A London Baby: The Story of King Roy

“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.

Chapter Fourteen

Meg, after her interview with Warden, went straight bade to what home she possessed. Her violent anger, her passion of tears, had left behind them a kind of calm – nay more, a very deep calm; it was as though a thundercloud had rolled across a very blue sky, leaving it when past bluer and brighter than before. Meg, though tired in body and a little faint, for she had eaten no food that day, felt as though she was being carried home in the arms of Jesus. She looked up at the sky and behind all its London gloom and fog she seemed to see the smile of Jesus shining through directly upon her. She ran down the ladder to her cellar with almost gay steps, and she found Faith there, still very depressed and miserable. She told her of her interview with her father, by no means relating the whole scene, but simply that part which concerned little Roy. Faith listened and shook her head more dismally than ever.

“I seen mother in a dream last night,” she said; “she come close to me and axed me what I had done wid Roy. I ought never to have left my little Roy wot mother give me to mind when she was dying; it’s all my fault as little Roy is lost.”

“Why that’s som’ut like wot yer father said,” answered Meg. “He said as he wor a hard man, and it wor his fault. It seems to me that wot you ought both to do is to get down on yer bended knees and pray most bitter hard to Jesus to furgive yer; when He ha’ furgiven yer He’ll let you have little Roy back again.”

Faith stared very hard at Meg but made no reply, and Meg having devoured a small piece of dry crust, which remained over from the little which she had put carefully by for Faith to eat while she was out, lay down on the bed and dropped asleep. She awoke in the dusk of the evening to find Faith kneeling by her bed. Faith had lit a little bit of fire, and its cheerful rays revealed a change in her thin face, her eyes had lost their hardness and were full of tears.

“Meg, Meg!” she said, “near h’all the time you ha’ bin asleep I ha’ bin praying, and I think, I do think as Jesus has quite forgiven me.”

“Ah! ’tis jest wonderful how willin’ He is to forgive,” said Meg, “and wot cuts me h’up so is when folks know that, why they’re allus a fretting of Him.”

“Well, I’ll try not to fret Him no more,” said Faith.

“Faith,” said Meg lying still, and gazing hard at Faith out of her big black eyes, “how long ’ud you say as gals like me, under-fed, under-clothed gals, ’ud be like to live?”

“I dunno,” answered Faith in some surprise; “I suppose same as other folks.”

“No they don’t though,” replied Meg; “it comforts me a deal to think on it, fur they most sartin don’t. Ef they’re wot’s called lucky and don’t catch no ’fection, and don’t meet no h’accident, why then they may pull through; they lives then to be werry, werry skinny and ugly. Ugh! I shivers when I sees ’em; I says to myself, that’s me when I’m old. But, Faith, the chances ere h’all agen gals like me living to be old; let the least bit o’ ’fection come to a gal like me, or the werry smallest h’accident, so as I’d have ter be tuk to ’orspital, and then where am I? why, no where. You never, never seen a gal like me come h’out of ’orspital, Faithy.”

“But, Meg,” said little Faith, “why do you say it comforts you to think that?”

“Well, and so it do! Why, Faith, I’m no use down yere; no one wants me, and I h’an’t never a chance as far as this world goes, besides, besides,” and here Meg pressed her hand upon her beating heart, “besides, I ha’ a real hankering to see Him. Oh! to see wid my h’own, h’own eyes the lovely, lovely face o’ Jesus! and then perhaps arter a time He’d take a bit o’ notice of me and say, ‘Is that you, Meg? I know as you love me, Meg.’”

Faith was silent, too puzzled, too unlike Meg in her own frame of mind to make any reply, and after a time the two little girls went out. As they went down the street which led from the court to the more open thoroughfares, Meg said something which comforted her little companion greatly.

“I think, Faith,” she said, “as we’ll werry, werry soon now see little Roy; I think may be as we’ll find him to-night.”

“Oh Meg! oh! where?” asked Faith.

“I dunno, only I feel it. Jest you wait and see.”

As Meg said this the little girls turned a corner and came full upon the flaring light of one of the largest gin-palaces in the neighbourhood.

“Let’s cross over to it,” said Meg. “I allus do hanker fur light. Let’s get inter the brightness of it.”

She took Faith’s hand as she spoke and ran across, hastening her steps, for the sound of wheels approaching rapidly were heard.

At this very instant, just as the little girls set their feet on the opposite pavement, a woman carrying a child in her arms came out of the public-house; she walked unsteadily, and unheeding, probably not hearing, the rapidly approaching carriage-wheels, stepped into the street. As she did so her ragged shawl was caught by the wind and flung aside, revealing to view a little child’s blue frock, and showing for an instant a golden head pressed heavily on her bosom. Faith saw nothing, but Meg did. The woman was Hannah Searles; the child, little lost Roy – she recognised him by his blue frock and golden head. She uttered a joyful cry, and was about to touch Faith, when the sound on her lips was changed to a scream of horror. The carriage and prancing horses were on the woman, who was too tipsy either to see them or to save herself. In an instant she and little Roy must have been killed. Quick, quicker than thought brave Meg rushed to the rescue. She flew in the faces of the excited horses and caught their reins. They swerved in their course, swerved sufficiently to enable woman and child to pass by unhurt, but they knocked Meg down and the carriage-wheels went over her.

Many hours later on the same Sunday evening a group of persons were gathered round one of the white and narrow beds in a large London hospital. On this bed lay a bruised and dying girl. The girl was Meg; the people who stood so close were Roy’s father, holding Roy in his arms, Faith, and Hannah Searles. Faith and Hannah were sobbing, but Warden, with dry eyes, knelt close, and when Meg at last opened her eyes he placed the baby hand of his little son in hers.

“Meg – dear, dear, brave Meg,” said Warden, “let me thank you. You have saved the little chap’s life. Oh, Meg, if for no other deed of mercy, I must all the rest of my life believe in the Lord Jesus Christ.”

It was a public confession, wrung from a proud and hard man in the moment of his deep humiliation and thankfulness, and doubtless the angels in heaven recording it rejoiced. But the earthly ears for whom it was meant were deaf. Never again would Meg hear human voice of either love or kindness; there was no place for Meg down here, she was going to a place prepared for her long ago in heaven. Her eyes travelled past those who surrounded her, and fixed themselves joyfully on a Presence unseen to any but her dying eyes.

“’Tis you, Lord Jesus Christ,” she said, “’tis you. You ha’ come your werry own self. I ain’t to live to be old, I ain’t to be ragged nor hungry no more. You – ha’ – come.”

She tried to stretch out her arms, but they fell to her side, the breath ceased, and Meg was in Paradise.

After all, brave Meg was the only one to die. For long before the daisies came into blossom on her grave in the country cemetery to which Warden had her carried, the roses had come back to the bonnie cheeks of sweet baby Roy, and the health and brightness to his eyes. He had been rescued in time to save his little life. In that re-united home a new order of things was established. Faith and Roy had never to complain of a cold or hard father again. The great tribulation of those terrible eight days had done their work on the man’s heart, and the death of Meg seemed to set the seal to it. Warden told Meg that he believed in Jesus Christ our Lord. It is enough to say of his future life, that he acted as only a man could act who carried that belief to its logical conclusion, and who very humbly and very prayerfully followed in the steps of the Master whom he loved. Faith and Roy were to grow up knowing the meaning of true fatherhood, both human and divine. And Hannah! God was very gracious to poor lost Hannah Searles. He gave her treasure back to his own, but He did not take him quite away from her. She still saw her baby boy, and as she grew steadier and more respectable day by day, and week by week, Warden gradually gave her more to do in his house, until finally she almost lived there.

“I said to the Lord that I’d be good ef He spared me the child,” she was often heard to say, “and I’m a trying. I’m a rare and wicked woman, God h’Almighty knows that werry, werry well, but I’m a trying hard to be good.”

The End.