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.