In Wild Rose Time Part 19

"The pore dear," said Mrs. Murphy tenderly, viewing Bess; "I'm thinkin'

we better care for her afore Dil wakes up. An' she never havin' had a bit o' christenin', along o' Mrs. Quinn not belevin' nothin'. I've heard her talk a way that wud set yer blood a-chill."

"The Lord took the little ones in his arms and said, 'Forbid them not,'

and I guess he won't mind the christenin'. And this child's been patient and cheerful beyond common. I think she's had a lot of Christian grace unbeknownst. She'd look up with her sweet smile that almost broke your heart, when Dil would be takin' her out. And how she stood everything-"

"Mrs. Quinn's been not so savage as she used. 'Tain't nat'rel for mothers to be so cruel. But 'twas last March, if I don't disremember-you were not here then, Mrs. Minch-she made such a nawful 'ruction that the neighbors called in de cop, and nothin' but her beggin' off an' sayin'

the children wud starve, an' promisin' on her bended knees, which she never uses fer a bit o' prayer, saved her. An' she don't bang 'em about quite so bad since."

"There was an awful time the other night."

"Yes; that Owny's too smart, an' mebbe he would er banged her in a fair fight; but he cut stick, an' hasn't shown hide ner hair sence."

Mrs. Murphy leaned over Dil, and uttered a benison in her ignorant Christianity.

"'Pears like they jist oughten to go togither. She looks like a ghost, poor thing." Then she lifted Bess from the shabby wagon that had been her home so long, and brought her out on the lounge.

"Will ye look at them poor legs?" she said with a cry. "They do make yer heart bleed. She was a smart little thing, goin' to school, whin it happened. The father oughter been hung fer it; fer it was he that did it, murderin' by inches. An' he beat Mrs. Quinn to a jelly. Wudden't ye think now she'd had enough o' rum, not to be goin' the same road?"

Mrs. Minch sighed.

"It's stuck everywhere, right in a body's way, Mrs. Murphy. They're taxin' people for prisons and 'sylums and homes for orphans, when they haven't the sense to shut up the saloons and gin-mills. Look at that Mrs. MacBride, smilin' and making it pleasant for a hard-workin' woman, havin' a nice warm room for gossipin' and such, and bein' clever enough to make them run up a score, and get her money once a week. There's no dancin' nor carousin'; but it takes in the decentish sort of women, and turns 'em out as bad as the men. It's the poor families that's pinched and starved and set crazy. When I think of my boy growin' up in it-but where'll poor folks go? Saloons are all over. They fight for the chance to ruin folks."

"Thrue for ye, Mrs. Minch. An' sorra indade it is whin ye do be sad that they come into the world, an' rej'ice whin they go out of it young.

They're spared a dale o' pain an' care. Yet it do seem wrong some way.

Childers should be a blessin' an' comfort to yer ould age. Things is changed in the world. One gits that confused with thinkin'-"

They had prepared some water, but the poor little body was clean and sweet. It was heart-breaking to see it.

Mrs. Murphy went into the bedroom for some clothing.

"Will ye look at the sort o' bury Dil made out o' boxes an' covered.

She's that handy an' full o' wit. An' them clo'es is like snow, and all mended nate. I don't see how she cud do it wid all the babies. An' I do be thinkin' it was Dil's love that kep' the little wan alive so long. It was like medicine; her warm arms an' cheery smile, her patience an'

thinkin' what wud pleasure Bess. If there don't be a straight road to hiven fer thim both-an' purgatory ought to be saved fer the ither kind.

Now, it don't look a bit sinsible that little lamb shud suffer whin she's suffered so much a'ready! Sometimes I most think the church has mistook whin they save the rumsellers an' the great wicked men wid their money, cause they kin pay fer prayers."

"She's in heaven, if there is any heaven." Sometimes Mrs. Minch doubted.

"An' oh, Mrs. Minch, if there wasn't any hiven to rest us at last, how cud we live through the cruel world?"

Such a pathetic cry as it was!

The doctor came. He looked at Bess, and asked a few questions, made a note or two in his book, cutting short Mrs. Murphy's explanations.

"Yes, yes; I've seen the child. She's been strung on fine steel wires, or they'd given way long ago. And the old woman? Strange how they go on living when they had a hundred times better be dead, and the people of some account go out like the snuff of a candle! Where's the girl?"

glancing around.

"In there." Mrs. Murphy nodded towards the room.

Dil lay motionless, but for the faint breathing. The doctor listened with his ear down on her heart, felt her pulse, and seemed in a study.

"Let her sleep as long as she can. She has worn herself out. She used to wheel this one round," nodding. "Have in some fresh air; the room is stifling. How any one lives-"

Dil roused without opening her eyes.

"Was it you, Bess? Oh, _is_ it morning?"

"No, no; go to sleep again. The night's just begun. She's dead tired out," to the women. "Let the mother come round when she can, and get rid of these young ones before the girl wakes. If there's anything else wanted, send round. Are these people very poor?"

"Mrs. Quinn goes out washing. And the babies are taken in by the day. I don't know"-doubtfully.

"The mother will settle that. And the old lady-the city must bury her, I suppose?"

"'Deed an' it must. She's had nothin' but her pinshin, an' has no folk."

They found Bess's nice white frock pinned up in a cloth, beautifully ironed and laid away in antic.i.p.ation of the journey-the very journey she had taken so unknowingly. They put it on, and smoothed down the poor little legs with tender hands. Then they laid her on her mother's bed until Dil should rouse.

Mrs. Minch brought up her sewing, while Mrs. Murphy went to her own room to look after Mrs. Bolan. Mrs. Carr, another neighbor, came in and helped with the babies, and wondered how Dilly Quinn had ever been able to do as much work as a hearty, grown woman, and she not bigger than a ten-year-old child!

It was three o'clock when Dil roused. Mrs. Minch sat quietly at her sewing. The wagon was pushed clear up to the window, empty.

"O Mrs. Minch, what has happened?" She sprang out, wild-eyed and quivering.

"My dear," Mrs. Minch took her in her arms, "Bess is better off. She is in heaven with the good G.o.d, who will be tenderer of her than any human friend. She will have no more pain. She will be well and strong, and a lovely angel. You would not wish her back-"

"Yes, I do, I do. We was goin' to heaven together in the spring; we had it all planned. And Bess wouldn't 'a' gone without me-oh, I know she wouldn't. Where is she? What have you done with her?"

"She is in there."

Dil flew to her mother's room. The ironing-board lay on the bed, and a strange, still shape imperfectly outlined under the sheet.

"She looks like an angel," said Mrs. Minch.

Dilsey Quinn stared, bereft of her senses for some moments. Slowly the incidents of the morning came over her-of last night, when Bess seemed so improved, so hopeful. She had seen dead people. Death was no stranger in Barker's Court. There were "wakes," and quiet, hurried burials. They died and were taken away, that was all. With a curious, obstinate unreason she knew Bess had died like all the rest; yet she had been so sure Bess could not die. But she had _not_ gone to heaven. The breath had gone out of her body, but a breath couldn't go to heaven. She had left her body here; the poor hurted legs the Lord Jesus would have mended. They could never be mended now, for they would be put in the ground.

She stood so still that Mrs. Minch raised the sheet. The pinched look was going out of the face, as it often does after death. The eyes were closed; the long bronze lashes were beautiful; the thin lips had been pressed rather tightly, as if in fear that they might betray their secret. Yet it had a strange, serene beauty.

Dil did not cry or utter a sound. A great solitude enveloped her, as if she were alone in a wide desert. She would never have any one to love or caress; a thick darkness settled all about her, as if now she and Bess were shut out of heaven forever. For what would the palace be, and the angels innumerable, if Bess was not there?

She turned and went to her own room, began to pick up the things and tidy it, spread the cot, shook the cushion of the poor dilapidated wagon, carefully laid over it the blanket she had taken so much pains to make.

"Mrs. Minch," she said, "will you please bring Bess in here. Mammy wouldn't like her there. An' I want her here-on my bed."

Mrs. Minch looked at her in surprise. The face was rigid and unresponsive, but there was an awesome, chilling sorrow in every line.

She reverently obeyed Dil's behest.

"You are very good. You see, no one cared 'bout her but jes' me an'

Patsey an'"-Ah, what _would_ John Travis say? "An' I want to keep her here."

"My dear, dear child-"