Before Faith had been gone quite half an hour her father returned. This
was an unusual proceeding, for generally he spent his Sunday afternoons
in a working men's club round the corner. He was one of the most
influential members of this club--its most active and stirring
representative. He organised meetings, got up debates, and did, in
short, those thousand and one things which an energetic, clever man can
do to put fire and life into such proceedings. He had come home now to
draw up the minutes of a new organisation which he and a few other
kindred spirits were about to form.
It was to be a society in every way based on the laws of justice and
reason. Religious, and yet allowing all harmless and innocent
amusements both for Sundays and weekdays; temperate, but permitting the
use of beer and wine in moderation.
Warden felt very virtuous and very useful as he sat down with pen and
paper before him. No one could say of him that he spent his time for
nought. How blameless and good and excellent was his life! Never,
never would it be necessary for those lips to cry to his Maker, "God be
merciful to me a sinner!"
A little restless movement, and faint, satisfied baby sigh from the
sofa, interrupted these self-satisfied meditations. He looked round and
saw little Roy. "Bless us! is the child there? and wherever is Faith?"
he said to himself.
He got up and approached his little boy. The child was looking as
beautiful as such a lovely creature would look in his sleep. Warden
went on his knees to watch him more earnestly. Yes; the golden-brown
eyelashes, the tangled mass of bright hair, the full pouting lips, the
rounded limbs, made up a picture which might well cause any father's
heart to beat with love and pride; and doubtless there was much of both
in Warden's soul just then. He gazed long and earnestly. Before he
rose to his feet he even bent and kissed the little flushed cheek.
"Yes," he said to himself; "he's a very, very lovely boy. If ever a man
had cause for ambition I have. With God's help, that boy shall take his
place with any gentleman in the land before I die."
He sat down again by his table, but instead of continuing his work he
remained for a time, one hand partly shading his eyes, while he indulged
in a meditation. Yes; he must save as much money as possible; for Roy's
education must begin early. Roy must have this, Roy must have that. He
did not think of Faith at all. Faith was but a girl. He began to
consider by what means he could add to his earnings, by what means he
could retrench his present expenses. The rooms they now lived in were
comfortable, but far from cheap. Ought they not to go into poorer
lodgings? for now they spent all he earned, and where, if that was so,
would be the money to put little Roy to school by-and-by?
In the midst of these thoughts, the door was pushed softly open, and a
man's face appeared. It just appeared above the frame of the door, and
looked in with timid, bloodshot eyes.
"I cannot assist you, Peter Davis," called out Warden in his full, loud
tones. "There's no manner of use in your waiting here. You know my
opinion of such conduct as yours."
"Yes; but I means to reform--I do indeed," replied Davis. He had so far
gathered courage now as to advance a step or two into the room. "'Tis
h'all so 'ard on a feller. When he's down h'every one throws a stone at
him. I'm h'ever so sorry fur givin' way to the drink, and I'm goin' to
take the pledge--I am indeed."
"It is disgusting, any man drinking himself into the condition of a
beast--lower, far lower than a beast," answered Warden, in his most
bitter tones. "There now, Davis, you know my opinion. I am pleased,
however, to hear you mean to change your ways."
"Yes, indeed, indeed I do--Mr--Mr Warden; and wot I made bold to come
yere fur were to axe ef you'd may be help me. I don't mean fur myself,
but fur the poor wife. The wife, her 'ad a little 'un last night, and
we h'an't never a sup nor a bite in the house. I thought, may be, Mr--
Mr Warden, as seeing we belonged to the werry same club, as you'd may
be let me have the loan of five shillings, or even harf-a-crown, jest
one harf-crown, and returned most faithful, Mr Warden."
Warden laughed loudly.
"No; not a shilling, nor a sixpence," he said. "I never encourage
drunkards; and as to your belonging to our club, you won't have that to
say long unless you mend yer ways."
"But 'tis fur the wife," continued Davis. "The wife, as honest a body
as h'ever breathed, and she's starving. No, no, it h'aint, h'indeed it
ain't, to spend on drink. I'm none so low as that comes to. I won't
spend a penny of it on drink. Oh! Mr Warden, the wife and the
new-born babe is a dying of hunger. Lend us jest one shilling, h'even
one shilling, for the love of h'Almighty God! How 'ud you like ef yer
h'own little lad there were starving?"
"Look here," said Warden, rising to his feet. "I'm busy, and I can't be
interrupted. If you don't leave the room at once I must just put you
out I may as well tell you plainly that I _don't believe a word you
say_, and not one farthing will you ever get from me."
"Then God furgive yer fur the werry _'ardest_ man I h'ever met," said
poor Davis. "I think," he added, "as I'd as lief 'ave my chance wid the
h'Almighty as yourn, when h'all is reckoned up. I never, never heerd as
you did a real kind thing in yer life, and I pity them children as h'is
to be brought h'up by you."
Warden laughed again disagreeably, and, shutting the door on Davis,
returned to his work; but the little incident and the burning, angry
words of the despairing man shook him unpleasantly, and his temper,
never one of the best, was in such a ruffled condition, that it only
wanted the faintest provocation to kindle it into a blaze. This
provocation (not a very slight one) came in the shape of his little son.
Roy had awakened, and after looking round in vain for Faith, had slid
down off the horse-hair sofa. He was thoroughly refreshed by his sleep,
and was just in the mood when a very little child, in its eager desire
for occupation, may do incalculable mischief.
Warden did not know that the little fellow had awakened. He sat with
his back to the sofa, and was now thoroughly absorbed in his work. He
was drawing up a prospectus for the new society, and his head was bent
low over the paper. By his side lay, in a neat and complete form, a
prize essay, which he had taken some three months of hard work and hard
thought to put together. The subject was one of the popular subjects of
the day. The prize was only open to working men. Warden had every hope
of gaining the prize. If so, he would win 50 pounds. His essay was
complete. He had sat up late the night before, finishing it, and it was
to be posted to its destination that very evening. Now, with an
unconscious jerk of his elbow, he tossed the neatly pinned together
pages on to the floor. He knew nothing of this fact; but as they lay
wide open from their fall on the floor, they presented a very tempting
spectacle to the eager eyes of little Roy. He approached the precious
manuscript softly, sat down on the carpet, and began the delicious work
of tearing it into pieces. For a quarter of an hour there was perfect
stillness, at the end of which time nothing whatever remained of
Warden's prize essay but a pile of scattered fragments which surrounded
little Roy. When the deed of mischief was fully done, and not before,
the little fellow gave utterance to a deep sigh of satisfaction, and,
raising his clear, baby voice, exclaimed, in a tone of triumph:
"'Ook, fader, 'ook!"
Warden did look, and comprehended at a glance. His essay was hopelessly
lost! He had no other copy! A quieter and better man might have felt
provocation. Into Warden's breast there entered a devil. He caught the
little child roughly in his arms, dealt him several sharp blows, and
rushed with him into the adjoining bedroom.
"There, you bad, bad boy! Get out of my sight! I never want to see you
again." He locked the door on Roy, and might have been heard pacing up
and down his sitting-room. He was in a furious rage, and would scarcely
have minded then had any one told him that he had seriously injured his
child.
Meanwhile the little child, stunned by the blows, terrified by the
rough, hard words, totally uncomprehending what he had done wrong, for
Faith had many times given him old papers to tear, lay for a moment or
two trembling on the floor. Then he began to sob loudly; then he rose
to his feet. It was growing dark in the bedroom, and Roy hated the
dark. He ran to the door which divided bedroom and sitting-room, and,
shaking it cried loudly:
"Yet me in--yet me in!"
No regard was paid to his eager little voice, and his cries and distress
were redoubled. Where was Faith? What did it all mean? He was
confused, frightened, pained. He could not comprehend how or why.
Turning his back at last to the inhospitable closed door, and standing,
a pitiable little object, with all his golden curls lying in a tangled
mass on his forehead, he saw a welcome light in another part of the
room. This light came from the door which opened on to the passage, and
was but very seldom used. Now, through some accident, it was about an
inch or two ajar.
Roy saw the light in the passage beyond, and ran to it with a glad cry.
When he got there, the thought entered his baby head that he would go
and look for Faith. His father had turned him away; his father had hurt
him and not been at all nice. Roy, heaving a great sob, felt he did not
at all understand his father. Yes; he would go and look for Faith.
When she was neither in the sitting-room nor in the bedroom she was out.
He would go out to look for her, for _she_ was always very nice.
Down step after step he stumbled, no one meeting him, no one observing.
Down the long hall at the end he ran, and out through the open door.
His head uncovered, his little round arms bare, he ran quickly away from
his home. A baby of two years to be lost in the London streets!