Hannah was unsuccessful in her search for coarse needlework. Badly and
miserably paid as such work was, the slop-shops had their full
complement of workers, and had nothing to give her, even though she went
so far as to promise to do the work for even more wretched prices than
had hitherto been given.
She was obliged to leave Roy the next day, and again the next, and for
these two days the drops were each time resorted to. On the evening of
the third day, she had obtained some partial success. She was given
half-a-dozen shirts to make. These shirts were of the coarsest check,
and Hannah would obtain tenpence for each. She was in quite good
spirits, for she could now work and stay at home with Roy.
But there was a change in little Roy. He was no longer the laughing,
rosy, healthy child whom Hannah had brought to her cellar. His blue
eyes were heavy, his movements languid, and his fair skin was assuming
that waxen tint which Hannah had noticed in Mrs Martin's baby over the
way. Hannah was a strangely ignorant woman, and she never associated
this change in little Roy with the drops which he had taken now for
three days in succession. She saw a vast difference in him, but she
concluded that such was the way with all children. Through how many,
many changes had her Davie gone? Why, at his very best he never looked
half as healthy as little Roy did at his worst. No, she was not the
least uneasy about the little fellow. But as he now had grown
troublesome and restless at night, she gave him a few more drops from
the fatal mixture, and when taking these he went off into feverish and
fitful slumber, she congratulated herself on possessing so valuable a
remedy.
While the shirts were being made she stayed quietly at home with the
little boy, who in his waking moments would stand gravely and quietly by
her knee, now and then putting up a small hot hand to stroke her cheeks,
exclaiming as he did so in his broken English, "Pitty yed face, pitty
yed face." Then adding, as he raised his heavenly blue eyes to hers,
"'Oy 'oves 'oo vevy much."
At these words, uttered so innocently by the little child, down would go
Hannah's work, needle, and thimble, and he would find himself clasped
tightly to her bosom; while down the red cheeks, which he had praised,
would flow large salt tears which had lain locked up and frozen since
Davie died. Yes, Roy was becoming more and more a necessity to Hannah
Searles, and a treasure without which she did not now believe she could
find life endurable.
One evening, leaving the child asleep, she went into the court. She was
gossiping with a neighbour, and enjoying the sensation of the outside
air, which was at least better than the cellar atmosphere which she had
quitted, when Meg Harris came up to her. Meg and Faith had found a
shelter for themselves in another house in this court, and now Meg came
up alone to speak to Hannah.
"And how ere you getting on widhout yer mother?" asked Hannah. "But I
needn't go fur to axe," she continued, "fur though you ain't much to
boast on now, Meg, yet you look more peart than when she wor allers a
wallopping of yer."
"But I have a h'anxiety on my mind," said Meg, shrugging her thin
shoulders and speaking in a low, confidential tone. "I ha' a gal along
wid me, and a young gal wot ain't none of h'our people. You might ha'
noticed her, Hannah, when you was walking down Middle Street."
"Yes," answered Hannah, "she looked a white-faced, mealy-mouthed little
'un. I mind me as I thought as I had seen her somewhere afore."
"Her father is a carpenter, Hannah, a werry, werry upper kind o'
carpenter. She's real respectable, is Faithy. And wot does yer think?
She have a little brother, a little lovely duck of a child, and he went
out o' the house on Sunday night last and got losted, and this poor
little Faith, she's near distracted. She and me, we're a looking fur
the young 'un h'everywhere. I thought as I'd tell yer, Hannah, fur you
see's a deal o' life, and you might ha' noticed as they ha' put him in
the h'advertisements, and ten pound offered fur him."
Hannah Searles had perfect control of feature.
"I ha' seen about a missing child," she said after a moment's pause. "A
child h'aged two year, dressed in blue, wid real gold 'air?"
"Yes, yes," said Meg. "Oh! Hannah, ef you could only help us to find
of him--I think as Faith ull die ef he ain't found."
"I'll keep my h'eyes open," said Hannah, and then she nodded to Meg and
went back to her cellar.
She was trembling all over as she stumbled down the stairs. But when
she had securely locked the door and lighted a long dip candle and had
seen with her own eyes little Roy sleeping quietly, she became calmer.
She went over and knelt by the bed, and took one of the little hands in
hers.
"I'd rayther be torn in bits, nor give h'up this little hand," she said
to herself.
But she had got a great fright, and gazed long and greedily at her
treasure.
It was plain that if she wanted to keep little Roy, she must move away
from here as fast as possible. She could scarcely find a cheaper home,
but be that as it may she dare not stay so near to Faith. Presently,
tired out, she sank down on the floor; she still trembled at the
nearness of the danger, but she also felt disappointment. The baby whom
she considered her own baby now was so beautiful, so grand, so fine and
strong, so unlike any other child she had ever looked at, that she had
often pictured to herself his high birth. He might, for aught she knew,
be the son of a prince. Any prince in the land would be proud of him.
And Hannah had delighted herself with the thought that this child, of
perhaps Royalty, was happy and at home with such a woman as she--a woman
at whom all respectable folks would point a finger of scorn; but yet
whom the pure and innocent little child loved.
But he was of no high birth. He was only a son of the people after all.
Many, many degrees above herself in respectability it was true, but
still a child of the vast multitude. Her last scruple at keeping him
vanished at this fact. He would lose nothing by remaining with her, and
for his sake she would, she could, become good.