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."