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.