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!"