STORY TWO, CHAPTER SIX.
Gutter-alley was certainly a gloomy home, but somehow time glided on asswiftly there as in more favoured spots. A year soon sped. Theattentions of the young men had been incessant, but they had made noprogress in their suits, for the love of Jenny continued to be centredin her grandfather, and if she had any to spare it was devoted to therow of flowers in her window, sickly plants which, sheltered though theywere from the cold weather without, grew long of stalk and leaf as theystrained and struggled to reach the light. But Jenny's patience wasvain; the flowers always ended by drooping, turning yellow, and slowlywithering away, even as drooped the wretched birds, supposed to befowls, which pecked about in the alley, dropping a feather here and afeather there in their perpetual moult and raggedness, but about whichfowls there was a legend known to every child in the court, in which itwas related that the feathery scarecrow known as "the hen" had once laidan egg--a real genuine egg like those labelled at the cheesemonger's as"Sixteen a shilling," though no one had ever been found, from the ownerof the fowls to the youngest inhabitant, who could conscientiouslydeclare 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 itsown, where not only flowers had their life dried out of them, but humanbeings grew more sickly day by day. The children became pale andstunted of growth; their elders unwholesome of mien and habit. It wasone of Death's London strongholds, and the visits of parish surgeon andundertaker were frequent here. The close crowded court was one of thespots where typhus lived till it was tired, surfeited with the ill ithad done, when for a time it slept.
It was summer, and there was much meeting of women in the court, wherethey would stand together after their fashion, with apron-wrapped arms,to gossip and compare notes. Now there was a funeral, and that had tobe discussed, being considered a decent berryin, wherein all took deepinterest, for most likely the majority had subscribed their mites toassist the neighbour in trouble. No matter how poor the sufferers, adecent funeral must be had; and it was no uncommon thing for theundertaker to be called upon to take off the bare, wretched,poverty-stricken aspect of the parish shell by decking it with a fewrows 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 gonext? How was Mrs Rose? Was Banks's child better? Would WidowRobinson and the five little ones have to go to the workhouse? Plentyof such questions were discussed in those days; and it happened that asfour of the women were watching for the return of the doctor from onehouse, that, laden as usual, Harry Smith came up the road, set down hisbasket, and then, taking out almost an armful of moss roses, he wasabout to enter the door of Number 5, when one of the women partlycovered her face with her apron, and then whispered something to theyoung man, which made him hesitate for a moment. Directly after hesmiled, shook his head, and entered the house, to return in a fewminutes without the roses.
The next morning he found that there was still a discussion going on inthe court, and on approaching the door of Number 5 it was shut, andentrance was denied.
He could not see any one, a parish nurse said, for the fever was verybad in the house, as at many more in the court; and the young man sighedas he went away to encounter John Wilson at the end of the alley,glancing down it for a moment before passing on again.
For the fever was bad indeed, and once and twice a day shabby funeralprocessions left the place. Now that the trouble had come, parishmeetings were held, and timid men made some little paltry attempts atbattling and staying the progress of the distemper. But in spite of allthey could do, the fever still raged; and at last, when he came onemorning, Harry Smith learned from the women of the court that JennyBlossom lay a-dying.
No one now saw the blooming girl, basket in hand, go out to sell herfragrant flowers, and Number 5 was shunned as the blackest plague spotin the court.
But still, day by day, came Harry Smith to the door, where he was neveradmitted. Not laden now with heavy bunches of flowers, but bearing afew sweet buds, to send by the hands of the nurse to the sick girl'sroom. Twice over though had Hany to stop shuddering, to let the bearersof something pass. Shuddering from no selfish fear, but lest _some one_might have been suddenly snatched away. For in those times he knew thatit was not long before the cold harshly-shaped coffin was called intorequisition, and his dread was great until the woman at the house sethim at rest.
Then came Harry's turn: one morning he tried to rise for his markettrip, but only to find that he had been stricken down by the enemy, andhe 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 hadmuch to live for, and he won the victory, but only to be left weak as alittle child, and unable to stir from his humble bed.
As soon as he could crawl about, by the help of a stick, Harry's stepswere directed to Gutter-alley, where, after a long and painful walk, hestood leaning against a wall for support, feeling deadly faint, forthere was another funeral at Number 5.
"From which room?" he asked huskily, for there was one of the courtwomen at his side.
"Second floor front," was the reply, and the young man groaned, impotentto ask further questions.
"Is it--is it?" he could say no more; but the woman divined histhoughts.
"No, no!" she answered eagerly, "the poor darling has been spared. Itis the old man who is gone to his long home. Jenny has been about thisfortnight now, and nursed the old man through it all."
"Was it fever?" asked Harry, more for the sake of speaking than fromcuriosity, 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 tobe at home, with the rain falling like this. Why, you look fit to be inyour 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 livedover there, before he broke his leg. I've been to see Jenny, God blessher! She's half brokenhearted, and has now no one to look up to."
Harry Smith, in spite of the inclement, wintry weather, stopped by themouth of the court awaiting the coming of the funeral, and a faint flushcame into his hollow cheeks as he thought of the woman's last words, andwondered whether Jenny would now choose a protector, and whether thatprotector would be John Wilson.
Dutch the Diver; Or, A Man's Mistake Page 47