Alas! Bridget had an impression, and sprang up. Seeing the figure she
uttered a wild shriek.
"A banshee! A banshee!" she cried in a spasm of terror.
Dil stood rooted to the spot. Mrs. Quinn sprang across the room.
"Hould yer murtherin' tongue!" she cried. "Why--it's Dil," seizing her by
the shoulder. "Whativer are ye doin', walkin' in yer slape an' rousin'
the house? An' yer' a fool, Bridget!"
Bridget Malone stared at the small grayish figure, unconvinced.
"Wake up, ye omadhoun!" and the mother shook Dil fiercely. "Ye can't do
nothin' fer the child. Let her rist in peace; she's better off nor she's
been this many a day."
"O Mrs. Quinn, don't be hard on the poor gurrul. She's bin dreamin' af
the little wan, bein' so used to tindin' on her all hours af the night.
But I thought sure it was Bess's ghost, bein' but half awake mesilf."
"Wid no legs to walk on!" was the sarcastic rejoinder.
"As af a ghost had need of legs! An' I won't be sittin' there by the
dure--"
"Git back to yer bed, Dil, an' we won't have no more sich capers in the
dead o' night, frightin' folks out of their sinsis."
She led Dil roughly back to her bed. Then for safe keeping she slipped
the chair back just under the knob, and Dil was a prisoner in a black
hole, a small improvement on that of Calcutta.
A whirlwind of passion swept over Dilsey Quinn--a pitiful, helpless
passion. She could have screamed, she could have torn the bed-clothes to
pieces, or stamped in that uncontrollable rage and disappointment. But
she knew her mother would beat her, and she was too sore and helpless to
be banged about.
Her mother would not let her bring Bess back to life if she knew. And
she could not explain--there was nothing to be put in words. You just
went and did it. Oh, it seemed as if something might have helped her,
some great, strong power that made people rich and happy, and gave them
so many lovely things. Bess was only such a little out of all the big
world!
And now she would never, never come back. An awful, cold despair
succeeded the passion. They could never go to heaven together. Bess was
dead, just like Mrs. Bolan, like the people who died in the court. They
would take her out and bury her. That was all!
An indescribable horror fell upon Dil. The horror of the solitude that
comes of doubt and darkness, the ghost of that final solitude that seems
watching at the gates of death. Bess had gone off, been swallowed up in
it, and there was nothing, nothing!
The morning dawned at last. Dil, half-stifled with bad air, and racked
with that fearful mental inquisition, collapsed. She seemed shrunken and
old, as old as Mrs. Bolan. There was nothing more for her.
Bridget Malone was to stay. The two women had a cup of coffee together,
then Mrs. Quinn went to see the 'Spensary doctor. When she came back
they spread a sheet over the small table, and brought out the body of
the dead child.
"Folks'll be comin' in to see it," she said with some pride. "An' she
looks that swate no one need be ashamed of her! She'd been a purty girl
but for the accidint, for that stopped her growin'. I've had a long
siege wid her, the Lord knows! An' now I must run up to Studdemyer's an'
tell 'em of the sorrow an' trouble, an' mebbe I'll get lave to do
somethin' to-morrow. But I'll be back afore the men kim in."
Dil moved about silently, and went frequently into her own room. The
intense fervor and belief of the night had vanished. The court children
straggled in and stared, half-afraid. The women said she was better off
and out of her trouble; and now and then one spoke of her being in
heaven.
She was not in heaven, Dil knew. And how could she be better off in the
cold, hateful ground than in her warm, loving arms?
One gets strangely accustomed to the dear dead face. Dil paid it brief
visits when no one else was by. A little change had come over it,--the
inevitable change; but to Dil it seemed as if Bess was growing sorry
that she had died; that the little shrinking everywhere meant regret.
Mrs. Quinn came back with a gift from her sympathetic customer, who
imagined she had found heroic motherly devotion in this poor woman who
had four children to care for. There were numberless visitors who
gossiped and were treated to beer--there was quite a dinner, with an
immense steak to grace the feast.
Presently a man came in and took the measure of the body, and then went
up-stairs. An hour later a wagon stopped before the court, and two men
shouldered a coffin. The small one went into the Quinns'. It was of
stained wood with a muslin lining, and the little body was laid in its
narrow home. Then the attendant went up-stairs, and some of the women
followed. There was a confusion of voices, then the two men came
lumbering down the winding stairs with their load, slid it into the
wagon, while a curious throng gathered round in spite of the chill
blast. They came up again, one man with a screwdriver in his hand.
"Take a look at her, Dil. Poor dear, she's gone to her long rest."
Mrs. Quinn pushed her forward. The women fell back a little. The man put
down the coffin lid,--it was all in one piece,--and began to screw it
down.
Dil gave a wild shriek as it closed over the pretty golden head, and
would have dropped to the floor, but some one caught her. The man
completed his task, picked up the burthen, it was so light; and when Dil
came out of her faint Bess, with two other dead bodies, was being jolted
over the stones to a pauper's grave.
"Come now," began Mrs. Quinn, "it's full time ye wer sensible. She's
dead, an' it's a blissid relase, an' she's got no more suf'frin' to go
tru wid. It's bin a hard thrial, an' she not able to take a step this
four year. Ye'd better go to bed an' rist, for ye look quare 'bout the
eyes. Ye kin have my bed if ye like."
Dil shook her head, and tottered to her own little cot. "O Bess! Bess!"
she cried in her heart, but her lips made no sound. How could people die
who were not old nor sick? For _she_ wanted to die, but she did not know
how.
There were people around until after supper. Then two or three of them
went down to Mrs. MacBride's. Mrs. Murphy promised to stay with Dil.
"Shure," said some one, "there'll be a third goin' out prisintly. It's
bad luck when more than wan corpse goes over the trashold to wunst. An'
that Dil don't look like long livin'. She's jist worn hersilf out wid
that other poor thing."
In the evening Patsey came rushing up-stairs with some Christmas for the
two girls. He was shocked beyond measure. He hardly dared go in and see
Dil, but she called him in a weak, sad tone.
"O Dil!" That was all he said for many minutes, as he sat on the side of
the cot, holding her hand. The strange look in her face awed him.
"Have ye seen Owny?" he whispered.
"Not since the night mother beat him."
"Owny--he's safe. He'll do well. Don't bodder yees poor head 'bout him.
He's keepin' out o' der way, 'cause he's 'fraid de old woman'll set de
cop on him. He ain't comin' back no more, but don't you worry. But he'll
feel nawful! O Dil, I never s'posed she'd go so soon, if she was
'pindlin' an' weakly. Seemed when she'd lived so long--"
Patsey broke down there.
"O Patsey, I didn't s'pose she could die, jes' common dyin' like other
folks. They've taken her away an' put her with dead people--I don't know
where. You'll tell _him_. An'--an' mebbe 'twould be better if he didn't
come back. Mother'd beat him nawful, and 'pears 's if I couldn't see any
more beatin's. Don't tell me an' then I won't know. But you'll see an'
keep him safe."
"Poor Dil! I'm jist as sorry's I kin hold. I loved you an' Bess, for I
didn't never hev any folks," said the boy brokenly.
"An', Patsey, d'ye mind the wild roses ye brought in the summer? They
was so sweet. She 'most went crazy over 'em with pure joy. An' that
night she talked of thim, an' smelled thim, an' it was a bad sign. If
I'd knowed, I might a done somethin', or had the doctor. An' she talked
so beautiful--"
Dil was choked with sobs.
"Ye did iverything. Ye were like an angel. She wouldn't a lived half so
long, but for yous. O Dil, I wisht I could bring her back. There was a
boy tellin' 'bout some one--he heerd it at the Mission School--that jist
took a man outen his coffin, an' made him alive. I'll ask him how it
was, an' tell yous."
"Ye's so good, Patsey," with a weary sigh.
"An' I'll be droppin' in an' bring ye news. An' ye mustn't git sick, fer
whin spring opens we'll spring a trap that'll s'prise ye. O Dil dear!"
He bent over and kissed her, his face all wet with tears. He had often
kissed little Bess, though he was not "soft on gals." It was a solemn
caress. Dil seemed so far away, as if he might lose her too.
The next morning the Christmas chimes rang out, and there were houses
full of happy children making merry over Christmas gifts. The mission
schools were crowded, the Christmas-trees and the feasts thronged. There
were hundreds of poor children made happy, even if they could not take
in the grand truth that eighteen hundred years ago a Saviour had been
born to redeem the world. "Why is it not redeemed?" cried the cavillers,
looking on. "If the truth is powerful, why has it not prevailed?" But
the children amid their pleasures asked no questions.
Churches were full of melody, homes were full of joy and gladness, the
streets in a tumult of delight; but Bessy Quinn was in her small grave,
and Dil bitterly alone.
John Travis thought of them both this morning. "I hope Miss Nevins has
planned a nice Christmas for them," he said to himself, since his
Christmas in a foreign land was not as hopeful as he could wish. Perhaps
Miss Nevins had found a way to Mrs. Quinn's heart. Women could sometimes
do better than men.
Dilsey Quinn could not die; and if she was miserable and forlorn she had
not the morbid brain to consider suicide, though she knew people had
killed themselves. But the utter dreariness of the poor child's soul was
overwhelming.
Still, she rose on Monday morning, did her work, and cared for the
babies as usual. It seemed so cruelly lonesome with only her and Dan.
Mrs. Murphy was very good to her, and begged her to go to the priest;
but she listened in a weary, indifferent manner. If Bess was in
purgatory, then she would like to go too. But in her heart she knew Bess
wasn't. She was just dead, and couldn't be anywhere but in the ground.
She had never known any joyous animal life. Hers had been all work and
loving service. There was nothing to buoy her up now, nothing to which
she could look forward. She was too old, too experienced, to be a child,
to share a child's trivial joys.
Her mother questioned her closely about Owen. Hadn't he never sneaked in
for some clothes? Didn't Patsey know where he was?
"I'll ast him if he comes agen," she said, as if even Owen was of no
moment to her. "He hasn't been here sence--sence that night."
"Ye's not half-witted, Dil Quinn, an' you grow stupider every day!
Sometime I'll knock lightnin' outen yer! An' if ye dast to keep it from
me that he kem'd home, I'd break yer neck, yer sassy trollope. He'll be
saunterin' in some night, full o' rags, an' no place to go, an' there be
a pairty, now, I tell ye!"
But Owny knew when he was well off. Dan went to school regularly, and
was much improved.
After the holidays the winter was hard. Work fell off, and babies were
slow coming in. Mrs. Murphy's little one took a severe cold, and was
carried off with the croup. She gave up her rooms and went out to
service. So poor Dil lost another friend.
One Sunday during the latter part of January, Dil summoned up pluck
enough to go out for a walk. There had been three or four lovely days
that suggested spring, bland airs and sunshine, and the indescribable
thrill in the air that stirs with sudden longing.
Dil wandered over to Madison Square. Some one had given her mother a
good warm cloak, quite modern. How Bess would have enjoyed seeing her
dressed in it! But though the sun shone so gloriously, she was cold in
body and soul, as if she could never be warm again. The leafless
branches were full of swallows chirping, but the flowers were gone, the
fountain silent. No one noted the solitary little figure sitting just
where she had sat that happy afternoon.
"Oh," she cried softly, while her heart swelled to breaking, and her
eyes wandered southward, "do you know that Bess is dead, an' we can't
never go to heaven together as we planned? I d'know's I want to now. I
jes' want to die an' be put in the ground. I wisht I could be laid
'long-side of her, an' I'd stretch out my arms, an' she'd come creepin'
to them, jes' as she used. She'd know how to find me. An' when you come
back you can't see her no more. Oh, 'f we only could 'a' started that
day! An' mammy burned up Christiana an' my beautiful picture, so I'm all
alone. There ain't nothin' left," and she sighed drearily.
Where was he? "'Crost the 'Lantic Oshin," as Bess had said. She had no
more idea of the Atlantic Ocean than she had of the location of heaven;
not as much, for it seemed as if heaven might be over beyond the setting
sun. But John Travis was still in the world. And as she sat there it
seemed as if she must live to tell him about Bess, and an aim brightened
her dreary life. Two months and a little more. She would come over often
when the weather grew pleasanter. Already she began to feel better.
But she could not take the heartfelt glow back to Barker's Court. The
loneliness settled down like a pall. The long, long evenings were
intolerable. Sometimes she crept down and spent an hour with Mrs. Minch;
but she was afraid her mother might come home inopportunely.
Mrs. Quinn was growing much worse in her habits; and she lost her best
place, which did not improve her temper. Dil's apathetic manner angered
her as well; yet the house was kept cleaner than ever, her mother's
clothes were always in order, and there was nothing to find fault about,
except the lack of babies, which Dil could not help.
One night in February there was quite a carouse at Mrs. MacBride's. It
was midnight when Mrs. Quinn returned. Poor Dil should have been in bed,
out of harm's way; but she had been living over that fateful night,
believing with the purest and most passionate fervor that she might have
called Bess back to life if she could have gone to her.
A man helped Mrs. Quinn up the stairs, and tumbled her in the door. Dil
sprang up in affright.
Mrs. Quinn stared at Dil with bleared eyes.
"What yer doin' up this time o' night? Yees do be enough to set wan
crazy wid yer mewlin', pinched-up mug that's humbly as a stun! Why d'n'
ye laugh an' hev a good time, an' make the house decent, stead er like a
grave? I'm not goin' to stan' it--d'y hear?"
Dil glanced about in alarm, and would have fled to her room, but her
mother caught her by the arm.
"Come," she cried, "I'll shake the glumness outen yer. Why, ye'd spile
vinegar even! I'll tache ye a little friskiness."
Dil struggled to free herself, but uttered no word.
"I'll tache ye!" she shouted, the devil put into her by rum driving her
to fury. "Ye measlin', grouty little thing! forever moanin' an' cryin'
fer the sickly brat that's gone, good riddance to her! Come, now, step
up lively. We'll make a night of it, an' ye shall hev a sup o' gin to
wet yer t'roat whin ye get warm."
She whirled Dil about savagely, until she was dizzy and faint, and broke
away in desperation. But her mother clutched her again, and gave her a
resounding box on the ear. She managed, as she was whirled round, to
open the door into the hall, and scream with all the strength she could
summon. Her mother seized her again with a dreadful imprecation. What
happened, how it happened in the dark, Dil could never clearly remember.
Fred Minch sprang up and opened the door. Something bumped down the
stairs, and lay in a heap at his feet.
"It's that poor little girl, mother. She's bleeding, killed maybe. I'll
run for a policeman."
Mrs. Minch picked up the senseless child. Mrs. Quinn went on yelling,
swearing, smashing things, and dancing like a mad woman.
Rows were no uncommon thing in the court. Windows were thrown up. Who
was it? Some wretched wife being beaten? And when they found it was Mrs.
Quinn, they shook their heads. She had been going to the dogs of late,
it was plain to see.
When the officer came, she made such a vigorous onslaught that he was
forced to call assistance. She was after Owen now, and Dil had hidden
him. The threats she uttered were enough to make one shudder. They
mastered her at length, and dragged her down-stairs, where Mrs. Minch
was waiting to explain poor Dil's plight.
She was still unconscious when the ambulance came. There was a bad cut
up in the edge of her hair, but no bones seemed to be broken that any
one could discover.
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Minch, when quiet was restored. "It would be a
blessing if she could go with Bess. She'll never get over the loss.
She's not been the same since, and many a day my heart's ached for her."
"She were a nice smart woman, that Mrs. Quinn, if she'd a let rum
alone," was the general verdict. "An' though she took the child's death
in a sensible manner, it broke her all up," said some of the court
people, "and she went to hard drinking at once."
When Mrs. Quinn's trial came on, Dil's life was still hanging in a
doubtful balance. She was sent to the Island for ninety days, for
drunkenness and assaulting the policeman, and would there await the
final result.
But Mrs. MacBride went on adding to her bank account and her real
estate, to the wreck of youth and womanhood, to the prisons and paupers'
graves. She kept such a very respectable place, the law never meddled
with her.
Dilsey Quinn lay on her hospital pallet delirious, but never violent,
and lapsing into unconsciousness. She had a dislocated shoulder, two
broken ribs, and sundry bruises; but it was the years of hard work, foul
air, dark rooms, and unsanitary conditions that the doctors had to fight
against blindly. Her bruised and swollen face, her stubby, red-brown
hair that had been cut short, her wide mouth and short nose, made no
appeal in the name of beauty. She was merely a "case."
Her nurse was a youngish, kindly woman, used to such incidents. Beaten
wives and children were often sent to her ward. In the early part of her
experience she had suffered with them. Now she had grown--not
unsympathetic, but wiser; tender she would always be.
Now and then there was something so wistful in the child's eyes that it
touched her heart. She lay so patient and uncomplaining, she made so
little trouble.
But sometimes the woman wondered why they were brought into the world to
suffer, starve, and die. What wise purpose was served?