Part 40 (2/2)

”'Don't say it's much, Joe; tell her it's a bit of a scratch, and she isn't to fidget about me. Tell her gently, Joe; good bye, Joe; I shall be over again to-morrow or next day, Joe; and, Joe,' he calls out in his weak piping way, as the keb begins to move, 'Joe,' he says, 'just take my apern and give the lookin'-gla.s.s in the big wardrobe a bit of a rub before it comes down; and don't forget about Jenny.'

”Poor old d.i.c.key: got his 'art in his work, he had; and somehow as he went off, and I knew as we shouldn't never see him again at work, if we ever see him at all, my nose wanted blowing to that degree that nothing couldn't be like it; and it's my belief, Sarah, if I hadn't been roused up by a call for the next lot, that I should have turned soft; for you see, says I to myself, I says, suppose as that had been me.

”But he told me to tell Jenny gently, and I did.”

STORY FOUR, CHAPTER FOUR.

Old d.i.c.k went no more to porter at the rooms when he came out of the hospital; his smoothly-shaven face did not peer out of windows where he was hanging out hearthrugs with, pinned upon them, the bills announcing the capital modern household furniture for sale; but when he returned to Gutter-alley, d.i.c.k would always be clean-shaven of a morning, spending an hour over the process, pulling out wrinkles to get at the silver stubble lurking in the bottoms of the furrows, and stopping at times, when his hands grew tremulous, to rest. Many was the time that his grandchild, Jenny, would have to run down in haste to fetch a bit of cobweb from the cellar to stay the bleeding when that tremulous old hand did make a slip, for the nap upon d.i.c.k's Sunday hat was too scarce to be used up in so wanton a way.

But at last d.i.c.k would strop and put away his razor and shaving-brush, hang up the little gla.s.s, and then tie on a clean white ap.r.o.n, take his round carpet-cap down from a nail and carefully put it on so as not to disarrange his grey locks, and then sit patiently nursing his porter's knot and waiting, as he used to tell Jenny, for a job.

”Strong, my little la.s.s? Strong as ever,” he'd say. ”If I could only get this leg right;” and then Jenny would drop her work, take his old face between her plump little hands, kiss him tenderly, and tell him to wait a little.

So old d.i.c.k Bradds used to wait on, day after day, waiting for the jobs that never came, and the injured leg did not get right. The old man's strength sufficed to carry him down to the front door and back again.

Down he would go slowly, holding tightly by the bal.u.s.trade, one leg always first, till he reached the bottom, where the mat should have been, only they could not afford mats in Gutter-alley, and then as regularly as possible the old man, in his thankfulness at being able to walk so far, would take off the old carpet-cap and say softly, when there was no one by, ”Thank G.o.d!” and the same again when, after a visit to the front door and a glance up and down the court, he had slowly and painfully made his way up to his own room.

Jenny would have helped him; but no: the old man could not shake off the belief that he was in a state to do heavy work and to help his child.

There was too much determination left yet in the old piece of steel, and heedless of rust and weakness d.i.c.k struggled up and down.

People used to say that Sharpnesses, the great auctioneers, ought to have pensioned old Bradds, but they were people who made money fast, and knew its value in too worldly a way to pension worn-out servants, so old d.i.c.k had to live as he could.

Jenny was d.i.c.k's support--Jenny, his grandchild--Jenny Blossom, as they called her in Gutter-alley. She was the last of the family--father, mother, and another child had died in Gutter-alley, where fevers used to practise and get themselves into full strength before issuing out to ravage the districts where sanitary arrangements were so perfect.

The place was very foul, but somehow Jenny grew brighter day by day, and the old crones of the alley used to chuckle and say no wonder, for flowers always throve in the dirt. At all events, the foul odours did not take the bloom from her cheek, and when fever or cholera held high revel, Jenny had pa.s.sed scatheless through trials when scores had fallen around.

Every one spoke well of Jenny; untidy women with bare arms and rough hair always had for her a pleasant look; great hulking market-attending men, with hoa.r.s.e voices, would always stand aside for Jenny to pa.s.s; and the slatternly girls of the alley, though they occasionally glanced at her with envious eyes, displayed no open jealousy. Away from Gutter-alley it was different, but in the forty houses of the court, and their four or five hundred inhabitants, there was not one who did not look up to Jenny Blossom.

And no unsuitable t.i.tle was that--Jenny Blossom; for whether taken in connection with her young and blooming face, or her trade, the name seemed equally adapted. Ask for her as Jane Bradds, and people would have shaken their heads; though the mention of Jenny Blossom brought a bright look into perhaps a scowling face; and Number 5 in the court was indicated directly.

STORY FOUR, CHAPTER FIVE.

Number 5 in the court! Come up the four flights of creaking stairs to the only bright thing in the crowded place--the only bright thing likely to meet the eye, where squalor, misery, poverty, wretchedness, filth, and sickness ran riot. Breakfast is over, and, so that Jenny's needle shall not be stayed, d.i.c.k has himself washed and put away the two cups and saucers, and now sits by the fire drying the splashes upon his white ap.r.o.n. His carpet-cap is upon his head, and his porter's knot rests against his chair. The only sound in the room is the click of Jenny's thimble, as it sends the sharp needle flying through the hard slop-work upon which she is busy.

Pretty? Well, yes, there is the beauty in her face of youth. No Grecian-cut lines or finely chiselled features, but the simple bright countenance of an English girl, as she bends over her work.

Jenny's face was never pale, spite of the mephytic gases of Gutter-alley; but the rosy flush upon it deepened as a step was heard upon the stairs, followed by a tap at the door.

A querulous ”Come in!” from old d.i.c.k, and then a tall, stout young fellow entered, bearing a basket of violets, whose sweet fragrance filled the room.

”Oh, it's you, is it, Harry?” said the old man. ”Had you got money enough?”

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