CHAPTER XVI.

GUS BEGINS TO WORK FOR HIMSELF.

COLONEL CARRUTHERS remained but a few weeks at Rayleigh. He did not wait to see Philip Darnell established in Mr. Gibson's late residence.

Edith was sorry to leave the country in the lovely spring-time, when woods and fields were bright with flowers and with the songs of birds; but her grandfather seemed suddenly to have taken a dislike to Rayleigh. He was not to be persuaded to extend his stay, and soon after their return to the neighbourhood of London Edith learned, to her regret, that the colonel had let the Retreat, as his country house was named, to a gentleman for a term of three years.

Edith was sorry, not alone because she loved the place, but also because she had counted on seeing, from time to time, Gus, in whom she continued to feel much interest. She knew, however, that Gus could not be better off than in the care of Mr. Mouncey, so she tried to console herself with the reflection that he did not want her now, and the boys in her Sunday class at Glensford did. But somehow, there was not one of these boys whom she loved as she loved Gus. There was something so charming about the frank, manly boy; he was at once so gentle and so bold. She was disposed to say, with Mr. Mouncey, that she had never seen a lad just like him.

The news that Mr. Gibson had sold the mill was received with sorrow by his work-people. They had served him for so many years—some of the older men had worked for his father before they worked for him—that the idea of a new master was far from agreeable to them. And if Mr. Gibson, who had known the business all his life, had failed to make it pay, was it likely, they asked, that a stranger, who, if report said truly, had never tried paper-making before, was likely to succeed?

But Philip Darnell knew what he was about; the men soon saw that plainly enough. He had not purchased the concern without shrewdly calculating ways and means, and discerning how he could get good interest for his money. Changes were made at the mill. The old foreman, sorely to his mortification, was dismissed. Several of the old hands followed him.

The management of the mill was given to a man who came from London, and brought several workmen with him. A new method of paper-making was adopted; and if the paper was not so good as formerly, it was produced at less cost, and found a readier market. Wages were cut down, and economy exercised in every direction. Some of the work-people refused to take the lower wage, and moved away from Rayleigh, in the hope of finding better-paid work elsewhere; but the majority were of opinion that a "bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," and preferred to earn what they could at Rayleigh rather than risk coming to destitution in a strange place. But the change was bitter to them, and they regarded the new master with little favour.

But Philip Darnell cared not what might be the feelings cherished towards him by those whom he employed. To him, they were merely the "hands," human machines, out of which he was determined to grind as much work as possible, at the greatest profit to himself. He came with his wife and children to spend the summer at Rayleigh, and they took possession of the Mill House, as it was called, living there in a far more extravagant and showy style than the Gibsons had adopted.

Mrs. Darnell, magnificently attired, drove about in a handsome landau, drawn by a pair of spirited bays. She expected the men to touch their hats when they saw her, and the women to drop a humble curtsey; but she made no effort to enter into friendly relations with them. She would as soon have thought of going to work at the mill as of visiting the wives and mothers in their homes, as Mrs. Gibson had been wont to do. The grand lady in her carriage saw them separated from her by a wide chasm of social inequality, across which no sense of a common womanhood could draw her.

And the people were quick to feel that they were looked down upon, and to resent the fact. As the months passed on, the spirit of discontent deepened and spread. But the mill prospered, and Philip Darnell was pleased with the success of his new enterprise. He was making money by the business, and that was all he desired. He had no idea of any higher success than that of doing well to himself; no sense of any responsibility for the well-being of those who worked for him.

Another winter came, and another. There was little outward change at Rayleigh; but quietly, yet surely, the feeling of ill-will between employer and employed was growing stronger, and taking deeper root. Philip Darnell had no consciousness of anything being wrong; he had never felt more prosperous and confident, nor more insolently disdainful of every one who tried to check the working of his will.

Sebastian Mouncey came in for a large share of contempt, because he would now and again intercede for some dismissed workman, or try in one way or another to make the mill-owner feel for his "hands" as men. It was in vain he made appeal for any sort of charity to Philip Darnell. He had no sympathy with the clergyman in his schemes for the benefit of his poor brothers and sisters; nor, though once on a Sunday his carriage—the distance was barely half a mile—carried him and his wife to the church door, had he any real belief in the truths the vicar endeavoured to teach.

Nearly three years had passed since Gus came to Rayleigh. He was "little Gus" no longer; but a strong, well-grown lad for his years. He had passed the highest standard at the village school, and had turned to good account his private lessons with the vicar.

Mr. Mouncey began to deliberate seriously concerning his future. He thought him no ordinary lad, and would have liked him to have further educational advantages. He tried to interest Colonel Carruthers, whom he still saw from time to time, whenever he had occasion to visit London, in the subject of Gus' future. But to his disappointment, the colonel hardly cared to listen to anything he could say about Gus.

"Nonsense, Mouncey!" he said once, speaking good-humouredly, but in a decided manner. "That lad has bewitched you. There is really nothing exceptional about him. He is a clever young rogue, I daresay; but in my opinion, you'll make a great mistake if you overeducate him, and try to lift him out of his true position. Can't you find him work at Rayleigh? Keep him there if you can, under your own eye, and don't send him up to London."

Unfortunately Edith Durrant was not present to take up Gus' cause. Her parents had lately returned from India, and she had left her grandfather's home, and gone to reside with them at Southampton. Mr. Mouncey knew that it was vain to seek her aunt's sympathy on behalf of Gus. Miss Durrant had never forgiven the boy for the fright he had caused her by hiding himself in her bed. She continued to regard him as a burglar in embryo. Had she been consulted with regard to his future, she would probably have suggested that, for the good of society, he should be kept in close confinement for the rest of his life.

The vicar agreed with Colonel Carruthers in deeming it undesirable that Gus should return to the neighbourhood of London; but it was with a feeling of disappointment that he set himself to find work for Gus at Rayleigh. He spoke to the manager of the mill, and learned that he was in need of a smart lad, able to write a good hand and keep accounts. He was willing to take Gus into the counting-house, and try what he could make of him; and the vicar, thinking Gus well fitted for the post, gladly accepted it for him.

He fancied Gus would be pleased to hear of the arrangement he had made; but when he told him the boy's face flushed crimson, as if with pain, and for some moments he said nothing. Was he to go into the service of Philip Darnell? Was he to work for the man whom his father had refused to serve, even when they were almost starving? The idea was most repugnant to him.

"Why, Gus, you do not like the idea?" said Mr. Mouncey in surprise. "I thought you would be glad to begin to earn money for yourself."

"So I should be, sir," said Gus slowly, "but—" He paused.

"There is something else you wish to be. Have you set your heart on becoming a gardener?" said Mr. Mouncey, remembering that Gus had of late shown much interest in certain gardening operations.

"No, sir. I never thought of such a thing. It is not that I dislike the kind of work."

"Then what is it you dislike? I can see there is something wrong."

"If it were for any one else," murmured Gus, his face growing a deeper crimson.

Mr. Mouncey caught the words, and fancied he understood what they signified. He knew well how Philip Darnell was regarded by his work-people. The things that were said of him, and even the opprobrious epithets that some of his workmen did not hesitate to apply to him, had reached the ear of the vicar. He was far from holding Philip Darnell blameless in his conduct towards his work-people; but he had no sympathy with the feelings some of them were beginning to evince.

"Come, Gus," he said, rather sharply, "what foolish notion have you in your head? What can it matter to you for whom you work? The thing you have to see to is that you do your work well and nobly, remembering that you serve, not this master or that, but the Lord Christ."

But Gus looked troubled still.

"Mr. Mouncey," he asked presently, "did you ever have an enemy?"

"An enemy!" repeated Mr. Mouncey, a gleam of amusement lighting up his bright, open face. "Why, no, Gus, I do not believe I have ever had what you could call an enemy. I have created ill-will towards myself many a time by the things I have felt obliged to do; but the feeling has soon died away. No, I never had a downright enemy. What made you think of such a thing?"

Instead of replying to this question, Gus asked another.

"Suppose you had an enemy, sir; would you be willing to work for him?"

"Certainly I would serve him, Gus, in any way that I could. If I knew that a man was my enemy, I would do my utmost to change him into a friend. That is the Christian way. What did Jesus say? 'Love your enemies.' It is not hard to serve those whom we love."

"No, but it's hard to love those who have done us wrong," said Gus thoughtfully.

"You are right; it is hard. We need to seek of God grace to forgive our enemies. In some cases, one must begin to serve before one can love. If a man tries to do good to his enemy, he will presently find that he loves him."

"Then how about revenge?" asked Gus, remembering his father's words. "Are we never to have our revenge on those who have hurt us?"

"Never," said the vicar emphatically; "the idea of revenge is mean, and low, and spiteful, unworthy of a Christian and a gentleman. Unless, indeed, we seek it in the manner St. Paul points out, '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. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.'"

Gus was silent, pondering the vicar's words. That was not the kind of revenge his father meant. No; his father had hated this man, Philip Darnell, and had deemed himself justified in hating him with the bitterest hatred. He had longed for the power to punish him for the evil he had done. It would have been joy to him to see his enemy suffer pain.

But a Christian must not hate his enemy. Gus had never heard the old saying that "A Christian is God Almighty's gentleman;" but he had long ago resolved that he would be a gentleman after the pattern of Jesus Christ, and the resolve had become a power in his life. Now by which was he most bound—the law of Christ, or the promise he had given to his father?

The boy's simple, ingenuous mind soon saw its way through the difficulty.

"When I made that promise to father," he said to himself, "I did not know what I know now. And father did not understand the beautiful ways of Jesus, and that I cannot truly be a gentleman unless I follow them; for if he had, he would not have asked me to make such a promise. I will keep the promise, though: I will seek to be revenged on Philip Darnell; but it shall be in the Christian way. I do not know how I shall do it, for he is little likely to hunger or thirst; but there may be some way in which I can heap coals of fire on his head."

Whilst these thoughts were passing through Gus' mind, Sebastian Mouncey was watching him curiously. What was working in his mind? What had he heard concerning Philip Darnell? His enemy, indeed! It was a strange fancy; but the thoughts of youth are often incomprehensible to older minds, and Sebastian Mouncey was not the man to despise them on that account. He did not press Gus to speak, but waited; and presently the boy of his own accord said—

"I will go to the mill, if you wish it, sir."

"That's right, my lad," said Mr. Mouncey heartily; "I believe it is the best opening I can find for you. The manager, Mr. Ellary, is a kind-hearted man, and you will do well with him."

So on the following Monday morning, Gus began his work in the counting-house. He would still live at the cottage, but he was now to pay a small sum for his board and lodging, and he felt proud that he could do so.

From eight in the morning till six in the evening, with the exception of an hour in the middle of the day, when he went home to have his dinner, he was in the counting-house. It seemed irksome at first to sit so long before a high desk; but he worked well, and gave satisfaction to Mr. Ellary.

It was now late autumn, and Mr. Darnell had returned to his London residence for the winter, contenting himself with coming down once a week to see that things were going right at the mill, so that Gus saw but little of him.

The title of "gentleman" had not followed Gus to Rayleigh, but he deserved it as much as he had ever done. In his new position, he showed a courtesy, kindliness, and candour which the noblest-born could hardly have surpassed. As a natural consequence, he became a general favourite with the mill-hands.