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 hoarse voices, would always stand aside for Jenny to pass; 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 title 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 4--Chapter V.
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, Dick has himself washed and put away the two cups and saucers, and now sits by the fire drying the splashes upon his white apron. 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 Dick, 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?”
“O yes, plenty; but I spent it all,” was the reply. “The flowers are rare and fresh this morning.”