Everybody began to talk about Christmas. Last year Dil had wheeled Bess
around to see the shop windows.
"If it would come reel nice and warm, an' there wasn't any babies! But
it's awful cold when you just have a winder open to sweep, an' I
couldn't stan' bein' out in it."
"No, you couldn't," and Dil sighed.
Bess was ethereal now. Her large, bright eyes, her golden hair, and the
pink that came in her cheeks every afternoon, gave a suggestion of the
picture. Then she was so curiously, so nervously alive, that, afraid as
Dil was of every change, she blindly hoped some of these things were
indications of recovery.
But Dil's poor head ached a good deal now, and she had restless nights
when it seemed as if she would burn up. As she listened to Bess's
beautiful thoughts and strange visions, she felt discouraged with her
own stupidness. She was so physically worn out that her brain was inert.
"I wisht I knew what Christmas was all about," sighed Bess. "An' Santa
Claus! Mammy says there ain't no such thing, an' he couldn't come down a
chimbly. But he gives a norful lot of things to some folks. An', Dil, we
used to hang up our stockings. What's it for, anyway?"
Dil gave a long sigh, and the wrinkles of perplexity deepened and
strayed over her short nose.
"Johnny Dike's goin' to see the cradle in the manger on Christmas Eve.
An' he's goin' to take a present, some money he's been savin' up. What
makes Christ get born agen? 'Tain't the Lord Jesus, though; for he's a
big man now, if he can carry children in his arms."
"We might ast Johnny or Misses Murphy," suggested Dil.
"They're Catholics. An' there's such curis things, with people tellin'
you diff'rent. I don't see how he can be born every Christmas. I b'lieve
I like Santa Claus best. You don't have to give him nothin' when you
ain't got even a penny. O Dil," pausing to rest a moment, "don't you
wisht _he_ was here! He'd know all about it. Rich folks have chances,
an' get to know everything. He's a long way off. When mammy was clever
t'other night, I ast her 'bout comin' crost the oshin, 'Lantic Oshin,
'tis; an' she said you sailed an' sailed two whole weeks. An' if he
don't start 'till April, there'll be two weeks more. I keep countin'
thim up."
Dil had been warming some broth.
"I wisht you'd take a little of this," she said. "The 'Spensary doctor
said you must have it. An' you ain't eat nothin' but the pear an' the
piece of norange."
"They was so good and juicy. My throat's hot, an' kinder dry an' sore.
Things don't taste good."
"I wisht I could get some more of that nice medicine. The 'Spensary
stuff ain't no good. I might ast Patsey to lend me some money; but how'd
I ever get any to pay him back?"
They looked at each other in wonderment. Then the child's feverish eyes
sparkled.
"O Dil, I know _he'd_ help us pay it back, for mammy was so cross to the
lady he sent that she won't come no more. An' 'twouldn't been no use to
give mammy the money. O Dil, we've had ten whole dollars. Wasn't it
lovely? An' I wisht the time would spin round an' round, faster'n ever.
I get so tired waitin'. Seems sometimes 's if I jes' couldn't draw
another breath."
"Oh, you must! you must!" cried Dil in affright. "For when people stop
breathin', they die."
"An' I wanter live, so's we can get started for heaven. I'll be better
when it's all nice an' warm out o' doors, an' sunshiny. I'd jes' like to
live in sunshine. You see, when the babies cry, it makes me feel all
roughened up like. An' I'm that feared o' mammy when she an' Owny hev
scrimmiges. There's a lump comes in my throat 'n' chokes me. But I'm
gonter live. Don't you know how las' winter I was so poor an' measlin'?
An' I crawled out in the spring. Owny was readin' in his lesson 'bout
some things doin' that way;" and Bess gave a pitiful ghost of a laugh.
"Won't you lay me down?" she asked presently. "My poor back's so tired."
"You must eat some broth first."
She did not want it, and the effort she made to please Dil was heroic.
She often asked to be laid down now. When the babies cried, it seemed as
if knives were being thrust into her head. She had so many queer
fancies, but she tried not to tell the bad ones to Dil. One moment she
seemed out of doors, with the cold rasping her skin everywhere, going
down her back like a stream of ice-water. Then she was scorched with
heat, her skin crisping up and cracking. When she was pillowed up, it
seemed as if she would fall to pieces; when she was laid down, the poor
bones ached.
And in that land of "pure delight" there was no pain, no sickness, no
chilling winds! And perhaps the babies didn't cry,--maybe there were no
babies. They mightn't be big enough to go, and they would be scared at
the giants.
Monday night began badly. A neighbor came in and made a complaint about
Owen, and threatened to have him arrested. He had broken a pane of glass
and kicked her dog. Mrs. Quinn was tired with a big wash; and this made
her furious, though she went at the woman in no gentle terms.
Owen had not been so much to blame. The miserable little cur had snapped
at him, and he had kicked it away. Then, as it ran yelping along, it was
too good a mark for a boy to miss. He shied a piece of oyster shell;
but, as bad luck would have it, he missed the dog, and the missile
bounded down to a basement window.
"I'll put that lad in the 'form school this blissid week! A pore woman
can't take care o' sich a lot o' brats, an' they fuller 'n an egg of
diviltry. I'll jist see--"
She began to hunt around for the end of a stout trunk-strap. Dil
trembled in every limb. If Owny would only stay away! But he didn't. He
came up the stairs whistling gayly; for he had earned a quarter, and he
was saving money to have a regular Christmas blow-out.
His mother fell on him. There was a tremendous battle. Owen kicked and
scratched and swore, and his mother's language was not over choice. He
managed to wriggle away, and reached the door, crying out, as he sprang
down the stairs, that he'd "niver darken the dure agin, if he lived a
hundred years;" and added to it an imprecation that made Dil turn faint
and cold.
Bess went into a hysteric.
"Drat the young un! Shet yer head, er you'll get some, ye bag o' bones!
Ye shud a ben in yer grave long ago. Take her in t'other room, Dil. I
can't bide the sight uv her!"
Dil uttered not a word, though the room spun round. She poured her
mother a cup of tea, and had a dish of nicely browned sausage, and some
baked potatoes. Mrs. Quinn ate, and threatened dire things about Owny.
Then she put on her shawl, throwing it over her head, which meant an
hour or two or three at Mrs. MacBride's, though she started to look for
Owen.
Dil brought the wagon back, and nursed and soothed Bess.
"I wouldn't ever come back, if I was Owny," she said in her spasmodic
tone, for the nervous fright was still strong upon her. "An' if I had
two good legs, we'd run away too. Dil, I think she'd jes' be glad to
have me die."