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 pass 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 amusement. 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 God 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.
As I have said, he did not fall without an effort. I have known him one
day buy a bad, trashy book, and the same evening, in a fit of
repentance--for God's Spirit wonderfully strives with men--take and burn
it to ashes in his grate. But I have also known him to buy the same
book again the next day. I have known him to walk a mile out of his way
to avoid a place of temptation; and yet, before his walk was done, find
himself, after all, under the glare of its lamps. The moth hovers in
wide circles round the candle before it ventures its wings in the flame.
And so it was with Tom; but the catastrophe came at last.
One evening about three weeks before the time fixed for the Easter trip
with Charlie, Tom felt in tolerably dull. He had been neglecting his
work during several days for novels of the lowest and most sensational
type. Over these he had dawdled till his brain had become muddled with
their unreal incidents and impure suggestions, and now that they were
done he felt fit for nothing. He could not settle down to work, he had
no friends to turn to, and so he put his hat on his head and sallied out
into the streets to seek there the variety he could not find indoors.
As usual, his steps led him to the low theatre about which he was so
curious, and of which he heard so much from his fellow-students. It was
half-past seven, and people were beginning to crowd round the door,
waiting for it to open. Tom, standing on the other side of the
pavement, watched them with a painful fascination.
"Shall I go for once?" he asked himself. Then he strolled up to the
playbill and read it.
As he was doing so some one slapped him on the shoulder, and, turning
quickly round, he found himself face to face with his old acquaintance
Gus Burke and another youth.
Gus, who was still small of stature, though fully nineteen years of age,
was arrayed in the height of the fashion. As Tom regarded him he felt
his own coat become more shabby and his hat older, and he wished he had
brought his dogskin gloves and cane. Gus was smoking, too, a cigarette,
and very distinguished and gentlemanly Tom thought it looked. He felt,
as he regarded his brilliant and unexpected acquaintance, that he was
rather glad those people who were standing at the theatre door should
see him accosted in so familiar a way by such a hero. And Gus's friend
was no less imposing--more so, indeed, for he wore an eyeglass.
Tom was so astonished at this unexpected meeting that he had noticed all
this long before he found words to return his old schoolfellow's
salutation.
Gus, however, relieved him of his embarrassment.
"Tom Drift, upon my honour! How are you, old horse, and how's your
mother? Who'd have thought of running up against you like this?"