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.

“Sit here an’ hold my two hands. Dil, dear, I’m as much trouble as the babies; but I most know I’ll be better to-morrow. And when I go fast asleep, you run right to bed, an’ it’ll be all right. I feel so light an’ lovely, ’most ’s if I was a wild rose—a soft, pink, satiny wild rose.”

There was a little pleasant gurgle that did duty for a laugh. Dil kissed her and crooned sleepily. As she held the hands, the fever seemed to go out of them. The little golden head had such a restful poise. The breath came slowly, easily.

Dil kissed her with the long, yearning, passionate kisses that take one’s whole soul, that leave some souls bankrupt indeed. All her own being was in a strange quiver. Oh, did it mean that Bess would be better to-morrow? She believed it in some strange, undefined way, and was at peace.

Perhaps she drowsed. She started, feeling stiff and chilly. Bess slept tranquilly. There was no pain to make her moan unconsciously. Why, it was almost a foretaste of that blessed land.

Dil wrapped herself in an old shawl and dropped down on her little cot. In all the glad wide world there was no one to come in and comfort her, and so God sent his angel—kindly sleep. The night breath that he breathed over her had the fragrance of wild roses.

The alarm clock roused her. It was dark now when her day began. Bess was quiet; and she drew the blanket more closely around her, for the morning felt bitterly cold. She stirred the fire, made her mother’s coffee, and broiled a bit of steak. The windows were all ice, which seldom happened.

“It’s enough to kill one to go out in the cold,” declared Mrs. Quinn. “I’ll not be home airly the night, for I promised cook to stay a bit an’ gev her a hand wid th’ fancy fixin’s. Foine doin’s they’re to be havin’. An’ if that thafe of the world Owny comes in, ye be soft spoken jist as if nothin’ had happened. I’ll settle wid him. I’ll gev him some Christmas!”

With that she was off. Then Dan came for his breakfast.

“I do miss Owny so,” he half whimpered. “Ther’ ain’t a boy in the street who could think up such roarin’ fun.”

“Whisht!” Dil said softly. “Bess is asleep, an’ I won’t have her worrited. She had a bad time yist’day with the babies. I do hope there won’t be no such crowd to-day. Seven babies an’ that was thirty-five cents. Mother might be given Bess an’ me some Christmas.”

Dan laughed at that.

Dil sighed. She drank a little coffee, but she could not eat. Two sleepy babies came. She washed the dishes, and spread up her mother’s bed, putting the babies in there. It was dark, with no ventilation but the door, and kept warm easily.

Another and another baby, one crying for its mother. When Dil had hushed it she took a vague glance at Bess, whose fair head lay there so restful. The frost was melting off the window-panes, and she put out the lamp. With a baby in her arms she sat down and rocked.

A curious sense of something, not quite anxiety, came over her presently. She went to Bess and raised the blanket, peering at the small white face that seemed almost to light the obscurity of the room. The eyes were half-closed. The lips were parted with a smile, and the little white teeth just showed. One hand seemed to hold up the chin.

Dil stooped and kissed her. O God! what was it? What was it? For Bess was marble cold.

“O Bess, Bess!” she cried in mortal terror. “Wake up, my darlin’! Wake up an’ get warm.”

As she seized the hand, a startling change came over the child. The chin dropped. The pretty smile was gone. The eyes looked out with awesome fixedness. Her heart stood still as if she were frozen.

Then, moved by horror, she flew up-stairs, her breath almost strangling her.

“O Misses Murphy!” she shrieked, “there’s somethin’ strange come over Bess. She’s never been like this—an’ cold—”

“Yis, dear. I’ll jist look at poor Mis’ Bolan. She do be goin’ very fast. All night she was that res’les’ talkin’ of the beautiful hymn the man sung, an’ beggin’ him to sing it agen; an’ then hearin’ angels an’ talkin’ ’bout green fields an’ flowers, an’ where there do be no night. They do be mostly so at the last, rememberin’ beautiful things.”

An awful terror clutched Dil at the heart, as she recalled Bess’s talk of the wild roses. So cruel a fear smote her that her very tongue seemed paralyzed.

“You don’t mean”—she cried wildly.

Mrs. Murphy’s thoughts were running on Mrs. Bolan.

“She’ll not last the day through. Pore dear, there’s not much pleasure to the’r ould lives. But she did be so longin’ to have that man come agen—”

She had taken Dil’s hand, and they were going down-stairs. A baby had rolled off the lounge and bumped his head, and was screaming. But Dil hardly heard him. They went through to the tiny room.

“Ah, pore dear! Pore lamb! She’s gone, an’ she’s outen all her mis’ry. She’ll niver suffer any more. An’ she’s safe—”

Mrs. Murphy paused, not quite sure she could give that comfort. There was purgatory, and the poor thing had never been christened. She was extremely ignorant of her own church doctrine; but she felt the bitter injustice of condemning this poor soul to everlasting torment for her mother’s neglect.

“No, Misses Murphy,” cried Dil in the accent of utter disbelief, “she can’t be—Oh, hurry an’ do somethin’ for her. She’s jes fainted! Le’s get her warm agen. Bring her out to the fire, an’ I’ll run for the ’Spensary doctor. Oh, no, she isn’t—she wouldn’t—’cause we was goin’ to heaven together in the spring, an’ she couldn’t leave me without a word—don’t you see?”

Oh, the wild, imploring eyes that pierced Mrs. Murphy through! the heart-breaking eyes that entreated vainly, refusing the one unalterable fiat!

“Ah, dear, they’sen don’t hev any ch’ice. O Dil, Dilly Quinn!” and she clasped the child to her heart. “You mustn’t take on so, dear! Shure, God knows best. Mebbe he’s better’n folks an’ the things they say. She won’t suffer any more, pore dear. I’ve seen it for weeks, an’ knowed what must come.”

Dil gave a few long, dry, terrible sobs; then she lay helpless in Mrs. Murphy’s arms. The kind soul placed her on the cot, sprinkled water on her face, chafed her hands; but Dil lay as one dead.

Then she ran down-stairs.

“O Mrs. Minch! have ye iver a bit of camphire? I used the last o’ mine this mornin’ for the pore old craythur. Bessy Quinn’s gone at last, an’ is cold, an’ Dil’s that overcome she’s gone in an norful faint. Come up a bit, do. An’ that haythen woman’ll not care more’n if it was a kitten. She do be the hardest!”

Mrs. Minch laid down her work, looked up the “camphire,” and plied her caller with inquiries.

All their efforts were unavailing, though Dil opened her eyes once, and at intervals a shudder ran through her frame.

“Yes, the poor dear’s dead and cold, and it’s God’s mercy, Mrs. Murphy. How she’s lived so long’s a mystery; but Dil’s been more watchful than most any mother. She was the sweetest and patientest, and loved her beyond all things. Mrs. Quinn hasn’t any human feeling in her, and there’s plenty like her, more’s the shame. When you bring helpless little ones in the world, it’s not their fault. And when they are bruised and banged and made helpless, as that poor little one, a mother’s heart should have pitied her.”

“Oh, dear, it’s the rum that takes out all the nateral feelin’. An’ one ’ud think she’d had enough of it in her husband, not to be goin’ the same way. An’ pore Dil carin’ for them babies an’ doin’ a woman’s work, a-stuntin’ her an’ makin’ her old afore her time. An’, if ye’ll stay, I’ll go fer th’ ’Spensary doctor. Sorra a Christmas it’ll be in the court. Mr. Sheehan is dyin’, an’ Mrs. Neefus’s baby went yes’tday, an’ the ould woman—but they do be dyin’ all the time, some wan.”

Mrs. Minch bent over Dil with pitying eyes. She had seen better times, and lived in a nicer neighborhood than Barker’s Court. But poverty had driven her down step by step. She had her old deaf father to care for, and a son growing up; and the three rooms, such as they were, proved cheaper than anything she had seen, though she was on the lookout all the time. She had not made much intimacy with her neighbors, except that through her pity for Mrs. Bolan she had come to know good-hearted Mrs. Murphy quite well, and she had been interested in Dilsey and Bess. But most of the people in the court were afraid of Mrs. Quinn’s tongue.

“The poor thing!” she sighed. “She is a little old woman already. She has never had leave to grow as children should. Oh, why are they brought into the world to suffer?”

She had once thought herself full of trust and love to God, but so many questions had come to the surface with her years of hard experience. Why this little Bess should have suffered four years—but both parents had given her a good constitution, that in some positions in life might have made her a useful factor instead of mere waste material.

Then she took up one of the crying babies. Another was clamoring loudly, “Bed, bed,” and opening wide his mouth to show her how empty it was.

“Oh, how ever did she look after them all?” she cried in despair as Mrs. Murphy entered.

“She had a rare way with childers, that she had.” Mrs. Murphy cut a chunk from the loaf of bread and gave the hungry baby. “An’ the docthor will be in as soon as he kin, but there’s a sight o’ folks waitin’. I have heerd say a grane Christmas made fat graveyards, but this is cold enough to be black. An’ how’s the poor gurl?”

“She seems—asleep somehow, and you can notice her breathin’.”

“I’ll look after Mrs. Bolan, an’ kem down agen,” said Mrs. Murphy, disappearing.