CHAPTER V

AN AWFUL BLOW

"ROBIN, I want to speak to you, my dear."

Robin, who had been holding a conversation with old Jasper Blamey through the latter's open window, turned at the sound of his mother's voice addressing him from the doorway of their home, and answered:

"I'll be in presently, mother." Then he met his mother's eyes, and became aware of the fact that she had been weeping. "I'll come at once," he added quickly, and immediately followed Mrs. Burt into the house.

"Is anything wrong?" he inquired with anxiety. "You're looking very white, and you've been crying. Are you feeling ill, mother?"

"No, dear," she answered, "and there's nothing wrong; quite the contrary. I admit I've been shedding tears, very foolishly, I know, but I've been so depressed to-day."

"Oh, you'll be in better spirits after we've had our holiday, mother," he broke in.

She sank into a chair with a weary sigh, and turned her face away from him for a minute. When she looked at him again, she had forced a smile to her lips.

"I want to tell you about a letter I've received," she said—"a letter from Newlyn."

"Oh, Mrs. Groves has written!" cried the little boy excitedly. "Fancy her writing so soon! You'll answer her letter won't you, mother? She said she would want to know how we were getting on."

It was nearly midsummer now, and Mrs. Groves and her little son had left Plymouth the week previously. Consequently Robin jumped to the conclusion that the letter his mother referred to, which she held in her hand, must be from the lady who had been so kind to him. But he was soon undeceived.

"No, I've not heard from Mrs. Groves," his mother replied, "but from—from your grandfather." Her lips trembled as she spoke and her eyes filled with tears.

"My grandfather?" echoed Robin, in amazement. "Why, I never knew—oh, mother, is my grandfather the Robin Rodway Master Gilbert talked so much about?"

"Yes, my dear, you have guessed aright. Perhaps I've been wrong in never having spoken to you about him before; but since my marriage with your stepfather, I've neither seen nor heard anything of your father's relations; that has been my fault, not theirs. When your father died, your grandfather and grandmother at Newlyn offered to take charge of you, but I couldn't give you up. I daresay that was selfish of me—"

"No, no!" broke in Robin. "You mustn't say that."

His mother's face brightened, and she regarded him almost gratefully. "No, I couldn't give you up," she reiterated, "and I hardly think your grandmother and grandfather expected it of me; but when I married secondly they repeated their offer, and I refused it again. You see, Robin, I did not guess how things would turn out."

"Of course not, mother," he responded, as she paused and looked at him deprecatingly.

"Your grandmother died soon after that. It was she who used to write to me, for your grandfather isn't much of a scholar," she explained. "Well, when I found out what your stepfather was—different from what I had thought him," she continued, speaking hesitatingly, "I was so ashamed that I let my first husband's people drop. Things went from bad to worse; sometimes Richard was in work, but oftener he was out, and then we came here to live because the rent was cheap, and of late I've kept myself to myself, and got out of touch with everyone I was friendly with during your father's lifetime. Your grandfather didn't know what had become of you and me until he heard of us from Mrs. Groves and her little son."

"What does my grandfather say in his letter?" Robin asked eagerly, the bright light of intense excitement in his grey eyes.

"The letter has evidently been written by a friend for your grandfather. It is very kindly worded. Your grandfather wishes to have you in his charge, Robin, in which case, he promises to bring you to a trade when your schooling is finished, and thus give you a fair start in life. His idea is that it would be best for you to make your home with him at Newlyn for the present."

"Then I should see Master Gilbert again, shouldn't I? And my grandfather would teach me all about ships and take me out fishing? He has a boat of his own; Master Gilbert told me so. Oh, mother, how delightful it would be And you—and you—" He broke off, regarding her dubiously.

"And I should remain here in Sun Court," she said; "but I shouldn't mind that. At least, I don't think I should, if you were happy and well cared for. I've seen lately that this is not the place for you. I daresay it would have been better if I'd given you up years ago; but I did not know then how matters would be. I hoped that Richard would be almost like your own father to you, and that was why I didn't tell you he was only your stepfather; he promised so fair. You would like to go to Newlyn to live, then, Robin?"

"Yes, mother, if you could go too," he answered.

"That is impossible, my dear," she told him—"quite impossible."

"I suppose it is," he admitted.

"It's a good thing your earnings have not been touched, Robin; they will come in useful now."

"But we must have our day on the moor together, mother. I was talking about it to Mr. Blamey when you called me; he's found out all we want to know about the trains."

"He has been most kind, as usual; but we must give up the idea of our moorland trip. If you go to Newlyn your money will be required to purchase several things you will want."

Mrs. Burt spoke with composure, though her heart was very sore at the prospect of parting from her boy; but she was unselfish enough to see what was best for him. For a long while after she had ceased speaking, he kept a contemplative silence, but at last he asked:

"What will you do if father comes home drunk, and I'm not here to stand by you? He'd be worse to you if I wasn't here; you've often said that yourself. See how quiet he became last Saturday night when I said I'd fetch the police! He knew I meant it, and that I wasn't afraid of him as I used to be. I've never let him treat me as he liked since you told me I wasn't his son. I'm growing up fast now, and I won't let him hit you any more." The boy clenched his fists and looked quite fierce as he spoke. "No, I'm not going to Newlyn," he proceeded. "I'm not going to leave you. Mr. Blamey says it's my duty to stay with you, and here I shall stop."

"Oh, Robin, my darling boy!" cried Mrs. Burt, clasping him in her arms. "I love to hear you say that, but I want you to go—yes, I wish it. That day I went to look at your picture, I told Mrs. Groves who you were, and begged her to speak to your grandfather about you, and this is the result. I want to send you away from Sun Court, so that you may have a better chance of making a good man."

"But you won't send me away if I don't wish it? And why shouldn't I make a good man here? I'll try to be good, and you know I don't tell lies and swear like the other boys in the court. Look at Mr. Blamey! He's lived most of his life in Sun Court, and you're always praising him and saying what a true Christian he is. He says if we love Jesus we're as well and safe in one place as in another; only Jesus must be in our hearts. I think he knows, don't you? He has been talking to me a great deal about Jesus lately. I used not to like listening, but I do now, and I've made up my mind I'm going to be His servant and serve Him with my whole heart. Mother, I see you're glad!"

"Very, very glad, my darling!"

"You won't send me away from you, will you?" he said, pleadingly. "I should love it at Newlyn if you were there, but I don't think I could be happy without you, mother, and I'm certain I should never be easy in my mind. Please, please don't make me go!"

"I'll think about it," Mrs. Burt replied. "I don't know what's right. I need not answer your grandfather's letter for a day or so, I daresay; so we'll weigh the matter well and discuss it again. I must ask God's guidance, too."

They were silent for a long while after that. How could he leave his mother? the little boy asked himself. His stepfather, after several weeks of sobriety, had returned home intoxicated on the previous Saturday night, and but for Robin's interference would have ill-treated his long-suffering wife. The boy had stood between the couple, and, surprised at his stepson's attitude, Richard Burt had been overcome with a sudden sense of shame and had gone quickly to bed. The next day he had been unusually subdued in his manner, and had shown regret, which had apparently been sincere, for his behaviour the night before.

Mrs. Burt watched her little son's thoughtful face with mingled feelings in her heart. She knew his grandfather to be a good, upright man, one who would command Robin's respect and love, and be very kind to him without spoiling him by indulgence, and she realised that it would be a healthier life for him in every respect at Newlyn than in Plymouth. The spiritual atmosphere in the old sailor's Cornish home was so much purer than that of Sun Court. But if Robin left her, how she would miss him! The one joy of her life would be gone. To hide the strong emotion which this reflection caused her she rose from her chair, and, remarking to Robin that she would put his grandfather's letter in safety, she moved to the dresser and took her keys from her pocket to unlock her workbox. A minute later she uttered a shrill cry of mingled horror and amazement, and stood wringing her hands in dire distress.

"What is it, mother?" questioned Robin, in alarm, hastening to her side.

"Oh, Robin, Robin!" she cried. "Look, look!"

She pointed as she spoke to her workbox, which stood in its accustomed position in one corner of a shelf on the dresser. She had put the key into the lock, but had been unable to turn it, and the briefest of examinations had disclosed the fact that the lock had been forced and Robin's earnings taken.

"What is it, mother?" Robin repeated, failing to grasp the situation.

"Oh, my poor, poor boy!" she gasped. "Oh, don't you see? Don't you understand? Your money's all gone—stolen! Someone has broken open the box! Some thief—"

She paused, her face ghastly in its pallor, her eyes full of a great horror. The only person who had known what the box contained, as far as she was aware, had been her husband. Could he, under the influence of drink, have fallen so low as to rob his stepchild? He was incapable of committing such an act in his sober senses, she was certain; but she could not answer for his conduct if he was intoxicated. The same suspicion flashed through the minds of mother and son simultaneously, and, their eyes meeting, each recognised that the other had formed the like conclusion—that Richard Burt had been the thief.

"He did it! Yes, he did it!" burst forth the boy, his voice hoarse with passion, his eyes gleaming, his face positively distorted in his ungovernable rage. "I'll never forgive him—never! I'll never see him or speak to him again! Oh, how I hate him—the wicked, cruel man!" And, without heeding his mother's pleading eyes or her wailing cry of sorrow, he made a rush for the door, and thus abruptly quitted the house.

Left by herself, poor Mrs. Burt sank into a chair, in a state of misery too great for tears. She felt as though her heart must break. This was indeed an awful blow.