STORY TWO, CHAPTER SEVEN.
Harry Smith, the very shadow of his former self, waited until theprocession neared, and then stood aside to let the one sad woman pass tothe shabby funeral carriage, after which he made his way back into thecourt, to listen to the narrative of the sad havoc worked by the diseasewhile he had been tossing in delirium upon his own pallet. But he wenthome sad and yet happy, as he pondered upon some information he hadgained from the neighbours; for he learned for certain that no one whosevisits he had dreaded had passed up the court to Number 5.
The days glided on. It was the depth of winter, and the snow laythickly upon the house-tops. It was churned up into a black mudsometimes in the streets; but, in spite of powdering blacks, it stillstruggled to lie white and pure upon the ledges and window-sills. Thestorm came again and again, and Jenny's window-sill was covered, andsomehow in the morning, when she rose, there lay a tiny bunch of sweetviolets in amongst the snow. From whence did the offering come? Therewas but one explanation--it must have been thrown across from aneighbour's window; and morning after morning the flowers were there,and as Jenny took each bunch and placed it in water she thought of themarket and its floral treasures even at that season of the year, and ablush burned hotly in her cheek, for she remembered who had broughtroses during the illness, and wondered why he had ceased to come.
There was much for Harry to ponder upon, though, in the long hoursduring which, for want of strength, he was compelled to remain idle; hethought of his own rough ways and garb, as compared with the bearing anddress of his favoured rival; telling himself that he was mad and foolishto expect that Jenny could prefer him to the man chosen by hergrandfather. If she could only read his heart aright, he thought thatthere might be hope for him; but how could he expect that!
And time still sped on, giving to Harry Smith once more muscle andvigour, but little peace of mind, since now Jenny declined to let himbring her flowers, for she kept entirely to her needlework, lodging withan old widow on the opposite side of the court. But the flowers oncemore began their struggle for life in Jenny's window, and with bettersuccess, 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'sheart 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 theyoung girl's side, as she was going to and from the warehouse whence sheobtained the work which made sore her little fingers. Harry knew notthat poor Jenny was pestered sadly, and went to the warehouse atdifferent hours each day, so as to avoid a meeting. Harry judged onlyfrom what he saw, and grew daily more disheartened and sad. He did notrail against her, he only blamed his own folly, and at last made up hismind to leave the country--his attention having been taken by theinducements held out by emigration placards.
But this was not until nearly a year had passed, and now that his mindwas fully made up, he watched for an evening when he could see Jennyalone, and tell her--he thought he would like to tell her how he hadloved her--before he went.
Harry's words were nearly left unsaid; for it happened that one eveninghe saw Jenny hurrying through the busy streets laden with the work shewas taking home, and at a short distance behind he could make out JohnWilson following rapidly in her steps.
The sight made the young man's heart sink within his breast, and he wasabout to turn back when he saw that the young girl was panting beneathher burden, and half angrily he hastened up, and asked if he might carryit, determined for this time not to be driven away.
And it came to pass that evening that as they stepped into the quieterstreets the bells of one of the old churches began to peal up joyfullyfor a practice, and it may be they inspired the young man with hope todeclare his intentions, and then to his own surprise he grew warm andeloquent, reproaching his companion even for her conduct towards one whohad loved her long and well.
"O Jenny!" he exclaimed, "I have always looked upon you as a violetgrowing therein--"
"A violet in the snow," she said archly, as she gazed in his face; and--well, the street was very dark--he held her for a moment in his arms.
She shrank from him startled and angry, and he felt hurt once more.
"Ah!" he said bitterly, as they reached the door in the alley, "finefeathers make fine birds, and perhaps Jenny Blossom likes such birds towatch for her, and follow her about."
"Can I help it, Harry?" said Jenny softly, as she laid one littlework-scarred hand upon his. "I have no one to protect me," and beforehe could speak again she had hurried up-stairs.
There must have been something more than the ordinary interpretation ofthose words, so effectually to drive away Harry Smith's anger. Perhapsit arose from the way in which they were said. At all events JohnWilson must have imagined that a fresh plague had broken out in thecourt, for he came near no more; and at one regular hour every eveningHarry was to be seen accompanying the dainty little maiden to thewarehouse, turning himself into a regular pack-horse with parcels, andall to the great hindrance of the emigrating scheme.
And so weeks--months passed, and then something more must have beensaid; for one day Harry Smith was seen busily carrying Jenny'sflower-pots from her lodging to his own home, which could have been fromno other reason than that Jenny had at last consented to tend themthere, and send brightness to the honest young fellow's home. And so itpassed, for from that time Jenny Blossom's name faded out of thechronicles of Gutter-alley. Year after year, though, when tiny littleblue-eyed children were born to Harry in the cold wintry season, therewas a fancy of his which may be recorded. It was only the fancy of arough, honest worker--a soldier in the fight for life; but all the same,the idea had its tinge of poetry. The idea was this--to say that thetiny blossoms that came to find this world in its wintry garment ofpurity were like Violets in the Snow.
STORY THREE, CHAPTER ONE.