A London Baby: The Story of King Roy

Faith returned the old Bible into its place. She had found out what it could tell her. Who was there who could give her the further knowledge for which she craved? On one point, however, she had quite made up her mind. With the aid of Jesus, or without, she must go herself to find her little brother. This course of action seemed to her right, and clear as daylight. It was all very well to talk of police and detectives searching for the child. Faith did not know anything about such people. Knowing nothing, she believed not at all in their power, but she did believe most fully in the power of her own great love. Surely no one else in all the world could distinguish Roy’s little face so far away; no one else could detect the clear ring of his voice in the roar and din of London. The little child had run away in fear and loneliness; but Faith, by the strength and power of her love, could bring him back again. She did not think at all about her father. She failed either to see or comprehend his new-born affection or anxiety. Her little heart felt hard against him; he had been cruel to her darling baby boy, and Faith could make no allowance for the torn prize essay. Her father was hard and cruel to every one. Faith did not pity him; nor did she believe in the least in his ability to bring the lost child home. No, this must be her task. She tied on her hat, and put on her out-door jacket, and ran down-stairs, for she had not a moment to lose. At the foot of the stairs she met the neighbour who had come into their room the evening before. She stopped her for a moment.

“Please, Mrs Mason, ’ull you tell father as I ha’ gone out to look for Roy?”

“Bless us, child!” exclaimed the good-natured woman; “but you do look real bad. I think as I wouldn’t go out, Honey; the little ’un will be brought back now they has put it inter the hands of the perleece.”

“I know best how to find him – please ’ull you tell father?” answered Faith in her quiet little voice, and the woman did not trouble to detain her further.

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.”