JIM.

Waikato Times, Volume X, Issue 726, 10 February 1877, Page 1 (Supplement)

JIM.

'Wb belonged to the surplus popnlation, Jim and I, bflfc we did not know it. The big world into which we came was crowded to overflowing with just such puny, unwashed, ill-fed little wretches as we were, bnt we didn't know it, and so w.e oatue unconscious into the sunless, teeming alley, where countless othero like ourselves herded. We didn't know we were a problem, Jim and I ; we didn't know that we and our kind were baffling' the wisdom of statesmen, Jim and I ; bat if we had known all about it. I doubt if we oould have occupied the situation more philosophically. We slept as quietly m the underground cellar, down whose oozy steps the rain and ruin bf years made slippery passage, or bestowed ourselves as naturally, if need be, under some stranded wayside cart, as if it were precisely the thing Heaven had adapted lis for from the beginning. Jim was oldea and bigger than I ; a tall likely lad ; fifteen of these, hardening and toughening years had made him keen and sharp as a terrier, and just the lad to look after a forlorn waif of a little girl like myself. And Jim, after he had blacked boots all day, or sold newspapers of an afternoon, was sure to look after me, and we took Bupper together out of the same bowl of porridge. Jim wasn't my brother, oh no] I used to wish he was my brother though, sometimes, just because 1 was so proud of him. The old man that kept the cellar, you see, had picked Jim up from somewhere when his folks died, and picked me up from somewhere when my folks died, and so we had somehow fallen together all along. Just down beyond the jog of our alley, .where it turned a sort of grey corner, and was darker and dirtier than ever -juat there there stood an old grey oh arch with a clock m the tower; an old, old moßay churoh, and an old,* old dock that passed its withered hands over its wizened face, aud looked sleepily through them down into our alley on one side, and into a busy, noisy thoroughfare on tho other. . This old clock had dozed there till its head was all on one side, and you couldn't be sure whether it told the right time or not ; bub of a summer afternoon, when it was getting quite dusk down m our alley, a red ray from the setting Bun used to settle for a minnte right down on the face of the sleepy old clock ; then it would seem to rouse up out of a pleasant dream, and strike the hour as Bharp as need he, and then I knew it was time to look out for Jim. I'd see him tarn the corner,, with his old straw hat on, and bis patched shoes, or barefoot maybe, for that matter, and we'd set off for a stroll together— a stroll to the wharves. We generally haunted the wharves, Jim and I, when we went a-pleasaring. They were so grand, the wharves, so busy, the wharves, ao fall of light and fresh air, the wharves, so altogether different from our alley, with the ships crowding round them, and the flattering flags here and there on the masts, and the busy sailors getting m freights. Sometimes Jim would get a job for half an hoar, and leave me larking among the cotten bales or sitting solitary m some safe corner .■ till he came back. He always came back. And then sometimes we would linger about there till night-fall. Then the wharf was solemn and silent, and you could hear the water rushing up against tho great beams underneath, and see here and there alight gleaming from some lone lantern among the shrouds, and the grey water stretching beyond, we knew not whither ; and if Jim and I had owned-it all, we oouldn'c have loved it better. Bab one day Jim got a job that lasted longer than usual, and I grew scared and uneasy as night came on and he didn't come back. Wandering from the place where he had sab me, sby and fearsome as a waterrat, but as dertermined, I looked for him everywhere, but m vain ; then I went back to my post, for hadn't he said, as he always said, ' Don't be afraid, Jenny ; I'll come back, for sure, you know.' And then I waited and waited, till finally I fell asleep among the bales and barrels, and forgot my troubles. In the morning, a forlorn and desolate little creature enough, I learned from some compassionate 'longshoreman that the great ship where Jim had been ab work had sailed away with him aboard. A wild and passionate burst of weeping greeted this news, aud a pitiful throng of people gathered about me, freight men and sailors mostly, but among them suddenly appeared the quiet face of a Quaker lady, who was distributing books among the sailors. They told her my tale, and seeing me utterly friendless, she wiped my tear-stained face with her white handkerchief, and took me away. .1 had no friends. I was no better ". than 4 a masterless dog, and worth far less. Bat she took me to a great clean, bare, and quiet place— an institution they called itwhore there were many others as homeless and wretched as I. And there they washed me aud made me so clean and fresh that I thought the real me, the ragged, red-eyed, unkempt, surplus atom of humanity that had been me, waa gone away over soaß with Jim, and this rosy-chcoked. child wasanothsr . mo, newly como into the world. Then one day there came a grand and stately lady, who took me away to live with her, and be her own little girl. This lady wore' shining Bilks, and lived m a splendid house, and had a lad m a velvet jacket who was about as big a. Jim. It was all like a strange, bright dream, if I could only have forgotten Jim. Bat I could not. Jim was surplus population no longer ; perhaps he was drowned ; his ragged jacket nnd orownless bat might be burled now away , down under the sea. Nobody, about me now wore patched shops or- browsers out at tho knees, and nobody, it seemed to me, not even Louis, who was so kind and good to me, not even he, had an eye as bright and soft as Jimp, or a hand as warm. And so I never forgot Jim, bub always m my heart of hearts I seemed listening and waiting for him. Sometimes I used to lure Louis down to * tho wharvea, aud always when I walked by myself my sbeps turned thitherwards, and thus lb was that I never lost Bight of the ships, and dimly, faintly, unreasonably, looked for the return of Jim. Bat ib began to be years since dear old Jim went away, and Louis waß a tall youth home from college, and I was— well, folks called me a young hdy, and said that I would marry Louis some day, And perhaps they might have been right ; bub how could Ibe a lady—a real lady, you know— with an old straw hat and a ragged jacket stowed away m my hearb ? Even after I • grew up, I had fits of silent fretting for Jim that seemed as if they would eat my life away. Mrs. Belden said it was because I was growipg, and she took me away one bright summer to the sea-shore. Oh, the sea-shore I I cannot tell you what I felt when I first saw the sea — the real sea — stretching away from the white line of shore thobbing aud Hounding as it brimmed to the horizon edge. This was the sea, the glorified sea ; the sea no longer grimy and smoky and gray wibh getting its living, but the sea translated, purified, made holy as if after deabh. The days went and came shining aud beautiful ; and, every day I walked on the shore with Louts, ran races with tbe breeze, picked up shells, or gathered sea-weed, or wrtched the sun-sefc gilding the sails of some far-flitting ship. Louis's face was sweet m those days, and kind as sunlight ; and his voice was soft and low when he spoke to me, for he said we old friends now, and had known each 6 * B 0 "any years that we ought to love i _|gft other always. One afternoon we tfmfred farther than usual, and the twilight Mgßteningaswe walked, I- think we both "dwPjb everything save that we were young ijljfcappy, and life was glorious. Love 1 TP word dropped warm from his lips, and Mimed to oolour, all my future wibh rosetins. All my past seemed sinking out of sipi The gates of paradise were open, and , I was free to walk therein if I would. Not lor me tht baneimew, the dtuppototmeot, - fl^M fife fa| * tttyti Kftfel,

mine whab I would, wibh wealth and love for my servants, and luxury and joy at my command. Ah, well I remember thab af te* noon by the sea I— the long line of white beach, the overhanging cliffs, the twilight touching bhe water wibh a golden glow, and glittering on. the tall masts, and a ship lying at anchor beyond. Oh, life was so beautiful !-_oh, love was so beautiful I A lightness of heart, a capricious, intangible, elf-like mood fell upon me, born perhaps of bhe very overflow of bliss. I remember clapping my hands, as I skipped along, and challenging Louis to a race. Perhaps he had urged>me too . parsistently to respond to his affection, to say when I would be his wife, Wife I wanted to bo no one's wife juat then, but only to love and to live. Would 1 answer him ? sighed Louis. '■ When you catch me,' I responded, mockingly, flitting along the sand. Away I went, with Louis following, breathless. We rounded the curve on the ahore, and I waa just about eiaking down upon the sand to wait for him, when an old . boat with a broken oar caught my eye ; it lay swinging m the shadow, jast whore a great rosk overhung the beach. Lightly, thoughtlessly, I stopped into the tiny craft, and waving my handkerchief laughingly to Louis, caught up tho oar and set mysalf afloat. I scarcelythought what I was doing ; it was a mare caprice born of lightness of hearb and youthful thoughtlessness. But a single glance at Louis's countenance roused me to the folly 1 waa committing. 'C>me back! came back !' he cried; ' the current will carry you out of reach m a moment i' , Sail laughing, I endeavoured to obey. Dexterously I worked the brokeu oar, dilligently I steadied the frail little vessel ; but all my efforts only seemed to bear me further and further from tbe anxious f ace that waa watching me. Perhaps if Louis then had plunged into the water, a few strong strokes of his arm might Have reached and saved me. Ido nob know. , Louis waa no swimmer ; and, besides, that waa not hia way of doing things. Ho was of a deliberate and thoughtful rather than a rash and venturesome nature ; he called to me eagerly that he waa going for help ; I phould wait ; I should drop the oar ; m a few moments he would get a boat. I saw him hastening along the shore at the top of his speed ; I . saw the solitary shore, the deserted fisher huts, the far stretches of sand he would have to travel before reaching the little fishing village ; I saw it all, but dimly now, for I was floating farther and farther away. Wearily I dropped the oar and sank back m bhe boat. Surely I need do nothing more. Oh ! surely Louis would rescue me 1 he would nob let me die alone within reach of his loving arms 1 Night was creeping on wibh bwilighb on its garment's < hem. I could see thab lone and shadowy ship lying ab anchor beyond the bar. If only I could reach that ship ! Bat the current would drift me past her m an instant. Wildly and longingly now I called for help, stretching my arms out yearningly towarda bhab silent veaael ; bub nothing answered me. The shore had grown far and dim, and dimly sbrangely the stars coming onb with their unfamiliar beauty made me afraid. Sad, solitary, and deserted, waa 1 going to my death out of all that bright afternoon, that overflowing love, that fulness of life aud pleasure proffered mo ? Afraid? .Well, yea, I was afraid; for one brief moment, as I cowered back into the boat, shrinking ia the solitude of the awful waste of waters, a fear of that unknown world into which I seemed sailing oppressed mo. Bub I bethought myself I that if I mu.t die, it were better to die bravely. Perhaps I was going to meet Jim. If he were m that other world, that ought to be a cheery thought. No doubt he died bravely. Bab was ho dead ? Jim, my old staunch friend, whose glad good face had 1 brightened my wretched childhood, where waß he ? . It is said bhat m the hour of deabh the memory of pasb events is preternaturally vivid. And aa my mind reverted to those old days, forgetting my later life, forgetting my later friends, and forgobting'Louis, I felt aure that I was going to die. A trance of peace fell upon me, m which I seemed to clasp Jim's warm hand again, as iv days of old. Jim! Jim 1 I called aloud, rousing myself as from a dream, yet dreaming still Bub nothing answered me. The darkness was growing deeper, the current more rapid and Louis, with his soft taper fiagers, would never reach me now. Unconscious, half delirious, 'l must have been perhaps, for it seemed to me that -Jim, on whose name I called, was a spirit, and that his presence; somewhere near me, wa3 upholding me m this hour of neei, as I drifted further and further away from all earthly help. How long, I know not ; how far, I know not; it seemed to me I had been on the way to all eternity, and — had lor had I not heard through that deabh : dreams an answering cry ? did I or did I not see mistily, as through a veil, the -spars and shrouds of thab silont vessel that had stood afar off, watching my struggle with death ? And, great God ! waa ib Jim's face— dear old Jim'a face— bending over me, and was this heaven ? * #'• * . * * * •# 'My dear,' said Mrs. B.ld_k,. coming into ray room one morning, 'you are getting quite strong again ; the sea air has done you a world of good— in fact, you look better. I think, than before your accident. I am thinking we may as well return to the city as soon as you like.' I was lying on the couch by the window, looking out upon the sea. ' Well,^ said I, absently, m a half reverie. ' You feel quite strong, do you not, dear V- ' Oh, yea, ma'am,' said I, rousing myself ; 'quite strong— stronger than ever.' I was stronger than ever ; since that night when Jim saved my life, swimming out to my sinking boat againsb the current, and risking hia life to help an unknown waif, unwitting that it was his littls nursling of old who was m deadly peril — since" that nighb a world of new thoughts had come crowding m upon me, scaring me with their strength, and making me ashamed of the idle silken life I was leading. I know not what premonibion of change, of banishment, was tugging ab my hearb this morning, as I looked oub over the gleaming waters, and filled my eyes with tears. * You are sorry to leave the sea-shore V said Mrs. Belden. 'I was thinking of Jim,' said I, honestly. ' How can I leave Jim ?' Mrs. Belden's face flushed. ' Jenny,' said she, severely, *of course we all think a deal of you sailor friend for saving your life ; but you must be aware that he is no fib companion for you, aud thab bhis constant attendance upon you since that accident has been mabber of much annoyance both to myself and Louis. ' At bbab moment Louis's tall figure appeared ab the door, a queer smile was on his pale thin face, as holding oub hisTbng white hand to me, he said, ' Jenny; your sailor's below.' ' I have just been telling Jenny,' said Mrs. Belden, ' thab we muab get her away from the sea-shore to free -her from these low associates.' Low associates !— Jim, my prince of men, my saviour! 'I see bub one course,' added Mrs. Belden, as Loais sbood silent I too saw bub one course ; and yeb these two had been so kind to me all these years, they had made my life so pleasurable : should I go away from them into tbe obscurity and poverty of my early life again ? At bhab moment Jim's sunburned faoe appeared at the door. He stood with his oap m his hand, eager yeb modest, his face alight, his eyes gleaming behind Louis's thin calm countenance. 'I sail the day after to-morrow , Jenny,' he said, 'and I couldn't risk tht} phanoe, of nob seeing you,' Mrg,^^mj^9RU*ng^ygwt^rflW^

her hand, as if she would have ordered off the intruder. ' Wait, mother,' Baid Louis, calmly, 'Of course, Jenny's good sense will tell her what is right, and she belongs to me, you know.' I saw Jim give a great start. The blood flushed up hotly m his brown, cheeks. There was a pause for a moment ; then Jim said, passing his hand over his forehead, as if he were nob' quite clear aa to whab he heard : 'Isit so wibh thee, my little Jenny ? Will my little girl be happy always away from her poor old Jim ?' ' Poor old Jim 1' That was what 1 used to call him m my childish days, stroking his hand and comforting him when he waa m trouble. Should I desert him now ? For answer I took from my finger a glittering ring which Lanis had made me wear ; . I unclasped a costly bracelet he had given me, and drew a gold chain from my neck. I put the Bhining heap m his hands. 'Louis,' said I, 'I have loved you with these, and perhaps for these ; bub 1 loved Jim without them long ago, and I will love him without them thereat of my life. Forgive me, Louis ; I aininot fit, as you see, for wealth and splendour ; it ia natural to me to return to my kind! Come, let us part m peace.' ' Mrs. Belden rose ; her eye 3 were like the flaming sword that drovo out Adam aud Eve from Paradise. She would hava spurned us from her presence. But L mia laid his hand calmly upon her shoulder. 'Mother,' said he, 'Jenny is right.' I have often said to Jim since, aa we two are chatting m the cabin of Jim's good ship, ' Captain Jim, Louis was a gentleman, after all, though he wasn't man enough to save my life.'