Kitabı oku: «Midnight Webs», sayfa 24
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.
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 passing 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 pass. Shuddering from no selfish fear, but lest some one might have been suddenly snatched 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, God 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.
Story 4-Chapter VII
Harry Smith, the very shadow of his former self, waited until the procession neared, and then stood aside to let the one sad woman pass to the shabby funeral carriage, after which he made his way back into the court, to listen to the narrative of the sad havoc worked by the disease while he had been tossing in delirium upon his own pallet. But he went home sad and yet happy, as he pondered upon some information he had gained from the neighbours; for he learned for certain that no one whose visits he had dreaded had passed up the court to Number 5.
The days glided on. It was the depth of winter, and the snow lay thickly upon the house-tops. It was churned up into a black mud sometimes in the streets; but, in spite of powdering blacks, it still struggled to lie white and pure upon the ledges and window-sills. The storm came again and again, and Jenny’s window-sill was covered, and somehow in the morning, when she rose, there lay a tiny bunch of sweet violets in amongst the snow. From whence did the offering come? There was but one explanation – it must have been thrown across from a neighbour’s window; and morning after morning the flowers were there, and as Jenny took each bunch and placed it in water she thought of the market and its floral treasures even at that season of the year, and a blush burned hotly in her cheek, for she remembered who had brought roses during the illness, and wondered why he had ceased to come.
There was much for Harry to ponder upon, though, in the long hours during which, for want of strength, he was compelled to remain idle; he thought of his own rough ways and garb, as compared with the bearing and dress of his favoured rival; telling himself that he was mad and foolish to expect that Jenny could prefer him to the man chosen by her grandfather. If she could only read his heart aright, he thought that there might be hope for him; but how could he expect that!
And time still sped on, giving to Harry Smith once more muscle and vigour, but little peace of mind, since now Jenny declined to let him bring her flowers, for she kept entirely to her needlework, lodging with an old widow on the opposite side of the court. But the flowers once more began their struggle for life in Jenny’s window, and with better success, 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’s heart 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 the young girl’s side, as she was going to and from the warehouse whence she obtained the work which made sore her little fingers. Harry knew not that poor Jenny was pestered sadly, and went to the warehouse at different hours each day, so as to avoid a meeting. Harry judged only from what he saw, and grew daily more disheartened and sad. He did not rail against her, he only blamed his own folly, and at last made up his mind to leave the country – his attention having been taken by the inducements held out by emigration placards.
But this was not until nearly a year had passed, and now that his mind was fully made up, he watched for an evening when he could see Jenny alone, and tell her – he thought he would like to tell her how he had loved her – before he went.
Harry’s words were nearly left unsaid; for it happened that one evening he saw Jenny hurrying through the busy streets laden with the work she was taking home, and at a short distance behind he could make out John Wilson following rapidly in her steps.
The sight made the young man’s heart sink within his breast, and he was about to turn back when he saw that the young girl was panting beneath her burden, and half angrily he hastened up, and asked if he might carry it, determined for this time not to be driven away.
And it came to pass that evening that as they stepped into the quieter streets the bells of one of the old churches began to peal up joyfully for a practice, and it may be they inspired the young man with hope to declare his intentions, and then to his own surprise he grew warm and eloquent, reproaching his companion even for her conduct towards one who had loved her long and well.
“O Jenny!” he exclaimed, “I have always looked upon you as a violet growing 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, “fine feathers make fine birds, and perhaps Jenny Blossom likes such birds to watch for her, and follow her about.”
“Can I help it, Harry?” said Jenny softly, as she laid one little work-scarred hand upon his. “I have no one to protect me,” and before he could speak again she had hurried up-stairs.
There must have been something more than the ordinary interpretation of those words, so effectually to drive away Harry Smith’s anger. Perhaps it arose from the way in which they were said. At all events John Wilson must have imagined that a fresh plague had broken out in the court, for he came near no more; and at one regular hour every evening Harry was to be seen accompanying the dainty little maiden to the warehouse, turning himself into a regular pack-horse with parcels, and all to the great hindrance of the emigrating scheme.
And so weeks – months passed, and then something more must have been said; for one day Harry Smith was seen busily carrying Jenny’s flower-pots from her lodging to his own home, which could have been from no other reason than that Jenny had at last consented to tend them there, and send brightness to the honest young fellow’s home. And so it passed, for from that time Jenny Blossom’s name faded out of the chronicles of Gutter-alley. Year after year, though, when tiny little blue-eyed children were born to Harry in the cold wintry season, there was a fancy of his which may be recorded. It was only the fancy of a rough, 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 the tiny blossoms that came to find this world in its wintry garment of purity were like Violets in the Snow.
Story Five: Nil Des
Story 5-Chapter I.
John Richards’ Housekeeper
“Git along, do, with such clat.”
“But, Keziah – dear – only listen to me! Here’s winter coming on fast, and what could be a better time for getting it over? What’s cold got to do with it, Keziah, when there’s a warm and manly heart beating away for you at such a rate as to keep you warm and itself too? Say yes, Keziah!”
“I won’t.”
“Only think of how happy we should be, with you at your housekeeping, and me with my tallers!”
“And smelling ten times worse of burnt mutton-chops than you do now when you come.”
“Smell, Keziah! Oh, what’s smell when him as smells loves you? Ah, Keziah! I did think you’d got a heart that I could melt like good quality fat; but it’s a stringy and gristly heart, Keziah, one as is full of pride. On my bended knees I ask you to say yes.”
“Git up, do, with your clat. The idee of going down on the carpet like that, just for all the world like a man in a stage-play. Such stuff indeed. If you don’t get up directly I’ll run out of the room, that I will. Do you take me for a silly girl? at my time of life too.”
“No, Keziah,” said the man of bended knees, rising slowly to stand once more, a fat, podgy little fellow, whose anxious face grew more ludicrous each moment. “No, Keziah, I only take you for a very hard-hearted woman.”
“Don’t be a noodles, Peter,” exclaimed Keziah. “Didn’t I always tell you, when I gave consent for you to come and see me, that I’d never think of marrying till Miss May was settled?”
“Yes, you did,” said Peter, “but she’s such a long time over it.”
“Stuff!” said Keziah.
“But she is indeed,” cried Peter, trying to catch one of the lady’s hands in his. “You see she’s only nineteen, and can afford to wait a few years. But you see, dear, I’m forty, and you are – ”
“Yes, I know, I’m forty, too, and I’m not ashamed of it, so you needn’t twit me with that,” said Keziah snappishly. “I’m in no hurry to change my name into Pash – Pash indeed. I’m sure Bay’s ever so much better.”
“It is! I know it is,” said Peter, “and I didn’t twit you about your years. Ain’t I always said that you were just growing into your prime? But I see how it is: it’s pride – it’s the pride of the composites, Keziah, and you’re trying to throw me over after I’ve been a true lover all these years.”
“Are you going to talk sense; or am I to leave you to chatter that sickly twaddle to the cat? – true lover indeed!”
“Go it!” cried Peter, “it’s pride! I can see through it all. Why don’t you be open with me? But, mark my words, Keziah, there’s more sterling substance in a short six, or even a height, than in all your grand composites, as set themselves up for sparm or wax. I’m tallow, I am, and I respect tallow. I like people not to be ashamed of their position. We can’t all be wax, nor yet sparm, so why not be content as a good honest dip, or a mould! Why, even your twelve or fourteen has a honesty about it that your sham, make-believe imitation wax don’t possess – things as won’t stand so much as a draught of air without flaring, and guttering down, and spattering all over your carpets. It’s pride, Keziah, and that’s all about it.”
“No, it ain’t,” said Keziah quietly.
“To throw me over like this,” continued Mr Pash in injured tones, “and after all my attentions and presents.”
“Presents, indeed!” exclaimed the lady, “attentions! – very delicate attentions. Kidneys, that you got out of the nasty fat that you buy of the butchers.”
“But I never brought one as was the least tainted,” said Peter, “and you always said there was nothing nicer for supper.”
“And, pray, who always ate a good half?” retorted Keziah angrily.
“But I never should have touched ’em if they hadn’t been so gloriously cooked – such brown – such gravy! O, Keziah, don’t be hard on me,” sighed Peter.
“Peter Pash!” exclaimed the lady indignantly, “you’re a great goose; and if I didn’t know that you’d been sitting here three hours without nothing stronger than small beer before you, I should say you’d been drinking. Now, once for all, you can come if you like, or you can stay away if you like. I’m not going even to think about getting married till Miss May’s settled, and that won’t be well, never mind that. Now go home.”
“Yes, my dear,” said Peter in a resigned way, and taking his hat off the sideboard he began to brush the nap round and round very carefully. “But you’re very hard on me, Keziah.”
“Didn’t I tell you to go?” said the lady.
Peter Pash sighed and drew the back of his hand across his mouth, but then his heart failed him, and he shook hands and said “good-night” – words which seemed thrown back at him by the lady of his heart; directly after he withdrew in accordance with the line in italics which appeared at the bottom of his tallow-chandler’s trade card – “N.B. Orders punctually executed!” leaving Keziah Bay, cook and housekeeper to John Richards, the old money-lender, of Walbrook, nipping her lips together, beating one foot upon the fender, and frowning very fiercely at the fire.
For this had been a very exciting affair for Mrs Keziah Bay, since, heretofore, Peter Pash’s custom had been to come three times a week to Walbrook, where he would sit in the half kitchen, half sitting-room, of the dingy old mansion – a house built in the days when merchants condescended to live over their offices, with bedrooms looking down upon warehouse or yard – sit and smoke a pipe while Keziah darned her master’s stockings; stare at her very hard, sup, and say “good-night,” and then go. That was the extent of Peter Pash’s courting. He had certainly once before said something respecting wedding, and been snubbed into silence; but only that once; hence, then, this had been rather an exciting time at Walbrook, and for more reasons than that one.
Mrs Keziah Bay had not been thoughtfully tapping the old-fashioned brass fender with her foot for more than five minutes before the door softly opened and a slight girlish figure entered, to steal quietly to the comely dame’s side, kneel down, and clasp two little white hands round her waist.
“That means trouble, I know,” said Keziah sharply, but all the same one of her hands was passed caressingly over the soft brown hair, and her lips were pressed to the white upturned forehead. “That means trouble, and worry, and upsets, or you wouldn’t come to me. Now, what is it? But there: I know: you’ve been thinking about Frank Marr; haven’t you?”
A sigh was taken for an affirmative answer, and Keziah continued:
“What’s Mr Brough been here for to-night?”
“Don’t talk about it – don’t ask me!” cried the kneeling girl, who now burst out into a passion of weeping. “O, ’Ziah, what shall I do, what shall I do?”
“Why, tell me all about what you’re crying for, to be sure,” cried Keziah sharply; but all the same with a motherly attempt or two at soothing. “Surely master hasn’t been at you again about Mr Frank, has he?”
“O, yes – yes,” sobbed the girl; “and it does seem so cruel and hard. O, ’Ziah, I’ve no one to talk to but you – no one to ask for help. He talks as if Frank could help being poor, and not prospering in his business, when, poor fellow, he strove so hard.”
“But what did he bring all that up for?” cried Keziah. “Mr Frank hasn’t been here these two months, I’ll swear. Did you say anything?”
“No, no!” sobbed the girl, bursting into a fresh paroxysm of weeping.
“Then some one must have brought it up. There, I see plain as plain. Bless him! He ought to be boiled in his own sugar, that he ought! He’s a nice fellow, he is, for a sugar-baker, to come here tattling and setting people against other people.”
“What do you mean?” sobbed May Richards, gazing wonderingly at her comforter.
“Mean? Why, that that old Tom Brough ought to be ashamed of himself to come tattling to master about Mr Frank. That was it, wasn’t it?”
“No, no!” sobbed the poor girl wearily.
“Then what did he come for?” said Keziah.
There was a pause, during which May wept bitterly.
“I shall go and ask master myself,” said Keziah authoritatively, as she half rose. “I’m not going to have my child upset like this for nothing.”
“No, no, no!” sobbed May. “Pray stay, ’Ziah – dear ’Ziah, don’t be angry, and I’ll tell you all.”
“Then what is it?” said Keziah.
“Mr Brough – ”
“Well?”
“Mr Brough has been to talk to papa.”
“Well, go on, child, for goodness’ sake, and do wipe your eyes. He’s been to talk to master, and what about, pray?”
“About me,” sobbed May.
“Well, and pray what about you?”
“He came to propose, and papa gave him leave.”
“To propose what?” said Keziah. “There, for goodness gracious in heaven sake, child, speak out and do not keep on riddle-me-riddle-me-reeing in that way. What did he want? Why!” she exclaimed, as a sudden light seemed to break upon her, “he ain’t broke, and come after money? Not he though, he’s as rich as a Jew. What does it all mean?”
“He came to propose, and papa ordered me to accept him,” sobbed Mary; “and when I told papa that I considered myself engaged to poor Frank, he was ready to strike me, and he cursed him, and called him horrible names, and said he would sooner see me dead than married to such a beggar, and that I was to accept Mr Brough’s offer.”
“What!” exclaimed Keziah, her eyes dilating as she caught May by the shoulders, and seemed to look her through and through. “Do you mean to tell me that old Tom Brough, the sugar-baker, wants to marry you, and that master said he should?”
“Yes, yes,” sobbed May. “O, ’Ziah, I’m half brokenhearted. What shall I do?”
“Do!” cried Keziah fiercely; “I’d have knocked their heads together. Old Tom Brough! An old villain! An old rascal! He’s sixty, if he’s an hour. It’s a good job for him he’s gone. Sneaking out as he did, and giving me five shillings when he went. Ah! if I’d have known when he was with me there in the passage, I’d have given it him!”
May clung to her, sobbing more than ever. “I’d – I’d – I’d have wrung his neck,” cried Keziah furiously; and then she burst out into a contemptuous laugh, as she strove to comfort the weeping girl, kissing her, wiping her eyes, and holding her to her breast. “There – there,” she said, “let it be now, and I’ll talk to them both. I’ll let them see that money is not going to do everything. Tom Brough, indeed! A carneying old rascal, with his smooth tongue and pleasant ways; an old deceiver. I thought better things of him. But I haven’t done with them all yet; I don’t believe there’s a man under the sun good for anything. But there goes the bell.”
Keziah Bay rose to leave the room, but May clung to her imploringly.
“You will not say a word?” she said pleadingly.
“And why not, pray?” Then seeing the agitation and fear in the poor girl’s face she continued, “Then I won’t – not to him; for it would be like trying to turn a rushing bull; – but I’m not married yet, Peter Pash,” she muttered as she left the room, “nor she isn’t married yet, John Richards and Thomas Brough, alderman and big man as you are. We’re a poor weak, helpless lot, that we are, and it’s my belief that men are born with but one idea, and that is that they ought to persecute us women.”
