Part 10

One Sunday during the latter part of January, Dil summoned up pluck enough to go out for a walk. There had been three or four lovely days that suggested spring, bland airs and sunshine, and the indescribable thrill in the air that stirs with sudden longing.

Dil wandered over to Madison Square. Some one had given her mother a good warm cloak, quite modern. How Bess would have enjoyed seeing her dressed in it! But though the sun shone so gloriously, she was cold in body and soul, as if she could never be warm again. The leafless branches were full of swallows chirping, but the flowers were gone, the fountain silent. No one noted the solitary little figure sitting just where she had sat that happy afternoon.

"Oh," she cried softly, while her heart swelled to breaking, and her eyes wandered southward, "do you know that Bess is dead, an' we can't never go to heaven together as we planned? I d'know's I want to now. I jes' want to die an' be put in the ground. I wisht I could be laid 'long-side of her, an' I'd stretch out my arms, an' she'd come creepin' to them, jes' as she used. She'd know how to find me. An' when you come back you can't see her no more. Oh, 'f we only could 'a' started that day! An' mammy burned up Christiana an' my beautiful picture, so I'm all alone. There ain't nothin' left," and she sighed drearily.

Where was he? "'Crost the 'Lantic Oshin," as Bess had said. She had no more idea of the Atlantic Ocean than she had of the location of heaven; not as much, for it seemed as if heaven might be over beyond the setting sun. But John Travis was still in the world. And as she sat there it seemed as if she must live to tell him about Bess, and an aim brightened her dreary life. Two months and a little more. She would come over often when the weather grew pleasanter. Already she began to feel better.

But she could not take the heartfelt glow back to Barker's Court. The loneliness settled down like a pall. The long, long evenings were intolerable. Sometimes she crept down and spent an hour with Mrs. Minch; but she was afraid her mother might come home inopportunely.

Mrs. Quinn was growing much worse in her habits; and she lost her best place, which did not improve her temper. Dil's apathetic manner angered her as well; yet the house was kept cleaner than ever, her mother's clothes were always in order, and there was nothing to find fault about, except the lack of babies, which Dil could not help.

One night in February there was quite a carouse at Mrs. MacBride's. It was midnight when Mrs. Quinn returned. Poor Dil should have been in bed, out of harm's way; but she had been living over that fateful night, believing with the purest and most passionate fervor that she might have called Bess back to life if she could have gone to her.

A man helped Mrs. Quinn up the stairs, and tumbled her in the door. Dil sprang up in affright.

Mrs. Quinn stared at Dil with bleared eyes.

"What yer doin' up this time o' night? Yees do be enough to set wan crazy wid yer mewlin', pinched-up mug that's humbly as a stun! Why d'n' ye laugh an' hev a good time, an' make the house decent, stead er like a grave? I'm not goin' to stan' it--d'y hear?"

Dil glanced about in alarm, and would have fled to her room, but her mother caught her by the arm.

"Come," she cried, "I'll shake the glumness outen yer. Why, ye'd spile vinegar even! I'll tache ye a little friskiness."

Dil struggled to free herself, but uttered no word.

"I'll tache ye!" she shouted, the devil put into her by rum driving her to fury. "Ye measlin', grouty little thing! forever moanin' an' cryin' fer the sickly brat that's gone, good riddance to her! Come, now, step up lively. We'll make a night of it, an' ye shall hev a sup o' gin to wet yer t'roat whin ye get warm."

She whirled Dil about savagely, until she was dizzy and faint, and broke away in desperation. But her mother clutched her again, and gave her a resounding box on the ear. She managed, as she was whirled round, to open the door into the hall, and scream with all the strength she could summon. Her mother seized her again with a dreadful imprecation. What happened, how it happened in the dark, Dil could never clearly remember.

Fred Minch sprang up and opened the door. Something bumped down the stairs, and lay in a heap at his feet.

"It's that poor little girl, mother. She's bleeding, killed maybe. I'll run for a policeman."

Mrs. Minch picked up the senseless child. Mrs. Quinn went on yelling, swearing, smashing things, and dancing like a mad woman.

Rows were no uncommon thing in the court. Windows were thrown up. Who was it? Some wretched wife being beaten? And when they found it was Mrs. Quinn, they shook their heads. She had been going to the dogs of late, it was plain to see.

When the officer came, she made such a vigorous onslaught that he was forced to call assistance. She was after Owen now, and Dil had hidden him. The threats she uttered were enough to make one shudder. They mastered her at length, and dragged her down-stairs, where Mrs. Minch was waiting to explain poor Dil's plight.

She was still unconscious when the ambulance came. There was a bad cut up in the edge of her hair, but no bones seemed to be broken that any one could discover.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Minch, when quiet was restored. "It would be a blessing if she could go with Bess. She'll never get over the loss. She's not been the same since, and many a day my heart's ached for her."

"She were a nice smart woman, that Mrs. Quinn, if she'd a let rum alone," was the general verdict. "An' though she took the child's death in a sensible manner, it broke her all up," said some of the court people, "and she went to hard drinking at once."

When Mrs. Quinn's trial came on, Dil's life was still hanging in a doubtful balance. She was sent to the Island for ninety days, for drunkenness and assaulting the policeman, and would there await the final result.

But Mrs. MacBride went on adding to her bank account and her real estate, to the wreck of youth and womanhood, to the prisons and paupers' graves. She kept such a very respectable place, the law never meddled with her.

Dilsey Quinn lay on her hospital pallet delirious, but never violent, and lapsing into unconsciousness. She had a dislocated shoulder, two broken ribs, and sundry bruises; but it was the years of hard work, foul air, dark rooms, and unsanitary conditions that the doctors had to fight against blindly. Her bruised and swollen face, her stubby, red-brown hair that had been cut short, her wide mouth and short nose, made no appeal in the name of beauty. She was merely a "case."

Her nurse was a youngish, kindly woman, used to such incidents. Beaten wives and children were often sent to her ward. In the early part of her experience she had suffered with them. Now she had grown--not unsympathetic, but wiser; tender she would always be.

Now and then there was something so wistful in the child's eyes that it touched her heart. She lay so patient and uncomplaining, she made so little trouble.

But sometimes the woman wondered why they were brought into the world to suffer, starve, and die. What wise purpose was served?

XI--WHEN HE AND SUMMER COMES

One morning Dilsey Quinn looked slowly and curiously around the ward, and then asked the nurse how she came there.

She lay a long while, piecing out the story, remembering what was back of it.

"As you did not die, your mother will come out of the Island early in June. I suppose it was a sort of accident. Was she used to beating you?"

A flush went over the pallid face.

"No," she replied quietly.

"Do you want to go back to her?"

"O, no, no!" with a note of terror in the voice. "I couldn't live with her no more."

"Have you any friends?"

There was a hesitating look, but the child did not answer. Had she any friend? Yes, Patsey.

"How would you like to go to some of the Homes? You would be well treated and taught some trade," the nurse ventured kindly.

"I can work for myself," returned Dil, with quiet decision. "I can keep house, an' tend babies, an' wash an' iron."

"Would you like a nice place in the country?"

"I want to stay in the city," she said slowly. "There's some one I want to see. It's 'bout my little sister that's dead. I can soon get some work."

"How old are you?"

"I shall be fifteen long in the summer, a spell after Fourth of July."

"You are very small. Are you quite sure?"

"Oh, yes. Why, you see, I was fourteen last summer. Jack was next to me. Then Bess. She was 'leven, but she hadn't grown any 'cause she was hurted."

"Hurt? How?" the nurse asked with interest. The children told their stories so simply.

"Along o' father's bein' nawful drunk an' slammin' her agin the wall. He went to prison 'cause he most killed a man. Bess died just before Christmas. We was goin'--"

Dil paused. Would nurse know anything about a journey to heaven?

"Were you going to run away? But if the poor little girl was hurt, she is better off. God is taking care of her in heaven."

"Oh, no. She isn't there. She's just dead. We was goin' together in the spring, and--and some one was going with us who knew all 'bout the way."

"My child, what do you know about heaven?" asked the nurse, struck by the confident tone.

"I didn't know--much. I heard 'bout it at the Mission School, and told Bess. We wanted to go like Christiana. We met a man in the square last summer, an' he told us 'bout his Lord Jesus, that he could cure little hurted legs that hadn't ever grown any and couldn't walk. An' he promised to go to heaven with us. We was goin' to start then, but we didn't just know the way. I'd learned 'bout the river in the Mission School. An' he said he'd bring us the book 'bout Christiana, an' then we'd know; but we better wait, for it would be so cold before we got there, an' the cold shrivelled up poor little Bess so. Well, we waited an' waited, but he did come, an' he brought the book. It was so lovely." Dil gave a long, rapturous sigh, and a glory shone in her eyes. "An' we found out 'bout crossin' the river an' the pallis. We see her goin' up the steps. An' then mammy took the book an' burnt it up in a tantrum, an' we couldn't read it any more, but we'd got the pictures all fixed in our minds. Curis, isn't it, how you can see things that ain't there, when you've got thim all fixed in your mind?"

"And you were going to heaven?" Nurse was amazed at the great, if misplaced, faith. "And your friend--"

The soft, suggestive voice won Dil to further confidence.

"He had to go 'way crost the 'Lantic Oshin. But he would have come back. He did just what he told you, always. An' that's why I must get well an' go back an' see him an' tell him--"

The voice faltered, and the eyes overflowed with tears. Dil's hearer was greatly moved.

"Bess has gone to heaven first, my poor dear," but her own voice was tremulous with emotion.

"Oh, she couldn't. Why, she couldn't walk, with her poor hurted legs, 'n' 'twas so cold 'n' all. An' she wouldn't 'a' gone to the very best heaven, not even the pallis shinin' with angels, athout me."

"But you don't understand"--how should she explain to the literal understanding. "The Lord came for her, took her in his arms, and carried her to heaven."

"Oh, he wouldn't 'a' taken her athout sayin' a word, and leaved me behind, 'cause he must 'a' knowed we was plannin' to go together. No; she's just dead like other folks. An' _he_ can't see her when he comes."

There was a long, dreary, tearless sob.

"Oh, my poor child, she _is_ safe with the Lord. Do you really know who God is?"

"Mr. Travis's Lord Jesus lives in heaven," said Dil, in a kind of weary, half-puzzled tone. "He told us how he come down to some place, I disremember now, an' cured hurted people, an' made blind folks see, an' fed the hungry, an' went back an' fixed a beautiful pallis for them. There's lots more in Barker's Court that they swear by, but them ain't the ones Mr. Travis meant."

The nurse was as much astonished by the confident ignorance as Mr. Travis had been, and felt quite as helpless.

"I wish you could believe that little Bess is in heaven," she said gently.

"She couldn't be happy athout me," the poor child replied confidently, with tears in her faltering voice. "I always tended her, an' curled her hair, an' wheeled her about, an'--an' loved her so." The tone sank to a touching pathos. "An' she didn't go crost no river--she couldn't stand up 'thout bein' held. An' oh, do you s'pose I'd gone an' left Bess for anything? No more would she gone an' left me."

The brown eyes were heart-breaking in their trustful simplicity. The child's confidence was beyond any stage of persuasion. With time one might unravel the tangle in her untutored brain, but she could not in the brief while the child would remain in the hospital.

"Tell me about your friend, Mr. Travis," the nurse said, after a silence of some moments.

"He painted pictures, an' he made a beautiful one of Bess. But mammy burned it with the book. She said there wasn't any heaven anyway. An' Mrs. Murphy said it was purgatory, 'n' if you paid money, you'd get out. But Bess would go there. An' _he_ didn't say nothin' 'bout purgatory. He come one day an' sang the beautifullest hymn 'bout 'everlastin' spring,' an' everybody cried. Poor old Mrs. Bolan was there. But when he comes back he'll tell me just how it is."

Perhaps that was best. Nurse went about her duties, the strange, sweet, entire faith haunting her. And the pathos of the two setting out for a literal heaven!

There were days when Dil sat in a vague, absent mood, her eyes staring into vacancy, seeming to hear nothing that went on about her. But she improved slowly; and though the nurse tried to persuade her to go to some friends of hers, she found the child wonderfully resolute.

And yet, when she was discharged, an awful sense of loneliness came over Dilsey Quinn. The nurse gave her a dollar, and an address to which she was to apply in case of any misfortune.

"You've been so good," Dil said, with swimming eyes. "An' I'll promise if I don't get no place."

And now she must find John Travis. He would surely know if Bess could get to heaven in any strange way, alone in the night. And if she was there, then Dil must go straightway. She could not even lose a day.

The world looked curious to her this April day. There were golden quivers in the sunshine, and a laughing blueness in the sky. And oh, such a lovely, fragrant air! Dil felt as if she could skip for very joy.

She found her way to the square, and sat down on the olden seat. Already some flowers were out, and the grass was green. The "cop" came around presently, but she was not afraid of him now. She rose and spoke to him, recalling the summer afternoon and the man who had made pictures of herself and Bess.

"I don't know who he was. No, he hasn't been back to inquire." The policeman would not have known Dil.

"His name was Mr. John Travis. He writ it on Bess's picture. I was so 'fraid I'd miss him. But he will come, 'cause he can't find no one in Barker's Court. An' when I get a place, I'll come an' bring the number, so's you can tell him."

"Yes, I'll be on the lookout for him." The child's grave, innocent faith touched him. How pale and thin she was!

Then she considered. Mrs. Minch would be in the court, she thought. Perhaps she might steal in without any one seeing her who would tell her mother afterward. And she could hear about Dan.

She stopped at a baker's, and bought some lunch. But by and by she began to grow very tired, and walked slowly, looking furtively about. She was almost at Barker's Court when a familiar whistle startled her.

"O Dil Quinn, Dil!" cried a dear, well remembered voice.

Patsey Muldoon caught her hand as if he would never let it go. He had half a mind to kiss her in the street, he was that glad. His eyes danced with joy.

"I've been layin' out fer ye, Dil, hangin' round an' waitin'. I was dead sure yous'd come back here. An' I've slipped in Misses Minch's, an' jes' asked 'bout the old gal, an' I told her 'f you come, jes' to hold on t'ye."

"O Patsey!"

"How nawful thin ye air, Dil. Have ye got railly well?"

Dil swallowed over a great lump in her throat, and had much ado not to cry, as she said, "I'm not so strong."

"Well, we want ye, we jes' do," and he laughed.

"What for?" It was so good to have any one want her in this desolation, that she drew nearer, and he put her hand in his arm in a very protecting fashion.

"Well, I'll tell ye. See, now, we was boardin' with an old woman. There was five of us, but Fin, he waltzed off. The old woman died suddint like three weeks ago, an' we've bin keepin' house sence. The lan'lord he come round, 'n' we promised the rent every Monday, sure pop; an' we paid it too," proudly. "We've got Owny. I've had to thrash him twict, but he's doin' fus' rate now. An' he sed, if we could git a holt o' yous! He said ye made sech lickin' good stews 'n' coffee 'twould make a feller sing in his sleep."

"O Patsey, you alwers was so good!" Dil wiped her eyes. This unlooked-for haven was delightful beyond any words.

"'Twas norful quair I sh'd meet you, wasn't it? An' we jes' won't let any one in de court know it, 'n' they can't blow on us. The ould woman's up on de Island, but her time'll soon be out. Dan, he's gone to some 'stution. We'll keep shet o' her. She's a peeler, she is! Most up to the boss in a shindy, now, wasn't she? But when dey begins to go to de Island, de way gits aisy fer 'em, an' dey keep de road hot trottin' over it."

Dil sighed, and shuddered too. We suppose the conscious tie of nature begets love, but it had not in Dil's case. And she had a curious feeling that she should drop dead if her mother should clutch her.

"I don't want to see her, Patsey, never agen. Poor Bess is gone--"

"Jes' don't you mind. My eyes is peeled fer de old woman! An' where I'm goin' to take you's so far off. But we'll jes' go an' hev some grub. We'll take de car. I'm out 'n a lark, I am!"

Patsey laughed, a wholesome, inspiriting sound. Dil was very, very tired, and it was so good to sit down. She felt so grateful, so befriended, so at rest, as if her anxieties had suddenly ended.

It was indeed a long distance,--a part of the city Dil knew nothing about,--across town and down town, in the old part, given over to business and the commonest of living. A few blocks after they left the car they came to a restaurant, and Patsey ordered some clam-chowder. It tasted so good to the poor little girl, and was so warming, that her cheeks flushed a trifle.

Patsey amused her with their ups and downs, the scrapes Owny had been in, and some of his virtues as well. Patsey might have adorned some other walk in life, from the possibilities of fairness and justice in his character.

Dil began to feel as if she belonged to the old life again. Her hospital experience, with the large, clean rooms, the neatness, the flowers, the visitors, and her kindly nurse, seemed something altogether outside of her own life.

They trudged along, and stopped at the end of a row of old-fashioned brick houses, two stories, with dormer windows. A wide alley-way went up by the last one. There was a building in the rear that had once been a shop, but now housed four families. Up-stairs lived some Polish tailors; at the lower end, a youngish married couple.

It was quite dusk now, but a lamp was lighted in the room. Two fellows were skylarking, but they stopped suddenly at the unusual sight of a "gal."

"Why it ain't never Dil!"

Owny was an immense exclamation point in supreme amazement.

"Didn't I tell yous! I was a-layin' fer her. An' she's jes' come out o' the 'ospital."

"Dil, you look nawful white."

"We'll make her hev red cheeks in a little, jes' you wait. This feller's Tom Dillon."

Dilsey took a survey of her new home, and for the first moment her heart failed her. It looked so dreadfully dirty and untidy. The room was quite large, with an old lounge, a kitchen table, a trunk, and some chairs; a stove in the fireplace, and a cupboard with the door swinging open, but the dishes seemed to be mostly on the table.

"We sleep here," explained Patsey, ushering her into the adjoining apartment. There was an iron bedstead in the centre of the room, and four bunks in two stories ranged against the side. "Ye see, we ain't much at housekeepin', but youse c'n soon git things straight," and Patsey laughed to hide a certain shame and embarrassment. "We'll clean house to-morrer, an' hev things shinin'. An' here's a place--"

It was a little corner taken off the other room, and partly shut in by the closet. "Th' ould woman used to sleep here--say, Dil, yous wouldn't be afraid--tell ye, a feller offered me a lot o' paper--wall paper, an' we'll make it purty as a pink."

Dil had never seen "th' ould woman," and had no fear of her.

"It'll be nice when we get it fixed," she said cheerily.

Then Sandy Fossett came in, and was "introjuced." He, too, had heard the fame of the 'lickin' good stews,' but he was surprised to find such a very little body.

Dil lay on the lounge that night, but did not sleep much, it was all so strange. Any other body would have felt disheartened in the morning, but Patsey was "so good." He "hustled" the few things out of the little room, asked the woman in the other part about making paste, and ran off for his paper. Dil found a scrubbing-brush, and had the closet partly cleaned when he returned. Mrs. Brian came in and "gave them a hand." She was a short, stout, cheery body, with just enough Irish to take warmly to Dil.

If the poor child had small aptitude for book-learning, she had the wonderful art of housekeeping at her very finger ends. In a week the boys hardly knew the place. Dil's little room was really pretty, with its paper of grasses and field flowers on the lightest gray ground. She scalded and scrubbed her cot, and drove out any ghost that might have lingered about; she made a new "bureau" out of grocery boxes, not that she had any clothes at present, but she might have. She was so thankful for a home that work was a pleasure to her, though she did get very, very tired, and a pain would settle in the place where the ribs were broken.

The living room took on a delightful aspect. The chairs were scrubbed and painted, the table was cleaned up and covered with enamelled cloth. And such coffee as Dil made; such stews of meat and potatoes and onions, and a carrot or a bit of parsley; and oh, such soups and chowders! When she made griddlecakes the boys went out and stood on their heads--there was no other way to express their delight. Fin came back in a jiffy, and another lad, named Shorty by his peers. Indeed, there could have been ten if there had been room.

Owen was very much improved. He was shooting up into a tall boy, and had his mother's black eyes and fresh complexion. When the two boys talked about Bess, Dil could almost imagine her coming back. She sometimes tried to make believe that little Bess had gone to the hospital to get her poor hurted legs mended, and would surely return to them.

There was quite a pretty yard between the two houses. It really belonged to the "front" people. There was a grass-plot and some flowers, and an old honeysuckle climbing the porch. The air was much better than in Barker's Court, and altogether it was a more humanizing kind of living. And though the people up-stairs ran a sewing-machine in the evening, there were no rows. Mr. Brian did some kind of work on the docks, and went away early, coming back at half-past six or so. He was a nice, steady sort of fellow; and though he had protested vigorously against a "raft of boys" keeping house, after Dil came he was very friendly.