Chapter Eight.
Faith thought first of going to Regent’s Park, for Roy was so accustomed to visiting this park on fine Sunday mornings with his sister, that perhaps his little feet might guide him there unconsciously. She forgot that at the time at which Roy had run out into the warm darkness of the autumn night, the park gates must have been shut. She walked rapidly in this direction now, entered the pleasant and beautiful place, and walked towards the spot where she and Roy had been so happy on Sunday. Yes, there was the wide-spreading oak-tree, there were the daisies still left that Roy had picked and thrown away the day before. Faith stooped down now and picked up these withered flowers, and put them carefully into her pocket. Roy’s castaway flowers were there, but not Roy—not her precious little Roy himself. Faith pressed her hands to her eyes, her heart was too heavy—too absolutely oppressed—for tears to come. But she was puzzled to know what course now to pursue. Faith was no common street child; though her father was only a carpenter, he was too steady, too respectable not always to obtain full employment and excellent pay, therefore the dire evils of poverty had never been experienced by little Faith. With the exception of a great loneliness, and a great dearth of the holy love of fatherhood, her life had been sheltered from all the rough winds which blow upon the class a little below her own. Had she been a common street child she would have known much better how to seek for Roy; as it was, she was puzzled. Not finding him in the one place where it would be utterly impossible for him to be, she did not know where else to look. Oh, if only she could discover the place where Jesus lived now, and ask Him to come and help her in her search! Jesus, however, was far nearer to the little lonely girl than she had any idea of, and He now sent her unlooked-for assistance.
A sharp, high voice sounded in her ear, “Well, wot h’ever ere you up to, and where’s the little un?”
It was the ragged girl who had washed her lips to get a kiss from little Roy on Sunday. Faith gave a great sigh of relief at sight of her.
“I’m so real glad yer come,” she said; “h’our little Roy ha’ run away—h’our little Roy is lost!”
“Lost!” said the girl; she went down on her knees close beside Faith, and stared hard into her face. Her own face, even through its dirt, looked blanched, and a frightened expression came into her eyes. “Tell us how yer little Roy got lost,” she said presently.
The sympathy in the girl’s face and tone caused some softening of Faith’s little heart.
“It was on Sunday,” she continued; “I did think a deal o’ what you said ’bout Jesus blessing the little children, and I disobeyed my father and ran away to Sunday-school. While I was away, little Roy ran out into the street: that wor how my little Roy got so lost—it wor all my fault; I wish as you ha’n’t told me nothing about Jesus.”
“I didn’t mean no harm,” answered the girl, “I only telled ’bout what I loved. But did you do nothing since? Why you should ha’ done heaps and heaps—you should ha’ gone to the perlice, and put the young ’un inter the ‘Hue and Cry;’ you should ha’ done all that last night, Faith.”
“I don’t know wot h’ever you mean,” replied Faith; “how could we put our little Roy into a place when we don’t know wherever he is? We don’t want to put our little Roy anywhere, only jest to bring him home.”
The ragged girl laughed. “Yer rare and innercent,” she said; “I didn’t mean no place by the ‘Hue and Cry;’ I meant a paper. You should ha’ said what kind o’ looking child he wor—what wor the colour of his eyes, and his hair, and how big he wor, and what clothes ’e ’ad h’on—all that ’ud be printed and pasted up for folks to read; not that the talk about the clothes ’ud do much good, fur in course they’d be made away wid first thing.”
“His clothes ’ud be stole!” exclaimed Faith. “No, I don’t believe that; I don’t believe that any one ’ud be so dreadful wicked as to steal away little Roy’s clothes.”
“Then you don’t believe as nobody ha’ stole him away. Why, Faith, in course ef he wor not picked up and carried off by some one he’d be brought back afore now by the perleece—why in course yer little baby Roy is stole away.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Faith. She gazed hard at the girl by her side, every vestige of colour leaving her face, as the dreadful idea became clear to her. Presently a hand touched her rather softly.
“Look here, I’m a willin’ to help yer, I am, indeed; don’t ’ee go on so, Faithy—don’t ’ee now—my name’s Meg, and I’m a willing to help ye.”
“Oh, please, Meg,” answered little Faith, putting her hand into the older girl’s.
“It’s a bargain, then,” said Meg, squeezing the little hand very hard.
“I’ll never, never go home again till I find Roy,” said Faith solemnly.
“I call that plucky; and ha’ yer any money?”
“No,” answered Faith.
“That’s rayther blue!” exclaimed Meg, indulging in a long whistle; “fur I h’an’t none ne’ther; but never mind, we’ll get along somehow. Now let’s set down on the grass and make up our plans—you don’t mind if I speak a bit plain, Faithy?”
“No,” answered Faith; “I don’t mind nothink but to find Roy again.”
“Well, it’s right as you should know that little ’un ha’ bin stole. Many and many a body as I could tell on, steals the well-dressed babies; they does it fur the clothes and the reward offered. My mother—she ha’ stole two or three.”
“Oh, how dreadful wicked she must be!” said Faith. “I hope, Meg, as we h’an’t got to live wid yer mother while we’re looking fur Roy?”
“No,” answered Meg, shaking her head gravely; “I parted wid mother yesterday—we ’greed as it wor ’bout time fur me to purwide fur my own self. I mayn’t never see mother agen—it all comes natral. I’m real glad as we’re parted, for now I won’t be wallopped no more.”
“I never, never thought as mothers wor like that,” said Faith; “she must be most desp’rate wicked.”
“Oh, no, she’s not so werry; I ha’ seen far worse nor mother.”
“But to steal the babies!” said Faith.
“Bless us, Faith, heaps and heaps on ’em does that. They most times gives the young ’uns back again. They jest watches for the ‘Hue and Cry’ and the rewards put up by the perlice stations, and then they brings ’em back and purtends as they ha’ found ’em. Mother tuk all back but one, he—”
“Yes,” said Faith eagerly.
“Well,” continued Meg, speaking with a slight shade of hesitation; “that ’ere little ’un—there worn’t no reward offered. Mother waited and waited, and I coaxed her ter take him back, but she got h’angered, and she wouldn’t—she ’ud never—h’all I could do—take that ere little child back home again.”
“Oh, Meg! and ha’ she got him still?” Meg indulged in a short, rather hard laugh. “Bless yer, Faithy, not a bit o’ it; that ’ere little ’un tuk the fever and he died. I tuk on most bitter after he died, as I did care fur him; yer little Roy put me in mind o’ his purty ways! but he’s h’all right now, he’s with Jesus now—it wor arter he died as I went to Sunday-school and larned ’bout Jesus. Little Charlie’s safe in the arms of Jesus this long time past now.”
“Do you think,” asked Faith, “as Jesus wot loves the little children, ’ud help us to find our little Roy again?”
Meg looked very grave for half a minute, then she said, her face brightening, “That’s a good thought, Faithy; we’ll jest tell Him all about little Roy.”
Faith sprang to her feet, “Then let’s go to Him at once,” she said, “let’s find out His address and go to Him; we’ll ask Him to lose no time in finding that werry wicked woman who has stole little Roy.”
“But we can say it all here,” said Meg. “I don’t know wot h’ever you mean by going to Him; we needn’t go a step away from here, we can say it here.”
“But Jesus ain’t here,” said Faith.
“Well, yes, He is, and He isn’t; I don’t know how to explain—wot do you mean, Faith?”
“I mean,” said Faith, “as I thought as Jesus lived somewhere, in London maybe, and that we might go to Him and tell Him ’bout our little Roy. I wor told as He worn’t dead—I mean that He did die, but He woke up again. Ef He’s alive, why shouldn’t He live in the place where the most babies ’ere, Meg?”
“Oh, dear!” answered Meg, “ain’t you a queer ’un! You’re a deal better dressed than me, and you’re so clean that there ain’t a speck nowhere, and you look as ef you allers had yer fill o’ vickles. You h’an’t never a rag nowhere, but fur h’all that I never did meet a more h’ignorant gal—where was yer riz, Faith?”
“I think ’tis ’cause my mother died,” said Faith. “I know as I am very ignorant; I’m ever so sorry.”
“Well, never mind,” replied Meg, “’tis fun rayther teaching yer, only you won’t mind ef I laugh now and then; why, Faith, Jesus is h’up in Heaven now. He ha’ most wonderful powers of hearing tho’, and ef we speak in a whisper a’most down on earth He can tell wot we are a saying. He ain’t never a living in London tho’, but He’s alive, and can hear what we say, fur h’all that.”
“And will He help us?” asked Faith; “is He real sorry fur us, and will He help us?”
“Yes, He has a most desp’rate tender heart. I know as He will answer us, fur I told Him all about Charlie, and it wor arter-wards as I larned wot a deal He ha’ done fur him.”
“What did He do, Meg?”
“Why He tuk him out o’ the arms o’ death, and carried him straight away up to Heaven. That’s wot He does to all the dead babies, He takes ’em in His arms up to Heaven. I know a hymn ’bout that, ’tis called, ‘Safe in the arms of Jesus.’ I’ll sing it fur you another time.”
“But I don’t want Him to take Roy to Heaven,” said Faith; “I want my little Roy safe back again wid me. He wanted for nothink when he wor with me. I don’t wish him to be tuk so far away.”
“Well, we’ll axe that it may be so; let’s kneel down now on the grass, and I’ll say the words this ’ere time, and then you’ll larn how He likes to be spoke to.”
So the two knelt down, Faith in front of Meg, with her hand clasped in Meg’s. Over the dirty thin face of the older girl there came a queer but expressive change. A look of hope and love and joy filled her dark eyes, as raising them to the blue sky overhead, she spoke.
“Jesus, one of the little children as you loves so well is lost. His name is Roy, he’s about two year old; he’s big fur that, Jesus, and he’s werry, werry purty. He ha’ yaller ’air, and blue h’eyes. I’m feared as some woman ha’ stole him for the sake o’ his clothes, and the reward offered fur him. Please, Jesus, don’t let that ’ere woman be a bit happy wid little Roy. Make her real misribble till she takes him back again. We know that there ’ere many ways that you can love him. But, Faith here, she wants him back again, so please don’t let him catch no fever, and don’t take him to play wid Charlie, and the other babies yet awhile.”
“That’s all, Faith,” said Meg, suddenly springing to her feet. “I think as Jesus knows werry well now wot we want, and you and me ’ull go and look fur little Roy, too, right away.”