Dutch the Diver Part 61

The consequence was that poor old d.i.c.key Bradds had to go one day to the hospital, to lie there for many weary weeks, and come out at last lame and uncured, for at threescore and ten there is not much chance of a man building up new tissue, piling on fresh muscle and strength, and renewing the waste of so many years.

Poor old d.i.c.k left the hospital a confirmed cripple, but hopeful ever of regaining his strength and activity--at least he said so, whether merely to cheer up his grandchild or to mask his sufferings, that was known only to his own heart.

STORY TWO, CHAPTER THREE.

Now this was how old d.i.c.k became a cripple.

It was early in winter, and there was a heavy sale on at the rooms, for the furniture of a n.o.ble mansion had been sent up from the country, and bargain-hunters and Jew brokers were there that day in force, chaffering, running down the value of the goods they coveted, and turning the crowded room into a Babel of confusion.

The sale was progressing, and under the superintendence of one Joseph Brown, the head porter, the lots had been submitted to compet.i.tion with ease and facility. Old d.i.c.k had as usual been working very hard, but, not content to show the others his power, he sought to do more.

"You can't take that there chist o' drawers down," said the head porter, a man most careful in the way in which he looked after the corners and polish of pieces of furniture, saving them from scratch and chip. So careful, in fact, was Brown that he had never had time to look after the polish and corners of her Majesty's English, which he chipped and scratched most terribly. So "you can't take that there chist o' drawers down," said Brown, "it's too much for you;" and he meant it kindly, though his words were rough.

"You wouldn't ha' talked to me like that ten year ago, Joe Brown!"

quavered d.i.c.k, turning angrily upon the porter, for he was hurt and annoyed at being spoken to before the other men.

"I didn't mean to hurt the poor old chap," said Brown at home to his wife that night, "for I like old d.i.c.k, who's as honest and true-hearted an old chap as ever stepped. All the years we've been together I never knew d.i.c.k do a man an ill turn; while the way he turns out o' Sundays to take that there granchile of his to a place o' wa.s.shup ought to be a patten for some on us.

"In course I wouldn't ha' spoke to him in that way ten years ago: for why? 'cos he could ha' carried the chist o' drawers easily; but 'stead o' actin' sensible, he was that proud, bless you, that he wriggled hisself under 'em like a young cuckoo with a hegg, hystes hisself up slowly by taking hold of the bannisters, and then begins to stagger downstairs.

"'Now then: lot 'underd and two, waitin' for lot 'underd and two,' they calls out below. 'Comin'--comin'--comin',' pants out d.i.c.k; and I see as it was too much for the poor old chap, who felt touched at being thought past his work, though the governors only expected him to take down the light things. So seeing how matters stood, I steps forrard to help him, when if he didn't seem to shut up all at once like; and that there chist o' handsome French-polished mahogany drawers, 'underd and two in the catalogue, went downstairs a deal too fast for its const.i.tution.

"Poor old d.i.c.k! he never groaned nor made no fuss when we got him down to the cab to take him to the 'orsepittle, although his poor old leg was broke, through his coming down a whole flight arter that there chist o'

handsome French-polished mahogany drawers; but his lips was shaking, and his face drored as he gets hold of my b.u.t.ton and pulls me to him, and says, says he, 'This'll be a sad upset for my Jenny, but don't let 'em frighten her, Joe Brown, don't please. You're a married man and got feeling, though I spoke nasty to you just now. Please go and tell her gently, yourself. O, Joe, I shan't be able to help in many more sales.'

"Poor old chap, how the tears did run down his cheeks as he whispered me again--

"'Don't say it's much, Joe; tell her it's a bit of a scratch, and she isn't to fidget about me. Tell her gently, Joe; good bye, Joe; I shall be over again to-morrow or next day, Joe; and, Joe,' he calls out in his weak piping way, as the keb begins to move, 'Joe,' he says, 'just take my apern and give the lookin'-gla.s.s in the big wardrobe a bit of a rub before it comes down; and don't forget about Jenny.'

"Poor old d.i.c.key: got his 'art in his work, he had; and somehow as he went off, and I knew as we shouldn't never see him again at work, if we ever see him at all, my nose wanted blowing to that degree that nothing couldn't be like it; and it's my belief, Sarah, if I hadn't been roused up by a call for the next lot, that I should have turned soft; for you see, says I to myself, I says, suppose as that had been me.

"But he told me to tell Jenny gently, and I did."

STORY TWO, CHAPTER FOUR.

Old d.i.c.k went no more to porter at the rooms when he came out of the hospital; his smoothly-shaven face did not peer out of windows where he was hanging out hearthrugs with, pinned upon them, the bills announcing the capital modern household furniture for sale; but when he returned to Gutter-alley, d.i.c.k would always be clean-shaven of a morning, spending an hour over the process, pulling out wrinkles to get at the silver stubble lurking in the bottoms of the furrows, and stopping at times, when his hands grew tremulous, to rest. Many was the time that his grandchild, Jenny, would have to run down in haste to fetch a bit of cobweb from the cellar to stay the bleeding when that tremulous old hand did make a slip, for the nap upon d.i.c.k's Sunday hat was too scarce to be used up in so wanton a way.

But at last d.i.c.k would strop and put away his razor and shaving-brush, hang up the little gla.s.s, and then tie on a clean white ap.r.o.n, take his round carpet-cap down from a nail and carefully put it on so as not to disarrange his grey locks, and then sit patiently nursing his porter's knot and waiting, as he used to tell Jenny, for a job.

"Strong, my little la.s.s? Strong as ever," he'd say. "If I could only get this leg right;" and then Jenny would drop her work, take his old face between her plump little hands, kiss him tenderly, and tell him to wait a little.

So old d.i.c.k Bradds used to wait on, day after day, waiting for the jobs that never came, and the injured leg did not get right. The old man's strength sufficed to carry him down to the front door and back again.

Down he would go slowly, holding tightly by the bal.u.s.trade, one leg always first, till he reached the bottom, where the mat should have been, only they could not afford mats in Gutter-alley, and then as regularly as possible the old man, in his thankfulness at being able to walk so far, would take off the old carpet-cap and say softly, when there was no one by, "Thank G.o.d!" and the same again when, after a visit to the front door and a glance up and down the court, he had slowly and painfully made his way up to his own room.

Jenny would have helped him; but no: the old man could not shake off the belief that he was in a state to do heavy work and to help his child.

There was too much determination left yet in the old piece of steel, and heedless of rust and weakness d.i.c.k struggled up and down.

People used to say that Sharpnesses, the great auctioneers, ought to have pensioned old Bradds, but they were people who made money fast, and knew its value in too worldly a way to pension worn-out servants, so old d.i.c.k had to live as he could.

Jenny was d.i.c.k's support--Jenny, his grandchild--Jenny Blossom, as they called her in Gutter-alley. She was the last of the family--father, mother, and another child had died in Gutter-alley, where fevers used to practise and get themselves into full strength before issuing out to ravage the districts where sanitary arrangements were so perfect.

The place was very foul, but somehow Jenny grew brighter day by day, and the old crones of the alley used to chuckle and say no wonder, for flowers always throve in the dirt. At all events, the foul odours did not take the bloom from her cheek, and when fever or cholera held high revel, Jenny had pa.s.sed scatheless through trials when scores had fallen around.

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 hoa.r.s.e voices, would always stand aside for Jenny to pa.s.s; 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 t.i.tle 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 TWO, CHAPTER FIVE.

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, d.i.c.k has himself washed and put away the two cups and saucers, and now sits by the fire drying the splashes upon his white ap.r.o.n. 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 d.i.c.k, 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."

"That's right, Harry--that's right," quavered the old man. "Set 'em down--set 'em down. And now what's to pay?"

"Pay? What for?" was the rather gruff response, as the new-comer looked hard the while at Jenny.

"For your trouble, Harry. You ought to take something for your trouble."

"'Tisn't trouble!" said the young man, more gently, still looking hard at Jenny, who never raised her eyes from her work. "When I'm at market, as I've often said before, it isn't much to bring home a few bunches of flowers. I should like to bring them every morning, if I may."

He still glanced at Jenny, as if he hoped that the permission might come from her; but she made no sign, and old d.i.c.k himself broke the awkward silence by thanking the young man once more, and he then took his departure with a disappointed aspect.

The flower-bearer slowly descended the stairs, nettled at the calm, patronising manner adopted by the old man.

"Poor old chap," he muttered; "I wonder what he really does think."

He said no more, for at the foot of the stairs he encountered a smartly-dressed youth, apparently a junior clerk in some city office.

The look which pa.s.sed between the young men was of no very friendly character; but, directly after, each went upon his way, thinking of his rival--the violet-bearer to his little half stall, half shop, where he, in a very humble fashion, contrived to make a good living--the other, smiling with contempt, ascending to old d.i.c.k Bradds' abode.

For be it known that fair young Jenny Blossom was not without suitors, who were both at this time anything but peaceful at heart, since there was plenty of jealousy and annoyance at Jenny's coldness. They called it coldness, though hardly with justice, for the visits were none of Jenny's seeking, since she, poor girl, loved her grandfather, and though she confessed to herself that it was kind of Harry Smith to bring the violets, and to save her from going to the wet, cold market so early in the morning, yet she would very much rather that both--well, that Mr John Wilson, Sharpnesses' clerk, would stay away.

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. d.i.c.k 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?"