The Adventures of a Three-Guinea Watch Part 19

And then the silly fellow, having once inclined to admit there was something to be said for medical students, and having before considered all bad alike, became tolerant all round, more particularly of the really bad set, who appeared to him to enjoy themselves the most.

As his companions became more attractive to him, his work became less interesting.

"Why should I grind and plod here," he said, "while every one else is enjoying himself? If young Charlie were here, I'm pretty sure _he'd_ be in for some of their sprees, and laugh at me for wearing my eyes out as I'm doing."

And then he leaned back in his chair and took to wondering what the six fellows who started that afternoon for Richmond were doing. Smashing the windows of the "Star and Garter," perhaps, or fighting the bargees on the river, or capturing a four-in-hand drag, or disporting themselves in some such genial and truly English manner. And as Tom conjured up the picture he half envied them their sport.

So he gradually became restless and discontented. The days were weary and the evenings intolerably dull. The visits to Mr Newcome were of course pleasant enough, but it was slow being cooped up an entire Sunday with two old people. On the whole, life in London was becoming stupid.

One of the first symptoms of his altered frame of mind was the occasional neglect of his regular letter to Charlie. That ever-faithful young man wrote as punctually as clockwork. Every Thursday morning a letter lay on Tom's plate at breakfast-time, addressed in the well-known hand, and bearing the Randlebury post-mark. And jolly lively letters they were.

I remembered one of them well. It came after two weeks' omission on Tom's part, and ran thus:--

"Dear Tom,

"A pretty fellow you are to correspond with! Here am I, piping to you with all my might, but I can't get you to dance. I know what you'll tell me, you old humbug--`awfully hard grind'--`exam coming on'--`lectures day and night,' and rubbish like that. All very well, but look here, Thomas, don't fancy that your diligence in cutting off legs and arms can be an excuse for cutting yours truly in this heartless manner. Not having a letter of yours to answer, I don't know how I shall sc.r.a.pe up material enough for a yarn. There was a big football-match on Sat.u.r.day, and Jim and I were in it. You should have seen me turning somersaults, and b.u.t.ting my head into the fellows' stomachs. Jim and I got shoulder to shoulder once in the game. You know old Howe? Well, he was running with the ball to wards our goal, and Jim and I were in front of him.

I was nearest, and charged, and over I went like a ninepin; then Jim was on him, and over _he_ went too. However, I was up again in time to jump on Howe's back; but he shook me off on to the ground on my nose. Then Jim, having recovered, took _his_ fling, and a rare fling it was, for Howe dodged him just as he was at the top of a kangaroo leap, and left him looking very foolish in a sitting posture on the ground. However, in dodging, Howe had allowed me time to extricate my nose from the earth and make my third attempt. This time was more successful, for I got my hands round the ball; but I shouldn't have kept them there if Jim hadn't taken the opportunity of executing another astounding buck-jump, which landed him safe on his man's shoulders, where he stuck like a scared cat on the back of a somnambulist. So between us we brought our quarry to earth and gained no end of applause. Wasn't it prime?

That's about all the news here, except that Willoughby is going to Trinity at Midsummer, and that Salter is laid up from the effects of an explosion of crackers in his trousers pockets.

"I've taken a turn at reading hard, which may astonish you. The doctor told me, if I really thought of some day arraying my manly form in a scarlet jacket and wearing a sword, I ought to put it on with my mathematics, which are not my _forte_, you know. So now I'm drawing circles and triangles at every available moment, and my logarithm tables are thumbed almost to death. Don't imagine _you're_ the only burner of midnight oil.

"I had a letter from home to-day. They were saying they hadn't seen you lately. I hope you'll go up when you can; it would be a charity to the dear old folk; besides, they are very fond of you--queer taste!

How's the ticker? Give it a cuff from me for not reminding you to write the last two weeks.

The repeater goes on all serene. It has already gained some notoriety, as I was publicly requested, before the whole Fifth, the other day, to abstain from evoking its musical talents in the course of the Latin prose lesson. Now I must shut up. Seriously, old man, don't overwork yourself, and don't bother to write unless you've time; but you know how welcome your letters are to

"Your affectionate chum,

"C.N."

Of course Tom sat down and answered this letter at once, much reproaching himself for his past neglect.

With the vision of Charlie before his eyes, and with the sound of his voice again in his ears, all his old resolutions and impulses returned that morning. He worked hard, and flung the trashy novel, over which he had been wasting his time the day before, into the fire; he went off to lectures with something like his old eagerness, and discharged his duties in the wards with interest and thoroughness; he refused to allow his mind to be distracted by the proceedings of his fellow-students, and he resolved to spend that very evening at Mr Newcome's.

Tom Drift would probably have laughed at the idea that this sudden change was due entirely to Charlie's letter. To him it seemed like a spontaneous rea.s.sertion of its natural self by his mind, and a matter for such self-congratulation and satisfaction, that it at once covered the mult.i.tude of past omissions.

Indeed, Tom felt very virtuous as he returned that afternoon to his lodgings; and so felt no need to look away from self to Him who alone can keep us from falling.

He read Charlie's letter over again, and smiled at the idea of _his_ getting up mathematics in his spare time.

"He's not the sort of fellow to stick to work of that sort," said Tom to himself, secretly comparing his own remarkable powers of application with those of his Randlebury friend.

Then he sat down, and more than ever admiring and wondering at his own greediness for hard work, read till it was time to start for Mr Newcome's.

It was a good long way, but being a fine evening, Tom determined to walk. He felt that after his work the fresh air would do him good, and besides, as he was in plenty of time, he could indulge himself in that very cheap and harmless luxury, an inspection of the shop windows as he went along. He therefore selected a longer and more crowded route than perhaps he need have done, and certainly, as far as the shops went, was rewarded for his pains.

However, Tom seemed to me to have as much interest in watching the people who pa.s.sed to and fro as in the shops. He amused himself by wondering where this one was going and what that one was doing. With his usual tendency, he chose to imagine they were all bent on mischief or folly, and because they happened to be in a certain street, and because in that street he had frequently heard some of his fellow- students speak of a low theatre, he jumped to the conclusion that every one he saw was bound for this place. Something impelled him to go himself and take an exterior survey of this mysterious and much-spoken- of building. He found it; and, as he expected, he found people thronging in, though not in the numbers he had antic.i.p.ated. He stood and watched them for some time, and wondered what they were going to see.

He went up and read the playbill. He read the name of the play, the t.i.tles of its acts, and the names of its actors. He wondered if the man who just then drove up in a hansom was one of the heroes of the piece, or whether he was one of the performers in the farce announced to follow the play. Still the people streamed in. There was no one he knew, and no one knew him.

"Strange," thought he, "there are so many places in London where one could go and no one ever know it."

He wished he could see what the place was like inside; it must surely be crowded by this time.

Thus he dawdled for some time; then with a sigh and an effort he tore himself away and walked quickly on to the Newcomes' house. Their welcome was most cordial.

"We were afraid," said Mr Newcome, "you had quite deserted us. Come in, it is pleasant to see you. We had a letter from Charlie only to- day, telling us to see you did not overwork yourself, and to make you come up here whether you would or not. Of course we could hardly follow such instructions literally."

Tom spent a pleasant evening with the two good people.

He always had found Mr Newcome a clever and very entertaining man--a man whom one feels all the better for talking to, and who naturally sets every guest in his house at ease. They talked much about Charlie and his prospects. They even consulted Tom as to the wisdom of yielding to the boy's desire for a military career, and Tom strongly supported the idea.

Then Tom's own prospects were canva.s.sed and highly approved of by both Mr, and Mrs Newcome.

Tom already pictured himself settled down in his country practice, enjoying himself, doing good to others, and laying by a comfortable competency for future years. On the whole, he felt, as he quitted the hospitable roof of his genial friends, that he had rarely spent a more pleasant or profitable evening.

People were thronging out of the theatre as he returned, and he could not resist the desire to stand and watch them; for a little. He wondered what they had seen, and whether those he saw had waited for the "farce," or was that still going on?--and he wondered if any people ever went into a theatre at so late an hour as eleven.

Ah, Tom! he did not go in that night, or the next, but he was getting himself ready for the first step.

Reader, do not mistake Tom's weakness and folly. He was not trying to persuade himself this place was a good one for him to enter; he was not thoughtlessly going in to discover too late that he had better have stayed out. No, Tom--rightly or wrongly--had made up his own mind that this theatre was a bad place, and _yet_ he had a desire to enter in!

CHAPTER TWELVE.

HOW TOM DRIFT BEGINS TO GO DOWNHILL.

Time went on, and Tom Drift advanced inch by inch nearer the brink. He slipped, not without many an effort to recover himself, many a pang of self-reproach, many a vague hope of deliverance.

"Be good to Tom Drift!" was ever ringing in my ears. But what could I do? He often neglected me for days. All I could do was to watch and tremble for what was coming.

You who are so ready to call Tom a fool, and hug yourselves that you have more strength of character and resolution than he had, try to realise what were his perils and what were his temptations at that time, before you pa.s.s judgment.

The dulness of those lodgings in Grime Street was often almost unbearable. When his work was done, and Tom looked out of the window and saw nothing but carts and cabs and tradesmen, and the dismal houses opposite, what wonder if he sometimes felt miserable? When he heard nothing but pattering footsteps down the pavement, the rumble of wheels and the street cries under his window, what wonder if he felt lonely and friendless? No footsteps stopped at _his_ door, no friendly face lightened _his_ dull study, no cheery laughter brought music to _his_ life. What wonder, I say, if he moped and felt discontented?

What wonder if his thoughts wandered to scenes and places that contrasted forcibly with his dead-alive occupation? What wonder if he hankered after a "little excitement," to break the monotony of lectures, hard reading, and stupid evenings?

"Ah," I hear you say, "there are plenty of things he might have done.

It was his own fault if he was dull in London. I would have gone to the museums, the libraries, the concerts, the parks, the river, the picture galleries, and other harmless and delightful places of amus.e.m.e.nt. Why, I could not be dull in London if I tried. Tom Drift was an idiot."

My dear friend, what a pity Tom Drift had not the advantage of your acquaintance when he was in London! But he had not. He had no friends, as I have said, except the Newcomes, whom he only visited occasionally, and as a matter chiefly of duty, and his anxiety to keep right at first had led him to reject and fight shy of friendships with his fellow- students. Doubtless it was his own fault to a large extent that he allowed himself to get into this dull, dissatisfied condition. If he had had a healthy mind like you, friend, it would not have happened.

But instead of utterly scouting him as an idiot, rather thank G.o.d you have been spared all his weaknesses and all his temptations.

Was Tom never to learn that there was a way--"The Way, the Truth, and the Life"--better than any he had yet tried, which would lead him straight through the tangled mazes of his London life? Was he never to discover that Friend, truer than all earthly friends, at Whose side he might brave each trial and overcome each temptation?

Poor Tom! he walked in a way of his own? and trusted in no one better than himself; and that was why he fell.