Mrs. Murphy came in to borrow a "bit o' tay," and to learn what the
rumpus was about. Dan told the story, putting Owny in the best light,
and declaring valiantly that "Owny wasn't no chump."
"Misses Murphy," said Dil, as soon as she could get a chance, "what is
it 'bout Christmas? an' what makes Christ be born ivery year?"
"Shure, dear, I do be havin' so many worries that I disremember. What
wid th' babby bein' sick, an' pore ol' Mis' Bolan not sittin' up a
minnit, an' bein' queer like in her mind, an' me hardly airnin' enough
to keep body an' sowl togither, I hardly mind 'bout the blissed day. But
I do be thinkin' he isn't born reely, for ye see the blissid Virgin's
his mother, an' she's in hivin wid th' saints. I do be a bad hand at
tellin' things straight; but I niver had any larnin', fer I wint in a
mill whin I was turned o' six years. An' whin ye can't rade, it's hard
gettin' to know much. But I'll ast the praist. Ah, dear," with a furtive
glance at Dil, "If ye'd only let me ast him to come--"
"Oh, no, no!" protested Dil. "Mother'd kill us; an' she don't b'leve in
priests an' such. You know how she went on 'bout the man who came an'
sang."
"Ah, yis, dear; it wouldn't do." And she shook her head, her eyes still
fixed sorrowfully on Bess. "But I have me beads, an' I go to confission
wanst a month, an' that'll be Friday now, an' I'll ast Father Maginn an'
tell ye all. Oh, you poor childer! An' it'll be a sad Christmas fer many
a wan, I'm thinkin'. There's poor Mis' Bolan--"
Mrs. Murphy paused. Was Dil so blind? She could not suggest Mrs. Bolan's
death when the great shadow seemed so near them.
"Dear," she added, with sympathetic softness, "if ye should be wantin'
any one suddint like, run up fer me."
"Yer very kind, Misses Murphy. I sometimes wisht there would be nights a
whole week long, I'm so tired."
Owen did not come home that night nor the next. Dil devoutly hoped he
would not come at all. She had a secret feeling that he would go to
Patsey, and she comforted Bess with it. The house was so much quieter,
and Dan was better alone.
Even in Barker's Court there were people who believed in Christmas,
though some of them had ideas quite as vague as Dilsey Quinn's. But
there was a stir in the very air, and penny trumpets began to abound.
Still, there were many who had no time for Christmas anticipations, who
were driven to do their six days' work in five, who stitched from
morning to midnight, who did not even have time to gossip with a
neighbor.
Poor Bess! she could not eat, and she was so restless. The pears and the
oranges were gone, and, saddest of all, their bank was empty. If Patsey
would only come!
Dil took Bess up and laid her down, gave her sips of water, caressed her
tenderly, bathed her head with cologne, and even that was running low.
The babies were left on the floor to cry, if Dil caught the faintest
sound that was like desire. Bess often just held up her spindling arms
and, drawing Dil down, kissed her with eager fervor.
She was so glad to have night come and see the last baby taken away.
Mrs. Quinn was working at a grand house where they were to have a
Christmas feast. She was to go again to-morrow; and, as it was late, she
did not go out, but just tumbled into bed, with not an anxiety on her
mind.
Dil sat and crooned to her little sister, who seemed a part of her very
life. When Mrs. Quinn snored, it was safe to indulge in a little
freedom. And though Dil was so worn and weary, she ministered as only
love can. Everybody had been so used to Bess's weakness, and they
thought that the end would be a great relief. But Dil never dreamed of
the end they saw so plainly.
It was past midnight when Dil laid her down for the last time.
"O Dil, I feel so nice an' easy all of a suddent," she cried, with an
eager joyousness that thrilled the heavy heart. "Nothin' pains me. I'm
quite sure I'll be better to-morrow. An' when Patsey comes, we'll just
ast him to help us get that nice medicine. He's so good to us, Dil; 'n'
if he had lots of money he'd give us anything."
"He just would," said Dil. "An' if Owny's gone to him, he'll be all
right."
The thought comforted her immeasurably.
"O Dil, dear," murmured the plaintive voice, "do you remember the big
bowl of wild roses, an' how sweet they were, an' how pritty, with their
soft pink leaves an' baby buds? I can almost smell them. It's so sweet
all around. Dil, _are_ there any wild roses?"
"No, dear," said the gentle, tired voice.
"Well--then I'm dreamin'; an' they're so lovely. Just like _he_ told us,
you know; 'bout that place where they growed. Oh, you dear, sweet,
lovely Dil! I want to see the picture he put you in. You were pritty, I
know; folks always are pritty in pictures. An' we'll ast him to let us
be taken over agen, for when we get on the way to heaven we'll both be
so full of joy. An' he'll help us clear to the pallis."
She stopped to breathe. It came so quick and short now, hardly going
below her chest.
"Sit here an' hold my two hands. Dil, dear, I'm as much trouble as the
babies; but I most know I'll be better to-morrow. And when I go fast
asleep, you run right to bed, an' it'll be all right. I feel so light
an' lovely, 'most 's if I was a wild rose--a soft, pink, satiny wild
rose."
There was a little pleasant gurgle that did duty for a laugh. Dil kissed
her and crooned sleepily. As she held the hands, the fever seemed to go
out of them. The little golden head had such a restful poise. The breath
came slowly, easily.
Dil kissed her with the long, yearning, passionate kisses that take
one's whole soul, that leave some souls bankrupt indeed. All her own
being was in a strange quiver. Oh, did it mean that Bess would be better
to-morrow? She believed it in some strange, undefined way, and was at
peace.
Perhaps she drowsed. She started, feeling stiff and chilly. Bess slept
tranquilly. There was no pain to make her moan unconsciously. Why, it
was almost a foretaste of that blessed land.
Dil wrapped herself in an old shawl and dropped down on her little cot.
In all the glad wide world there was no one to come in and comfort her,
and so God sent his angel--kindly sleep. The night breath that he
breathed over her had the fragrance of wild roses.
The alarm clock roused her. It was dark now when her day began. Bess was
quiet; and she drew the blanket more closely around her, for the morning
felt bitterly cold. She stirred the fire, made her mother's coffee, and
broiled a bit of steak. The windows were all ice, which seldom happened.
"It's enough to kill one to go out in the cold," declared Mrs. Quinn.
"I'll not be home airly the night, for I promised cook to stay a bit an'
gev her a hand wid th' fancy fixin's. Foine doin's they're to be havin'.
An' if that thafe of the world Owny comes in, ye be soft spoken jist as
if nothin' had happened. I'll settle wid him. I'll gev him some
Christmas!"
With that she was off. Then Dan came for his breakfast.
"I do miss Owny so," he half whimpered. "Ther' ain't a boy in the street
who could think up such roarin' fun."
"Whisht!" Dil said softly. "Bess is asleep, an' I won't have her
worrited. She had a bad time yist'day with the babies. I do hope there
won't be no such crowd to-day. Seven babies an' that was thirty-five
cents. Mother might be given Bess an' me some Christmas."
Dan laughed at that.
Dil sighed. She drank a little coffee, but she could not eat. Two sleepy
babies came. She washed the dishes, and spread up her mother's bed,
putting the babies in there. It was dark, with no ventilation but the
door, and kept warm easily.
Another and another baby, one crying for its mother. When Dil had hushed
it she took a vague glance at Bess, whose fair head lay there so
restful. The frost was melting off the window-panes, and she put out the
lamp. With a baby in her arms she sat down and rocked.
A curious sense of something, not quite anxiety, came over her
presently. She went to Bess and raised the blanket, peering at the small
white face that seemed almost to light the obscurity of the room. The
eyes were half-closed. The lips were parted with a smile, and the little
white teeth just showed. One hand seemed to hold up the chin.
Dil stooped and kissed her. O God! what was it? What was it? For Bess
was marble cold.
"O Bess, Bess!" she cried in mortal terror. "Wake up, my darlin'! Wake
up an' get warm."
As she seized the hand, a startling change came over the child. The chin
dropped. The pretty smile was gone. The eyes looked out with awesome
fixedness. Her heart stood still as if she were frozen.
Then, moved by horror, she flew up-stairs, her breath almost strangling
her.
"O Misses Murphy!" she shrieked, "there's somethin' strange come over
Bess. She's never been like this--an' cold--"
"Yis, dear. I'll jist look at poor Mis' Bolan. She do be goin' very
fast. All night she was that res'les' talkin' of the beautiful hymn the
man sung, an' beggin' him to sing it agen; an' then hearin' angels an'
talkin' 'bout green fields an' flowers, an' where there do be no night.
They do be mostly so at the last, rememberin' beautiful things."
An awful terror clutched Dil at the heart, as she recalled Bess's talk
of the wild roses. So cruel a fear smote her that her very tongue seemed
paralyzed.
"You don't mean"--she cried wildly.
Mrs. Murphy's thoughts were running on Mrs. Bolan.
"She'll not last the day through. Pore dear, there's not much pleasure
to the'r ould lives. But she did be so longin' to have that man come
agen--"
She had taken Dil's hand, and they were going down-stairs. A baby had
rolled off the lounge and bumped his head, and was screaming. But Dil
hardly heard him. They went through to the tiny room.
"Ah, pore dear! Pore lamb! She's gone, an' she's outen all her mis'ry.
She'll niver suffer any more. An' she's safe--"
Mrs. Murphy paused, not quite sure she could give that comfort. There
was purgatory, and the poor thing had never been christened. She was
extremely ignorant of her own church doctrine; but she felt the bitter
injustice of condemning this poor soul to everlasting torment for her
mother's neglect.
"No, Misses Murphy," cried Dil in the accent of utter disbelief, "she
can't be--Oh, hurry an' do somethin' for her. She's jes fainted! Le's get
her warm agen. Bring her out to the fire, an' I'll run for the 'Spensary
doctor. Oh, no, she isn't--she wouldn't--'cause we was goin' to heaven
together in the spring, an' she couldn't leave me without a word--don't
you see?"
Oh, the wild, imploring eyes that pierced Mrs. Murphy through! the
heart-breaking eyes that entreated vainly, refusing the one unalterable
fiat!
"Ah, dear, they'sen don't hev any ch'ice. O Dil, Dilly Quinn!" and she
clasped the child to her heart. "You mustn't take on so, dear! Shure,
God knows best. Mebbe he's better'n folks an' the things they say. She
won't suffer any more, pore dear. I've seen it for weeks, an' knowed
what must come."
Dil gave a few long, dry, terrible sobs; then she lay helpless in Mrs.
Murphy's arms. The kind soul placed her on the cot, sprinkled water on
her face, chafed her hands; but Dil lay as one dead.
Then she ran down-stairs.
"O Mrs. Minch! have ye iver a bit of camphire? I used the last o' mine
this mornin' for the pore old craythur. Bessy Quinn's gone at last, an'
is cold, an' Dil's that overcome she's gone in an norful faint. Come up
a bit, do. An' that haythen woman'll not care more'n if it was a kitten.
She do be the hardest!"
Mrs. Minch laid down her work, looked up the "camphire," and plied her
caller with inquiries.
All their efforts were unavailing, though Dil opened her eyes once, and
at intervals a shudder ran through her frame.
"Yes, the poor dear's dead and cold, and it's God's mercy, Mrs. Murphy.
How she's lived so long's a mystery; but Dil's been more watchful than
most any mother. She was the sweetest and patientest, and loved her
beyond all things. Mrs. Quinn hasn't any human feeling in her, and
there's plenty like her, more's the shame. When you bring helpless
little ones in the world, it's not their fault. And when they are
bruised and banged and made helpless, as that poor little one, a
mother's heart should have pitied her."
"Oh, dear, it's the rum that takes out all the nateral feelin'. An' one
'ud think she'd had enough of it in her husband, not to be goin' the
same way. An' pore Dil carin' for them babies an' doin' a woman's work,
a-stuntin' her an' makin' her old afore her time. An', if ye'll stay,
I'll go fer th' 'Spensary doctor. Sorra a Christmas it'll be in the
court. Mr. Sheehan is dyin', an' Mrs. Neefus's baby went yes'tday, an'
the ould woman--but they do be dyin' all the time, some wan."
Mrs. Minch bent over Dil with pitying eyes. She had seen better times,
and lived in a nicer neighborhood than Barker's Court. But poverty had
driven her down step by step. She had her old deaf father to care for,
and a son growing up; and the three rooms, such as they were, proved
cheaper than anything she had seen, though she was on the lookout all
the time. She had not made much intimacy with her neighbors, except that
through her pity for Mrs. Bolan she had come to know good-hearted Mrs.
Murphy quite well, and she had been interested in Dilsey and Bess. But
most of the people in the court were afraid of Mrs. Quinn's tongue.
"The poor thing!" she sighed. "She is a little old woman already. She
has never had leave to grow as children should. Oh, why are they brought
into the world to suffer?"
She had once thought herself full of trust and love to God, but so many
questions had come to the surface with her years of hard experience. Why
this little Bess should have suffered four years--but both parents had
given her a good constitution, that in some positions in life might have
made her a useful factor instead of mere waste material.
Then she took up one of the crying babies. Another was clamoring loudly,
"Bed, bed," and opening wide his mouth to show her how empty it was.
"Oh, how ever did she look after them all?" she cried in despair as Mrs.
Murphy entered.
"She had a rare way with childers, that she had." Mrs. Murphy cut a
chunk from the loaf of bread and gave the hungry baby. "An' the docthor
will be in as soon as he kin, but there's a sight o' folks waitin'. I
have heerd say a grane Christmas made fat graveyards, but this is cold
enough to be black. An' how's the poor gurl?"
"She seems--asleep somehow, and you can notice her breathin'."
"I'll look after Mrs. Bolan, an' kem down agen," said Mrs. Murphy,
disappearing.