Part 9

"Yes, dear. I don't see how you get along so with them. And do you feel better?"

The kind eyes studied her with concern.

"I'm well. I never do get sick."

"Do you know where your mother is?"

"Not the street. No, ma'am. The people have a queer long name. An' she'll be late th' night."

Mrs. Murphy looked in the door.

"Ah, yer up, an' ye do look better. Hev ye had anything to ate? Do ye mind if I have Mrs. Minch come up-stairs just a bit?"

"Oh, no." Dil did not notice the strain in the eyes, the awesomeness of facing death.

"I cudden't be alone. She's roused, but she's almost gone; fightin' fer life, one may say, at the very end," she whispered as they went up the stairs.

The babies were amusing themselves. Dil uncovered the face of her dead, and looked long and earnestly, as if she knew there was a great mystery she ought to solve. Ah, how sweet she was! Dil's heart swelled with a sense of triumph. She had always been so proud of Bess's beauty.

But what was _dead?_ It happened any time, and to anybody, to babies mostly, and made you cold and still, useless. Then you were taken away and buried. It was altogether different from going to heaven. What strange power had taken Bess, and kept her from that blessed journey? Why did the Lord Jesus let any one do it? John Travis couldn't have been so mistaken, and Christiana, and the children.

She was so glad they had put on her best dress, bought with John Travis's money. Ah, if they only had started that day and risked all! Here was her blue sash and the blue bows for her sleeves. She hardly had the courage to touch the beloved form.

How strangely cold the little hands were. She kissed them, and then she no longer felt afraid. She raised the frail figure, and passed the ribbon round the waist. Almost it seemed as if Bess breathed.

She brought the brush and comb, and curled the hair in her own flowing fashion, picking out the pretty bang in rings, kissing the cold cheeks, the shell-like eyelids. Why, surely Bess was only asleep. She must, she would waken, to-morrow morning perhaps. A sudden buoyant hope electrified her. She had her again, and the horrible thought of separation vanished. Dil was too ignorant to formulate any theories, but every pulse stirred within her own body.

Two of the mothers came for babies, but she uttered no word of what had happened. Then she fed the others, and fixed the fire, and Dan peered in fearfully. She gave him a slice of bread, and he was glad to be off.

Up-stairs they had watched the breath go out of the poor body.

"Pore thing! God rist her sowl wheriver it is," and Mrs. Murphy crossed herself.

"Has she no friends?"

"Not a wan, I belayve. She used to talk of some nevys whin she first come, that's nigh two years ago. But she'd lost track of them. I'm sure I've taken good care of the pore ould craythur, an' I hope some wan will do the same to me at the last."

"You're a kindly woman, Mrs. Murphy, and God grant it. We don't know where nor when the end will come."

Mrs. Minch stopped as she went down-stairs.

"Poor old Mrs. Bolan has gone to the better land. She and Bess will have a Christmas with the angels. They will not want to come back here."

Dil had no courage to argue. But she knew to the very farthest fibre of her being, that nothing could so change Bess that she would desire to stay anywhere without her.

Mrs. Garrick had heard the tidings before she came in for her baby, and was profuse in her sympathies.

"But it's the Lord's mercy, for she were a poor sufferer, and was jist waitin'. How did it happen? Was it in the night, whilst ye were all asleep? An' to think yer poor mother whint away knowin' nothin'."

"I can't talk about it. I--I don't know."

"An' old Mis' Bolan. Well, I'll run up-stairs a bit, an' see Mrs. Murphy."

She was rewarded for her trouble here; the strange curiosity of some, as if the dead face could answer the mystery.

"She's a moighty quare girl, that Dilsey Quinn. Niver to be askin' one to look at the corpse; an' if Bess hadn't been so peaked, she would have been a pritty child. She had such iligant hair."

The neighbors began to make calls of condolence. Two deaths in a house was an event rather out of the common order of things.

Dil awed them by her quiet demeanor, and answered apathetically, busying herself with the supper.

"What hev ye done wid her?" asked one. "Shure, she's not bin tuk away?"

"No; she's in ther', in my room. An'--an' she's mine."

For to Dil there seemed something sacred about Bess, and she kept guard rigorously. It was not simply a dead body to gloat over. They could go up-stairs and look at Mrs. Bolan.

It was nine o'clock when her mother came home laden with budgets, and Dan following in a vaguely frightened manner. He had been hanging about Mrs. MacBride's, waiting for her. She had gone in and taken her "sup o' gin," and heard the news, also the complaints.

"Whiniver did it happen, Dil?" throwing down her budgets. "She's been no good to hersilf nor no wan else this long while. An' she cudden't iver git well, an' was a sight o' trouble. But I'm clear beat. Week after week I thought she'd be sure to go, but when you're lookin', the thing niver comes. An' it's took me so suddent like, that I had no breath left at all. Was it true--did ye find her dead, an' faint clear away?"

She looked rather admiringly at Dil.

"Yes--she were cold," said Dil briefly. "An' then I don't know what happened."

"Ye pore colleen! Ye'll be better widout her, an' ye'll be gittin well an' strong agin. It's bin a hard thing, an' yer divil of a father shud a had his own back broke. But he's fast enough, and I hope they'll kape him there. Any word of Owny?"

"No." Oh, what would Owny say--an' Patsey.

"Who kem an' streeked her? Let's see."

She took the lamp and went in. It seemed to Dil as if she would even now shake her fist at Bess, and the child stood with bated breath.

"She were a purty little thing, Dil," the mother said with a softened inflection. "Me sister Morna had yellow hair an' purplish eyes, and was that fair an' sweet, but timid like. I believe me mother had some such hair, but the rest of us had black. She looks raile purty, an' makes a better corpse than I iver thought. Why didn't ye lit thim see her, Dil? Ye's needn't a been shamed of her."

Dil was saved from answering by the advent of a throng of neighbors. The room seemed so warm, and there was such a flurry, she dropped on the lounge faint and breathless.

"Go to bed, Dan," said his mother.

Dil rose again and opened the door. The cold air, close and vile as it was, felt grateful.

"Go up-stairs a bit in Mrs. Murphy's;" and though the permission was a command, Dil went gratefully.

Mrs. Murphy sat sewing to make up for lost time. Her little girl was asleep in the cradle. She had improved since cooler weather had set in. The door of one room was shut. The old chintz-covered Boston rocker was empty.

"I couldn't stay to see them all lookin' at her," she exclaimed tremulously, as she almost tottered across the room.

"No, dear." Mrs. Murphy took her in her arms. "Ye look like a ghost. But Bess is main pritty, an' it's a custom. Will ye sit here?"

Dil shuddered as she looked at the empty chair where Mrs. Bolan used to sit.

"No; I'll take the stool. I just want to be a bit still like an' think. I couldn't talk 'bout _her_, you know."

"Yes, dear," with kindly sympathy.

Dil dropped on a box stool, leaning her folded arms on a chair. Mrs. Murphy took up her sewing again. She longed to comfort, but she was sore afraid the two lorn souls were wandering about purgatory. She had a little money of Mrs. Bolan's that she meant to spend in masses. But who would pay for a mass for Bessy Quinn's soul? And she had never been baptized. The ignorant, kindly woman was sore distressed.

Dil seemed to look through the floor and see the picture down-stairs. All her sense of possession rose in bitter revolt. Yet now she was helpless to establish her supreme right. Her mother had grudged Bess the frail, feeble spark of life; she alone had cared for her, loved her, protected her, and she was shut out, sent away. Now that Bess needed no care and lay there quiet, they could come and pity her.

Presently more tranquil thoughts came. Even her mother could not do anything to hurt Bess. She was safe at last.

There had been so much repression and self-control in Dil's short life, that it made her seem apathetic now. And yet, slowly as the poor pulses beat, there was a strange inward fire and stir, as if she must do something. A curious elusiveness shrouded the duty or work, and yet it kept hovering before her. Oh, what was it?

Did she fall asleep, and was it a vision, a vague remembrance of something she had heard? Bess was not dead, but in a strange, strange sleep. Once there had been a little girl in just this sleep, and One had come--yes, she would get up--about midnight these strange charms worked.

She would get up and go softly over to Bess. She would take the little hand in hers; she would kiss the pale, still lips, and say, "Bess, my darling, wake up. I can't live without you. You have had such a nice long rest. Open your eyes an' look at me. Bess, dear, you remember we are to go to heaven in the spring. _He_ will be waitin' for us, an' wonderin' why we don't come. He is goin' to fight the giants, to show us the way, an' row us over the river to the pallis."

Then the eyes would open blue as the summer sky, the lips would smile, the little hands reach out and grow warm. There would be a strange quiver all through the body, and Bess would sit up and be alive once more. Oh, the glad cry of joy! Oh, the wordless, exquisite rapture of that moment! And Bess, in some mysterious way, would be better, stronger, and the days would fly by until the blessed spring came.

Mrs. Murphy touched her, and roused her from this trance of delight. She heard her mother's voice and started.

"It's a nice sleep ye've had," said Mrs. Murphy's kindly voice. "An' it's full bedtime, an' past. They've all gone, an' yer mother wants ye."

Dil groped her way down-stairs. There was a vicious smell of beer and kerosene-smoke in the warm room.

"It's time ye were in bed," said her mother. "Ye kin sleep in there," indicating her own room with a nod; "fer I'll not sleep the night with me child lyin' dead in the house. Bridget Malone has kem to stay wid me. We'll jist sit up."

"O mother," cried Dil, aghast, "let me sleep in my own room! I'd rather be there with Bess."

"Is the colleen's head turned wid grafe? Sleepin' wid a corpse! Who iver heerd of sich a thing? Indade ye'll not, miss! Go to bed at wunst, an' not a word outen you."

Her first impulse was to defy the woman looming up so tall and authoritative. But the shrewd sense that comes early to the children of poverty restrained her. She would be worsted in the end, so she went reluctantly. Had she dreamed? No, it must be true. She _could_ waken Bess. Again the uplifting hope took possession of her. She seemed wafted away to a beautiful country with Bess. So absorbing was the vision that it filled her with a certainty beyond the faintest doubt. She did not even take off her dress, but lay there wide-eyed and rapturous.

After a while the chatter ceased and the snoring began. How still it was everywhere! But Dil was not afraid.

X--IN THE DESERT ALONE

Dilsey Quinn rose with a peculiar lightness of heart, and seemed walking on air. A curious tingle sped through her nerves, and her eyes had a strange light of their own. She pushed the door open and looked out cautiously. Her mother was on the lounge. Bridget sat by the stove, her chair tilted back against the door-jamb. The lamp had been turned down a little, the stove-lid lifted; and it made a strange, soft semicircle on the ceiling, such as Dil had seen around the heads in pictures when she had stolen a glance at the show windows.

The silence, for that impressed her, in spite of snoring in different keys, and the weird aspect, made the room instinct with supernatural life. Dil did not understand this, but she felt it, and was filled and possessed by that exaltation of mysterious faith. She walked softly but fearlessly across the room,--if she could open the door without Bridget hearing.

John Travis should have seen her at that moment, with the unearthly radiance on her face, the uplifted confident eyes.

Her small hand was on the knob. She opened the door--a moment more--

Alas! Bridget had an impression, and sprang up. Seeing the figure she uttered a wild shriek.

"A banshee! A banshee!" she cried in a spasm of terror.

Dil stood rooted to the spot. Mrs. Quinn sprang across the room.

"Hould yer murtherin' tongue!" she cried. "Why--it's Dil," seizing her by the shoulder. "Whativer are ye doin', walkin' in yer slape an' rousin' the house? An' yer' a fool, Bridget!"

Bridget Malone stared at the small grayish figure, unconvinced.

"Wake up, ye omadhoun!" and the mother shook Dil fiercely. "Ye can't do nothin' fer the child. Let her rist in peace; she's better off nor she's been this many a day."

"O Mrs. Quinn, don't be hard on the poor gurrul. She's bin dreamin' af the little wan, bein' so used to tindin' on her all hours af the night. But I thought sure it was Bess's ghost, bein' but half awake mesilf."

"Wid no legs to walk on!" was the sarcastic rejoinder.

"As af a ghost had need of legs! An' I won't be sittin' there by the dure--"

"Git back to yer bed, Dil, an' we won't have no more sich capers in the dead o' night, frightin' folks out of their sinsis."

She led Dil roughly back to her bed. Then for safe keeping she slipped the chair back just under the knob, and Dil was a prisoner in a black hole, a small improvement on that of Calcutta.

A whirlwind of passion swept over Dilsey Quinn--a pitiful, helpless passion. She could have screamed, she could have torn the bed-clothes to pieces, or stamped in that uncontrollable rage and disappointment. But she knew her mother would beat her, and she was too sore and helpless to be banged about.

Her mother would not let her bring Bess back to life if she knew. And she could not explain--there was nothing to be put in words. You just went and did it. Oh, it seemed as if something might have helped her, some great, strong power that made people rich and happy, and gave them so many lovely things. Bess was only such a little out of all the big world!

And now she would never, never come back. An awful, cold despair succeeded the passion. They could never go to heaven together. Bess was dead, just like Mrs. Bolan, like the people who died in the court. They would take her out and bury her. That was all!

An indescribable horror fell upon Dil. The horror of the solitude that comes of doubt and darkness, the ghost of that final solitude that seems watching at the gates of death. Bess had gone off, been swallowed up in it, and there was nothing, nothing!

The morning dawned at last. Dil, half-stifled with bad air, and racked with that fearful mental inquisition, collapsed. She seemed shrunken and old, as old as Mrs. Bolan. There was nothing more for her.

Bridget Malone was to stay. The two women had a cup of coffee together, then Mrs. Quinn went to see the 'Spensary doctor. When she came back they spread a sheet over the small table, and brought out the body of the dead child.

"Folks'll be comin' in to see it," she said with some pride. "An' she looks that swate no one need be ashamed of her! She'd been a purty girl but for the accidint, for that stopped her growin'. I've had a long siege wid her, the Lord knows! An' now I must run up to Studdemyer's an' tell 'em of the sorrow an' trouble, an' mebbe I'll get lave to do somethin' to-morrow. But I'll be back afore the men kim in."

Dil moved about silently, and went frequently into her own room. The intense fervor and belief of the night had vanished. The court children straggled in and stared, half-afraid. The women said she was better off and out of her trouble; and now and then one spoke of her being in heaven.

She was not in heaven, Dil knew. And how could she be better off in the cold, hateful ground than in her warm, loving arms?

One gets strangely accustomed to the dear dead face. Dil paid it brief visits when no one else was by. A little change had come over it,--the inevitable change; but to Dil it seemed as if Bess was growing sorry that she had died; that the little shrinking everywhere meant regret.

Mrs. Quinn came back with a gift from her sympathetic customer, who imagined she had found heroic motherly devotion in this poor woman who had four children to care for. There were numberless visitors who gossiped and were treated to beer--there was quite a dinner, with an immense steak to grace the feast.

Presently a man came in and took the measure of the body, and then went up-stairs. An hour later a wagon stopped before the court, and two men shouldered a coffin. The small one went into the Quinns'. It was of stained wood with a muslin lining, and the little body was laid in its narrow home. Then the attendant went up-stairs, and some of the women followed. There was a confusion of voices, then the two men came lumbering down the winding stairs with their load, slid it into the wagon, while a curious throng gathered round in spite of the chill blast. They came up again, one man with a screwdriver in his hand.

"Take a look at her, Dil. Poor dear, she's gone to her long rest."

Mrs. Quinn pushed her forward. The women fell back a little. The man put down the coffin lid,--it was all in one piece,--and began to screw it down.

Dil gave a wild shriek as it closed over the pretty golden head, and would have dropped to the floor, but some one caught her. The man completed his task, picked up the burthen, it was so light; and when Dil came out of her faint Bess, with two other dead bodies, was being jolted over the stones to a pauper's grave.

"Come now," began Mrs. Quinn, "it's full time ye wer sensible. She's dead, an' it's a blissid relase, an' she's got no more suf'frin' to go tru wid. It's bin a hard thrial, an' she not able to take a step this four year. Ye'd better go to bed an' rist, for ye look quare 'bout the eyes. Ye kin have my bed if ye like."

Dil shook her head, and tottered to her own little cot. "O Bess! Bess!" she cried in her heart, but her lips made no sound. How could people die who were not old nor sick? For _she_ wanted to die, but she did not know how.

There were people around until after supper. Then two or three of them went down to Mrs. MacBride's. Mrs. Murphy promised to stay with Dil.

"Shure," said some one, "there'll be a third goin' out prisintly. It's bad luck when more than wan corpse goes over the trashold to wunst. An' that Dil don't look like long livin'. She's jist worn hersilf out wid that other poor thing."

In the evening Patsey came rushing up-stairs with some Christmas for the two girls. He was shocked beyond measure. He hardly dared go in and see Dil, but she called him in a weak, sad tone.

"O Dil!" That was all he said for many minutes, as he sat on the side of the cot, holding her hand. The strange look in her face awed him.

"Have ye seen Owny?" he whispered.

"Not since the night mother beat him."

"Owny--he's safe. He'll do well. Don't bodder yees poor head 'bout him. He's keepin' out o' der way, 'cause he's 'fraid de old woman'll set de cop on him. He ain't comin' back no more, but don't you worry. But he'll feel nawful! O Dil, I never s'posed she'd go so soon, if she was 'pindlin' an' weakly. Seemed when she'd lived so long--"

Patsey broke down there.

"O Patsey, I didn't s'pose she could die, jes' common dyin' like other folks. They've taken her away an' put her with dead people--I don't know where. You'll tell _him_. An'--an' mebbe 'twould be better if he didn't come back. Mother'd beat him nawful, and 'pears 's if I couldn't see any more beatin's. Don't tell me an' then I won't know. But you'll see an' keep him safe."

"Poor Dil! I'm jist as sorry's I kin hold. I loved you an' Bess, for I didn't never hev any folks," said the boy brokenly.

"An', Patsey, d'ye mind the wild roses ye brought in the summer? They was so sweet. She 'most went crazy over 'em with pure joy. An' that night she talked of thim, an' smelled thim, an' it was a bad sign. If I'd knowed, I might a done somethin', or had the doctor. An' she talked so beautiful--"

Dil was choked with sobs.

"Ye did iverything. Ye were like an angel. She wouldn't a lived half so long, but for yous. O Dil, I wisht I could bring her back. There was a boy tellin' 'bout some one--he heerd it at the Mission School--that jist took a man outen his coffin, an' made him alive. I'll ask him how it was, an' tell yous."

"Ye's so good, Patsey," with a weary sigh.

"An' I'll be droppin' in an' bring ye news. An' ye mustn't git sick, fer whin spring opens we'll spring a trap that'll s'prise ye. O Dil dear!"

He bent over and kissed her, his face all wet with tears. He had often kissed little Bess, though he was not "soft on gals." It was a solemn caress. Dil seemed so far away, as if he might lose her too.

The next morning the Christmas chimes rang out, and there were houses full of happy children making merry over Christmas gifts. The mission schools were crowded, the Christmas-trees and the feasts thronged. There were hundreds of poor children made happy, even if they could not take in the grand truth that eighteen hundred years ago a Saviour had been born to redeem the world. "Why is it not redeemed?" cried the cavillers, looking on. "If the truth is powerful, why has it not prevailed?" But the children amid their pleasures asked no questions.

Churches were full of melody, homes were full of joy and gladness, the streets in a tumult of delight; but Bessy Quinn was in her small grave, and Dil bitterly alone.

John Travis thought of them both this morning. "I hope Miss Nevins has planned a nice Christmas for them," he said to himself, since his Christmas in a foreign land was not as hopeful as he could wish. Perhaps Miss Nevins had found a way to Mrs. Quinn's heart. Women could sometimes do better than men.

Dilsey Quinn could not die; and if she was miserable and forlorn she had not the morbid brain to consider suicide, though she knew people had killed themselves. But the utter dreariness of the poor child's soul was overwhelming.

Still, she rose on Monday morning, did her work, and cared for the babies as usual. It seemed so cruelly lonesome with only her and Dan. Mrs. Murphy was very good to her, and begged her to go to the priest; but she listened in a weary, indifferent manner. If Bess was in purgatory, then she would like to go too. But in her heart she knew Bess wasn't. She was just dead, and couldn't be anywhere but in the ground.

She had never known any joyous animal life. Hers had been all work and loving service. There was nothing to buoy her up now, nothing to which she could look forward. She was too old, too experienced, to be a child, to share a child's trivial joys.

Her mother questioned her closely about Owen. Hadn't he never sneaked in for some clothes? Didn't Patsey know where he was?

"I'll ast him if he comes agen," she said, as if even Owen was of no moment to her. "He hasn't been here sence--sence that night."

"Ye's not half-witted, Dil Quinn, an' you grow stupider every day! Sometime I'll knock lightnin' outen yer! An' if ye dast to keep it from me that he kem'd home, I'd break yer neck, yer sassy trollope. He'll be saunterin' in some night, full o' rags, an' no place to go, an' there be a pairty, now, I tell ye!"

But Owny knew when he was well off. Dan went to school regularly, and was much improved.

After the holidays the winter was hard. Work fell off, and babies were slow coming in. Mrs. Murphy's little one took a severe cold, and was carried off with the croup. She gave up her rooms and went out to service. So poor Dil lost another friend.