I decided, on my return to London, to find him, and one evening I went to the Mile End Road where he lived. When I turned the corner I saw him with an old woman, whom he introduced to me as his mother.
He invited to enter his house. There were many old people in the room. When he entered every face lightened up with pleasure. Jack cooked a wonderful supper, everybody was satisfied.
After supper he made some excellent whisky punch. For the children he prepared a marvellous drink, made from hot lemonade, sugar, oranges, and berries.
I stayed till late,[101] I was listening to his wonderful stories. “What I do – I do to please myself. I like to see people comfortable.”
I did not see him again for nearly two years. Then one October evening, walking along the East End, I met him. He was coming out of a little Chapel[102] in the Burdett Road.[103] He changed a lot, and I hardly recognized him.
“Good-evening, Mr.Burridge!” I exclaimed. A pair of bushy side-whiskers[104] gave his red face a respectable appearance. He was dressed in a black suit, and carried an umbrella in one hand and a book in the other. He looked both thinner and shorter than before.
His little eyes wandered up and down the street.
“No, sir,” he replied, “not the one as you used to know.[105]”
“And what about your old business?” I asked.
“Oh, sir,” he replied, “that’s all over;[106] I was a vile sinner. But, thank Heaven, [107] I have changed.”
“Come and have a drink,” I said, “and tell me all about it.”
He objected.
“You know, sir,” he said, “but I have given up the drink.[108]”
I asked about the old people, and if they were still living with him.
“Yes,” he said, “But, of course, everybody tries to use a man just because he is kind enough.”
“And how are you getting on?” I asked.
“Tolerably well, thank you, sir. The Lord does not forget His servants,” he replied with a smile. “I have got a little shop now in the Commercial Road.[109]”
“Where?” I persisted. “I want to come and see you.”
He gave me the address reluctantly, and said he would be very glad if I would visit him, which was a lie.
The following afternoon I went to him. He had a pawnbroker’s shop,[110] and his business ran well. Jack was attending a meeting, but his old father was behind the counter, and invited me inside. Though it was a chilly day there was no fire in the room, and the two old people were sitting silent and sad. After a while Mrs. Burridge’s sighed.
“Your son has changed a lot, Mrs. Burridge,” I remarked.
“Oh, sir,” she assented, “you are right.”
“Was it a sudden change?” I asked. “How did it happen?”
“It was a young woman,” explained the old lady. “She was collecting money for something, and Jack, gave her a five-pounds note. Next week she come again for something else, and talked to him about his soul. She told him that he was going straight to hell, and he had to give up the bookmaking[111] and start a respectable, God-fearing business.[112] At first he only laughed, but she gave him a lot of awful books; and one day she took him to the priest. He has never been the same Jack since then. He bought this house, but what is the difference? I can’t see. My heart aches, when I hear how my Jack cheats the poor people. His new friends told him that if the people are poor, that was their own fault, and it was the will of God.”
An angry discussion in the shop interrupted us. Jack returned, and was threatening an excited woman with the police. She miscalculated the date,[113] and returned the money a day too late.[114]
Jack came closer with the watch in his hand.
“Just look,” he said, smiling; “the watch is worth ten times what I lent on it.[115]”
He sent his father back into the shop, and his mother to the kitchen to make his tea, and for a while we sat together talking. His conversation was a strange mixture of self-laudation and of satisfaction at the conviction that he was “saved,” combined with equally evident satisfaction that most other people weren’t. It was boring. I rose to go.
He took a religious paper from his pocket, and pointed to a column:
“You are not interested in the Lord’s gardens, I suppose, sir?”
I looked at the paper. There was the name, “Mr. John Burridge, one hundred guineas.[116]”
