London in a fog is too well known to require description. In an
uncommonly thick fog, on a day in December of the following year, Mrs
Matterby hurried along Fleet Street in the direction of the city,
leading Jack by the hand. Both were very wet, very cold, ravenously
hungry, and rather poorly clad. It was evident that things had not
prospered with the widow.
"Dear Jack," she said in a choking voice, as they hurried along the
streets towards the wretched abode in the Tower Hamlets, to which they
had been at length reduced, "dear Jack, my last human hope has failed.
Mr Block has told me that I need not go there again; he has no more
work for me."
Jack's experience of life was too limited to enable him to understand
fully the depth of distress, to which his mother had fallen--with health
broken, money expended, and work not to be had except on terms which
rendered life a misery, and prolonged existence almost an impossibility.
But Jack's power of sympathy was strong and his passions were vehement.
"Mother," he said, with tearful eyes, as he clung closer to her side, "I
would _kill_ Mr Block if I could!"
"Hush, dear boy! You know that would be wrong and could do no good. It
is sinful even to feel such a desire."
"How can I help it, mother!" returned Jack indignantly. Then he asked,
"What are we going to do now, mother?"
For some time the poor widow did not reply; then she spoke in a low
tone, as if murmuring to herself, "The last sixpence gone; the cupboard
empty; nothing--nothing left to pawn--"
She stopped short, and glanced hastily at her marriage ring.
"Mother," said Jack, "have you not often told me that God will not
forsake us? Does it not seem as if He _had_ forsaken us now?"
"It only seems like it, darling," returned the widow hurriedly. "We
don't understand His ways. `Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him!'"
It seemed as if God were about to test the faith of His servant, for at
that moment a cab drove furiously round the corner of a street and
knocked her down. Jack was overturned at the same time. Recovering
himself, instantly, he found his mother in a state of unconsciousness,
with blood flowing from a deep cut in her forehead. In a state of
semi-bewilderment the poor boy followed the stretcher, on which Mrs
Matterby was carried to the nearest hospital, where he waited while his
mother's injuries were examined.
"My boy," said a young surgeon, returning to the waiting room, and
patting Jack's head, "your mother has been rather badly hurt. We must
keep her here to look after her. I daresay we shall soon make her well.
Meanwhile you had better run home, and tell your father--if, that is--
your father is at home, I suppose?"
"No, sir; father's dead."
"Well then your sister or aunt--I suppose there's some relative at home
older than yourself?"
"No, sir; none but mother an' me," whispered Jack.
"No relations of any kind at all in London?"
"None, sir. We know nobody--at least not many, and they're all
strangers."
"A sad case," murmured the surgeon. "Your mother is poor, I suppose?"
"_Very_ poor, sir."
"But of course you have a home of some sort, somewhere?"
"Yes, it's not far from here."
"Well, them, you'd better go home just now, for you can't see your
mother to-night. We dare not let her speak, but come back early
to-morrow, and you shall hear about her--perhaps see her. Here, put
that in your pocket."
Poor Jack took the shilling which the sympathetic surgeon thrust into
his hand, and ran home in a state bordering on distraction; but it was
not till he entered the shabby little room which he had begun to
consider "home" that he realised the full weight of the calamity that
had befallen him. No mother's voice to welcome him; no bit of fire in
the grate to warm; no singing kettle to cheer, or light of candle to
dispel the gloom of rapidly approaching night.
It was Christmas Day too. In the morning he had gone forth with his
mother--she in the sanguine hope of renewing an engagement in a
clothier's shop, which terminated that day; he in the expectation of
getting a few jobs of some sort--messages to run or horses to hold.
Such were the circumstances to which they had been reduced in twelve
months, Jack had arranged to call for his mother and walk home with her.
On the way they were to invest a _very_ small part of the widow's
earnings in "something nice" for their Christmas supper, and spend the
evening together, chatting about the old home in Blackby, and father,
and Natty Grove, and Nellie, and old Nell, in the happy days gone by.
"And now!" thought Jack, seating himself on his little bed and glancing
at that of his mother, which stood empty in the opposite
corner--"now!--"
But Jack could think no more. A tremendous agony rent his breast, and a
sharp cry escaped from him as he flung himself on his bed and burst into
a passion of tears.
Child-like, he sobbed himself to sleep, and did not awake till the sun
was high next morning. It was some time before he could recall what had
occurred. When he did so he began to weep afresh. Leaping up, he was
about to rush out of the house and make for the hospital, when he was
checked at the door by the landlord--a hard, grinding, heartless man,
who grew rich in oppressing the poor.
"You seem to be in a hurry, youngster," he said, dragging the boy back
by the collar, and looking hurriedly round the room. "I've come for the
rent. Where's your mother?"
In a sobbing voice Jack told him about the accident.
"Well, I don't really believe you," said the man, with an angry frown;
"but I'll soon find out if you're telling lies. I'll go to the hospital
and inquire for myself. D'ee know anything about your mother's
affairs?"
"No, sir," said Jack, meekly, for he began to entertain a vague terror
of the man.
"No; I thought not. Well, I'll enlighten you. Your mother owes me
three weeks' rent of this here room, and has got nothing to pay it with,
as far as I knows, except these sticks o' furniture. Now, if your
mother is really in hospital, I'll come back here and bundle you out,
an' sell the furniture to pay my rent. I ain't a-goin' to be done out
o' my money because your mother chooses to git run'd over."
The landlord did not wait for a reply, but went out and slammed the
door.
Jack followed him in silent horror. He watched him while he inquired at
the gate of the hospital, and, after he had gone, went up timidly, rang
the bell, and asked for his mother.
"Mrs Matterby?" repeated the porter. "Come in; I'll make inquiry."
The report which he brought back fell like the blow of a sledge-hammer
on the poor boy's heart. His mother, they told him, was dead. She had
died suddenly in the night.
There are times of affliction, when the human soul fails to find relief
in tears or cries. Poor Jack Matterby stood for some time motionless,
as if paralysed, with glaring eyes and a face not unlike to that of
death. They sought to rouse him, but he could not speak. Suddenly,
observing the front door open, he darted out into the street, and ran
straight home, where he flung himself on his mother's bed, and burst
into an uncontrollable flood of tears. By degrees the passion subsided,
leaving only a stunned feeling behind, under the influence of which he
lay perfectly still.
The first thing that roused him was the sound of a heavy foot on the
stair. The memory of the landlord flashed into his mind and filled him
with indescribable dread--dread caused partly by the man's savage aspect
and nature, but much more by the brutal way in which he had spoken about
his mother. The only way in which to avoid a meeting was to rush past
the man on the stair. Fear and loathing made the poor boy forget, for
the moment, his crushing sorrow. He leaped up, opened the door, and,
dashing downstairs, almost overturned the man who was coming up. Once
in the street, he ran straight on without thought, until he felt that he
was safe from pursuit. Then he stopped, and sat down on a door-step--to
think what he should do; for, having been told that the furniture of his
old home was to be sold, and himself turned out, he felt that returning
there would be useless, and would only expose him to the risk of meeting
the awful landlord. While he was yet buried in thought, one of those
sprightly creatures of the great city, known as street arabs, accosted
him in a grave and friendly tone.
"My sweet little toolip," he said, "can I do anythink for you?"
Despite his grief Jack could scarcely forbear smiling at the absurdity
of the question.
"No, thank you," he replied.
"Well now, look 'ere, my toolip," returned the arab in a confidential
tone, "I've took quite a fancy to you; you've got such a look, some'ow,
of my poor old grandmother. Now, if you've no objection, I'd like to
give you your breakfast. You're 'ungry, I suppose?"
Jack admitted that he was, and, after a moment's hesitation, accepted
this surprisingly kind and liberal offer. Taking him promptly by the
arm his new friend hurried him to a pastry-cook's shop, and bade him
"smell that," referring to the odours that ascended through a grating.
"Ain't it 'eavenly?" he asked, with sparkling eyes.
Jack admitted that it was very nice.
"_So_ green, an' yet so fair!" murmured the arab, casting a look of
admiration on his companion. "Now I means to go into that there shop,"
he added, returning to the confidential tone, "an' buy breakfast for
you--for both on us. But I couldn't go in, you know, with this 'ere
shabby coat on, 'cause they wouldn't give me such good wittles if I did.
Just change coats with me for a few minutes. What! You doubt me? No
one ever doubted Bob Snobbins without--without a-'urtin' of his
feelin's."
Whatever might have caused Jack to hesitate, the injured look on young
Snobbins' countenance and the hurt tone were too much for him. He
exchanged coats with the young rascal, who, suddenly directing Jack's
attention to some imaginary object of interest at one end of the street,
made off at full speed towards the other end. Our hero was, however, a
famous runner. He gave chase, caught the arab in a retired alley, and
gave him an indignant punch in the head.
But although Jack had plenty of courage and a good deal of strength, he
was no match for a street warrior like Bob Snobbins, who turned about
promptly, blackened both his opponent's eyes, bled his nose, swelled his
lips, and finally knocked him into a pool of dirty water, after which he
fled, just as a policeman came on the scene.
The constable was a kindly man. He asked Jack a few questions, which,
however, the latter was too miserable to answer.
"Well, well, my boy," said the constable gently, "you'd as well give up
fightin'. It don't pay, you see, in the long run. Besides, you don't
seem fit for it. Cut away home now, and get your mother to clean you."
This last remark caused Jack to run away fast enough with a bursting
heart. All day he wandered about the crowded streets, and no one took
any notice of him, save a very few among the thousands, who cast on him
a passing glance of pity. But what could these do to help him? Were
not the streets swarming with such boys?
And in truth Jack Matterby was a very pitiable object, at least
according to the report of shop-mirrors, which told him that his face
was discoloured and bloody, his coat indescribably dirty and ragged,
besides being out of harmony with his trousers, and that his person
generally was bedaubed with mud. Hunger at last induced him to overcome
his feelings of shame so far that he entered a baker's shop, but he was
promptly ordered to be off. Later in the day he entered another shop,
the owner of which seemed to be of a better disposition. Changing his
shilling, he purchased a penny roll, with which he retired to a dark
passage and dined.
When night came on he expended another penny and supped, after which he
sought for some place of shelter in which to sleep. But wherever he
went he found the guardians of the public requiring him to "move on."
Several street arabs sought to make his acquaintance, but, with the
memory of Bob Snobbins strong upon him, he declined their friendship.
At last, wearied out and broken-hearted, he found a quiet corner under
an archway, where he sat down and leaned his head against the wall,
exclaiming, "I'm lost--lost!" Then he wept quietly, and sought to find
temporary relief in slumber.
He was indeed lost, and more completely so, in the feeling of lonely
isolation, perhaps, than he would have been if lost in the backwoods of
America. Yet he was not utterly lost, for the tender Shepherd was on
his track. Some such thought seemed to cross his mind; for he suddenly
began to pray, and thoughts about the old home in Blackby, and of the
Grove family, comforted him a little until he fell asleep on his hard
bed.
But, for the time being, the poor boy _was_ lost--lost in London! His
disreputable face and discreditable coat argued a dissipated character--
hence no one would employ him. Ere long necessity compelled him to
accept the society of street arabs, and soon he became quite as sharp,
though not quite as wicked, as they. But day by day he sank lower and
lower, and evil at which he would have shuddered at first became at last
familiar.
He did not sink without a struggle, however, and he would have returned
to the place where his mother had died, to ask help of the young surgeon
who had expressed sympathy with him, but, with the carelessness of
boyhood, he had forgotten the name of the hospital, and did not know
where, in the great wilderness of bricks and mortar, to search for it.
As for the home from which he had fled, the memory of the landlord still
kept him carefully clear of that.
But Jack's mother was _not_ dead! In hospitals--as in the best of
well-regulated families--mistakes will sometimes happen. The report
which had proved so disastrous to our poor hero referred to another
woman who had died. A messenger had been at once sent, by the young
surgeon before mentioned, to tell Jack of the error; but when the
messenger arrived the boy had flown--as already described. Indeed, it
was he whom Jack had passed on the stair.
It was long before Mrs Matterby recovered, for the disappearance of her
boy caused a relapse; and when at last she left the hospital, feeble and
homeless, she went about for many months, searching at once for work and
for her lost treasure.
Christmas came again, and found Jack Matterby at nearly the lowest point
in his downward career. It is due to him to say, however, that he had
not up to that time, been guilty of any criminal act that could bring
him with the grasp of human law; but in word and deed he had begun, more
and more, to break the law of God: so that if poor Mrs Matterby had at
that time succeeded in finding her son, it is probable that her joy
would have been overwhelmed with terrible grief.
It was not exactly Christmas morning, but it was the Christmas season of
the year, when our little hero, wearied in spirit and body with the hard
struggle for life, sauntered down the now familiar Strand in the hope of
finding some odd job to do. He paused before a confectioner's shop,
and, being very hungry, was debating with himself the propriety of
giving up the struggle, and coolly helping himself to a pie! You may be
sure that bad invisible spirits were at his elbow just then to encourage
him. But God sent a good angel also, and she was visible--being in the
form of a thin little old lady.
"You'd like a bun, I know," she said, putting a penny into Jack's hand.
"God bless you, ma'am--yes," burst from the astonished boy.
"Go in and buy one. Then, come and tell me all about you."
The thin little old lady was one of those followers of the Lamb who do
not wait for Christmas to unlock their sympathies. The river of her
love and pity was _always_ overflowing, so that there was no room for
increase to a deluge at Christmas time--though she rejoiced to note the
increase in the case of others, and wished that the flood might become
perennial. To this lady Jack laid bare his inmost heart, and she led
him back to the Saviour.
"Now, Jack, let me ask you one question," she said; "would you like to
go to Canada?"