Part 62 (1/2)
Jenny said nothing, and the old man talked on under the impression that affairs were as they were years before, and quite oblivious of the fact that Jenny had been for some time past his sole stay and support; and that if the young girl, with her busy fingers morning and evening, and the sale of her violets in the cold streets in the afternoon, could supply sustenance for both, her fate would not have been so very hard had he been taken away.
But there were other feelings animating the breast of old d.i.c.k Bradds, and he would have liked to see that the young girl had some one to take his place as protector before the great change came, about which he never attempted self-deceit.
STORY TWO, CHAPTER SIX.
Gutter-alley was certainly a gloomy home, but somehow time glided on as swiftly there as in more favoured spots. A year soon sped. The attentions of the young men had been incessant, but they had made no progress in their suits, for the love of Jenny continued to be centred in her grandfather, and if she had any to spare it was devoted to the row of flowers in her window, sickly plants which, sheltered though they were from the cold weather without, grew long of stalk and leaf as they strained and struggled to reach the light. But Jenny's patience was vain; the flowers always ended by drooping, turning yellow, and slowly withering away, even as drooped the wretched birds, supposed to be fowls, which pecked about in the alley, dropping a feather here and a feather there in their perpetual moult and raggedness, but about which fowls there was a legend known to every child in the court, in which it was related that the feathery scarecrow known as ”the hen” had once laid an egg--a real genuine egg like those labelled at the cheesemonger's as ”Sixteen a s.h.i.+lling,” though no one had ever been found, from the owner of the fowls to the youngest inhabitant, who could conscientiously declare that he or she had seen that egg in its new-laid form.
For, as has been before hinted at, Gutter-alley had an atmosphere of its own, where not only flowers had their life dried out of them, but human beings grew more sickly day by day. The children became pale and stunted of growth; their elders unwholesome of mien and habit. It was one of Death's London strongholds, and the visits of parish surgeon and undertaker were frequent here. The close crowded court was one of the spots where typhus lived till it was tired, surfeited with the ill it had done, when for a time it slept.
It was summer, and there was much meeting of women in the court, where they would stand together after their fas.h.i.+on, with ap.r.o.n-wrapped arms, to gossip and compare notes. Now there was a funeral, and that had to be discussed, being considered a decent berryin, wherein all took deep interest, for most likely the majority had subscribed their mites to a.s.sist the neighbour in trouble. No matter how poor the sufferers, a decent funeral must be had; and it was no uncommon thing for the undertaker to be called upon to take off the bare, wretched, poverty-stricken aspect of the parish sh.e.l.l by decking it with a few rows of black nails, and a breast-plate and set of handles.
Now the doctor had been seen to go into Number 8. Where would he go next? How was Mrs Rose? Was Banks's child better? Would Widow Robinson and the five little ones have to go to the workhouse? Plenty of such questions were discussed in those days; and it happened that as four of the women were watching for the return of the doctor from one house, that, laden as usual, Harry Smith came up the road, set down his basket, and then, taking out almost an armful of moss roses, he was about to enter the door of Number 5, when one of the women partly covered her face with her ap.r.o.n, and then whispered something to the young man, which made him hesitate for a moment. Directly after he smiled, shook his head, and entered the house, to return in a few minutes without the roses.
The next morning he found that there was still a discussion going on in the court, and on approaching the door of Number 5 it was shut, and entrance was denied.
He could not see any one, a parish nurse said, for the fever was very bad in the house, as at many more in the court; and the young man sighed as he went away to encounter John Wilson at the end of the alley, glancing down it for a moment before pa.s.sing on again.
For the fever was bad indeed, and once and twice a day shabby funeral processions left the place. Now that the trouble had come, parish meetings were held, and timid men made some little paltry attempts at battling and staying the progress of the distemper. But in spite of all they could do, the fever still raged; and at last, when he came one morning, Harry Smith learned from the women of the court that Jenny Blossom lay a-dying.
No one now saw the blooming girl, basket in hand, go out to sell her fragrant flowers, and Number 5 was shunned as the blackest plague spot in the court.
But still, day by day, came Harry Smith to the door, where he was never admitted. Not laden now with heavy bunches of flowers, but bearing a few sweet buds, to send by the hands of the nurse to the sick girl's room. Twice over though had Hany to stop shuddering, to let the bearers of something pa.s.s. Shuddering from no selfish fear, but lest _some one_ might have been suddenly s.n.a.t.c.hed away. For in those times he knew that it was not long before the cold harshly-shaped coffin was called into requisition, and his dread was great until the woman at the house set him at rest.
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.