Part 41 (2/2)

Then came Harry's turn: one morning he tried to rise for his market trip, but only to find that he had been stricken down by the enemy, and he was soon fighting hard with the fever that had fastened on him.

It was a long hard fight that, but Harry was young and hopeful, he had much to live for, and he won the victory, but only to be left weak as a little child, and unable to stir from his humble bed.

As soon as he could crawl about, by the help of a stick, Harry's steps were directed to Gutter-alley, where, after a long and painful walk, he stood leaning against a wall for support, feeling deadly faint, for there was another funeral at Number 5.

”From which room?” he asked huskily, for there was one of the court women at his side.

”Second floor front,” was the reply, and the young man groaned, impotent to ask further questions.

”Is it--is it?” he could say no more; but the woman divined his thoughts.

”No, no!” she answered eagerly, ”the poor darling has been spared. It is the old man who is gone to his long home. Jenny has been about this fortnight now, and nursed the old man through it all.”

”Was it fever?” asked Harry, more for the sake of speaking than from curiosity, for he wanted to conceal his weakness as far as he could.

”Some say it was; but I don't think so,” she replied. ”But you ought to be at home, with the rain falling like this. Why, you look fit to be in your bed and nowhere else.”

”Yes, yes,” said Harry, ”I'll go soon.”

”He was very old,” said the woman; ”I knew him years ago, when I lived over there, before he broke his leg. I've been to see Jenny, G.o.d bless her! She's half brokenhearted, and has now no one to look up to.”

Harry Smith, in spite of the inclement, wintry weather, stopped by the mouth of the court awaiting the coming of the funeral, and a faint flush came into his hollow cheeks as he thought of the woman's last words, and wondered whether Jenny would now choose a protector, and whether that protector would be John Wilson.

STORY FOUR, CHAPTER SEVEN.

Harry Smith, the very shadow of his former self, waited until the procession neared, and then stood aside to let the one sad woman pa.s.s to the shabby funeral carriage, after which he made his way back into the court, to listen to the narrative of the sad havoc worked by the disease while he had been tossing in delirium upon his own pallet. But he went home sad and yet happy, as he pondered upon some information he had gained from the neighbours; for he learned for certain that no one whose visits he had dreaded had pa.s.sed up the court to Number 5.

The days glided on. It was the depth of winter, and the snow lay thickly upon the house-tops. It was churned up into a black mud sometimes in the streets; but, in spite of powdering blacks, it still struggled to lie white and pure upon the ledges and window-sills. The storm came again and again, and Jenny's window-sill was covered, and somehow in the morning, when she rose, there lay a tiny bunch of sweet violets in amongst the snow. From whence did the offering come? There was but one explanation--it must have been thrown across from a neighbour's window; and morning after morning the flowers were there, and as Jenny took each bunch and placed it in water she thought of the market and its floral treasures even at that season of the year, and a blush burned hotly in her cheek, for she remembered who had brought roses during the illness, and wondered why he had ceased to come.

There was much for Harry to ponder upon, though, in the long hours during which, for want of strength, he was compelled to remain idle; he thought of his own rough ways and garb, as compared with the bearing and dress of his favoured rival; telling himself that he was mad and foolish to expect that Jenny could prefer him to the man chosen by her grandfather. If she could only read his heart aright, he thought that there might be hope for him; but how could he expect that!

And time still sped on, giving to Harry Smith once more muscle and vigour, but little peace of mind, since now Jenny declined to let him bring her flowers, for she kept entirely to her needlework, lodging with an old widow on the opposite side of the court. But the flowers once more began their struggle for life in Jenny's window, and with better success, for there was quite an hour's more sun on that side of the way, so that the once bare window-sill grew gay with bright-hued blossoms.

But as Jenny grew brighter with her flowers, day by day, Harry Smith's heart grew sad within, for with her consent or not--how could he tell?-- John Wilson, the fair-weather friend, was frequently to be seen by the young girl's side, as she was going to and from the warehouse whence she obtained the work which made sore her little fingers. Harry knew not that poor Jenny was pestered sadly, and went to the warehouse at different hours each day, so as to avoid a meeting. Harry judged only from what he saw, and grew daily more disheartened and sad. He did not rail against her, he only blamed his own folly, and at last made up his mind to leave the country--his attention having been taken by the inducements held out by emigration placards.

But this was not until nearly a year had pa.s.sed, and now that his mind was fully made up, he watched for an evening when he could see Jenny alone, and tell her--he thought he would like to tell her how he had loved her--before he went.

Harry's words were nearly left unsaid; for it happened that one evening he saw Jenny hurrying through the busy streets laden with the work she was taking home, and at a short distance behind he could make out John Wilson following rapidly in her steps.

The sight made the young man's heart sink within his breast, and he was about to turn back when he saw that the young girl was panting beneath her burden, and half angrily he hastened up, and asked if he might carry it, determined for this time not to be driven away.

And it came to pa.s.s that evening that as they stepped into the quieter streets the bells of one of the old churches began to peal up joyfully for a practice, and it may be they inspired the young man with hope to declare his intentions, and then to his own surprise he grew warm and eloquent, reproaching his companion even for her conduct towards one who had loved her long and well.

”O Jenny!” he exclaimed, ”I have always looked upon you as a violet growing therein--”

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