CHAPTER III.

GUS MAKES A PROMISE.

THE life of Augustus Devereux Carruthers grew no easier as the days went on. Surely no child of gentle birth had ever so rough a bringing up, or so early made acquaintance with the darker phases of life. His father had sunk lower and lower, benumbing his faculties by strong drink, till even the drudgery of copying for law-stationers was well-nigh beyond his weakened capacity.

At length that failed, and when he came to Glensford with his boy, he was trusting for their maintenance to such chance jobs as might come to the hand of a forlorn man, broken-down alike in health and fortune. By the sale of some of his books, he had obtained the sum that he had paid in advance to Sally Dent—the only means by which he could be sure that the money would not find its way across the counter of the large and flourishing public-house which stood at the corner of the green.

Gus knew often what it was to miss a meal in these days; often he went supperless to bed, where he slept soundly in spite of hunger, till his father roused him by stumbling into the room about midnight; for the craving for strong drink was taking a stronger and stronger hold upon the unhappy man. He would at any time go without food that Gus might have the last crust in the cupboard; but as long as he could get the money for it, drink he must have. So the few poor possessions contained in the old trunk found their way one after another to the pawnshop, till almost everything of value was gone.

Much as he suffered, Gus never told himself that he had a bad father. It was such a common thing at Lavender Terrace, and other places where he had lived, for fathers, and even mothers, to drink and neglect their children, that Gus accepted the fact quite philosophically. To have a drunken father was to him only such a calamity as to have a lame father or a blind father would have been. It was a thing that could not be helped, and must be endured. But one truth concerning the matter had been grasped by Gus. His father frequently told him that if he never began to drink, he would never want to drink; and Gus was resolved that he would not begin such an undesirable habit.

One day, when they had been in Sally Dent's house for about a month, and things were at a very low ebb with her lodger, Gus was called by his father to accompany him to another part of London, where an election was about to take place, and there was a chance of employment in circulating bills from house to house. Gus came willingly. He liked nothing better than to be with his father, who, even in his worst hours, never struck or ill-used him.

They had a long and weary walk ere they arrived at the place they sought. The committee rooms were easily found. The house was made conspicuous from a distance by the flags and banners which waved about it, as well as by the crowd of ill-clad, wretched-looking men gathered before the door.

"We come too late, I fear," said Gus' father despondently, as they halted on the outskirts of the crowd. Suddenly his eye caught a placard raised high above the heads of the people. Gus saw a quick change pass over his father's face. It grew ashy white, his eyes gleamed fiercely, his hands were clenched. In terror the boy imagined that a paroxysm of pain had seized his father; but it was not so. His eyes were riveted on the name of the candidate.

"Philip Darnell," he murmured; "that man! What does it mean?" Then eagerly, he grasped the arm of a man who stood near him: "Tell me—whose election is this? I do not understand."

"Whose election? Who is the candidate, do you mean? Why, Philip Darnell. Ah, you had not heard? Sir Robert Leicester has retired, and Philip Darnell has just been nominated."

"That man! I'm glad I know. Serve him! I'd sooner die!"

"Would you? Dying's not so easy, let me tell you," returned the other, eyeing him curiously. "I know he ain't extra, this Philip Darnell, if all folks say of him is true; but what of that? What does it matter to us as long as he pays us our money?"

But the man known as Rew recoiled from him as he spoke. The words sounded hideous in his ears. What did it matter, indeed? "I'd rather die!" he muttered again, and made his way hastily out of the crowd.

"You'd better go to Arthur Brown; he's the people's candidate!" shouted the man to whom Rew had spoken, and then touched his forehead, and winked at a neighbour, intending to convey his belief that the man who refused to serve Philip Darnell was half-crazed.

Gus was much perplexed. He watched his father anxiously, as retiring a little from the crowd, he leaned exhausted against some palings and wiped his brow.

Suddenly, with clatter and commotion, a handsome carriage dashed into the street. It was drawn by a pair of fine bay horses, decorated with rosettes of blue ribbon. Several gentlemen were seated in it, one, a dark man, with florid face and beaming smile. Gus' father started forward excitedly.

"There he is!" he cried. "There is Philip Darnell. Look, Gus, look; there is the man who worked your father's ruin! See, he rides in his carriage, men gather about him, and I—look what he has made of me!"

"Father, what did he do?" cried Gus, bewildered.

"Do! Don't ask me. I tell you, if there were justice in this world, that man would stand beside me, degraded as I am. Look at him, Gus! Look, that you may know him again!" And he pointed to where Philip Darnell had alighted in the midst of the crowd, and was shaking hands ostentatiously with every one who came forward. "Remember that to that man you owe it that you have been brought up in rags and misery; and if ever you have the chance, requite him for the wrong he has done you and me. Promise me, Gus, that if ever in coming years it is in your power, you will have revenge on him. Promise, boy, I say."

"I promise," said Gus, urged by his father's passionate tones. But as he said the words, he was amused to think how unlikely it was that a poor ragged little boy such as he was should ever have it in his power to inflict a punishment on the rich, grand man.

The gentlemen passed into the house, the eager crowd about the door gradually dispersed; but Gus' father still stood helplessly clinging to the palings. His face was pale to ghastliness; he was trembling with excitement.

"What will you do, father?" Gus asked. "Will you go to the other place?"

"I can go nowhere," his father replied. "We must get home, Gus; that is all we can do now."

At that moment, a little pony chaise came down the street, driven by a young girl of about sixteen. Seated bolt upright beside her was a lady considerably older, whose face wore a nervous, anxious expression. Possibly the pretty grey pony held political opinions of another order to those of Mr. Philip Darnell; but whatever the cause, the sight of a small hand-cart on which were mounted several huge blue-and-white placards, standing near the house in which this candidate had established his headquarters, had a disturbing influence on the little animal. He shied violently, and would not proceed, but kept backing towards the opposite pavement in a way which greatly alarmed the elder lady.

"Oh, Edith!" she cried. "What did I tell you? I said it was not safe for us to come alone. Oh, do stop it, and let me get out! I am not nervous as a rule, but this is too much."

"Dear aunt, there is no danger," said the girl in a sweet, calm voice. "Don will be all right in a moment; it is only that he is a staunch Tory, and does not like—Oh, thank you!"

The thanks were for Gus, who had darted forward and laid his hand on the pony's bridle. Patting pony's neck, and soothing it with coaxing words and sounds, he quickly succeeded in leading it past the objectionable cart. The girl thanked him with a radiant smile, then leaning forward dropped a sixpence in palm. Gus looked after her as she drove away with a strange sensation of pleasure; it was not the sixpence only that made him glad, it was her kind look, her smile.

He turned to his father with sparkling eyes. "Now, we can have some breakfast," he said.

But his father, too, was looking after the chaise with an eager, wistful gaze.

"How strange that the voice should be so like," he murmured; "and an Edith, too, just such another Edith!"

"Did you know her, father?" asked Gus, full of wonder.

"Know her, boy! Do I look like a man that would know ladies?"

And he sighed heavily as he turned to go home. Never had he been more conscious of his wretchedness and degradation. But to Gus, the gift of the sixpence and the young lady's smile had brought a great influx of cheerfulness. The sun was shining brightly; there were flowers at the street corners, and he, poor ragged boy that he was, looked bright enough to match the day.

Half of the sixpence was soon expended on a breakfast of bread and milk, of which his father would scarce partake. The way home was long and weary. So weak and breathless did Gus' father find himself, so often was he forced to pause and rest, that it was late in the afternoon ere they reached Lavender Terrace.

After resting awhile, Gus' father went out again, carrying with him the remainder of his diminished stock of books, leaving only the Bible, which he would fain preserve. Gus had no expectation of seeing him again till a late hour of the night; but, to his surprise, in about an hour his father returned, with no sign about him of having entered a public-house during his absence. He laid some money on the table, sighing to see how little it was.

"A copy of the first folio," he murmured, "to fetch no more than seven shillings! And my Dante—ah, well, what does it matter now?"

"Ask Mrs. Dent to be good enough to step here for a moment," he said to Gus.

Gus had apparently some difficulty in bringing Mrs. Dent; but she came at last with a somewhat unsteady step, her face flushed, her eyes dazed and sleepy.

"Mrs. Dent," said her lodger, with a certain quiet dignity, which had clung to him through all his misfortunes, "here is the money I owe you. I gave you notice a week ago that I should leave to-morrow, and it is still my intention. You know I promised to take myself off when I no longer had the means to pay you."

"It's true you said it," exclaimed Sally; "but do you think I'd be hard on a gentleman? I can tell you I knows a gentleman when I sees one; and, as I was a-saying to Mrs. Minn the other day, it's easy to see that you've come down in the world. What does it matter if you're a bit hard up? If you don't pay at once you'll pay some time, and if not, there's them belonging to you as will."

Her words made her lodger wince.

"You are mistaken," he said quietly; "I am not a gentleman, and I have no friends who will ever trouble themselves about me. Take the money, please, and understand that we leave to-morrow."

The woman took the money and went away, muttering to herself.

"Where are we going to-morrow, father?" Gus asked, as soon as they were alone.

His father had seated himself by the table, and was drearily contemplating the few shillings that remained on it. He looked up only to say, "I do not know."

Gus was startled, but something in his father's manner withheld him from asking further questions.

"Come and read to me, Gus," said his father, after a minute.

"What shall I read?" asked the boy.

"We have but one book now," said his father, pointing to the Bible.

Gus took the Bible and opened it. He remembered that the chapter he had last read to his father was the first of St. Mark's Gospel, so now he began to read the second chapter. His father did not appear to be paying much attention to what he read; but as Gus finished the account of the healing of the paralytic, his father suddenly said, as if speaking to himself:

"He called him 'son;' and yet I suppose he had led a wicked life. And without a word spoken between them, He forgave his sins."

Gus waited a few moments, but his father said no more, so he went on and finished the chapter. Then, being very tired with their long tramp, the little boy closed the book, and began to prepare for bed.

His father sat still, lost in thought. He was not looking forward to the days that might come—days probably of hunger and want and weary wandering, with no sleeping place save a corner in a common lodging-house, or a bench in the open air. Somehow the hopeless future seemed to have lost its power to appall him. His mind was back in the past, living over again the days that had been. Then, with a heavy sigh, he came back to the present.

"Did you speak, father?" Gus asked, half-raising himself from the bed into which he had crept.

But the words his father had murmured were not addressed to him.

"Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria.

"There is no greater sorrow Than to be mindful of the happy time In misery."

This man, whose memory so readily recalled the immortal words of Dante, had had no mean culture. He had passed through a University course with distinction; he had early won laurels in literature; a grand career at the Bar had been prophesied for him when he entered upon his profession. But this was what he had made of the future that had seemed so full of promise.

In misery! Ah, verily, a misery those only know who can recall the "happy time," and set in sharp and bitter contrast that which is, and that which "might have been!"