Worthy of his name

by Eglanton Thorne

Here, in spite of every effort to control herself, she broke down and sobbed. Gus began to sob too, for he was still very weak. Seeing his emotion, Mrs. Durrant tried hard to check her own.

"Gus," she asked presently, "did your father never speak to you about his sister Edith?"

"No," said Gus; "he never said a word about his past life, till a few weeks before he died. Then he told me what my right name was, and that he was a gentleman by birth, although he was so poor and miserable. And he made me promise that I would try to be a real gentleman. Are you sure he was your brother?"

"I have not a doubt of it, Gus. My father has gone to make what inquiries he can at the place where you lived; but he, too, I am sure, is convinced in his own mind. If I had doubted before, I should have known the truth as soon as I saw you, for you are so like what your father was at your age. Yes, Gus, I am indeed your aunt, for you are the child of my own dear, but most unhappy brother. Oh, how I love you for his sake!"

"I am so glad," said Gus, as she bent down and kissed him; "I thought I belonged to no one."

Then he said no more, for he saw that his aunt was overpowered by painful memories. He lay still, musing on the wonderful fact he had learned. Edith Durrant was his cousin, the colonel was his grandfather. How strange it was to think of it! He was glad, and yet there was sorrow in his heart. To think of what his father's early home must have been, of his father and his sister, and then to recall the misery and squalor and sin in which his days had ended! Oh, the pity of it! Gus felt that he could never cease to be conscious of that.

The same thought was wringing with anguish the heart of his grandfather. As he recalled every incident of the past, Colonel Carruthers could no longer refuse to see that he himself had been greatly to blame. He had been too fond, too indulgent a parent in his son's childhood, and too hard, too unrelenting when his son, in later life, chose to cross his will.

Why had he been so angry with his son because he had taken his wife from a social circle which he, the military man of fashion, considered inferior to his own? She was good and gentle, he had been told, and yet he had despised her. There had been no shame, no wrongdoing then. Why had he suffered the fact of his son's making a mésalliance, as he had deemed it, to alienate them so entirely? Perhaps, had he stifled his pride, and received the low-born bride with kindness, his son would never have made his swift descent into shame and misery. Ah, how bitter it was now to see, as he did so clearly, that his son's future might have been entirely different had he acted another part from that which, in his pride and resentment, he had so stiffly maintained!

It was late in the evening. Gus had had another sleep, from which he awoke refreshed. He was lying still, watching with languid enjoyment the shapely white hands of his aunt as they plied the knitting-needles, when Colonel Carruthers entered the room.

There was nothing in the least like a scene. The colonel was not one to give way to emotion under any circumstances. Whatever he felt as he gazed on the fair, open face of the boy, and saw again the strong likeness to his own son, which had struck him so forcibly when first he looked on Gus, his countenance retained its usual quiet, inflexible demeanour.