VII – MARTYRED CHRISTIANA
Dil was always so tired, she went to sleep at once from exhaustion. But to-night every nerve seemed in a quiver. They had found some medicine that soothed Bess and kept her from coughing, so she slept better than in the summer. Dil tossed and tumbled. There had been given her a magnificent endowment of physical strength, and the dull apathy of poverty had kept her from a prodigal waste of nerve force. She was what people often called stolid, but she had never been roused. How many poor souls live and die with most of their energies dormant.
There had never been but one dream to Dil’s life, and that was Bess. Here her imagination had some play. When they took their outings through the more respectable streets for the cleanliness and quiet, or paused awhile in the green and flowery squares, she sometimes “made believe” that Bess was the lovely child in the elegant carriage, with wraps of eider down and lace, and she the nurse-maid in white apron and cap who trundled her along jauntily. Or else it was Bess, blue-eyed and golden-haired, sitting in a real “grown-up” carriage with her pretty mamma in silks and satins. The little nurse-maid was at home, putting everything in order, and waiting for the lovely princess to come back and tell her all she had seen. That and heaven had been the extent of her romancing.
But to-night a curious, separate life stirred within her. A consciousness of the great difference between such people as John Travis, even the lady in the hall who had so disdainfully gathered up her skirts and scattered a faint fragrance about. Why was such a great difference made? Why should she and Bess be Honor Quinn’s children? Would another mother be given them in heaven?
The mothers in the court seemed to love their little babies, yet afterward they beat and banged them about. But the children in that clean, beautiful world where there was no pain, the children in heaven – ah! ah! She was not crying with human passion; it was the deep anguish of the soul that cannot even find vent in tears, the throes of an awful inward pain, that seldom, thank God, comes to the young, that dense ignorance often keeps from the very poor.
“Took them in his arms.” That was what John Travis had said. She was so tired to-night – not the fatigue of hard work altogether, but a great aching that had no name. If she could be taken in some one’s arms! Dilsey Quinn could not remember being held, though her mother had been proud of her first-born, and fond too, in those days.
If Mrs. Quinn’s life had been a little more prosperous, if she had lived in a cottage with a patch of ground, a cow and some chickens, and the wholesome surroundings of the little village where she had reigned a sort of rural queen, her children might have known love and tenderness. But the babies had come fast. Her man had taken to drink. They were crowded in among the poor and ignorant, where brawls and oaths, drinking and cruelty, were daily food. Ah, what wonder one lapses into barbarism! For the last half-dozen years she had slaved, and sometimes gone hungry. She could have strangled little Dan when he came, for adding to her burthens. How much of the peril of the soul depends upon the surroundings!
And now Dil longed for the strong arms to be about her. Do you wonder she had so little idea of a heavenly Father? The teaching of the Mission School had been measured by the hard, bare materialism of poverty, quite as upas-like as the materialism of philosophy. It had a rather dainty aspect when John Travis dallied with it among his college compeers; but it seems shocking when these hundreds of little children cannot even formulate the idea of a God. And though Dil stretched out her hands with an imploring moan, it was for some present and personal comfort.
Owny came creeping in softly, and just saved his skin, for to-night his mother returned earlier than usual. She was growing stout, and walked solidly. She seemed to be puttering about. Then she pushed Dil’s door wide open, and there was barely room for her. The lamp stood on the floor outside. Dil’s “chest of drawers” was covered with a curtain of various pieces, and she had ornamented the top with treasures found amid the cast-off Christmas and Easter cards that had fallen to her when more favored children had tired of them. A cigar-box was covered with some bits of silk, and held a few paltry “treasures.” Some fancy beads, a tarnished bangle, a bit of ribbon, and so on, she found as she dumped them in her apron and then thrust them back. Next she dragged the articles out of the improvised “drawers,” and shook them one by one. Nothing contraband fell out. There was nothing to reward her search, and she glared at the child in the faded, shabby wagon.
Dil hardly breathed. She remembered in that half-frozen, fascinated sort of way that horrible events will rise up, ghost-like, in times of terror – that one night last winter, a woman farther up the court had murdered her two little children, and then killed herself. She was cold with an awful apprehension of evil. Even though she kept her eyes closed, she could seem to see with that awesome, inward sight.
Mrs. Quinn thrust her hand under Bess’s pillow, under her bed, and the poor child gave a broken, disturbed half-cry. Her efforts were fruitless; but before Dil could give a sound to her horrible fear, she had turned and was facing her. Then Dil sprang partly up, but the scream curdled in her throat.
“Oh, ye naydent disturb yersilf this time o’ night. I was jist lookin’ in upon me two gals that the man was so distrissed about. Dil Quinn, av’ ye iver go to the bad like some gals, I’ll not lave a square inch of skin on yer body, ner a whole bone inside. I’ll have no men singin’ round whiles I’m not here. You shut the door on ’em, jist. You’re a humbly little runt, God knows, but thim kind is purty hard whin they once set out. Ye mind, now! An’ that un – ”
She shook her fist, and backed out of the room, for she could hardly have turned around. Bess moaned, but she was not awake. Dil used all her strength to suppress a scream, while a cold perspiration oozed from every pore.
When she dared, after the lamp was out, she rose and changed Bess to a more comfortable position. Ah, if the book had been there! The child shuddered with vague apprehension.
All the rest of the night she lay fearfully awake, and the next morning she looked ghastly. Even her mother was moved.
“You don’t look well, Dil,” she said. “What’s got yer?”
“My head aches.” Had she dreamed that horrible vision of the night?
“Take some queuann. Ye’ve no toime to be sick. Ye spind too much toime over the brat there. An’ it’ll be a mercy whin it’s all over. I cuddent stan’ it mesilf much longer.”
Patsey came that afternoon. Business was good, and he had a few dimes in the bank. He and three other boys boarded with an old woman.
“But I’ve been thinkin’, Dil, that if we had you instid o’ the old woman! She can’t make an Irish stew worth shucks, an’ yers wud jist make a felly sing in his sleep. Whin I git some money ahead I’ll jist have youse come. Yer mammy’ll not mind if ye take Bess.”
Dil smiled. It was lovely of Patsey, but they would be going to heaven then. She wondered why they didn’t care to take Patsey along when they were so fond of him. He wouldn’t want to go – how she knew that she could not tell, either.
He brought Bess a splendid orange and some candy and an illustrated paper. The pictures were very entertaining.
“Bess is lookin’ slim,” he said. “She wants to go out in the fresh air.”
“But it’s so cold, an’ it just goes over me an’ all through, as if I hadn’t half enough clo’es on. No, I must stay in an’ keep good an’ warm, an’ get well by spring.”
“That’s the talk,” and Patsey smiled.
When he was gone and they were all alone, they looked at each other curiously.
“’Twould be nice to go an’ live with Patsey if we wasn’t goin’ to heaven,” Bess said. “I do be so afeard of mammy sometimes.”
“An’ she rummiged last night, Bess, on the shelves an’ in your bed; an’ if it hadn’t been for yer wit she’d a found the book. I was so glad it was in Misses Murphy’s, an’ I guess I’ll keep it up there every night; an’ if she finds out an’ asts, I’ll say an’ old trac’ woman left it. She won’t mind an old woman. I sh’d hate to tell such a lie, but when we see him we’ll tell him how it was. ’Cause we can’t be murdered.”
“We just won’t tell any one ’bout goin’ to heaven, either. Only Patsey, just at the last.”
Mrs. Quinn dropped her suspicions in a few days. The weather was growing colder, and she needed a little more to keep up the internal fires. She managed to pay her rent promptly, and so had a good reputation with the agent. Through Dil’s good management the boys fared very well as to food, but Bess did not eat enough to keep a bird alive.
“But the medicine helps,” she said. “It’s such splendid medicine! so much better’n that ’Spensary stuff.”
The morphine in it soothed and quieted. Sometimes Bess slept all the morning, and now she was seldom wakeful at night. Dil thought that an improvement. If only she was not so frightfully thin!
The days sped on with little variation. At Thanksgiving they had two turkeys, and several of Mrs. Quinn’s cronies came in to dinner. They feasted all the rest of the week.
And now another month was gone. Only four remained.
Alas! with all their care and caution, and the ready sympathy of Mrs. Murphy, there came a swift, crushing martyrdom to their much-loved Christiana, almost to Dil. She had hurried her supper dishes out of the way, tidied up the room, and, as her mother had gone to Mrs. MacBride’s, Dan in bed with a cold, and Owen roaming the streets, Dil brought out her book for an hour’s reading. They had come to Giant Grim and his blustering threats to the Pilgrims, who would have fared badly indeed but for Mr. Greatheart. Dil had to stop to spell many of the words; often it took the united efforts of both brains to decide the meaning of a sentence.
The door opened, and Mrs. Quinn walked in. There had been a rather heated talk at Mrs. MacBride’s.
Dil paused suddenly, with a swift, startled breath.
“What’s that ye got?” She came nearer and glared over Dil. “An’ who gev ye that?”
“A – a woman left it!” exclaimed Dil tremulously. “An old woman with trac’s – ”
She pulled Dil up to her feet, and the book fell to the floor.
“An’ it wasn’t that – that singin’ man?”
She shook her so that Dil could scarcely make a sound, and for once she hardly minded.
“No man has been here,” declared Bess.
“Shet yer head!” roared her mother. “Pick up that buke. What’s it all about?”
“’Bout a woman they told me of in the Mission School. She took her children an’ – was goin’ to heaven – ”
“Well, you’ve got business here, an’ ye’ll be tindin’ to it, it’s my opinion. Ye ain’t got time for no sich foolin’. Yer wurruk will kape ye busy. Ye best not be settin’ up fer a schollard. The radin’ an’ the stuff’ll turn your head upside down. Take that!”
Mrs. Quinn gave her a resounding blow with it. Before Dil could fairly see, she had marched over to the stove.
“O mother! mother!” shrieked Dil as she caught her arm.
Mrs. Quinn gave her a push that sent her staggering across the room. She raised the stove-lid, and crowded in the book.
“Ye’ll not waste yer time over any sich nonsense. Git off to bed at wanst, er I’ll make ye see stars! Take that measlin’ brat along wid ye.”
Dil turned the wagon into the small chamber without another word. Bess caught her hands, but neither dared speak.
“Where’s Owny?” the mother demanded.
“I don’t know,” almost sobbed Dil.
“I’ll not hev him runnin’ the streets at night! A foine sister yes are, to be sure, readin’ novils, an’ lettin’ yer pore brother go to destruction! If ye don’t kape him in at night I’ll know the reason why. I’ll lie here a bit, an’ I’ll give him a norful larrupin’ when he comes.”
Mrs. Quinn threw herself down on the old lounge, and in five minutes was snoring as usual. Dil prepared Bess for bed, and rubbed her with a soft mitten she had made. The poor thing trembled so that it was a positive shudder. Then, as the snoring grew louder, they dared to give vent to their own overcharged hearts in tears.
“An’ to think poor Christiana’s burnt up, an’ we can’t tell how she got out of the giant’s hands! Dil, there’s jes’ such truly people, an’ mammy’s one of ’em! Jes’ think if she’d been like Christiana, an’ took us by the hand, an’ was leadin’ us to heaven, an’ pushin’ the kerrige whiles to spell you!”
Then they cried again at the thought, so utterly delightful, and the present reality so hard to bear.
“But we know she did get to heaven,” resumed Bess; “only we can’t tell how many things there were. Dil, it isn’t reel easy to go to heaven, after all. But when we have him, you see he’ll do the fightin’, an’ he’ll pick out the way, an’ we’ll go right straight along. We won’t stop in them queer places an’ get all tangled up; for we’re in such a norful hurry to get there, an’ have my hurted legs made well.”
Dil kissed her convulsively, and cried over the shining golden head. Besides the book, there had been an irreparable loss to her, that Bess had not yet realized. She had tucked her precious picture inside the cover of the book. For now she felt it must be kept out of her mother’s sight, as she could not explain how she came by it, and escape with her life. That, too, had perished in the flames, the next precious thing to Bess.
The poor children unlocked arms presently, and Dil crept into bed sad and forlorn. She heard Owen stealing in, but her mother never stirred.
Mrs. Quinn sat taking her cup of coffee the next morning when Owen made his appearance. She tried to recall what had happened last night, and whether she had thrashed him or not.
“A purty time of night it was for ye to come home,” she began.
“Oh, come off!” said Owen. “What yer givin’ us? I was home an’ abed afore ye kem in, an’ ye was full of the shindy at Mis’ MacBride’s. Don’t ye remimber how ye wint on?”
Owen dodged the cuff. His mother was so nonplussed that for once she was helplessly silent. But as she went out of the door she turned and said, —
“I’ll see yer in to-night, young feller.”
Dil’s face was in such a maze of surprise that she looked at Owen without being able to utter a word for some moments, while he laughed heartily.
“How could ye, Owny?”
“How cud I?” Owen laughed again. “Well,” with a swagger, “it’s all in knowin’ how to dale with the female sect. Was she thunderin’ mad last night? Did she go fer me?”
“But about Mrs. MacBride? How could ye know what happened?”
“Why, ye see I was passin’ jes’ after the shindy. That Mrs. Whalen who made the row whin she beat ye so, ye know, was harang’in’; an’ then I heard there’d been a great row, an’ mammy’d come home mad as a hornet. So, sez I, I’ll wait until she’s asleep before I trust myself. An’ its jes’ havin’ yer wits about ye. She was too drunk to remember what she did. Did she break yer head agen? If she did I’ll go an’ complain of her. Whin yer tired a-havin’ her round, we’ll git her sent up to th’ Island. An’ now get me some grub.”
“She only struck me wunst. But she burnt up something,” and Dil began to sob. “But, Owny, ye were not in, an’ it was a – a – ”
“Git off de stump wid yer high notions! I’d save me head wid any kind o’ lie. You gals don’t know nothin’ but to run right agin de stun wall. Ye see, it’s a bit o’ circumwention, an’ ye jes’ use yer brains a bit to save yer skull er yer back. But dat old gin-mill ain’t goin’ to boss me much longer. Ye’ll see, an’ be moighty s’prised. An’ here’s a nickel, Dil.”
Owen ate his breakfast, and then taking out a cigarette, lighted it, and swaggered off.
Dil woke Dan, and gave him his meal, as two babies were asleep and the other sat on the floor munching a crust.
Bess slept late. Poor Dil went about her work in a strange maze. Owny slipped out of a great many things, and told lies about them, and this morning he had been very “cute.” Dil sighed. She could not have done it. She would have blundered and betrayed herself. And yet she had told a lie about the book. It had not saved the book, but perhaps it had saved her and Bess from something more terrible.
It was a sad day for both of them. The babies were cross. One had a bad cold and a croupy sound in his voice. There was not even a glint of sunshine at noon now; the high houses kept it out of the court. But the day wore to an end. Mrs. Quinn did not go out at all in the evening. Owen was very jaunty, and pretended to study.
Mrs. Quinn’s reformation lasted two or three days. She had “taken her oath she would niver step fut inside o’ Mrs. MacBride’s dure;” but Mrs. MacBride had no notion of losing so good a customer. To be sure, Mrs. Quinn was getting rather quarrelsome and overbearing, but she was good company for the most part.
Winter had fairly set in with December. There was much talk of dull times, and the babies fell off after Monday and Tuesday. Owen and his mother seemed continually on the warpath. He was a big, stout boy of his age; and, when he thought it was safe, played hookey, put in coal, ran errands, sold papers, and did whatever his hands found to do with all his might, even to snivyin’ on the corner grocer. Dan was pretty shrewd and sharp, though not so daring, but could swear and smoke cigar ends with the worst of them.
There was an occasional religious visitor in the court besides the sisters and the priests. But Dil never mentioned them to her mother now. Besides, she did not want to leave Bess for even an hour or two at the Mission School; she hated to spend a moment away from her. Since the loss of the book and the picture they clung closer to each other. There was only one anticipation now, waiting for spring and John Travis.
And as other things failed, their faith seemed to centre about this. They lived on the hope of heaven with the fervor of saints who had known and loved the Lord, and were counting all the appointed days, as if the glories had already been revealed, and they were walking by faith.
VIII – BESS
Everybody began to talk about Christmas. Last year Dil had wheeled Bess around to see the shop windows.
“If it would come reel nice and warm, an’ there wasn’t any babies! But it’s awful cold when you just have a winder open to sweep, an’ I couldn’t stan’ bein’ out in it.”
“No, you couldn’t,” and Dil sighed.
Bess was ethereal now. Her large, bright eyes, her golden hair, and the pink that came in her cheeks every afternoon, gave a suggestion of the picture. Then she was so curiously, so nervously alive, that, afraid as Dil was of every change, she blindly hoped some of these things were indications of recovery.
But Dil’s poor head ached a good deal now, and she had restless nights when it seemed as if she would burn up. As she listened to Bess’s beautiful thoughts and strange visions, she felt discouraged with her own stupidness. She was so physically worn out that her brain was inert.
“I wisht I knew what Christmas was all about,” sighed Bess. “An’ Santa Claus! Mammy says there ain’t no such thing, an’ he couldn’t come down a chimbly. But he gives a norful lot of things to some folks. An’, Dil, we used to hang up our stockings. What’s it for, anyway?”
Dil gave a long sigh, and the wrinkles of perplexity deepened and strayed over her short nose.
“Johnny Dike’s goin’ to see the cradle in the manger on Christmas Eve. An’ he’s goin’ to take a present, some money he’s been savin’ up. What makes Christ get born agen? ’Tain’t the Lord Jesus, though; for he’s a big man now, if he can carry children in his arms.”
“We might ast Johnny or Misses Murphy,” suggested Dil.
“They’re Catholics. An’ there’s such curis things, with people tellin’ you diff’rent. I don’t see how he can be born every Christmas. I b’lieve I like Santa Claus best. You don’t have to give him nothin’ when you ain’t got even a penny. O Dil,” pausing to rest a moment, “don’t you wisht he was here! He’d know all about it. Rich folks have chances, an’ get to know everything. He’s a long way off. When mammy was clever t’other night, I ast her ’bout comin’ crost the oshin, ’Lantic Oshin, ’tis; an’ she said you sailed an’ sailed two whole weeks. An’ if he don’t start ’till April, there’ll be two weeks more. I keep countin’ thim up.”
Dil had been warming some broth.
“I wisht you’d take a little of this,” she said. “The ’Spensary doctor said you must have it. An’ you ain’t eat nothin’ but the pear an’ the piece of norange.”
“They was so good and juicy. My throat’s hot, an’ kinder dry an’ sore. Things don’t taste good.”
“I wisht I could get some more of that nice medicine. The ’Spensary stuff ain’t no good. I might ast Patsey to lend me some money; but how’d I ever get any to pay him back?”
They looked at each other in wonderment. Then the child’s feverish eyes sparkled.
“O Dil, I know he’d help us pay it back, for mammy was so cross to the lady he sent that she won’t come no more. An’ ’twouldn’t been no use to give mammy the money. O Dil, we’ve had ten whole dollars. Wasn’t it lovely? An’ I wisht the time would spin round an’ round, faster’n ever. I get so tired waitin’. Seems sometimes ’s if I jes’ couldn’t draw another breath.”
“Oh, you must! you must!” cried Dil in affright. “For when people stop breathin’, they die.”
“An’ I wanter live, so’s we can get started for heaven. I’ll be better when it’s all nice an’ warm out o’ doors, an’ sunshiny. I’d jes’ like to live in sunshine. You see, when the babies cry, it makes me feel all roughened up like. An’ I’m that feared o’ mammy when she an’ Owny hev scrimmiges. There’s a lump comes in my throat ’n’ chokes me. But I’m gonter live. Don’t you know how las’ winter I was so poor an’ measlin’? An’ I crawled out in the spring. Owny was readin’ in his lesson ’bout some things doin’ that way;” and Bess gave a pitiful ghost of a laugh.
“Won’t you lay me down?” she asked presently. “My poor back’s so tired.”
“You must eat some broth first.”
She did not want it, and the effort she made to please Dil was heroic.
She often asked to be laid down now. When the babies cried, it seemed as if knives were being thrust into her head. She had so many queer fancies, but she tried not to tell the bad ones to Dil. One moment she seemed out of doors, with the cold rasping her skin everywhere, going down her back like a stream of ice-water. Then she was scorched with heat, her skin crisping up and cracking. When she was pillowed up, it seemed as if she would fall to pieces; when she was laid down, the poor bones ached.
And in that land of “pure delight” there was no pain, no sickness, no chilling winds! And perhaps the babies didn’t cry, – maybe there were no babies. They mightn’t be big enough to go, and they would be scared at the giants.
Monday night began badly. A neighbor came in and made a complaint about Owen, and threatened to have him arrested. He had broken a pane of glass and kicked her dog. Mrs. Quinn was tired with a big wash; and this made her furious, though she went at the woman in no gentle terms.
Owen had not been so much to blame. The miserable little cur had snapped at him, and he had kicked it away. Then, as it ran yelping along, it was too good a mark for a boy to miss. He shied a piece of oyster shell; but, as bad luck would have it, he missed the dog, and the missile bounded down to a basement window.
“I’ll put that lad in the ’form school this blissid week! A pore woman can’t take care o’ sich a lot o’ brats, an’ they fuller ’n an egg of diviltry. I’ll jist see – ”
She began to hunt around for the end of a stout trunk-strap. Dil trembled in every limb. If Owny would only stay away! But he didn’t. He came up the stairs whistling gayly; for he had earned a quarter, and he was saving money to have a regular Christmas blow-out.
His mother fell on him. There was a tremendous battle. Owen kicked and scratched and swore, and his mother’s language was not over choice. He managed to wriggle away, and reached the door, crying out, as he sprang down the stairs, that he’d “niver darken the dure agin, if he lived a hundred years;” and added to it an imprecation that made Dil turn faint and cold.
Bess went into a hysteric.
“Drat the young un! Shet yer head, er you’ll get some, ye bag o’ bones! Ye shud a ben in yer grave long ago. Take her in t’other room, Dil. I can’t bide the sight uv her!”
Dil uttered not a word, though the room spun round. She poured her mother a cup of tea, and had a dish of nicely browned sausage, and some baked potatoes. Mrs. Quinn ate, and threatened dire things about Owny. Then she put on her shawl, throwing it over her head, which meant an hour or two or three at Mrs. MacBride’s, though she started to look for Owen.
Dil brought the wagon back, and nursed and soothed Bess.
“I wouldn’t ever come back, if I was Owny,” she said in her spasmodic tone, for the nervous fright was still strong upon her. “An’ if I had two good legs, we’d run away too. Dil, I think she’d jes’ be glad to have me die.”
Dilsey Quinn shuddered. Just a few months longer —
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.