CHAPTER XIX.

A REVELATION.

WHEN they lifted Gus from the ground they found that he had broken his thigh, and it was feared that he might have sustained still more serious injuries. Mr. Mouncey helped to carry him to the vicarage, which was nearer than the cottage in which he lived, and the village surgeon was soon in attendance on him.

Philip Darnell, too, was made welcome to the vicarage, and to all he stood in need of that Mr. Mouncey could supply. He was unnerved by the sudden shock and the narrow escape he had experienced, but otherwise uninjured.

Meanwhile, the best efforts that could be made with the one small engine were powerless to check the progress of the fire. After a while two fire-engines from neighbouring districts arrived on the scene; but by that time the fire had gained such a hold that it was impossible to save any portion of the house. It burned on till midday, and when evening fell the ruins were still smouldering. On the morrow, little save the outer shell of the house remained. The fire which destroyed the Mill House was a never-to-be-forgotten event in the annals of Rayleigh.

A thorough investigation was made, but the origin of the fire could not be traced. No one appeared to have known anything about it till Gus gave the alarm. Yet Philip Darnell was convinced that it was the work of an incendiary; and though Sebastian Mouncey would fain have believed otherwise, he thought it only too probable that this was the case. He had heard many a muttered threat of revenge.

What more likely than that some of the most lawless of the strikers, finding themselves baffled at every turn, and powerless to win an advantage by any overt act, should have chosen this way to strike a blow at their oppressor? But though detectives came from London to search out the matter, nothing transpired that could lead to the conviction of the criminal and his confederates, if such there were. The affair remained a mystery.

For Sebastian Mouncey, Gus formed the most absorbing interest of the next few days. The lad's injuries were so great that at first it seemed almost impossible that he could recover. Whilst he lay unconscious, Mr. Mouncey was constantly beside his bed, sharing the watch of the skilled nurse, and manifesting the devotion of a father towards the orphan lad. All the village there appeared to share his anxiety. In almost every home were those who were hoping and praying that Gus' life might be saved.

And yet, perhaps, none desired his recovery more than did Philip Darnell. He felt that if Gus died, his face would haunt him to the end of his days, like that of an accusing angel with eyes full of reproach. Was it a frenzied fancy, born of his terror and anguish, or had the boy indeed uttered that name as they stood on the window-sill, the name of the man whom he would never willingly recall, yet could not banish from his memory? Ah, he would give anything now to be able to forget the man whom he had pushed down in the world's mire, and over whose prostrate form he had then stepped to his own advancement!

"Be good enough to let me know every day how the boy is," he said to the clergyman, ere quitting Rayleigh for London; "and draw upon my purse for whatever he wants. If you think it well, I will send down a surgeon from London. I cannot forget that he has saved my life."

"Thank you," said Mr. Mouncey. "I will see to it that Gus wants for nothing. He has many friends who will be only too happy to do everything in their power for him."

"Who is he?" asked Mr. Darnell quickly. "I mean, what do you know of his history before he came to Rayleigh?"

"Nothing," said Mr. Mouncey, "except that his father was an educated man, who had sunk into the lowest depths of poverty."

"Ah," said Darnell, his colour deepening as he spoke; "was, you say; then his father is dead?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Mouncey; and no more was said about Gus.

That night, the high fever, which had been one of the gravest symptoms of Gus' condition, began to subside, and in the morning he was conscious. But he was very weak, and at first could remember little of what had happened. The awful fire, his gallant rescue of Philip Darnell, and the danger he had shared with him, seemed all part of the delirium through which he had been passing. But gradually things became clearer to him.

"There was a fire, was there not?" he said to Mr. Mouncey as he sat beside him. "I did not dream it?"

"No," said his friend; "there was indeed a fire. The Mill House was completely burned; there is nothing left of it but the walls."

"Ah, then it is as I think," said Gus; "there was a fire, and I got in at the window and I woke him—and then afterwards I fell, and that was how my leg was broken. But he did not fall, did he?"

"You mean Mr. Darnell? He was brought safely to the ground. He owes his life to you, Gus, for if you had not gone to him, he must have perished."

"I am so glad," said Gus fervently, and tears came into his eyes.

He lay still, too weak to ask more questions, and Sebastian Mouncey avoided speaking about the fire, for he feared to excite him.

From that day Gus began to improve, and though his progress was very slow, it went on steadily. One day the good woman with whom he had lived, and who had been a kind friend to him ever since he entered her home, came to see him. He asked her to let him have some of his possessions that were at the cottage, amongst other things his Bible. She promised to send one of the boys to the vicarage with them as soon as she reached home.

So it happened that when Mr. Mouncey returned from his afternoon's round of visits, and looked into the sick-room to ascertain how Gus was getting on, he saw the old Bible lying on the counterpane by his side. The large thick book, with its unusual style of binding, at once attracted his attention.

"Why, what have you here, Gus?" he asked, laying his hand on it.

"My father's Bible, sir," was the reply. "I thought I should like to read a bit, but my arms ache so when I try to hold it."

Mr. Mouncey looked at the Bible with interest. He took it up, and examined curiously the thick leather covers, with their lining of watered silk. He noted, with the keen eyes of a connoisseur, the strong yet flexible binding and the exquisitely clear type in which the paragraphs were printed.

"This is a beautiful Bible, Gus," he said; "old, yet in excellent preservation. I see it was printed in 1828."

He was standing at the window, holding the book up to the light as he spoke. The next moment a slip of paper fluttered from it to the ground.

"What is this?" asked Mr. Mouncey, as he picked it up.

[Illustration]

"Oh!" exclaimed Gus, in a tone of pleasure. "That is the paper father put inside with my name upon it. The silk must have come ungummed. He wrote my real name upon the paper, and slipped it inside the lining to keep it safe."

"Your real name!" said Sebastian Mouncey. "Are you not then Gus Rew?" He looked at the paper he held in his hand, and read in tones of astonishment, "'Augustus Devereux Carruthers.' Is that your real name?"

"Yes, that is my name," replied Gus; "father said so; he wrote it down that I might know it. I remember I thought it was a very long one."

Sebastian Mouncey was startled. He stood silent, lost in thought. He had heard something of the story of Colonel Carruthers' unhappy son. He knew that he had brought shame on his father, and had been cast off and disowned by him in consequence.

"Gus," he said presently, "do you know that your name is the same as the colonel's?"

"I thought it was," said Gus, "but I could not be sure. I had almost forgotten the name. Does it make any difference?"

"It might make a good deal of difference," said Mr. Mouncey gravely; "or, on the other hand, it may be only a coincidence. But it is nothing to trouble about, Gus," he added, seeing an uneasy look on the boy's face; "don't think any more of it now."

But whether Gus thought more of it or not, the possibility suggested by the discovery he had made was not to be banished from Mr. Mouncey's mind, and he could not rest till he had despatched a letter to the colonel by the night's mail.