VI – A WONDERFUL STORY
John Travis stood with upraised hand. Clearly, slowly, the words fell, and you could hear only the labored respiration of the women. There was a benediction – he could not recall it, but a verse of Scripture came into his mind. “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
“The Lord will bless you,” said the trembling old woman.
He squeezed something into her hand as she turned to go. Mrs. Murphy’s sickly baby began to cry, and one of Dil’s woke up. The little crowd dispersed.
It began to grow dusky. Night came on early in Barker’s Court. Days were shorter, and sunless at that.
Travis stepped back to Bess.
“I shall ask my friend to tell me all about you – she will write it. And I shall come back.” He stooped and kissed Bess on the brow, for the last time. Heaven help her on her lonely journey. But the Saviour who blessed little children would be tender of her surely.
“We’ll all go – won’t we – to heaven? The singin’ was so beautiful. An’ the everlastin’ spring.”
“Good-by.” He clasped Dil’s hand. “Remember, wherever you are, I shall find you. Oh, do not be afraid, God will care for you.”
“I don’t seem to understand ’bout God,” and there was a great, strange awe in Dil’s eyes. “But you’ve been lovely. I can understand that.”
One more glance at Bess, whose face was lighted with an exalted glow, as if she were poised, just ready for flight. Oh, what could comfort Dil when she was gone? And he had so much! He was so rich in home and love.
A woman stood in the lower hallway, the half-despairing face he had noted. She clutched his arm.
“See here,” she cried. “You said, ‘deliver us from evil.’ Is anybody – is God strong enough to do it? From horrible evil – when there seems no other way open – when you must see some one you love – die starvin’ – an’ no work to be had – O my God!”
The cry pierced him. Yes, there was a beneficent power in money. He gave thanks for it, as he crushed it in her hand. How did the poor souls live, herded in this narrow court? His father’s stable was a palace to it in cleanliness.
He had reasoned about poverty being one of the judicious forces of the world. He had studied its picturesque aspects, its freedom from care and responsibility, its comfortable disregard of conventionals, its happy indifference to custom and opinion. Did these people look joyous and content? Why, their faces even now haunted him with the weight of hopeless sorrow. Oh, what could he do to ease the burthen of the world?
Dil picked up the baby after she had lighted the lamp. She was still in a maze, as if some vision had come and gone. Was he really here? Or had she been in a blissful dream?
“Come an’ spell out what he’s written – an’ – an’ his name, Dil!”
Bess was studying the fly-leaf. Yes, there it was, “John Travis.”
“I wisht it wasn’t John,” said Bess, a little disappointed. “He ought to have a fine, grand name, he’s so splendid. Rich people have nice ways, that poor people can’t seem to get.”
“No, they can’t get ’em, they can’t,” Dil repeated, with a despairing sense of the gulf between. She had never thought much about rich people before.
“You’d better hide the book, an’ the money, ’fore Owny comes in,” said Bess fearfully. “I don’t even dast to look at the pictures. But we’ll have it a good many days when mammy’s out, an’ I must learn to read the hard words. O Dil! if I had two good legs, I would jump for joy.”
Dil wanted to sit down and cry from some unknown excess of feeling – she never had time to cry from pure joy. But she heeded Bess’s admonition, and hid their precious gifts. Then she stirred the fire and put on the potatoes. It was beginning to rain, and the boys came in noisily. The babies went home, and they had supper.
It was quite late when Mrs. Quinn returned home, and she threw a bundle on the lounge. The boys being in, and Bess out of the way, she had nothing to scold about. She had had her day’s work praised, and a good supper in the bargain. Then cook had given her a “drap of the craythur” to keep out the cold. And she could have two days’ work every week “stiddy,” so she resolved to throw over some poorer customer.
But when Mrs. Murphy came down with a few potatoes in her hand that she had borrowed, and full of her wonderful news, Dil’s heart sank within her like lead.
“An’ what do ye think?” the visitor began incautiously. “Poor old Mrs. Bolan is half wild with all the singin’ an’ the beautiful prisint he gev her.”
“What prisint?” asked Mrs. Quinn peremptorily.
“Why, it was a five-dollar bill. I thought first she’d faint clear away wid joy.”
“What man?” eying them both suspiciously.
Dil’s lips moved, but her throat was so dry she could not utter a sound.
“Wan of them Moody an’ Sankey men that do be singin’ around, an’ prayin’. An’ ye niver heard sich an’ iligant v’ice even at the free and easies! Why, Mrs. Quinn, it’s my belafe, in spite of the praist, he cud draw a soul out o’ purgatory just wid his singin’. Mrs. Bolan’s that ’raptured she does nothin’ but quaver about wid her shaky old v’ice. Ah, dear – ave ye cud hev heard him!”
“To the divil wid him! Comin’ round to git money out’v poor folks. I knows ’em. Dil, did you give him a cint?”
“I didn’t have any; but he didn’t ast for none,” and the poor child had hard work to steady her voice.
“An’ ye’r mistaken, Mrs. Quinn, if ye think the likes of sich a gentleman would be beggin’ of the poor,” returned Mrs. Murphy indignantly. “An’ he a-gevin a poor ould craythur five dollars! An’ they do be goin’ around a-missionin’ with their prayers and hymns.”
“I know ’em. An’ the praists an’ the sisters beggin’ the last cint, an’ promisin’ to pray ye outen purgatory! Mrs. Murphy,” with withering contempt, “them men cuddent pray ye outen a sewer ditch if ye fell in! An’ I won’t have them comin’ here – ye hear that, Dilsey Quinn! If I catch a Moody an’ Sankey man here, I’ll break ivery bone in his body, an’ yours too; ye hear that now!”
Mrs. Quinn was evidently “spilin’ for a fight.” Mrs. Murphy went off in high dudgeon without another word.
But she stopped to pour out her grievance to Mrs. Garrick on her floor.
“Shure, I pity them childers, for their mother do be the worst haythen an’ infidel, not belayvin’ a word about her own sowl, an’ spindin’ her money for gin as she do. She was a foine-lukin’ woman, an’ now her eyes is all swelled up, an’ her nose the color of an ould toper. An’ that poor little Bess dyin’ afore her very eyes widout a bit of a mass, or even christenin’ I belayve. I’m not that bigoted, Mrs. Garrick, though the praists do say there bees but the wan way. I’m willin’ that people shall try their own ways, so long as they save their sowls; but pore, helpless bits of childer that can’t know! An’ what are their mothers put in the wurruld for but to tache them? But when ye don’t belayve ye have a sowl of yer own it’s awful! There’s them b’ys runnin’ wild – an’ a moighty good thing it’ll be whin they’re in the ’form-school, kapin’ out o’ jail, an’ wuss!”
Dil sat in awful fear when the door had closed behind their neighbor. She took up Owen’s trousers – the rent was sufficient to send any boy early to bed.
That recalled her mother. She threw the bundle towards Dil.
“There’s some clo’es ye kin be fixin’ up for Dan, whin ye’ve so much time as to be spindin’ it on Moody and Sankey men, drat ’em! foolin’ ’round an’ wastin’ valyble time. Next I’ll hear that ye’ve ast in the organ man an’ the monkey, and I’ll come home to find ye givin’ a pairty. An’ ye’ll hev yer head broke for it, that ye will!”
So long as it was not broken now, Dil gave secret thanks. Did God help any? Then, why didn’t he help other times when things were very bad? She examined the suit, and found it a nice one, rather large for Dan, who was not growing like a weed, although he ran the streets.
Her mother began to snore. She would be good for some hours’ sound sleep. So Dil stole into the little room, and began to prepare Bess for bed, though she trembled with a half fear.
“O Dil, I didn’t hardly dast to breathe! An’ if she’d known he come in here an’ sung, she’d murdered us! An’ it made me feel glad like that he was goin’ away, for mammy might happen to be home when he come – though don’t you b’lieve he’d take us away right then? An’ – an’ wasn’t it lucky you didn’t have to tell about the – ”
Bess held the bill up in her hand.
“Le’s put it in the book, an’ hide the book in the bottom of the wagon. An’, Dil, I can’t help feeling light like, as if I was goin’ to float. Think of that splendid place, an’ no night, an’ no winter, an’ all beautiful things. Oh, I wisht he’d gev us the words too; I’m most sure I could sing ’em. An’ the best of all is that mammy won’t be there, cause, you see, ’twouldn’t please her any, and I’d be awful feared. She’d ruther stay here an’ drink gin.”
They had not gone far enough in the Christian life, poor ignorant little souls, to have much missionary spirit. But they kissed, and kissed softly, in the half-dark, and cried a little – tender tears touched with a sadness that was as sweet as joy.
Dil stepped about cautiously, emptied the grate, and did up her night-work. There seemed a certainty about heaven that she had not experienced before, a confidence in John Travis that gave her a stubborn faith. He would surely return in the spring. They would go out some day and never, never come back to Barker’s Court.
She fell asleep in her visionary journey when she was up beyond Central Park. She was always so tired, and this night quite exhausted. But Bess kept floating on a sea of delicious sound; and if ever one had visions of the promised land, it was Bessy Quinn.
There were seven babies in the next morning, it being a sharp, clear day. Mrs. Quinn had gone off about her business with no row. When Bess had been dressed and had her breakfast, they drew out the precious book.
“I’ll jes’ cover it with a bit of old calico an’ no one will mistrust, for you can jes’ slip it down in the carriage. An’ we’ll get out that old speller of Owny’s, so mother can see that around if we do be taken by s’prise.”
They looked at the pictures as the babies would allow them the leisure, and spelled out the explanation underneath. It was so wonderful, though at times they were appalled by the difficulties and dangers. And it was almost night when they reached the crowning-point of all, – Christiana going across the river.
“All the banks beyond the river were full of horses and chariots which were come down from above to accompany her to the City Gate.” Her friends were thronging round. She was entering the river with a fearless step and uplifted face.
“Why, Dil, she jes’ walked right acrost.” Bess gave a joyous little laugh. “You see, she couldn’t get drownded, because that Lord Jesus had made it all right an’ safe, jes’ as he carried people in his arms. I’m so glad we know. You see, when we get to the river, an’ it will be way, way above Cent’l Park, when we’ve been through these giants an’ all – an’ I’m ’most afraid of thim; but the man did not let ’em hurt her, an’ he, our man, won’t let ’em hurt us. An’ we’ll jest step right in the river, – maybe he’ll carry me acrost on account of my poor little legs, – an’ we sha’n’t be a mite afraid, for he won’t let us drown. O Dil, it’ll be so lovely! An’ here’s the pallis!”
There was the “throng that no man can number,” welcoming Christiana. Angels with spreading wings and rapturous faces. Her husband coming to meet her, and the Lord Jesus ministering an abundant welcome.
What a day it was! Never was day so short, so utterly delightful. Some of the babies were cross: out of seven little poorly born and poorly nourished babies, there were wants and woes; but Dil hugged them, cuddled them, crooned to them, with a radiant bliss she had never known before. She could look so surely at the end.
An old debt of half a dollar came in, and there were thirty-five cents for the babies. Dan had on his new suit too, and altogether Mrs. Quinn was remarkably good-natured. Dil felt almost conscience-smitten about the book – but then the story would have to come out, and alas!
After that they began to read the wonderful story. Dil was not much of a scholar. Her school-days had been few and far between, never continuous enough to give her any real interest. Indeed, she had not been bright at her books, and her mother had not cared. School was something to fill up the time until children were old enough to go to work. But Dil surely had enough to fill up her time.
Bess would have far outstripped her in learning. But Dil had a shrewd head, and was handy with her needle. She possessed what Yankee people call “faculty;” and her training had given her a sharp lookout for any short cuts in what she had to do, as well as a certain tact in evading or bridging over rough places.
But the reading was very hard labor. They did not know the meaning or the application of words, and their pronouncing ability was indeed halting.
They had not even attained to the practical knowledge acquired by mingling with other children. Dil’s life had been pathetic in its solitariness, like the loneliness of a strange crowd. Other children had not “taken to her.” Her days had been all work. She would have felt awkward and out of place playing with anything but a baby.
Bess found the most similitudes in Christiana. Even John Travis would have been amused by her literal interpretation. Though it had been simplified for children’s reading, it was far above their limited capacity. But the pictures helped so much; and when Dil could not get “the straight of it,” when the spiritual part tried and confused their brains, they turned to Christiana crossing the river and entering heaven.
Valiant Mr. Greatheart appealed strongly to Bess.
“He’s got such a strong, beautiful name,” she declared enthusiastically. “He always comes when there’s troubles, an’ gettin’ lost, an’ all that. I ’most wish his name was Mr. Greatheart. He could fight, I know; not this common, hateful fightin’ down here in the court, but with giants an’ wild beasts. An’ there were the boys, Dil; but I s’pose Owny wouldn’t care ’bout goin’.”
“Well,” Dil hesitated curiously, “you’ve got to try to be good some way, an’ Owny wouldn’t quit swearin’ an’ snivyin’ when he got a chance. An’ I don’t think he’d understand. Then he might tell mammy ’bout our plans.”
“An’ mammy jes’ wouldn’t let you stir a step, I know. An’ I couldn’t go athout you, Dil, though there’ll be many people on the road. I was most feared it would be lonesome like.”
“An’ I’ll be gettin’ a few clo’es ready, the best of thim. I’ll wash an’ iron your new white dress when we don’t go out no more, an’ put it away kerful. An’ I hope some one will give mother some clo’es for a big girl! I’ll be so glad to go, for sometimes I’m so tired I jes’ want to drop.”
“But October’s ’most gone. An’ last winter don’t seem long to me now, an’ the summer that was so hot, – but it had that beautiful Sat’day when we found him. An’ to think of havin’ him forever ’n’ ever!”
Dil gave a long sigh. She was as impatient as Bess, but she hardly dared set her heart upon the hope.
She was a very busy little woman, and her mind had to be on her work. The garments given to the boys had, of course, the best taken out of them, and Owen was hard on his clothes. As for the stockings, their darning was a work of labor, if not of love. Bess had to be kept warm and comfortable, and Dil tried to make her pretty as well. There were some rainy Saturdays, and the one baby often came in that day. But she tried to give Bess an airing on Sunday. It was such a change for the poor little invalid.
Mrs. Quinn was better pleased to be busy all the time. Besides the money, which was really needed now that fires were more expensive, she liked the change, the gossiping and often it was a pleasure to find fault with her customers. She still went to Mrs. MacBride’s of an evening.
With the advent of November came a week of glorious Indian summer weather. And one Saturday Mrs. Quinn was to do some cleaning at a fine house, and stay to help with a grand dinner. Dil rushed through with her work, and they went up to the Square that afternoon, and sat in the old place. The sparrows came and chirped cheerfully; but the flowers were gone, the trees leafless. Yet it was delightful to picture it all again.
John Travis would have felt sorry for Dil to-day – perhaps if he had seen her for the first time he would not have been so instantly attracted. Her eyes were heavy, her skin dark and sodden. Even Bess grew weary with the long ride. But they shopped a little again; and Dil was extravagant enough to buy some long, soft woollen stockings for Bess’s “poor, hurted legs.”
“I’m so tired,” she said afterward. “’Tain’t quite like summer, is it? Make up a good fire, Dil, an’ get me snappin’ warm.”
She did not want much to eat. Even the grapes had lost their flavor.
“I wish you could sing that beautiful hymn,” she said to Dil. “I’d just like to hear it, ’cause it keeps floatin’ round all the time, an’ don’t get quite near enough. O Dil! don’t you s’pose you can sing in heaven?”
“Seems to me I heard at the Mission School that everybody would. If the Lord Jesus can mend your legs, I’m sure he can put some music in my throat.”
“We’ll ask him right away. Then read to me a little.”
Bess fell asleep presently. Dil made slow work spelling out the words and not knowing half the meanings. Her seasons at the Mission School had always been brief, from various causes. Now and then some visitor came in, but the talk was often in phrases that Dil did not understand. She had not a quick comprehension, neither was she an imaginative child.
Looking now at Bess’s pinched and pallid face a strange fear entered her mind. Would Bess be strong enough in the spring to take the long journey? For it was so much longer than she imagined, and Bess couldn’t be made well until they reached the Lord Jesus. There was a vague misgiving tugging at her heart. They ought to have gone that lovely Saturday.
They talked so much about John Travis that they almost forgot what he had said about his friend. They were husbanding their small resources for the time of need. There had been so many babies that Dil had not needed to make up deficiencies. Sometimes they felt quite afraid of their hiding-place, and Dil made a little bag and put it around Bess’s neck, so no one would come upon the money unaware.
The touch of Indian summer was followed by a storm and cool, brisk winds. It was too cold to take Bess out, even if she had cared; but she had been rather drooping all the week. There was a baby in, also, and Bess kept in her own room, as she often did Saturday morning, to be out of the way of her mother’s sharp frowns.
Dil had gone of an errand. Mrs. Quinn sat furbishing up an ulster she had bought at a second-hand store at a great bargain. The baby was asleep on the lounge. When Dil returned, a dreadful something met her on the threshold that made her very heart stand still.
“I have come from a Mr. Travis, to see the children. He has gone abroad, and he asked me to look after them.”
This was what had gone before – very little, indeed. Mrs. Quinn had answered, “Come in,” to a tap at the door; and there had entered a rather pretty, well-dressed, well-bred young woman, who considered herself quite an important member of the charitable world. She saw a clean-looking room with more comforts than usual, and she gave a sharp glance around the corners.
Mrs. Quinn received her very civilly, considering her a possible customer.
“You have a little girl who is an invalid, I believe?” she queried.
“That I have,” was the brief reply.
The stranger glanced at the two open doors, and wondered; was the child in bed?
The next sentence was what Dil had caught. Miss Nevins checked herself suddenly. Mr. Travis had said, “See the children alone if you can. Their mother is out to work most of the time, and it will be an easy matter. But do not give any money to the woman for them; they will not get it.”
“Well – what?” asked Mrs. Quinn sharply, with an aspect that rather nonplussed the lady. “Whin did he see so much of thim, an’ come to think they needed his attintion?”
“Why – when he was here – ”
“Was he here now? an’ what called him?”
Mrs. Quinn gave her visitor an insolent stare that rendered her very uncomfortable.
“I – I really do not know when. Kindly disposed people do visit the sick and the needy. I go to a great many places – ”
“Av ye plaise,” she interrupted, “we’re not paupers. I’m well enough, ye see, to be takin’ care of me own childers. An’ he nor no one else nade throubble theirselves. I’m not askin’ charity; an’ av they did it unbeknownst to me, I’ll hammer thim well, that I will! They’re as well off as common folk, an’ ye needn’t be worritin’. Av that’s all ye come fer, ye kin be goin’ about yer own bisniss, bedad! An’ ye kin tell Mr. What’s-his-name that I’m not sufferin’ fer help.”
This was not the fashion in which Miss Nevins was generally received. “You do not understand” – with rising color. “We desire to be of whatever service we can; and if your child is ill, you cannot have a better friend – ”
“Frind! is it? Bedad, I kin choose me own frinds! An’ if he knows whin he’s well off, he’ll not show his foine forrum here, er his mug’ll get a party mash on it. Frind, indade!”
The irate woman looked formidable as she rose, but Miss Nevins did not mean to be daunted.
“You may see the time when you will be glad of a friend, though you need not worry about his coming. I shall tell him you are not worth his interest. As for the child” – and her indignation sparkled in her eyes.
“The child wants none of his help, ye kin tell him. I kin look afther her mesilf.”
“Good-day,” and the visitor opened the door. Dil stepped back in the obscurity. The lady held up her fine cloth gown, and gave her nose a haughty wrinkle or two as she inhaled the stifling air once, and then did not breathe until she was in the court.
“Such a horrid hole!” she commented. “The child ought to be moved to a hospital – or perhaps she is well by this time. John is so easily taken in – his swans so often turn out to be geese. As if I would have given her any money, the impudent, blowsy thing! I know pretty well how far to trust that class! Though it’s rather funny,” and she smiled in the midst of her disgust; “they are always whining and pleading poverty, and will be abject enough for a quarter. And she was very high and mighty! I’ll write a good long letter to John about it, but I won’t trouble her ladyship again.”
Dil stood shaking with terror, and some moments elapsed before she had courage enough to open the door. She was in a degree prepared for a line of defence.
Her mother seized her by the arm, and fairly shouted at her, —
“Who was the man who kim to see ye, ye young huzzy?”
“Man! When did a man come? I don’t remember,” assuming surprise.
“I’ll help yer mem’ry thin wid that;” and Dil’s ears rang with the sound of the blow.
“There wasn’t any man since the wan that sang a long whiles ago. Mrs. Murphy knew. She said he was a Moody an’ Sankey man, an’ that they do be goin’ round singin’ and prayin’. An’ they all stood in the hall, the women about. Mrs. Murphy kin tell you.”
Mrs. Quinn was rather nonplussed.
“What did he gev ye?”
“Nothin’,” sobbed Dil. “It was poor old Mrs. Bolan that had the money.”
“Not a cint?” She took Dil by the shoulder. “Dil Quinn, I don’ no whether to belave yer; but if he’d gev ye any money, an’ ye’d bin such a deceivin’ little thafe, I’d break ivery bone in yer mean little body. Howld yer tongue! I ain’t done nothin’ but ast a civil question.”
Dil tried to stop sobbing. Her mother was in a hurry to get out, or matters might have been worse.
“Stop yer snivelin’,” commanded her mother. “But if I hear of any more men singin’ round, I’ll make ye wish yer never been born.”
The baby cried at this juncture, and Dil took it up. Mrs. Quinn went out, and there would be peace until midnight.
Bess sat in the carriage, wild-eyed and ghostly, trembling in every limb.
“It was a norful lie!” sobbed Dil. “But if I’d told her, she’d killed me! He wouldn’t a done such a thing; but nobody’d darst to tackle him, an’ rich people don’t beat an’ bang.”
“You didn’t tell no lie,” said Bess in a sudden strong voice. “He never gev you no money. ’Twarn’t your money ’t all. Doncher know he put it in the bag the first time when you was feared to take it, an’ he jes’ dropped it down here in the side of the kerrige. He never gev you a penny. An’ it was my money.”
“O Bess! Ye’r such a bright, smart little thing! If you’d been well we’d just kept ahead of mother all the time;” and now the sunshine slanted over the brown quartz eyes that were swimming in tears. “I d’n’ know, but I should have hated norful to tell a lie ’bout him. He seems – well, I can’t somehow git the right words; but’s if you wanted to be all on the square when he liked you. I don’t b’leve he’d so much mind yer snivyin’ out a nickel when there was a good many babies, an’ puttin’ it back when there wasn’t, to save gettin’ yer head busted. But he wouldn’t tell no lie. He kem when he said he would an’ brought Christiana, an’ he’ll come in the spring, sure.”
“Yes, sure,” said Bess, with a faint smile. “But you better ast Mrs. Murphy to keep the book a few days, for mammy might go snoopin’ about – ”
“I just will; but I don’t b’leve she’d dast to hustle you round and find the money. An’ now a week’s gone, an’ there’s only three left, en then it’ll be anuther month, an’ O Bess, spring! spring!”
There was an exultant gladness in Dil’s voice.