Chapter V

_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.