Virginia Deering put by the children's clinging hands. Her mission had
not been very successful. In one shady depth she had found a cluster of
belated roses, their mates having blossomed and gone. But the children
had enjoyed a rare pleasure.
She came up with a sort of reverent hesitation. She had been thinking of
the journey "betwixt this and dawn," and trying with weak hands to push
it farther and farther off, as we always do. Miss Mary had gone to the
infirmary. The room was so still; then a soft, glad cry trembled on the
air,--
"He's come, Miss Deerin'! An' oh, you won't mind, but he's been to that
wild rose place, an' I think he's brought them _all_ to me. Look, look!"
and she stretched out her little hands.
Virginia paused, hesitated, her sweet face flushing and paling, as John
Travis turned. He was not sure he had made up his mind to any certain
step; but, having found her here, he was certain he should never let her
go again in this mortal life.
Did it make any difference here in this sacred hour who had sinned?
Could not even suffering love fold about another the garment of
forgiveness? He took a step forward; she seemed to draw near by some
inward volition, and stretched out her hands beseechingly. The sorrow
and pain were ended. Was not love too sacred a thing to be bruised and
wounded by trifles that should have been forgiven and forgotten as soon
as uttered?
"Virginia," in a breathless sort of whisper. He stooped and kissed the
quivering lips, and caught the tenderness of tear-blinded eyes.
"Little Dil, may _I_ have Miss Deering's roses?" and he took them in his
hand.
"I only found a few," in a faltering voice.
"But he's brought me hundreds. I'm most buried in roses. An', Miss
Virginia, I told him you'd be so glad. An' it's all as you said, only I
couldn't feel quite sure till _he_ come. The Lord Jesus did take Bess to
heaven that night; but he left me 'cause there was somethin' for me to
do. It's all gettin' plain to me, only I ain't bright to see into things
quick. But you can't both be mistook. An' now I'm all bright an' happy."
Did Virginia Deering say a year ago that she should always hate wild
roses? She buried her face in them now, so that no one should see her
tears. God had led this little human wild rose in the pathway of both.
It had grown in the world's wilderness, and learned how to bloom out of
its own generous heart. To her it was the lesson of her whole life.
Dilsey Quinn smiled. She knew nothing about love and lovers; but the
atmosphere was sweet and cordial, and she felt that.
Virginia began to arrange some of the roses in a bowl, with the nervous
desire of occupation.
"Please put thim here on the sill," pleaded Dilsey. "That's the way Bess
had thim. An' I told him how you gev thim to Patsey."
John Travis gave a soft, quaint smile, and took a small case from an
inside pocket. There were some poor little withered buds between the
leaves. All the color had gone out of them, all the fragrance.
"You gave them to me," he said. "Do you remember? Bess had them in her
hand."
Dilsey's eyes filled with tears. Virginia leaned over and looked at
them, strangely moved. Then he laid the few she had gathered beside
them.
"I'm jes' happy all through," Dil said with shining eyes.
Miss Mary came up with some broth.
"'Pears like I don't never want anythin' to eat again; but you're all so
good. An' now I'm goin' to get well, though sometimes I want to see Bess
so. An' I'd be sorry to go 'way from Patsey. Owen's gettin' to be such a
nice boy. Patsey keeps him straight. I d'know who'd look after thim."
John Travis turned and gave her a rare, comforting smile. He owed her so
much earthly and heavenly happiness; and he realized with a pang of
anguish that she could never be repaid in this world. Had God noted the
labor and love of this poor, unknown life, and written it in his
Book,--the heroism so simply worked out, with no thought of self to mar
any of it?
Miss Mary sent them down to supper.
"I am so thankful you had my letter in time," Virginia said softly. "We
did not think then--"
She turned scarlet under his gaze.
"Your letter! Oh, _did_ you write? My darling, thank you! You shame me
with your trust, your sweet readiness to forgive. But I have hardly been
at home these two days. I think," and his voice fell to a reverent
inflection, "that God was watching over it all, and guiding our steps.
It is a long story, and some day you shall hear it all, but in infinite
pathos Dilsey Quinn's far exceeds it. Our whole lives will be more
sacred to us for this remembrance. But I cannot bear to have her go. Is
it as the nurse said?"
Virginia made a sign with her bowed head.
"I hoped so to give her a better, brighter life. I left a little work
for her in the hands of a friend, and it came to naught. But
perhaps--God's love _must_ be wiser than our human plans, and his love is
greater. We must rest content with that. But she has been an evangel to
me."
Miss Mary bathed the face and hands of her invalid in some fragrant
water. She had considered Dil a rather dull and uninteresting child at
first; but her pitiful story that had come to light in fragments, her
passionate love for her little "hurted" sister, and her wild dream of
going to heaven, had moved them all immeasurably. The cheerful sweetness
would have deceived any but practised eyes, and even now Dil seemed
buoyed up by her delicious happiness.
"Won't they come back?" she asked presently, with a touch of longing in
her voice.
"Yes, dear."
"I'd like him to stay."
"Yes, he shall stay."
The household had not been disturbed by the near approach of the awesome
visitant. The children had not missed her, since she had brought no
gayety to them, but rather grudged Miss Virginia to her. They were at
their supper now. How easily they had forgotten the hardships of their
lives!
Virginia and John Travis entered presently. The soft summer night fell
about them, as they sat watching the frail little body, so wasted that
its vitality was fast ebbing. She talked in quaint, disjointed snatches,
piecing the year's story together with a pathos almost heart-breaking in
its very simplicity. Her trust in him had been so perfect.
"I don't know what's 'come o' mother," she said, after one of the
silences. "But Bess 'n' me'll tell the Lord Jesus 'bout her, 'n' mebbe
he can do somethin' that'll keep her 'way from Mrs. MacBride's, 'cause
she wasn't so bad before she took to goin' there. I've been so feared of
her all the time, but I don't feel feared no more. Bess said we
shouldn't when you came back, and wisht your name had been Mr.
Greatheart. We liked him so. But they've all gone wrong in Barker's
Court. Oh, can't some one set thim right an' straight, an' bring thim
outen the trouble an' drinkin' an' beatin', an' show thim the way? It's
jes' like thim folks leavin' the City of Destruction. An' oh, we've all
come out of it, Owny an' little Dan. Maybe mother'll find the way."
"We'll find her and try to show her," said John Travis, with a voice
full of emotion.
"Oh, will you?" There was a satisfying delight in her tone. "An' the
boys? If some one'd look after thim, I think I'd like to go to Bess. Do
you b'l'eve the Lord Jesus would come an' take me if I ast him? Seems so
long since I had Bess."
"I think he will," Travis said, in a tone he tried to keep steady.
"I ain't pritty, like Bess, an' I can't sing."
"But you will sing there. And you will love the Saviour. That is all he
asks."
"I can't seem to understand how he could be so good to poor folks. An' I
don't see why they ain't all jes' wild to love Him. Tell me some more
'bout his comin' down from heaven to help thim."
With the little hand in his, he told the wider, greater story of the
Saviour's love,--how he had come to redeem, to sanctify all future
suffering in his own, to give himself a ransom. And even now Travis's
mind reverted to the hours of discussion with his cousin. Ah, how could
he have brought bread to that famishing soul, that had fed so long on
the husks of the world's wisdom, but for the afternoon with the
children, the meeting with the Lord Jesus in the way.
The moon came up and flooded the room with softened splendor, the summer
night was fragrant with exquisite odors. Almost it seemed as if the very
heavens were opened. The wide eyes were full of wordless rapture, and a
great content shone in the ethereal face.
Then Dilsey moved about restlessly.
"My little Dil, what can I do for you?" he asked with tender solicitude.
A strange shudder seemed to run over her. Was it a premonition?
"I wish you'd take me in your strong arms 'n' hold me. 'Pears if I'd
like to be clost to some one, just sheltered like. An' you an' Miss
Virginia sing 'bout 'The rivers of delight.'"
John Travis lifted her up. She was so small and light; a child who was
never to know any earthly joy or hope of girlhood, who would learn all
the blessedness of life in the world to come. Virginia folded the soft
blanket about her, and her face rested against the shoulder that would
have been glad to bear a far heavier burthen for her. He took the cool
little hands in his, and noted the fluttering, feeble pulse, the faint,
irregular beating of the tired heart against his.
Sometimes both voices came to a pause through emotion. He remembered the
other scene in the stuffy little room, and could see Bess's enraptured
face.
Then Dilsey Quinn gave a little start, and raised her head, turning her
eyes to him.
"I c'n understand it all now," she said joyously. "The Lord Jesus wanted
me to wait till you come back, so I could tell Bess. An', Miss Virginia,
she'll be so glad to know who gave the wild roses to Patsey. An' you
promised her--you'd come. We was all goin' to heaven--together--"
The head dropped. The heart was still. The labor of the hands was done.
The slow brain had the wisdom of the stars. But her eyes still kept the
subtle glory; a radiance not of this world shone in her face as she left
the night behind her and stepped into the dawn of everlasting life.
"She has seen Bess."
Then John Travis laid her reverently on the cot, and sprinkled a baptism
of roses over her. The two left behind, clasped hands, their whole lives
sanctified by the brave sweetness and devotion of this one gone up to
God.
* * * * *
No one told the "little mothers" that one of their number lay up-stairs
in Miss Mary's room waxen white and still in her last sleep. They sang
and played and ran and shouted, perhaps jangled as well. Death often met
them in the byways of the slums, but in this land of enchantment they
were not looking for it. Their holidays were brief enough; their days of
toil and deprivation stretched out interminably. How could they sorrow
for this pale, quiet little girl who had not even played with them?
In the afternoon John Travis brought up Patsey and Owen, who were
stunned by the unlooked-for tidings. Dil had on her white frock,
Patsey's gift, that had been both pride and pleasure to him.
Owen looked at her steadily and in great awe, winking hard to keep back
the tears. Patsey wiped his away with his coat-sleeve.
"Ther' wasn't ever no girl like Dil Quinn," he said brokenly. "She was
good as gold through and through. Nobody never loved any one as she
loved Bess. Seems like she couldn't live a'thout her. O mister, do you
think ther's railly a heaven as they preach 'bout? Fer if ther' is,
Dilly Quinn an' Bess are angels, sure as sure. An' Owen, we've got to be
tip top, jes' 's if she was watchin' us all the time. But it's norful to
think she can't never come down home to us."
He leaned over and kissed the thin hands, and then sobbed aloud. But all
his life long the tender remembrance followed him.
In a corner of the pretty burying-ground where they laid her, there is a
simple marble shaft, with this quaint, old-fashioned inscription:--
"Sacred to the Memory of
BESS AND DILSEY QUINN."
For, even if Bess is elsewhere in an unknown grave, her unfailing and
sweetest remembrance is here with Dilsey.
And in one home in the city, made beautiful by love and earnest
endeavor, and a wide, kindly charity that never wearies in the Master's
work for the poor, the sinful, and the unthankful, there hangs a picture
that Patsey Muldoon adores. It is Dilsey Quinn idealized, as happiness
and health might have made her. The sunrise gleam in her eyes stirs one
with indescribable emotion. She looks out so bravely sweet, so touched
and informed by the most sacred of all knowledges. The high courage is
illumined by the love that considered not itself; the tenderness seems
to say, "to the uttermost," through pain and toil and discouragements;
never quenched in the darkest of times, but, even when blown about by
adverse winds, still lighting some soul. The face seems ripened to bloom
and fragrance, and speaks of a heavenly ministry begun when the earthly
was laid down.
And the old story comes true oftener than we think. Two put in the
garden to keep and dress it, to watch over the little wild roses of
adverse circumstances, crowded out of even the space and the sun needed
to grow rightfully, out of the freshness and dew of happiness, yet
making their way up from noisome environments, and struggling for the
light and human care to fit them for the Garden of the Lord.
And these two, who go on their way in reunited love, understand the
mystery of Dilsey Quinn's short life, and that the strange fine threads
that connect us here are so many chords of the greater harmony of human
love in its redemption. All their days will be hallowed by its tender
remembrance, their work more fervent, their faith more enduring.
And thus it came to pass that the little bruised flowers of the slums
lived not in vain.