But John Wilson was quite a favourite with the old man, and the intimacy had arisen when at several times the former had been the bearer of various small gratuities from the great auction firm to their old porter, while he was weak from his accident. Dick admired the young fellow’s appearance and his smart way of dressing, so different from the fustian of Harry Smith, and upon more than one occasion he proved that years had not made him perfect, for said he, “Only think what a good thing it would be for you, my pet,” referring, of course, to John Wilson’s attentions; “what would become of you if I were taken away?”
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 Dick 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 4--Chapter VI.
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 shilling,” 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 fashion, with apron-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 assist 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 shell 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 apron, 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.