A London Baby: The Story of King Roy

by L. T. Meade

“I ha’ had rewards put up, and the detectives are on the watch. We’ll have him home werry soon, Faithy.”

Faith did not make any answer. There was a queer, dull, almost stupid look on her face. She moved half-mechanically about the room, getting her father’s breakfast and pouring it out for him as if nothing had happened. When she gave him his cup of hot coffee, she even seated herself in her accustomed place opposite. Roy’s little empty chair was pushed against the wall. Faith moved her own so that her eyes should not rest on this symbol of the lost child.

“Eat some breakfast, Faith,” said her father; then he added, in a tone which he endeavoured to render cheerful, “The little chap ’ull be back very soon, I guess. Do you hear me, Faith? I expect little Roy to be brought back almost immediately.”

“Yes, father,” answered Faith. She raised her dull eyes to his face. He saw not a gleam of either hope or belief in them, and, unable to endure the despair of the little daughter whom he had never loved, he pushed back his chair and left the room. The moment he did so Faith breathed a slight sigh of relief. She left the breakfast-table, and, getting a chair, she mounted it and took down from a high shelf an old and dusty copy of the Bible. It was a copy she had seen in her mother’s hands. She had watched her dying mother read in this old Bible, and smile and look happy as she read. Afterwards Faith had tried herself to read in the old book. But one day her father, seeing it lying about, and feeling that it reminded him of his wife, who never had it very far from her side, had put it up out of the children’s reach, and Faith had hitherto been too timid to dare to take it down; but there was nothing at all timid about the little girl’s movements to-day. An absorbing agony of grief and pain was filling her poor little heart to the utter exclusion of all lesser feelings. She fetched down the old Bible from its dusty hiding-place, because it had come back to her memory in the long hours of the wakeful night she had just gone through, that the Sunday teacher who had given her that sweet and peaceful lesson the day before had said that the Bible was full of stories about Jesus. If only she could find the place where he took the babies in His arms, and was so good and kind to them. Perhaps if she found the account of the story she might also learn how the mothers and the sisters—for surely there must have been little sad orphan sisters like her in that group—she might learn how they came to Jesus with the babies; she might find out how He was to be found now. Her teacher had said He was not dead. The neighbour down-stairs had said He was not dead. Then, if that was so, would not the very best thing Faith could do be to go to Him first herself, and tell Him that Roy was lost—that he had gone quite, quite far away, and ask Him to help her to find him? She placed the Bible on the table, got a duster, and, tenderly removing its dust, opened it. It was a large book—a book with a great, great deal of writing, and Faith wondered how soon she could find this particular story that she longed for. She could read very slowly, and very badly. She might be a long time seeing the place where Jesus blessed the babies; but here unlooked-for help was at hand. Faith’s dead mother, too, had loved this special story. The place opened at the very page, and, to help Faith still further, the words were heavily marked with a pencil.

Yes, it was all there; all that the ragged girl had told her yesterday. Faith had a vivid imagination, and she saw the whole picture—she saw the waiting mothers and the lovely baby children. She saw the angry disciples trying to send them away, and the face of the dear Saviour of the whole world as, taking one after the other of these lambs in His arms, He said, “Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

Faith read the story over and over until she really knew it all by heart. Yes, it was all there, but one difficulty was not over. She had read with her own eyes the story, but she saw nothing in the sacred words to help her special need—nothing about where Jesus lived now, nothing of how she, Faith, could go to Him, and ask Him to help her to find her little brother. She had less doubt than ever in her own mind of His perfect willingness to help her—of His perfect power to find Roy again. But how could she find Him? In what part of vast London did Jesus live now?

Faith returned the old Bible into its place. She had found out what it could tell her. Who was there who could give her the further knowledge for which she craved? On one point, however, she had quite made up her mind. With the aid of Jesus, or without, she must go herself to find her little brother. This course of action seemed to her right, and clear as daylight. It was all very well to talk of police and detectives searching for the child. Faith did not know anything about such people. Knowing nothing, she believed not at all in their power, but she did believe most fully in the power of her own great love. Surely no one else in all the world could distinguish Roy’s little face so far away; no one else could detect the clear ring of his voice in the roar and din of London. The little child had run away in fear and loneliness; but Faith, by the strength and power of her love, could bring him back again. She did not think at all about her father. She failed either to see or comprehend his new-born affection or anxiety. Her little heart felt hard against him; he had been cruel to her darling baby boy, and Faith could make no allowance for the torn prize essay. Her father was hard and cruel to every one. Faith did not pity him; nor did she believe in the least in his ability to bring the lost child home. No, this must be her task. She tied on her hat, and put on her out-door jacket, and ran down-stairs, for she had not a moment to lose. At the foot of the stairs she met the neighbour who had come into their room the evening before. She stopped her for a moment.

“Please, Mrs Mason, ’ull you tell father as I ha’ gone out to look for Roy?”

“Bless us, child!” exclaimed the good-natured woman; “but you do look real bad. I think as I wouldn’t go out, Honey; the little ’un will be brought back now they has put it inter the hands of the perleece.”

“I know best how to find him—please ’ull you tell father?” answered Faith in her quiet little voice, and the woman did not trouble to detain her further.