lost in london.
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?”
with tremendous energy jack answered, “wouldn’t i!”
“then,” said the old lady, “to canada you shall go.”
