Chapter Ten.
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.
LOST.
Ten Pounds Reward.
Stayed away from his home on Sunday night, a little boy, aged two years, dressed in a light-blue frock, white pinafore, white socks, blue shoes.
He has golden hair, very fair skin, and blue eyes. Any one either bringing the child back, or coming with information which shall lead to his recovery, shall receive Ten Pounds Reward.