The Adventures of a Three-Guinea Watch Part 41

My new master did not long remain in Cambridge after the death of his friend. He left the University in many respects a more thoughtful and earnest man than he had entered it, and in leaving it set himself honestly and faithfully to the work for which he had prepared, and on which his heart was fixed.

I shall not follow him through all the labours of his first village curacy, which lasted a year, during which time many people learned to love the manly, open-hearted young clergyman, and to bless the day when he had been sent among them.

At the end of a year he was removed to the charge of a church in a distant large seaport, where everything was in strangest contrast with the scenes he had just left. Instead of simple villagers and rustics, his work now lay amongst labourers and artisans of the poorest and lowest cla.s.s. Instead of fresh country air he had now to breathe the vitiated air of close courts and ill-kept streets; and instead of an atmosphere of repose and innocence, he had now to move in an atmosphere of vice and disorder, from which very often his soul turned with a deep disgust. Still he worked manfully at his post with a bold heart, ready to face any hards.h.i.+p in the service of his Master, and never weary of striving by the Spirit's help to bring into the hard lives around him the elevating joys which they alone know who can call Christ the Saviour theirs. One day an adventure befell him which had a strange bearing on my own fortunes, and the fortunes of more than one of my several masters.

The gaol chaplain at Seatown had recently died, and during the interval necessary for appointing a successor Jim was asked and undertook to add to his other labours that of visiting the prisoners confined there. It was melancholy, and on the whole monotonous work, for the persons whom he thus attended, were mostly stupid, ignorant beings on whose hardened souls it was difficult indeed to make the slightest impression. They listened sulkily to what the chaplain had to say, but to all appearance neither understood nor cared about a single word, and he had the disappointment of noticing, week after week, and month after month, scarcely a sign of good rising out of his labours in the case of any one of them.

One day the governor met him as he was about to pay his customary visits.

"Oh, good-morning, sir. You'll find a new customer to-day."

The gaol governor, you will observe, spoke about his prisoners in a very commercial sort of way.

"Yes, and a queer one too," he added; "he doesn't look like one of our regular customers."

"What is he imprisoned for?"

"He was drunk, and quarrelled with a sailor on the quay, and pushed him into the water, I believe."

"Was the sailor drowned?"

"No, they fished him out, but this gentleman has got six months for it.

He seems very down about it, so I'd like you to see him."

"All right; I will make a point of visiting his cell. Good-morning."

And Jim went on his round, thinking very little about the governor's communication.

Presently he came to the gallery in which the new prisoner's cell was, and asked the turnkey to show him the door.

"No use you a-going in there," muttered that functionary.

"Why?" asked Jim.

"He do swear so as I never hear a cove swear afore."

"Ah," said Jim, "and I suppose you've heard a good deal too in your time."

"So you may say, but this here young fellow comes out with it as if he'd skin you alive."

"Well, I must see him. Let me in, please."

When the door was opened the prisoner's back was turned, nor did he alter his position as Jim entered the cell.

There was undoubtedly something unusual about the man. His figure was not that of a labourer or a rough, nor was his att.i.tude one of stolid brutishness, such as the chaplain had grown only too familiar with.

Jim stood a moment irresolute, and then said,--

"May I speak to you, friend?"

The man turned himself, and without raising his eyes from the stone floor, poured out a volley of curses which fully justified the turnkey's description.

Jim started, and uttered a quick exclamation. But it was not at the curses, terrible as they were. No, his amazement was of another kind altogether; for in the face and voice of this unhappy speaker he was forcibly reminded of one he once knew in very different scenes. As the man went on he watched him keenly and earnestly. He heeded not the oaths, or the taunts, or the threats which flowed from his lips; but as word followed word, and gesture gesture, and look look, he became gradually convinced that the resemblance was more than imaginary--that, indeed, this blaspheming convict was one whom he had once known and still remembered.

Walking up to him, and laying his hand on his shoulder, Jim said, quietly,--

"Tom Drift, do you remember me?"

The man started as for an instant he raised his eyes. Then, letting them drop once more, he growled,--

"That's not my name; I don't know you. Let me alone!"

Jim, more convinced than ever, now did the wisest thing he could in leaving the cell without another word.

"Well," said the turnkey, with a half-triumphant grin, as they turned to leave the gallery, "wasn't I right? Didn't he give you half a dozen as pretty bits of language as you ever heard?"

"Do not speak to me about it, please," replied Jim, more tartly than he had been ever known to speak to any one.

He did not return to the gaol for a week; and then the first visit he paid was to the new prisoner's cell.

He entered it anxiously, and not without misgivings. Tom Drift was sitting on his little bench with his head in his hands.

"May I come in?" said Jim, nervously.

Tom neither spoke nor raised his head; and Jim quietly stepped in. It was evident the interview of a week ago had had its effect on Tom Drift.

He seemed as he sat there like a man who would fain lose himself if he only knew how. He never once raised his head from his hands or uttered a syllable while Jim sat and talked to him. The latter knew better than to return to the topic which had so startled the prisoner a week ago, and contented himself with mere kindly talk and the reading of a short pa.s.sage of Scripture. All this Tom suffered without interruption, stirring neither head nor foot all the time.

"Now, good-bye," said Jim, rising; "don't get to think you have no friends."

The man fidgeted impatiently, and next moment Jim was out in the gallery.

"What's that man's name?" he inquired of the turnkey.

"d.y.k.es; and I tell you what, Mr Halliday, he--"

"Open this door, please, my man," interrupted Jim, by way of cutting him short.

During the week which followed Jim was restless and out of spirits. He seemed unable to settle down to anything, and it was evident his heart was ill at ease--why, it was easy to guess. He had found Tom Drift, and there was a chance of rescuing him. But how to do it? How to approach one who was ashamed of his own name, and who repelled with an oath every offer of help?

Long and earnestly did my master think over the matter. He also wrote a long letter to Charlie, telling him all, and promising to do all that could be done for the poor prodigal. During the days that intervened before his next visit, too, he made as careful and full inquiries about Tom as it was possible to do.

The poor fellow had come to Seatown a month before, and very shortly became a familiar loafer on the quays. No one knew where he came from or why he was in Seatown, unless indeed he expected to be able to conceal himself on some vessel going abroad. Jim found out the lodging- house where he he had lived, but was unable to hear anything there to throw light on what he had been doing, or whence he had come. One man said he had found him once down by the water's edge, looking as though he intended to throw himself in--and the man who gave him drink at the public-house remembered him--and the man whom he had a.s.saulted--but that was all.

Wretched enough was the picture it presented of a hopeless, friendless vagabond, weary of life, yet not daring to die, and finding his only solace in deeper degradation.

Tom was walking to and fro in his cell the next time Jim called. It was almost the first time I had been able to get a view of his face. And oh! how changed it was. Not merely that it looked pale and worn, with bloodshot eyes and hectic cheeks, but there was a scared despairing look there which fairly shocked me. Dissipation, and shame, and want, had all set their mark there. Alas! how soon may the likeness of G.o.d be degraded and defaced! He continued to walk to and fro as Jim sat down and began to read, but I could see he more than once darted a quick glance from under his clouded eyebrows at my master. I could tell by the beating of the latter's heart that he had made up his mind not to leave this morning without an effort to speak to Tom of old times, and I trembled for the result of his venture.

It seemed impossible to say a word while Tom continued to walk up and down his cell like a caged beast in his den, and Jim saw that every moment his opportunity was becoming less likely.