"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
passage 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.
"Dykes; 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 assaulted--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 God 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.
"Will you stand still and listen to me a moment?" he said at last.
Tom growled out an oath, and halted in front of him.
"Be quick," said he.
"I'm not going to preach," said Jim, "I want you to look at something."
"I want to look at nothing," muttered Tom, beginning to walk again.
"But you must, you shall look at it!" exclaimed Jim, starting at once to
his feet.
Tom stopped short, suddenly, and turned upon him like a hunted animal.
But Jim neither faltered nor quailed. He walked resolutely up to the
poor fellow, and suddenly drawing me from his pocket, held me out
towards him, saying,--
"Look at this, Tom Drift!"
Tom knew me at once, and I never saw a man change as he did that moment.
The savage scowl vanished from his face, and a sudden pallor came to
his hollow cheeks. A trembling seized him as he held out his hand to
take me, and but for Jim's support he would hardly have remained
standing. My master led him gently to the bench, and putting me into
his hand, said,--
"I'll leave it with you till to-morrow, old fellow; good-bye."
I heard the key turn in the door behind him, and counted his retreating
footsteps down the gallery, and then became fully conscious where and in
whose charge I was.
And now an old familiar sound rang in my ears once more, "Be good to Tom
Drift!" Long, long had I ceased to believe it possible that the chance
of obeying my dear first master's request would ever again come to me;
but here it was. I lay in the prodigal's trembling hands, and looked up
into his troubled face, and heard his deep-drawn sigh, and felt that
there was still something left for me to do.
No one disturbed Tom Drift and me that night, Jim had explained enough
to the governor to gain permission for me to remain in the poor fellow's
company till next day, and I need hardly say I never left his hand.
Memories of better days, of noble friends, of broken vows, crowded in
upon him as he sat bending over me that night.
Daylight faded, but still he never stirred; the governor made his
nightly round, but he never took his eyes off me; and when it was too
dark to see me he held me clasped between his hands as tenderly as if I
had been a child.
I cannot, and would not if I could, describe all that passed through Tom
Drift's soul that night. What struggles, what remorse, what penitence.
Once he murmured Charlie Newcome's name, and once he whispered to
himself, in the words of the parable he had so lately heard, "No more
worthy, no more worthy!" Save for this he neither spoke nor moved, till
an early streak of dawn shot through the grated window and fell upon us.
Then he turned and knelt, with me still clasped in his hands. And so
that night, and with it the crisis of Tom Drift's life, was passed.
There was no more difficulty now for Jim Halliday. Tom even gave me up
when he heard how I had come into my master's possession.
Then he asked about Charlie, and Jim told him all he knew. And so the
weeks went on, and hope once more lit up Tom Drift's face. How could I
help rejoicing in the share I had had in this blessed work of
restoration?
Alas! how fleeting is this world's satisfaction!
A short time afterwards, only a week or so before the termination of Tom
Drift's imprisonment, my master was returning home from the gaol, tired-
out after his day's work. His way lay over a place half brickfield,
half common, across which a narrow footpath went. We had got half way
over when suddenly a dreadful sensation seized me. I was slipping
through the bottom of my pocket! Though I had a watered ribbon attached
to me my master always carried me loose in his waistcoat pocket, with
never a suspicion of the hole that was there. But now that hole seemed
suddenly to expand in order to let me through.
Lower and lower I slipped. I tried to scream, I endeavoured to attract
my master's attention. But all in vain. He strode unconsciously on,
never giving a thought to me or my peril. I held on as long as I could.
Then I dropped. If only I could have fallen on his foot, or struck his
knee as I descended! But no. I slid quietly down, scarcely grazing his
trousers, and just out of the reach of his boot. For a moment I hoped
wildly he would see me as I lay at his feet. Alas! he walked heedlessly
on, leaving me on my back on the footpath, powerless to cry after him,
and not daring to guess what would become of me.
In fact, reader, I was lost.