Worthy of his name

by Eglanton Thorne

"He looks like a gentleman's son, don't he now? He has no mother, I s'pose?"

"She's dead, I believe. Ay, you may laugh, Mrs. Minn; but there's gentlefolks as come down in the world, and, if I'm not mistaken, this lodger of mine comes of gentlefolk. You should see the Bible he has in his room, one with gilt edges and lined with silk, like the gentry use. I ought to know, for I've lived in good service and seen what's what. And I can tell you he's a scholard, for one day I wanted a letter wrote to my old mistress, and I made so bold as to ask him to do it for me, and you may believe me, he wrote such a letter as a gentleman might 'a'wrote. She noticed it, she did, and asked me who'd wrote it."

"The more shame to him to have fallen so low," said the carpenter, hammering vigorously. "There's some excuse for us poor chaps, who have had a hard struggle all our days, if we take a drop too much to cheer us sometimes; but a man who has had eddication, and all the advantages money can give, ought to be ashamed of hisself if he can't behave as he should. I know if I had had such chances—"

But what he would have done under more fortunate circumstances remained untold, for at that moment Mrs. Dent's lodger made his appearance. He came round the sharp bend by which the lane turned from the main road, a man above the middle height, but with stooping shoulders and feeble frame. His clothes were deplorably shabby, but they looked the shabbier for their cut and style, which revealed the skill of a high-class tailor. His face was sharp and wan, but it had a refinement of feature which was not due merely to the wasting of disease. The deep-seated anguish that looked out of his eyes, the settled bitterness expressed by the drooping corners of the delicate mouth, would have struck pain to the heart of a sensitive observer.

Mrs. Minn was hardly such a one, but she felt a novel sensation of pity, as with instinctive courtesy he stepped from the path to make room for her. In spite of his depressed, crushed air, he walked and bore himself in a different fashion from any other man living at Lavender Terrace. It was the first time he had been seen abroad in daylight since he came to Mrs. Dent's, and the neighbours observed him curiously.

"Gus, I want you," he called to his son, halting for a moment ere he turned into the house. The voice was weak and hoarse; but it had some quality other than weakness or hoarseness, which gave it an unusual sound to the ears of the listeners.

The boy sprang down from the rubbish heap and hastened after his father. Perhaps the sight of the parcel wrapped in newspaper which his father carried under his arm quickened his steps. Gus was pale, and his face showed a faint reflex of the melancholy expression stamped upon his father's; but it had the brightness which comes of a liberal application of soap and water. If he was one of the most ragged boys in the lane, he was also one of the cleanest. He looked up into Mrs. Minn's face as he passed her. His clear, frank blue eyes, his sweet, gentle expression affected her strangely.

"God bless him! He's a pretty boy," she said, though she was not wont to pray God to bless her own children.

Sally Dent ventured on no familiar greeting as her lodger entered the house. There was something about the silent, melancholy man that held her in awe.

"So that's your lodger," said Mrs. Minn, lowering her voice. "But how ill he looks! I never saw any one so ghastly. You mark my words, Sally Dent, he won't be your lodger long."