DEEDS AND THEIR FRUIT.
"GUS, I have good news for you," said Mr. Mouncey, as he entered the
pleasant morning-room at the Retreat, when Gus was resting on a sofa,
whilst his Cousin Edith sat near, busied in giving the last touches to
a little water-colour drawing.
The colonel had again taken up his abode in his house at Rayleigh,
and thither had Gus been conveyed as soon as he was strong enough to
bear the removal. His aunt had been obliged to return to her home
at Southampton, but Edith had come to make a long stay with her
grandfather, that she might be her cousin's companion.
"Good news!" repeated Gus, looking eagerly into his friend's face. "Oh,
please tell me what it is!"
"The strike is over," said Mr. Mouncey, his countenance radiant with
satisfaction. "Mr. Darnell has at length decided to take back all the
old hands, except a few whom he considers past work, and to give them
the extra pay they asked."
"You do not mean it!" cried Gus delightedly. "Why, it hardly seems
possible that it can be true. I never thought Mr. Darnell would give
in."
"To tell you the truth, Gus, I think your influence has had some weight
in the matter."
"Mine?" said Gus. "How could it? I never said a word to Mr. Darnell
about the strike."
"Ah, but he knows which side has your sympathy. And once, when he spoke
to me of your having saved his life, and said how he wished he could
do something for you, I ventured to hint that he could not please you
more than by helping those poor starving families in the cottages. I
scarcely expected my words to have any effect, but it seems they had."
"I am so glad," said Gus, earnestly. "Oh, Mr. Mouncey, it is indeed
good news!"
For a few moments Mr. Mouncey did not reply. He was thinking how such
a noble deed as Gus had done enriches our human life, and how far its
elevating influence may extend.
"You remember old Mike Newman?" he said presently. "I fear he will
never work again; he is very ill with rheumatic fever. He has a great
wish to see you, Gus. Could you get so far, do you think? There is
something weighing on the poor old man's mind. Perhaps he will tell his
trouble to you; I cannot draw it from him."
"I can drive you there in the pony chaise this afternoon if you like,
Gus," said Edith.
And Gus willingly fell in with the suggestion. Several weeks had passed
since the night of the fire, and he had made fair progress. He was now
able to get about a little with the aid of crutches. It was feared that
his cure would be so far imperfect that he would always walk with a
slight limp. The thought of this was a trouble to his grandfather, but
Gus would not let it trouble him.
When Gus entered Mike's cottage on his crutches, he found the poor old
man even worse than he had been led to expect. But, though in great
pain, Mike was conscious, and presently, as they talked together, it
seemed to Gus that his anguish was as much that of the mind as of the
body. At first his words appeared so wild and incoherent that Gus
fancied he must be wandering; but gradually he found a clue to their
meaning.
"Eh, Master Gus," he said, "the pain is just like a fire in my bones—a
fire burning me whilst I live. And sure, if ever man deserved to be
burned I'm that man. The very pains of hell have got hold on me, and
it's to hell I'm going!"
"Don't say that, Mike; you need not go to hell."
"I must, lad, I must! For a man that's sinned as I have there can be no
mercy. I'm as bad as a murderer, that's what I am."
"And if you are, Mike, there's mercy even for such. Don't you remember
how Jesus Christ prayed for His murderers?—'Father, forgive them, for
they know not what they do!'"
"Ah, but I knew what I was doing. I knew it was a crime for which I
might be hanged; but I didn't care. If I'd seen what it would all
lead to! I never thought, Gus, that you would suffer! To see you come
limping in, so mild and patient, was almost more than I could bear. And
yet it would have been worse if he had died. You've saved me from the
guilt of blood."
"Mike, what do you mean? Of what are you thinking?"
"Can't ye guess, Gus?"
"Are you thinking of the fire, Mike? Do you know more about it than I?"
"I know more about it than any one else, lad. Oh, if I dared to tell
you! Maybe you wouldn't be so hard on me as some. Oh, this fire, this
fire in my bones! I shall not rest in my grave, I'm thinking, if I
don't confess the truth."
"If there's anything on your conscience, Mike, you'd better confess it
to God, not to me."
"I can't, I can't!" groaned the old man. "Besides, God knows. Isn't He
punishing me for it now?"
"Mike," said Gus gravely, "do you know how the fire began?"
"Do I know?" muttered Mike. "Who should know if I do not?" Then,
suddenly turning his eyes on Gus, he asked in shrill, sharp tones—
"Lad, do you think that fire was kindled without hands?"
"Mike!" exclaimed Gus, with consternation in his voice. "You don't
mean to say that any one was wicked enough to set fire to the house on
purpose?"
"Ah, truly," was the reply, in broken, quavering tones; "there was one
wicked enough, and that was Mike Newman. You are horrified, Gus; but it
made me mad to feel that I was ground down and trampled on by a man no
better than myself, just because he was rich and I was poor.
"The strike brought more trouble into my home than into any other in
the village. My daughter, poor soul, when her husband's wages ceased,
made a brave struggle to live on almost nothing. How she managed I
cannot tell. She grew to be mere skin and bone, for many a meal she
would go without for the sake of her children. But then they sickened,
and Willie—you remember our brave, bonny little Willie—was the first
to go. The twins followed, and she, poor soul, could not bear up after
the loss of her babes. She was soon laid beside them. They're all four
sleeping under the old elm in the churchyard.
"Do you wonder I felt wild with Darnell? How could I bear to think of
his living in ease and plenty, his wife and children wanting nothing,
and ours starved like that! I said there was no such thing as justice
in heaven or earth. God was against us too. He was the God of the rich,
not of the poor. I thirsted for revenge. I longed to do something with
this weak old arm that should make Darnell smart. I used to long for
a gun, that I might take a shot at him some night after dark. But I
knew my aim would be unsteady, and that I should miss my mark. Then
the thought struck me that I would set fire to his house. That was not
easy; but when the devil tempts a man to sin, he opens up the way for
him.
"I was hanging about that night near Darnell's house. It was midnight.
I had been to the Rising Sun. A man from London had been there speaking
to us chaps, and when he'd said his say, he treated us to a glass all
round. His words had stirred my blood, and mayhap the liquor was too
strong for me, for I had tasted scarce a morsel that day. I was passing
the door leading into the court at the back of the house, when a sudden
gust of wind blew it open. No one is afeard of thieves at Rayleigh, and
Brown and his wife had forgotten to make it fast before they went to
bed.
"Something said within me, 'Now's your time.' I went in and looked
about. The lights was all out; every one in the house was abed. There
are no shutters to the kitchen window. I broke a pane, and opened it
with little trouble. I climbed in, found a box of matches, and then
went down to the cellar. I knew my way, for I'd had a job of cutting
and piling wood there once. There was wood stored there then, and on
the other side of the cellar stood a barrel of paraffin oil. I carried
the wood over, an armful at a time, and piled it about the barrel; I
found some straw, and added that, and then I set fire to the heap. I
only waited to see that it would burn, and then I hurried away. No
one saw me, and the fire destroyed all traces of my having entered
the house. I went home and to bed, but I could not sleep; and before
morning the rheumatics had seized on me so that I could not move. The
pain has never left me since."
"Oh, Mike! How could you do such a thing?" cried Gus aghast. "How did
you feel when you knew the house was burning away, and nothing could
check the flames?"
[Illustration]
"Feel! I felt like a fiend that night. I chuckled to myself, and
thought how cleverly I had done it. I hoped Darnell would be burned.
But afterwards—ah, lad, afterwards, it was as if there were a fire
burning within me. I knew I had done the devil's work. And when they
told me how you had risked your life to save Darnell—you whom he
had misjudged and struck, to whom he had been no better than to me
and mine—oh, Gus, I felt real bad then! Your conduct showed me the
blackness of mine. I was thankful Darnell was saved; but I knew that
all the same I was as bad as a murderer."
"Thank God I got to him in time!" cried Gus, much moved. "Oh, Mike,
I might have done as you did, for I felt very bad towards him at one
time, only I remembered—I had learned the best way of being revenged."
"What is that?" asked Mike.
"'If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink; for in
so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head,'" repeated Gus.
"I've heard them words before; they're in the Bible, ar'n't they?" said
Mike. "I used to learn the Bible when I was a boy. But I should never
have thought of acting that way; and who does? Even those who pretend
to be religious, do they do as the Bible tells them? Look at Darnell
now—don't he go to church?"
"That other people fail to do as they ought is no reason why we should
not try to obey the Bible," said Gus.
"P'raps not," said Mike; "and yet I don't see it's fair to expect us
poor folks to behave better than those who have everything they wants.
But the Bible's true; I know that. It says the 'wicked shall be turned
into hell,' and that's where I'm going. I shall be tormented in flames,
longing for a drop of water to cool my tongue. 'Where the worm dieth
not, and the fire is not quenched.' There's Bible words for you."
"And these, too, are Bible words," said Gus, and he repeated: "'If we
confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and
to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' So you see, Mike, God will
forgive your sin, if you ask Him."
The old man shook his head mournfully. "Nay, nay, lad; it's too late
for that. There's no hope for me, none. I am a murderer, and my part is
in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone."
"But there is hope," said Gus earnestly; "Jesus will receive sinners.
Oh, Mike, if you will not listen to me, will you not tell Mr. Mouncey
all?"
"Nay, lad, I can tell no one but you. I said to myself I would tell
you, if you came in, but no one else."
"Then will you let me tell Mr. Mouncey what you have told me?" asked
Gus.
After much persuasion, Mike consented to this.
Gus lost no time in seeking Sebastian Mouncey, and repeating to him the
sad story he had heard. He did not see Mike again.
On the following evening, Mr. Mouncey came to tell him that the poor
old man was dead.
Gus was shocked. He had not thought the end so near.
"I thought he would have lingered longer," said Mr. Mouncey. "Poor
fellow! He bitterly repented of his sin. He would have seen Mr. Darnell
and asked his forgiveness, had there been time. Now it is for me to
make his confession known. I think he died in peace, believing God
had forgiven him; but there is something inexpressibly sad in such a
death. Who dare judge him harshly? God only knows the true history
of his life, and how far the sin of others was accountable for the
bitter feelings which drove him to that mad act. Oh, when will men
learn to recognise the bond of their common brotherhood? When will each
understand that he is indeed bound to be his brother's keeper?"
The sad revelation made a profound impression upon Gus, as on many at
Rayleigh.
But when spring flowers were blooming in the hedgerows, and spring
breezes blew over the fields, the winter, with its gloom and misery,
passed from the minds of the younger folk like a dismal dream. It was
a busy time at the mill. The "hands" were beginning to recover some
measure of prosperity. Their homes once more wore an air of comfort,
their faces a look of health and cheerfulness.
But the Mill House stood a gaunt, grim ruin, and it was thought that
Philip Darnell would never care to rebuild it. He seldom came to
Rayleigh, and left the management of the mill almost entirely to Mr.
Ellary. And no one regretted the proprietor's absence. He had had the
chance of winning the love and esteem of his work-people, and he had
let it slip. No concession he might now make could alter the feelings
with which they regarded him.
The colonel began to talk of returning to London for the season. Gus
was strong now, save for the limp that would never be overcome. One day
his grandfather spoke to him of the plans he had made for his future.
"I have engaged a tutor for you, Gus, with whom I hope you will work
your hardest, till you are sufficiently advanced to study with other
young fellows of your age. I know you have good abilities, and, thanks
to the kindness of Mr. Mouncey, you have already received a far better
education than could have been expected under the circumstances. Still,
there are certain things that are necessary to fit you for the position
of a gentleman. Of course I mean you to go to Oxford when you are old
enough. I should have liked you to follow in my steps; I believe you
have the making of a soldier in you, but that unfortunate weakness—"
"I could never be a soldier!" exclaimed Gus involuntarily.
"And why not?" asked the colonel, looking at him with some severity.
"I could never bear to kill others," said Gus, with a shiver; "I should
like work that saved life, not destroyed it."
"That is not the way to look at the subject," said the colonel proudly.
"I maintain that a true soldier saves life when he fights for his
country and his Queen; but really, to hear the way some people talk,
you would think a soldier was a mere butcher. There is no finer
profession for a gentleman than the army."
Gus mused for a few moments over his grandfather's words; then he
said, with some abruptness, "I don't know that I care to follow the
profession of a gentleman."
"What do you mean?" asked the colonel sharply. "Not lead the life of a
gentleman! I thought that was what you had always meant to be."
"Yes, I mean to be a gentleman," said Gus; "but I should not mind if
people did not consider me one. It seems to me that there are two
sorts of gentlemen in the world—the gentleman like Jesus Christ, and
the gentleman who only cares for himself, his pleasures, his ease, his
beautiful things, and does not mind how others toil and slave for him,
nor what they suffer, as long as he gets all he wants."
Colonel Carruthers looked gravely at his young grandson, and was silent
for a minute or two.
"I believe you are right, Gus," he said at last, with somewhat of an
effort. "The experience of life has humbled my pride, and I see some
things now in a different light from that in which I used to view them.
"There are two kinds of gentlemen—the conventional gentleman and the
ideal gentleman. The highest gentleman in the land, as the world ranks
men, has for his motto the words, 'I serve.' And He whom we reverence
as our Lord and Saviour has taught us that true greatness consists in
service.
"I would not for the world have you a useless, fine gentleman, Gus.
But, my dear boy, you need training for the highest service. You must
make the most of the talents God has given you. Since you have the
power to do so, it is right that you should endeavour to attain the
highest culture possible to you, in order that you may serve others in
the best way that you can."
"I will do whatever you wish, sir," Gus replied, feeling the truth of
his grandfather's words. "I am sure that father would have wished me to
learn all that I can."
He spoke impulsively, but when he saw the shadow that fell on his
grandfather's face, he would fain have recalled his last words.