Part 22 (1/2)
Her mother would not let her bring Bess back to life if she knew. And she could not explain-there was nothing to be put in words. You just went and did it. Oh, it seemed as if something might have helped her, some great, strong power that made people rich and happy, and gave them so many lovely things. Bess was only such a little out of all the big world!
And now she would never, never come back. An awful, cold despair succeeded the pa.s.sion. They could never go to heaven together. Bess was dead, just like Mrs. Bolan, like the people who died in the court. They would take her out and bury her. That was all!
An indescribable horror fell upon Dil. The horror of the solitude that comes of doubt and darkness, the ghost of that final solitude that seems watching at the gates of death. Bess had gone off, been swallowed up in it, and there was nothing, nothing!
The morning dawned at last. Dil, half-stifled with bad air, and racked with that fearful mental inquisition, collapsed. She seemed shrunken and old, as old as Mrs. Bolan. There was nothing more for her.
Bridget Malone was to stay. The two women had a cup of coffee together, then Mrs. Quinn went to see the 'Spensary doctor. When she came back they spread a sheet over the small table, and brought out the body of the dead child.
”Folks'll be comin' in to see it,” she said with some pride. ”An' she looks that swate no one need be ashamed of her! She'd been a purty girl but for the accidint, for that stopped her growin'. I've had a long siege wid her, the Lord knows! An' now I must run up to Studdemyer's an'
tell 'em of the sorrow an' trouble, an' mebbe I'll get lave to do somethin' to-morrow. But I'll be back afore the men kim in.”
Dil moved about silently, and went frequently into her own room. The intense fervor and belief of the night had vanished. The court children straggled in and stared, half-afraid. The women said she was better off and out of her trouble; and now and then one spoke of her being in heaven.
She was not in heaven, Dil knew. And how could she be better off in the cold, hateful ground than in her warm, loving arms?
One gets strangely accustomed to the dear dead face. Dil paid it brief visits when no one else was by. A little change had come over it,-the inevitable change; but to Dil it seemed as if Bess was growing sorry that she had died; that the little shrinking everywhere meant regret.
Mrs. Quinn came back with a gift from her sympathetic customer, who imagined she had found heroic motherly devotion in this poor woman who had four children to care for. There were numberless visitors who gossiped and were treated to beer-there was quite a dinner, with an immense steak to grace the feast.
Presently a man came in and took the measure of the body, and then went up-stairs. An hour later a wagon stopped before the court, and two men shouldered a coffin. The small one went into the Quinns'. It was of stained wood with a muslin lining, and the little body was laid in its narrow home. Then the attendant went up-stairs, and some of the women followed. There was a confusion of voices, then the two men came lumbering down the winding stairs with their load, slid it into the wagon, while a curious throng gathered round in spite of the chill blast. They came up again, one man with a screwdriver in his hand.
”Take a look at her, Dil. Poor dear, she's gone to her long rest.”
Mrs. Quinn pushed her forward. The women fell back a little. The man put down the coffin lid,-it was all in one piece,-and began to screw it down.
Dil gave a wild shriek as it closed over the pretty golden head, and would have dropped to the floor, but some one caught her. The man completed his task, picked up the burthen, it was so light; and when Dil came out of her faint Bess, with two other dead bodies, was being jolted over the stones to a pauper's grave.
”Come now,” began Mrs. Quinn, ”it's full time ye wer sensible. She's dead, an' it's a blissid relase, an' she's got no more suf'frin' to go tru wid. It's bin a hard thrial, an' she not able to take a step this four year. Ye'd better go to bed an' rist, for ye look quare 'bout the eyes. Ye kin have my bed if ye like.”
Dil shook her head, and tottered to her own little cot. ”O Bess! Bess!”
she cried in her heart, but her lips made no sound. How could people die who were not old nor sick? For _she_ wanted to die, but she did not know how.
There were people around until after supper. Then two or three of them went down to Mrs. MacBride's. Mrs. Murphy promised to stay with Dil.
”Shure,” said some one, ”there'll be a third goin' out prisintly. It's bad luck when more than wan corpse goes over the trashold to wunst. An'
that Dil don't look like long livin'. She's jist worn hersilf out wid that other poor thing.”
In the evening Patsey came rus.h.i.+ng up-stairs with some Christmas for the two girls. He was shocked beyond measure. He hardly dared go in and see Dil, but she called him in a weak, sad tone.
”O Dil!” That was all he said for many minutes, as he sat on the side of the cot, holding her hand. The strange look in her face awed him.
”Have ye seen Owny?” he whispered.
”Not since the night mother beat him.”
”Owny-he's safe. He'll do well. Don't bodder yees poor head 'bout him.
He's keepin' out o' der way, 'cause he's 'fraid de old woman'll set de cop on him. He ain't comin' back no more, but don't you worry. But he'll feel nawful! O Dil, I never s'posed she'd go so soon, if she was 'pindlin' an' weakly. Seemed when she'd lived so long-”
Patsey broke down there.