Worthy of his Name by Eglanton Thorne

"GUS, I have good news for you," said Mr. Mouncey, as he entered the pleasant morning-room at the Retreat, when Gus was resting on a sofa, whilst his Cousin Edith sat near, busied in giving the last touches to a little water-colour drawing.

The colonel had again taken up his abode in his house at Rayleigh, and thither had Gus been conveyed as soon as he was strong enough to bear the removal. His aunt had been obliged to return to her home at Southampton, but Edith had come to make a long stay with her grandfather, that she might be her cousin's companion.

"Good news! " repeated Gus, looking eagerly into his friend's face. "Oh, please tell me what it is!"

"The strike is over," said Mr. Mouncey, his countenance radiant with satisfaction. "Mr. Darnell has at length decided to take back all the old hands, except a few whom he considers past work, and to give them the extra pay they asked."

"You do not mean it! " cried Gus delightedly. "Why, it hardly seems possible that it can be true. I never thought Mr. Darnell would give in."

"To tell you the truth, Gus, I think your influence has had some weight in the matter."

"Mine? " said Gus. "How could it? I never said a word to Mr. Darnell about the strike."

"Ah, but he knows which side has your sympathy. And once, when he spoke to me of your having saved his life, and said how he wished he could do something for you, I ventured to hint that he could not please you more than by helping those poor starving families in the cottages. I scarcely expected my words to have any effect, but it seems they had."

"I am so glad," said Gus, earnestly. "Oh, Mr. Mouncey, it is indeed good news!"

For a few moments Mr. Mouncey did not reply. He was thinking how such a noble deed as Gus had done enriches our human life, and how far its elevating influence may extend.

"You remember old Mike Newman? " he said presently. "I fear he will never work again; he is very ill with rheumatic fever. He has a great wish to see you, Gus. Could you get so far, do you think? There is something weighing on the poor old man's mind. Perhaps he will tell his trouble to you; I cannot draw it from him."

"I can drive you there in the pony chaise this afternoon if you like, Gus," said Edith.

And Gus willingly fell in with the suggestion. Several weeks had passed since the night of the fire, and he had made fair progress. He was now able to get about a little with the aid of crutches. It was feared that his cure would be so far imperfect that he would always walk with a slight limp. The thought of this was a trouble to his grandfather, but Gus would not let it trouble him.

When Gus entered Mike's cottage on his crutches, he found the poor old man even worse than he had been led to expect. But, though in great pain, Mike was conscious, and presently, as they talked together, it seemed to Gus that his anguish was as much that of the mind as of the body. At first his words appeared so wild and incoherent that Gus fancied he must be wandering; but gradually he found a clue to their meaning.

"Eh, Master Gus," he said, "the pain is just like a fire in my bones-a fire burning me whilst I live. And sure, if ever man deserved to be burned I'm that man. The very pains of hell have got hold on me, and it's to hell I'm going!"

"Don't say that, Mike; you need not go to hell."

"I must, lad, I must! For a man that's sinned as I have there can be no mercy. I'm as bad as a murderer, that's what I am."

"And if you are, Mike, there's mercy even for such. Don't you remember how Jesus Christ prayed for His murderers? -'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!"

"Ah, but I knew what I was doing. I knew it was a crime for which I might be hanged; but I didn't care. If I'd seen what it would all lead to! I never thought, Gus, that you would suffer! To see you come limping in, so mild and patient, was almost more than I could bear. And yet it would have been worse if he had died. You've saved me from the guilt of blood."

"Mike, what do you mean? Of what are you thinking?"