The boys waited until they were sure their mother was having her evening
treat. Mrs. MacBride's was a very fascinating place, a sort of woman's
club-house, with a sprinkling of men to make things merry. Decent, too,
as drinking-places go. No dancing girls, but now and then a rather broad
joke, and a song that would not appeal to a highly cultivated taste.
There was plenty of gossip, but the hours were not long.
Dil washed up the dishes, dumped the stove-grate, and took the ashes out
to the box. Then she swept up the room and set the table, and her day's
work was done.
Patsey Muldoon came in with his heartsome laugh.
"O Patsey, they're the loveliest things, all coming up so fresh an'
elegant, as if they grew in the water. Bess is wild about thim;" and
Dil's tone was brimful of joy.
They went in and sat on the cot.
"They do seem alive," declared Bess, with her thin, quivering note of
satisfaction. "I do be talkin' to thim all the time, as if they were
folks."
Patsey laughed down into the large, eager, faded eyes.
"Sure, it's fine as a queen in her garden ye are! We'll say thanky to my
lady for not kapin' them herself. An' I had a streak of luck this
avenin', an' I bought the weeny thing two of the purtiest apples I could
find. I was goin' to git a norange, but the cheek of 'em, wantin' five
cents for wan!"
"I like the apples best, Patsey," replied the plaintive little voice.
"You're so good!"
"I had one mesilf, an' it's first-rate. Casey's goin' ter lick me--don't
yer wish him luck?"
Patsey laughed again. He seemed much amused over the fact.
"No, I don't," said Dil stoutly. "Was it 'bout the flowers?" and Dil
began to peel the soft harvest apple, looking up with eager interest.
"The cop gev him a clip, an' he was mad all through." Patsey nodded
humorously.
"What would he have done with the roses?" Dil asked, with pity in her
voice.
"Taken 'em to his best gal!" This seemed an immense joke to the boy.
"An' I'm your best girl, Patsey," said Bess, laying her little hand on
his, so brown.
"That you jest are, an' don't yer forgit it," he replied heartily.
Dil fed her with slices of the apple. It was so refreshing to her
parched mouth and throat. Patsey had so many amusing incidents to
relate; but he always slipped away early, before the boys came home. He
wanted no one telling tales.
Then Dil gave Bess her evening bath, and rubbed the shrunken legs that
would never even hold up the wasted body. Ah, how softly Dil took them
in her hands, how tender and loving were her ministrations. All her soul
went out in this one passionate affection.
"Your poor flannils is all in rags," she said pityingly. "Whatever we
are to do unless some one gives mammy a lot of old stuff. O Bess! And
there are such lovely ones in the stores, soft as a pussy cat."
"Mine are cool for summer." Bess gave a pitiful little laugh. Buying
clothes for her was a sheer waste, in her mother's estimation.
Then Dil held the thin hands and fanned her while she crooned, in a sort
of monotone, bits of beautiful sentences she had gathered in her
infrequent inspection of windows where Christmas or Easter cards were
displayed. She could not carry the simplest tune, to her passionate
regret, but she might have improvised chanting sentences and measures
that would have delighted a composer. She had transformed Bess's
pillowed couch into a bed, and these hot nights she fanned her until she
drowsed away herself. She used to get so tired, poor hard-worked Dilsey.
But the pathetic minor key of her untrained and as yet unfound voice
Bess thought the sweetest music in the world. She was not fond of the
gay, blatant street songs; her nerves were too sensitive, her ear too
finely attuned to unconscious harmonies.
The tired voice faltered, the weary head drooped, the soft voice ceased.
Bess roused her.
"Dil, dear, you must go to bed. I am all nice and cooled off now, and
you are so tired. Kiss me once more."
Not once but many times. Then she dropped on her own little bed and was
asleep in a moment. Did God, with all his millions to care for, care
also for these heathens in a great enlightened city?
It was Bess who heard the boys scuffling in and just saving themselves
when their mother's heavy tread sounded in the room. It was the poor
child, racked by pain, whose nerves were rasped by the brawls and the
crying babies, the oaths and foul language, and sometimes a fight that
seemed in her very window.
Yet she lay there with her bowl of roses beside her, now and then
touching them caressingly with her slight fingers, and inhaling the
delicate fragrance. She was in a little realm of her own, unknowingly
the bit of the kingdom of heaven within one.
But Bessy Quinn did not even know that she had a soul. There was a great
hungry longing for some clean and quiet comfort, a mother she was not
always afraid of, and Dil, who was never to tend babies any more. And if
there could be flowers, and the "everlasting spring," and one could live
out in the green fields.
They talked it over sometimes--this wonderful place they would like to
find.
Morning always came too soon for Dilsey Quinn. Her mother wanted a cup
of coffee, and ordered what Dil was to cook for the boys. It was a
relief to see her go; but the babies began to come in at seven, and
sometimes they were cross and cried after their mothers.
But on Saturday there was a great change. Mrs. Quinn washed at home;
Dilsey scrubbed the floors, ironed, was maid of all work, for there was
not often any babies; Mrs. Quinn did not enjoy having them around.
This afternoon she was going to "Cunny Island" with a party of choice
spirits. She felt she needed an outing once a week, and five days'
steady washing and ironing was surely enough. Dil helped her mother off
with alacrity. This time she was unusually good-natured, and gave the
children a penny all round.
Then Dil arrayed herself and Bess in their best. Dil was quite well off
this summer; her mother often brought home clothes she could wear. But
poor Bess had not been so fortunate. The little white cap was daintily
done up, though Dil knew it would never stand another ironing. So with
the dress, and the faded blue ribbon tied about her baby waist. They
were scrupulously clean; one would have wondered how anything so neat
could have come out of Barker's Court.
It was a feat of ingenuity for Dil's short arms to get the carriage down
the narrow, winding stairs. Sometimes the boys would help, or Patsey
would be there. Then she took the pillows and the faded rug, and when
they were settled she carried down Bess. That was not a heavy burthen.
She arranged her in a wonderful manner, pulling out the soft golden
curls that were like spun silk. Bess would have been lovely in health
and prosperity. Her blue eyes had black pupils and dark outside rims.
Between was a light, translucent blue, changing like a sea wave blown
about. The brows and lashes were dark. But the face had a wan, worn
look, and the pleading baby mouth had lost its color, the features were
sharpened.
One and another gave them good-day with a pleasant smile.
"It would be the Lord's mercy if the poor thing could drop off quiet
like," they said to each other. It was a mystery to them how she managed
to live.
They went out of the slums into heaven almost; over to Madison Square.
Dil liked the broad out-look, the beautiful houses, the stores, the
perspective of diverging streets, the throngs of people, the fountain,
the flowers. There was an intangible influence for which her knowledge
was too limited; but her inmost being felt, if it could not understand.
Occasionally, like poor Joe, she was ordered to move on, but one
policeman never molested her. Something in the pathetic baby face
recalled one he had held in his arms, and who had gone out of them to
her little grave.
Dil found a shady place and a vacant seat. She drew the wagon up close,
resting her feet on the wheel. The last of the wild roses had been taken
along for an airing. Poor, shrunken little buds, lacking strength to
come out fully, akin to the fingers that held them so tenderly. Bess
laughed at Dil's shrewd, amusing comments, and they were very happy.
Two or three long, delicious hours in this fresh, inspiriting air, with
the blue sky over their heads, the patches of velvety grass, the waving
trees, the elusive tints caught by the spray of the fountain, and the
flowers, made a paradise for them. They drank in eagerly the divine
draught that was to last them a week, perhaps longer.
A young fellow came sauntering along,--a tall, supple, jaunty-looking
man, with a refined and kindly, rather than a handsome face. His hair
was cropped close, there was a line of sunny brown moustache on his
short upper lip, and his chin was broad and cleft. It gave him a
mirthful expression, as if he might smile easily; but there was a shadow
of firmness in the blue-gray eye, and now the lips were set resolutely.
He stopped and studied them. They were like a picture in their
unconventional grace. He was quite in the habit of picking up odd,
rustic ideas.
"Hillo!" coming nearer with a bright smile. "Where did you youngsters
find wild roses? They seem not to have thriven on city air."
"_Are_ they _wild_ roses?" asked Dil. "What makes thim so?"
He laughed, a soft, alluring sound. Something in the quaint voice
attracted him. It was too old, too intense, for a child.
"I don't know, except that they _are_ wild around country places, and do
not take kindly to civilization. Where I have been staying, there are
hundreds of them. You can't tell much about beauty by those withered-up
buds."
"O mister, we had thim when they were lovely. On Chuesday it was--Patsey
Muldoon brought thim to us. And they just seemed to make Bess all alive
again with joy."
The pretty suggestion of brogue, the frankness, so far removed from any
aspect of boldness, interested him curiously.
"And had Patsey Muldoon been in the country?" he asked with interest.
"Oh, no. He was up to Gran' Cent'l, an' a lady who come on the train had
thim. Patsey said she was beautiful and elegant, an' she gev thim to
him. An' Jim Casey tried to get 'em, an' they had a scrimmage; but
Patsey ain't no chump! An' he brought thim down to Bess," nodding to the
pale little wraith. "Patsey's so good to us! An', oh, they was so lovely
an' sweet, with leaves like beautiful pink satin, and eyes that looked
at you like humans,--prittier than most humans. An' it was like a garden
to us--a great bowlful. Wasn't it, Bess?"
The child smiled, and raised her eyes in exaltation. Preternaturally
bright they were, with the breathless look that betrays the ebbing shore
of life, yet full of eager desire to remain. For there would have been
no martyrdom equal to being separated from Dil.
"O mister!" she cried beseechingly, "couldn't you tell us about them--how
they live in their own homes? An' how they get that soft, satiny color?
Mammy brought us home a piece of ribbon once,--some one gev it to
her,--an' Dil made a bow for my cap. Last summer, wasn't it, Dil? An' the
roses were just like that when we freshened them up. They was so
lovely!"
He seated himself beside Dil. A curious impression came over him, and he
was touched to the heart by the fondness and tender care of the roses.
Was there some strange link--
"Was it Tuesday afternoon, did you say?" hesitating, with a sudden rush
at his heart. "And a tall, slim girl with light hair?"
Dil shook her head with vague uncertainty. "Patsey said she was a
stunner! An' she went in a kerrige. She wasn't no car folks."
He laughed softly at this idea of superiority. "Of course _you_ didn't
see her," he commented reflectively, with a pleasant nod. How absurd to
catch at such a straw. No, he couldn't fancy _her_ with a great bunch of
wild roses in her slim hand, when she had so haughtily taken off his
ring and dropped it at his feet.
"Oh, you wanted to know about wild roses when they were at home," coming
out of his dream. What a dainty conceit it was! And he could see the
pretty rose nook now; yes, it was a summer parlor. "Well, they grow
about country ways. I've found them in the woods, by the streams, by the
roadsides, sometimes in great clumps. And where I have been staying,--in
the village of Chester,--a long distance from here, they grew in
abundance. At the edge of a wood there was a rose thicket. The great,
tall ones that meet over your head, and the low-growing bushy ones. Why,
you could gather them by the hundreds! Have you ever been to the
country?" he asked suddenly.
"We've been to Cent'l Park," answered Dil proudly.
"Well, that's the country in its Sunday clothes, dressed up for a
company reception. The real country lives in every-day clothes, and gets
weedy and dusty, with roads full of ruts. But you can walk on the grass;
it grows all along the roadsides. Then there are flowers,--or weeds in
bloom; it amounts to the same thing,--and no one scolds if you pick them.
You can lie out under the trees, and the birds come and sing to you, and
the squirrels run about. The air is sweet as if it rained cologne every
night. Under-brush and wild blackberries reach out and shake hands with
you; butterflies go floating in the sunshine; crickets sit on the stones
and chirp; bees go droning by, laden with honey; and a great robin will
stop and wink at you."
The children's faces were not only a study, but a revelation. John
Travis thought he had never seen anything so wonderful. If a man could
put such life in every feature, such exquisite bewilderment!
"What _is_ a robin?" asked Bess, her face all alight with eagerness.
"A great saucy bird with black eyes and a red breast. And there is a
bobolink, who flies around announcing his own name, and a tiny bird that
says, 'Phebe, Phebe;' for in the country the birds can talk."
Both children sighed; their hearts were full to overflowing. What
heavenly content!
"This particular spot," and John Travis's eyes seemed to look way off
and soften mysteriously, "is at the edge of a wood. The road runs so,"
marking it out on his trousers with his finger, "way up over a sloping
hill, and this one goes down to a little stream. In this angle--"
Neither of them had the slightest idea of an angle, but it did not
disturb their delight.
"In this angle there are some alders and stuff, and a curious little
entrance to the rose thicket. Every kind seems in a riotous tangle. The
low ones that begin to bloom in June, palest pink, rose-pink, and their
dainty slim buds the most delicious color imaginable. There's a small
cleared space; that's the parlor, with a velvety green carpet. The
bushes meet overhead, and shower their soft leaves down over you. Every
day hundreds of them bloom. It looks like a fairy cave. And lying down
on the grass you can look up to one patch of blue sky. And I think the
roses must have souls that go up to heaven--they are so sweet."
He paused in his random talk, with his eyes fixed on Dil. The rapt
expression of her face transfigured her. Any one could imagine Bess
being beautiful under certain healthful conditions, but Dil gave no
promise to the casual glance. John Travis discerned at that moment the
gift and charm higher than mere beauty, born of the soul, and visible
only when the soul is deeply moved.
Her hat was pushed a little back. There was a fringe of red-brown hair
with a peculiar glint, softened by the summer heat into rings. A low,
broad forehead, a straight line of bronze brown, shading off in a
delicate curve and fineness at the temple. But her eyes were like the
gems in brown quartz, that have a prisoned gleam of sunshine in them,
visible only in certain lights. Ordinarily they were rather dull; at
times full of obstinate repression. Now they were illuminated with the
sunrise glow. A small Irish nose, that had an amusing fashion of
wrinkling up, and over which went a tiny procession of freckles. A wide
mouth, redeemed by a beautifully curved upper lip, and a rather square
chin that destroyed the oval.
"Hillo!" as if coming out of a dream. "See here, I'd like to sketch
you--would you mind?"
He had dreamed over a picture he was to paint of that enchanted spot, a
picture of happy youth and love and hope, "In Wild-Rose Time." But the
dream was dead, the inspiration ended. He could never paint _that_
picture, and yet so much of his best efforts had gone to the making of
it! What if he arose from the ruin, and put this child in it, with her
marvellous eyes, her ignorant, innocent trust, her apron full of wild
roses, emerging from the shadowy hollow, and one branch caught in her
hair, half crowning her.
For why should a man wreck his life on the shallows and quicksands of a
woman's love? Two days ago he had said he could not paint again in
years, if ever, that all his genius had been the soft glamour of a
woman's smile. And here was a fresh inspiration.
Dil stared, yet the happy light did not go out of her face as she tried
to grasp the mystery.
"Yes; would you mind my sketching you for a picture?"
There were not many people around. Saturday afternoons they went off on
excursions. A few drowsy old fellows of the better class, two women
resting and reading, waiting for some one perhaps, others sauntering.
"Oh, if you'd make a picture of Bess! She's so much prittier, an' her
hair's like gold. Oh, do!" and Dil's breath came with an entreating
gasp, while her face was beseeching love.
"Yes; I'll make a picture of Bess too, if you can stay long enough," he
answered good humoredly.
"We can stay till dark, 'f we like. Summer nights ain't never lonesome.
An' Sat'day's full of folks."
Travis laughed. "All right. Push your hat up higher--so. No, let your
hair stay tumbled."
"It isn't pritty hair. They used to call me red-top, an' names. 'Tain't
so red as it was."
She ran her fingers through it, and gave her head a shake.
"Capital." He had just drawn out his sketch-book, when the policeman
came down with a solemn tread and authoritative countenance. But Travis
nodded, and gave him an assuring smile that all was right.
"Let me see; I think I'll tell you about an old apple orchard I know.
You never saw one in bloom?"
"Oh, do apples have flowers?" cried Bess. "There's never any such in the
stores. What a wonderful thing country must be!"
"The blossom comes first, then the fruit." Then he began with the
fascinating preface: "When I was a little boy I had been ill a long
while with scarlet fever. It was the middle of May when I was taken to
the country."
What a wonderful romance he made of bloom and bird music, of chickens
and cows, of lambs, of the little colt that ran in the orchard, so very
shy at first, and then growing so tame that the little lad took him for
a playfellow. Very simple indeed, but he held his small audience
entranced. The delight in Bess's face seemed to bring fine and tender
expressions to that of Dil. Her nose wrinkled piquantly, her lips fell
into beguiling curves. Travis found himself speculating upon the
capacity of the face under the influence of cultivation, education, and
happiness. He really hated to leave off, there were so many inspiring
possibilities.
Now and then some one gave them a sidelong glance of wonder; but Travis
went on in a steady, business-like manner; and the guardian of the
square shielded them from undue curiosity.
"Bess isn't well," he said presently. "She looks like a little ghost."
"She was hurted a long while ago and she can't walk. Her little legs is
just like a baby's, an' they never grow any more. But she won't grow
either, and I don't so much mind so long as I can carry her."
"Will she never walk again?" he asked in surprise. "How old is she?"
"She's ten; but she's littler than the boys now, so she's the baby--the
sweetest baby of thim all."
Ah, what a wealth of love spoke in the tone, in the simple words.
"I think you may take off Bess's cap," he said, with an unconsciously
tender manner. Poor little girl! And yet it could not be for very long.
He noted the lines made by suffering, and his heart went out in
sympathy.
"Now, if there is anything you would like to ask me--anything that
puzzles you"--and he reflected that most things might seem mysteries to
their untrained brains.
They glanced at each other and drew long breaths, as if this was the
golden opportunity they had long waited for. Then an irresistibly shy,
sweet, beseeching expression crossed Bess's face, as her eyes wandered
from him to her sister.
"O Dil--you might ast him 'bout--you know"--hesitating with pitiful
eagerness in her large eyes--"'bout goin' to heaven, an' how far it is."
"Do you know where heaven is, mister?"
The question was asked with the good faith of utter ignorance; but there
was an intense and puzzled anxiety in every line of the child's
countenance.
"Heaven!" He was struck with a strange mental helplessness. "Heaven!" he
repeated.
"Don't anybody know for true?" A despair quenched the sunshine in the
brown eyes and made outer darkness.
"An' how they get there?" continued Bess breathlessly. "That's what we
wanter know, 'cause Dil wants to go an' take me. Is it very, very far?"
Travis glanced at Dil. Never in his life had he been more at loss. There
was a line between her brows, and the wrinkled nose added to the weight
of thoughtfulness. Never had he seen a few wrinkles express so much.
She felt as if he was questioning her.
"I went to the Mission School, you see," she began to explain. "The
teacher read about a woman who took her children an' a girl who lived
with her, an' started for heaven. Then Owny took my shoes, 'cause 'twas
wet an' slushy 'n' I couldn't go, an' so I didn't hear if they got
there. 'N' when I went again, that teacher had gone away. I didn't like
the new wan. When I ast her she said it was a gory somethin', an' you
didn't go that way to heaven now."
"An allegory, yes."
"Then, what's that?"
"A story of something that _may_ happen, like every-day events." Ah, how
could he meet the comprehension of these innocent children?
"Well, did she get there?" with eager haste.
The sparrows went on with their cheerful, rather aggressive chirp. The
fountain played, people passed to and fro, and wagons rumbled; but it
seemed to John Travis as if there were only themselves in the wide
world--and God. He did not understand God, but he knew then there was
some supreme power above man.
"Yes," with reverent gentleness, "yes, she found heaven."
"Then, what's to hinder us, Dil? 'Twouldn't be any use to ast
mother--she'd rather go to Cunny Island or Mis' MacBride's. If you only
would tell us the way--"
"Yes; if you _could_ tell us the way," said Dil wistfully, raising her
entreating eyes.
Could he direct any one on the road to heaven? And then he admitted to
himself that he had cast away the faint clew of years agone, and would
not know what step to take first.
"You see," explained Dil hurriedly, "I thought when we'd found just how
to go, I'd take Bess some Sunday mornin', an' we'd go up by Cent'l Park
and over by the river, 'cause they useter sing 'One more river to
cross.' Then we'd get on a ferry-boat. Mother wouldn't care much. She
don't care for Bess since she's hurted, and won't never be no good. But
I could take care of her; an' when we struck the right way, 'twould be
just goin' straight along. I could scrub an' 'tend babies an' sweep an'
earn some money. People was good to the woman in the story, an' mebbe
they'd be good to us when we were on the road an' no mistake. If we
could just get started."
Oh, the eager, appealing desire in her face, the faith and fervor in her
voice! A poor little pilgrim, not even knowing what the City of
Destruction meant, longing with all her soul to set out for that better
country, and take her poor little crippled sister. It moved him beyond
anything he had ever known, and blurred the sunshine with a tremulous
mistiness.
Dil was watching the varying expressions.
"O mister, ain't there any heaven? Will we have to go on living in
Barker's Court forever 'n' ever?"
The despair in Dil's voice was heartrending. John Travis thought he had
passed one hour of crucial anguish; but it was as nothing to this,
inasmuch as the pang of the soul must exceed the purely physical pain.
He drew a long, quivering breath.
"Oh, there ain't any!"
He was on the witness stand. To destroy their hope would be a crueler
murder than that of the innocents. No, he dared not deny God.