Chapter Eight.
Faith thought first of going to Regent’s Park, for Roy was so accustomed to visiting this park on fine Sunday mornings with his sister, that perhaps his little feet might guide him there unconsciously. She forgot that at the time at which Roy had run out into the warm darkness of the autumn night, the park gates must have been shut. She walked rapidly in this direction now, entered the pleasant and beautiful place, and walked towards the spot where she and Roy had been so happy on Sunday. Yes, there was the wide-spreading oak-tree, there were the daisies still left that Roy had picked and thrown away the day before. Faith stooped down now and picked up these withered flowers, and put them carefully into her pocket. Roy’s castaway flowers were there, but not Roy—not her precious little Roy himself. Faith pressed her hands to her eyes, her heart was too heavy—too absolutely oppressed—for tears to come. But she was puzzled to know what course now to pursue. Faith was no common street child; though her father was only a carpenter, he was too steady, too respectable not always to obtain full employment and excellent pay, therefore the dire evils of poverty had never been experienced by little Faith. With the exception of a great loneliness, and a great dearth of the holy love of fatherhood, her life had been sheltered from all the rough winds which blow upon the class a little below her own. Had she been a common street child she would have known much better how to seek for Roy; as it was, she was puzzled. Not finding him in the one place where it would be utterly impossible for him to be, she did not know where else to look. Oh, if only she could discover the place where Jesus lived now, and ask Him to come and help her in her search! Jesus, however, was far nearer to the little lonely girl than she had any idea of, and He now sent her unlooked-for assistance.
A sharp, high voice sounded in her ear, “Well, wot h’ever ere you up to, and where’s the little un?”
It was the ragged girl who had washed her lips to get a kiss from little Roy on Sunday. Faith gave a great sigh of relief at sight of her.
“I’m so real glad yer come,” she said; “h’our little Roy ha’ run away—h’our little Roy is lost!”
“Lost!” said the girl; she went down on her knees close beside Faith, and stared hard into her face. Her own face, even through its dirt, looked blanched, and a frightened expression came into her eyes. “Tell us how yer little Roy got lost,” she said presently.
The sympathy in the girl’s face and tone caused some softening of Faith’s little heart.
“It was on Sunday,” she continued; “I did think a deal o’ what you said ’bout Jesus blessing the little children, and I disobeyed my father and ran away to Sunday-school. While I was away, little Roy ran out into the street: that wor how my little Roy got so lost—it wor all my fault; I wish as you ha’n’t told me nothing about Jesus.”
“I didn’t mean no harm,” answered the girl, “I only telled ’bout what I loved. But did you do nothing since? Why you should ha’ done heaps and heaps—you should ha’ gone to the perlice, and put the young ’un inter the ‘Hue and Cry;’ you should ha’ done all that last night, Faith.”
“I don’t know wot h’ever you mean,” replied Faith; “how could we put our little Roy into a place when we don’t know wherever he is? We don’t want to put our little Roy anywhere, only jest to bring him home.”
The ragged girl laughed. “Yer rare and innercent,” she said; “I didn’t mean no place by the ‘Hue and Cry;’ I meant a paper. You should ha’ said what kind o’ looking child he wor—what wor the colour of his eyes, and his hair, and how big he wor, and what clothes ’e ’ad h’on—all that ’ud be printed and pasted up for folks to read; not that the talk about the clothes ’ud do much good, fur in course they’d be made away wid first thing.”
“His clothes ’ud be stole!” exclaimed Faith. “No, I don’t believe that; I don’t believe that any one ’ud be so dreadful wicked as to steal away little Roy’s clothes.”
“Then you don’t believe as nobody ha’ stole him away. Why, Faith, in course ef he wor not picked up and carried off by some one he’d be brought back afore now by the perleece—why in course yer little baby Roy is stole away.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Faith. She gazed hard at the girl by her side, every vestige of colour leaving her face, as the dreadful idea became clear to her. Presently a hand touched her rather softly.
“Look here, I’m a willin’ to help yer, I am, indeed; don’t ’ee go on so, Faithy—don’t ’ee now—my name’s Meg, and I’m a willing to help ye.”
“Oh, please, Meg,” answered little Faith, putting her hand into the older girl’s.
“It’s a bargain, then,” said Meg, squeezing the little hand very hard.
“I’ll never, never go home again till I find Roy,” said Faith solemnly.
“I call that plucky; and ha’ yer any money?”
“No,” answered Faith.
“That’s rayther blue!” exclaimed Meg, indulging in a long whistle; “fur I h’an’t none ne’ther; but never mind, we’ll get along somehow. Now let’s set down on the grass and make up our plans—you don’t mind if I speak a bit plain, Faithy?”
“No,” answered Faith; “I don’t mind nothink but to find Roy again.”
“Well, it’s right as you should know that little ’un ha’ bin stole. Many and many a body as I could tell on, steals the well-dressed babies; they does it fur the clothes and the reward offered. My mother—she ha’ stole two or three.”
“Oh, how dreadful wicked she must be!” said Faith. “I hope, Meg, as we h’an’t got to live wid yer mother while we’re looking fur Roy?”
“No,” answered Meg, shaking her head gravely; “I parted wid mother yesterday—we ’greed as it wor ’bout time fur me to purwide fur my own self. I mayn’t never see mother agen—it all comes natral. I’m real glad as we’re parted, for now I won’t be wallopped no more.”
“I never, never thought as mothers wor like that,” said Faith; “she must be most desp’rate wicked.”
“Oh, no, she’s not so werry; I ha’ seen far worse nor mother.”
“But to steal the babies!” said Faith.
“Bless us, Faith, heaps and heaps on ’em does that. They most times gives the young ’uns back again. They jest watches for the ‘Hue and Cry’ and the rewards put up by the perlice stations, and then they brings ’em back and purtends as they ha’ found ’em. Mother tuk all back but one, he—”
“Yes,” said Faith eagerly.
“Well,” continued Meg, speaking with a slight shade of hesitation; “that ’ere little ’un—there worn’t no reward offered. Mother waited and waited, and I coaxed her ter take him back, but she got h’angered, and she wouldn’t—she ’ud never—h’all I could do—take that ere little child back home again.”
“Oh, Meg! and ha’ she got him still?” Meg indulged in a short, rather hard laugh. “Bless yer, Faithy, not a bit o’ it; that ’ere little ’un tuk the fever and he died. I tuk on most bitter after he died, as I did care fur him; yer little Roy put me in mind o’ his purty ways! but he’s h’all right now, he’s with Jesus now—it wor arter he died as I went to Sunday-school and larned ’bout Jesus. Little Charlie’s safe in the arms of Jesus this long time past now.”
“Do you think,” asked Faith, “as Jesus wot loves the little children, ’ud help us to find our little Roy again?”
Meg looked very grave for half a minute, then she said, her face brightening, “That’s a good thought, Faithy; we’ll jest tell Him all about little Roy.”
Faith sprang to her feet, “Then let’s go to Him at once,” she said, “let’s find out His address and go to Him; we’ll ask Him to lose no time in finding that werry wicked woman who has stole little Roy.”
“But we can say it all here,” said Meg. “I don’t know wot h’ever you mean by going to Him; we needn’t go a step away from here, we can say it here.”
“But Jesus ain’t here,” said Faith.
“Well, yes, He is, and He isn’t; I don’t know how to explain—wot do you mean, Faith?”
“I mean,” said Faith, “as I thought as Jesus lived somewhere, in London maybe, and that we might go to Him and tell Him ’bout our little Roy. I wor told as He worn’t dead—I mean that He did die, but He woke up again. Ef He’s alive, why shouldn’t He live in the place where the most babies ’ere, Meg?”
“Oh, dear!” answered Meg, “ain’t you a queer ’un! You’re a deal better dressed than me, and you’re so clean that there ain’t a speck nowhere, and you look as ef you allers had yer fill o’ vickles. You h’an’t never a rag nowhere, but fur h’all that I never did meet a more h’ignorant gal—where was yer riz, Faith?”
“I think ’tis ’cause my mother died,” said Faith. “I know as I am very ignorant; I’m ever so sorry.”
“Well, never mind,” replied Meg, “’tis fun rayther teaching yer, only you won’t mind ef I laugh now and then; why, Faith, Jesus is h’up in Heaven now. He ha’ most wonderful powers of hearing tho’, and ef we speak in a whisper a’most down on earth He can tell wot we are a saying. He ain’t never a living in London tho’, but He’s alive, and can hear what we say, fur h’all that.”
“And will He help us?” asked Faith; “is He real sorry fur us, and will He help us?”
“Yes, He has a most desp’rate tender heart. I know as He will answer us, fur I told Him all about Charlie, and it wor arter-wards as I larned wot a deal He ha’ done fur him.”
“What did He do, Meg?”
“Why He tuk him out o’ the arms o’ death, and carried him straight away up to Heaven. That’s wot He does to all the dead babies, He takes ’em in His arms up to Heaven. I know a hymn ’bout that, ’tis called, ‘Safe in the arms of Jesus.’ I’ll sing it fur you another time.”
“But I don’t want Him to take Roy to Heaven,” said Faith; “I want my little Roy safe back again wid me. He wanted for nothink when he wor with me. I don’t wish him to be tuk so far away.”
“Well, we’ll axe that it may be so; let’s kneel down now on the grass, and I’ll say the words this ’ere time, and then you’ll larn how He likes to be spoke to.”
So the two knelt down, Faith in front of Meg, with her hand clasped in Meg’s. Over the dirty thin face of the older girl there came a queer but expressive change. A look of hope and love and joy filled her dark eyes, as raising them to the blue sky overhead, she spoke.
“Jesus, one of the little children as you loves so well is lost. His name is Roy, he’s about two year old; he’s big fur that, Jesus, and he’s werry, werry purty. He ha’ yaller ’air, and blue h’eyes. I’m feared as some woman ha’ stole him for the sake o’ his clothes, and the reward offered fur him. Please, Jesus, don’t let that ’ere woman be a bit happy wid little Roy. Make her real misribble till she takes him back again. We know that there ’ere many ways that you can love him. But, Faith here, she wants him back again, so please don’t let him catch no fever, and don’t take him to play wid Charlie, and the other babies yet awhile.”
“That’s all, Faith,” said Meg, suddenly springing to her feet. “I think as Jesus knows werry well now wot we want, and you and me ’ull go and look fur little Roy, too, right away.”
Chapter Nine.
The woman who had seen Roy in the public-house, and who had been attracted by his pretty face, bore him quickly in her arms down the street. He was quite contented in this queer resting-place, and being absolutely confident in his little mind that the woman was carrying him home to Faith, he laid his curly head on her shoulder and dropped asleep. When she saw that he was asleep, and not before, the woman paused to wrap her own dirty shawl a little over him. She did this partly to shelter him, and partly to consider. Did the police see such a woman as she was, with so well-dressed a child as Roy in her arms, they might stop to question her. She did not want them to do that; she had by no means made up her mind how to act by this poor lost baby, but she had no desire just then that the police should rob her of him. Hiding him very effectually with her shawl, she brought him home—to such a home as she called her own. It was a cellar in a miserable back court, an ill-smelling, ill-drained place. From such a cellar as Hannah Searles’s stalked many times in the year the gaunt and grim spectre of fever. It had one advantage, however, over many around it, she lived in it alone; no other living creature shared it with her. She stumbled down the ladder which led to it, drew across the trap-door, and laying Roy, who still slept soundly, on the bed, she prepared a small fire in the grate. When it was kindled, making a little light and cheerfulness in the gloomy place, she removed her bonnet, and going over to the bed knelt down by it; in this position her hungry eyes could gaze long on the sleeping child. Yes, he was very fair; she had never seen any creature half so beautiful since her own child died; nay, she had even to acknowledge to herself that her own child, though he had yellow hair and fair skin, and though he was in very truth bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, yet even he was not so lovely as this child. Yet there was a likeness; the lips pouted with something the same pretty fulness, the little hands were folded in somewhat a similar attitude, the bright hair curled in much the same rings. Then kneeling there in the flickering twilight made by the fire, a strange fancy came over Hannah Searles; perhaps this was in very truth her own little child come back again. True, she had with her own hands closed the coffin on the sweet golden head, she had herself seen him laid in the grave, but perhaps God, seeing what a lost, abandoned woman she was without him, might have sent her baby back to her again. He had been a whole year in Heaven now. During that year, while she had been leading as bad a life as a woman could lead, he had been growing beautiful in the air of heaven, and now God had sent him back to save her. Where had that child come from who stood on the threshold of the dreadful public-house? Was it not more than probable that he was indeed an angel, that he was her own angel given back to her once more? The fancy was very sweet to her; but Roy opening his eyes at the moment dispelled it. Roy’s eyes were blue, her baby’s brown; but having for an instant thought him her very own child, she began from that instant to love him.
“’Oy want Fate,” said the little child, raising his head and gazing about him.
“Wot’s yer name, my little dear; wot they calls ye to home, I mean?” asked Hannah.—Hannah with all her roughness had a soft voice, it attracted the child to her, he sat up on the dirty bed, regarded her with decided favour, and replied in a contented voice:
“Fate calls! ’Oy.”
“And I’d like to say Davie to yer, dear little man. May I call yer by the real beautiful name o’ Davie? I ’ad a Davie of my h’own once.”
“A Davie of ’oor own,” repeated little Roy, and now he came close and stroked the rough, red cheek.
“I’ll get yer some supper, my sweet little darlin’; you set still on the side o’ the pretty bed, and I’ll get a nice supper ready in a jiffy.”
The woman had no candle, but she heaped on coals with a lavish hand, and prepared a mess of bread and milk. Little Roy was very hungry; he found no fault with the tin mug, nor with the pewter spoon. He thought the woman’s rough red face rather nice, and her soft tones fell warm on his baby heart. The dreadful cellar, too, with the flickering firelight making fantastic shadows on its dirty, wet walls, became as a palace in his little mind; he clapped his dimpled hands and said, “Pitty, pitty.” He ceased to ask for Faith, and even twice before he had again dropped asleep, he had answered to the name of Davie.
That night Hannah Searles slept again with a child clasped to her bosom. Her sleep was very sweet to her, but the morning brought fresh cares. She had now quite resolved to keep little Roy. He was not her child, she knew that, but he had been sent to her. She shut her eyes resolutely to the fact of some other woman’s broken heart for the loss of him. No, if he had a mother living she must be strangely careless to allow so great a treasure to go away from her, and to be found in a public-house. But Hannah guessed that little Roy’s mother was dead. If she was alive he would have spoken of his mammie, but no, he only mentioned some mysterious fate: she was his real fate—she would be a mother to him, and make up to him by her love for the loss of his own.
But though his mother might be dead, yet Hannah knew that so nicely dressed a child must have relations who would miss him and take means to have him returned to them. They would put up rewards; the police would get directions to search for the child. She must therefore on no account put his nice, dainty clothes on him, she must fold them up and put them carefully out of sight. Another woman would have pawned the little things, but Hannah did not care to make money by this child who had come in the place of her own. She put the dainty blue frock, the white pinafore, the little shoes and socks, into a box which was well hidden away under the bed; then while Roy still slept she slipped out, and purchased at a pawnbroker’s for a shilling, a set of little garments such as her own child, were he alive, would wear.
When Roy awoke she dressed him in the dingy and ragged clothes. He did not like them and cried a little for his own “pitty fock,” and spoke again in a complaining voice of Faith. But Hannah drew out of her pocket a small many-coloured ball, and for the sake of the ball he forgave her the ragged and ugly garments; he chased the ball into all the dark corners of the dingy cellar, and his gay laugh filled Hannah’s heart with rejoicing.
That day the woman and child spent at home. She was very happy with Roy, but she was puzzled how to act; she dared not leave him alone at home, she dared not confide her secret to the neighbours, still less did she dare to take him with her into the streets, for by this time surely his description would be printed up by the police courts, and no rags could dim the beauty of his lovely little face. But for to-day she had money enough, so she spent her time cleaning the cellar and making it a more fit habitation for the young king who had made it his home.
Chapter Ten.
Two days passed so; on the third day Hannah was penniless. It now became absolutely necessary for her to go out to seek employment. She must leave little Roy, for she dare not take him with her. Already—going for a moment last night into the court, a woman had confided to her that a little child was being advertised for at all the police stations, and that she wished she could get hold of him, for the reward offered for his recovery was ten pounds.
This woman was not a resident in the court, or Hannah would have felt compelled to change her quarters. As it was, however, it was absolutely impossible for her to let any one know of Roy’s existence. By this time, during the two complete days they had spent together, the woman and child had grown very close to each other. Hannah had a power over children. Little Roy had grown fond of her; he was contented with his cellar life, he liked to stand by her knee, and when she took him on her lap the feel of her arms put tightly round him was comfortable. Already the fickle baby mind had forgotten Faith, he was Hannah’s boy to all intents and purposes. But all the same—though she had never known such pure happiness since Davie died—Hannah was puzzled what to do with this stolen child. Cleaning her cellar and playing with him brought no money to give food to either; she must go out to earn something, she must leave the child behind her, and if he cried in any way the neighbours overhead would discover his existence, and then her secret would be out, and her treasure torn from her arms. If only it were in the night she had to leave him, little Roy would sleep, and there would be no danger; but he was a wakeful, lively child, and seldom closed his eyes for the livelong day.
Hannah resolved to seek for coarse needlework, which she could do at home, but to obtain such she must be absent several hours, and during those hours was the time of danger.
On the evening of the second day, after putting her baby boy to bed, she went out, locking the door carefully behind her. She meant to visit a neighbour who lived in the opposite side of the court. This woman too occupied a cellar, but it was a far worse one than Hannah’s, smaller, dirtier, and crowded with children, from ten years of age to a baby of six months. This baby now lay in profound sleep on the bed. Hannah went over to look at the little colourless, waxen face.
“How sound she ha’ gone off, Jane Martin!” she exclaimed. “My Davie now ’ud never lie as still as that, and wid h’all them others makin’ sech a din, too.”
“’Tis h’all along o’ them blessed drops,” replied Mrs Martin. “Afore I knew of them there worn’t a more worriting baby in the world.”
“What drops?” asked Hannah.
“Some as a neighbour give me, I dunno the name. She give me a big bottle full, and I drops three or four into her milk, and she’ll never wake now till mornin’, and then she’ll be drowsy like and I can hush her off any minute.”
“They must be a real comfort,” answered Hannah, and it darted into her head that it would be very nice to put Roy to sleep in the same way.
“They’re a blessing to over-worked mothers, and that I will say,” replied Mrs Martin. “Here’s the stuff, it looks innercent, don’t it? like a drop o’ water; but fur all that,—it’s wonderful how it soothes off a fretful baby.”
Hannah took the bottle in her hand and looked at its contents with greedy eyes.
“I know a ’oman,” she said presently, “as have a baby, a baby a deal and a sight bigger nor yourn. It must be two year old. But she’s wore to a shadow wid him, he won’t sleep not fur nobody. The poor thing is like to drop, but he hardly h’ever will close his eyes, the monkey.”
“Them drops ’ud settle him fast enough,” replied Mrs Martin.
“But how much ought she to give to a lad as big as that?”
“Well, let me see. I gives baby sometimes three drops, or four, ef I wants to keep her extra quiet; I should say fur a wakeful lad o’ two years as ten drops ’ud do the business.”
“Thank yer, neighbour,” replied Hannah, “and now ef yer’ll be so good-natured as to give me the name o’ the bottle, why I’ll run to the chemist’s and get a little and run wid it to the poor worn-out critter this werry night.”
“Ah! but you can’t get it at no chemist’s,” answered Mrs Martin with a laugh; “the woman wot give it to me makes it her own self, she had the receipt from her mother afore her. You can’t get it at no chemist’s, Hannah Searles, and the neighbour wot give it me ha’ gone to Ameriky; but see yere, fur I real feels for disturbed and worrited mothers, I’ll give yer a tiny drop in this yere bottle, and you can take it to her; ten drops ull settle that baby off as sound as a nut.”
Hannah thanked her warmly for this offer and went back to her cellar with the precious sleeping drops in her pocket. Now she had a remedy for little Roy. Soundly and peacefully asleep, he would not miss her during the few hours she must be absent the next day. She rose accordingly with a light heart, and having prepared his breakfast, put carefully into his milk ten drops from her bottle. She noticed how fresh and rosy he looked after his healthful, unbroken slumbers, and she said to herself that a little more sleep would do him still greater good. He ate his breakfast with appetite, sitting on her lap. And now she watched anxiously for the effect of the drops. It came almost sooner than she had dared to hope. The blue eyes became languid and heavy, the little golden head fell wearily on her shoulder, another moment and Roy was sound asleep. She placed him on her bed, covered him up tight and warm, and went out with an easy heart. As she walked quickly down the street which led directly from the court, she was met by two girls, one of whom she knew, and paused for a moment to accost.
“So you and yer mother ha’ left Spiller Court, Meg Harris?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Meg brightly; “I’m on my h’own spec’ now, I and this yere gal; we’re purwiding fur one another. I wor thinking, Hannah,” she continued, “as you might make us a shake-down in yer cellar; we’d pay yer two pence a night, that’s a penny each. I know as you ha’ plenty o’ room, for yer h’all alone.”
The other and younger girl had shrunk a trifle away from the bold, coarse-looking woman, but Meg had come up and laid her hand on Hannah’s arm.
“You’ll let us in to-night, won’t yer, Hannah?” said Meg again.
Now Hannah was rather fond of Meg, and would gladly have nearly paid the rent of her cellar by admitting these two little lodgers, but the presence of Roy of course made this impossible. To hide her real disappointment she spoke a little more roughly than usual.
“I can’t no how,” she said; “I ha’ a job on hand as ’ull take h’up all my spare room, and I can’t ha’ no gals a loitering around. You look further afield, Meg Harris.”
The younger girl seemed perceptibly relieved, and Meg, with a good-natured nod, walked on. But Hannah felt a vague sense of uneasiness. That youngest girl, had she seen her before? Her face puzzled, nay more, it annoyed her; she was an anxious, thin, dark-eyed child; her dress was as ragged as Meg’s, but somehow she looked far above Meg in respectability. Where had Hannah Searles seen her before? She turned a corner: she was now passing a police station, and yes, there was what she dreaded, a full description of little Roy; she stopped fascinated, to read it.
LOST.
Ten Pounds Reward.
Stayed away from his home on Sunday night, a little boy, aged two years, dressed in a light-blue frock, white pinafore, white socks, blue shoes.
He has golden hair, very fair skin, and blue eyes. Any one either bringing the child back, or coming with information which shall lead to his recovery, shall receive Ten Pounds Reward.
Chapter Eleven.
Hannah was unsuccessful in her search for coarse needlework. Badly and miserably paid as such work was, the slop-shops had their full complement of workers, and had nothing to give her, even though she went so far as to promise to do the work for even more wretched prices than had hitherto been given.
She was obliged to leave Roy the next day, and again the next, and for these two days the drops were each time resorted to. On the evening of the third day, she had obtained some partial success. She was given half-a-dozen shirts to make. These shirts were of the coarsest check, and Hannah would obtain tenpence for each. She was in quite good spirits, for she could now work and stay at home with Roy.
But there was a change in little Roy. He was no longer the laughing, rosy, healthy child whom Hannah had brought to her cellar. His blue eyes were heavy, his movements languid, and his fair skin was assuming that waxen tint which Hannah had noticed in Mrs Martin’s baby over the way. Hannah was a strangely ignorant woman, and she never associated this change in little Roy with the drops which he had taken now for three days in succession. She saw a vast difference in him, but she concluded that such was the way with all children. Through how many, many changes had her Davie gone? Why, at his very best he never looked half as healthy as little Roy did at his worst. No, she was not the least uneasy about the little fellow. But as he now had grown troublesome and restless at night, she gave him a few more drops from the fatal mixture, and when taking these he went off into feverish and fitful slumber, she congratulated herself on possessing so valuable a remedy.
While the shirts were being made she stayed quietly at home with the little boy, who in his waking moments would stand gravely and quietly by her knee, now and then putting up a small hot hand to stroke her cheeks, exclaiming as he did so in his broken English, “Pitty yed face, pitty yed face.” Then adding, as he raised his heavenly blue eyes to hers, “’Oy ’oves ’oo vevy much.”
At these words, uttered so innocently by the little child, down would go Hannah’s work, needle, and thimble, and he would find himself clasped tightly to her bosom; while down the red cheeks, which he had praised, would flow large salt tears which had lain locked up and frozen since Davie died. Yes, Roy was becoming more and more a necessity to Hannah Searles, and a treasure without which she did not now believe she could find life endurable.
One evening, leaving the child asleep, she went into the court. She was gossiping with a neighbour, and enjoying the sensation of the outside air, which was at least better than the cellar atmosphere which she had quitted, when Meg Harris came up to her. Meg and Faith had found a shelter for themselves in another house in this court, and now Meg came up alone to speak to Hannah.
“And how ere you getting on widhout yer mother?” asked Hannah. “But I needn’t go fur to axe,” she continued, “fur though you ain’t much to boast on now, Meg, yet you look more peart than when she wor allers a wallopping of yer.”
“But I have a h’anxiety on my mind,” said Meg, shrugging her thin shoulders and speaking in a low, confidential tone. “I ha’ a gal along wid me, and a young gal wot ain’t none of h’our people. You might ha’ noticed her, Hannah, when you was walking down Middle Street.”
“Yes,” answered Hannah, “she looked a white-faced, mealy-mouthed little ’un. I mind me as I thought as I had seen her somewhere afore.”
“Her father is a carpenter, Hannah, a werry, werry upper kind o’ carpenter. She’s real respectable, is Faithy. And wot does yer think? She have a little brother, a little lovely duck of a child, and he went out o’ the house on Sunday night last and got losted, and this poor little Faith, she’s near distracted. She and me, we’re a looking fur the young ’un h’everywhere. I thought as I’d tell yer, Hannah, fur you see’s a deal o’ life, and you might ha’ noticed as they ha’ put him in the h’advertisements, and ten pound offered fur him.”
Hannah Searles had perfect control of feature.
“I ha’ seen about a missing child,” she said after a moment’s pause. “A child h’aged two year, dressed in blue, wid real gold ’air?”
“Yes, yes,” said Meg. “Oh! Hannah, ef you could only help us to find of him—I think as Faith ull die ef he ain’t found.”
“I’ll keep my h’eyes open,” said Hannah, and then she nodded to Meg and went back to her cellar.
She was trembling all over as she stumbled down the stairs. But when she had securely locked the door and lighted a long dip candle and had seen with her own eyes little Roy sleeping quietly, she became calmer. She went over and knelt by the bed, and took one of the little hands in hers.
“I’d rayther be torn in bits, nor give h’up this little hand,” she said to herself.
But she had got a great fright, and gazed long and greedily at her treasure.
It was plain that if she wanted to keep little Roy, she must move away from here as fast as possible. She could scarcely find a cheaper home, but be that as it may she dare not stay so near to Faith. Presently, tired out, she sank down on the floor; she still trembled at the nearness of the danger, but she also felt disappointment. The baby whom she considered her own baby now was so beautiful, so grand, so fine and strong, so unlike any other child she had ever looked at, that she had often pictured to herself his high birth. He might, for aught she knew, be the son of a prince. Any prince in the land would be proud of him. And Hannah had delighted herself with the thought that this child, of perhaps Royalty, was happy and at home with such a woman as she—a woman at whom all respectable folks would point a finger of scorn; but yet whom the pure and innocent little child loved.
But he was of no high birth. He was only a son of the people after all. Many, many degrees above herself in respectability it was true, but still a child of the vast multitude. Her last scruple at keeping him vanished at this fact. He would lose nothing by remaining with her, and for his sake she would, she could, become good.
Chapter Twelve.
A week had passed away since Roy was lost. Sunday came round again, finding Faith no longer in her neat and comfortable home, but a gutter child, dressed as badly, and in quite as great rags, as the worst-looking child around her. Meg was her companion and staunch friend, but it seemed no hardship in Meg’s eyes to counsel Faith to pawn her neat and good clothes, and to receive in exchange garments in which her father would scarcely recognise her. The money received for the clothes had enabled the little girls to live for some days; and then they had sold matches and flowers, and in one way and another had managed to keep life within them. Faith, though really unaccustomed to any hardship, had borne up bravely. The hope with which she had awakened each morning that surely before the evening they would find Roy, had supported her spirits; but each night as it came, with its invariable disappointment, until even Meg began to own that she was puzzled as to what had become of the child, brought an added weight to Faith’s heart. She was more than ever determined not to go home again without her little brother. But as she lay down on her musty bed on Saturday evening in the wretched cellar where she and Meg had found for themselves quarters, hope had vanished to a very low ebb indeed.
Sunday morning dawned. It would be a whole week to-day since she last had seen her darling little Roy. She felt very, very miserable. No, hope would not visit her heart that day, and as she lay in bed watching Meg putting on her clothes, the tears rolled down her pale cheeks, and dark and sceptical thoughts filled her mind. When Meg noticed her tears, she spoke.
“It’s all a lie, Meg; it’s all a big, big lie.”
“Wot’s a lie,” asked Meg, stopping in her dressing, and staring at Faith.
“Wot you telled me about Jesus. He didn’t never love the little children; ef He loved ’em, and ef He is as strong as you say, He’d ha’ helped us to find my little baby Roy.”
A pained look came over Meg’s white and careworn face. She did not answer Faith at all for a moment or two; but having quite finished her dressing, she bent down over her.
“I ha’ made myself as clean as h’ever I could, and I’m off now to morning ragged school; ef you’ll come too, I’ll wait fur yer, Faithy.”
“No, no,” replied Faith, shaking her head. “I’ll stay and wait here. The ragged Sunday-school’s all about Jesus, and I don’t b’lieve in no Jesus now.”
Meg said nothing more; she smothered a faint sigh, and closing the door behind her ran down-stairs. She had more than a mile to walk to Sunday-school, and she was anxious to be in time; but as she walked along, the pained expression called up by Faith’s words had not left her face.
Meg was a wild, untaught, uncared-for Arab child, a true offshoot of the lowest of the people. With a touch of gipsy blood in her veins, with the most ungoverned, uncontrolled passions, she yet was capable of a devotion, of an affection self-absorbing, self-forgetful. Offered up at any other shrine, it would have been idolatry; offered at this, it was worship. Meg loved, something as Mary Magdalene, something as the women who followed to the sepulchre, must have loved our Lord.
All the love of a most loving nature had Meg given to Jesus. It was not alone gratitude which inspired this love. “It’s jest cause He’s so wonderful beautiful His own self,” she would say; and it was agony to her, greater even than it would be to a mother to hear her little child abused, to have a word breathed against Him.
Faith’s words had wrung her heart. She was very sorry for Faith, very sorry that she could have so spoken; but she was more sorry for the pain she feared the words must have caused Jesus.
“I ’ope as yer’ll soon let us find the little ’un, for she’s beginning to think real hard things of yer, and I can’t abear ’em, I can’t abear ’em,” said Meg, looking up at the sky, and comforting herself with this very direct little prayer.
As she was leaving the Sunday-school at the end of the morning’s lessons, it came into her head that perhaps while she and Faith were so earnestly seeking for little Roy, he might all this time be safely at home. How stupid of them both never to have thought of this before! She had heard all about Faith’s respectable home from the little girl herself. Yes; she would go there now and set her mind at rest on this point before returning to Faith.
She reached the house. There was a common staircase, and the hall door stood open. She met no one as she ran up-stairs, and her feet, innocent of shoes and stockings, made no sound. A door was a little open on the first landing, and Meg, peeping in, saw a man seated by a table. He was a tall and powerful man, and Meg knew at once that she was looking at Faith’s father.
There was profound silence in the house, and Meg heard the man, whose face was bowed over his hands, presently say:
“It’s a lie, it’s all a lie. There is no good God. If there were, He would never have torn my children away from me like this. And I have asked Him so often and so long to bring them back again. Yes; God does not hear prayer. It’s a lie, I say. There is no God, no Christ, no nothing.”
“How dare yer!” said Meg, rushing into the room like a little fury. The man’s words had stung her so hard that she lost both fear and self-control. She rushed at the man, and took his hands and shook them. “How dare yer, how dare yer!” she repeated. “Oh! yer a wicked, wicked man to say as there’s no Jesus Christ.”
Warden—for it was he—started, and stared at the furious little creature. He did not say a word, or attempt in his utter astonishment to oppose her. He only gazed hard, as one who was bereft of all reason.
“Oh! there is a Jesus Christ, and you sha’n’t dare say there ain’t,” repeated Meg; and then she suddenly flung herself on the floor at his feet, and gave way to the most violent, most passionate sobs he had ever heard proceeding from human breast.
He got up and locked the door; then he got water and gave it to Meg. He was kind rather than otherwise to the poor child. When she was better, he even brought her over to sit on the sofa where little Roy had slept his last sleep in that room.
“Now, why did you rush in and speak to me in that strange way?” he asked.
“’Cause yer drove me near mad. You had no call ter say so dreadful a thing as that my Jesus Christ worn’t there.”
“You believe in Him then?” said Warden.
“I believe in Jesus Christ our Lord,” said Meg. Her excitement was spent. She spoke quietly, raising her big, black eyes to heaven. There was something in her manner which must have impressed even the most utterly careless and indifferent with its absolute sincerity.
Warden was silent, gazing at her curiously, even with admiration.
“You must not only believe in Him, you must love Him very much,” he said.
“Ay, I love Him; I’d die fur Him most willin’,” said Meg, clasping her hard hands very tight together.
“But He hasn’t treated you as He has me,” said Warden. “You don’t know, you can’t even understand, what has happened to me. I was always a most respectable man. I tried to do my duty. I had two children. This day week I had two children, a son and a daughter. Now I have none. They did not die, but they ran away. The boy went first, then the girl. I may never see ’em again.”
“May be you worn’t a werry good father to ’em,” said Meg. “May be Jesus let ’em run away so as to show yer how to be a better father to ’em. There is some as beats their children, and some as neglec’s ’em. I dunno wot is best. May be Jesus seen as you neglec’ed yer little children.”
Warden felt the lines tightening round his mouth at these words. It was broad daylight, it was true, and Meg was only a poor, ragged child, but her face was so solemn, and her big eyes shone with so intense a light, and she was so absolutely fearless before him, that he felt impressed, even just a trifle afraid—something as he would have felt had he been looking at an accusing angel.
“You may have neglec’ed yer little children,” she repeated.
When she did so, Warden nodded his head.
“It is true,” he said. “It is very true, God forgive me; but I never meant it. I fear I was a very hard man.”
“Then you jest tell Jesus that,” said Meg, rising. “You tell Him as you believes in Him, as you loves Him, as yer real sorry you spoke so dreffle bitter. It wor awful the way as you did speak; but wot’s so wonderful beautiful in Him is how He furgives. You tell Him as yer determined to neglec’ yer children never no more, and I’m sure as He’ll let yer have ’m back again.”
“Little girl,” said Warden, “tell me the truth as you profess to love God. Do you know anything, anything at all, of my little son, my little, lost son, Roy?”
“No,” answered Meg. “I wishes as I did, I don’t know nothink; but I means to pray to Jesus, and Jesus ull help me to find him. I feel as he’ll be found, fur Jesus do love him so werry much.”
Meg went away, and Warden, unlocking the door, saw her ragged figure disappearing down the stairs. He sighed when he saw the last of her. Then, relocking his door, he returned to his seat by the table. As he seated himself he remembered that he had neither asked her name nor where she lived. It would be impossible, then, for him if he wanted her again to find her.
He sat on perfectly motionless, recalling every word of the strange and passionate scene just enacted before him. At last his thoughts centred round one sentence, which began to burn into his heart like fire.
“May be Jesus seen as you neglec’ed yer little children.”
He thought and thought, and more and more intolerable each moment became his feelings. At last he found that there was only one position in which he could bear them. He slid down from the chair to his knees. There he remained for some hours.
Chapter Thirteen.
That very same Sunday evening, while Warden remained upon his knees, and the Recording Angel, looking down at him, could declare for the first time, “Behold, he prayeth,” Hannah Searles was very miserable. There was no longer any doubt, even to so untrained and ignorant a woman as she was, that little Roy was very ill. During the greater part of the past week he had been taking more or less of the fatal drops. A few in the day, more at night, had Hannah given him. They always seemed to her inexperience to have a most beneficial effect on him. His fretfulness ceased, his blue eyes closed, and he slept; but though sleep was always supposed to be so very good for children, Hannah could never discover that little Roy awoke refreshed or the better for his sleep. More fretful each time was the little voice, more dull and clouded the eyes. On Sunday he absolutely refused all food; but he was already intelligent enough to see that the bottle which held the drops gave him present relief, and he pointed to it and asked for more repeatedly. On Sunday, however, Hannah only gave him one small dose, for even to her obtuse mind the thought had occurred that it might not be doing him so much good as she had hoped.
After this dose he lay in her arms for long hours in heavy slumber. It was a foggy day, and very little light came into the cellar; but what fitful rays did penetrate the gloom fell upon a very white and sunken little face. Yes; there was no doubt at last, no doubt at all, that Roy looked as bad as Davie had looked; nay, more, that he looked worse than Davie had ever looked, except— Oh! good God! was Roy going to die too? Hannah felt herself trembling all over as this thought occurred to her. Was she a second time to lose her all; was a second time her one heart’s treasure to be torn from her arms and from her love?
“And I promised God as I’d try hard to be good ef He’d leave me this yere young ’un as I found lost in the street,” she said. In her sore despair she felt angry against God. What right had He not to take her at her word, and allow her to be good in her own way? It had never yet entered into her poor, untaught mind that in keeping little Roy she was keeping what was not her own. The other folks to whom God had first entrusted him had been careless of so great and precious a trust, so he had been sent to her. She regarded him as absolutely her own, and no idea of returning him to his people entered once into her head. Of course they might by great cleverness trace him until they found him, and then they would tear him from her arms; but never, until this happened, would she relinquish him. What! never! ah! she was not so sure of that. Some one else, even before his own people, might come to take little Roy away—some one who once already had visited this cellar. Before his call there was no resistance possible. With one magic touch, this great, awful, and mysterious some one would close the blue eyes and still the baby heart and—yes—yes—yes—break her heart for ever. A few big, heavy tears fell from her eyes at the terrible thought, but she wiped them away, dreading to disturb the sleeping child.
It was evening when little Roy awoke, and Hannah perceived with fresh terror that there was another change in him. He looked at her without a shade or gleam of recognition; he no longer called her red face pretty; he screamed at the sight of it, and cried often and wildly for Faith, who Hannah hoped he had forgotten.
“Fate, Fate, come to ’Oy. ’Oy want ’oo vevy much, vevy much.”
Hannah was at her wit’s end. She no longer feared discovery. She laid the child on the bed, and, pulling out the box which was hidden underneath, she took out again his little blue frock, his pretty shoes, and white pinafore. These she dressed him in, and he was pleased for the minute, and stroked the white pinafore, and called it “Pitty, pitty.”
There came a knock at the door as she fastened the button into the last little shoe.
“Dat’s Fate knocking,” said little Roy, raising his eyes solemnly to her face.
Hannah felt it might be, but she had become indifferent. She got up, and, with the child in her arms, went to open the door. It was not Faith, however, but the woman from over the way—the woman from whom she had received the drops.
“I can’t stay a minute, neighbour,” she said; “but I thought it but right to tell yer as them drops they ha’ done fur my babby—least way I’m feared as they ha’ done fur her. She wor tuk wid convulsions last evening, and when the doctor come he said it wor the drops. He smelled to ’em and tasted ’em, and he said as there wor poison in ’em; and he threw ’em, bottle and h’all, out of winder. He said as it wor well the ’ooman as sold ’em had made off to ’Mericy, fur she had done wot might transport her. He may save my babby, but he ain’t sure. I jest come h’over to ask yer to go and tell the other mother.”
“This yere’s the other mother, and this yere’s the child,” said Hannah, pushing Roy forward where what light there was might fall upon his white face. “So you ere the one as ha’ killed my lad. Ay, but I’ll be even wid yer, see ef I ain’t.”
“I meant no harm indeed, neighbour. I did it fur the best,” said the poor woman, shrinking from Hannah’s wild and angry eyes. “I’m main sorry fur yer. I never guessed as you had a child of yer h’own. I thought you had only that wee Davie wot died last spring. But, howsomedever, that ere young ’un don’t look so bad as mine. Take him to a doctor at once. I’m real, real sorry as I did him an injury.”
“Wot doctor?” said Hannah eagerly. “I’ll furgive yer, neighbour, ef yer’ll help me to save him. Wot’s the name o’ the doctor?”
“The doctor wot is saving mine is called Slade, he lives in Tummill Street, half a mile away; go to him at once, he may be to home now.”
The woman went away, and Hannah lost not an instant in acting on the advice given to her. She wrapped her old shawl round little Roy, and forgetting even to close her cellar door, went out. The fog was less thick, and the gas made the place far brighter than it had been by day. Hannah walked briskly, for little Roy had laid his heavy head on her shoulder, and he felt cold in her arms. But she walked with hope going before and by her side. If the neighbour’s baby, who was so much worse than Roy, might yet recover, why surely he might. Her heart danced at the thought. Yes, God was not going to snatch this second treasure away. How very good she would be in future for such a loving mercy as this! She reached the doctor’s door, saw the name on the plate, and pulled the bell. In a moment a little maid opened it. But alas! the doctor was not at home, he was out at church, and so was the missis; he would be back in about an hour; would the woman call again in an hour? Hannah’s heart sank within her; the night had turned very chilly, and little Roy, sleeping heavily in her arms, seemed to grow colder and colder; dare she keep him in the winter streets for a whole hour?
“Look yere, my lass,” she said suddenly, “ef I may come in and rest anywhere in the house wid this little sickly young ’un, I don’t mind how long it be. He’s werry sick I’m feared, and I’m main terrified to have him out in this east wind. May we wait inside, my little maid?”
The little servant-girl had to refuse, however, though she did so with tears in her eyes. She was left in sole charge of the house. It was more than her place was worth to let any one in while master and missis were at church!
Hannah did not abuse her, but she turned away, with a feeling as though her feet were weighted with lead. What should she do with little Roy? she dare not keep him for a whole hour in the cold, cold street. Ah! there was one refuge, and it was close—a public-house shed its cheerful light upon the scene. There, in a place so warm and snug both she and the child might wait in shelter, in warmth and safety, and she had sixpence in her pocket, and she might spend twopence in gin. If little Roy were spared to her she meant never to drink again, but to-night she must have one little dram, for her heart was very low.