In Wild Rose Time Part 23

Where was he? "'Crost the 'Lantic Os.h.i.+n," as Bess had said. She had no more idea of the Atlantic Ocean than she had of the location of heaven; not as much, for it seemed as if heaven might be over beyond the setting sun. But John Travis was still in the world. And as she sat there it seemed as if she must live to tell him about Bess, and an aim brightened her dreary life. Two months and a little more. She would come over often when the weather grew pleasanter. Already she began to feel better.

But she could not take the heartfelt glow back to Barker's Court. The loneliness settled down like a pall. The long, long evenings were intolerable. Sometimes she crept down and spent an hour with Mrs. Minch; but she was afraid her mother might come home inopportunely.

Mrs. Quinn was growing much worse in her habits; and she lost her best place, which did not improve her temper. Dil's apathetic manner angered her as well; yet the house was kept cleaner than ever, her mother's clothes were always in order, and there was nothing to find fault about, except the lack of babies, which Dil could not help.

One night in February there was quite a carouse at Mrs. MacBride's. It was midnight when Mrs. Quinn returned. Poor Dil should have been in bed, out of harm's way; but she had been living over that fateful night, believing with the purest and most pa.s.sionate fervor that she might have called Bess back to life if she could have gone to her.

A man helped Mrs. Quinn up the stairs, and tumbled her in the door. Dil sprang up in affright.

Mrs. Quinn stared at Dil with bleared eyes.

"What yer doin' up this time o' night? Yees do be enough to set wan crazy wid yer mewlin', pinched-up mug that's humbly as a stun! Why d'n'

ye laugh an' hev a good time, an' make the house decent, stead er like a grave? I'm not goin' to stan' it-d'y hear?"

Dil glanced about in alarm, and would have fled to her room, but her mother caught her by the arm.

"Come," she cried, "I'll shake the glumness outen yer. Why, ye'd spile vinegar even! I'll tache ye a little friskiness."

Dil struggled to free herself, but uttered no word.

"I'll tache ye!" she shouted, the devil put into her by rum driving her to fury. "Ye measlin', grouty little thing! forever moanin' an' cryin'

fer the sickly brat that's gone, good riddance to her! Come, now, step up lively. We'll make a night of it, an' ye shall hev a sup o' gin to wet yer t'roat whin ye get warm."

She whirled Dil about savagely, until she was dizzy and faint, and broke away in desperation. But her mother clutched her again, and gave her a resounding box on the ear. She managed, as she was whirled round, to open the door into the hall, and scream with all the strength she could summon. Her mother seized her again with a dreadful imprecation. What happened, how it happened in the dark, Dil could never clearly remember.

Fred Minch sprang up and opened the door. Something b.u.mped down the stairs, and lay in a heap at his feet.

"It's that poor little girl, mother. She's bleeding, killed maybe. I'll run for a policeman."

Mrs. Minch picked up the senseless child. Mrs. Quinn went on yelling, swearing, smas.h.i.+ng things, and dancing like a mad woman.

Rows were no uncommon thing in the court. Windows were thrown up. Who was it? Some wretched wife being beaten? And when they found it was Mrs.

Quinn, they shook their heads. She had been going to the dogs of late, it was plain to see.

When the officer came, she made such a vigorous onslaught that he was forced to call a.s.sistance. She was after Owen now, and Dil had hidden him. The threats she uttered were enough to make one shudder. They mastered her at length, and dragged her down-stairs, where Mrs. Minch was waiting to explain poor Dil's plight.

She was still unconscious when the ambulance came. There was a bad cut up in the edge of her hair, but no bones seemed to be broken that any one could discover.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Minch, when quiet was restored. "It would be a blessing if she could go with Bess. She'll never get over the loss.

She's not been the same since, and many a day my heart's ached for her."

"She were a nice smart woman, that Mrs. Quinn, if she'd a let rum alone," was the general verdict. "An' though she took the child's death in a sensible manner, it broke her all up," said some of the court people, "and she went to hard drinking at once."

When Mrs. Quinn's trial came on, Dil's life was still hanging in a doubtful balance. She was sent to the Island for ninety days, for drunkenness and a.s.saulting the policeman, and would there await the final result.

But Mrs. MacBride went on adding to her bank account and her real estate, to the wreck of youth and womanhood, to the prisons and paupers'

graves. She kept such a very respectable place, the law never meddled with her.

Dilsey Quinn lay on her hospital pallet delirious, but never violent, and lapsing into unconsciousness. She had a dislocated shoulder, two broken ribs, and sundry bruises; but it was the years of hard work, foul air, dark rooms, and unsanitary conditions that the doctors had to fight against blindly. Her bruised and swollen face, her stubby, red-brown hair that had been cut short, her wide mouth and short nose, made no appeal in the name of beauty. She was merely a "case."

Her nurse was a youngish, kindly woman, used to such incidents. Beaten wives and children were often sent to her ward. In the early part of her experience she had suffered with them. Now she had grown-not unsympathetic, but wiser; tender she would always be.

Now and then there was something so wistful in the child's eyes that it touched her heart. She lay so patient and uncomplaining, she made so little trouble.

But sometimes the woman wondered why they were brought into the world to suffer, starve, and die. What wise purpose was served?

XI-WHEN HE AND SUMMER COMES

One morning Dilsey Quinn looked slowly and curiously around the ward, and then asked the nurse how she came there.

She lay a long while, piecing out the story, remembering what was back of it.

"As you did not die, your mother will come out of the Island early in June. I suppose it was a sort of accident. Was she used to beating you?"

A flush went over the pallid face.

"No," she replied quietly.

"Do you want to go back to her?"

"O, no, no!" with a note of terror in the voice. "I couldn't live with her no more."

"Have you any friends?"

There was a hesitating look, but the child did not answer. Had she any friend? Yes, Patsey.

"How would you like to go to some of the Homes? You would be well treated and taught some trade," the nurse ventured kindly.

"I can work for myself," returned Dil, with quiet decision. "I can keep house, an' tend babies, an' wash an' iron."

"Would you like a nice place in the country?"

"I want to stay in the city," she said slowly. "There's some one I want to see. It's 'bout my little sister that's dead. I can soon get some work."

"How old are you?"

"I shall be fifteen long in the summer, a spell after Fourth of July."

"You are very small. Are you quite sure?"

"Oh, yes. Why, you see, I was fourteen last summer. Jack was next to me.

Then Bess. She was 'leven, but she hadn't grown any 'cause she was hurted."

"Hurt? How?" the nurse asked with interest. The children told their stories so simply.