RAYLEIGH.
WITH that visit to Lavender Terrace, Gus' old life came to an end.
The next morning Edith and her grandfather saw him into the train for
Rayleigh.
Mr. Mouncey, the energetic young vicar of Rayleigh, would meet him at
the other end of his journey. Edith had no fear for him, since he was
going to Mr. Mouncey; yet the boy had already won for himself such a
place in her heart that she felt parting with him.
"We shall come to Rayleigh in the spring, I hope," she said, "so I
shall see you then, Gus."
The boy smiled his sweet, winsome smile, but tears rose suddenly in his
eyes. He was leaving this kind friend, he was leaving behind every one
he had ever known, and going to a place of which he knew nothing, and
his heart sank within him at the thought.
"Look here, young sir," said the colonel sharply, "mind you do your
duty where you are going. You attend to what Mr. Mouncey says, and he
will make a man of you."
Make a man of him! What sort of a man? Gus wondered, as Miss Edith's
form receded from his view, and he knew that the train was bearing him
out of London. A gentleman—such a gentleman as his father had wished
him to be? That was what Gus desired to become.
Rayleigh was a long, straggling village, with few houses that were not
the dwellings of working people. A deep, still river ran through the
place, and supplied the need of its chief industry, the large paper
mill that stood upon its banks.
Most of those who dwelt in the small brick cottages were engaged in
the mill. The long lines of these cottages were not picturesque,
but the village could boast the beauty of a fine old church, with
an ivy-mantled tower. Close to the church was the vicarage, a large
square house, once the home of a numerous family; but the former
vicar had removed to another living, and his successor, being young
and unmarried, seemed out of place in the big house. But he was a
warm-hearted, genial man, and soon gathered plenty of life about
himself.
Within a stone's throw of the vicarage was his cottage home for orphan
lads, a veritable home, where, under the care of a good-natured,
motherly widow, the boys lived a free and happy life. The vicar showed
them a kindness which fell little short of that of a father. The boys
had well-nigh the run of the vicarage. They dug and tended the garden,
which was one of the best in the neighbourhood, and were rewarded with
the finest of the fruit and vegetables.
Mr. Mouncey supplemented the instruction they received at the village
school with informal classes held of an evening in his large old
dining-room. He had had no intention of founding an orphanage. A desire
to befriend a poor woman who had lost her husband, and two young lads
who had been deprived of both father and elder brother by an accident
at the mill, had led to the opening of the cottage. Other orphan lads
in the neighbourhood, who must otherwise have been sent to the nearest
workhouse, were, as time went on, placed in it. Sometimes friends at
a distance asked the vicar to take charge of a forlorn lad; but, as a
rule, the inmates of the cottage were boys whose antecedents were well
known to Sebastian Mouncey. Gus was the first who came there with a
stigma upon him—a boy who had associated with thieves.
But Mr. Mouncey had a welcome for him, not alone because of the
generous way in which the colonel, whilst prophesying to Mr. Mouncey
the disappointment of his hopes, had been ever ready to open his purse
to increase the funds by which the cottage home was maintained; but
also because the utter friendlessness of the boy was a sure passport to
Sebastian's heart.
He kept to himself all that the colonel had told him of Gus' history.
The boy should not begin his new life at Rayleigh with an ill name.
And whatever fears the vicar might have concerning his new charge, he
showed no suspicion of him. Nothing could be kinder than the way in
which he welcomed Gus.
Gus, as he looked into his face, and met the glance of Mr. Mouncey's
kind, earnest eyes, said to himself, "A gentleman—one of the right
sort." And this conviction deepened in the boy's mind as he came to
know Sebastian Mouncey better. His was indeed the gentle heart from
which springs the gentle life.
As for Mr. Mouncey, he was delightfully surprised at the appearance
of the boy committed to his care. Simple-hearted as a child himself,
and frank almost to eccentricity, he was quick to feel the charm
of the boy's artless grace. Gus was not at all the kind of boy he
expected to see. He was not a boy of a low type. There was no sign of
deceit, meanness, or rascality on his small, well-formed features. The
clergyman looked at him, and marvelled.
It was curious how quickly the two came to understand each other. A
bond was forged between them from the hour of their meeting.
Gus got on well with the boys in the cottage home. He was friendly with
them all, but he made no special friend of any one. It was the vicar
who was his friend.
Mr. Mouncey soon discovered that the boy had unusual abilities. He took
trouble and sacrificed time in order to give Gus further instruction
than he obtained at the village school. He began to teach him Latin,
and was astonished at the rapidity with which he mastered the rudiments
of that language. Once when the vicar was teaching him, Gus let fall a
word which showed that his father had understood Latin.
"Your father?" said Mr. Mouncey in surprise. "Then he was an educated
man?"
"My father was a gentleman once," said Gus, with unconscious dignity.
"Once!" repeated the vicar. "What do you mean?"
"He was a gentleman once," said Gus again; "but then—" The boy paused,
and a deep flush of shame dyed his face.
"An educated man who lost his character, and sank to be the companion
of thieves and vagabonds," thought the vicar, and forbore to question
the boy further. All he said was, "You must be a true gentleman, Gus."
The boy looked at him with quick, questioning glance.
"Howe'er it be, it seems to me
It's only noble to be good—"
Quoted Mr. Mouncey.
Gus' eyes flashed a quick, comprehensive response, but he made no other
reply.
The first winter which Gus spent in the country was a happy one. He now
made acquaintance with the real country, which is very different from
the suburban country on which London so greedily encroaches.
Gus thoroughly enjoyed the long rambles Mr. Mouncey would sometimes
take with the boys on a clear, frosty day. Gus loved to see the grass
and hedges all glittering with hoar-frost, or to hear the crisp silvery
leaves crack beneath his tread as they walked through the woods. He
thought the trees looked beautiful, with their great branches, bare
save for ivy or lichen, outlined against the blue sky. He loved to
watch the birds and squirrels, and even hares made tame almost by
severe cold, and to learn all Mr. Mouncey could tell him of their
habits. How Gus enjoyed, too, the novel delight of learning to skate on
the frozen river, and the effects of the first heavy snowfall, the work
of clearing the church and vicarage paths, and the snowballing, which
the boys were not likely to omit.
And no less, though in a different way, he enjoyed the bright Sunday
services in the beautiful old church, and the class in the vicar's
dining-room on Sunday afternoons, when he talked to the boys of the
one perfect life of the God-man, through the knowledge of whom we may
become "partakers of the Divine Nature."
In the spring, Colonel Carruthers and his granddaughter, accompanied by
Miss Durrant, came to Rayleigh.
The colonel's house was at some distance from the vicarage, at the
opposite end of the village. It was an old-fashioned thatched house,
with a flower garden in front of it. A fir plantation stretched to the
right, and behind, just beyond the well-stocked kitchen garden, rose a
bit of breezy, furzy common, the top of which commanded a view all over
the village.
Looking down, one saw the river stealing along the meadows with a
gentle curve, now to this side and now to that, till it reached the
large stone buildings, pierced by numerous small windows, where so many
hands were employed in paper-making. Near the mill stood a large house,
also of stone, and an imposing structure in its way, with bay windows
and turrets. This was the residence which the owner of the mill had
built for himself. Observing the house and the well-laid-out gardens
which surrounded it, one could hardly doubt that the business was a
prosperous concern.
Yet, if rumour could be trusted, the mill had not paid well of late,
and the proprietor was beset by difficulties. It was feared that a day
might come when the working of the mill would be suspended; an event
which threatened ruin to the hands employed. But months had passed
since these rumours began to circulate, and the mill had gone on
working all the same. And now that the winter was over, and signals of
summer's approach were beginning to appear everywhere, anxiety ceased
to burden the minds of the working folk.
On the April evening following that of their arrival at Rayleigh,
Edith and her grandfather were walking across the common, enjoying the
beauty of the sunset, when Mr. Mouncey climbed over the low stone wall,
accompanied by two or three of his boys, Gus being one of the party.
It was the colonel's first meeting with the vicar, and he greeted him
heartily.
"This is never Gus," said Edith, turning to look at the boys, when she
had shaken hands with the clergyman.
The boy had indeed greatly changed since she saw him. He had grown
taller, and though slender, looked strong and well-formed. His hair,
though closely cut, still showed a tendency to curl; his cheeks had now
the bright hue of health; his eyes were blue as ever, and the smile
which lit up his face as Edith spoke to him had all the old sweetness.
But whilst it was the same sweet, boyish face, the seriousness of its
expression had deepened. Gus had learned much and thought much since
he left London, and his countenance revealed the quickened mental and
spiritual life.
The colonel had nodded kindly to Gus. His eyes now took quick,
observant survey of the boy as he stood talking to Edith. His glance
seemed to sadden as it rested on the child.
"He has improved," he remarked in an undertone. "What do you think of
him, Mouncey? How will he do?"
"Well," was the prompt reply; "I have not a doubt of it. I never had
such a boy as Gus in my home before."
"Indeed! How does he differ from the others?"
"In every way. They are good lads, most of them, but their minds are
dull and slow, their manners rough and boorish. There is a peculiar
gentleness about Gus, a goodness of heart, an unselfishness, an innate
charm, I hardly know how to describe. Then as to his mind—he can learn
anything; he grasps my ideas in a moment. Oh, I have the highest hopes
of him."
"I would not have, if I were you," said the colonel drily. "You
are too sanguine, as I often tell you. Depend upon it, you will be
disappointed."
"I am not afraid," said Mr. Mouncey, with a smile. "I can tell you, Gus
is a little gentleman."
"Gus—Gus what?" asked the colonel abruptly. "I suppose he has another
name?"
"Gus Rew," said Mr. Mouncey.
"Rew! You can't make much of that," said Colonel Carruthers. "It is not
an aristocratic patronymic. But every one is a gentleman nowadays. The
grand old name is indeed—
"Defamed by every charlatan,
And soiled with all ignoble use.
"Still, to apply it to the son of a burglar does seem to me going too
far."
"I do not think that Gus' father was a burglar," replied Mr. Mouncey.
The colonel shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
Mr. Mouncey thought it advisable to introduce another subject.
"Have you heard of the change we are to have here?" he asked, pointing
towards the mill.
"I have heard nothing; I only arrived last night."
"Mr. Gibson has sold the mill. You know, perhaps, that for some time
past he has been carrying it on at a loss. Now he has made over the
whole concern to some one else."
"And who is the purchaser?"
"Some one from London. Philip Darnell is his name."
As it passed his lips, Mr. Mouncey saw that the name was not unknown to
the colonel. The old soldier gave a slight start, his colour changed,
his brow contracted, as if with pain.
"You know this gentleman, perhaps?" Mr. Mouncey ventured to suggest.
"By hearsay only," replied Colonel Carruthers stiffly. "He is of your
complexion politically, Mouncey. He came forward as a candidate for one
of the suburban boroughs some time ago, but was not elected. You will
perhaps find him a sympathetic companion."
Mr. Mouncey shook his head, and smiled good-temperedly. "He will hardly
sympathise with my politics, I fear," he said. "He must be a rich man,
and few rich men can tolerate such an out-and-out Radical as I am."
Another one present had caught the name of Philip Darnell, and was no
less startled by it than the colonel. Gus stood near enough to hear it,
and the sound sent a thrill through his boyish frame. Philip Darnell!
His father's enemy! The man he had seen on that summer morning nearly a
year ago, when he had made that long tramp with his father in search of
employment, and his father had refused the work when found because it
was to be done for this man.
In the night that followed his father had died, and every incident
of that last day together was vividly imprinted on Gus' memory. This
was the man who had wrought his father's ruin, the man on whom he had
promised to be revenged, if ever it was in his power. Was the chance
coming to him now?
Gus remembered every word which his father had uttered concerning
Philip Darnell; but other words which his father had said to him had
almost faded from his mind. He had hardly given a thought since his
father's death to the fact that Rew was not his real name. He had
forgotten the slip of paper inserted within the lining of the old
Bible; but now it suddenly flashed on his mind, and he wondered what
was the long name his father had written that day.
At that moment Mr. Mouncey, was saying, "Good-evening, Colonel
Carruthers."
Gus had heard the colonel's name often before; but a novel thought came
to him as he heard it now. Had not the name his father had declared to
be his sounded something like that—something like Carruthers? Could it
be? But, no, it must be his fancy; it seemed impossible that a poor
boy, such as he was, should have the same name as a gentleman like the
colonel. And what did it matter what his right name was? Gus Rew was a
nice, easy little name, which did very well for him.