CHAPTER II.

GUS' REAL NAME.

GUS followed his father into the small back room which was their home. It was a comfortless room, with an unmade bed in one corner and a small table in the middle, on which was a penny bottle of ink, a couple of quill pens, and a dingy remnant of blotting-paper. It also contained two rickety chairs and a large, old-fashioned trunk, on the top of which lay about a score of books, most of them in a more or less shabby condition. The few poor articles of furniture were the property of Sally Dent; only the trunk, the books, and the writing materials belonged to her lodger.

The room was small, but it was not close. The window, grey with dust, was open at top and bottom, letting in the fresh, soft air of the fair May day. Lavender Terrace was not shut in from the winds of heaven. Before it ran the railway, and behind lay stretch of waste ground, around which new houses were rising. It was neither in London nor in the country, but one of those dreary new neighbourhoods to be found on the skirts of the metropolis which have lost their rural charm ere yet they have gained the advantages and respectability of a suburban locality. There were fields still at Glensford, and through one of them a stream made its way; but its banks were littered with rubbish, and its waters choked and befouled by the refuse cast into them. There were generally gipsy carts to be seen in these fields, and gipsy children with bare feet and tangled locks disporting themselves by the stream.

Gus watched his father silently, but with eager eyes, as he unrolled the paper parcel, and brought to view a loaf of bread and some slices of cooked ham. Then, without words, the boy went to a small cupboard by the fireplace, brought out the remnant of linen which did service as a tablecloth, with plates, knives and forks, and as rapidly as possible made the few simple preparations for their meal. The last of these was to place before his father a tall black bottle and a tumbler.

It was now two o'clock, and this was the first meal of the day; yet ere he attacked the food, for which he had so keen an appetite, the boy bent his head and repeated a brief grace. It was the habit in which he had been reared, and its omission would have drawn on him a reprimand from his father.

The boy ate hungrily, but a few mouthfuls seemed to content his father. He laid down his knife and fork, mixed himself a tumblerful of spirit and water, and sat slowly sipping it, and watching his boy the while with his hopeless, melancholy eyes.

"Gus," he said suddenly, "what is your name?"

"Gus Rew," answered the boy, with a smile. His spirits were rising as he took the sorely needed food, and he fancied that his father's mood was also waxing cheerful.

"No, that is not your name," was the unexpected reply.

Gus looked at his father with a shrewd, discerning glance. He was taking but a moderate draught; he never drank deeply so early in the day. Had it been night, Gus would have wondered at no strange, inexplicable words that might fall from his lips; but he did wonder now.

"What do you mean, father?" he asked.

"The name by which the people here know us is not our real name. I called myself Devereux once when we lived in another part, but people soon cut it down to Rew, and I let it be so. Shall I tell you your right name, Gus?"

"Yes," said the boy, forgetting to eat in his astonishment.

"Augustus Devereux Carruthers."

"My!" exclaimed Gus, his eyes opening wide in astonishment. "That's a good long one."

"It is your name, however. Can you remember it?"

"I don't know as I can," replied Gus.

"Then I'll write it down for you. It may be of importance to you some day that you should know your right name. But mind, boy, you are to keep it to yourself. Not a word to any one about it unless I give you leave."

Gus nodded.

"Now, if you've finished, clear the table and get me pen and ink."

The boy obeyed.

With a hand that trembled visibly, the hand of one who habitually drank to excess, but which yet resembled the white, well-kept hand of a gentleman, Gus' father wrote his name on a slip of paper.

"There it is," he said, laying down the pen; "there it is—the name of a gentleman. Gus, do you know that you are a gentleman by birth?"

"A gentleman!" repeated Gus, more astonished than ever.

"Yes; do you know what a gentleman is?"

"A swell," said the boy.

"I wish you would not use such expressions!" cried his father, with a frown. "But there, what else can I expect? How should you know any better? I suppose you think a gentleman is just a man who wears good clothes and has plenty to eat and drink?"

"Yes," said Gus.

"Well, then, let me tell you that money and fine clothes have nothing to do with being a gentleman. A gentleman is one who is brave, who speaks the truth, who is honest and faithful—"

He checked himself abruptly. His eye had fallen on the black bottle. His head drooped, his voice faltered as he went on to say, "I was a gentleman once, Gus, and your mother was a lady. Ay, a true lady she was, though she served in a shop. Mind you, boy, it's not the kind of work one does that makes of a man a gentleman, or of a woman a lady; it's the way in which the work is done that makes all the difference."

"If you were a gentleman once, father," asked the boy eagerly, "how was it that—?" His eyes falling on his parent's shabby, threadbare garments completed the question.

"You may well ask," returned his father in a tone of intense bitterness. "Gus, there are those who would tell you that that unmade me," he pointed as he spoke to the black bottle; "but, lad, that is not the truth. I was undone by one who tempted me, betrayed me, made a very cat's paw of me to serve his own ends, and then turned against me and denounced me. Ah! there are such men in the world—men who do the fiend's work, who drag others down to ruin, whilst they stand proud and firm. And he goes softly; he is honoured and courted, whilst I—Heaven help me!"

The last words escaped as a cry of pain. The man's face had grown deadly pale; it was contorted by the anguish that was bringing out great beads of perspiration on his brow. His hands clutched his breast; he drew each breath in agony. With a cry, Gus rushed to the door to summon help; but a gesture from his father stayed him. In a few moments, the paroxysm of pain was past. The man's hands relaxed their grasp, his breath came more freely, his pallor grew less deathlike. He made a reassuring sign to the boy, and even tried to smile. Gus had seen him suffer thus before, but never had he had so severe an attack.

As he recovered strength the man's eyes fell on the slip of paper and the name written on it.

"We must find a safe place for this," he said. "Bring me the Bible, Gus."

It lay on the top of the trunk, a square Oxford Bible, bearing date 1828, bound in dark leather, richly embossed. The thick boards were lined with crimson silk, and fastened with handsome clasps. Gus' father took the book into his hand with reverent touch. He opened it, and with his penknife lightly lifted the silken lining from one side, pushed the slip of paper within, then, wetting the silk slightly, pressed it again into its place.

"There," he said, "that will adhere, and no one will know there is anything beneath. But you will know; you must remember. Gus, promise me, poor though you are, you will try to be a gentleman."

"Yes, I'll try, father."

"And you'll never touch that?" waving his hand towards the black bottle. "You've told me before that you will never taste strong drink, but I want to hear you say it again."

"I will never take it, father."

"Say, 'So help me God!'"

"So help me God!"

A look of relief came to the father's haggard face. He poured out a little more of the spirit, drank it hastily, then pushing bottle and glass from him, he said—

"Now put that away, Gus, and bring me your lessons."

"Have you no work to do, father?" asked the boy, with brightening face.

"Not at present. I am to call for it at six o'clock, so I have plenty of time to hear you."