Dil was always so tired, she went to sleep at once from exhaustion. But
to-night every nerve seemed in a quiver. They had found some medicine
that soothed Bess and kept her from coughing, so she slept better than
in the summer. Dil tossed and tumbled. There had been given her a
magnificent endowment of physical strength, and the dull apathy of
poverty had kept her from a prodigal waste of nerve force. She was what
people often called stolid, but she had never been roused. How many poor
souls live and die with most of their energies dormant.
There had never been but one dream to Dil's life, and that was Bess.
Here her imagination had some play. When they took their outings through
the more respectable streets for the cleanliness and quiet, or paused
awhile in the green and flowery squares, she sometimes "made believe"
that Bess was the lovely child in the elegant carriage, with wraps of
eider down and lace, and she the nurse-maid in white apron and cap who
trundled her along jauntily. Or else it was Bess, blue-eyed and
golden-haired, sitting in a real "grown-up" carriage with her pretty
mamma in silks and satins. The little nurse-maid was at home, putting
everything in order, and waiting for the lovely princess to come back
and tell her all she had seen. That and heaven had been the extent of
her romancing.
But to-night a curious, separate life stirred within her. A
consciousness of the great difference between such people as John
Travis, even the lady in the hall who had so disdainfully gathered up
her skirts and scattered a faint fragrance about. Why was such a great
difference made? Why should she and Bess be Honor Quinn's children?
Would another mother be given them in heaven?
The mothers in the court seemed to love their little babies, yet
afterward they beat and banged them about. But the children in that
clean, beautiful world where there was no pain, the children in
heaven--ah! ah! She was not crying with human passion; it was the deep
anguish of the soul that cannot even find vent in tears, the throes of
an awful inward pain, that seldom, thank God, comes to the young, that
dense ignorance often keeps from the very poor.
"Took them in his arms." That was what John Travis had said. She was so
tired to-night--not the fatigue of hard work altogether, but a great
aching that had no name. If she could be taken in some one's arms!
Dilsey Quinn could not remember being held, though her mother had been
proud of her first-born, and fond too, in those days.
If Mrs. Quinn's life had been a little more prosperous, if she had lived
in a cottage with a patch of ground, a cow and some chickens, and the
wholesome surroundings of the little village where she had reigned a
sort of rural queen, her children might have known love and tenderness.
But the babies had come fast. Her man had taken to drink. They were
crowded in among the poor and ignorant, where brawls and oaths, drinking
and cruelty, were daily food. Ah, what wonder one lapses into barbarism!
For the last half-dozen years she had slaved, and sometimes gone hungry.
She could have strangled little Dan when he came, for adding to her
burthens. How much of the peril of the soul depends upon the
surroundings!
And now Dil longed for the strong arms to be about her. Do you wonder
she had so little idea of a heavenly Father? The teaching of the Mission
School had been measured by the hard, bare materialism of poverty, quite
as upas-like as the materialism of philosophy. It had a rather dainty
aspect when John Travis dallied with it among his college compeers; but
it seems shocking when these hundreds of little children cannot even
formulate the idea of a God. And though Dil stretched out her hands with
an imploring moan, it was for some present and personal comfort.
Owny came creeping in softly, and just saved his skin, for to-night his
mother returned earlier than usual. She was growing stout, and walked
solidly. She seemed to be puttering about. Then she pushed Dil's door
wide open, and there was barely room for her. The lamp stood on the
floor outside. Dil's "chest of drawers" was covered with a curtain of
various pieces, and she had ornamented the top with treasures found amid
the cast-off Christmas and Easter cards that had fallen to her when more
favored children had tired of them. A cigar-box was covered with some
bits of silk, and held a few paltry "treasures." Some fancy beads, a
tarnished bangle, a bit of ribbon, and so on, she found as she dumped
them in her apron and then thrust them back. Next she dragged the
articles out of the improvised "drawers," and shook them one by one.
Nothing contraband fell out. There was nothing to reward her search, and
she glared at the child in the faded, shabby wagon.
Dil hardly breathed. She remembered in that half-frozen, fascinated sort
of way that horrible events will rise up, ghost-like, in times of
terror--that one night last winter, a woman farther up the court had
murdered her two little children, and then killed herself. She was cold
with an awful apprehension of evil. Even though she kept her eyes
closed, she could seem to see with that awesome, inward sight.
Mrs. Quinn thrust her hand under Bess's pillow, under her bed, and the
poor child gave a broken, disturbed half-cry. Her efforts were
fruitless; but before Dil could give a sound to her horrible fear, she
had turned and was facing her. Then Dil sprang partly up, but the scream
curdled in her throat.
"Oh, ye naydent disturb yersilf this time o' night. I was jist lookin'
in upon me two gals that the man was so distrissed about. Dil Quinn, av'
ye iver go to the bad like some gals, I'll not lave a square inch of
skin on yer body, ner a whole bone inside. I'll have no men singin'
round whiles I'm not here. You shut the door on 'em, jist. You're a
humbly little runt, God knows, but thim kind is purty hard whin they
once set out. Ye mind, now! An' that un--"
She shook her fist, and backed out of the room, for she could hardly
have turned around. Bess moaned, but she was not awake. Dil used all her
strength to suppress a scream, while a cold perspiration oozed from
every pore.
When she dared, after the lamp was out, she rose and changed Bess to a
more comfortable position. Ah, if the book had been there! The child
shuddered with vague apprehension.
All the rest of the night she lay fearfully awake, and the next morning
she looked ghastly. Even her mother was moved.
"You don't look well, Dil," she said. "What's got yer?"
"My head aches." Had she dreamed that horrible vision of the night?
"Take some queuann. Ye've no toime to be sick. Ye spind too much toime
over the brat there. An' it'll be a mercy whin it's all over. I cuddent
stan' it mesilf much longer."
Patsey came that afternoon. Business was good, and he had a few dimes in
the bank. He and three other boys boarded with an old woman.
"But I've been thinkin', Dil, that if we had you instid o' the old
woman! She can't make an Irish stew worth shucks, an' yers wud jist make
a felly sing in his sleep. Whin I git some money ahead I'll jist have
youse come. Yer mammy'll not mind if ye take Bess."
Dil smiled. It was lovely of Patsey, but they would be going to heaven
then. She wondered why they didn't care to take Patsey along when they
were so fond of him. He wouldn't want to go--how she knew that she could
not tell, either.
He brought Bess a splendid orange and some candy and an illustrated
paper. The pictures were very entertaining.
"Bess is lookin' slim," he said. "She wants to go out in the fresh air."
"But it's so cold, an' it just goes over me an' all through, as if I
hadn't half enough clo'es on. No, I must stay in an' keep good an' warm,
an' get well by spring."
"That's the talk," and Patsey smiled.
When he was gone and they were all alone, they looked at each other
curiously.
"'Twould be nice to go an' live with Patsey if we wasn't goin' to
heaven," Bess said. "I do be so afeard of mammy sometimes."
"An' she rummiged last night, Bess, on the shelves an' in your bed; an'
if it hadn't been for yer wit she'd a found the book. I was so glad it
was in Misses Murphy's, an' I guess I'll keep it up there every night;
an' if she finds out an' asts, I'll say an' old trac' woman left it. She
won't mind an old woman. I sh'd hate to tell such a lie, but when we see
_him_ we'll tell him how it was. 'Cause we can't be murdered."
"We just won't tell any one 'bout goin' to heaven, either. Only Patsey,
just at the last."
Mrs. Quinn dropped her suspicions in a few days. The weather was growing
colder, and she needed a little more to keep up the internal fires. She
managed to pay her rent promptly, and so had a good reputation with the
agent. Through Dil's good management the boys fared very well as to
food, but Bess did not eat enough to keep a bird alive.
"But the medicine helps," she said. "It's such splendid medicine! so
much better'n that 'Spensary stuff."
The morphine in it soothed and quieted. Sometimes Bess slept all the
morning, and now she was seldom wakeful at night. Dil thought that an
improvement. If only she was not so frightfully thin!
The days sped on with little variation. At Thanksgiving they had two
turkeys, and several of Mrs. Quinn's cronies came in to dinner. They
feasted all the rest of the week.
And now another month was gone. Only four remained.
Alas! with all their care and caution, and the ready sympathy of Mrs.
Murphy, there came a swift, crushing martyrdom to their much-loved
Christiana, almost to Dil. She had hurried her supper dishes out of the
way, tidied up the room, and, as her mother had gone to Mrs. MacBride's,
Dan in bed with a cold, and Owen roaming the streets, Dil brought out
her book for an hour's reading. They had come to Giant Grim and his
blustering threats to the Pilgrims, who would have fared badly indeed
but for Mr. Greatheart. Dil had to stop to spell many of the words;
often it took the united efforts of both brains to decide the meaning of
a sentence.
The door opened, and Mrs. Quinn walked in. There had been a rather
heated talk at Mrs. MacBride's.
Dil paused suddenly, with a swift, startled breath.
"What's that ye got?" She came nearer and glared over Dil. "An' who gev
ye that?"
"A--a woman left it!" exclaimed Dil tremulously. "An old woman with
trac's--"
She pulled Dil up to her feet, and the book fell to the floor.
"An' it wasn't that--that singin' man?"
She shook her so that Dil could scarcely make a sound, and for once she
hardly minded.
"No man has been here," declared Bess.
"Shet yer head!" roared her mother. "Pick up that buke. What's it all
about?"
"'Bout a woman they told me of in the Mission School. She took her
children an'--was goin' to heaven--"
"Well, you've got business here, an' ye'll be tindin' to it, it's my
opinion. Ye ain't got time for no sich foolin'. Yer wurruk will kape ye
busy. Ye best not be settin' up fer a schollard. The radin' an' the
stuff'll turn your head upside down. Take that!"
Mrs. Quinn gave her a resounding blow with it. Before Dil could fairly
see, she had marched over to the stove.
"O mother! mother!" shrieked Dil as she caught her arm.
Mrs. Quinn gave her a push that sent her staggering across the room. She
raised the stove-lid, and crowded in the book.
"Ye'll not waste yer time over any sich nonsense. Git off to bed at
wanst, er I'll make ye see stars! Take that measlin' brat along wid ye."
Dil turned the wagon into the small chamber without another word. Bess
caught her hands, but neither dared speak.
"Where's Owny?" the mother demanded.
"I don't know," almost sobbed Dil.
"I'll not hev him runnin' the streets at night! A foine sister yes are,
to be sure, readin' novils, an' lettin' yer pore brother go to
destruction! If ye don't kape him in at night I'll know the reason why.
I'll lie here a bit, an' I'll give him a norful larrupin' when he
comes."
Mrs. Quinn threw herself down on the old lounge, and in five minutes was
snoring as usual. Dil prepared Bess for bed, and rubbed her with a soft
mitten she had made. The poor thing trembled so that it was a positive
shudder. Then, as the snoring grew louder, they dared to give vent to
their own overcharged hearts in tears.
"An' to think poor Christiana's burnt up, an' we can't tell how she got
out of the giant's hands! Dil, there's jes' such truly people, an'
mammy's one of 'em! Jes' think if she'd been like Christiana, an' took
us by the hand, an' was leadin' us to heaven, an' pushin' the kerrige
whiles to spell you!"
Then they cried again at the thought, so utterly delightful, and the
present reality so hard to bear.
"But we know she _did_ get to heaven," resumed Bess; "only we can't tell
how many things there were. Dil, it isn't reel easy to go to heaven,
after all. But when we have _him_, you see he'll do the fightin', an'
he'll pick out the way, an' we'll go right straight along. We won't stop
in them queer places an' get all tangled up; for we're in such a norful
hurry to get there, an' have my hurted legs made well."
Dil kissed her convulsively, and cried over the shining golden head.
Besides the book, there had been an irreparable loss to her, that Bess
had not yet realized. She had tucked her precious picture inside the
cover of the book. For now she felt it must be kept out of her mother's
sight, as she could not explain how she came by it, and escape with her
life. That, too, had perished in the flames, the next precious thing to
Bess.
The poor children unlocked arms presently, and Dil crept into bed sad
and forlorn. She heard Owen stealing in, but her mother never stirred.
Mrs. Quinn sat taking her cup of coffee the next morning when Owen made
his appearance. She tried to recall what had happened last night, and
whether she had thrashed him or not.
"A purty time of night it was for ye to come home," she began.
"Oh, come off!" said Owen. "What yer givin' us? I was home an' abed
afore ye kem in, an' ye was full of the shindy at Mis' MacBride's. Don't
ye remimber how ye wint on?"
Owen dodged the cuff. His mother was so nonplussed that for once she was
helplessly silent. But as she went out of the door she turned and said,--
"I'll see yer in to-night, young feller."
Dil's face was in such a maze of surprise that she looked at Owen
without being able to utter a word for some moments, while he laughed
heartily.
"How could ye, Owny?"
"How cud I?" Owen laughed again. "Well," with a swagger, "it's all in
knowin' how to dale with the female sect. Was she thunderin' mad last
night? Did she go fer me?"
"But about Mrs. MacBride? How could ye know what happened?"
"Why, ye see I was passin' jes' after the shindy. That Mrs. Whalen who
made the row whin she beat ye so, ye know, was harang'in'; an' then I
heard there'd been a great row, an' mammy'd come home mad as a hornet.
So, sez I, I'll wait until she's asleep before I trust myself. An' its
jes' havin' yer wits about ye. She was too drunk to remember what she
did. Did she break yer head agen? If she did I'll go an' complain of
her. Whin yer tired a-havin' her round, we'll git her sent up to th'
Island. An' now get me some grub."
"She only struck me wunst. But she burnt up something," and Dil began to
sob. "But, Owny, ye were not in, an' it was a--a--"
"Git off de stump wid yer high notions! I'd save me head wid any kind o'
lie. You gals don't know nothin' but to run right agin de stun wall. Ye
see, it's a bit o' circumwention, an' ye jes' use yer brains a bit to
save yer skull er yer back. But dat old gin-mill ain't goin' to boss me
much longer. Ye'll see, an' be moighty s'prised. An' here's a nickel,
Dil."
Owen ate his breakfast, and then taking out a cigarette, lighted it, and
swaggered off.
Dil woke Dan, and gave him his meal, as two babies were asleep and the
other sat on the floor munching a crust.
Bess slept late. Poor Dil went about her work in a strange maze. Owny
slipped out of a great many things, and told lies about them, and this
morning he had been very "cute." Dil sighed. She could not have done it.
She would have blundered and betrayed herself. And yet she had told a
lie about the book. It had not saved the book, but perhaps it had saved
her and Bess from something more terrible.
It was a sad day for both of them. The babies were cross. One had a bad
cold and a croupy sound in his voice. There was not even a glint of
sunshine at noon now; the high houses kept it out of the court. But the
day wore to an end. Mrs. Quinn did not go out at all in the evening.
Owen was very jaunty, and pretended to study.
Mrs. Quinn's reformation lasted two or three days. She had "taken her
oath she would niver step fut inside o' Mrs. MacBride's dure;" but Mrs.
MacBride had no notion of losing so good a customer. To be sure, Mrs.
Quinn was getting rather quarrelsome and overbearing, but she was good
company for the most part.
Winter had fairly set in with December. There was much talk of dull
times, and the babies fell off after Monday and Tuesday. Owen and his
mother seemed continually on the warpath. He was a big, stout boy of his
age; and, when he thought it was safe, played hookey, put in coal, ran
errands, sold papers, and did whatever his hands found to do with all
his might, even to snivyin' on the corner grocer. Dan was pretty shrewd
and sharp, though not so daring, but could swear and smoke cigar ends
with the worst of them.
There was an occasional religious visitor in the court besides the
sisters and the priests. But Dil never mentioned them to her mother now.
Besides, she did not want to leave Bess for even an hour or two at the
Mission School; she hated to spend a moment away from her. Since the
loss of the book and the picture they clung closer to each other. There
was only one anticipation now, waiting for spring and John Travis.
And as other things failed, their faith seemed to centre about this.
They lived on the hope of heaven with the fervor of saints who had known
and loved the Lord, and were counting all the appointed days, as if the
glories had already been revealed, and they were walking by faith.