CHAPTER XXII.

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.