Part 8

"Shure, dear, I do be havin' so many worries that I disremember. What wid th' babby bein' sick, an' pore ol' Mis' Bolan not sittin' up a minnit, an' bein' queer like in her mind, an' me hardly airnin' enough to keep body an' sowl togither, I hardly mind 'bout the blissed day. But I do be thinkin' he isn't born reely, for ye see the blissid Virgin's his mother, an' she's in hivin wid th' saints. I do be a bad hand at tellin' things straight; but I niver had any larnin', fer I wint in a mill whin I was turned o' six years. An' whin ye can't rade, it's hard gettin' to know much. But I'll ast the praist. Ah, dear," with a furtive glance at Dil, "If ye'd only let me ast him to come--"

"Oh, no, no!" protested Dil. "Mother'd kill us; an' she don't b'leve in priests an' such. You know how she went on 'bout the man who came an' sang."

"Ah, yis, dear; it wouldn't do." And she shook her head, her eyes still fixed sorrowfully on Bess. "But I have me beads, an' I go to confission wanst a month, an' that'll be Friday now, an' I'll ast Father Maginn an' tell ye all. Oh, you poor childer! An' it'll be a sad Christmas fer many a wan, I'm thinkin'. There's poor Mis' Bolan--"

Mrs. Murphy paused. Was Dil so blind? She could not suggest Mrs. Bolan's death when the great shadow seemed so near them.

"Dear," she added, with sympathetic softness, "if ye should be wantin' any one suddint like, run up fer me."

"Yer very kind, Misses Murphy. I sometimes wisht there would be nights a whole week long, I'm so tired."

Owen did not come home that night nor the next. Dil devoutly hoped he would not come at all. She had a secret feeling that he would go to Patsey, and she comforted Bess with it. The house was so much quieter, and Dan was better alone.

Even in Barker's Court there were people who believed in Christmas, though some of them had ideas quite as vague as Dilsey Quinn's. But there was a stir in the very air, and penny trumpets began to abound. Still, there were many who had no time for Christmas anticipations, who were driven to do their six days' work in five, who stitched from morning to midnight, who did not even have time to gossip with a neighbor.

Poor Bess! she could not eat, and she was so restless. The pears and the oranges were gone, and, saddest of all, their bank was empty. If Patsey would only come!

Dil took Bess up and laid her down, gave her sips of water, caressed her tenderly, bathed her head with cologne, and even that was running low. The babies were left on the floor to cry, if Dil caught the faintest sound that was like desire. Bess often just held up her spindling arms and, drawing Dil down, kissed her with eager fervor.

She was so glad to have night come and see the last baby taken away. Mrs. Quinn was working at a grand house where they were to have a Christmas feast. She was to go again to-morrow; and, as it was late, she did not go out, but just tumbled into bed, with not an anxiety on her mind.

Dil sat and crooned to her little sister, who seemed a part of her very life. When Mrs. Quinn snored, it was safe to indulge in a little freedom. And though Dil was so worn and weary, she ministered as only love can. Everybody had been so used to Bess's weakness, and they thought that the end would be a great relief. But Dil never dreamed of the end they saw so plainly.

It was past midnight when Dil laid her down for the last time.

"O Dil, I feel so nice an' easy all of a suddent," she cried, with an eager joyousness that thrilled the heavy heart. "Nothin' pains me. I'm quite sure I'll be better to-morrow. An' when Patsey comes, we'll just ast him to help us get that nice medicine. He's so good to us, Dil; 'n' if he had lots of money he'd give us anything."

"He just would," said Dil. "An' if Owny's gone to him, he'll be all right."

The thought comforted her immeasurably.

"O Dil, dear," murmured the plaintive voice, "do you remember the big bowl of wild roses, an' how sweet they were, an' how pritty, with their soft pink leaves an' baby buds? I can almost smell them. It's so sweet all around. Dil, _are_ there any wild roses?"

"No, dear," said the gentle, tired voice.

"Well--then I'm dreamin'; an' they're so lovely. Just like _he_ told us, you know; 'bout that place where they growed. Oh, you dear, sweet, lovely Dil! I want to see the picture he put you in. You were pritty, I know; folks always are pritty in pictures. An' we'll ast him to let us be taken over agen, for when we get on the way to heaven we'll both be so full of joy. An' he'll help us clear to the pallis."

She stopped to breathe. It came so quick and short now, hardly going below her chest.

"Sit here an' hold my two hands. Dil, dear, I'm as much trouble as the babies; but I most know I'll be better to-morrow. And when I go fast asleep, you run right to bed, an' it'll be all right. I feel so light an' lovely, 'most 's if I was a wild rose--a soft, pink, satiny wild rose."

There was a little pleasant gurgle that did duty for a laugh. Dil kissed her and crooned sleepily. As she held the hands, the fever seemed to go out of them. The little golden head had such a restful poise. The breath came slowly, easily.

Dil kissed her with the long, yearning, passionate kisses that take one's whole soul, that leave some souls bankrupt indeed. All her own being was in a strange quiver. Oh, did it mean that Bess would be better to-morrow? She believed it in some strange, undefined way, and was at peace.

Perhaps she drowsed. She started, feeling stiff and chilly. Bess slept tranquilly. There was no pain to make her moan unconsciously. Why, it was almost a foretaste of that blessed land.

Dil wrapped herself in an old shawl and dropped down on her little cot. In all the glad wide world there was no one to come in and comfort her, and so God sent his angel--kindly sleep. The night breath that he breathed over her had the fragrance of wild roses.

The alarm clock roused her. It was dark now when her day began. Bess was quiet; and she drew the blanket more closely around her, for the morning felt bitterly cold. She stirred the fire, made her mother's coffee, and broiled a bit of steak. The windows were all ice, which seldom happened.

"It's enough to kill one to go out in the cold," declared Mrs. Quinn. "I'll not be home airly the night, for I promised cook to stay a bit an' gev her a hand wid th' fancy fixin's. Foine doin's they're to be havin'. An' if that thafe of the world Owny comes in, ye be soft spoken jist as if nothin' had happened. I'll settle wid him. I'll gev him some Christmas!"

With that she was off. Then Dan came for his breakfast.

"I do miss Owny so," he half whimpered. "Ther' ain't a boy in the street who could think up such roarin' fun."

"Whisht!" Dil said softly. "Bess is asleep, an' I won't have her worrited. She had a bad time yist'day with the babies. I do hope there won't be no such crowd to-day. Seven babies an' that was thirty-five cents. Mother might be given Bess an' me some Christmas."

Dan laughed at that.

Dil sighed. She drank a little coffee, but she could not eat. Two sleepy babies came. She washed the dishes, and spread up her mother's bed, putting the babies in there. It was dark, with no ventilation but the door, and kept warm easily.

Another and another baby, one crying for its mother. When Dil had hushed it she took a vague glance at Bess, whose fair head lay there so restful. The frost was melting off the window-panes, and she put out the lamp. With a baby in her arms she sat down and rocked.

A curious sense of something, not quite anxiety, came over her presently. She went to Bess and raised the blanket, peering at the small white face that seemed almost to light the obscurity of the room. The eyes were half-closed. The lips were parted with a smile, and the little white teeth just showed. One hand seemed to hold up the chin.

Dil stooped and kissed her. O God! what was it? What was it? For Bess was marble cold.

"O Bess, Bess!" she cried in mortal terror. "Wake up, my darlin'! Wake up an' get warm."

As she seized the hand, a startling change came over the child. The chin dropped. The pretty smile was gone. The eyes looked out with awesome fixedness. Her heart stood still as if she were frozen.

Then, moved by horror, she flew up-stairs, her breath almost strangling her.

"O Misses Murphy!" she shrieked, "there's somethin' strange come over Bess. She's never been like this--an' cold--"

"Yis, dear. I'll jist look at poor Mis' Bolan. She do be goin' very fast. All night she was that res'les' talkin' of the beautiful hymn the man sung, an' beggin' him to sing it agen; an' then hearin' angels an' talkin' 'bout green fields an' flowers, an' where there do be no night. They do be mostly so at the last, rememberin' beautiful things."

An awful terror clutched Dil at the heart, as she recalled Bess's talk of the wild roses. So cruel a fear smote her that her very tongue seemed paralyzed.

"You don't mean"--she cried wildly.

Mrs. Murphy's thoughts were running on Mrs. Bolan.

"She'll not last the day through. Pore dear, there's not much pleasure to the'r ould lives. But she did be so longin' to have that man come agen--"

She had taken Dil's hand, and they were going down-stairs. A baby had rolled off the lounge and bumped his head, and was screaming. But Dil hardly heard him. They went through to the tiny room.

"Ah, pore dear! Pore lamb! She's gone, an' she's outen all her mis'ry. She'll niver suffer any more. An' she's safe--"

Mrs. Murphy paused, not quite sure she could give that comfort. There was purgatory, and the poor thing had never been christened. She was extremely ignorant of her own church doctrine; but she felt the bitter injustice of condemning this poor soul to everlasting torment for her mother's neglect.

"No, Misses Murphy," cried Dil in the accent of utter disbelief, "she can't be--Oh, hurry an' do somethin' for her. She's jes fainted! Le's get her warm agen. Bring her out to the fire, an' I'll run for the 'Spensary doctor. Oh, no, she isn't--she wouldn't--'cause we was goin' to heaven together in the spring, an' she couldn't leave me without a word--don't you see?"

Oh, the wild, imploring eyes that pierced Mrs. Murphy through! the heart-breaking eyes that entreated vainly, refusing the one unalterable fiat!

"Ah, dear, they'sen don't hev any ch'ice. O Dil, Dilly Quinn!" and she clasped the child to her heart. "You mustn't take on so, dear! Shure, God knows best. Mebbe he's better'n folks an' the things they say. She won't suffer any more, pore dear. I've seen it for weeks, an' knowed what must come."

Dil gave a few long, dry, terrible sobs; then she lay helpless in Mrs. Murphy's arms. The kind soul placed her on the cot, sprinkled water on her face, chafed her hands; but Dil lay as one dead.

Then she ran down-stairs.

"O Mrs. Minch! have ye iver a bit of camphire? I used the last o' mine this mornin' for the pore old craythur. Bessy Quinn's gone at last, an' is cold, an' Dil's that overcome she's gone in an norful faint. Come up a bit, do. An' that haythen woman'll not care more'n if it was a kitten. She do be the hardest!"

Mrs. Minch laid down her work, looked up the "camphire," and plied her caller with inquiries.

All their efforts were unavailing, though Dil opened her eyes once, and at intervals a shudder ran through her frame.

"Yes, the poor dear's dead and cold, and it's God's mercy, Mrs. Murphy. How she's lived so long's a mystery; but Dil's been more watchful than most any mother. She was the sweetest and patientest, and loved her beyond all things. Mrs. Quinn hasn't any human feeling in her, and there's plenty like her, more's the shame. When you bring helpless little ones in the world, it's not their fault. And when they are bruised and banged and made helpless, as that poor little one, a mother's heart should have pitied her."

"Oh, dear, it's the rum that takes out all the nateral feelin'. An' one 'ud think she'd had enough of it in her husband, not to be goin' the same way. An' pore Dil carin' for them babies an' doin' a woman's work, a-stuntin' her an' makin' her old afore her time. An', if ye'll stay, I'll go fer th' 'Spensary doctor. Sorra a Christmas it'll be in the court. Mr. Sheehan is dyin', an' Mrs. Neefus's baby went yes'tday, an' the ould woman--but they do be dyin' all the time, some wan."

Mrs. Minch bent over Dil with pitying eyes. She had seen better times, and lived in a nicer neighborhood than Barker's Court. But poverty had driven her down step by step. She had her old deaf father to care for, and a son growing up; and the three rooms, such as they were, proved cheaper than anything she had seen, though she was on the lookout all the time. She had not made much intimacy with her neighbors, except that through her pity for Mrs. Bolan she had come to know good-hearted Mrs. Murphy quite well, and she had been interested in Dilsey and Bess. But most of the people in the court were afraid of Mrs. Quinn's tongue.

"The poor thing!" she sighed. "She is a little old woman already. She has never had leave to grow as children should. Oh, why are they brought into the world to suffer?"

She had once thought herself full of trust and love to God, but so many questions had come to the surface with her years of hard experience. Why this little Bess should have suffered four years--but both parents had given her a good constitution, that in some positions in life might have made her a useful factor instead of mere waste material.

Then she took up one of the crying babies. Another was clamoring loudly, "Bed, bed," and opening wide his mouth to show her how empty it was.

"Oh, how ever did she look after them all?" she cried in despair as Mrs. Murphy entered.

"She had a rare way with childers, that she had." Mrs. Murphy cut a chunk from the loaf of bread and gave the hungry baby. "An' the docthor will be in as soon as he kin, but there's a sight o' folks waitin'. I have heerd say a grane Christmas made fat graveyards, but this is cold enough to be black. An' how's the poor gurl?"

"She seems--asleep somehow, and you can notice her breathin'."

"I'll look after Mrs. Bolan, an' kem down agen," said Mrs. Murphy, disappearing.

IX--DILSEY

Mrs. Bolan was faintly breathing, as she had been since midnight, but so cold that she might easily be thought dead. Mrs. Murphy's baby was asleep.

The babies were crowing and talking in their fashion, unmindful of sorrow.

"The pore dear," said Mrs. Murphy tenderly, viewing Bess; "I'm thinkin' we better care for her afore Dil wakes up. An' she never havin' had a bit o' christenin', along o' Mrs. Quinn not belevin' nothin'. I've heard her talk a way that wud set yer blood a-chill."

"The Lord took the little ones in his arms and said, 'Forbid them not,' and I guess he won't mind the christenin'. And this child's been patient and cheerful beyond common. I think she's had a lot of Christian grace unbeknownst. She'd look up with her sweet smile that almost broke your heart, when Dil would be takin' her out. And how she stood everything--"

"Mrs. Quinn's been not so savage as she used. 'Tain't nat'rel for mothers to be so cruel. But 'twas last March, if I don't disremember--you were not here then, Mrs. Minch--she made such a nawful 'ruction that the neighbors called in de cop, and nothin' but her beggin' off an' sayin' the children wud starve, an' promisin' on her bended knees, which she never uses fer a bit o' prayer, saved her. An' she don't bang 'em about quite so bad since."

"There was an awful time the other night."

"Yes; that Owny's too smart, an' mebbe he would er banged her in a fair fight; but he cut stick, an' hasn't shown hide ner hair sence."

Mrs. Murphy leaned over Dil, and uttered a benison in her ignorant Christianity.

"'Pears like they jist oughten to go togither. She looks like a ghost, poor thing." Then she lifted Bess from the shabby wagon that had been her home so long, and brought her out on the lounge.

"Will ye look at them poor legs?" she said with a cry. "They do make yer heart bleed. She was a smart little thing, goin' to school, whin it happened. The father oughter been hung fer it; fer it was he that did it, murderin' by inches. An' he beat Mrs. Quinn to a jelly. Wudden't ye think now she'd had enough o' rum, not to be goin' the same road?"

Mrs. Minch sighed.

"It's stuck everywhere, right in a body's way, Mrs. Murphy. They're taxin' people for prisons and 'sylums and homes for orphans, when they haven't the sense to shut up the saloons and gin-mills. Look at that Mrs. MacBride, smilin' and making it pleasant for a hard-workin' woman, havin' a nice warm room for gossipin' and such, and bein' clever enough to make them run up a score, and get her money once a week. There's no dancin' nor carousin'; but it takes in the decentish sort of women, and turns 'em out as bad as the men. It's the poor families that's pinched and starved and set crazy. When I think of my boy growin' up in it--but where'll poor folks go? Saloons are all over. They fight for the chance to ruin folks."

"Thrue for ye, Mrs. Minch. An' sorra indade it is whin ye do be sad that they come into the world, an' rej'ice whin they go out of it young. They're spared a dale o' pain an' care. Yet it do seem wrong some way. Childers should be a blessin' an' comfort to yer ould age. Things is changed in the world. One gits that confused with thinkin'--"

They had prepared some water, but the poor little body was clean and sweet. It was heart-breaking to see it.

Mrs. Murphy went into the bedroom for some clothing.

"Will ye look at the sort o' bury Dil made out o' boxes an' covered. She's that handy an' full o' wit. An' them clo'es is like snow, and all mended nate. I don't see how she cud do it wid all the babies. An' I do be thinkin' it was Dil's love that kep' the little wan alive so long. It was like medicine; her warm arms an' cheery smile, her patience an' thinkin' what wud pleasure Bess. If there don't be a straight road to hiven fer thim both--an' purgatory ought to be saved fer the ither kind. Now, it don't look a bit sinsible that little lamb shud suffer whin she's suffered so much a'ready! Sometimes I most think the church has mistook whin they save the rumsellers an' the great wicked men wid their money, cause they kin pay fer prayers."

"She's in heaven, if there is any heaven." Sometimes Mrs. Minch doubted.

"An' oh, Mrs. Minch, if there wasn't any hiven to rest us at last, how cud we live through the cruel world?"

Such a pathetic cry as it was!

The doctor came. He looked at Bess, and asked a few questions, made a note or two in his book, cutting short Mrs. Murphy's explanations.

"Yes, yes; I've seen the child. She's been strung on fine steel wires, or they'd given way long ago. And the old woman? Strange how they go on living when they had a hundred times better be dead, and the people of some account go out like the snuff of a candle! Where's the girl?" glancing around.

"In there." Mrs. Murphy nodded towards the room.

Dil lay motionless, but for the faint breathing. The doctor listened with his ear down on her heart, felt her pulse, and seemed in a study.

"Let her sleep as long as she can. She has worn herself out. She used to wheel this one round," nodding. "Have in some fresh air; the room is stifling. How any one lives--"

Dil roused without opening her eyes.

"Was it you, Bess? Oh, _is_ it morning?"

"No, no; go to sleep again. The night's just begun. She's dead tired out," to the women. "Let the mother come round when she can, and get rid of these young ones before the girl wakes. If there's anything else wanted, send round. Are these people very poor?"

"Mrs. Quinn goes out washing. And the babies are taken in by the day. I don't know"--doubtfully.

"The mother will settle that. And the old lady--the city must bury her, I suppose?"

"'Deed an' it must. She's had nothin' but her pinshin, an' has no folk."

They found Bess's nice white frock pinned up in a cloth, beautifully ironed and laid away in anticipation of the journey--the very journey she had taken so unknowingly. They put it on, and smoothed down the poor little legs with tender hands. Then they laid her on her mother's bed until Dil should rouse.

Mrs. Minch brought up her sewing, while Mrs. Murphy went to her own room to look after Mrs. Bolan. Mrs. Carr, another neighbor, came in and helped with the babies, and wondered how Dilly Quinn had ever been able to do as much work as a hearty, grown woman, and she not bigger than a ten-year-old child!

It was three o'clock when Dil roused. Mrs. Minch sat quietly at her sewing. The wagon was pushed clear up to the window, empty.

"O Mrs. Minch, what has happened?" She sprang out, wild-eyed and quivering.

"My dear," Mrs. Minch took her in her arms, "Bess is better off. She is in heaven with the good God, who will be tenderer of her than any human friend. She will have no more pain. She will be well and strong, and a lovely angel. You would not wish her back--"

"Yes, I do, I do. We was goin' to heaven together in the spring; we had it all planned. And Bess wouldn't 'a' gone without me--oh, I know she wouldn't. Where is she? What have you done with her?"

"She is in there."

Dil flew to her mother's room. The ironing-board lay on the bed, and a strange, still shape imperfectly outlined under the sheet.

"She looks like an angel," said Mrs. Minch.

Dilsey Quinn stared, bereft of her senses for some moments. Slowly the incidents of the morning came over her--of last night, when Bess seemed so improved, so hopeful. She had seen dead people. Death was no stranger in Barker's Court. There were "wakes," and quiet, hurried burials. They died and were taken away, that was all. With a curious, obstinate unreason she knew Bess had died like all the rest; yet she had been so sure Bess could not die. But she had _not_ gone to heaven. The breath had gone out of her body, but a breath couldn't go to heaven. She had left her body here; the poor hurted legs the Lord Jesus would have mended. They could never be mended now, for they would be put in the ground.

She stood so still that Mrs. Minch raised the sheet. The pinched look was going out of the face, as it often does after death. The eyes were closed; the long bronze lashes were beautiful; the thin lips had been pressed rather tightly, as if in fear that they might betray their secret. Yet it had a strange, serene beauty.

Dil did not cry or utter a sound. A great solitude enveloped her, as if she were alone in a wide desert. She would never have any one to love or caress; a thick darkness settled all about her, as if now she and Bess were shut out of heaven forever. For what would the palace be, and the angels innumerable, if Bess was not there?

She turned and went to her own room, began to pick up the things and tidy it, spread the cot, shook the cushion of the poor dilapidated wagon, carefully laid over it the blanket she had taken so much pains to make.

"Mrs. Minch," she said, "will you please bring Bess in here. Mammy wouldn't like her there. An' I want her here--on my bed."

Mrs. Minch looked at her in surprise. The face was rigid and unresponsive, but there was an awesome, chilling sorrow in every line. She reverently obeyed Dil's behest.

"You are very good. You see, no one cared 'bout her but jes' me an' Patsey an'"--Ah, what _would_ John Travis say? "An' I want to keep her here."

"My dear, dear child--"

She put away the kindly hands, not ungently, but as if she could not quite bear them--as if she was too sore for any human touch.

"How did I come to sleep so long?" she asked, in a strained, weary tone.

"You were so tired, poor dear. The doctor was in, and he said it was the best thing for you. Mrs. Murphy has been in and out, and Mrs. Carr."

"You took care of the babies?" Her lips quivered, and a few big tears rolled down her cheeks. She could suffer, if the time to sorrow had not yet come.