Day by day he wandered thus in quest of employment, day by day he grew shabbier, day by day he felt himself less able to rise superior to his difficulties. At length, overcome by despair, he walked down to one of the Metropolitan bridges, and jumped over. The Fates seemed propitious, and in another minute he would have been as completely drowned as he wished, had not a boat belonging to the Thames police been on the very spot to which, unconsciously, he floated. He was heaved on board, dried, and refreshed, and the next morning taken before the magistrate, to whom he explained how unfortunate he had been, how he had no one in the world to care for him, and how thoroughly tired he was of life. The magistrate remanded him for a week, in order that he might once more enjoy the inestimable blessing of being talked to by the prison chaplain. In the meanwhile the case got into the newspapers, and it was then that it caught the eye of our heroine. Calling for a cab, she made her way to the police-court, and when, in the course of a few days, the man was released, made him her coachman and gave him a home. Clean and smart, with contentment stamped on his honest face, no longer with the wan cheek of starvation, no longer his eye heavy with disappointment and despair, active and hearty and happy, there was not a better or cleverer Jehu in all London town.
It was past twelve when the brougham stopped opposite the little passage in Fleet Street, by the side of St. Dunstan’s Church, leading to Clifford’s Inn. Of course the gate was locked—it always is after a certain hour—and the porter had to be roused from slumbers which, judging by the noise he made snoring, were deep indeed. At length he slowly emerged from his den, looked through the latch and opened the door.
‘Is Mr. Wentworth in?’ asked the actress.
‘Well, I will run up and see; but don’t go to sleep, there’s a good fellow. I shall be back directly.’
It was a lovely night, and the moon, at the full, lent an air of romance to the place. There was evidently a good deal of life and gaiety going on—perhaps far more than the authorities had any idea of—young men are fond of chambers, and young men at the time of which I write were fond of sowing wild oats in them, a remarkably unprofitable agricultural operation. By daylight no one could imagine anything of the kind went on, as one looks at the dull windows of the old building, or sees here and there a few lawyers’ clerks rushing along either on business or in pursuit of lunch. It is a handy residence for law students and pressmen, and in the daytime it looks as dull and respectable as anyone could desire.