The two months that followed my departure from Randlebury were
melancholy and tedious.
It was hard for me, after the boisterous surroundings of a public
school, to settle down to the heavy monotony of a dull lodging in a back
street of London; and it was harder still, after being the pride and
favourite of a boy like Charlie Newcome, to find myself the property of
Tom Drift.
Not that Tom used me badly at first. He wound me up regularly, and for
the sake of his absent friend honoured me with a considerable share of
his affection.
Indeed, for the first week or so he was quite gushing, scarcely letting
me out of his sight, and sometimes even dropping a tear over me. And I,
remembering Charlie's last words, "Be good to Tom Drift," felt glad to
be able to remind my new master of old times, and keep fresh the hopes
and resolutions with which Charlie had done so much to inspire him. But
Tom Drift, I could not help feeling, was not a safe man.
There was something lacking in him, and that something was ballast. No
one, perhaps, ever had a greater theoretical desire to be all that was
right and good, but that was not in itself enough.
In quiet, easy times, and with a guiding friend to help him, Tom Drift
did well enough; but left to himself amid currents and storms he could
hardly fail to come to grief, as we shall presently see.
For the first two months he stuck hard to his work he was regular at
lectures, and attentive when there; he spent his spare time well in
study bearing upon the profession for which he was preparing; he wrote
and heard once a week from Charlie; he kept clear of the more rackety of
his fellow-students; he spent his Sundays at Mr Newcome's house, and he
took plenty of healthy exercise both for body and mind.
With many examples about him of industry and success he determined to
make the most of his time as a student, and spoke of the life and sphere
of a country doctor, for which he was training, with the enthusiasm of
one whose heart is in his work.
"The more I think of it," he once wrote to his mother, who was residing
abroad for her health, "the more I take to it. A good doctor is the
best-liked man in his parish. Everybody comes to him in their trouble.
He gets into the best society, and yet makes himself loved by the
poorest. In four or five years at least I ought to get through my
course here, and then there is nothing to prevent my settling down at
once. By that time I hope you'll be well enough to come and keep house
for me, for all country doctors, you know, are bachelors," and so on.
All this was very well, and, as one of Tom's friends, I rejoiced to see
him thus setting himself in earnest to the duties of his calling. But I
rejoiced with trembling. Although he kept clear, for the most part, of
his fellow-students, choosing his friends charily and shyly, I could yet
see that he had no objection to contemplate from a distance the humours
and festivities of his more high-spirited companions. He was not one of
those impulsive fellows who shut their eyes and take a header into the
midst of a new good-fellowship, only to discover too late their error,
and repent their rashness at leisure.
No, Tom had his eyes open. He saw the evil as well as the good, and,
alas for him, having seen it, he looked still!
The students of Saint Elizabeth's Hospital were not on the whole a bad
set. On Tom's arrival in London, however, he had the firm impression in
his mind that all medical students were bad characters, and this foolish
notion did him much harm. If two or three of them were to go off for a
spree, his imagination would at once picture them in scenes and places
such as no respectable man would like to frequent, whereas, if the truth
were known, these misjudged young men had committed no greater crime
than that of taking a boat up the river, or a drive in a dog-cart. If a
group of them should be seen by him laughing and talking, he
instinctively concluded their topic must be ribaldry, whereas they would
perhaps be only joking at the expense of some eccentric professor, or
else chaffing one of their own number. And so it happened that Tom
failed in time to distinguish between the really bad and such as he only
imagined to be bad; and from his habit of looking on at them and their
doings from a studied distance, their presence began gradually and
insensibly to exercise a very considerable influence over his mind.
"After all," he would sometimes say to himself, "these fellows get on.
They pass their exams, they pay their bills, they gain the confidence of
their professors, and at the same time they manage to enjoy themselves.
Perhaps I am a fool to take so much pains about the first three of these
things, and to deny myself the fourth. Perhaps, after all, these
fellows are not so bad as I have fancied, or perhaps I am prudish."
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 scrape up material enough for a yarn. There was a
big football-match on Saturday, and Jim and I were in it. You should
have seen me turning somersaults, and butting 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 reassertion of its natural self by his mind, and a matter
for such self-congratulation and satisfaction, that it at once covered
the multitude 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 passed 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 anticipated. 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
titles 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 canvassed 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!