GOOD-BYE TO LAVENDER TERRACE.
THERE was considerable excitement in the house the next morning. As
early as possible, the police were informed of the attempted burglary;
but so much time had been lost that it seemed doubtful if they would
succeed in tracing Lucas and his son. The ladder they had used was
discovered lying against the wall at the back of the shrubbery, but
further sign of them there was none. Doubtless they had made their
escape across the fields which lay at the back of the house, and
hastened to another part of London.
Policemen were about the colonel's house in the morning; they searched
the grounds, asked questions, and made various suggestions, but without
much result. Gus was questioned and cross-questioned, but his story
never varied. He told it with such simple directness and with such a
guileless look in his blue eyes, that even the policemen, accustomed to
believe the worst of human nature, were impressed with a belief in his
truth.
At an early hour, two policemen surprised Sally Dent by a visit. She
pointed out her lodger's room to them, and said that she believed he
was not yet up. The door was indeed locked; but in vain the policemen
knocked on it and shook it. No sound came from within; and when they
burst it open, lo, the birds had flown! They must have made their way
out by the window, and across the low wall of the garden. They had left
little of value behind, and Lucas had neglected to pay his last week's
rent—a fact which destroyed Sally's faith in the old saying of there
being honour amongst thieves.
Sally could remember that her lodger had come in some time during the
evening with his workman's bag over his shoulder, and had bidden her
"good-night" as he turned into his room; but she was uncertain as to
the exact hour of his return. Her head was apt to be in rather a hazy
condition at that period of the day.
"It might have been eight o'clock; it might have been half-past; it
might have been nine; I really could not say. A civil-spoken man was
Lucas," Sally said. "If indeed he were a burglar, I have never been
more deceived in a man in all my life. And Gus, too! To think of what
I have done for that lad, and he must needs go and take up with a lot
of thieves! But have had enough of him; he shall never darken my doors
again—a good-for-nothing young rascal! I'll let him know that I will
only have honest folk here."
"The little lad's honest enough, if all's true that he says," replied
one of the policemen. "It's a common dodge of them burglars to make a
child their tool; but I think these got hold of one of the wrong sort."
About noon, Edith's grandfather returned to his disquieted household.
Colonel Carruthers had seen service in the Crimea, and was now past
seventy years of age; but his tall, slight figure still retained its
erect, soldierly bearing, and his eyes their keen, bright glance. His
expression was somewhat stern, his manner haughty; but the man was
kinder than he appeared. He had known sore disappointment and pain in
earlier days, and the trial had hardened his demeanour, and perhaps
intensified his pride; but beneath this surface severity was concealed
a warm heart—a heart that could feel the sorrows of others, a heart
that could love faithfully and long. Very dear to the old colonel was
his grandchild, Edith Durrant, the child of his only daughter.
The colonel listened with some impatience to Miss Durrant's account
of the alarm of the past night, and did not hesitate to interrupt her
now and again with a short, sharp question. He had never much patience
with poor Miss Durrant; her fussiness annoyed him. Yet she had good
cause to be grateful to the colonel. He had delivered her from the
ill-paid, thankless position of a fine lady's companion, and given her
a comfortable home as the mistress of his house and guardian of his
young granddaughter, the eldest child of her brother, who was in India
with his regiment.
"Where is the young rascal?" asked Colonel Carruthers, when he had been
told the whole story.
He spoke gravely; but there was an amused gleam in his eyes, which
Edith understood.
"He is downstairs, grandpapa," she replied; "the policeman wanted to
take him away, but I thought you would like to see him."
"Like to see him, indeed! I don't know that I particularly care to see
the young rogue."
"He is not at all the kind of boy you would think," said Edith. "I'll
tell them to send him up."
A few minutes later Gus stood before the colonel. The boy had had a
bath, and his face looked fresh and bright; but he still wore his
ragged clothes. It was beyond the resources of the household to provide
him with a better suit, since he was far too small to wear anything of
the colonel's.
"Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?" the colonel asked with
sternness, as he raised his eyes and looked keenly at the boy. Then his
stern look relaxed. A strange expression came over his face. Wonder was
in it, and something not unlike fear. What was there in the innocent
child's look that caused the old man's glance to fall, and his lips to
tremble? The blue eyes, looking out from beneath the thick curly hair
all tumbled over the brow, seemed so familiar. The face was just such
another sweet, innocent child's face as had once made the brightness of
his own home. It was as if he were looking upon a little ghost.
The ragged, threadbare clothes seemed odd and out of place; but the
face was the very image of the face that so often haunted his mind,
floating in the mists of old memories, stabbing his heart with a sense
of its guileless, boyish charm—the face of the boy who had loved to
climb his knee and listen to his stories of camp-life, the boy who had
listened with such a thoughtful, intelligent look, and had always so
many questions to ask. But that was long years ago. This child was some
beggar's brat, brought to the house by burglars, and the other boy—
Ah, that boy, so clever, so engaging, so full of promise, where was
that boy now?
Edith wondered that her grandfather looked down and studied the
blotting-pad on his desk ere he addressed another word to the boy, who
made no attempt to reply to his greeting.
After a minute, the colonel looked up, and said with his former
incisiveness—
"What is your name?"
"Gus," the little fellow replied.
The colonel gave a start. The effect of that name on him was like an
electric shock. For that other boy, whom this one so vividly recalled,
had been familiarly known as "Gus."
But the thrill passed, and the next minute he spoke in his usual tone.
"How came you to be in my house last night?"
Gus answered readily now, telling again the story he had already told
so many times. The colonel had heard it from other lips before, which
was as well, perhaps, for he did not now listen with the closest
attention. The child's voice and look as he spoke affected his listener
strangely. He said little more to the boy, but soon sent him away.
"Is it not as I said, grandpa?" Edith asked. "He is not what you would
expect, not an ordinary street Arab, is he now?"
"No, indeed," said the colonel dreamily. "I wonder if his story is
true."
"I have not a doubt of it," said Edith.
"Ah, he has won your heart, I see. And yet—a child put into a house to
steal! Well, well, it's a strange world."
"And he is all alone in it," Edith said gently; "a child with no one to
care for him."
"That's not our concern; we can't help that. We only know that he came
here to steal our things."
"That he was brought here to steal them," said Edith.
"Well, have it as you will; it does not make much difference. What's to
become of him now?"
"That's what I want to know, grandpa. Will you send him to the
police-station?"
"Why not? It's for the State to decide what shall be done with such a
young ragamuffin. They'll send him to an industrial school, I suppose."
"That is what the policeman said; but, grandpa, that boy, with his
sweet face and gentle ways, to mix with boys of the worst sort—"
"Probably he is one of that class himself, Edith. Depend upon it, the
young rogue knows the value of those gentle ways. Now what do you want
me to do—not adopt the lad, surely?"
"No, grandpa, not that," said Edith, smiling; "but I was thinking, if
we could send him to Mr. Mouncey, he would know what to do with him."
"Mouncey! What made you think of him? Upon my word, that's not a bad
suggestion. Mouncey's fond of ragamuffins. He'd make something of him,
if any one could. But why should we trouble about it? Better leave him
to the magistrate."
"Grandpa, that little boy was in my class one Sunday afternoon; I felt
strangely drawn to him; I do still. I am sure he is a good boy."
Colonel Carruthers was silent for a few moments. Across his mind had
come again the vision of that other boy, with his broad, fair brow, his
open, innocent gaze. His face contracted as if with pain. A heavy sigh
escaped him ere he said—
"Do not trust too much to appearances, Edie. These sweet,
innocent-looking children are very disappointing. This boy will most
likely turn out a scoundrel. But I'll think about it; I will see what I
can do."
The colonel did think about it, with the result that he decided
to send Gus to Rayleigh, a village in Kent, where the colonel had
a small estate, and consign him to the care of the Rev. Sebastian
Mouncey, a clergyman who took a special interest in orphan lads, and
had instituted a cottage home for them in his parish. But the police
desired that Gus should be detained at hand for a day or two, that he
might be ready to identify Lucas and his son if they were arrested.
But though the police made every effort to track the burglars, and
expressed confidence in their ultimate success, the two men appeared to
have got well out of their reach.
Gus did not feel particularly glad when Edith told him of the plan
that had been made for him. He would rather have gone back to his old
life at Sally Dent's. It was a poor home he had with her, but he could
hardly remember the days when he had known a better one. Sally had been
kind to him in her way, and now he knew he was not to return to them,
he was conscious of a strange drawing of the heart towards Sally and
her children, and all the people with whom he had lived at Lavender
Terrace. He became aware that he had an affection even for the baby—the
heavy, fretful, exacting baby, who had so often made his arms to ache,
and tried his patience to the utmost.
And Lucy—Gus thought of her with an aching heart. He longed to know
what had become of her, and wondered sadly if he should ever see her
again. Gus begged that he might be allowed to go and say good-bye to
Sally and her children ere he went away into the country.
Edith thought the wish quite to his credit, and persuaded her
grandfather to grant it. But he was still suspicious of the lad,
and thinking it might be a ruse to effect an escape, he resolved to
accompany Gus to Glensford.
Though Sally had declared that Gus should never darken her doors again,
she received him kindly, being impressed by his appearance in the neat
new suit of clothes in which Edith had seen him arrayed, and also by
the stateliness of the gentleman who accompanied him.
The colonel did not enter the house, but stood on the doorstep, in
a position to see that Gus escaped neither by window nor door from
Sally's room, into which she had drawn him.
Sally questioned him eagerly as to all that had happened since he left
her house; she admired his clothes, she pressed him to drink from her
black bottle, whilst the children gathered round him, pleased to see
their old friend again.
"Mrs. Dent," said Gus, when at last Sally paused, "I wish you would
give me that Bible of father's. I should like to take it with me where
I am going; I have nothing that belonged to him. You have it still,
have you not?"
Mrs. Dent hesitated. She glanced at the high shelf on which the Bible
lay, and then through the half-open door at the colonel's stately form.
She longed to refuse the request. She never read the Bible, but none
the less she wished to keep that handsome copy. But she knew she had no
right to keep it from the boy, and she believed that if she refused,
Gus would call the colonel to insist upon her giving him his own. So
reluctantly she climbed on a chair, and lifted down the book. She
undid the paper in which it was wrapped, and looked regretfully at the
embossed covers.
"One don't often see a Bible like this," she remarked, and with that
she opened it.
Strange to say, it opened at the very page on which she had last closed
it, and again the warning words met her glance, "The wages of sin is
death."
She started, closed the book, and thrust it from her.
"Take it!" she cried. "Take it, and welcome. I don't want it. It's not
the book for me. I can't bear to be reminded of death and the grave,
and all dismal things."
And of sin—she would fain forget that there was such a thing as sin,
and that she was a sinner.
"What have you in that parcel?" asked the colonel, when the boy
presently came out of Sally's room.
"My father's Bible, sir."
The colonel's person stiffened visibly. He elevated his chin, drew
his military cloak about him with an air of annoyance, and with a
commanding gesture signed to Gus to precede him as they passed out of
Lavender Terrace.
"That's cant," he said to himself; "wants to do the religious, does he?
His father's Bible, indeed! As if a boy whose father believed in the
Bible would ever have fallen so miserably low!"
A profound distrust of those whom he was wont to describe as the "lower
orders" was engrained in the colonel's character, and especially was he
doubtful of any such if they professed to be religious.