Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration]
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.
I. THE NEW LODGER
II. GUS' REAL NAME
III. GUS MAKES A PROMISE
IV. THE LODGER LEAVES
V. HOW THE NEIGHBOURS SYMPATHISED
VI. GUS WINS A NAME
VII. A CHIVALROUS EXPLOIT
VIII. GUS' NEW FRIENDS
IX. AT SUNDAY SCHOOL
X. GUS SEES HIS TEACHER AGAIN
XI. LUCAS' "JOB"
XII. A GAME OF "HIDE-AND-SEEK"
XIII. AN INNOCENT BURGLAR
XIV. GOOD-BYE TO LAVENDER TERRACE
XV. RAYLEIGH
XVI. GUS BEGINS TO WORK FOR HIMSELF
XVII. THE MILL-HANDS "STRIKE"
XVIII. GUS HAS HIS REVENGE
XIX. A REVELATION
XX. NO LONGER A HUMAN WAIF
XXI. DEEDS AND THEIR FRUIT
XXII. CONCLUSION
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."