"Hev a bunch o' roses, mem? Fresh wild roses with the dew on 'em. Jes'
picked. On'y ten cents."
They dropped in at the open window, and landed on Virginia Deering's
lap. Her first impulse was to throw them out again, as she half said to
herself, "I hate wild roses, I always shall!" But she glanced down into
such a forlorn, wistful face, that her heart was touched, a not unkindly
heart, though it had been bitter and obdurate with the unreason of
youth.
"Oh, please buy 'em, mem. Mammy's sick and can't do nothin', an' Ben's
got a fever. On'y ten cents."
The poor child, in her ragged dress, was clean enough. Her face had a
starved, eager look, and the earnest pleading in the eyes bespoke
necessity seldom counterfeited. Miss Deering opened her pretty
silver-clasped purse and handed out a quarter.
"All of it?" hesitatingly. "Oh, thanky, thanky! We'd sold the chickens,
and everything we could, and Ben said city folks was fond of
wild-flowers."
The whistle blew. There was a groan and quiver as the train began to
move, that drowned the child's gratitude. Miss Deering laid the roses on
the seat beside her with a curious touch, as if she shrank from them. An
hour or two ago she had started on her journey, leaving behind her a
sweet dream of youth and love and roses. In twenty-four hours the
brightness of her life had been swept away. The summer day wore a
dulness she had never seen before.
She was a handsome young girl, with a fine complexion, light, silken
soft hair, and very dark gray eyes. A modern, stylish girl, who had not
yet reached the period when one begins to assert her right supreme over
the world and all that therein is.
She peered at the newcomers at the next station. No one wanted the seat,
however. The sweet wild roses, in all their shell-like transparency, lay
unheeded, drinking up the dewy crystal drops that had been showered by
mortal hands, as well as dusky-fingered night. You would have said she
had a tender side, that could be keenly moved by beauty. Perhaps that
was why she glanced out of the window on the whirling sights. She might
have vaguely wondered if she had been so utterly right yesterday--was it
yesterday, or a month ago?
She took up her book, but it had lost its interest. The delicate
fragrance of the roses disturbed her--stirred a gust of feeling that she
had fancied securely laid. If _he_ had cared, he would have come last
night; he would have seen her this morning at the station. She had felt
so strong, so justified in her own sight, and such a simple thing as a
beggar with wild roses had disturbed it all.
There were not many people coming in town. She glanced about--one and
another had bunches of flowers, flaunting scarlet geraniums and modern
things. Very few people cared for wild roses, unless they were worked in
table-scarfs or painted on china. Ah, how the tender little buds crept
closer to each other! The pink, shell-like leaves of the mothers drooped
tiredly, the soft green huddled about with a kind of frightened
tenderness, as if they might be going out in a strange, unfriendly
world. She turned her eyes away with a betraying mistiness in them.
They came into the great station, but this was not the hour for crowds.
She picked up her satchel, her book--should she leave the roses to the
mercy of the sweeper? Something throbbed up in her throat, she gathered
them with a desperate grasp, threaded her way through the great
enclosure, and passed out into the street amid a babel of voices.
A group of ragged urchins stood eager for a chance to seize a valise or
parcel, to the relief or disgust of its owner.
"Who wants some flowers?" bethinking herself suddenly of the flower
charities.
They thronged round her. She threw the bunch with a light effort just
beyond the first noisy ring. A shock-headed lad with a broad, freckled
face and laughing blue eyes caught it. Another snatched at it. Thereupon
ensued a scrimmage. Blows and tearing of hair were the courtesies
exchanged, until a policeman loomed in sight. The first lad was at this
moment the victor, and he plunged down the side street with a fleetness
known only to the street arab. The majesty of the law distributed cuffs
liberally among the vanquished, and the rabble dispersed.
Miss Deering smiled with a touch of sad scorn, nodded to a cabman, and,
as she seated herself, watched the fleet but dirty feet vanishing in the
distance, recalling the face.
"It's curious they, too, should quarrel about wild roses," she said,
just under her breath, sighing softly.
Meanwhile Patsey Muldoon ran some ten or twelve squares, then paused for
a bit of breath, mopping his face with his ragged shirt sleeve.
"My, ain't they queer? not stunners exactly, but splendid, if they ain't
red. I d'know as Dil ever see sich a swad in her life. An' Bess's blue
eyes'll be like saucers. Oh, golly! how sweet!" burying his face in
them. "Sich as these ain't layin' loose round Barker's Court offen. I've
lost a job mebbe, an' Casey'll crow if he gits one; but that ere
left-hander wos science, that wos!" and the boy chuckled as he ran on
again.
From the Grand Central over to the East Side tenements was no mean
stretch, but Patsey would have gone twice as far to give Dilsey Quinn a
pleasure.
The street was built up compactly, and swarmed with children. There was
an open way between a row of houses, a flagged space called Barker's
Court; a deep strip of ground that had been a puzzle to its owner, until
he hit upon a plan for his model tenement row. The four-story houses
faced each other, with pulley-lines between, the clothes shutting out
air and light. They were planned for the greatest number, if the
greatest good had been omitted. One narrow hall and stairway did for two
houses, so not much space was lost. But the sights and sounds, the piles
of garbage, the vile air emanating from rooms where dirt reigned
supreme, and the steam of the wet clothes, were something terrible on a
hot summer day. The poor creatures crowded into it were used to it.
Patsey ran down to the middle of the Court, and then scudded up one
flight.
The room was clean, rather cheery looking, with one window, water and
drain in the corner, a room at the back, and a very small one at the
side over the hall, with a window half the width of the other. A stove
stood in the chimney recess, there was an old lounge, a rug of
crazy-work carpet in which Dilsey Quinn had sewed together the bits
given to her mother.
"Hello, Dil! Ain't them the daisies? Did ye ever have sich a lot before
in yer life? I don't mean they're reg'lar daisies--they're roses of some
kind, but blam'd if I ever seen any like 'em afore."
He tossed them into a baby-wagon, where sat the frailest and whitest
wraith one could ever imagine alive. How she lived puzzled everybody.
They never took into account Dil's passionate and inexhaustible love
that fought off death with eager, watchful care.
"O Patsey!" Such a joyful cry of surprise. "Was there a flower mission?"
"Flower mission be blowed! Did ye ever see any sich in a mission by the
time it gits round here?"
His stubby nose wrinkled disdainfully, and he gave his head an important
toss.
"But, oh, where _did_ you get thim?" There was the least bit of a brogue
in Dil's voice, and she always said "thim" in an odd, precise fashion.
"There must be a thousand; they're packed so tight they've almost hurted
each other. And, oh, how sweet!"
The breath of fragrance seemed to penetrate every pulse in Dil's sturdy
frame.
"I guess ther ain't mor'n a hundred; but it's a jolly lot, and they
looked so strange and queer like--weakly, like Bess here, an' I thought
of her. A young lady throwed 'em out to me. I s'pose she'd had so many
flowers they didn't count. My, wasn't she a high-stepper, purty as they
make 'em; but her hair couldn't shine along o' Bess's here. None o' yer
horse-car folks, nuther; she went off in a cab. An' Jim Casey went fer
'em. I knowed she meant 'em fer me; ye kin tell by a person's eye an'
the nod o' ther head. But Casey went fer 'em, an' I give him a punch
jes' back o' the ear--clear science, an' the boys made a row. While the
cop was a-mendin' of their bangs I shinned it off good, I tell ye! I've
run every step from Gran' Cent'al, an now I must shin off fer my papers.
An' you kids kin have a picnic wid de flowers."
Patsey stopped for a breath, redder than ever in the face.
"O Patsey, you're so good!" cried the little wraith. Dil smiled through
her tears, and squeezed his hand.
"Hi! good!" with a snort of merry disdain. "I jes' wisht I had the
boodle to git a kerrige an' take ye both out'n the country where things
grow reel in the ground, an' ye can snivy on 'em with no cop nosin'
round. If Bess could walk we'd take a tower. But, tra la," and his bare
feet went pattering down the stairs.
The two children looked at each other and the roses in wordless amaze.
Bess ventured to touch one with her thin little fingers. Then the wail
of a baby broke into their speechless delight.
There were five babies sprawling on the floor and the lounge, too near
of an age to suggest their belonging to one household. Since Dil had to
be kept at home with a poor sickly child who wouldn't die, Mrs. Quinn
had found a way of making her profitable besides keeping the house tidy
and looking after the meals. But it was not down in the lists as a day
nursery.
Dilsey Quinn was fourteen. You would not have supposed her that; but
hard work, bad air, and perhaps the lack of the natural joys of
childhood, had played havoc with her growth and the graces of youth. She
had rarely known what it was to run and shout and play as even the
street arabs did. There had always been a big baby for her to tend; for
the Quinns came into the world lusty and strong. Next to Dil had been a
boy, now safely landed in the reform-school after a series of adventures
such as are glorified in the literature of the slums. Then Bess, and two
more boys, who bade fair to emulate their brother.
Mrs. Quinn was a fine, large Scotch-Irish woman; Mr. Quinn a pure son of
Erin, much given to his cups, and able to pick a quarrel out of the eye
of a needle. One night, four years agone, he had indulged in a glorious
"shindy," smashed things in general, and little Bess in particular, beat
his wife nearly to a jelly, then rushed to the nearest gin-mill, and
half murdered the proprietor. He was now doing the State service behind
prison-bars.
Mrs. Quinn was an excellent laundress, and managed better without him.
But she, too, had a weakness for a "sup o' gin," which she always took
after her day's work and before she went to bed. But woe betide the
household when she began too early in the day.
The baby that set up such a howl was a fat, yellowish-white, small-eyed
creature, looking like a great, soggy, overboiled potato.
"There, Jamsie, there," began the little mother soothingly; "would he
like a turn in the baby-jumper? He's tired sitting on the floor, ain't
he, Jamsie?"
The cooing voice and the tender clasp comforted the poor baby. She
placed him in the jumper, and gave him an iron spoon, with which he made
desperate lunges at the baby nearest him. But Dil fenced him off with a
chair. She gave another one a crust to munch on. The two on the lounge
were asleep; the other was playing with the spokes of Bess's wheel.
Dil always had a "way" with babies. It might have been better for her if
she had proved less beguiling. Sometimes the number swelled to ten, but
it was oftener five or six. If it fell below five there were hard lines
for poor Dil, unless she had a reserve fund. She early learned the
beneficent use of strategy in the way of "knock-downs."
"O Dil!" and Bess gave a long, rapturous sigh, "did you ever see so
many? And they're real roses, but fine and tender and strange, somehow.
The buds are like babies,--no, they're prittier than babies," glancing
disdainfully at those around her; "but rose babies would be prittier and
sweeter, wouldn't they?" with a wan little smile. "O my darlings, I must
kiss you! Thank you a thousand, thousand times. Did the pritty lady
guess you were coming to me?" She buried her face down deep in their
sweetness, and every faint, feeble pulse thrilled with wordless delight.
"It was awful good of Patsey, wasn't it?" she continued, when she looked
up again.
"Patsey's always good," answered Dil sententiously. She was wondering
what they would do if he should get "nabbed" by any untoward accident;
for every little while some boy did get "nabbed."
Patsey Muldoon smoked cigar stumps, fought like a tiger, and swore as
only a street-gamin can. But he was not a thief. And to these two girls
he was as loyal a knight, and brave, as any around King Arthur's Table.
"Let me untie thim. They must be hurted with the string round so tight."
Dil cut the cord, and began to unwind it. A great shower fell over Bess,
who laughed softly, and uttered exclamations in every key of delight. If
Virginia Deering could have witnessed the rapture of these poor things
over her despised wild roses!
"O Dil, we never had so many flowers all to once!" she cried in
tremulous joy. "There was the daisies from the Mission; but though
they're pritty, you can't make 'em smell sweet. Do you s'pose it was
over in that country you heard tell of where the beautiful lady found
them? O Dil, if you could go to the Mission School again! I'd like to
know some more,--oh, what will we do with them?"
Dil looked round in dismay.
"I daren't use the pitcher, and there ain't nothin' big enough. They're
wilty, and they just want to be laid out straight in water. But if
they're in anything, and mammy wants it, she'll just chuck thim away.
Oh, dear!" and Dil glanced round in perplexity.
"Mammy promised to buy me another bowl, but she never does," was Bess's
plaint.
Some one had given them a white earthen wash-bowl long before. The boys
had broken it in a "tussle." They were thrashed, but Bess had not had
her loss made good.
"O Bess! would you mind if I ran down to Misses Finnigan's? She might
have something--cheap."
"No; run quick," was the eager response.
Dil gave a glance at the babies and was off. Around the corner in a
basement was a small store of odds and ends. Mrs. Finnigan was a short,
shrewd-looking woman with very red hair, a much turned-up nose, and one
squint eye.
Dil studied the shelves as they were passing the time of day.
"What will wan of thim little wash-bowls cost?" she asked hesitatingly.
"Bess had wan a lady sent to her, but Owny broke it. I've been looking
to get her another, but it's so hard to save up a bit o' money."
"Ah, yis; so it is." Mrs. Finnigan gave the shelf a severe scrutiny.
"Thim, is it now? Well, there's wan ye kin hev' fer sivin cints, dirt
chape at that. It's got a bit of scale knocked off, and the dust has
settled in, but it'll hould wather ivery blissid time," and she laughed
with a funny twinkle in her squint eye. "Or will ye be wantin' somethin'
foiner?"
"Oh, no, and I've only five cents. If you will trust me a bit"--eagerly.
"Sure I'd trust ye to Christmas an' the day afther, Dilsey Quinn. If
iverybody was as honest, I'd be puttin' money in the bank where I'm
bewailin' me bad debts now! Take it along wid ye."
"O Misses Finnigan, if mother should be awful about it, might I just say
ye gev it to me? Mother do be moighty queer sometimes, and other whiles
she don't notice."
"That I will, an' the blissid Virgin'll count it no sin. It's a long
head ye've got, Dil, an' its wisdom that gets through the world widout
havin' it broken. It'll be all right"--with another wink. "An' here's a
bit of bananny for the poor colleen."
Dil ran off home with the bowl wrapped up in her apron to prevent
incautious gossip. One of the babies was crying, but she hushed it with
the end of the banana. It was rather "off," and the middle had to be
amputated, but the baby enjoyed the unwonted luxury.
Then she washed her bowl and filled it with clean water.
"They'll freshen up, and the buds be comin' out every day. I'll set thim
on the window-sill, and all night they'll be sweet to you between
whiles, when you can't sleep. O Bess dear, do you mind the old lady who
came in with her trax, I think she called thim, and sung in her trembly
voice 'bout everlastin' spring an' never with'rin' flowers? I've always
wisht I could remember more of it. Never with'rin' flowers! Think how
lovely 'twould be!"
"An'--heaven! That's what it is, Dil. I wisht some one else could know. O
Dil, think of flowers always stayin' fresh an' sweet!"
Dil snipped off the faded leaves, and gave them a fresh water bath. One
branch had seven buds and five roses. The delight that stirred these
starved souls was quite indescribable. Never had they possessed such a
wealth of pleasure.
Now and then Dil had to leave off and comfort the fractious babies. They
were getting tired, and wanted their own mothers. But for the poor
little girl playing at motherhood there was no one to come in and infold
her in restful arms, and comfort her when the long, warm day ended.
At last she had the bowl filled with flowers, a great mound of delicious
pink and tenderest green. Bess and Dilsey knew little about artistic
methods; but the sight was a joy that the finest knowledge could not
have described--that full, wordless satisfaction.
A passionate pulsation throbbed in Bess's throat as if it would strangle
her.
"Now," said Dil, "I'm going to set thim in your room. I'll push you in
there, and you can make believe you are in a truly garden. For whin the
folks come in, they'll be beggin' thim, an' they'll give thim to the
babies to tear up. I couldn't abear to have thim hurted. An' babies
don't care!"
"They can go out every day and see things." Bess clasped her arms about
Dil's neck, and kissed her fervently.
The room was very, very small. Dil's cot stood along the wall; and there
were two or three grocery boxes piled up to make a sort of closet, with
a faded curtain across it. There was just room to push in the carriage
by the window. It was Bess's sofa by day and bed by night. The bowl was
placed on the window-sill. Now and then a breath of air found its way
in.
Mrs. Finn and Mrs. Brady came in for their babies. Dil stirred the fire
and put on the kettle, then washed the potatoes and set them to cook.
Now and then she ran in to smile at Bess.
"It's just like heaven!" cried the little wraith.
Alas, if this was a foretaste of heaven! This close, fetid air, and the
wet clothes, for they were put up at all hours. Pure air was one of the
luxuries Barker's Court could not indulge in, though we talk of it being
God's gift to rich and poor alike.
When the two rough, begrimed boys rushed in there was only Jamsie left;
and he was in an uneasy sleep, with his thumb in his mouth, so Dil held
up her hand to entreat silence. The boys lived so generally in the
street, and did so much shrewd foraging, that they looked well and
hearty, if they had the air of prospective toughs.
"I've put the last bit of bread in the milk for Bess's supper, and you
must wait until mother comes," said Dil, with her small air of
authority.
The boys grumbled. Little Dan was quick to follow Owen's lead, who said
roughly,--
"O yes, de kid must have everything! An' she'll never be good fer
nothin' wid dem legs. No use tryin' to fatten her up wid de luxuries o'
life!" and the boy's swagger would have done credit to his father.
"She's no good," put in Dan; "'n' I'm norful hungry."
The tears came to Dil's eyes, though she was quite used to hearing such
remarks on the little sister she loved better than her own life.
Everybody seemed to consider her such a useless burthen.
"Ain't them praties done? I could jes' eat 'em raw," whined Dan.
"Shet yer mug, er I'll gev ye a swipe," said Owen. "Ye don't look's if
ye wos goin' to faint this minnit."
"You jes' mind yer own biz, Owen Quinn;" and the little fellow swelled
up with an air.
Owen made a dive, but Dan was like an eel. They were on the verge of a
scrimmage when their mother entered. A tall, brawny woman, with an
abundance of black hair, blue eyes, and a color that, in her girlhood,
had made her the belle of her native hamlet, less than twenty years ago.
A hard, weather-beaten look had settled in the lines of her face, her
cheeks had an unwholesome redness, her skin had the sodden aspect that
hot steam brings about, and her eyes were a little bleared by her
frequent potations. Her voice was loud, and carried a covert threat in
it. She cuffed the boys, produced a loaf of bread, and some roast beef
bones Mrs. Collins had given her.
"It just needs a stir in the kettle, Dil, for it's gone a bit sour; but
it'll freshen up with salt an' some onion. How many babies?"
"Five," answered Dil.
Just then Mrs. Gillen came flying up the stairs. She was not much beyond
twenty, and still comely with youth and health and hope.
"O me darlint!" snatching up her baby with rapture, "did he want his own
mammy, sure?" laughing gleefully between the kisses. "Has he fretted
any, Dil?"
"He's been very good." Dil was too wise to tell bad tales.
"He always is, the darlint! An' I'm late. I was ironin' away for dear
life, whin Mrs. Welford comes down wid a lasht summer's gown, an' sez
she, 'Mrs. Gillen, you stop an' iron it, an' I'll give ye a quarther,
for ye've had a big day's work,' sez she. So what cud I do, faix, when
she shpoke so cliver loike, an' the money ready to hand?"
"They're not often so free wid their tin, though heaven knows they're
free enough wid their work," commented Mrs. Quinn, with a touch of
contempt.
"Mrs. Welford is a rale lady, ivery inch of her. Jamsie grumbles that I
go to her, but a bit o' tin comes in moighty handy. An' many's the
cast-offs I do be getten, an' it all helps. Here's five cints, and
here's a nickel for yourself, Dil. Whatever in the world should we be
doin' widout ye?"
"Thank you, ma'am," and Dil courtesied.
Mrs. Gillen bundled up her baby in her apron and wished them good-night,
skipping home with a light heart to get her husband's supper, and hear
him scold a little because she worked so late.
Mrs. Quinn held out her hand to her daughter.
"Gev me that nickel," she said.
The ready obedience was inspired more by the fear of a blow than love.
The potatoes were done, and they sat down to supper. Certainly the boys
_were_ hungry.
"I'm goin' to step down to Mrs. MacBride's an' sit on the stoop for a
bit of fresh air," she announced. "I've worked that hard to-day there's
no life left in me. Don't ye dare to stir out, ye spalpeens, or I'll
break ivery blessed bone in your body," and Mrs. Gillen shook her fist
by way of a parting injunction.