_JUSTICE AND THE LAW MIGHT HAVE
STOOD STILL._
Robin waited for Helen for an hour--for two hours. By the end of
this time he was tired at playing pitch-and-toss--tired also of
waiting for his only friend. He was not at all uneasy, however.
Helen had found some reason for starting home without him.
He had won a few pence at his game; he bought a penny bun, wandered
about until he felt tired, then started back at a swinging pace to
his attic in Westminster.
He was really disappointed when he found the door locked and no Helen
within: but he was not alarmed; such things had often happened
before. He lay down on the narrow landing outside the door, curled
himself up like a little dog, and slept till morning.
He was rather surprised at no Helen greeting him in the morning; he
was more disappointed, however, than frightened. His merry heart did
not fail him, and he started on his day's rounds, whistling a gay
street tune, and with a penny in his pocket. He bought some fusees
with his penny, and began to hawk them about for sale, watching with
a keen eye his chance of securing, at least, a pocket handkerchief
when the bobbies were not looking. His one fear in life was the
bobbies, otherwise he had courage sufficient to expend in a worthier
cause.
A little girl and her mother went by; the little girl was dressed
beautifully, she had dainty boots and a white summer frock. As she
passed by Robin, who was hungry, dirty, waiting for his opportunity
to steal, she dropped, without knowing it, a tiny purse made of silk,
and ornamented with silver tassels. The purse itself, independent of
what it contained, was a prize. Quick as thought, Robin darted
forward and secured it, then stepped back into his place as if
nothing had happened.
The child had nearly reached the opposite side of the crossing before
she missed the purse. Her pretty face flushed up and she began to
cry. Robin could not bear this; though a thief, he was
tender-hearted; he ran after the child and gave her back her purse.
In doing this he was giving up his best chance of breakfast, dinner,
supper--no mean sacrifice.
"Oh! thank you," said the child, drying her tears and smiling
joyfully. "I'm so much obliged to you. Where did you find it?
Mother, may I give this poor little boy sixpence for finding my
pretty purse?"
"No, no, dear," replied the mother, who had observed Robin's dirt,
and feared some infectious disease. "I have no spare sixpences about
me, and the boy simply did his duty. Come on!"
"My purse only holds one crown-piece, but I may break that, may I
not, mother?"
"What! your grandfather's present! I am surprised at you, Ada; come
on!"
"Well, I _will_ shake hands with him," said the wilful child, running
up to Robin and taking his brown hand in hers, "Thank you, dear, nice
little boy! I'm so glad to have my pretty purse again."
For an hour after this Robin's heart thumped joyfully; he was so
happy that he forgot to steal; but at the end of that time hunger
compelled him to purloin a silk pocket handkerchief from a fat old
gentleman who was waiting to cross at the Bank. On this spoil he
managed to live for that day and part of the next; and so, stealing a
little, begging a little, working a little, in short, existing "on
his wits," as he termed it, a fortnight and even three weeks, went by.
During all this time he had never heard a single word about Helen.
Night after night he went back to the attic where last they had been
together, but he and she were both strangers in that part, and the
people about could tell him nothing. He became uneasy, frightened;
his buoyant spirits were giving way; he was a very little fellow to
be quite thrown on his own resources in London, and he began
seriously to grieve for the woman whom he believed to be his mother.
One day a crowd of people were pushing and jostling to get into the
court at the Old Bailey. Robin, very fond of mingling in crowds, ran
quickly to join them, and when they filed into the building and
filled that portion of it allotted to the public, he pushed and
struggled with his agile little body until he found himself in a very
prominent position.
The scene before him was novel, he could not understand it. Near him
stood a good-natured-looking woman, of whom he asked some eager
questions. Several people who had committed a daring city burglary
were about to be tried and punished, she told him.
"Wot's a burglary?" asked the young thief, looking up innocently.
"Why, bless us and save us! breakin' into 'ouses, lad, and makin' off
with other folks' belongings. This case about to be tried was one of
shop-lifting, and they do say the parties carried orf, besides gems
innumerable, more 'n a hundred diamond rings. My man, wot's in the
same business, told me h'all about it."
Robin suddenly grew pale and silent. A hundred diamond rings! What
was that tale Helen had told him the last night they were together?
How very flush of money Helen had been that night! What a prime
supper she had treated him to, and how loving she had been! But
surely, surely she had told him something about diamonds, had even
shown him a diamond ring that flashed and sparkled in his hand.
Suddenly, with these rapidly recurring memories, the boy felt himself
growing intensely anxious, intensely old, intensely wise. He had a
kind of presentiment of what was coming, and hardly started when the
next moment Helen herself was led into the prisoners' dock.
During the trial that followed, he scarcely breathed;
incomprehensible as most of it was to him, he listened to every word,
held quiet by a tension and dread which he could not explain away.
Never, until the sentence was pronounced, and Helen Morris was doomed
to five years' penal servitude, did Robin stir. Just then, the
wretched prisoner, whose eyes had hitherto been fixed on the ground,
raised them; the first thing she encountered was the sorrowful gaze
of the only creature on earth she loved. She uttered a shrill sharp
cry, and covered her face with her hands.
At this cry, the torpor, which had hitherto kept Robin quiet, left
him; he became like a little fury, and fighting his way savagely to
right and left, found his way to her side. For one half instant
Helen held him in her arms.
Let him stay there! he may never again receive a loving embrace.
Oh! I think, I think even Justice and the Law might have stood still
for one moment to let that woman and that child take another kiss.
But no, the police dragged him away, the crowd hustled him out. With
jeers and cries of "Thief!" "Son of a thief!" he found himself in the
open air.
The woman who had spoken to him kindly, pointed now at him with a
finger of scorn: and two or three boys, out of mischief, raised the
cry of "Stop, thief!"
The terrified, angry, sorrowful child, began by giving battle--ended
by flying from his tormentors. Down street after street did they
pursue him, each moment adding numbers to their train. He ran
faster, faster; down court and alley. A church with an open door met
his eye; he rushed in for shelter.
Into a crimson-cushioned pew he ran. There was no one there. He
curled himself up on the softest cushion, and in this calm, sacred
spot, cried himself to sleep.
In his sleep he dreamt of Helen, and of the beautiful child who had
spoken to him kindly. His sorrows were forgotten; he was smiling and
dreaming peacefully, when suddenly a hand seized him by his rough
hair, and a voice said rudely--
"Now, then, you little varmint, make yerself scarce, this _minute_.
Lying down and going to sleep in my lord's pew! 'Tis to the p'leece
I should 'and _you_ h'over. What next, I wonder?"
As Robin was being ignominiously expelled from God's house, the organ
was pealing forth solemn strains, the choir-boys were filing into
their places, and my lord himself was approaching his crimson-lined
pew. It was a great festival, for which special preparations had
been made; who can wonder at the verger being annoyed with Robin?
For it had evidently never occurred to this verger, that He for whom
the church was built, He, whom they worshipped with solemn strains of
music, and much pomp and solemnity, had yet considered this little
waif and stray sufficiently worthy of notice to die for him.
PART IV.
_HOW HE FARED,_
"So leave, oh! leave the children
To ignorance and woe,
And I'll come in and teach them
The way that they should go."
CHARLES MACKAY.
--_Souls of the Children._
CHAPTER I.
_HIS BROTHER--THE PHILANTHROPIST._
As Robin was standing rubbing his tear-stained eyes outside the
church door, a man, who considered himself a philanthropist, but was
not, passed by.
He saw the disreputable-looking child, observed that he stood almost
inside the church porch, and thought it a nice opportunity for
holding forth to this young sinner on the error of his ways.
Judging correctly by Robin's outward appearance that he was a little
scapegrace, a regular scamp of the streets, and assuming incorrectly
that he was hardened within, he set to work on the much-practised
principle of making hard, harder.
"Come, come, my lad, what are you idling there for? If you don't
want to go into the church you had better be off about your business.
Don't you know now"--this in a would-be patronising tone--"that
idling is very sinful?"
While the gentleman was speaking, Robin had been running his bright
eyes all over him, and inwardly speculating how best he might secure
his pocket handkerchief: finding, however, that he was expected to
reply, he hung his head and said,
"Dunno."
"You don't know!" repeated the gentleman, getting wroth. "Did your
mother never tell you that verse out of the Bible--'If a man will not
work, neither shall he eat?'"
"Dunno," said Robin, more helplessly than before.
"Gracious me! what ignorance, and in a Christian land! Where do you
go to school, lad?"
"Doesn't go nowheres," said Robin.
"But you are over the age; the Board ought to know of this. What's
your home address?" taking out his pocket-book.
"Eh?" questioned Robin.
"Don't you understand me, child? Where do you sleep at night?"
"Hany wheres."
"Well, where?"
"Nowheres in 'ticlar."
The gentleman returned his pocket-book to the seclusion of his pocket
in a mild, not an acute, fit of despair.
"Did not suppose there was such a case left in London--a homeless
child! Really very interesting; wonder what his ideas of religion
are?"
This man never gave a thought to the poor little starving body.
"Now, my lad, you have heard of God, of course?"
"Yes, zir."
"Ah! What do you know about Him?"
"Don't know nothink but His name--give us a 'ap'ny, zir."
"Gracious me! what depravity! Confesses that he knows nothing of
God, and in the same breath asks for a halfpenny." This the
gentleman whispered to himself; aloud, he said, "Listen, boy, I am
really anxious to help you, but I make it a rule never to give to
beggars. You are a strong lad, and should work for your living. But
your ignorance is frightful; you tell me to my face you know nothing
of your Creator. Now you must go to school--Will you? I will give
you the address of one that will receive you."
"Yes, zir; yes, zir. Give us a 'ap'ny, zir. I be rare and 'ungry,
zir."
"No, I make it a principle never to encourage idling; you must work
for your halfpenny, I have told you this already. There are a
thousand things you can do; go as an errand-boy, sweep a
crossing--your hands were not given you for nothing; but here,"
taking a card out of his pocket, "is the address of a nice ragged
school, opened for little boys like you. Let me persuade you, my
dear lad, to go there this evening; any one will read the address I
have written here for you."
He put the card into Robin's hand and moved off, the boy raising
after him once more his shrill cry--
"I be rare and 'ungry, zir; give us a 'ap'ny, and God bless yer."
A moment or two later the gentleman missed his pocket handkerchief,
which Robin soon sold for a plentiful meal. It never occurred to him
that Robin was the thief, for the child had an innocent, nay,
contradictory as it may sound, an honest, open expression, which
forbade any such thought in connection with him.
The gentleman walked on, pleased with himself and his well-chosen
words: he had read the little street lad a lecture, and put him in
the way of entering the paths of goodness. It never crossed his mind
that he might have employed his time better by giving Robin the
halfpenny he desired; or, better still, by putting him in the way of
earning it for himself. He walked on, well pleased with himself, but
nevertheless shocked for Robin.
"Ignorant of all but the name of the Almighty! Who'd have thought
it? who _would_ have thought it, in our enlightened days, and without
a home, too. I did not suppose there was such a case left in London.
What with our industrial schools, and reformatories, and ragged
schools, and refuges of all sorts, there ought not to be one such
child now left in London."
Quite right, Mr. Philanthropist--there _ought_ not to be; but what if
it has been proved by the most careful computation that cases such as
Robin's, number in our city, not by hundreds, but by thousands?*
* "The number of destitutes, or homeless juveniles under sixteen
years of age in London, cannot be less than thirty thousand."--_From
a paper read before the Social Science Congress at Liverpool, Oct._
1876
CHAPTER II.
_WHAT THE COUNTRY FOLKS DID FOR HIM._
That night Robin, for the first time, as far as man was concerned,
utterly friendless, lay down under an archway to sleep. He had often
slept under archways, and his position outwardly was no different
from what it had been the night before. The philanthropist's pocket
handkerchief had yielded him a bun for his supper; he was not hungry,
he was stupid and tired from sorrow, and he quickly fell asleep; but
his sleep was not happy, his loneliness pursued him even into the
land of dreams. He was alone, quite alone, that was the thought that
haunted him. Suddenly he was awakened by a very gentle sound in his
ear, and the sensation of something warm rubbing his cheek.
There was light enough on that summer evening for him to see the
cause of the gentle sound and the warmth. A large, well-fed tabby
cat had curled herself up close to him, was purring the softest, most
soothing purr of satisfaction, and was looking at him from out of her
comfortable face with considerable interest, and even affection. The
fact was, the cat had wandered too far from home, was a trifle
hungry, and a trifle cold; she found a few crumbs about Robin, and a
little heat in remaining close to his person. It was her intention
to spend the night with him.
All his little life Robin had been fond of animals. The very first
present Helen had given him had been a blind puppy, which in the
excess of his affection he had worried to death. Now he hailed the
arrival of the large, sleek cat with delight. He pressed her in his
arms, and laid his cheek against hers; and when he felt the quick
beat of her heart against his own, his great loneliness vanished.
Thus his second sleep was sound and happy.
When in the early morning he awoke and prepared to set off to pilfer
in Covent Garden, his friend rose also; but her services, as far as
he was concerned, were at an end. She refused his caresses, whisked
her tall at his approach, and, vanishing round the corner,
disappeared in the direction of her own happy home. Nevertheless,
for a few hours she had comforted him, and he whistled more merrily
that day under the vague hope that she would return the next night to
the same archway, and allow him to stroke down her soft rich fur, and
take her in his arms once more. But his hope was vain; the grey cat
was faithless, and again he was alone.
He sat down under the archway, pressed his little head on his
childish hands, and tried to think. He had never known such utter
loneliness before, and it was now loneliness without hope. There was
no chance now of Helen returning to him. Days, weeks, months would
not bring Helen back to him. She had been shut up in prison for
years, and years seemed as long as eternity to the little child. He
missed Helen, he missed the attic where he had been happy for so
long. He thought again of that last night when they had been so
contented together. How kind Helen had been to him that night! and
what bright promises she had made for the future! They were going
away in a ship--he and she; going across the ocean to a bright and
pleasant land, where the fields were green, and the flowers blossomed
in numbers. They were to leave the dingy, dirty city, and go to a
place where they would neither be hungry nor unhappy again. It all
sounded very delightful to Robin, and it would have happened had
Helen not been put in prison. His tears dropped heavily as he
thought of it now. He fell asleep after a time, for a child will
sleep through every sorrow; but he awoke the next morning feeling
dull and unrefreshed.
For the first time his gay heart had utterly failed him. He did not
go as usual to Covent Garden. He had a penny in his pocket: with
this penny he bought some breakfast at a coffee-stall, then walked
aimlessly along the streets. As he did so, a great waggon full of
hay passed slowly by. A boy, a good deal older than Robin, had
curled himself up in the back part of the waggon, and was preparing
to have a ride and a sleep in the fragrant hay.
Just as the great load was passing where Robin stood, the driver
discovered this boy, and with a heavy slash of his whip unearthed him
from his hiding-place.
"Look here, yer young warmint: ef I catches yer at that ere work
agen, 'tis to the p'leece I'll 'and yer h'over, and then yer'll know
wot the Lock-h'up's like."
The boy slunk away, but Robin's heart awoke with a new hope as these
words sounded on his ears. He believed he had discovered a way back
to Helen. When Helen was arrested, she was taken to the Lock-up.
That was the place where every one on whom the police were able to
lay their hands was taken. From the Lock-up they went to be tried;
from their place of trial they were sent to prison. Helen herself
had told Robin this, and it occurred to him now, with a great flutter
of hope in his heart and a flash of fresh light in his eyes, that he
had found a way back to Helen. How often he had trembled and turned
pale at the word--the dreadful word, Prison! but nothing now was half
so horrible as this loneliness, without his one and only friend. He
would even go to prison to find Helen again; and here--here was the
way made plain to him. If he, instead of that other boy, got up into
that warm bed amongst the hay, why, then, the driver would send him
to the Lock-up; and from thence, after a time--he hoped a short
time--he should go to prison and find his beloved Helen again.
This idea had scarcely entered his head before his resolve was taken.
His movements were light and agile as a bird's; he ran behind the
waggon, vaulted into the place where the other boy had been, and
curled himself up in the warm, fragrant hay.
The step he had taken was a daring one, and for a time his heart beat
high with a feeling of half hope, half fear; then the luxury of his
present berth, after the cold dreariness of last night's
resting-place under the archway, told on his weary limbs. His head
began to nod, his brown eyes to close, and presently the little
fellow fell fast asleep. It seemed to him hours, almost a lifetime,
before he awoke again.
The motion of the slow-going waggon had brought on very sweet and
dreamless sleep, and when he opened his eyes he was sorely puzzled to
know where he was. His wonder was all the greater, because now the
waggon had come to its destination, the horses had been taken away,
and Robin found himself tilted further and more securely into his
hiding-place.
When memory returned to him, which of course it did after a little
time, he still lay without moving; he was really too comfortable to
stir. Then he stretched out his hand, and drew the fragrant hay
close to him, and smelt it: finally, curiosity awoke in his breast;
he raised his head cautiously and looked out. The scene he saw
astonished him; nay more, it nearly took his breath away. Bending
over the waggon, sheltering all its great load of hay, was a vast,
wide-spreading oak tree. The leaves of this great tree were so close
to Robin when he put out his head, that some of them actually brushed
against his forehead. He raised his eyes to look up into this world
of green. Beyond it, looking bluer than he had ever beheld it
before, he caught a glimpse of the sky. A bird, his own namesake in
fact, sang down to him from the boughs of the oak tree. He pushed
his head out a little farther, and gazed eagerly about him.
A whole brood of yellow, downy chickens, led by their anxious parent,
were pecking, scratching, fighting for the seed which dropped from
the hay. These chickens had come close to Robin, and one or two of
them even saw him, and stared up impudently with their bright black
eyes. A little farther on he saw a house--a house with a deep porch,
covered over with creepers and bright flowers. Lying half within the
shelter of the porch was an old watch-dog, fast asleep. A couple of
children, sunburnt and rosy-cheeked, played near the dog.
Away in the distance were fields studded with haycocks; fields, also,
wavy with the yet unripe corn. But close, close to the old house,
almost within a stone's throw of where Robin lay, was a smaller
field, studded also--richly studded; but with something else,--white,
white daisies.
The moment he saw the field with the daisies--for from Helen's
description he knew they must be daisies--his quick wits returned to
him, and he remembered why he had got into the waggon--and why, in
short, he was here at all. The sight of the daisies had brought back
the coloured picture in the old attic--had brought back, with a
painful heart-longing, the thought of Helen. Well! he was all
right, he was certain now to be taken to the Lock-up--certain now to
be given back to Helen. If the other boy, who was only a few moments
in that delightful hiding-place, was worthy of so severe a
punishment, how thoroughly must he--Robin--deserve it! He had been a
long time in the waggon; he had been asleep amongst the hay.
No--there was certainly no fear--not the very least fear of his
escaping punishment. He chuckled to himself at the thought, and
wondered what the people, who by-and-by would send him to the
Lock-up, would think did they know that while they believed they were
punishing him, they were in reality furthering his dearest wishes?
These pleasant ideas had just occurred to him when a fresh object
appeared to distract his attention.
A woman came out of the house, and stood in the porch just where
Robin, by raising his head very cautiously, could get a full view of
her. She was a very comely, rosy-faced woman. Such a woman as Robin
had never seen in all his life before. Her round, apple-blossom
cheeks, her contented eyes, her smooth forehead, all denoted that she
and want--she and care--she and suffering--were strangers. She and
they had never exchanged a hand-clasp. Into her life of full and
plenty, these destroyers had not intruded. Shading her eyes from the
hot rays of the afternoon sun, the woman looked around her, to right
and left of her. Presently her eyes fell on the two little children
at her feet; she smiled down at them, then said in her rich, cheery
tones--
"Run into the house, Pansy and Cherry. Dinner's ready--a nice apple
turnover for each little pet."
Laughing and clapping their hands, the sunburnt children disappeared,
and the woman was about to follow them, when a peculiarly clucking
sound from the old hen, which still remained close to Robin, drew her
attention.
She stepped across the farmyard, came near the downy brood of
chickens, and began reckoning them with a very satisfied expression
on her comely face.
A slight rustling in the straw overhead caused her to raise her eyes,
and there and then she encountered the fixed, half-frightened,
half-impudent gaze of the little waif and stray who had been brought
to her doors.
It took but an instant for Robin to tumble out of his hiding-place,
to go on his knees and whine out with a piteous intonation--
"Please, please 'm, 'ow soon'll yer send me to the Lock-h'up?"
"Bless us and save us!" said Mrs. Martin, the farmer's wife. She
fell back a pace or two in her astonishment, and flushed deeply, half
with fear, half with amusement.
"Where did you come from, little boy?" she asked, when she could find
her voice.
"From Lunnon, please, lady. Please, am I to be took to the
Lock-h'up?"
"John Jones," called out Mrs. Martin, using her by no means weak
lungs to some purpose. "I say, John Jones, come here, and be quick
about it. See," she added, as the burly driver of the waggon
answered her summons, "what you brought back with you along with the
unsold hay."
"The young warmint!" exclaimed Jones, scratching his head. "Well,
well," thrusting his great hand into the hole where Robin had
concealed himself, "he'll catch it. Didn't I tell yer as yer'd catch
it?" he added, laying his hand with a rough shake on the child's thin
shoulder.
"No, no; that was the other boy!" exclaimed Robin. "I heard yer say
as yer'd take the h'other boy to the Lock-h'up, and I wanted to be
took, so I 'id h'up among the straw. I say, worn't it warm?"
"Shall I take 'im away, missus?" asked Jones, utterly ignoring
Robin's confession, which, indeed--nor can I blame him--he failed to
understand.
"By no means," answered Mrs. Martin good-humouredly; "leave the
little fellow for a few moments; I daresay he is hungry. Follow me,
little one."
There is no doubt that Robin was hungry, ravenously hungry, and he
certainly lost neither time nor inclination in following his hostess
into the big, bright, warm kitchen, where, indeed, he beheld luxuries
his ignorant young soul had never even dreamed of.
By this time Pansy and Cherry had demolished their apple turnovers;
and when they saw their mother and the little ragged stranger, they
scrambled off their chairs and ran forward to meet them; but Mrs.
Martin, perceiving Robin's dirt, would permit of no contact with her
own children. She believed herself an excellent Christian and a
charitable woman; but both her charity and Christianity would only
carry her certain lengths.
Motioning the eager Pansy and Cherry back with a wave of her hand and
t quick, sharp word, she called to Robin to follow her to the
scullery. Here the kitchen-maid, Betty, regaled him plentifully with
cold pork and potatoes; but even she did not care to touch the
neglected child.
Robin, however, oblivious of all possible want of manners in his
treatment, regarded himself as the luckiest boy in the world. But in
the delight of satisfying the cravings of his healthy appetite, he
was not so overpowered as to forget his primary object; and when he
had finished such a meal as Betty afterwards declared "no Christian
'ad ever got inside of hisself afore," he suddenly darted past her,
right into the kitchen, and up to Mrs. Martin's side.
"Stand back, little fellow," said Mrs. Martin, not unkindly, as,
coming too near, he trod on her clean print gown.
"Please 'm," said Robin, "I'm a ready now!"
"For what, child?"
"To be took to the Lock-h'up. I 'as h'eat full and plenty, and I'm
quite ready."
"But I don't want to send you to any Lock-up, little boy; I am glad
you had a meal to eat. Run away now; Betty will show you to the
gate: you are quite ten miles out of London."
At these words of Mrs. Martin's Robin felt his buoyant heart utterly
failing him. Was it possible that his daring enterprise was going to
fail after all?
"Ain't I to be a punished?" he asked.
"No, no; foolish child, what am I to punish you for?"
"Ain't it real bad to curl h'up and go to sleep in the nice 'ot 'ay?
I thought as it wor real bad."
"It was not a very nice thing to do, but I forgive you."
"But, oh! 'm please 'm, I doesn't want to be forgive."
By this time Mrs. Martin was both puzzled and annoyed.
"You are talking nonsense, child--what do you want?"
"To be took to the Lock-h'up."
"Little idiot! what do you mean? you must be mad to wish to go to
such a place."
"I ain't mad, I ain't--I wants fur to see Helen."
"Who is Helen?"
"Ohl she's my mother, and she's in prison; and ef I went to the
Lock-h'up I'd be took back to 'er--oh! oh! oh!"
Here Robin's courage and fortitude failed him, and he began to sob
most piteously.
But Mrs. Martin saw neither his tears nor his misery.
Before the revelation he had unwittingly made, both her charity and
her Christian principle gave way. What creature was this she had
taken into the shelter of her respectable house? had fed, and offered
hospitality and kind words to? a little gamin from the London
streets, a child whose mother was in prison, convicted of a crime,
perhaps a crime of murder, at least convicted of a heinous crime! of
course the child of such a person must be a thief, a rogue, all--all
that was bad. There was no saying what petty pilferings he had
already committed. What a lucky thing she had desired Betty to
remain with him in the scullery, or where now would be her silver
spoons?
These thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, though still she
considered herself too good a Christian to be actually unkind to
Robin. She would say no unkind word to him, she would not even
search him--though, it must be owned, she rather longed to thrust her
hands into the pockets of the ragged boy. No, she would dismiss him
quickly, but with no word of reproach.
"You must go away, child," she said. "You must leave this place at
once, and never come back again. Now! do you hear? I am sorry I
cannot help you further. Betty," turning to her handmaid, "see this
boy to the gate; put him out, and lock it after him. You understand
me, Betty? you are to lock the gate, and bring me back the key."
CHAPTER III.
_THE SHELTER OF THE STREETS._
That night Robin slept under a haycock. He slept very soundly, and
far more comfortably than he would have done had he remained in
London. Nevertheless, he awoke the next morning with a sore feeling
at his heart. His plan of yesterday had failed utterly. No one was
kind enough to him to take him to prison. He had tried to go to the
Lock-up, but no one would take him there.
It never occurred to him that by committing an open theft he might
attain his object; at least, he might so far attain it as to see the
inside of a prison.
Robin had been too carefully trained by his thief companions to make
open pilfering possible to him. The glory of stealing, was to steal
unseen--so thought this ill-taught child.
That night, after losing his way many times, and asking many persons
to direct him, he found his way back to London; and so ended his
first real adventure without Helen.
He was now truly alone in London, and between his previous life and
the life that lay before him there was a great and unhappy difference.
With Helen, who was clever, strong, hard-working, even though the
greater part of her work was thieving, he was seldom without food,
never without love. The eyes of Helen would look lovingly into his,
the lips of Helen would press his lips, and the faithful breast of
Helen would often be a shelter for his weary little head. Now all
this was over, and the child at the age of eight years found himself
utterly alone. Things had never from his birth fared very well with
him, but from this time life indeed looked dark. And yet God had
gifted this child with much, if only man had done his part. He was
strong as a little lion; his face was fair and sweet; the expression
in his lovely eyes was sometimes almost angelic. Naturally he was
intensely affectionate, and he was brave to foolhardiness. Out of
these materials much could have been made, but now the little heart
was left to feed on itself, and to drink in evil at every pore.
He loved Helen passionately--just as passionately as she had loved
him; as vehemently then did he hate the law which had shut her away
from him. For a moment the thought of returning to her had comforted
him, but when he found that he could not accomplish his desire, the
last straw that bound him to good seemed broken. He chuckled over
the philanthropist's pocket handkerchief, and threw away his card,
and plunged with all his young soul into sin. Still things went very
hard with him, and, as a thief, he scarcely kept starvation at bay.
As he sank lower, and his untrained and uncultivated mind ceased to
work, his desires were simplified to almost those of a mere animal.
He had to provide against certain gnawing pains. He had, on all
possible occasions, to escape the "bobbies." Once or twice, for some
small acts of petty pilfering, he was had up before the magistrates;
but on these occasions, when his small head scarcely reached the bar
of the dock, his tender years and innocent face got him off very
easily. Thus he began to grow up into a criminal career, with no
means of knowing what was wrong, and no power to help himself.
Never, in all his life, had the right way been pointed out to this
child, and the only kindness and love he could remember came from
poor Helen, who had first taught him to be a thief.
On one or two occasions, attracted by his innocent face, the regular
thief-trainer had got hold of him. In all low criminal
neighbourhoods there are several such characters, who make it a
practice to lay hands on young children and skilfully train them in
the ways of this terrible calling.
By these people Robin would have been clothed and fed, and would
probably, whatever his future fate, not have fallen a prey to
starvation and want; but the child had too high a spirit to bear
their petty cruelties, and, one by one, he ran away from them all.
So by stealing a turnip off a stall, or a loaf out of a baker's
barrow, he managed to keep the "hungry staggers," the disease he most
dreaded, at bay.
For the next year and a half this little half-starved waif and stray
used to wander about the streets. Now singing a ballad in a full
sweet voice, that might have drawn forth admiration in many a
fashionable church choir; now selling fusees; now sweeping a
crossing; now hiding behind a doorway to devour a stolen prize;
passing his nights when he chanced to have a few pence, and could
give himself the luxury of a bed, in a miserable low lodging-house,
where he was largely instructed in vice; or when he could not, lying
down under arches, at the waterside, near the market-places, behind
street hoardings, in the open hall-passages of the poor-houses, or in
walking the streets throughout the night.
His life in the open air and the variety of his food kept him more or
less in health; he was hardy, and thought little of hardships. A
true Arab child was he, independent, untamed; and, all things
considered, his young heart was most times light as a feather, his
laugh gay as a bird's song. He was full of fun and mischief, and
would venture in his recklessness to hurl saucy answers at his
natural enemies, the police; for he had quickly lost his desire to
follow Helen to prison. He would sometimes even dare these worthies
to catch him, and then, when the exasperated dignitary of the law
advanced one foot for the purpose, he would dart away swift as a
bird, cunning as a little fox. He had plenty of companions, and was
a favourite with the boys and girls of his own standing and
circumstances; his plunder he freely shared with them, but he refused
point blank to become "pardiner" with any. Many a boy and girl
longed for this post, but Robin was firm, he would secure his own
"wittles," he said, and be beholden to none.
Thus time passed, and Helen had worked out a year and a half of her
sentence, and Robin was between nine and ten years of age. It was
winter then; and winter was, as it ever is to all such children, his
hard time. The cold, and rain, and snow of winter, are awful to the
little homeless street Arabs. The need for food is much greater than
in summer, and the chance of food much less. A thousand ways of
earning a penny, by selling flowers or fruit; a thousand ways of
pilfering, are all closed at this time of year. Then, too, the
nights are so long and so dark. In summer it makes very little
difference to a healthy boy where he sleeps, but in winter the case
is very different; then the little limbs shiver and freeze, the
insufficiently nourished body succumbs, and the young life goes out.
Robin began this second winter of Helen's captivity badly. Finding
himself rather a marked character with the police, and knowing that
if he tried his pilfering practices much longer in his present
quarters he would assuredly spend a much longer time than he had ever
done before in prison, he had started off with one or two companions
into the country, to secure a supply of winter roots, such as
groundsel, plantain, &c., for sale. Some children, and even some men
and women, did a fair business in this way, but Robin and his
companions were unfortunate; in the place they went to, they found
very few of the roots they desired, and on their way back to London
they were overtaken by an early and violent snow-storm. Chilled,
hungry, their miserable rags wet through, they found themselves on
their return at night obliged to take what shelter they could obtain
under an archway. In the morning Robin got up with a sharp pain in
his chest, and a bad cough. In a few days the pain got better, but
the cough remained; it was a miserable beginning for a severe London
winter. Hitherto he had been bright and gay enough, had laughed off
his hunger, had whistled away his loneliness, but now, what with
starvation, cold, almost nakedness (for his rags would scarcely keep
together), and a cough that seemed to take away all his small
remaining strength, the brave little heart began to give way.
The hard battle was becoming too much for this poor child. He used
to wander about the streets, thin, pale, shivering, and into many a
face did his wistful brown eyes gaze longingly, yearningly; the
weaker he grew the more he craved for kindness, the more intensely he
longed for Helen. Any one could have saved him then, any hand could
have drawn him from the mire.
Well, SOME ONE did.
CHAPTER IV.
_HONESTY WAS NOT THE BEST POLICY._
One day in the bitter month of January, after lying under an archway
all night, he got up, feeling very stiff, sore, and hungry--oh! he
was awfully hungry. The night before he had spent the only penny he
possessed in buying a few of those celebrated "Cough-no-more"
lozenges, and now, here he was without his breakfast, and no means of
buying any. It was by no means a pleasant day for a thinly-clad boy
with a racking cough to step out breakfastless; there had been snow
the night before, and now the snow was half-melted under foot, and
overhead the air was very keen and frosty. Robin started off at a
brisk run for Covent Garden; he had no money to lay in any little
stock there, but he might be fortunate enough to "nab" a few oranges
or nuts.
When he arrived, the place was full of eager buyers and sellers, and
Robin recognised several little brother thieves. Never did it seem
to him that the owners of the fruit and vegetables were more on the
alert, and never had he been more starvingly anxious to steal. While
he was standing about, watching his chance, a large burly-faced man
called out to him:
"Look here, my lad; you seems like an honest chap; will you help me
to carry these 'ere big baskets of wegetables to my stall? I'll give
yer sixpence for the job."
"Yes, zir; yes, zir," said Robin joyfully. Pleasanter words had
never fallen on his ears; he had never liked any man so much in his
life.
Not for worlds, not to save his existence, would he have stolen so
much as a farthing's worth from that man's stall. Why? no one had
ever told him it was wrong to steal. Why? he never had a better
chance, for the burly-faced man hardly watched him at all. Ah! but
he said he looked like an honest fellow, and no sweeter words had
ever fallen on the little thief's ears. He worked happily for an
hour, then walked away with his well-earned sixpence, and a glow he
had never experienced before in his breast.
_He_, Robin, looked like an honest fellow; he had learned ere this
what the word "honest" meant; and though he had laughed at the word,
and pretended to deride it, yet in his heart of hearts he had admired
honest fellows, he had envied honest fellows. Those boys and girls
who could look every man fearlessly in the face, who earned their
bread, instead of stealing their bread, in his heart of hearts he had
more than once longed to resemble them. This was an instinct, more
than an active feeling, with him; the instinctive longing of every
one of God's creation after the right. Out of twopence he bought a
hunch of bread and basin of coffee. Never had he enjoyed a more
delicious breakfast. With his remaining fourpence he laid in a stock
of morning papers. He had not dealt in this style of merchandise
before, but the newspaper vendors seemed to him to do a very thriving
business, and he had a kind of dim desire to spend this day, at
least, as an honest fellow. He went down to the Bank, and began to
advertise his property.
"Daily News--Tele--_graph_--Morning pay--_par-s_--pay--_pars_" sang
Robin, imitating the cries of the other boys. He had a sweet voice,
and notwithstanding his troublesome cough, which the celebrated
"Cough-no-more" lozenges had quite failed to take away, he cried his
goods right lustily.
But though he cried himself hoarse and almost sick, he did not cry
away a single one of his store of papers; no one seemed to care for
politics that morning. In vain great public questions, which were
then exciting attention, filled the columns; in vain fresh accounts
of foreign wars, and fresh demands to help our starving countrymen
abroad, stared from the pages; the City men wanted none of these
things to-day, at least they wanted none of them from Robin. The
streets were too dirty, the cold too intense, for these individuals,
already rather late for business, to put their hands into their
pockets for the purpose of drawing out pence, to supply themselves
with foreign news. They neither wanted foreign nor home news just
then. The cold was making them selfish, even more selfish than most
of them were every day. They neither cared for the foreigners' joys
or sorrows, nor for the neighbour's wants. No one stopped to listen
to Robin's cough, nor allowed his heart to look out of his eyes into
Robin's thin, eager face.
So it happened that Robin sold none of his papers; the more fortunate
boys pushed him aside, and jeered at him, and he had no heart to
knock them down, as under other circumstances he would have done.
"Sneak" some of these fellows called him, for they knew, by his way
even of handling his papers, that newspaper vending was not his usual
employment. "Serve him right," cried others, "as if _he_ could call
papers proper!"
So passed by, by those whom he had hoped would have been his
customers, and unkindly treated by his companions, at twelve o'clock,
he tucked his rejected goods under his arm and trudged slowly
westward. As he walked he saw a crowd of eager little children all
pushing against a shut door. The children were dressed very little,
if at all, better than himself. He stopped and demanded what they
were doing there.
"Oh! this 'ere's h'our school," said one little girl. "This 'ere's
the ragged school, and we're goin' to 'ave a feast--buns and oranges,
and tea and coffee--ain't it prime?"
"Don't yo wish yo were comin'?" laughed a big boy, to Robin.
Robin suddenly remembered the card the gentleman had given him a year
and a half ago, and his accompanying remark that the ragged school
was made for little boys like him. His face brightened; he did not
know that school possessed tea, and coffee, and cake, and oranges.
Long ago, had he been aware of this fact, would it have had the
benefit of his society. Squaring his shoulders, and pushing his way
to right and left, he planted himself firmly, one of the nearest to
the door. He had a right to go in there, and he would go.
"What's that for?" said the lad who had spoken before.
"Nothink," said Robin, "on'y that I'm a goin' in."
"Well, that's a good un," laughed all the children in a breath.
"My stars!" continued Robin, unheeding them, "I never knowed as this
'ere wor the fashion of ragged schools--buns and h'oranges. I say,
young uns, ain't we in luck?"
"But you ain't a schollard," said a little girl; "the school feast is
on'y fur the reg'lar schollards, yer know."
"No, I don't," said Robin; "this 'ere's a ragged school, and I'm a
ragged chap. A gent wot understands, telled me h'all about it, and
I'm agoin' in; see ef I ain't."
Here the big boy gave Robin a blow in the face, which Robin returned
with interest; but just then the doors were opened, and Robin, with
about ninety other children, found himself inside the building. How
warm, and pleasant, and beautiful it all looked to the tired and
hungry child; that ceaseless tickle in his throat and chest, which
the Cough-no-more lozenges had failed to relieve, became soothed, and
almost ceased to trouble him.
Yes, his lucky star was decidedly in the ascendant to-day. What a
feed he promised himself by-and-by from those vast piles of cakes,
and what a quantity of tea and coffee he would consume! He was
making up his mind to this, and also to another thing--as honesty was
the best policy, or at least had proved so to-day--he would abstain
from stealing a single crumb from the ragged-school feast; the sense
of honour among thieves prevented his taking from the stores provided
for children as ragged as himself. In the midst of these
meditations, a hand was laid on his shoulder. On his entrance into
the school he had been so much occupied looking round him that he had
never noticed how, one by one, the children, answering to their
names, had filed off into seats; he was the only ragged child now
standing up in the school. The superintendent, a good man, but a
strict disciplinarian, noticed the strange little face, and shook the
lad out of his reverie somewhat roughly.
"Come, come, my boy, you can't stay here; rules must be obeyed; you
are not belonging to the school."
"Yes, I be," said Robin stoutly. "This 'ere's a ragged school, and I
be h'all rags and tatters--see yere," and he held up a thin leg,
naked from the knee down, for inspection.
A titter ran through the ranks of the children; the superintendent
did not know whether the mirth was directed against himself or Robin.
He began to grow angry.
"None of your impertinence, lad--turn out! I have no objection to
your applying for admission to-morrow, as a pupil; but you can't come
to the school feast;" and taking Robin by the shoulders, he pushed
him towards the door. The big boy who had twitted Robin here laughed
aloud. At this the angry blood of the little street Arab flew into
his face, and breaking away from the superintendent's grasp, he flew
at this lad, and had the satisfaction of giving him at least a black
eye, before he was himself expelled from the school.
No one here can blame the superintendent; it would have been
impossible for him to break through the rule which prevented all but
regular and diligent scholars attending the school feast;
nevertheless the little heap of rags and tatters, seated on the
doorstep, felt very bitter, and very sore at heart. Honesty was not
the best policy; he would never be honest again.
He regretted bitterly, standing as he had done so close to those
well-filled tables, that he had not helped himself to some of their
stores.
After a time, with his ceaseless cough, empty stomach, and unsold
papers, he moved listlessly on farther west. Once again he raised
his cry--
"Mornin' pay--_par-s_--pay--_par-s_," but his voice was tired and
feeble, and he soon ceased to trouble himself to do anything but
watch his opportunity for theft.
It had been fine and bright in the morning, but now the sky was
overcast, and fresh snow began to fall. This added much to Robin's
discomfort; it lay white on his jacket, and melted into his ragged
trousers. He crept slowly and painfully down the Strand, pressing
his face against the window-pane of each restaurant as he passed.
How delicious looked the hot and fragrant food! How exasperating the
smell that came out to greet his hungry nostrils! He eagerly watched
the groups of fur-clad women and top-coated men partaking of rich
soups and luscious wines. So hungry was he, that he would have gone
down on his knees for the crumbs they left behind them. He felt very
bitter against these well-dressed people, who were all too busy, too
happy, too rich, to give him a thought; but his bitterest and sorest
feelings were directed against the children, ragged like himself, who
at the school feast were having enough and to spare. The very fact
of their being dressed as badly as himself, and yet be shut out from
their privileges, raised the sorest feelings in his little breast.
He did not know what a "schollard" meant, but he did know what rags
meant, and he and they were alike in rags and tatters.
After a time he left the restaurants, feeling that if he viewed what
was going on within much longer, he should certainly be tempted to do
some desperate deed.
He left the restaurants, and wandered through Trafalgar Square into
Piccadilly. From the Circus he walked on until he found himself in
that part where his path lay between the Park at one side, and the
houses of the great and wealthy on the other. The winter night, the
long, long winter night, was falling now, and so also was the snow.
His neighbours, his brothers, were in those houses, adding comfort to
comfort, luxury to luxury; but adding also in their neglect of him,
and such as him, sin to sin. He was so hungry by this time that he
was almost in despair. Should he run up one of those great flights
of steps, and ring boldly at one of those ponderous bells, and demand
food, just even a piece, a morsel of bread, to keep soul and body
together? No, he could not venture; he was too weak to stand the
angry repulse from the liveried footman who would answer his summons.
He wandered on. Suddenly a cry, a baby cry, smote on his ear, and
peering through the darkness--the street lamps were not lit yet--he
saw a little girl dressed in a white fur jacket and fur cap standing
and sobbing on the pavement.
"Ma-_ma_--Ma-_ma_!" sobbed the baby.
Robin bent over her.
"Wot's h'up, little 'un?" he said in his gentlest tone.
The child stopped crying, surveyed her questioner gravely from head
to foot, hesitated, but finally, after a long gaze into his face,
stretched up her arms, saying coaxingly--
"Take me 'ome, wagged boy."
PART V.
_HIS FATHER AND OURS TO THE RESCUE._
"Of the hearts that daily break,
Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life
That grieve this earthly ball--
Disease and Hunger and Pain and Want,
Now I dreamt of them all!
"Alas! I have walked through life
Too heedless where I trod;
Nay, helping to trample my fellow-man,
And fill the burial sod;
Forgetting that even the sparrow falls
Not unmarked of God."
--HOOD.
"Do not deceive yourselves about the little offensive children in the
street. If they be offensive to you, they are not to Him who made
them. 'Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I
say unto you, Their angels do always behold the face of your Father
in Heaven. It is not the will of your Father in Heaven that one of
these little ones should perish.'"--CHARLES KINGSLEY.
CHAPTER I.
_A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM._
Forgetting in an instant both his hunger and his weakness, Robin
lifted the little child into his arms. She was very pretty; she had
golden curls peeping out under her fur cap, and her eyes were as blue
as the July sky. Robin had never seen anything so lovely as her
little face appeared to him in his life. The feel of her fur clad
arms round his neck comforted and warmed him; he was by no means
anxious to get rid of her. He hurried down the first side street he
could find, and then leant against the wall that was most in shadow,
to take breath and think. He did this because he feared that in the
open street the police would see him, and remove the pretty child
from his care. The moment he took her up she stopped crying, nor did
she speak until Robin paused to rest.
"Are we going 'ome, boy?" she said then.
"Yes, yes, little missy, ef little missy'll tell me where."
"Go on, then," she said, beating his shoulder impatiently.
"But I doesn't know the way. Where'll I take you, pretty little
dear?"
"What 'ou say?" demanded the child.
"Where does missy live? and I'll take 'er 'ome this blessed minit."
"Tupid boy!" repeated the little thing impatiently. "Where I live?
Course I live wid my ma-_ma_; dere! Go on."
Robin moved forward a few paces, a good deal puzzled now, for he saw
the child could not direct him. What should he do with her? Of
course the police would take her off his hands at once; but somehow
he liked to have her with him; he was not nearly so lonely nor hungry
since she was in his arms. Surely he might keep her for one night,
and give her up to the police in the morning; the touch of her
clinging arms was so pleasant to him, and then she was so lovely! He
had seen flowers in shop-windows, he had seen beautiful children, but
never before had so fair a little face been brought close to his own.
In the midst of his meditations the child called out Imperiously,--
"Go on quicker, wagged boy! I hungly, and I want my ma-_ma_."
This remark came upon Robin with a kind of shock; for the last few
minutes he had really, in his excitement and pleasure, forgotten his
own exceeding hunger; but these few words brought it painfully back
to him. He was hungry, and had no means to buy food; that now was a
small thing; but the little child in his arms was also hungry, and he
had nothing to give her; measuring her hunger by his own, he felt
almost agony at the thought of what she must be suffering. He did
not know that the well-fed child had never experienced the true
meaning of that terrible word hunger. But her healthy appetite being
awake, she went on moaning fretfully,--
"I so hungly, so hungly. Dolly _do_ want her supper, and ma-_ma_."
In despair at these cries, which he could not satisfy, Robin was
about really to deliver up the child to the first policeman he could
find, when suddenly out of a shop came a gentleman, with a small end
of a pocket handkerchief hanging out of his coat-tail. This was the
chance Robin had been looking in vain for all day. Quick as thought,
he whispered to the child to be good for an instant, placed her on
the pavement, and darting after his unsuspecting victim, secured the
prize. He came back in high spirits, laughing and pleased now. The
handkerchief was a silk one, and he knew that when disposed of, it
would bring him in enough of money to buy supper both for himself and
the child.
"Missy shall not wait for her mamma," he said. "I'll buy dear,
pretty little miss a cake in no time."
"Cake with gleat plums in it, boy? That's what Dolly likes."
"Werry well, deary; h'any sort yer'll 'ave, as yer wishes for."
Turning into a low street, he sold the handkerchief for eightpence,
purchased two buns stuck over with plums for the child, and a great
hunch of bread and a red herring for himself. The little girl
munched her cake quietly, and Robin thrust a large piece of bread
into his mouth. Now that both their hunger was likely to be
satisfied, his mind was quite made up. He would keep the little
child for one night, though he felt he must resign her in the
morning. Though he knew in the morning he must give her up, yet for
one night he would keep her; for a few hours longer he would feel her
dear little arms about his neck. As he found her, as he had rescued
her from being quite lost in the street, he, felt that he might give
himself this great pleasure. Yes for one night he would keep the
baby.
Where, then, should they pass it, the ragged boy and the dainty and
delicate child? The winter snow was still silently and softly
dropping from the sky; the winter wind sounded melancholy, funereal;
he could not keep the baby in the streets all night; even if he was
strong enough to carry her, he could not dare to expose so delicate
and lovely a little creature to the winter's cold.
Robin had enough, just enough money left after their supper, to
provide the worst and lowest lodging for them both. But some
instinct told the boy that there were words spoken there, and deeds
done, which the little child, even in her babyhood, must never
witness. Passing by an archway, he peered in. Was there?--yes,
there was a cart there, a cart nearly half filled, too, with straw.
With a glad cry the boy darted forward, stumbled into the cart, and
nearly buried himself and the child in the fragrant hay.
"Now, then, missy--poor boy werry tired--we'll rest yere fur a bit."
"And then go on?" said Dolly.
"Yes, missy, that we will."
"Is it far to my mamma now, boy?"
"No, no; werry close now, pretty pet."
"Well, I'se seepy; I'll just sut my eyes while you is resting."
She laid her little head against Robin's shoulder, while he piled the
warm, clean straw thicker about her. Suddenly, when he thought she
was really asleep, she started up.
"Bad, tupid boy! you was lettin' me dop off to seep wifout saying my
py-airs."
"Wot h'ever's them?" said Robin.
Unheeding him, the child scrambled to a kneeling posture, folded her
hands, looked up devoutly.
"'Our Father,'" said Dolly. Then she paused, gazed hard at Robin,
said "Our Father" again, then demanded, "What nex, boy, what the
odder words? Dolly forgets."
"Dunno, missy; dunno nothink 'bout it."
"Tupid! Well 'Our Father' must do for py-air until I get to my
mamma. Now, my verse, my littlest verse, for I so seepy. 'God is
love.' What I say, tupid boy?"
"'God is love,' missy."
"Yes, God love Dolly, and poor, wagged, tupid boy. Good-night,
wagged boy; you may go on when you is rested."
The lips of the beautiful, high-born child were raised to the lips of
the street Arab and the thief; a moment later and two pair of eyes
were closed, and two little hearts were for the present at rest.
Perhaps their guardian angels watched over the children--doubtless
their _Father_ did.
CHAPTER II.
_HOW THE STREET CHILDREN LIVE._
Early, very early in the morning, the full blaze of a policeman's
lantern was turned upon Robin and Dolly, and constable 21Y called out
in his harshest tones--
"Now, then, young warmint, what h'ever is your little game? Why, I
never!"--as his eye fell on Dolly--"ef this ain't Colonel
L'Estrange's child, and the whole place in a hue and cry after her.
So you wanted to steal her, you little thief. You'll soon know the
right of this 'ere job."
With one hand he raised Dolly, who, frightened at her strange waking,
was now sobbing bitterly, with the other he tried to detain Robin,
but quick as thought the wiry boy escaped from his hands; he rushed
out of the archway, down a back court, where he stood, in the bitter
winter morning, trembling and shivering as much with anger as with
cold. All night long he had been dreaming of Dolly; never, even for
a moment did he lose the consciousness that she was by his side, and
now, all in an instant, she had been torn away. He had been called a
thief--the thief of the pretty little dear; now she was gone, and he
should never, never see her again. It had been a short-lived and
vivid pleasure; but now that it was over he felt very miserable--more
miserable than he had ever felt in his dark little life before.
Yesterday morning had been bad enough, with his racking cough and his
empty pockets; but yesterday had been nothing to this day, for
between this day and yesterday he had found and lost Dolly. He did
not know until he had lost it what a difference a little love could
make in his life. Why, with that pretty child in his arms, he had
forgotten, actually and completely forgotten, his savage hunger.
Well, he knew he must give her up; she was too sweet and too nice to
share his miserable existence. He knew well, as he dropped off to
sleep last night, that in the morning he must resign her. But he
never meant to have her torn from him like this; he had pictured to
himself at least one short walk with her warm arms clasped round his
neck, a word or two more from the imperious baby-lips, and perhaps,
best and most precious of all, another kiss from Dolly. Tears don't
often come from poor little boys like Robin; but now a few did
trickle down his pale cheeks, and his heart felt very sore.
Why should he not weep? Standing there under that winter sky, the
boy was neighbourless, friendless, homeless! No one owned him, no
one cared for him; had not he cause for his tears? He wandered on
until he came to Oxford Circus, where he was greeted by one of his
companion thieves and pals.
The lad whispered in his ear, "Does yer see that ere sharp-lookin'
man a spyin' of yer?"
"Yes," answered Robin listlessly; "wot of 'im?"
"Wot of 'im?" mimicked his companion; "why, there's a deal of 'im to
my way of thinkin'. He wants to prison yer hup in a school, lad,
that's about it."
At the word "school" Robin's face began to darken with anger and pain.
"School!" he repeated; "I'm a goin' to no school--not I--my, but
yesterday"----
"Yere's the 'spectre, as I'm alive!" interrupted the sharp boy,
quickly vanishing from view; and in truth, before Robin had time to
stir, the man who had watched him came up and laid a firm hand on his
shoulder.
"Where do you go to school, my lad?" he asked, in by no means an
unkindly voice.
"No where's," answered Robin.
"Well, this must be seen to," taking out his note-book. "What's your
name?"
"Joe Williams," answered the little thief readily, glancing up with
his brown eyes full into the inspector's face.
"Your address?"
"First door to the left, three pairs hup, Peter's Court, Seven
Dials," as quickly replied the homeless boy.
The inspector replaced his note-book, assured "Williams" that he
would make inquiries about him, and walked off, while the little
thief was quickly surrounded by admiring street pals who praised his
cleverness, clapped him on the back, and laughed loudly over the joke
of the school inspector being outdone, and looking in vain for
"Williams" in the room three pair up, Seven Dials.
For a time Robin was cheered by the applause of his companions, but
fresh thoughts of Dolly brought fresh tears to his eyes, and he
walked slowly and sadly away. Passing by a coffee-stall, it had the
effect of partly arousing his hunger. He felt in his pocket for
three halfpence which were still left out of his eightpence. A penny
would buy him a basin of hot coffee, a halfpenny would secure to him
a morsel of bread. He was not so hungry as yesterday, but he was
colder, and his cough was worse. He got some breakfast at this
coffee-stall, and then walked on, feeling better. As usual, his
bright eyes roved to right and left for any chance of pilfering that
might occur. He connected no wrong with this; he knew neither right
nor wrong. The law, he understood well, was against thieves; the
police were against thieves; the law and the police were his natural
enemies, they had torn from him Helen, his only friend. He took,
when well and bright, a decided pleasure in outwitting these his
enemies. To-day, however, he was too ill and miserable to take
pleasure in anything. The sky was leaden tinted, and foretold either
more rain or more snow; the short dull winter's day broke gloomily.
Yesterday, when suffering the keenest and sharpest pangs of hunger,
Robin had looked round him in vain for the faintest chance of
stealing. He had looked until night in vain. All the stalls were
well guarded; all the men wore overcoats tightly buttoned up, no
chance of anything sticking out of their pockets; all the ladies held
their purses firmly inside their muffs. To-day, however, when less
hungry and less anxious, a chance, and a golden chance, soon
presented itself.
A lady, stepping into a cab, dropped from her arm a silver bracelet.
She never missed it, and Robin, under the pretence of shutting the
cab door for her, had it quickly in his pocket. As he secured this
valuable prize, he looked into the lady's face and recognised the
person whose little girl's purse he had returned more than a year
ago. Well did he remember how, deaf to her child's pleadings, she
had refused to give him, a ragged starving boy, even a few pence. It
added to his pleasure to reflect that it was _her_ bracelet he had
stolen. Never had so rich a prize fallen in his way; he darted down
an alley to examine it at his leisure; he did not half know its
value, but he was quite clever enough to guess that it would, when
sold, bring him in a sum of money which would keep him above want for
several days. Pocket handkerchiefs and such things he generally
disposed of at the pawn-shops, but the silver bracelet he would take
to a certain old Jew, to whom once or twice before he had brought a
small prize. The Jew in question lived in a place called Frying-pan
Alley.
Entering the shop, Robin pulled out the bracelet and handed it across
the counter.
The Jew, a villanous old fellow, spectacles on nose, took up the
bracelet, turned it round, threw it contemptuously on the counter.
"Tinsel--tinsel," he said, "vorth ver litel. How much ashk for this
von vorthless litel bracelet, boy?"
Robin having made up his mind to demand five shillings, gasped forth
that tremendous sum in a shaky voice.
The Jew took up the bracelet again, fingered it lightly, then,
apparently in a fit of abstraction, dropped it into a box by the side
of the counter.
"Poor, bad, litel boy, I give you no five shilling; I not give you
von shingle shikshpensh. You shtole this litel vorthless bracelet I
return it to the polish, and you, I take you too."
And stretching out his long lean hand, he clutched at Robin with a
vice he could not shake off.
"No, no, no," screamed the boy in terror. "Give me the bracelet--let
me go, let me go!"
"No, I'll not give you up the tinsel bracelet, it is vorth nothing;
but you shtole it, you can't deny. I will return it to the polish,
who may find somebody who loosh the poor tinsel thing. Get you gone,
litel bad thief boy, get you gone!"
And with a violent whirl, which nearly sent Robin on his face and
hands, he was turned from the shop.
Still terrified, for the Jew's manner had been more violent even than
his words, he ran, until, finding himself in other quarters, he sat
down on a doorstep to rest.
Attracted by his ceaseless cough, a respectably-dressed young woman
who was passing by, turned round to look at him.
"Poor little boy! how very ill you look," she said kindly: "here,"
taking out her purse, "is a penny for you; I wish it was more."
She dropped the coin into Robin's lap and hurried on.
The young woman was his own sister Molly, who, steady and
industrious, had managed to prosper in life.
CHAPTER III.
_SOMEBODY RESCUED NOBODY'S NEIGHBOUR._
Robin put the penny into his mouth for safety. Then he sat for a
long time listlessly on the doorstep. Something between snow and
drizzle was falling steadily from the sky, but the street Arab hardly
noticed it: he could not well be colder than he was, and he wanted to
rest, and to ponder an idea.
Never had the life within him ebbed so low; he wanted sorely a little
comfort, and a little love. He had heard, for his companion thieves
had told him so, that prisoners were sometimes allowed to see their
friends. More than anything in the world, he now longed to see
Helen. With his weakness and pain, the desire once more to behold
the face that had always looked at him with kindness, became so
strong as to be almost unbearable. He knew now, for he was older and
wiser, that going to prison for punishment would get him no sight of
Helen; but surely if he found his way to the prison doors, and asked
to see his old friend, the prison authorities would grant his request
This he thought; this he hoped; and if he really saw Helen once more,
life might again become bearable to him. She might show him how to
get strong; she might tell him some way of getting rid of that
terrible cough, of earning at least money enough to keep him from
starving. He had never in the least forgotten how loving, how
tender, how true Helen had been to him; how she had soothed his baby
ailments, and kissed away his small troubles. Yes, he would go to
Helen now; he had heard that she was somewhere in the country; he
would set off at once to the country to find Helen. He did not know
the name of the prison where she was serving out her time; still he
would start off, for some one could be found who would show him the
way, and when once in the country he must surely find Helen.
Rising from his cold seat, rather brightened and comforted by this
thought, he set off, fortifying himself for his journey by buying a
piece of bread out of Molly's penny. He was wonderfully little
hungry to-day; indeed he rather disliked food; but he might need it
by-and-by, and people had told him that there were very few shops in
the country.
Down Piccadilly, past the place where he had seen Dolly last night,
he wandered. He asked several people the way to the country, for his
last expedition in the waggon, when he had slept all the way, had
given him no clue: one and all stared when the ragged child made this
request, smiled, pointed westward. So westward, with the setting
sun, went Robin.
After what seemed to him hours and hours of walking,--for he was so
weak, and his cough so painful, he could only creep along,--he found
himself in West Brompton. Houses were still to the right and left of
him; houses seemed to surround him everywhere. Should he ever get
rid of these houses, and find the country? He paused to eat a piece
of his bread, for his strength was going; but he disliked it--it
almost made him sick. Well, he must soon come to the country.
Suddenly he uttered a joyful cry; he had reached a gateway--a gateway
with the gate thrown back. Through the gateway he saw trees and
grass. Yes, this must lead to the country, if this was not the
country itself.
He went in through the gateway; he had entered the West Brompton
Cemetery.
Cold, nearly as white as the snow, gleamed the marble of the many
monuments.
Robin had not an idea what place he was in. He wandered on until he
came to the part set aside for the very poor: here he threw himself
down on a low grave to rest. He did not know it was a grave he was
lying upon. There was no inscription or writing of any sort on the
grave, nothing but the raised mound of grass. After a time, worn out
with weakness, fatigue, and cold, he fell asleep. It was late when
he awoke: the winter's sun had set, and the winter's night had come
on. His limbs felt strangely numb and stiff; he tottered to his
feet, and began feebly to grope his way forward. In half an hour he
came to a gate; he recognised it as the gate he had come in by: it
was fastened, locked. He wandered on and on; after what seemed to
him an age of walking, he came to another gate: it also was locked.
He perceived then that he could not get out of this place for the
night.
He had still not the faintest idea what place it really was, but the
monuments in the white light, and the cold gleam of the snow on the
grass, frightened him in spite of himself. Wandering round and
round, he came back in time to the same grave on whose mound he had
already slept; he sat down on it again, regarding it, in this strange
and awful place, as something like an old friend.
The sleet and snow had for the last couple of hours ceased to fall,
the clouds had cleared away, the stars dotted the dark blue of the
sky, and the moon, in grand, cold, calm majesty, shed an awful white
light on the graves.
The rich, in their warm luxurious houses, noticed what a severe frost
there was that night; the poor were less saving than usual with their
handfuls of coal. What then must have been the sensations of this
poor little lost child seated alone upon a grave?
He felt the cold terribly, intensely: he was too weary to walk, he
was simply incapable of moving another step; and for a time the
freezing process going on in his poor little body gave him such agony
he could with difficulty keep himself from screaming aloud.
The dead in the graves under his feet could hardly be colder than he
was fast becoming. After a time, however, he grew more comfortable,
the pain became less, until it ceased. He stretched himself on the
grave, closed his eyes, and tried to go to sleep. He hoped he might
soon drop off to sleep, and then, when the gates were open in the
morning, he might continue his journey in search of Helen. But
strange as it may seem, he could not sleep; his body was numb, half
dead, but his mind was active. He thought of Helen, his loving,
faithful friend: he thought of his life with her; of the attic with
the dirty prints. He felt Helen's arms about him, as they had so
often, so often been; he thought of the little girl whose purse he
had returned, and who had clasped his dirty hand in hers; he thought
of the kind-looking woman who to-day had dropped a penny into his
lap; most of all, he thought of the beautiful child, who last night
had laid her golden head on his ragged breast, and who had kissed
him. Many, many had been unkind to Robin, but these four had been
good to him: all the unkind faces faded from his memory, but these
four remained; and of the four, the brightest, sweetest, best, was
the little child's face.
What did she mean when she said "Our Father" last night? He
remembered perfectly how she knelt, how she looked, then how quietly
and peacefully she went to sleep.
"Our Father"--well, he had no father: he had never known anything
about a father; but the words, _whatever_, whatever they meant, must
be good, or Dolly would not have looked so peaceful after saying them.
The look on Dolly's face, after saying these two words, was simply
the look one wears after speaking to the best and most loving friend.
Well! he too would say the words; they might mean nothing, or they
might mean much. They might bring him, too, the peace they brought
to Dolly, and afterwards he might go quietly to sleep.
He struggled painfully on to his half-frozen knees, clasped his hands
as Dolly had clasped hers, looked earnestly up at the clear frosty
sky, and whispered, in a strange stifled tone of supplication, agony,
longing, "Our Father." Nothing more, after these two words he lay
down, and closed his eyes. Once he opened them again, those
beautiful eyes that were surely meant to reflect God's image; he
opened them and smiled. Yes, the words were good words; he felt
peaceful, painless, happy. He was going to sleep really now. Never
since Helen left him had he gone to sleep so restfully.
The four faces seemed to surround him, to shut him in, to soothe him
with loving care; then they faded into the faces of Helen and Dolly,
then into Dolly's face alone, then that too vanished into air, and I
think the little ragged child was left with _Our Father_.
* * * * * *
Yes, with Our Father! for by the look seen half an hour later on his
pale and death-like face it was very plain that the Great Succourer,
shocked with man's neglect, was coming Himself to the rescue of His
little one. Christ, who had died for just such neglected, sinful,
sorrowful creatures, was touched with the feeling of his infirmities,
and the child who was nobody's neighbour, was to be saved by God
Himself.
Schools, reformatories, charitable institutions, had all failed to
reach this one little waif and stray. Without any man being directly
to blame, every man had passed him by. God saw that the time had
come when He Himself must save. He Himself must do the work that men
and women had failed to do. God Himself saved the child: this He did
by putting a thought into the head of one of His humblest children.
By this thought, put into the mind of one young girl, God had pity on
us also, saving us from the guilt which must ever have rested on our
souls had Robin died. For had our brother passed away, while we,
with our riches, our comforts, our blessings, sat by and held out no
hand of succour, for ever and ever it would have been to us one of
those things which we had left undone, which we ought to have done:
and this one sin of omission would have cried loudly to Heaven for
vengeance.
God saw this, and had compassion on us as well as Robin, when He put
a thought into a heart that night.
For just at the moment when Robin was looking up to the sky, and
crying in pitiful supplications to One whom he knew not of, a girl
was kneeling in a poorly furnished room, and earnestly praying.
This was the subject of her prayer--
"My Father in Heaven, help me this year to forget my own sorrow in
helping others."
This, clothed in many words, but with intense feeling and earnest
desire, was her prayer.
When she had risen from her knees, and had wiped away some tears, she
went downstairs. She was the daughter of the porter who kept the
gate by which Robin had entered the cemetery.
Smoking a long pipe, and gazing into the blaze of a cheerful fire,
sat the porter himself.
"Come and make yourself warm, Nell; the night is most bitter," he
said to his daughter.
"Are the cemetery gates locked, father?" she asked of him.
"Yes, yes, child; the best part of an hour ago."
"And it is not snowing; the night is fine."
"There is no snow, but the night is enough to freeze any one who
ventured out into it."
To this remark the daughter made no answer. She stood close to the
ruddy flames, and they, leaping up, revealed a mourning dress and sad
face.
"Well, Nell, what are you thinking of?" asked the old porter, not
unkindly.
"To-morrow will be Sunday, father."
"Ay, ay, child, of course. Sunday follows Saturday as sure as fate."
"And it will be a year to-morrow since mother died."
"Yes, my poor child. I have not forgotten."
"Father, I want to put a wreath of Christmas roses round mother's
grave. You know how she loved them. I have saved
three-and-sixpence, and the florist round the corner has promised me
a nice bunch for that."
"Very well, my dear."
"But I want to measure the grave to-night, so that the wreath may be
just the right size."
Grumbling, expostulating, at last yielding, the old porter
accompanied his daughter. On the grave where the Christmas roses
were meant to hang, they found Robin.
"Not dead yet," said the old porter as he placed his hand on the
boy's cold breast.
"An answer to my prayer," thought Nell.
And as they carried him back to their comfortable home, the music of
a grand old saying was ringing in both their hearts--
"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my
brethren, ye have done it unto Me."
And so closed the sorrow of want. The hunger of the body and the
hunger of the heart at length found their needed food--bread and love.
There were no Christmas roses placed that year on the humble grave of
the porter's wife; but Robin was saved.
* * * * * *
This is my brother's story; it has to do with his pain more than his
joy. The dark clouds now having dispersed, and the sun shining on
his path, there is little more to tell of him. He stayed with the
kind porter and his daughter until his health was nearly restored,
and was finally admitted into the Westminster Memorial Refuge at
Streatham. Into this Home, but too little known to the general
public, he, the supposed son of a criminal, had a right to enter.
Here, kind hands were stretched out for such as him; and here he was
rescued, morally as well as physically.
* * * * * *
Last January--yes, it was last January--a young man, earnest,
noble-looking, might have been seen bending over a grave, a very
humble grave, in the West Brompton Cemetery. Placed at the head and
foot of this grave now, were two plain marble slabs: on the head slab
was carved a wreath of Christmas roses.
"Here I lost myself, to find myself," thought Robin, as he turned
away.
THE END.