The children sat there in a maze of bewilderment. They knew nothing of
fairy godmothers, or Santa Claus, or the dainty myths of childhood. Four
years Bess had been in prison, twice four years Dilsey Quinn had been a
bound slave. Not that Mrs. Quinn had been hard above all mothers. In the
next house there were two little girls who sat and sewed from daylight
to dark, and had no Saturday even, the age of Owen and Bess. Barker's
Court was an industrious place for children, at least. If they could
have played when the men were sleeping off orgies, or the women
gossiping, they would have had many a respite from toil.
This wonderful thing that had befallen Bess and Dil was so beyond any
event that had ever happened before, and their imaginations were so
limited, they could never have dreamed such a romance. John Travis had
disappeared in the throng. But there was the bag of fruit, and the sweet
knowledge that nothing could take away.
The roar of vehicles had grown less. Pedestrians were thinning out, for
supper-time was drawing nigh. The shadows were lengthening; the wind had
a certain grateful coolness. Still they sat as in a trance. The "cop"
had received a "tip" to keep a kindly watch over them, but he would have
done it without any reward.
"Dil!" The soft voice broke the hush, for it was as if they two were
alone in the crowd.
The little fingers closed over the firm brown ones. They looked at each
other for some moments with grave, wondering eyes. Then Dil rose
soberly, settled Bess anew, and pushed the wagon along. The paper bag
lay in plain sight, but no one molested it.
Dil began to come back to her narrow, practical world. Heaven, as John
Travis had put it, was something for Bess rather than herself. It was
too great a feast to sit down to all at once. And Dil was not much used
to feasting, even playing at it with bits of broken crockery and
make-believes, as so many children do. They left the enchanted country
behind them, and returned to more familiar sights and sounds. Still, the
delicious fragrance of the pears, the flavor of the peaches, the
sweetness of the candy, was so much beyond the treats over on the East
Side.
"Bess," she said, stopping at a show window on the avenue, "jes' look at
the caps an' things. Do you s'pose it's real money in the bag? For it's
yours, an' you do need a new cap. That old one'll hardly hold together.
If some one doesn't give mammy a pile of things pritty soon, you'll have
to go naked."
They both laughed. "O Dil! wasn't it splendid?" and Bess turned her head
around, as if she might still see their beneficent friend.
"Let me feel in my bank," she said.
Dil handed her the bag, full of fruity fragrance. She drew out a bill
with a fearful little gesture.
"They're good, all of 'em," she said reassuringly. "He wouldn't give us
bad money to get us into trouble. An' we never have any real money to
spend."
Still Dil eyed the bill doubtfully.
"An' flannils, an' O Dil, couldn't you buy _one_ new dress? I'd like to
have a spandy new one for onct."
"I s'pose mother wouldn't know when onct it was washed. An' I might
crumple down the bows on the cap. O Bess, you'd look so sweet! I wisht
you'd had a new cap to-day. He said 'twas your money. An' I was most
afear'd it was like thim things Patsey told about, when you raised the
han'kercher they wasn't there!"
"But they're here." She laughed with soft exultation. "Le's go in, Dil.
I never went shoppin' in my life! You could hide the things away from
mammy. There'd be no use givin' it to her. She's got enough for gin an'
to go to Cunny Island an' MacBride's. But jinky! wouldn't she crack our
skulls if she _did_ know it. O Dil, let's never, _never_ tell."
"She couldn't make me tell if she killed me."
"Le's go in. Can you carry me?"
She drew the wagon up by the corner of the show-window, and, taking Bess
in her arms, entered the store and seated her on a stool, standing so
she could brace the weak little back. Of the few dreams that had found
lodgment in Dil's prosaic brain, was this of indulging her motherly,
womanly instinct, shopping for Bess. She felt dazed to have it come
true. Her face flushed, her breath came irregularly, her heart beat with
a delicious, half-guilty pleasure.
There was no one else in the store. A pale, tired, but kindly-looking
woman came to wait on her. Dil tried on caps with laces and ribbons, and
Bess looked so angelic it broke her heart to take them off. But the
plain ones were less likely to betray them. Then they looked at dresses
and the coveted "flannils," and one nice soft petticoat, and oh, some
new stockings.
A shrewd little shopper was Dil. She counted up every purchase, and laid
aside the sum, really surprised at her bargains and the amount she had
left. The attendant was very sympathetic, and inquired what had befallen
Bess. Dil said she had been hurted by a bad fall, that her mother was
'most always out to work, and that they hadn't any father. She was
afraid her mother might be washing somewhere, and hear the story, if she
was too explicit.
"Le's buy a han'kercher for Patsey," suggested Bess, her pale face in a
glow.
They chose one with a pink border, thinking of the wild roses that had
brought such great good luck.
"And here is a blue belt ribbon for the little girl," said the lady.
"It's been in the window, and has two faded places, but you can tie them
in the bow."
Dil had been struggling between economy and a belt ribbon. She raised
her brown eyes so full of delight that words were hardly needed.
They packed up their goods and departed. Bess wore her cap, and held up
her head like a real lady. I doubt if there were two happier children in
the whole city.
Dusk was beginning to fall; but all the stores were in a glow, and now
people were coming out again after supper. They seldom stayed this late,
but to-night they were quite safe. And oh, how splendid it all was! the
happiness of a lifetime.
Bess kept turning partly round and talking out her delight. Pain and
weariness were forgotten. They laughed in sheer gladness. If John Travis
could have seen them, he would have said he had never in his life made
such an investment of five dollars.
"And we've only spent a little over two. Oh, what a lot of things you
can buy when you have some money! An', Dil, we'll put away a good bit,
so's when there ain't many babies mother won't bang you. Oh, she'd kill
us both dead an' take the money if she knew, wouldn't she?"
"She would that," subjoined Dil grimly.
Poor Dil had been banged pretty severely in her short day. Last spring
Mrs. Quinn had been complained of, as the "banging" had been so severe
that Dil had fainted, and had to keep her bed several days.
"Oh, I wisht we wasn't ever going home," sighed Bess. "If I had two good
legs we'd run away like that Mullin girl. An' now that I've got some
clo'es, I'm sorry we can't go right off. Nex' spring--how many months,
Dil?"
August was almost ended. Seven long, weary months at the best.
"There's Thanksgivin' an' Christmas, an'--an' St. Patrick's; that's in
March, I know. An' after that it gen'ally comes warm. Oh, it seems as if
I couldn't wait! But the man will come with Christiana, an' then we'll
find how to go without gettin' lost or makin' a mistake. Ain't it queer?
I should think everybody'd want to go."
The big eyes were full of wonder.
"Well, you see the people who have money an' things an' flowers an'
journeys an' live in grand houses don't need to be in a hurry. 'Tain't
of so much account to them. An' I guess people haven't got the straight
of it, someway."
Poor Dil! She wasn't very straight in her own mind. If God could give
people so much, why didn't he do it now? Or if they had to go to heaven
for it, why wasn't it made plain, and you could be let to start whenever
you desired?
Bess's confidence gave her a curiously apprehensive feeling. Suppose
there wasn't any heaven? The mystery was incomprehensible.
It was late when they reached home. Oh, the sickening heat and smells!
But at this hour on Saturday night the court was comparatively quiet.
The revelry began later.
Dan sat on the stoop crying. He had been in a fight, and the under dog
at that, and had one black eye, and his jacket torn to ribbons.
"An' mother'll wollop me for the jacket," he whimpered.
"Come an' have yer eye tied up with cold water. I did a bit of work this
afternoon, an' got some goodies, an' you shall have some. Oh, it's
pritty bad, Dan. Take my penny an' go buy an oyster,--that'll help get
the black out."
Dan was mightily tempted to spend the penny otherwise, but the thought
of the goodies restrained him. Dil took Bess and the "treasures"
up-stairs, and laid her gently on the old lounge. She had everything put
away when Dan returned, so she washed his face and bound up his eye.
He ceased sniffling, and cried, "O golly!" at the sight of two luscious
bananas. "Dil, ye wor in luck! I didn't even see a chance to snivy on an
apple. Store folks is mighty s'picious, watchin' out."
"O Dan! It's wicked to steal!"
"None o' yer gals' gaff!" said Dan with his mouth full. "Snivyin'
somethin' ter eat ain't no stealin'. An' I'm hungry as an elefunt."
Dil fixed him some supper, and he devoured it with the apparent capacity
of the elephant. Then, as he was very tired and used up, he tumbled on
his straw pallet in his mother's room, and in five minutes was asleep.
Now the young conspirators had to consider about a hiding-place for
their unaccustomed treasures.
"I'll tell you," and Bess laughed shrewdly, "we'll make a bank under the
cushion of the wagon." At the risk of smothering Dan, they had shut his
door. "Mother wouldn't dast to tumble me out, and no one _knows_. An'
we'll call it somethin' else. We'll never say m----"
"Yes." Dil put it in the paper bag, and then she made the night bed on
top of it. What a fortune it was! They glanced furtively at each other,
as if questioning their right to it.
"Mammy seldom _does_ look round," said Dil; "an' I'll clear the room up
on Fridays, I sometimes do. An' I'll tell her I made the dress, if she
spies it out. No, that would be a lie, an' tellin' lies roughs you up
inside, though sometimes it's better than bein' banged. Bess, dear, I
wish it was all true 'bout heaven."
"It is true, I feel it all over me."
Poor Dil sighed softly. She wasn't so sure.
Then she bathed Bess, and threw away the ragged garments. Bess was
tired, but bright and happy. They stowed away their purchases, and were
all settled when Owen came in. No one would have guessed the rare
holiday.
Barker's Court was beginning its weekly orgy--singing, swearing, dancing,
fighting, and fortunate if there was not an arrest or two. But Dil was
so tired that she slept through it all, forgetting about the money, and
not even haunted by dreams.
It was past midnight when Mrs. Quinn returned, to find everything still
within. She tumbled across her bed, and slept the sleep of a drunken
woman until Sunday noon.
Dil looked after the breakfast. Dan's eye was much improved. Out of an
old bundle she found a jacket a size or two beyond him, but the children
of the slums are not critical. The boys went out to roam the streets.
Patsey sidled in with a knowing wink towards Mrs. Quinn's chamber door.
It was nearly always safe on Sunday morning. He had a handful of
flowers.
They gave him his "hankercher." But somehow they couldn't tell him of
their adventure.
"But yous oughtn't 'er spend yer tin on me," he said with awkward
gratefulness. "Yous don't have much look fer scrapin' it up."
"But you're alwers so good to us," returned Bess, in her sweet,
plaintive tone.
"An' when yous want a nickel or two, let me know," he said with manly
tenderness.
Dil made her mother a cup of strong coffee, and brushed out her long
black hair, still handsome enough for a woman of fashion to envy. She
had made a big Irish stew for dinner, and when the house was cleared up,
she had leave to take Bess out. But they did not go to the square
to-day. They rambled up and down some of the nicer streets, where the
houses were closed and the people away, and speculated about the journey
to heaven in the spring. Alas! There were hundreds more who did not even
know there was a heaven, or for what the church bells rang, or why
Sunday came.
The week was melting hot. One of the babies had a very sick day, and
died that night. Several others in the court died, but the summer was
always hard on babies. Mrs. Quinn had a day off, and went up to Glen
Island. Children and babies were taken away for a day or a week; but Dil
was too busy, and it would have been no pleasure for Bess to go without
her. But some way they were overlooked.
The heat kept up well in September. People came home from the country,
and Mrs. Quinn's business was brisk enough. The boys were sent to
school; but Owen often played "hookey," and was getting quite
unmanageable, in fact, a neighborhood terror.
It seemed strange indeed that Bess could live under such circumstances.
But Dil's love and care were marvellous. She kept the child exquisitely
clean; she even indulged in a bottle of refreshing cologne, and some
luxuries, for which they blessed John Travis. Three times they had been
over to the square. They counted up the weeks; they believed with all
possible faith at first, then Dil weakened unconsciously. She used to
get so tired herself in these days. Her mother was very captious, and
the babies fell off. Some days Dil put in two nickels out of her
precious fund. Bess insisted upon it.
Dilsey Quinn ran out of an errand now and then. She was too busy ever to
loiter, and every moment away from Bess was torture. So, although they
lived in a crowd, they might as well have been on a desert island, as
far as companionship went.
And now they saw less of Patsey, to their sorrow. He had saved up a
little money, and borrowed some from a good friend, and bought a chair,
and set himself up in business. Not a mere common little "kit," mind
you. But it was way down town, and he had new lodgings to be "handy."
The last of September the weather, that had been lovely, changed. There
was a long, cold storm, and blustering winds that would have done credit
to March. The "flannils," that had been such a luxury, were too thin,
and Dil spent almost her last penny for some others. No one had ever
found out.
How often they looked wistfully at each other, and asked a wordless
question. But John Travis had not found them, had not come. Six weeks
since that blissful Saturday!
It had been a very hard day for Dil; and heaven seemed far off, as it
does to many of us in times of trouble. The morning was lowering and
chilly. Dil had overslept, and her mother's morning cup of coffee was
not to her taste. She had given her a box on the ear, I was about to
say; but her mother's hand covered the whole side of her head, and
filled it with a rush as of many waters, blinding her eyes so that all
looked dark about her. Then Mrs. Kenny's little Mamie cried for her
mother, and would not be pacified. Mrs. Kenny was a young and deserted
wife who worked in a coat-shop, and Mamie was a Saturday boarder as
well. Dil made the boys' breakfast with the baby in her arms, and
managed to get Bess's bread and milk, but had hardly a moment to devote
to her. Only one more baby came in.
Mrs. Quinn suddenly reappeared. Mrs. Watson had been called away by the
illness of her mother, and the washing was to go over to the next week.
"An' she'll want two days' work done in one, an' no more pay. An' they
don't mind about _your_ lost day! How's a woman to live with a great
raft of young ones to support, I'd like to know? An' it's hard times we
hear about a'ready. Goodness knows what I'll do. An' you lazy trollop!
you haven't your dishes washed yet! An' only two babies! Yer' not worth
yer salt!"
"Mamie has cried all the time--"
"Shet yer head! Not a word of impidence out of you, or I'll crack yer
skull! An' I know--yer've been foolin' over that wretched little brat in
there! I'm a fool fer not sindin' her up to th' Island hospital. Fine
work they'd have with her! She'd get nussed."
Dil uttered a cry of terror.
Her mother caught her by the shoulder, and banged her head sharp against
the wall, until no telescope was needed for her to see stars, even in
the day time. They swirled around like balls of fire, and Dil staggered
to a chair, looking so ghastly that her mother was startled.
Both babies set up a howl.
"Drat the brats!" she cried, shaking her fist at them. "If there can't
be more than two, you'll march off to a shop, Dilsey Quinn; an' if you
don't earn your bread, you won't get it, that's all! As fer you, ye
little weasened-face, broken-backed thing, cumberin' the ground--"
Bess seemed to shrink into nothing. Mrs. Quinn had taken her glass of
gin too early in the day. What would have happened next--but a rap on the
door averted it.
"O Mrs. Quinn!" cried Mrs. Malone, "I saw ye comin' back, an' have ye no
work the day?"
"My folks went off. If I'd known last night"--Mrs. Quinn picked up one
baby to hush it.
"Well, now, Ann come in a moment ago to hunt up a la'ndress. The big
folks where she lives have been lift in the lurch with ivry blissid
thing sprinkled down. An' can ye go an' iron fer 'em? It's a foine
place. Two days in a week, an' good pay. But the la'ndress has grown
that sassy they had a reg'lar shindy this mornin'. If ye'll jist go for
wanst, they'll all be moighty glad, for it's a fine ironer ye are, Mrs.
Quinn."
"I'll go back wid Ann." Mrs. Quinn dropped the baby, and resumed her
hood and shawl.
Bess shivered, and stretched out her arms to Dil as soon as the door
closed.
"Oh, what should we have done if she had stayed at home! She looked at
me so dreadful. And she would have shaked the very life out of me if she
had taken hold of me. O Dil, don't let her send me away!"
"If she should--if she did--I'd--I'd kill her!" and a fierce, desperate
look came in the brown eyes. "O Bess dear, don't cry so, don't cry."
"O Dil," sobbed the child, "then you'd be jugged like daddy, but you
wouldn't kill her--you couldn't, she's so much bigger an' stronger."
"But I'd fight awful! And I wouldn't stay. I'd run away, if I had to
drown myself."
"They cut people up in hospitals"--and there was an awesome sound in the
frightened voice.
"Don't, dear, don't;" and the pleading was that of agony. She held Bess
close--all her life was centred in this poor, maimed body. The babies
might cry, the world might cease to be, but nothing should part them.
"She'll be cross because there ain't more babies. And to-day she knows.
But the bank's most all out. O Dil, s'pose something happened to--to
him!"
They looked at each other in a pathetic fashion through their tears,
each bearing the other's sorrow, though they knew nothing of the divine
injunction. Dil had fought silent battles with herself for faith in John
Travis, but Bess had never wavered until now.
"It was so beautiful--that afternoon, an' the talkin'. I've thought so
often 'bout his Lord Jesus, who could make my poor little legs well,
an', Dil, somehow they keep shrinken' away. An' the lovely fruit an'
things! An' all that money! O Dil, we know now how rich folks feel, only
they're rich all their lives, and we was rich jest that little while.
But it was splendid! Rich folks oughter be happy every minnit, an'--an'
good. 'Twould be so easy when you lived in a big, beautiful house, an'
had flowers an' nice things to eat an' to wear, an' a kerrige to ride
in--"
She stopped exhausted, but her eyes glowed with the vision, and a
rapture illumined her wan face. Ah, Bess, one poor, forlorn creature,
born in the brain of the finest genius of his time, made the same
pathetic outcry in her pitiful plight, brought about by her own
ill-doing. And you both touched the boundary of a broad truth.
Dil gave a long, quivering breath, and it seemed as if her arms could
never unclose again, so tight and fast did they hold their treasure.
"I'm _most_ sure he'll come." Bess made a strenuous effort to keep the
doubt out of her tone. "He was ter bring the book, you know, and the
picture; an' he didn't look 's though he was one of the forgettin' kind.
There's somethin'--I can't quite make it out; but Dil, when things is all
still, most towards mornin', seems _if_ I could hear him talk. Only--it's
so long to spring. I'm most sorry we didn't start that day. Why, we
might have been to heaven before real cold weather. I'm so tired. Dil,
dear, lay me down on the lounge, won't you? It'll rest me a bit."
She put her down softly, and tucked the faded quilt about her. Mamie had
fallen asleep on the floor, and she laid her on her own little pallet.
The other baby had found a dropped-out knot in the floor, and was trying
to put his crust of bread down through it.
Dil washed her dishes and tidied up the house. The clothes from the
floor above swung on the pulley-line, and helped to shut out even the
chilly gray light. Then there was dinner to get for the boys, who went
to school quite steadily. Dan wasn't so bad, though; and Owen had been
threatened with the reform-school, "where you had to sweep floors and
sew on a machine like a gal!" That did not look so inviting as liberty.
What would happen to-night when her mother came home? Would she, could
she, send Bess away?
"'Tain't no use to pray," she thought despairingly within her much-tried
soul. "I uster pray about Bess's poor little legs, an' they never mended
any. An' mebbe he thought we'd be a bother, an' he'd rather go to heaven
alone."
What had become of John Travis?