her person. She had an abundance of light wavy hair, but its rough, dishevelled condition robbed it of all beauty. The expression of her round fat face was too easy by far, and its ruddy hue suggested that she too might have her "little weakness," and that a fellow-feeling made her so "wondrous kind" towards her lodger's infirmity. Her dirty, torn gown, the grimy doorstep on which she stood, the blackened passage beyond, the state of the child clutching at her gown as he poised himself on his unsteady feet, all bore witness to a life that was a careless drifting on the currents of inclination.
"He's got a boy, ain't he?" asked her neighbour, a gaunt, angular female, who looked to have a temper, and altogether more character than the indolent Sally.
"Yon's the boy," returned Sally, pointing across the road.
Mrs. Minn glanced in the direction indicated. The houses of Lavender Terrace—why Lavender Terrace it would be hard to say; the purity and fragrance which we associate with the name of the old-fashioned country flower were not characteristics of the foul, narrow lane—faced a line of railway, and trains were continually passing on the other side of the high, tarred fence. At one spot a heap of refuse—broken earthenware, battered kettles, and such old shoes as even the dwellers in Lavender Terrace were forced to discard—was banked against the fence.
On the top of this heap, attaining a still greater elevation by balancing himself by one foot upon an upturned flower-pot, stood the boy, absorbed in watching the passing trains. He was a small, slight boy, looking only eight, though two years older. His face was turned from the women, and the fact concerning him most evident to the eye of the observer was the very dilapidated state of his garments. So ragged were they, that it was a matter of wonder how they held together.
As Sally's neighbour eyed the little lad, she gave a short laugh.
"He looks like a gentleman's son, don't he now? He has no mother, I s'pose?"
"She's dead, I believe. Ay, you may laugh, Mrs. Minn; but there's gentlefolks as come down in the world, and, if I'm not mistaken, this lodger of mine comes of gentlefolk. You should see the Bible he has in his room, one with gilt edges and lined with silk, like the gentry use. I ought to know, for I've lived in good service and seen what's what. And I can tell you he's a scholard, for one day I wanted a letter wrote to my old mistress, and I made so bold as to ask him to do it for me, and you may believe me, he wrote such a letter as a gentleman might 'a'wrote. She noticed it, she did, and asked me who'd wrote it."
"The more shame to him to have fallen so low," said the carpenter, hammering vigorously. "There's some excuse for us poor chaps, who have had a hard struggle all our days, if we take a drop too much to cheer us sometimes; but a man who has had eddication, and all the advantages money can give, ought to be ashamed of hisself if he can't behave as he should. I know if I had had such chances—"
But what he would have done under more fortunate circumstances remained untold, for at that moment Mrs. Dent's lodger made his appearance. He came round the sharp bend by which the lane turned from the main road, a man above the middle height, but with stooping shoulders and feeble frame. His clothes were deplorably shabby, but they looked the shabbier for their cut and style, which revealed the skill of a high-class tailor. His face was sharp and wan, but it had a refinement of feature which was not due merely to the wasting of disease. The deep-seated anguish that looked out of his eyes, the settled bitterness expressed by the drooping corners of the delicate mouth, would have struck pain to the heart of a sensitive observer.
Mrs. Minn was hardly such a one, but she felt a novel sensation of pity, as with instinctive courtesy he stepped from the path to make room for her. In spite of his depressed, crushed air, he walked and bore himself in a different fashion from any other man living at Lavender Terrace. It was the first time he had been seen abroad in daylight since he came to Mrs. Dent's, and the neighbours observed him curiously.
"Gus, I want you," he called to his son, halting for a moment ere he turned into the house. The voice was weak and hoarse; but it had some quality other than weakness or hoarseness, which gave it an unusual sound to the ears of the listeners.
The boy sprang down from the rubbish heap and hastened after his father. Perhaps the sight of the parcel wrapped in newspaper which his father carried under his arm quickened his steps. Gus was pale, and his face showed a faint reflex of the melancholy expression stamped upon his father's; but it had the brightness which comes of a liberal application of soap and water. If he was one of the most ragged boys in the lane, he was also one of the cleanest. He looked up into Mrs. Minn's face as he passed her. His clear, frank blue eyes, his sweet, gentle expression affected her strangely.
"God bless him! He's a pretty boy," she said, though she was not wont to pray God to bless her own children.
Sally Dent ventured on no familiar greeting as her lodger entered the house. There was something about the silent, melancholy man that held her in awe.
"So that's your lodger," said Mrs. Minn, lowering her voice. "But how ill he looks! I never saw any one so ghastly. You mark my words, Sally Dent, he won't be your lodger long."
[CHAPTER II.]
GUS' REAL NAME.
GUS followed his father into the small back room which was their home. It was a comfortless room, with an unmade bed in one corner and a small table in the middle, on which was a penny bottle of ink, a couple of quill pens, and a dingy remnant of blotting-paper. It also contained two rickety chairs and a large, old-fashioned trunk, on the top of which lay about a score of books, most of them in a more or less shabby condition. The few poor articles of furniture were the property of Sally Dent; only the trunk, the books, and the writing materials belonged to her lodger.
The room was small, but it was not close. The window, grey with dust, was open at top and bottom, letting in the fresh, soft air of the fair May day. Lavender Terrace was not shut in from the winds of heaven. Before it ran the railway, and behind lay stretch of waste ground, around which new houses were rising. It was neither in London nor in the country, but one of those dreary new neighbourhoods to be found on the skirts of the metropolis which have lost their rural charm ere yet they have gained the advantages and respectability of a suburban locality. There were fields still at Glensford, and through one of them a stream made its way; but its banks were littered with rubbish, and its waters choked and befouled by the refuse cast into them. There were generally gipsy carts to be seen in these fields, and gipsy children with bare feet and tangled locks disporting themselves by the stream.
Gus watched his father silently, but with eager eyes, as he unrolled the paper parcel, and brought to view a loaf of bread and some slices of cooked ham. Then, without words, the boy went to a small cupboard by the fireplace, brought out the remnant of linen which did service as a tablecloth, with plates, knives and forks, and as rapidly as possible made the few simple preparations for their meal. The last of these was to place before his father a tall black bottle and a tumbler.
It was now two o'clock, and this was the first meal of the day; yet ere he attacked the food, for which he had so keen an appetite, the boy bent his head and repeated a brief grace. It was the habit in which he had been reared, and its omission would have drawn on him a reprimand from his father.
The boy ate hungrily, but a few mouthfuls seemed to content his father. He laid down his knife and fork, mixed himself a tumblerful of spirit and water, and sat slowly sipping it, and watching his boy the while with his hopeless, melancholy eyes.
"Gus," he said suddenly, "what is your name?"
"Gus Rew," answered the boy, with a smile. His spirits were rising as he took the sorely needed food, and he fancied that his father's mood was also waxing cheerful.
"No, that is not your name," was the unexpected reply.
Gus looked at his father with a shrewd, discerning glance. He was taking but a moderate draught; he never drank deeply so early in the day. Had it been night, Gus would have wondered at no strange, inexplicable words that might fall from his lips; but he did wonder now.
"What do you mean, father?" he asked.
"The name by which the people here know us is not our real name. I called myself Devereux once when we lived in another part, but people soon cut it down to Rew, and I let it be so. Shall I tell you your right name, Gus?"
"Yes," said the boy, forgetting to eat in his astonishment.
"Augustus Devereux Carruthers."
"My!" exclaimed Gus, his eyes opening wide in astonishment. "That's a good long one."
"It is your name, however. Can you remember it?"
"I don't know as I can," replied Gus.
"Then I'll write it down for you. It may be of importance to you some day that you should know your right name. But mind, boy, you are to keep it to yourself. Not a word to any one about it unless I give you leave."
Gus nodded.
"Now, if you've finished, clear the table and get me pen and ink."
The boy obeyed.
With a hand that trembled visibly, the hand of one who habitually drank to excess, but which yet resembled the white, well-kept hand of a gentleman, Gus' father wrote his name on a slip of paper.
"There it is," he said, laying down the pen; "there it is—the name of a gentleman. Gus, do you know that you are a gentleman by birth?"
"A gentleman!" repeated Gus, more astonished than ever.
"Yes; do you know what a gentleman is?"
"A swell," said the boy.
"I wish you would not use such expressions!" cried his father, with a frown. "But there, what else can I expect? How should you know any better? I suppose you think a gentleman is just a man who wears good clothes and has plenty to eat and drink?"
"Yes," said Gus.
"Well, then, let me tell you that money and fine clothes have nothing to do with being a gentleman. A gentleman is one who is brave, who speaks the truth, who is honest and faithful—"
He checked himself abruptly. His eye had fallen on the black bottle. His head drooped, his voice faltered as he went on to say, "I was a gentleman once, Gus, and your mother was a lady. Ay, a true lady she was, though she served in a shop. Mind you, boy, it's not the kind of work one does that makes of a man a gentleman, or of a woman a lady; it's the way in which the work is done that makes all the difference."
"If you were a gentleman once, father," asked the boy eagerly, "how was it that—?" His eyes falling on his parent's shabby, threadbare garments completed the question.
"You may well ask," returned his father in a tone of intense bitterness. "Gus, there are those who would tell you that that unmade me," he pointed as he spoke to the black bottle; "but, lad, that is not the truth. I was undone by one who tempted me, betrayed me, made a very cat's paw of me to serve his own ends, and then turned against me and denounced me. Ah! there are such men in the world—men who do the fiend's work, who drag others down to ruin, whilst they stand proud and firm. And he goes softly; he is honoured and courted, whilst I—Heaven help me!"
The last words escaped as a cry of pain. The man's face had grown deadly pale; it was contorted by the anguish that was bringing out great beads of perspiration on his brow. His hands clutched his breast; he drew each breath in agony. With a cry, Gus rushed to the door to summon help; but a gesture from his father stayed him. In a few moments, the paroxysm of pain was past. The man's hands relaxed their grasp, his breath came more freely, his pallor grew less deathlike. He made a reassuring sign to the boy, and even tried to smile. Gus had seen him suffer thus before, but never had he had so severe an attack.
As he recovered strength the man's eyes fell on the slip of paper and the name written on it.
"We must find a safe place for this," he said. "Bring me the Bible, Gus."
It lay on the top of the trunk, a square Oxford Bible, bearing date 1828, bound in dark leather, richly embossed. The thick boards were lined with crimson silk, and fastened with handsome clasps. Gus' father took the book into his hand with reverent touch. He opened it, and with his penknife lightly lifted the silken lining from one side, pushed the slip of paper within, then, wetting the silk slightly, pressed it again into its place.
"There," he said, "that will adhere, and no one will know there is anything beneath. But you will know; you must remember. Gus, promise me, poor though you are, you will try to be a gentleman."
"Yes, I'll try, father."
"And you'll never touch that?" waving his hand towards the black bottle. "You've told me before that you will never taste strong drink, but I want to hear you say it again."
"I will never take it, father."
"Say, 'So help me God!'"
"So help me God!"
A look of relief came to the father's haggard face. He poured out a little more of the spirit, drank it hastily, then pushing bottle and glass from him, he said—
"Now put that away, Gus, and bring me your lessons."
"Have you no work to do, father?" asked the boy, with brightening face.
"Not at present. I am to call for it at six o'clock, so I have plenty of time to hear you."
[CHAPTER III.]
GUS MAKES A PROMISE.
THE life of Augustus Devereux Carruthers grew no easier as the days went on. Surely no child of gentle birth had ever so rough a bringing up, or so early made acquaintance with the darker phases of life. His father had sunk lower and lower, benumbing his faculties by strong drink, till even the drudgery of copying for law-stationers was well-nigh beyond his weakened capacity.
At length that failed, and when he came to Glensford with his boy, he was trusting for their maintenance to such chance jobs as might come to the hand of a forlorn man, broken-down alike in health and fortune. By the sale of some of his books, he had obtained the sum that he had paid in advance to Sally Dent—the only means by which he could be sure that the money would not find its way across the counter of the large and flourishing public-house which stood at the corner of the green.
Gus knew often what it was to miss a meal in these days; often he went supperless to bed, where he slept soundly in spite of hunger, till his father roused him by stumbling into the room about midnight; for the craving for strong drink was taking a stronger and stronger hold upon the unhappy man. He would at any time go without food that Gus might have the last crust in the cupboard; but as long as he could get the money for it, drink he must have. So the few poor possessions contained in the old trunk found their way one after another to the pawnshop, till almost everything of value was gone.
Much as he suffered, Gus never told himself that he had a bad father. It was such a common thing at Lavender Terrace, and other places where he had lived, for fathers, and even mothers, to drink and neglect their children, that Gus accepted the fact quite philosophically. To have a drunken father was to him only such a calamity as to have a lame father or a blind father would have been. It was a thing that could not be helped, and must be endured. But one truth concerning the matter had been grasped by Gus. His father frequently told him that if he never began to drink, he would never want to drink; and Gus was resolved that he would not begin such an undesirable habit.
One day, when they had been in Sally Dent's house for about a month, and things were at a very low ebb with her lodger, Gus was called by his father to accompany him to another part of London, where an election was about to take place, and there was a chance of employment in circulating bills from house to house. Gus came willingly. He liked nothing better than to be with his father, who, even in his worst hours, never struck or ill-used him.
They had a long and weary walk ere they arrived at the place they sought. The committee rooms were easily found. The house was made conspicuous from a distance by the flags and banners which waved about it, as well as by the crowd of ill-clad, wretched-looking men gathered before the door.
"We come too late, I fear," said Gus' father despondently, as they halted on the outskirts of the crowd. Suddenly his eye caught a placard raised high above the heads of the people. Gus saw a quick change pass over his father's face. It grew ashy white, his eyes gleamed fiercely, his hands were clenched. In terror the boy imagined that a paroxysm of pain had seized his father; but it was not so. His eyes were riveted on the name of the candidate.
"Philip Darnell," he murmured; "that man! What does it mean?" Then eagerly, he grasped the arm of a man who stood near him: "Tell me—whose election is this? I do not understand."
"Whose election? Who is the candidate, do you mean? Why, Philip Darnell. Ah, you had not heard? Sir Robert Leicester has retired, and Philip Darnell has just been nominated."
"That man! I'm glad I know. Serve him! I'd sooner die!"
"Would you? Dying's not so easy, let me tell you," returned the other, eyeing him curiously. "I know he ain't extra, this Philip Darnell, if all folks say of him is true; but what of that? What does it matter to us as long as he pays us our money?"
But the man known as Rew recoiled from him as he spoke. The words sounded hideous in his ears. What did it matter, indeed? "I'd rather die!" he muttered again, and made his way hastily out of the crowd.
"You'd better go to Arthur Brown; he's the people's candidate!" shouted the man to whom Rew had spoken, and then touched his forehead, and winked at a neighbour, intending to convey his belief that the man who refused to serve Philip Darnell was half-crazed.
Gus was much perplexed. He watched his father anxiously, as retiring a little from the crowd, he leaned exhausted against some palings and wiped his brow.
Suddenly, with clatter and commotion, a handsome carriage dashed into the street. It was drawn by a pair of fine bay horses, decorated with rosettes of blue ribbon. Several gentlemen were seated in it, one, a dark man, with florid face and beaming smile. Gus' father started forward excitedly.
"There he is!" he cried. "There is Philip Darnell. Look, Gus, look; there is the man who worked your father's ruin! See, he rides in his carriage, men gather about him, and I—look what he has made of me!"
"Father, what did he do?" cried Gus, bewildered.
"Do! Don't ask me. I tell you, if there were justice in this world, that man would stand beside me, degraded as I am. Look at him, Gus! Look, that you may know him again!" And he pointed to where Philip Darnell had alighted in the midst of the crowd, and was shaking hands ostentatiously with every one who came forward. "Remember that to that man you owe it that you have been brought up in rags and misery; and if ever you have the chance, requite him for the wrong he has done you and me. Promise me, Gus, that if ever in coming years it is in your power, you will have revenge on him. Promise, boy, I say."
"I promise," said Gus, urged by his father's passionate tones. But as he said the words, he was amused to think how unlikely it was that a poor ragged little boy such as he was should ever have it in his power to inflict a punishment on the rich, grand man.
The gentlemen passed into the house, the eager crowd about the door gradually dispersed; but Gus' father still stood helplessly clinging to the palings. His face was pale to ghastliness; he was trembling with excitement.
"What will you do, father?" Gus asked. "Will you go to the other place?"
"I can go nowhere," his father replied. "We must get home, Gus; that is all we can do now."
At that moment, a little pony chaise came down the street, driven by a young girl of about sixteen. Seated bolt upright beside her was a lady considerably older, whose face wore a nervous, anxious expression. Possibly the pretty grey pony held political opinions of another order to those of Mr. Philip Darnell; but whatever the cause, the sight of a small hand-cart on which were mounted several huge blue-and-white placards, standing near the house in which this candidate had established his headquarters, had a disturbing influence on the little animal. He shied violently, and would not proceed, but kept backing towards the opposite pavement in a way which greatly alarmed the elder lady.
"Oh, Edith!" she cried. "What did I tell you? I said it was not safe for us to come alone. Oh, do stop it, and let me get out! I am not nervous as a rule, but this is too much."
"Dear aunt, there is no danger," said the girl in a sweet, calm voice. "Don will be all right in a moment; it is only that he is a staunch Tory, and does not like—Oh, thank you!"
The thanks were for Gus, who had darted forward and laid his hand on the pony's bridle. Patting pony's neck, and soothing it with coaxing words and sounds, he quickly succeeded in leading it past the objectionable cart. The girl thanked him with a radiant smile, then leaning forward dropped a sixpence in palm. Gus looked after her as she drove away with a strange sensation of pleasure; it was not the sixpence only that made him glad, it was her kind look, her smile.
He turned to his father with sparkling eyes. "Now, we can have some breakfast," he said.
But his father, too, was looking after the chaise with an eager, wistful gaze.
"How strange that the voice should be so like," he murmured; "and an Edith, too, just such another Edith!"
"Did you know her, father?" asked Gus, full of wonder.
"Know her, boy! Do I look like a man that would know ladies?"
And he sighed heavily as he turned to go home. Never had he been more conscious of his wretchedness and degradation. But to Gus, the gift of the sixpence and the young lady's smile had brought a great influx of cheerfulness. The sun was shining brightly; there were flowers at the street corners, and he, poor ragged boy that he was, looked bright enough to match the day.
Half of the sixpence was soon expended on a breakfast of bread and milk, of which his father would scarce partake. The way home was long and weary. So weak and breathless did Gus' father find himself, so often was he forced to pause and rest, that it was late in the afternoon ere they reached Lavender Terrace.
After resting awhile, Gus' father went out again, carrying with him the remainder of his diminished stock of books, leaving only the Bible, which he would fain preserve. Gus had no expectation of seeing him again till a late hour of the night; but, to his surprise, in about an hour his father returned, with no sign about him of having entered a public-house during his absence. He laid some money on the table, sighing to see how little it was.
"A copy of the first folio," he murmured, "to fetch no more than seven shillings! And my Dante—ah, well, what does it matter now?"
"Ask Mrs. Dent to be good enough to step here for a moment," he said to Gus.
Gus had apparently some difficulty in bringing Mrs. Dent; but she came at last with a somewhat unsteady step, her face flushed, her eyes dazed and sleepy.
"Mrs. Dent," said her lodger, with a certain quiet dignity, which had clung to him through all his misfortunes, "here is the money I owe you. I gave you notice a week ago that I should leave to-morrow, and it is still my intention. You know I promised to take myself off when I no longer had the means to pay you."
"It's true you said it," exclaimed Sally; "but do you think I'd be hard on a gentleman? I can tell you I knows a gentleman when I sees one; and, as I was a-saying to Mrs. Minn the other day, it's easy to see that you've come down in the world. What does it matter if you're a bit hard up? If you don't pay at once you'll pay some time, and if not, there's them belonging to you as will."
Her words made her lodger wince.
"You are mistaken," he said quietly; "I am not a gentleman, and I have no friends who will ever trouble themselves about me. Take the money, please, and understand that we leave to-morrow."
The woman took the money and went away, muttering to herself.
"Where are we going to-morrow, father?" Gus asked, as soon as they were alone.
His father had seated himself by the table, and was drearily contemplating the few shillings that remained on it. He looked up only to say, "I do not know."
Gus was startled, but something in his father's manner withheld him from asking further questions.
"Come and read to me, Gus," said his father, after a minute.
"What shall I read?" asked the boy.
"We have but one book now," said his father, pointing to the Bible.
Gus took the Bible and opened it. He remembered that the chapter he had last read to his father was the first of St. Mark's Gospel, so now he began to read the second chapter. His father did not appear to be paying much attention to what he read; but as Gus finished the account of the healing of the paralytic, his father suddenly said, as if speaking to himself:
"He called him 'son;' and yet I suppose he had led a wicked life. And without a word spoken between them, He forgave his sins."
Gus waited a few moments, but his father said no more, so he went on and finished the chapter. Then, being very tired with their long tramp, the little boy closed the book, and began to prepare for bed.
His father sat still, lost in thought. He was not looking forward to the days that might come—days probably of hunger and want and weary wandering, with no sleeping place save a corner in a common lodging-house, or a bench in the open air. Somehow the hopeless future seemed to have lost its power to appall him. His mind was back in the past, living over again the days that had been. Then, with a heavy sigh, he came back to the present.
"Did you speak, father?" Gus asked, half-raising himself from the bed into which he had crept.
But the words his father had murmured were not addressed to him.
"Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.
"There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery."
This man, whose memory so readily recalled the immortal words of Dante, had had no mean culture. He had passed through a University course with distinction; he had early won laurels in literature; a grand career at the Bar had been prophesied for him when he entered upon his profession. But this was what he had made of the future that had seemed so full of promise.
In misery! Ah, verily, a misery those only know who can recall the "happy time," and set in sharp and bitter contrast that which is, and that which "might have been!"
[CHAPTER IV.]
THE LODGER LEAVES.
EVENING wore into night, but Gus' father still sat absorbed in melancholy thought. Once more the past was living before him. He was back in the days of his childhood, a happy boy, idolised by his proud father and petted by the sister a few years older than himself, who, his mother having died when he was too young to know her, was his tender guardian.
Then passed in review his school days at Eton; then his college days, when he had won a name for himself, and been lauded by the men of his college; but in which—alas!—he had taken the first steps along the path which had proved such a swift descent, taken them gaily and triumphantly, with the belief that he was showing himself a man of spirit and superior sagacity.
Then followed the years in which he was engaged in reading for the Bar, and making his first successful essays in the field of literature. Then came his meeting with the sweet gentle woman whom, in defiance of his father's wishes, he married. Alienation from his home was the consequence. In less than two years, death closed the eyes of his wife, and he was left to rear their infant boy alone.
But sorrow had not made him wise; it had hardened him into recklessness. Then it was that Philip Darnell, clever, subtle, suave, crossed his path. Acquaintance with him had quickly ripened into a specious friendship. Through him had come the introduction to gaming clubs, and the inevitable embarrassment and misery which ensued; and when ruin stared the unfortunate victim in the face, Darnell had drawn near with base, insidious whisper, to suggest the forgery of his father's name.
He had yielded to the temptation; in an excited hour he had done a deed which darkened every coming hour with keenest remorse. Discovery had followed. The forgery had been traced to him; he was arrested, and only set at liberty because his father had refused to prosecute him.
But disgrace clung to him. His friends forsook him. Philip Darnell, repudiating the idea that he had ever suggested such a crime save as the merest jest, was the first to lift the finger of scorn at him. A terrible sense of degradation drove him into excesses from which he would formerly have shrunk. He drank to drown thought, and as the habit of drinking grew upon him, he sank into deeper and deeper depths of misery, dragging with him his young son.
Augustus Carruthers "went under," and was seen no more by the circle in which he had formerly moved. Yet, though he kept away from them, he was never far from his former haunts. But none of his old companions, passing him in the street, would have recognised in the shabby, bent man, prematurely aged, the man whose brilliant intellect had excited their admiration in other days.
Bitter in retrospect were those bygone days now to the forlorn man, seated in his miserable lodging. Miserable as it was, it was one he could no longer afford. He must wander forth on the morrow—whither? He was sorry for poor little Gus, but for himself, it hardly seemed to matter what followed. A strange lethargy fell upon him as he sat there. He grew cold, his limbs grew numb; but he never thought of going to bed.
Gus, rousing from his slumbers long past midnight, saw the candle flickering in the socket, and his father still seated at the table, leaning forward upon his elbows, his face half-hidden by his hands. He seemed to be murmuring something; but Gus could not catch the words. He thought his father must be praying.
"Father," Gus said presently; but there was no reply, and the child turned round and slept again.
The candle flickered and flickered, and at last went out. The first grey light of morning, stealing through the dingy pane, fell on a face of ashen hue, with sad, fixed eyes. The spirit that had looked out of those eyes had returned to the Father of spirits. The wasted, misspent life of the man was at an end. Gus awoke to find himself fatherless.
[CHAPTER V.]
HOW THE NEIGHBOURS SYMPATHISED.
"I SAID he was a gentleman!" cried Sally Dent to the neighbours gathered about her doorstep. "But I didn't think he was a-goin' to die suddent, and give me all the bother of a inkwest, and the police comin' and goin', and such a commotion till you don't know whether your house is your own. I don't call that a gentlemanly thing to do."
"P'raps he couldn't help it," suggested Mrs. Minn. "Folks don't allus know when they're a-goin' to die."
"For goodness' sake, don't talk that way, Mrs. Minn!" cried Sally, excitedly. "It ain't lucky when there's death in the 'ouse a'ready! I'm sure I was that turned over when I saw what 'ad 'appened this mornin' that you might 'ave knocked me down with a feather. I was forced to take somethin' before I went into the room again, and I'm all of a tremble still."
"What sort of a corpse do 'e make?" asked another woman.
"A real beauty," replied Sally with enthusiasm. "You'd 'ardly know him, he looks so much younger; all the lines and creases is gone, and his face is just lovely. He looks the gentleman now, he do indeed! You go inside and take a look at 'im, if you doubt my word."
"Poor gentleman!" said Joe Clark, the carpenter, not satirically. "Whatever he was, he'd come down in the world, and had a lot of trouble. Well, there's an end to it now. What's to be done about the funeral, Mrs. Dent?"
"The parish must bury him," said Sally promptly; "he's left only a few shillin's, hardly enough to buy refreshments for the funeral. It is strange how he would pay me last night—seems as if he wanted to leave things all square like. It touched me at the time, for I've a feelin' 'eart."
"I'd be happy to knock him up a coffin jest for the cost of the wood," suggested Joe Clark, "if any one was inclined to 'elp. Them parish funerals is very humiliatin' to a man."
"That's a good thought, Joe Clark," said Sally Dent, who really had a kind heart. "I'm ready to pay my share, if so be as you're goin' to make a collection. Sure, and I'm thankful my good man did not come to be buried by the parish. We begun to put into a buryin' club soon as ever we was married, for, as I said, there was no knowin' what 'ud 'appen, or who'd be the first to go. And a real 'andsome funeral 'is was."
One and another of the neighbours declared their willingness to help. Nothing interested them like a funeral. They liked the idea of seeing the poor gentleman, who had never done them either good or ill, carried to his grave "as a gentleman should be." In a short time, sufficient money was raised to pay the hire of a hearse, behind which the neighbours might walk two and two, headed by the chief mourner, to the cemetery, which lay near Glensford. Sally Dent kept in reserve the few shillings she had found in her lodger's room to pay for "refreshments."
Meanwhile Gus cared not at all in what manner his father's body was borne to the grave. The boy was stunned by the trouble that had come so suddenly upon him. Childlike, though he had often seen his father weak and suffering, he had never thought that death would take him away. In losing his father, he had lost the only love, the only tenderness he could remember. It was terrible that he should be left alone in the world.
But the boy's thoughts did not go forward into the future as he sat motionless beside the bed on which lay the still, set form wearing the inimitable majesty with which death will invest even a pauper's form. The square, strong brow, the delicately chiselled nostril, the fine curve of the short upper lip, had the perfection of a sculptor's handiwork. But for Gus it was his father, and yet not his father. He looked with awe as well as grief upon that calm face. He shed no tears; but his blue eyes expressed a dumb anguish as they held their unfaltering gaze. He never willingly spoke or moved as one and another came and went, viewing the corpse and freely remarking on it.
The inquest held on the body of George Rew—for that was the name Sally Dent gave as her lodger's—was a simple affair. A medical man gave evidence of the existence of long-seated heart-disease, aggravated by a hard and intemperate life. Sally Dent bore witness to the character and habits of the deceased. She had brushed and plaited her abundant tresses, put on a tidy gown, and made herself quite presentable for the occasion, so that the coroner and jury were impressed with her respectable appearance. When the coroner asked what was to become of the orphan boy, and suggested that he should be sent to an industrial school, Sally announced her willingness to give the boy a home. He would be useful in looking after the little ones and doing jobs in the house; she would see that he went to school regularly. And the coroner was satisfied that this would be a good thing for Gus, and commended the woman for her kindness to the boy.
The funeral took place on the day following that of the inquest.
Gus watched all the proceedings with unbroken composure till he saw the coffin closed over the face that he had grown to love in its cold, stone-like beauty. Then a bitter cry broke from him, and he threw himself, in an agony of grief, upon the bed on which his father had lain.
But he allowed himself to be raised, and struggled to keep back his sobs when Mrs. Minn and a friend came in to array him for the funeral in Mrs. Minn's eldest boy's best clothes, kindly lent for the occasion. Gus was too small to fill them, and with knickerbockers descending almost to his ankles, and a coat in which his slender form was lost, whilst the sleeves had to be turned back almost to the elbow to give freedom to his hands, the appearance of the chief mourner was decidedly grotesque. But the clothes were, by courtesy, black, and though shiny, they were whole, so they came up to the standard Lavender Terrace held of what was befitting to a funeral, which did not require nicety of fit.
The clothes, which he had not "proved," gave Gus considerable anxiety as he shuffled along behind the coffin, followed by as many of the denizens in Lavender Terrace as could get a half-day's holiday. He would far rather have worn the old, ragged garments, in which he could walk freely, without being harassed by dread lest he and his clothes should part company altogether.
Gus had seen funerals enough, but he had never before "assisted" at one, and perhaps the novelty of his position combined with a most unwonted sense of importance to blunt his sensibility of all that this event meant for him.
Is it not a merciful dispensation that the majority of us get through our darkest hours with a sense of numbness and unreality that spares us the full agony of the wrench which later we feel in its intensity? Gus only half realised that it was his father's form they were lowering into the grave. He did not give way again to the wild grief that had shaken him when he saw the coffin-lid pressed down.
The general feeling of Lavender Terrace would have liked him to display more emotion. The neighbours around him made a grand flourishing of the rare pocket-handkerchiefs reserved for such occasions. But Gus maintained his composure, and shuffled back to the Terrace with outward calm, though with a heart that ached sorely.
The "refreshments" had been laid out in Sally Dent's front room. Into this apartment pressed every one who had attended the funeral. There was a grand drawing of corks, and gradually the odour of spirits diffused itself through the room. Gus had been carried into the room with the others against his will. He was watching for a chance of escape, when Sally's eye fell on him, and she beckoned him to her.
"Come, Gus," she said, "you should be the first served to-day. Take a long drink; it will do you good, for you've hardly tasted anything since you got up."
And she held out to him a glass of strong gin and water.
But Gus drew back with an air of repugnance. "No, thank you, I cannot indeed; I never drink spirits," he said.
"Oh, but you're bound to have a drop to-day; it's your father's funeral. It ain't lucky to refuse to drink at a funeral. Come now, it won't hurt you; and I say you shall have it, so there!"
"Yes, yes, young man, you'll have to take it, whether you will or not," said one of the men. "There's no gainsaying Sally. That's right, bring the glass here; we'll make him swaller it."
And he pinioned Gus' arms to his side, holding him in a grasp the boy was powerless to shake off. There was a general laugh as Sally advanced with the glass. Time enough had been given to tears and sighs. The reaction was setting in. It was only right to laugh and be jolly now, when the funeral was successfully accomplished.
"I won't drink it! I promised father I never would, and I won't!" cried Gus.
"That's a joke!" roared another man. "Promised his father, indeed! I'll be bound his father would never have refused a glass of good liquor."
Things were growing desperate with Gus. Sally was pressing the glass to his lips; he clenched his teeth, but the man, half-strangling him, forced his mouth open. Gus saved himself; however. With a sudden, tremendous effort, he struck out with his chin so forcibly that he sent the glass flying from Sally's hand to the floor, where it lay shivered.
"Well, of all ungrateful young varmints!" cried Sally, in her indignation. "After all we've done for you, buryin' your father like a gentleman, when, but for us, he must've had the parish hearse. One of my new glasses, I declare! Get along with you, do, if you can't behave better than that!"
Gus needed no second bidding to be off. He left the company lamenting the waste of good spirit, and rushed into the dismal back room which had been his home. It looked to his eyes more dismal than ever, now that the table and trunk which had supported the coffin stood bare. With a cry, he threw himself on his knees beside the bed, and hid his face in the tumbled bed-clothes.
"Oh, father!" he cried. "Father, father! What can I do without you?"
As the evening wore on, the sounds of mirth in the adjoining room grew louder and wilder. No one gave a thought to the fatherless boy. He crouched there alone and comfortless, till he forgot his sorrow in sleep.
[CHAPTER VI.]
GUS WINS A NAME.
AFTER that night, Gus could no longer call the back room home. Sally Dent performed the task she described as "turning it out" on the following day, and by night it was not only ready for another lodger, but another lodger had possession of it. In the "turning-out" process, Sally came upon the Bible, which she had already observed with much interest. She was struck anew with the beauty of the embossed cover and the watered silk lining.
"Here, Gus," she called to the boy, "you'd better let me keep this; it's too good for you to 'ave knocking about. It'll be some set off against all I've done and shall do for you. It isn't many folks would take a strange brat into their 'omes; but I've a feelin' 'eart."
"It was father's," said Gus, looking wistfully at the book. "Sometimes I used to read a bit of it to him."
"Well, maybe you shall read me a bit of it some day," said Sally; "it won't be the first time I've listened to it. I used to go to church and Sunday school reg'lar once; but I've no time to attend to religion now. You'd best let me 'ave it, anyhow."
Gus said no more, feeling that it was useless to oppose Sally's wish. She carried the Bible into her room, and there opened it once more, to admire the beautiful style of the binding. Then she noticed that the reading was not broken up into verses, as in the Bibles with which she had been familiar. Glancing over a page, as this fact struck her, the words met her eyes, "The wages of sin is death."
Sally closed the book, and put it from her hastily. The words had stung her. The wages of sin! Was she earning those wages? She knew she was a sinner, but the thought had never troubled her. She loved sin, but she hated to think of death. She could enjoy the excitement of a funeral, but it was awful to think of the time when she would lie cold, and stiff, and dumb, as she had seen her lodger lie.
"Well, well," she muttered to herself; "it is what we must all come to, good or bad."
Yet she knew there was a vast difference between the sinner's death and the death of the righteous. But she hastily wrapped the Bible in brown paper, and put it far from reach at the back of a high shelf; then feeling "all of a tremble," betook herself for comfort to a certain black bottle.
Sally found a corner for Gus in the cold, draughty attic in which her two little boys slept. The old black trunk, the few worthless possessions left in it, and his father's clothes, she sold, retaining the money, to which she considered she had the best right. So Gus was left with nothing to call his own save his very ragged clothes.
Sally had announced her intention of mending his rags, and, if possible, setting him up with a few fresh garments; but her indolence was such that her purposes were ever "halting" ones, and it was best not to count upon the fulfilment of her good intentions.
Though Gus had now been several weeks at Lavender Terrace, he knew little of the boys of Glensford. His father had discouraged his making acquaintance with them, and had kept him as much as possible within the house. But Sally had no notion of a boy's "hanging round" at all hours. Gus was thrust into the society of the boys who disported themselves in the lane.
On the day following his father's funeral, he was observed by them with some curiosity.
"What's your name?" asked one of the boys.
"Gus," he answered.
"It were your father, wer'n't it, as were buried yesterday?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. Is it true what the folks were a-sayin', that he were a broken-down gent, one of the swells?"
"He was a gentleman once," said Gus.
"A gentleman! My word! What do you call yoursel'? P'raps you're a gent too?"
"No, I'm not," said Gus; "but I mean to be a gentleman some day."
"Well, if that ain't good! Look here, all you fellers, this chap says he's goin' to be a gentleman. Don't he look it just? Look at his breeches, look at his shoes! Oh, what a fine gentleman! Do hold me, some one, I shall die of laughin'!"
The other boys roared with laughter as they gathered about Gus. He had a sorry time of it. In vain he tried to escape from his tormentors; they were all bigger and stronger than he, and when, hot with rage, he tried to strike out with his tiny fists, their mirth increased tenfold. They danced round him, they pelted him with mud, they plucked at his garments till the rents therein were double their former size, and all the while they shouted—"Gentleman, Gentleman Gus!"—till their voices were hoarse.
Gus had won for himself a name. The title thus dubbed clung to him. Henceforth he was known at Lavender Terrace as "Gentleman Gus."
Gus was at last delivered by the appearance of Sally Dent, who rushed into the group, and administering blows indiscriminately, soon scattered the boys. She was dismayed to see Gus' condition.
"Good gracious, boy!" she cried. "What did you want to go with those big fellows for? A nice state they've put you in, and goodness knows when I shall have time to set a stitch in your clothes. Indeed, it strikes me they're past mendin'. But never mind, just come 'ere, and look after the baby a bit."
Looking after the baby soon became the chief occupation of Gus' life. It was weary work. He wondered sometimes if such a big, lumping baby had ever been known before. Dragging it about in his arms, or sitting with it on a doorstep, he had much time for meditation, and his mind dwelt often upon his father.
Like many another child, he had hardly known that he loved his father till his father was taken from him. Now he missed him sorely, and longed to hear his voice again, telling him what he should do and what not do. He did not forget the promise he had given to his father; but it puzzled him greatly how he was to keep that promise. His father had once been a gentleman, and he, Gus, had said that he would try to be a gentleman. But what did it mean to be a gentleman? One day he ventured to put a question on the subject to Mrs. Minn's eldest son.
"Dick," he said, "do you know anything about gentlemen?"
"Gentlemen! What do yer mean? Swells?"
"Yes," said Gus; "what sort of people are they?"
Now Dick was employed as an errand boy in a grocer's shop, and he was besides a greedy devourer of cheap literature, so that he spoke as one who knew.
"Fellers as 'ave got lots of tin, and don't do no work. They eats and drinks the best of everythink, gets jolly drunk, and never pays their bills if they can 'elp it. Oh, it's fine to be a gentleman!"
"Is it?" said Gus doubtfully. "Would you like to be a gentleman, Dick?"
"Wouldn't I just!" returned Dick, with a knowing wink. "I'd have the times of it."
Dick's explanation only increased Gus' difficulties. Could that be what his father meant by being a gentleman? Certainly his father had been in the habit of getting drunk, but he had been most careful to pay every penny they owed. Besides, his father had made him promise never to touch strong drink; so, clearly, getting drunk did not belong to being a gentleman. No; his father had said that a gentleman must be brave, and honest, and truthful. Were there two kinds of gentlemen, Gus wondered, or were Dick's ideas on the subject utterly mistaken?
[CHAPTER VII.]
A CHIVALROUS EXPLOIT.
SALLY DENT'S new lodger, like her former one, was a quiet man. She gave him this character, and the neighbours soon agreed that she was not mistaken in so doing. He moved and spoke so quietly that it was never easy to tell whether or not he was in the house, and he had a way of appearing suddenly with his noiseless, cat-like tread which was startling to nervous people.
He was a man who could lean motionless against the railway fence for half an hour, watching all that went on in the lane, without exchanging a word with any one, and who could listen to a fierce quarrel between neighbours without betraying by the least sign which of the contending parties had his sympathy. Yet when addressed, he was neither surly nor morose, nor did he show any reluctance to speak of his past history. He was a locksmith by trade, he said; had been in the employ of an ironmonger, but had been dismissed on account of the bad times, and now lived by any chance jobs he could get.
He was a man past forty years of age, and he brought a son and a daughter with him to Lavender Terrace. The son was a rough, evil-looking lad of sixteen, and the daughter a delicate little girl of twelve. This man, Lucas by name, would sometimes go off of a morning with his tool-bag over his shoulder, and be absent for several hours; but on other days he would hang about the lane, or busy himself in his room, so that his search for employment was not very vigorously prosecuted. But as he continued to pay regularly the rent of his room, Sally Dent did not concern herself about his habits.
Lucy Lucas was a shy, timid child, with an unnaturally grave expression and sad-looking eyes. She was lame from chronic hip disease, and went out little, for she was frightened of the rough boys who frequented the lane. That her fears were not unfounded was proved one evening about a fortnight after her arrival, when, in her brother's absence, she ventured as far as the public-house to fetch the beer for her father's supper.
Unfortunately there were many boys at Glensford with the cruel instinct of the bully who delights to torment and even torture those who are weak and defenceless. The sight of Lucy limping along, and carrying, with considerable danger of spilling its contents, the well-filled beer-jug, was hailed with delight by a group of these boys, who were hanging about in doubt how to spend the evening.
"Hurrah! Here comes the beer; now we'll have a drink!" they cried, and rushed upon poor little Lucy, crying, "Give us a drink, give us a drink!"
"I can't," said Lucy, white with fear; "it's for father's supper. I can't give it to you."
"It's for my supper, I tell you," said the ringleader of the band, "and I mean to have it, so hand it over."
He put out his hand to seize the jug; Lucy jerked it back suddenly, with the result that half the contents went over her frock and apron.
"There, there, there! You'd better have given it to us!" they cried, closing round her. "We means to have it."
The poor child in her helplessness began to cry aloud. The sound brought "Gentleman Gus" to the rescue. He knew Lucy; she had spoken kindly to him once or twice; but had she been unknown to him, he would have gone to her assistance just the same. He had so far the instincts of a gentleman that it would have been impossible for him to stand by and see a girl ill-treated without attempting to strike a blow in her defence.
Undaunted by the number and strength of the boys, Gus threw himself into their midst. Seizing the stretched out for the beer, he inflicted such a vicious pinch on it, that it was drawn back with a yell of pain. Then he dashed upon the assailants, kicking out right and left with all his might. They recoiled a little in their surprise, and he shouted to Lucy to run away. But running was impossible for her, and whilst one boy dealt Gus a blow that made his nose bleed, and another assisted in "polishing him off," the rest closed around Lucy again. But only for a moment.
A stinging blow on the head sent the foremost boy staggering backwards, whilst a voice in low, but most impressive accents exclaimed, "You young blackguard! I'll teach you to touch my girl again!"
It was Lucas, who, unperceived, had entered the lane in time to see his daughter's distress and Gus' gallant rush to her aid.
"Oh, father!" Lucy cried. "Don't let them hurt Gus; he was so good, so brave."
But Lucas needed no such admonition.
"You leave that little chap alone!" he said to the boys. "And if ever I find you hurting him again, it will be the worse for you."
The boys slunk away, muttering beneath their breath.
Gus emerged from the fight bloody and breathless.
"You're a brave little chap," said Lucas admiringly; "a well-plucked 'un, upon my word! Now come with me, and I'll wash your face before your mother sees you."
"He's got no mother, father," said Lucy. "Don't you remember I told you he'd no one belonging to him? He lives with Mrs. Dent, but she's no relation."
"Ah," said her father, regarding Gus more closely with a shrewd, observant glance. "Well, come along, lad; we'll fix you up, and you shall have your supper with us to-night. He's your champion, Lucy, and must be rewarded. You are looking quite white with the fright, my lass. Those fellows did not hurt you, did they?"
"No, father; it was only the fright," she said.
But he continued to watch her anxiously.
It was strange to Gus to be entertained as a guest in the room so familiar to him. But it looked very different. There were white curtains at the window, which had been well cleaned since Gus saw it, and flower-pots on the sill. A thick curtain hung on an iron rod near Lucy's little bed, and was drawn across the room at night. An old easy chair stood by the fireplace, some pipes and a jar of tobacco were on the mantelpiece, a clean cloth covered the table, which was neatly laid for supper, and a saucepan simmering on the fire emitted a very inviting odour.
Gus was rather startled to see Lucas close the door and lock it as soon as they were within the room. Then he turned to the boy, and said in his lowest, most impressive tones—
"Look here, youngster, no splitting, mind you, as to anything here. We're glad to see you, you're welcome to your supper; but you're just to keep things to yourself. Do you understand?"
Gus nodded. "I won't tell nothin' to nobody," he said.
And Lucas was satisfied.
With Lucy's help, Gus soon removed all traces of the fray, whilst Lucas went to fetch some more beer. When her father returned, Lucy, who was very womanly for her age, dished up the supper. It was rabbit, stewed with vegetables; a more appetising meal than Gus often had, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. Lucas talked to him as he ate it, asking many questions, apparently with the view of forming an opinion of the boy's capacity.
When supper was almost over, the son came in. He appeared astonished and not over pleased to see Gus there. He spoke roughly to his sister and surlily to his father, to whom he gave some information in such curious phraseology that it was wholly unintelligible to Gus.
A little later Gus took his departure. Lucas said good-night to him kindly, and invited him to come in and out whenever he liked. It was dull for Lucy, he said, to be so much alone.
When he had gone, the father and son looked at each other significantly.
"A well-plucked young 'un that," said Lucas. "It strikes me, he'll serve our little game."
"Not he," returned his son, with an oath. "He's a jolly sight too green."
"Think so?" said Lucas. "Well, we shall see. I mean to try what I can make of him."
[CHAPTER VIII.]
GUS' NEW FRIENDS.
GUS saw much of Lucas and his daughter in the days that followed. He was often invited into their room, and the man showed much interest in him. Sometimes Lucas would pat Gus on the back, and tell him he was a smart fellow, and he would make a man of him. Lucy, too, was kind to him, but she was very sad and quiet. Gus supposed it was being so weak and lame made her sad.
The boy saw and heard many things when he was with them which made him wonder. He noticed that though Lucas had no regular employment, he was never without money. He would speak to the neighbours of the bad times; but their badness seemed in no way to affect his comfort. His food was of the best; he had dainties on his table that were to be seen on no other in Lavender Terrace. He told Gus that he bought them for Lucy's sake, whose appetite required much tempting; but the fact remained that he had the power to spend money as none of his neighbours could. Certainly he had not the fatal weakness which had dragged Gus' father down into the lowest depths of misery. He never drank to excess. Some beer with his meals and an occasional glass of spirits was all he took. But the spirit was of the best quality, as was also the tobacco which he smoked.
"A gentleman could not have better, Gentleman Gus," he said one day to the boy, when he was in a merry mood.
"Gentleman Gus indeed!" snarled Jack, with a contemptuous glance at him.
"You hold your tongue!" cried his father. "I tell you he shall be a gentleman.
"You do as I tell you, my lad," he added, patting Gus on the shoulder, "and I'll make a gentleman of you."
Gus' colour rose with pleasure. He had no doubt Lucas could help him to be a gentleman, for the man was in many respects different from the other men who dwelt at Lavender Terrace.
But Jack scowled more darkly than before, and muttered something the boy could not understand. Gus was no favourite with him.