Chapter III: Crime Showed Him Only Her Smiling Face

This state of things continued until Robin was eight years old. During all these years he and Helen had clung firmly to each other. He called her, and believed her to be, his mother, and she gave him far more love than many mothers bestow upon their children. They had finally established themselves in the thieves' quarters, where alone they could feel secure from the watchful eyes of the police, and here they both lived by stealing.

But though living with the thieves, and sharing in all things their spoils and their dangers, Helen would make no friends with the men and women she associated with. She had not a vestige of affection to bestow upon any one but Robin, and she and the child lived a life apart. When times were prosperous, she and he shared a small attic together; when times were hard, and her opportunities for purloining scarce, they wandered the streets, sheltering at night under arches, or wherever they could best evade the watchful eye of justice.

During these years Robin was happy. He lived in crime; but crime, under Helen's wing, showed him only her smiling face. He was so bright, so precocious, so full of courage and spirit, that before he was eight years old he was a cleverer thief than Helen herself. The old professional thieves admired him, and offered Helen large sums of money to secure him altogether to themselves; but Helen would part with Robin to no one, and while with her, he was, comparatively speaking, safe.

Shortly before his eighth birthday a very dark time came to his adopted mother and himself. In the first place, the police got wind of the locality where they lived, and in considerable alarm the whole community had to break up. It was the middle of winter, and Helen and Robin found themselves penniless in the streets. That seemed a truly dismal night in the little fellow's life, when, supperless and homeless, he laid his head on his faithful Helen's breast, and cried himself to sleep. He remembered it when darker nights came by-and-by. For three months the two were almost starved. Wherever they went the police seemed to know them, and they found it nearly impossible to ply their evil trade. But at the end of three months the dark cloud appeared to roll away, and the happiest and most luxurious portion of Robin's young life arrived.

Helen, finding herself so well known to the police, determined to shift her quarters. London was large; she might go to a part of London where her face, and the child's face, would be unfamiliar. Hitherto she had frequented the East-end; here she and those who lived like her might best pursue their evil sports; but the West could also afford her a shelter, and to the fashionable West-end she now directed her steps.

Her first day there was marked with success. Spring was coming on, the gay world was in town. She stole ten shillings' worth of goods, and with the money thus secured took possession at once of a small attic in a court at the back of Westminster. How happy were she and Robin as they ate their first supper together in that wretched room! There was no furniture, neither bed nor chair, but on a couple of pen'orths of straw which Helen purchased they slept luxuriously, and awoke refreshed.

"But 'tis an ugly room," said the petted child, looking round him as he demanded his bread and treacle the next morning.

"Never mind, dearie; mother'll brighten it h'up for her pet," answered Helen, who could not bear to refuse him anything.

She had again a successful day, but at night she brought into the empty room neither bed, chair, nor table, but two-and-sixpence worth of gaily coloured prints, which she proceeded to paste on the walls. This feat accomplished, both she and Robin considered the place to look both gay and home-like; nor did they for many days afterwards add furniture to their store.

For six weeks they lived unmolested in this attic, and those six weeks were full of happiness to Robin. He had again enough and to spare, food to eat, a roof to shelter him. Helen was never so indulgent and loving, and, in addition, he had those coloured prints. Those brilliantly-coloured prints opened up a new world to Robin.

In the long spring days that had now arrived, he used to awake early, turn round on his back, and gaze at them. He knew them all by heart. To him those men and women, who in gorgeous raiment laughed and smiled and danced, seemed to represent all that was beautiful. Those impossible flowers, that stage-painted scenery, opened fairy-land to Robin. Never as long as he lived did he forget the gaudy walls of his attic home. In reality, the wretched prints spoke of all that was coarse and low in life; but to the innocent child they meant beauty, and he learned no evil lessons thereby.

The prints, as I said, were coarse; but one, as great a daub as the others, treated at least of a pure and child-like theme. A little girl dressed in white, with curling hair, sat on a bank stringing daisies into a chain. The bank was an impossible green, the child's cheeks an unnatural red, the daisies in her lap were like no daisies ever seen, while the sky over-head lowered down upon her an intense Prussian blue. But Robin was not an art critic, and to him the frightful production meant perfection. Of all the illustrations on the wall, this was his favourite: he liked them all, he loved them all, but he gave his heart to that little maiden in white, and he never tired of asking Helen to tell him her imaginary story.

A few weeks passed thus, when one day, as they were out together, they met an old acquaintance--in short, one of the thieves whom Robin had known and dreaded when he lived in the thieves' quarters. A pang, he knew not why, shot through his young heart when he saw him, and neither was Helen pleased. The man accosted her, however, and though she would not allow him to see her home, they talked together for some time. Whatever their conversation--for they spoke partly in metaphor, partly turning their sentences backwards--it seemed to excite Helen; her bold, black eyes sparkled with something of their old fire, her tones grew loud and eager.

Her companion was evidently entreating her to do something. She hesitated; she looked at Robin; she demurred; finally, she yielded.

That night Robin went to sleep as usual with Helen by his side: he remembered how passionately she kissed him just before he fell asleep, but when the morning dawned she was gone. This had never happened before, and for a moment or two the child felt uneasy, and gazed around him anxiously; then his fears subsided, and, turning on his straw bed, he made himself happy watching the little girl in white, as she strung her daisies. At eleven o'clock Helen returned, flushed, tired, exhausted, her dress torn, and the paint with which she had tried to disguise her appearance scarcely washed away from her face.

She gave Robin his breakfast, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and telling him to make no noise, for she was tired and sleepy, flung herself on her wretched bed, and slumbered all day. Robin loved her dearly, and he now obeyed her commands to the letter. He sat down on the floor by her side, gazed from her to his pictures, from all his pictures to the one beloved picture Finally laid his curly head next Helen's, and also passed into the land of dreams.

It was almost night when the woman and child awoke. She held out her arms for him, clasped him to her breast, and kissed him. Her long sleep had refreshed her, and she was now in capital spirits.

"What shall mother do for her good little boy? Robin has been good and quiet to-day."

"Tell us a story, mammie!" he answered eagerly.

Helen sat up, smiled, and complied.

"Wot about?" she asked.

"My little gal!" he said, pointing to his pet picture.

Helen had given him many a fanciful account of this child with the brilliant cheeks; she found herself equal to the occasion now.

"Once," she began, "there wos a little gal, a poor little gal----"

"Werry poor, wos she, mammie?" asked Robin, setting himself comfortably in her arms.

"Uncommon!" answered Helen in an impressive voice. "She was that poor that she hadn't a bite to h'eat nor a sup to drink. Orften and orften, fur twenty-four hours on the stretch, she 'ud taste neither bite nor sup."

"My h'eyes!" answered Robin. "She must 'ave been pretty nigh fixed."

"Orften," pursued Helen, "she laid herself down from sheer h'exhaustion, and she would have died but for wan thing."

"Wot wos that?" in a voice of great interest.

"'Er sperrit, lad; she wor h'all made h'up of sperrit, and she 'ud let nothink daunt 'er. Arter she 'ud rested fur a bit, she'd be h'up and about again, and then food 'ud come arter h'all."

"How?" asked Robin.

"Oh! she lived on 'er wits."

Robin made no remark, for the simple reason that he knew quite well what living on one's wits meant. He was silent for a moment, then he said, looking solemnly at his adopted mother--

"Wot wos that 'ere little gal's name?"

It was now Helen's time to pause and consider, for this asking of the name was the crucial point of the narrative. The narrative was always the same,--the same almost to the identical words, for Helen had told the story of the child in white almost every night since her picture had graced the walls; but the name must on each occasion be different, and the finding of a fresh name for each demand for the thrilling tale taxed her ingenuity to the utmost. Now a happy thought occurred to her: she remembered the name of the heroine of the last penny gaff she had gone to.

"Almira," she said; "Almira wos 'er name."

"That's a rare 'un," answered Robin, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Well," proceeded Helen, "there came a day w'en Almira had nothink to h'eat,--never a bite. She wandered about h'all day, but try as she would, she couldn't crib so much as an apple from an old apple-woman; 'er luck was h'all gone dead agen 'er. She went walkin' h'up and down, and when night came, she was that spent, she sat down on a door-step and began to cry; and while she was crying another little gal, dressed in white, wearin' a neat little hat----"

"With daisies on it?" interrupted Robin.

"Yes, trimmed h'awful fine wid daisies. She came h'up, and she gave little Almira a whole threepenny bit."

Helen said these words calmly, and Robin opened his great eyes wide at the magnitude of the gift.

"When Almira got the money, she stopped cryin' and stared at the pretty little gal; and the little gal said--

"'Poor Almira; come and buy a bun.' And she took 'er 'and, and they bought a real fat bun for a penny, and the little girl gave Almira back the twopence in change. Then the little gal said again, 'You're tired, poor Almira, come and sleep;' and she led 'er h'out--right h'out of the big city into a green, green field, and they lay down side by side on the soft grass, and the stars came h'out h'in the sky h'over 'ead. And Almira never slept so sound in 'er life. In the morning the little gal said, 'Almira, you shall 'ave a beautiful white frock like mine,' and she dressed little Almira h'all in white like herself, only Almira had no flowers; but Almira wanted the flowers, and she began to cry. Then the little gal was sorry, and she took little Almira a long walk through a wood, and at the other side of the wood was a field h'all studded h'over with real livin' daisies as thick as peas, and little Almira sat down and began to make daisy-chains, just like the picture there."

Here Helen paused. Having come to the point where the illustration on the wall could be used, she brought her narrative to an abrupt conclusion; having, indeed, nothing further to say.

Robin gave a deep sigh of satisfaction, but he had a question to ask.

"'Ow did that 'ere little gal in white know Almira's name?" he demanded.

"Oh! she warn't a real little gal; she was a fairy-gal."

"And does fairies know h'everythink?"

"Lor' bless yer, Robin; you, nor the learnest man livin' couldn't beat a fairy for knowingness."

"Well, 'tis real pretty," answered Robin, "and I'd like to meet a fairy as 'ud give me things."

Helen was silent for a few moments, then she said in an abrupt tone--

"Would yer like to see somethink as 'ud--somethink more beautifuller than the fairy h'ever gave to Almira?"

"Oh yes, yes, mother."

"And yer'el never tell about it to nobody?"

"Never."

"Then come to the winder."

The sun had by this time gone down, and it was by the light of a bright moon under the tiny skylight that Helen showed to Robin a brilliant and most valuable diamond ring.

The child gave an exclamation of surprise and delight, as he gazed at the sparkling treasure.

"Does Robin know wot this 'ul do for 'im and 'is h'old mammie?"

"No, mammie--wot, wot?"

Then Helen sat down again on the floor, and taking the child in her arms, told him a wonderful story--a story beside which the poor tale of Almira and her fairy faded into nothing. That ring was very valuable; it would bring in money--a lot of money. Helen meant to sell the ring and get the money.

"Would Robin like to know what she intended to do with that money?"

"Yes," answered the eager child in an excited voice.

"Well, she would do a wonderful thing. She was tired of London; Robin was tired of London: she and Robin should leave London for ever. Robin liked flowers and green fields; he should sec them--live amongst them. He and Helen would go away in a big ship, far over the blue, blue sea, to a far-away country. There they could live in the green fields, and gather the flowers and be happy--a thousand, ten thousand times happier than they ever were in London!

"And prig things?" asked Robin. "Will it be h'easy to prig things h'out there, mother?"

"No, no, laddie; we'll not prig--we'll do nothink there as we did here."

"But why, mammie?"

"Cause we'll lead an h'altogether fresh life--we'll be honest h'out there."

"What's honest?" asked the child.

"Never mind; I'll tell you wen we get there."

Robin was silent; Helen clasped him closely in her arms. His question had caused some emotion in her heart: her hard face was softened; there was a contraction of pain on her brow.

"What's honest?" asked the little child.

Oh that she could tell him--that she dared to tell him! Helen had not even yet lost all love for virtue. And at this moment, in that poor heart, the desire after goodness was strong. When they went to America, she and the child might give up being thieves. In America it might be possible for them both neither to starve nor to eat the bread of dishonesty. Thus, at this moment, the longing that the new life might be an honest life was the most passionate feeling she had concerning it.

The child, weary of her silence, fell asleep in her arms. The moon shone full on the black lashes lying on the round cheek, on the golden-crowned head, on the sweet smiling lips. Oh! how she loved him! how sweet it would be to her even yet, notwithstanding all her sin and defilement, to feel that he might grow up good, virtuous, and happy!

She took the diamond ring again out of her pocket, looking with pleasure at its flashing gems. Poor Helen! by this evil road she thought she could reach the safe path of virtue.