Chapter II

_THE DEED WAS DONE WHICH WAS TO ALTER
ROBIN'S LIFE._

Robin might have gone on, on this uniform plan; have been prepared for the world of which he knew nothing, on this uniform pattern; his dress, food, education, moral training, body, mind, soul, an exact counterpart of the boy standing next him.

In this case he would have been uninteresting, and his story certainly need never have been written; but circumstances came in the way, and the waif and stray at his birth was all too quickly to become a waif and stray again.

I have said that Robin had a pretty name, and was a pretty boy. The former may, of course, be a matter of taste, though _I_ think Robin--reminding me as it does of that dear, brown-coated, red-breasted, bright-eyed bird of winter--pretty; but with regard to his appearance there was no second opinion; with regard to the beauty of his little face there was but one voice. In this matter, all who saw him cried, "Ay."

Mrs. Timbs had once been pretty; John Timbs, before he visited the Dolphin, had been a fine-looking man; but on none of their children had any portion of their good looks descended, until Robin came. This can hardly be wondered at.

Robin might have grown up like the other little Timbses had he continued to live in Blind Alley, but in the workhouse he developed into a beautiful boy.

His hair, pronounced by his undiscerning brothers and sisters carroty at his birth, had shaded off into little tight rings and clustering curls of dark auburn tipped with gold; his complexion was fair, his eyes brown, velvety, spaniel-like; his little limbs were round and white.

Even the workhouse ugly blue calico could not disfigure this boy. He was the pride of the place, the show child whom all visitors admired and petted; his looks spoke volumes for his good treatment, and during his stay at David's Row, the infirmary got quite a name for the excellence of its management.

Things were in this state, and Robin was the pet of the old women, the darling of the young, the favourite of all--even the dying would not die without kissing Robin farewell. Robin was in this high favour and happiness, for he was a very happy child, when one day a fresh inmate was brought into the ward.

Robin was rather more than a year old at this time.

The fresh visitor, or casual--for she only came for a time--was young. She was entered in the parish books as twenty-two--her name, Helen Morris--married, deserted by her husband, earned money by button-holing. This was her brief history, or at least all of it she chose to tell. She came into the infirmary to be cured of a certain illness which the doctors said they could cure her of. As soon as ever this was accomplished, she would leave.

She was rather good-looking, had black eyes which no one cared to trifle with, and a habit of compressing her lips, which the nurses and pauper women declared afterwards they could not abide.

Curiosity, however, is a weed which can flourish apace even in the pauper ward of a workhouse infirmary, and curiosity was very rife about Helen Morris.

In appearance she was certainly above her present surroundings, but then in dialect, no poor woman there spoke worse; that is when she did speak, for she would scarcely speak at all. Those who wanted to draw her out, took pains, but the pains led to no results. In vain the strongest and best cups of tea were brought to her bedside by neighbours who hoped to be rewarded by a little confidence for these services; in vain the most tempting portions of the workhouse viands were piled upon her plate; in vain looks of sympathy were directed towards her. If Helen had a history, she did not choose any one there to know of it. All day long she lay on her narrow bed, suffering a good deal, but uncomplaining, uncommunicative.

In the bed next to Helen's was a young woman of about her own age, dying of consumption. This young woman used to fret a great deal at the thought of leaving a tiny fair baby who was also in the workhouse. One day the news had to be broken to this poor young mother that her baby was dead. In reality death meant union for her, but she wept and moaned most bitterly and passionately over the little corpse.

When she grew calm, Helen opened her lips once to address her.

"Ef I was you, I'd draw it mild," she said. "When God H'almighty's makin' it hup to yer in this fashion, I'd draw it mild."

"How?" asked the consumptive young woman in astonishment.

"Ain't yer a-dying?"

"Yes, I be."

"And ain't the kid dead? and yer a-goin' to 'ave 'im h'all to yerself in God H'almighty's world. Ugh! the ongratitude of some folks."

Here Helen closed her eyes with a gesture of disgust; but these remarks did not tend to make her a favourite.

A few days after, the consumptive young woman died, and the bed next to Helen's was empty.

She was lying one afternoon, her eyes as usual shut, her lips as usual compressed with some thought which surely was keeping the poor heart within very restless, when Robin, fast asleep, was laid on the empty bed by her side. He looked beautiful in his sleep, his fair cheeks flushed, his bright curls shading his handsome little face.

"Bless him for a beauty, the darlint!" said an Irish woman, as she covered him up tenderly. When the Irish woman went away Helen turned on her side, opened her eyes slowly, and gazed at the sleeping boy.

She had never noticed him before; when any workhouse child came in her way she invariably shut her eyes and compressed her lips. What the other women blamed her, and shrank most away from her for, was her dislike to children, for this is a sin no true woman will forgive.

But now she gazed at Robin with a strange look; at first it was agony; her face began to work, her black eyes to flash. She bit her lips and clutched convulsively at the sheet, then tears started to her eyes, she buried her head under the clothes, and her sobs shook the bed.

She was trying to smother her sobs when she felt the bed clothes jerked vigorously. Robin had awakened, tumbled, no one knew how, off his couch, and toddled to her side. He could not speak, but the universal tyrant and pet could imperiously demand attention. Little did the beautiful baby know what this innocent action would lead to.

The storm-shaken woman dragged him into her bed, covered him with caresses, and then let him go. No one had observed this little scene, but the deed was done which was to alter all Robin's life.