NO LONGER A HUMAN WAIF.
GUS was too weak, and suffering too much pain in his broken limb, to
think long of the words that had passed between him and Mr. Mouncey.
When the pain and weariness became more than he could bear, the medical
man would give him a strong sedative, under the influence of which he
would sleep for hours. But for the relief thus gained, he could hardly
have borne the strain of constant pain.
One afternoon, after sleeping for several hours, he woke to find a lady
seated by his side. She was not young; her form was full and matronly,
and her countenance was a pleasant one to look upon. She was knitting,
and her expression was rather sad; but when she looked up and met Gus'
gaze she smiled brightly on him. Her sweet smile and the look of her
blue eyes seemed familiar to Gus; yet he felt sure he had not seen her
before.
"So you are awake at last," she said, bending over him, and laying her
hand tenderly on his curly hair; "and how do you feel now, Gus?"
There was a strange thrill in her voice, as of feeling resolutely
restrained.
"Better," he replied, smiling back at her; "much better."
"That is right," she said brightly. "And now for the beef-tea. I must
not forget nurse's instructions. Please do not begin to talk till you
have had some beef-tea."
She turned quickly to the fireplace, where, keeping warm on the hob,
was the beef-tea.
Gus was not particularly fond of this strengthening beverage; but
somehow it looked more inviting than usual as the lady poured it out,
and brought it to him on a little tray, with some tiny chips of toast
daintily arranged on a plate.
"Has nurse gone away?" he asked, when he had emptied the cup.
"Yes, she was called to another, a more urgent case, and we felt
obliged to let her go. I am here to take care of you, if you will let
me."
"You are very kind," said Gus, regarding her with some wonder. "Are you
a nurse, then?"
"Not professionally; but I have had much experience of nursing,"
replied the lady gently. "I believe I can take proper care of you."
"Oh, I am sure of that," said Gus quickly. "Will you tell me what your
name is, please?"
"My name is Durrant," she replied; "I am Edith's mother."
"Miss Edith's mother!" said Gus looking very pleased. "Ah, to be sure!
I remember hearing that you had come home from India."
"That was some time ago," said Mrs. Durrant. "Gus, will you be very
much surprised if I tell you that I am not only Edith's mother, but
also your aunt?"
"My aunt!" repeated Gus, in astonishment. "But how can that be? I have
not an aunt."
"You did not know that you had one," said Mrs. Durrant, trying to
smile, but with tears rising in her eyes. "Gus, from what Mr. Mouncey
has told me, and from seeing that Bible, which I recognise as one which
formerly belonged to my mother, I am convinced that your father was my
only brother—the brother left so early to my care, and dearer to me
than words can tell; but who—alas!—wandered into evil ways, and was
lost to us whilst yet he lived."
Here, in spite of every effort to control herself, she broke down and
sobbed. Gus began to sob too, for he was still very weak. Seeing his
emotion, Mrs. Durrant tried hard to check her own.
"Gus," she asked presently, "did your father never speak to you about
his sister Edith?"
"No," said Gus; "he never said a word about his past life, till a few
weeks before he died. Then he told me what my right name was, and that
he was a gentleman by birth, although he was so poor and miserable. And
he made me promise that I would try to be a real gentleman. Are you
sure he was your brother?"
"I have not a doubt of it, Gus. My father has gone to make what
inquiries he can at the place where you lived; but he, too, I am sure,
is convinced in his own mind. If I had doubted before, I should have
known the truth as soon as I saw you, for you are so like what your
father was at your age. Yes, Gus, I am indeed your aunt, for you are
the child of my own dear, but most unhappy brother. Oh, how I love you
for his sake!"
"I am so glad," said Gus, as she bent down and kissed him; "I thought I
belonged to no one."
Then he said no more, for he saw that his aunt was overpowered by
painful memories. He lay still, musing on the wonderful fact he had
learned. Edith Durrant was his cousin, the colonel was his grandfather.
How strange it was to think of it! He was glad, and yet there was
sorrow in his heart. To think of what his father's early home must have
been, of his father and his sister, and then to recall the misery and
squalor and sin in which his days had ended! Oh, the pity of it! Gus
felt that he could never cease to be conscious of that.
The same thought was wringing with anguish the heart of his
grandfather. As he recalled every incident of the past, Colonel
Carruthers could no longer refuse to see that he himself had been
greatly to blame. He had been too fond, too indulgent a parent in his
son's childhood, and too hard, too unrelenting when his son, in later
life, chose to cross his will.
Why had he been so angry with his son because he had taken his wife
from a social circle which he, the military man of fashion, considered
inferior to his own? She was good and gentle, he had been told, and yet
he had despised her. There had been no shame, no wrongdoing then. Why
had he suffered the fact of his son's making a mésalliance, as he had
deemed it, to alienate them so entirely? Perhaps, had he stifled his
pride, and received the low-born bride with kindness, his son would
never have made his swift descent into shame and misery. Ah, how bitter
it was now to see, as he did so clearly, that his son's future might
have been entirely different had he acted another part from that which,
in his pride and resentment, he had so stiffly maintained!
It was late in the evening. Gus had had another sleep, from which he
awoke refreshed. He was lying still, watching with languid enjoyment
the shapely white hands of his aunt as they plied the knitting-needles,
when Colonel Carruthers entered the room.
There was nothing in the least like a scene. The colonel was not one
to give way to emotion under any circumstances. Whatever he felt as
he gazed on the fair, open face of the boy, and saw again the strong
likeness to his own son, which had struck him so forcibly when first
he looked on Gus, his countenance retained its usual quiet, inflexible
demeanour.
His tone was constrained and almost cold as he said, "How are you now,
my boy?" At the same time extending his hand in a formal fashion.
"Much better, thank you, sir," Gus replied, timidly grasping the
outstretched hand.
"That is well," said the colonel. Then observing an eager, wistful look
in Gus' eyes, he said, turning to his daughter, "Have you told him,
Edith?"
"Yes, father."
The colonel made no rejoinder. He seated himself in such a position
that Gus could only see his side face, and sat gazing into the fire.
Thinking they would get on better alone, Mrs. Durrant quitted the room.
But still the colonel sat silently gazing into the fire, and Gus, as
he watched him, grew nervously anxious for him to speak. At last, when
Gus felt his endurance strained to the utmost, the colonel broke the
silence.
"Gus," he said, "they tell me you saved the life of Philip Darnell."
This remark seemed to require no reply, and Gus was silent, waiting for
more.
"It is a strange thing," continued the colonel after a pause, speaking
in a low, bitter tone. "You could not know it, but that man was your
father's worst enemy. He was the cause of your father's ruin. I had
long suspected him of playing a double part, but I did not learn the
truth till a few years ago, when I learned it from one of your father's
former companions, who, unknown to Philip Darnell, had been in the
whole secret. He was dying when he told me how Darnell had enticed and
ensnared my son into the crime for which he was afterwards the first
to denounce him. Yes, he revealed to me the whole conspiracy. I could
confront Darnell with it, but what would be the good? He has done
nothing that the law can punish, and it is all too late as far as your
father is concerned. Would to God it were possible to undo the errors
of the past!"
There was a wail of pain in the colonel's tone. He was silent for a few
moments, and when he spoke again it was in a colder, quieter manner.
"It is useless to talk of the past," he said; "but, Gus, if you had
known what I know of that man, you would not have rushed so eagerly to
his rescue."
"But I did know," said Gus in a low tone; "my father told me."
"Eh, what?" exclaimed the colonel, turning quickly to look at him.
"What did your father tell you?"
"We saw Mr. Darnell once. He was driving in a carriage," said Gus, "and
my father pointed him out to me, and told me to remember that he was
his and my worst enemy. And he bade me have my revenge on him, if ever
it was in my power. I can never forget what father said, for it was
only the day before he died."
"You knew that? He told you that?" said the colonel in a tone of
extreme surprise. "And yet you risked your life to save that man! How
could you?"
"I only wanted the more to save him because of that," replied Gus,
speaking with an effort. "Don't you see, it was my revenge?"
For a few moments his grandfather was, from sheer amazement, unable to
reply. He stared at Gus like one astounded. Then his eyes fell, his
head drooped, and he sat silently pondering the boy's words.
"Gus," he said at last, in low, unsteady tones, "you are a gentleman."
Gus' face glowed with pleasure, but he made no reply.
There was a long pause.
The colonel was bending forward, gazing into the fire. Then he spoke
again.
"Gus," he said slowly, "you are more than a gentleman; you are a
Christian." And with that, he rose and went hastily from the room.