That very same Sunday evening, while Warden remained upon his knees, and
the Recording Angel, looking down at him, could declare for the first
time, "Behold, he prayeth," Hannah Searles was very miserable. There
was no longer any doubt, even to so untrained and ignorant a woman as
she was, that little Roy was very ill. During the greater part of the
past week he had been taking more or less of the fatal drops. A few in
the day, more at night, had Hannah given him. They always seemed to her
inexperience to have a most beneficial effect on him. His fretfulness
ceased, his blue eyes closed, and he slept; but though sleep was always
supposed to be so very good for children, Hannah could never discover
that little Roy awoke refreshed or the better for his sleep. More
fretful each time was the little voice, more dull and clouded the eyes.
On Sunday he absolutely refused all food; but he was already intelligent
enough to see that the bottle which held the drops gave him present
relief, and he pointed to it and asked for more repeatedly. On Sunday,
however, Hannah only gave him one small dose, for even to her obtuse
mind the thought had occurred that it might not be doing him so much
good as she had hoped.
After this dose he lay in her arms for long hours in heavy slumber. It
was a foggy day, and very little light came into the cellar; but what
fitful rays did penetrate the gloom fell upon a very white and sunken
little face. Yes; there was no doubt at last, no doubt at all, that Roy
looked as bad as Davie had looked; nay, more, that he looked worse than
Davie had ever looked, except--Oh! good God! was Roy going to die too?
Hannah felt herself trembling all over as this thought occurred to her.
Was she a second time to lose her all; was a second time her one heart's
treasure to be torn from her arms and from her love?
"And I promised God as I'd try hard to be good ef He'd leave me this
yere young 'un as I found lost in the street," she said. In her sore
despair she felt angry against God. What right had He not to take her
at her word, and allow her to be good in her own way? It had never yet
entered into her poor, untaught mind that in keeping little Roy she was
keeping what was not her own. The other folks to whom God had first
entrusted him had been careless of so great and precious a trust, so he
had been sent to her. She regarded him as absolutely her own, and no
idea of returning him to his people entered once into her head. Of
course they might by great cleverness trace him until they found him,
and then they would tear him from her arms; but never, until this
happened, would she relinquish him. What! never! ah! she was not so
sure of that. _Some one else_, even before his own people, might come
to take little Roy away--some one who once already had visited this
cellar. Before his call there was no resistance possible. With one
magic touch, this great, awful, and mysterious _some one_ would close
the blue eyes and still the baby heart and--yes--yes--yes--break her
heart for ever. A few big, heavy tears fell from her eyes at the
terrible thought, but she wiped them away, dreading to disturb the
sleeping child.
It was evening when little Roy awoke, and Hannah perceived with fresh
terror that there was another change in him. He looked at her without a
shade or gleam of recognition; he no longer called her red face pretty;
he screamed at the sight of it, and cried often and wildly for Faith,
who Hannah hoped he had forgotten.
"Fate, Fate, come to 'Oy. 'Oy want 'oo vevy much, vevy much."
Hannah was at her wit's end. She no longer feared discovery. She laid
the child on the bed, and, pulling out the box which was hidden
underneath, she took out again his little blue frock, his pretty shoes,
and white pinafore. These she dressed him in, and he was pleased for
the minute, and stroked the white pinafore, and called it "Pitty,
pitty."
There came a knock at the door as she fastened the button into the last
little shoe.
"Dat's Fate knocking," said little Roy, raising his eyes solemnly to her
face.
Hannah felt it might be, but she had become indifferent. She got up,
and, with the child in her arms, went to open the door. It was not
Faith, however, but the woman from over the way--the woman from whom she
had received the drops.
"I can't stay a minute, neighbour," she said; "but I thought it but
right to tell yer as them drops they ha' done fur my babby--least way
I'm feared as they ha' done fur her. She wor tuk wid convulsions last
evening, and when the doctor come he said it wor the drops. He smelled
to 'em and tasted 'em, and he said as there wor poison in 'em; and he
threw 'em, bottle and h'all, out of winder. He said as it wor well the
'ooman as sold 'em had made off to 'Mericy, fur she had done wot might
transport her. He may save my babby, but he ain't sure. I jest come
h'over to ask yer to go and tell the other mother."
"This yere's the other mother, and this yere's the child," said Hannah,
pushing Roy forward where what light there was might fall upon his white
face. "So you ere the one as ha' killed my lad. Ay, but I'll be even
wid yer, see ef I ain't."
"I meant no harm indeed, neighbour. I did it fur the best," said the
poor woman, shrinking from Hannah's wild and angry eyes. "I'm main
sorry fur yer. I never guessed as you had a child of yer h'own. I
thought you had only that wee Davie wot died last spring. But,
howsomedever, that ere young 'un don't look so bad as mine. Take him to
a doctor at once. I'm real, real sorry as I did him an injury."
"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.