The boys chipped in one evening and took Dil to the theatre. They were
fond of the rather coarse fun and stage heroics. Dil was simply
bewildered with the lights, the blare of the second-rate orchestra, and
the crowds of people. She was a little afraid too. What if they should
meet some one who knew her mother?
A curious thought came to her unappeased soul. Some one was singing a
song, one of the rather pathetic ballads just then a favorite. She did
not see the stage nor the young man, but like a distinct vision the
little room in Barker's Court was before her eyes. Bess in her old
wagon, Mrs. Murphy with her baby in her arms, old Mrs. Bolan, and the
group of listening women. The wonderful rapture in Bess's face was
distinct. It was the sweet old hymn that she was listening to, the voice
that stilled her longing soul, that filled her with content unutterable.
There was a round of applause that brought her back to the present life.
They were rather noisy here. She liked the dreamland best.
"That takes the cake jist!" declared Patsey, looking down in the
bewildered face. "What's the matter? Youse look nawful pale!"
"My head aches," she said. "It's so warm here. And it's all very nice,
but will it be over soon, Patsey?"
The boy _was_ disappointed; but the next morning Dil evinced such a
cordial interest in all the points that had amused them, that Patsey
decided that it must have been the headache, and not lack of
appreciation.
But he hung around after the others were gone, with a curious sense of
responsibility.
"Youse don't git reel well any more, Dil," he said, his voice full of
solicitude. "Kin I do anythin'--"
"O Patsey!" The quick tears came to her eyes. "Why, I _am_ well, an'
everything's so nice now, an' Mrs. Brian jes' lovely. Mebbe I ain't
quite so strong sence I was sick. An' sometimes I get lonesome with you
away all day."
"I wish youse knowed some gals--"
"Patsey," a soft, tender light came to her brown eyes, "I think I miss
the babies. They're so cunnin' an' sweet, an' put their arms round your
neck an' say such pritty little words. An' if I could have some babies I
wouldn't wash any more. That puts me out o' breath like, an' hurts my
side. 'Twas that tired me for last night."
"Youse jist sha'n't wash no more, then. But babies is such a bother!"
"I love thim so. An' only two, maybe. Curis there ain't a baby in this
house, nor in the front, neither. Babies would seem like old times, when
I had Bess."
There was such a wistful look in her pale, tender face. Patsey thought
she had grown a great deal prettier, but he wished she had red cheeks.
And he was moved to go out at once and hunt up the babies.
Other girls might have made friends in the neighborhood; but Dil had
never acquired friendly arts, and now she shrank from companionship. But
she liked Mrs. Brian; and that very afternoon as they sat together Dil
ventured to state her desires.
"You don't look fit to bother with 'em. You ought to be out pleasurin' a
bit."
"But I'm strong, though; an' I used to be such a fat little chunk! I was
stunted like; but I think I look better not to be so fat," she said with
quaint self-appreciation.
"There's one baby I could get for you easy. The mother's a nice body--you
see, the man went off. She's waitress in a restaurant, an' her little
girl's pretty as a pink, with a head full of yellow curls, an' big blue
eyes. She pays a dollar for her keep, 'ceptin' nights an' Sundays. An'
you'd be so good, which the woman ain't. You couldn't hurt a fly if you
tried."
"Oh, if I could have her!" cried Dil eagerly. A little girl with golden
hair, curly hair. And a dollar would pay for the washing and ironing.
The boys had been so good about fixing up things and buying her clothes
that she had felt she must do all she could in return.
"I'll see about it this very evenin', dear."
"Oh, thank you! thank you!"
The mother, a slim young thing, came to visit Dil on Sunday, with
pretty, chubby, two-year-old Nelly, who was not shy at all, and came and
hugged Dil at once. Her prettiness was not of the _spirituelle_ order,
as Bess's would have been under any circumstances. The eyes were merry
and wondering, the voice a gay little ripple, and comforted Dil
curiously.
And through the course of the week several "incidental" ones came. It
_was_ like old times.
"Seems to me it's nawful tough to be nussin' kids," said Patsey; "but,
Dil, you've chirked up an' grown reel jolly. You're hankerin' arter
Bess, an' can't forgit. An' ef the babies make ye chipper, let 'em come.
I only hope they won't take any fat offen yer bones, fer youse most a
skiliton now. But sounds good to hear youse laugh agen."
"I'd like just a little fat in my cheeks," she made answer.
Patsey brought her home a white dress one day, and said they would all
go down to Coney Island some Sunday.
"I wouldn't dast to," she said. "I'd be that afeared o' meetin' mother.
She used to go las' summer. An' if she should find me--"
"Yer cudden't find anybody, les' yer looked sharp. An' youse er that
changed an' sollumn lookin' an' big-eyed, no one'd know yer."
"But _you_ knew me," with a grateful little smile.
Patsey grinned and rolled his eyes.
"I was a-layin' fer ye."
"You can take me up to Cent'l Park, Patsey. I'd like to go so much."
"That's the talk, now! So I will. We'll all go. We'll have a reg'lar
persesh, a stunner, an' take our lunch, like the 'ristocrockery!"
Dil did brighten up a good deal. Baby kisses helped. She was starving
for love, such as boys did not know how to give. She used to take Nelly
out walking, and imagine her her very own. The mother instinct was
strong in Dil.
Having the washing done did ease up the work; though one would have
considered it no sinecure to feed five hungry boys. Now and then her
head would ache, and occasionally something inside of her would flutter
up in her throat, as it had when Bess died, and she would stretch out
her hands to clasp some warm human support, her whole body in a shiver
of vague terror.
If John Travis would only come. She _could not_ disbelieve in him. Last
autumn in the moment of desperate despair he had come, bringing such a
waft of joy and satisfaction. There were so many things she wanted to
ask him. She began to hope, in a vague way, that the Lord had come for
Bess, for she wanted her in that beautiful heaven. But the mystery was
too great for her untrained mind. And there intruded upon her thought,
the horror of that moment when she knew Bess was dead.
The hot weather was very trying. Hemmed in on all sides by tall
buildings, her own room so small, with a window on a narrow space hardly
six inches from the brick wall of the next house, there was little
chance for air. The boys seemed to sleep through anything.
So the weeks passed on with various small delights and events. The boys
would go off and spend their money when they needed clothes, and then
would follow heroic efforts at economizing. Dil had such shrewd good
sense, and they did listen to her gentle advice. They were a gay,
rollicking lot, but their very spirits seemed to be of a world she had
passed by. It was as if she was on the way to some unknown land, not
quite a stranger, but a sojourner.
Owen was a really tolerable boy, and bade fair to keep out of the reform
school. They all mended of their swearing; they were ready to wait on
her at a word.
The white frock was a beauty. Shorty brought her some pink ribbons that
made her look less pale, and she had a wreath of wild roses on her hat
that Mrs. Brian gave her.
They made ready for their excursion one beautiful Sunday morning in
July. There had been a tremendous shower the night before, and all
nature was fresh and glowing. The very sky was full of suggestions in
its clear, soft blue, with here and there a white drift.
Oh, how lovely the park looked! Dil had to pause in a strange awe, as if
she was hardly prepared to enter. It was like the hymn that was always
floating intangibly through her mind--the fields and rivers of delight,
the fragrant air, the waving trees and beds of flowers, the beautiful
nooks, the bridges, the winding paths that seemed leading into delicious
mysteries.
The boys were wild over the animals. They were irrepressible, and soon
tired out poor Dil. She had to sit down and press her hand on her heart.
There was a strange sinking, as if she was floating off, like the fleecy
white drifts above her.
"Youse air nawful white!" cried Patsey in alarm. "An' ther's sich a
queer blue streak acrost yer lip. Air ye sick?"
She drew a long breath, and the world seemed to settle again, as she
raised her soft eyes with a smile all about them.
"No, Patsey--I'm only a bit tired. Let me sit an' get rested."
She took the sunbrowned hand in hers with a mute little caress that
brought a strange flush to the lad's face.
"Youse jist work too hard wid dem babies an' all."
"I'm only going to have Nelly next week, an' the Leary baby is to go in
the country with his mother to live. 'Twasn't nothin' but a queer
flutt'rin' like, an' it comes sometimes in the night when I _can't_ be
tired. It's all over now;" and she looked bright and happy, if still
pale.
Patsey seemed hardly satisfied.
"I think it's the hot weather. It's been so hot, you know. An' to-day's
splendid! I'll get better when cool weather comes, I'm most sure. You
an' the boys take a good long walk, an' I'll stay here with the lunch,
an' get all rested up. An' I'll make b'leve it's heaven; it's so
beautiful."
"See here, Dil, don't yer go an' be thinkin' 'bout--'bout heaven an'
sich--"
Patsey swallowed over a big lump in his throat, and winked vigorously.
"Bess an' I used to talk about it," she said in a soft, disarming
fashion. "We thought 'twas some-wers over the river there," nodding her
head. "But I'll jes' sit still in some shady place, an' I won't go
to-day," with a soft, comforting laugh.
The boys protested at first. But Dil had a way of persuading them that
was quite irresistible. They were boys to the full, and to sit still
would have half killed them. They found a lovely nook, where she could
see the lake and the boats, and the people passing to and fro in their
Sunday attire. There were merry voices of little ones that touched her
like music.
She sat very still, with the lunch-basket at her feet. Occasionally some
one cast a glance at the pale little girl in her white gown, with the
wild roses drooping over the brim of her hat. A friendly policeman had
seen the pantomime and the departure of the boys, and meant to keep
guard that no one molested her.
Dil could understand being ill from some specific disease; but she did
not feel ill, only tired. It was a different kind of fatigue from that
back in Barker's Court, for then she could fall asleep in a moment. Now
the nights were curiously wakeful. And the babies _were_ heavy, even if
there were only two of them.
The refreshing atmosphere and the tranquil, beautiful pictures all about
her intensified the thought of the heaven she was going to "make b'leve"
about. She could picture it out, up and up, through country ways and
flowers, wild roses maybe. Houses where they took you in and fed you,
and put you to bed in such soft, clean beds. Queer people too, who
couldn't understand, and were wanting to turn back,--people who were
afraid of lions and Giant Grim. She called up all the pictures she could
remember, and they floated before her like a panorama.
"Though I can't get it out straight myself," and she sighed in helpless
confusion. "I ain't smart as little Bess was, an' can't see into things.
But I could push Bess along, an' Mr. Travis would be Mr. Greatheart for
us, an' he'd know the way on 'count of his being book learned. An' we'd
just be kerful an' not get into briars and bad places."
Was that Bess laughing softly, as she did sometimes when her poor back
didn't hurt, and her head didn't ache. The sweet, lingering sound seemed
to pervade the summer air. She could see the time-worn wagon, the rug
made of odds and ends, that they had both considered such a great
achievement. There was the sweet, pallid face, not quite as it had
looked in those last days, but resembling more the beautiful picture
that had gone to the flames, the crown of golden hair, the mysterious,
fathomless eyes, with a new knowledge in them, that Dil felt had not
been garnered in that old, pinched life.
Her own soul was suddenly informed with a mysterious rapture. She knew
nothing of the Incarnation, of the love that came down and tasted pain
and anguish, that others, in the suffering laid upon them, might also
know of the joy of redemption. At that moment Dilsey Quinn was not far
from the kingdom.
"O Bess! can't you come back?" she cried in a breathless, entreating
manner, her eyes luminous with the rare insight of faith, the evidence
of things unseen. "O Bess, you must be somewhere! I don't b'leve you
died jes' like other folks! Can't you come back an' tell me how it
happened, 'cause I know you wouldn't have gone and leaved me free of
your own will?"
A tremendous longing surged at Dil's heart, and almost swept her away.
Her breath came in gasps, her heart beat in great bounds, and then well
nigh stopped. She was suddenly attuned to spiritual influences in that
sweet, solemn solitude. Was it really Bess's voice in the softly
penetrative summer air--was the strange, shadowy presence, so near that
she could reach out and touch it--almost--that of the child?
She sat there rapt, motionless, seeing nothing with her mortal eyes; but
in that finer illumination Bess moved slowly toward her, not walking,
but floating, veiled in a soft, cloud-like drapery, stretching out her
small, white hands. Dil took them, and they were not cold. She glanced
into the starry eyes, and for moments that was enough.
"O Bess!" in the softest, tenderest whisper, "if you was in heaven I
couldn't touch you, you'd be so far away. An' it's so sweet. But how did
it all happen?"
"When _he_ comes, an' I 'most know now that he will come soon, Bess,
dear, he c'n tell me how to go to where you are--waitin', an' we'll
start. There's somethin' I don't know 'bout, an' can't get straight. I
never was real smart at ketchin' hold; but it's so beautiful to remember
that his Lord Jesus took little children in his arms. An' mebbe he's
took you up out o' the place they buried you, an' is keepin' you safe.
You ain't there in the ground--you must be ris' up some way--"
The very birds sang of an unknown land in their songs; the wind
murmuring gently through the trees thrilled her with an unutterable
certainty. Her slow-moving eyes seemed to penetrate the very sky. Clear
over the edge of the horizon it almost opened in its glory, as when
Christiana was entering in; and she felt certain now that she should
walk through its starry gates with Bess's little hand held tight in
hers.
"O Bess, I c'n hardly wait for him to come! Seems as if I must fly away
to where you be, but Patsey an' all the boys are so good to me. Seems if
I never had such lovely quiet, an' no one to scold ner bang my poor
head. But I want you so, Bess--"
She stretched out her hands, but the sweet form seemed to float farther
off.
"O Bess, don't go away," she pleaded.
If the seers and the prophets saw heaven in their rapt visions, why not
this poor starved little one whose angel always beheld the face of the
Father in heaven. She was too ignorant to seize upon the truths of
immortal life, but they thrilled through every pulse. She had no power
of grasping any but the simplest beliefs, but she knew some love and
care had sheltered Bess. The dawning of a knowledge that held in its
ineffable beauty and sacredness the truths of resurrection penetrated
her in a mysterious sense, aroused a faith that she could not yet
comprehend; but it gave her a strange peace.
Her life had been a little machine out of which so much work must be
steadily ground. It had needed all her attention. And Bess had taken all
her love. But in the solitude and sense of loss she was learning to
think.
Dil was startled when she saw the boys straggling along irregularly. How
large and strong Patsey was growing! And how nice Owen looked in his
clean summer suit! Oh, where was little Dan? She hoped he was happy, and
had enough to eat and some time to play.
They were a hungry lot. The great pile of sandwiches disappeared in a
trice. And the cake that an artist in cook-books might have disdained,
the boys believed beat anything the best baker could turn out. There had
never been any treat quite up to the cake. Of course the stew was more
"fillin'" when one was tearing hungry, and cake was a luxury to their
small income, but, oh, what a delight!
"You don't eat nothin," said Patsey, studying Dil anxiously.
"But I've rested so much. And I feel so happy."
There was a divine light shining in her eyes, and it touched the boy's
soul.
"Dil, ef it wosn't fer them ere freckles right acrost yer nose, an' you
wos a little fatter, you'd be jes' as pooty as they make 'em. Youse
growed real han'some, only you want some red cheeks."
Dil colored at the praise. Did a light shine in her face because she had
seen Bess? She would like to tell Patsey all about it. Yes, she had
really seen her, but it was all infolded in mystery. How could she make
it plain?
The boys ate up every crumb, and seasoned their repast with much merry
jesting. Then they wanted to go on again. Wasn't Dil rested enough to go
to the Museum?
It was a long walk, and after they entered Dil was glad to sit down. She
looked at the curious white marble people, and asked Patsey if "they was
truly people or dead folks." Shorty said "it was the mummies who were
dead folks;" but Dil shuddered at the thought of Bess being like that.
There were so many curious things, beautiful things, that the child was
bewildered.
"'Tain't so nice as out o' doors," said Fin. "There's somethin' in the
trees an' flowers, an' them places that are so still an' quiet like,
that stirs a feller all up."
Rough and unlearned as they were, nature appealed to them powerfully.
Ah, what a day it was!
"I've never had but just one time in my life that was so lovely," said
Dil with sweet gratefulness: "an' that wasn't so beautiful, only
strange. If anybody was so runnin' over full o' happiness all the time,
'pears to me it would kinder choke them all round the heart, so's they
couldn't live."
"Don't know 'bout that," and Patsey chuckled. "Happy people ain't dyin'
off no faster'n other people, an' don't commit suicide so easy. But,
golly! 'twould take a good deal to fill a feller up chock full o'
happiness, 'cause it's suthin' like ice-cream, keeps meltin' down all
the time, 'n' youse can pack in some more."
"I jes' wish we had some now!" cried Owen, referring to the cream.
"It's been--well--super splacious! There ain't no word long ernuff to hold
all's been crowded in this ere day," cried Fin enthusiastically. "Say,
boys, why don't we come agin? Only ther's music days--an golly! I jes'
wish I had lots of money an' a vacation. Vacations ain't no good when
you don't have money."
Dil enjoyed their pleasure. She was so strangely happy. She had seen
Bess, and some time the puzzle would be explained. She had taken her
first lesson in faith, and she felt light and joyous, as if she could
fly. The very air was full of expectation.
It was time to return, unless, indeed, they had brought their suppers
along. Dil appreciated the long ride home. She was very tired, but the
joy within buoyed her up.
There was the rather well-gleaned ham bone and a dish of potatoes for
supper, and the last of the wonderful cake, which they stretched out,
and made to go all around. And they seasoned the supper with jests and
pleasant laughs, and plans of what they would do, and hopes of being
rich some day. Dil listened and smiled. They were all so good to her!
When they were through, Patsey began to pile up the dishes and carry
them to the sink. He often did this for Dil, and none of the boys dared
chaff him. She rose presently.
The room, the very chair on which she rested her hand, seemed slipping
away. All the air was full of feathery blue clouds. There was a curious
rushing sound, a great light, a great darkness, and Dil was a little
heap on the floor, white as any ghost.
Patsey picked her up in his arms, and screamed as only a boy can
scream,--
"Run quick for some one. Dil's dead!"