CONCLUSION.
TEN years have passed, and their fleet steps have left enduring traces.
Colonel Carruthers' tall, spare figure is less erect than formerly,
his sight less keen, his memory less certain. He can no longer refuse
to recognise the fact that he is an old man. He is glad to lean on the
strong arm of his grandson when they walk together, glad to depend on
him in many ways.
Miss Durrant continues to be the colonel's housekeeper, and is still
a prey to nervous terrors, whilst believing herself one of the most
strong-minded of her sex. The colonel's daughter and her younger
children are frequent guests at his house; the young people are
ardently attached to their cousin Gus, who is often to be found there,
whilst their mother could hardly love him better if he were her son.
Edith's visits to her grandfather's home are less frequent and of less
duration than formerly; for some years since she went to a home of her
own, and that none other than the old vicarage at Rayleigh.
At one time Colonel Carruthers would hardly have deemed Sebastian
Mouncey a match for the granddaughter he loved so well; but his regard
for the hardworking clergyman has strengthened considerably since he
discovered in Mr. Mouncey's protégé the child of his own lost son;
and, moreover, the colonel has learned to esteem goodness the highest
nobility.
Edith was never ambitious in the world's sense; she has the noble
ambition to serve others and make their lives brighter and better,
so in working for the cottagers at Rayleigh she has found her right
vocation, and is proving a true help-meet to the busy pastor.
And Gus. Let us look at him as on a March morning he enters the city
hospital, in which he is studying as a medical student. He has given
himself to the profession of medicine with all the enthusiasm of his
warm, sound nature. He has the highest ideal of what the life of a
physician should be, and the more material aspects of his calling
cannot destroy it. To him, it seems to present the grandest possibility
of following in the steps of the Lord Christ, and in little things as
in great exhibiting the spirit of that "first true Gentleman that ever
breathed."
He has applied himself with such energy to his studies, that already
he is looked upon as one who promises to take a high position in his
profession. No day, no hour scarcely of the past ten years, has been
suffered to slip by without yielding him some permanent gain.
He is a man now. On his brow are the perpendicular lines which indicate
hard thinking; his expression is grave and earnest, but he has still
somewhat of the old boyish grace. His blue eyes have the same frank,
kindly glance, and when he smiles, as one of his comrades addresses him
playfully, it is with the bright, winsome smile of yore.
As Gus enters the women's medical ward, and passes along it, his eyes
are quick to observe a fresh patient. A young woman, with a white,
worn, patient face, lies in a bed to his left. She looks very ill; but
it is not her suffering appearance which makes him halt suddenly before
her. There is something familiar in that patient countenance, in those
sad, grey eyes.
"Lucy!" he exclaims, in a tone of astonishment. "Lucy!"
"That is my name," she replies, with a startled look; "but I do not
know—"
"Lucy Lucas," he returns; "Lucy Lucas, who used to live at Lavender
Terrace."
A hot, painful flush dyes the face of the young woman.
"Yes," she replies, "I was called by that name once; but it is long
ago, and I cannot understand how you should know about me."
"Have you forgotten Gus?" he asks. "Poor, ragged little Gus?"
"Gus!" she exclaims, looking pleased. "You don't mean to say that you
are that little Gus! 'Gentleman Gus' they used to call you. Oh, I have
so often wondered what had become of you; but I little thought to find
you here! And to think that you should know me again!"
"You have not altered much," says Gus; "only I am sorry to see you
looking ill. I, too, have often wondered about you, and where you went
when you left the Terrace so suddenly. But never mind that now," he
adds gently, as he sees her look of pain. "You shall tell me about that
by-and-by; I'll tell my story first."
And, regardless of the fact that the work of the day is before him,
he sits down beside her, and tells her the history of his life since
they parted. She listens with close attention; but presently, he has to
hurry away, with the promise that he will see her again in the evening.
It is growing dusk when again he finds himself at leisure to sit and
talk with her; but he has found time during the day to inquire of the
house surgeon concerning her. He learned that she was very ill. The
long-seated hip disease had taken a new development; terrible abscesses
were sapping her strength, which had been reduced, the surgeon thought,
by poor living and close, sedentary occupation. As he heard it, Gus
resolved within himself that there should be no more of that for Lucy.
He was relieved to hear the surgeon say he did not consider the case a
hopeless one.
"Lucy," says Gus gently, as he sits beside her, "will you not tell me
about your life since last I saw you? You need not fear to speak freely
to me. Where is your father?"
Once more the warm colour of shame rises in poor Lucy's face. For a few
moments she cannot speak; then she summons courage to whisper—
"In prison, Gus."
Gus' face reflects the sorrow on hers.
"Oh, I am so sorry, Lucy," he says. "And yet—perhaps—"
"It is best," she murmurs; "it was terrible living as we did before.
Do you remember the great burglary at Harrow, two years ago, when the
burglars were captured?"
"To be sure, I remember it," says Gus; "there were three men, but their
names—"
"Oh, my father never passed long by the same name. Our real name is
Smith. My father and Jack were both concerned in the robbery; but
they only sentenced Jack for seven years. My father shot a man in the
struggle. He did not kill him, happily, but it made his guilt the
greater, and he was sentenced for fourteen years."
"And you have been alone ever since?"
"Yes, I have been trying to earn money by needlework; but it has been
so hard. They pay so little for it at the shops."
"My poor Lucy!" says Gus, with a sad smile. "I can see you have had a
hard struggle; but you shall not go back to that life, Lucy. We will
do all we can for you here; you must make up your mind to get well
quickly, and when you are strong enough, I will send you to a pretty
country place, where a lady, my cousin, will take good care of you,
and find plenty of work for your clever needle. Don't cry; there are
brighter days before you, I believe."
"You are very kind, Gus; you always were kind," Lucy replies, in a
voice choked by tears. "I should not wish to get well; I have still
the old longing for rest; but I have learned that our lives are in the
hands of One who loves us, and knows better than we what is good for
us, and whilst there is any chance of my helping father I would not
die. I pray for him every day, and I trust that he may yet be saved
from sin."
"God grant it!" says Gus earnestly. "Never give up hoping and praying,
Lucy. There is no sinner whom Jesus Christ cannot save. I have learned
that."
Leaving the hospital, Gus turns his steps towards a house in a quiet
street close by, where he lodges from Monday till Saturday, for his
grandfather's house at Norwood is too far from the hospital for him to
return thither every night. It is a neat, respectable-looking house.
The doorstep is clean; the window curtains as white as the London smoke
will permit.
As Gus stands on the step, feeling for his latchkey, the door is opened
from within, and a stout, comely woman, in middle life, appears with
a tall, gaunt, anxious-looking woman by her side. Does the reader
recognise an old acquaintance? In her tidy black dress and white apron,
with her abundant tresses smoothly brushed and braided, and a more
subdued expression than she wore in the old days, Sally Dent is indeed
changed almost past recognition. And the big awkward-looking lad of
about fourteen, who is now visible at the end of the passage, was the
unwieldy baby whom Gus used to carry about with such good-will.
Sally's eyes brighten as she sees Gus, and she exclaims, "Oh, Mr.
Carruthers, I am glad you're come in! This is Mrs. Minn, as used to
live in Lavender Terrace. Maybe you remember her? She's in great
trouble about her daughter, as is took very bad. She wants to get her
into the 'ospital. I told her I knew you'd be willing to do what you
could."
Gus does remember Mrs. Minn. He shakes hands with her kindly, and makes
many inquiries concerning her husband and family. He takes her into
his own room, hears all about her daughter's case, clearly explains to
her the steps she must take to secure admission to the hospital, and
promises such help as he can give.
When at length, cheered by his kindness, Mrs. Minn takes her departure,
she pauses for a moment at the door to say confidentially to Sally
Dent, "He's a good one, he is. He ain't a bit ashamed to remember that
he was once as poor as any of us. There are not many like he."
"No, indeed," responds Sally, and then a lump seems to rise in her
throat, and check further utterance. She is thinking of all Gus has
done for her,—how he sought her out in her wretched home; how he
befriended her when she had sunk low in sin and shame. A poor, degraded
wreck of womanhood, others would have cried, "Let the wreck lie; its
recovery is hopeless!"
But not so he. How he had striven to win her back to sobriety! She
herself had despaired of ever breaking from the sore slavery of drink;
but he had encouraged her to persevere with the struggle. She had
signed the pledge only to break it; she had relapsed again and again,
and begged him to leave her to herself; but he would not give her up.
It was through his kindness that she had been settled in this house,
with medical students for her lodgers, and he had helped to place her
children in respectable positions.
And now she is saved, redeemed in body and spirit, by the grace of
Christ, from the awful power of sin! Work as she may—and she has
learned what work means—can she ever do enough to show her gratitude to
him who, under God, has been her deliverer?
The thought of it all well-nigh overpowers her, and what she feels is
not to be expressed. When words become possible, she only says in her
most emphatic manner, "Ay, he is a gentleman, he is."
THE END.
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney Ld., London and Aylesbury.