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.