In Wild Rose Time

Mrs. Wilson said she must go in home, but she would run over in the morning. Patsey expressed his thanks in a frank, boyish manner, and Dil’s eyes said at least half of hers.

Then Mrs. Brian and her husband returned, and she stopped to hear what kind of a picnic they had had. Between the three they told all the story and the fright.

“Yes; she must give up all but Nelly, for her mother wouldn’t know how to stand it on such a short notice. The child achilly cries for you on Sundays, her mother told me. But we can’t have you killed for any babies in the land,” said Mrs. Brian emphatically.

“That’s the talk!” exclaimed Patsey.

“Why, I feel jes’ as well as ever, an’ all rested like,” and Dil sat up, smiling. “We walked so much to-day, but to-morrow I’ll be all right.”

She seemed quite right the next morning. When Mrs. Brian’s “man” had gone, she came in and helped Dil with the breakfast things. Mrs. Cairns would leave her baby for the half-day, and Nelly came. Mrs. Wilson looked in upon her, with a bit of sewing in her hand. Dil did not try to do anything besides entertain the little ones. How sweet and naturally she did it!

But she was so tired she lay on the lounge a long while in the afternoon. Nelly played about, and talked in her pretty broken fashion. Dil dreamed of the vision she had seen.

About five Mrs. Wilson came in, her thin face lighted with eagerness.

“I must tell you something quite delightful,” she began. “I sew for several ladies; and one of them, a Miss Lawrence, came in about an hour ago. She’s interested in several charities, and I asked her about the places where they sent poor tired children to recruit. My dear, she is on the committee of a society; and they have a beautiful large country-house, where they can take in from twenty to thirty children. There’s a housekeeper and nurses, and different young ladies go up to stay a week or two at a time. They read to the children, and take them out in the woods, and help them at playing games; and there are music and singing, and great shady trees to sit under, and a barn full of new-mown hay, where they can play and tumble. Why, it made me wish I was a little girl!”

Mrs. Wilson put her hand on her side, for she had talked herself out of breath.

Dil’s eyes shone with delight. She could see it all in a vivid manner.

“Miss Lawrence couldn’t stay to-day; but she is coming to-morrow morning, and wants to see you. She was so interested in the way all you children are living here. She’s a lovely woman; and if there were more like her, who were willing to pay fair prices for work, the poor would be much the gainer.”

“You’re so good to me! Everybody is now,” said the child gratefully.

Dil thought she hadn’t done much of anything that day, but she was really afraid to tell Patsey how tired she felt. He would wash up the dishes.

“That’ll be jes’ the daisy, Dil!” he said, when he heard about Miss Lawrence. “You want some country air, an’ – an’ reel fresh country milk. An’ don’t you worry. We’ll git along. You jes’ go an’ hev a good time.”

Oh, could she go to such a blessed place – like Central Park all the time?

She was quite shy and embarrassed when Miss Lawrence called. A large, pleasant-looking woman, with indications of wealth and refinement that Dil felt at once, and she seemed so much farther away than Mrs. Wilson. But she questioned Dil very gently, and drew her out with a rare art. The pale face and evident weakness appealed to her, – seemed, indeed, to call for immediate attention.

“I shall put you on our next week’s list,” Miss Lawrence said with gracious interest. “If any one ever earned a rest, I think you have. And I will come in to-morrow evening and talk it over with your brother and the boys.”

The “boys” made themselves scarce, except Patsey and Owen, although Shorty went and sat on Mrs. Brian’s stoop. But Miss Lawrence had seen boys before, and even ventured on a dainty bit of slang that won Patsey at once. He was eager for Dil to go and get some red cheeks like Owen. It didn’t seem as if the two could be brother and sister.

If Miss Lawrence had seen the sleeping accommodations she would have been more than shocked; and yet there were hundreds in the city not as well housed, and few of the real poor as tidily kept.

“It would be jes’ lovely to go,” admitted Dil, with curious reluctance. “But a whole week!”

“Two weeks!” almost shouted Patsey. “An’ youse’ll come home so fat wid de new milk an’ all, yer clo’es won’t fit yer. We’ll jes’ hev to make an auction an’ sell em’ second-hand.”

“An’ take half the money an buy her some new ones,” said Owen with a laugh. “T’other half we’ll put in the bank.”

Shorty had come sneaking back, and joined in the merriment.

“’N’ I kin cook purty good, ’n’ wash dishes,” began Patsey, when Dil interrupted, —

“Oh, you will be careful of thim, won’t you?”

“Careful! I’ll treat ’em as if they was aiggs. An’ I’ll make the boys stan’ roun’, so’s to keep the house – well – decent!” and he made a funny, meaning face. “Je-ru-sa-lem! what a hole we had when youse come! An’ now it’s like a pallis.”

Not like the palace Dil remembered in the book that had been such a treat to her and Bess.

Everybody made it easy for Dil. Mrs. Brian would see to the boys, and Mrs. Wilson offered to keep Nelly until her return. Still, it was Friday before Dil could really make up her mind.

On Saturday Dil took Nelly and went up to Madison Square. The policeman kept out of her way; he could not bear to face her look of disappointment. But just at the last she took him inadvertently.

“You see, I’m sure he’ll come soon,” she said with a confidence that seemed like a presentiment. “’Cause he’ll be thinkin’ ’bout the Sat’day he made the picture of Bess an’ me. An’ I want him to know where I’ve gone; so I’ve writ it out. I’ve been studyin’ writin’.”

“She looks like a ghost,” the man said to himself as his eyes followed her. “She’s that changed in a year no one would know her except for her eyes. If he don’t come soon, he won’t see her at all, to my thinking. Hillo! what a scheme! I’ll hunt him up. Why didn’t I think of it before! John Travis! Seems to me I’ve heard something about John Travis.”

Sunday was a soft, cloudy day, with a touch of rain. Every boy stayed at home – you couldn’t have driven them away. They promised to give Mrs. Brian the rent every night, so as to be provided for next Monday. They sang some of their prettiest songs for her; they didn’t know many hymns, but they had a spirit of tenderest devotion in their hearts.

The boys said good-by to her the next morning in a rather sober fashion. Patsey and Owen were going to take her to the ferry. Mrs. Brian brought down her satchel, and Dil put in her white dress, some aprons, and various small matters. She was to wear her best pink gingham. Mrs. Wilson was full of hope, Mrs. Brian extremely jolly, and was sure Barnum would want her for a “fat girl” when she came back.

Dil’s similitudes were very limited, but Cinderella and the fairy godmother did come into her mind.

Miss Lawrence was in the waiting-room with half a dozen girls. She came and greeted Dil cordially, and told her she looked better already. The child’s eyes brightened with a sunny light.

Owen said good-by in a boy’s awkward fashion, and gave her the bag. Patsey was reluctant, and he turned slowly away.

Then he came back.

“Good-by, Dil, dear,” he said again with deep tenderness as he stooped to kiss her. He was so much taller, though only a few months older. And always Patsey Muldoon was glad he came back for that kiss.

Then Miss Lawrence bought tickets and ushered her small procession, nine of them now, through the narrow way and out on the boat. They huddled together at first like a flock of sheep. Dil noticed one little hump-backed girl, who had large, light eyes and golden hair in ringlets. She was not like Bess, and yet she moved Dil’s sympathetic heart. Had a drunken father “hurted her”?

She felt shy of the others, they all seemed in such spirits. As they were going off the boat, she drew nearer the unfortunate child and longed to speak.

An impudent leer crossed the other face.

“Who yer lookin’ at? Mind yer own biz. I’m jes’ as good as youse!” was the unexpected salutation.

“Yes,” answered Dil meekly, her enthusiastic pity quenched.

Dil’s seat was in the window end, and her companion a stolid little German with two flaxen tails down her back. So she sat quite still. The morning had been so full of excitement she could hardly think. She had been just whirled about, pushed into the adventure.

But the “little mothers” interested her. Did they like babies, she wondered? Did their arms ache, and were their backs strained and tired carrying them about? Most of them were thin and weary looking, yet they were in gay spirits, making little jokes and giving quick, slangy answers, ready to laugh at anything.

Dil seemed quite apart from them. They passed through a tunnel, and there were little shrieks and giggles. The German girl caught Dil’s arm. Then they crossed rivers, passed pretty towns, bits of woods, flower gardens, long fields of waving corn, meadows where daisies still lingered, and tufts of red clover looked like roses. Ah, how large the world was! And maybe heaven was a great deal farther off than she and Bess had imagined. They might have been all winter going if they had walked. She felt suddenly thankful that John Travis had advised against it.

It was Dilsey Quinn’s first railroad journey, and it gave her the sensation of flying. She had brightened up, and a soft flush toned the paleness. An indescribable light hovered about her face, the rapt look that we term spiritual.

They trooped out of the train, – it seemed a week since they had started, her brain was so full of beautiful impressions. A young lady had come down to meet them, and walked with Miss Lawrence. The children were wild with the newness of everything; some of them had not even seen the nearest park before. They chased butterflies; they longed to chase the birds; they ran and laughed, and presently came to a great white house set in an old orchard.

“Children,” said Miss Lawrence, “here is your new home. You can run and play to your heart’s content. In the woods yonder you can shout and be as wild as you like. But you must come in first and take off your best dresses. And now you must mind when you are spoken to, and not quarrel with each other.”

They went through a wide hall and up an old-fashioned staircase. Three large rooms were full of narrow white-draped cots. The girls who pushed on ahead were given numbers to correspond. There were pegs for their hats and garments, a shelf for their satchels and bundles. What a whispering, chattering, and giggling! Here was a bath-room, and basins for washing. And then the bell rang for dinner.

Oh, what a dinner it was to most of the newcomers! A great slice of sweet boiled beef, vegetables, and bread in an unstinted fashion, and a harvest apple for dessert. Dil was too full of rapture to eat, and she let the next girl, whose capacity seemed unlimited, have most of her dinner.

Afterward they went out to play. Hammocks and swings were everywhere. They ran and shouted. They sat in the grass, and laughed with a sense of improbable delight. No one to scold, no work to do, not to be beaten for a whole long week! Oh, what joy it was to these little toilers in courts and slums and foul tenement houses!

Dil sat on a seat built around a great tree, and watched them. She was like one in a dream, quite apart from them. There is a delightful, unquestioning freemasonry among children. The subtle sign is given in a word or look or smile, and they are all kin. But it had been so long since Dil was a child, that she had forgotten the language.

She was not unhappy nor solitary. She was simply beyond playing, far from boisterous mirth. She had been doing a woman’s work so long, and childhood for the poor is ever a brief season.

Two or three girls shyly asked her to play “tag.” She gently shook her head. Then a long-ago sound caught her attention.

Two little girls were holding their clasped hands up as high as they could stretch. A small procession passed, each girl holding to the skirt of the other, and singing: —

“Open the gates as high as the sky,And let King George and his men go by.Needle’s eye as I pass by,Awaiting to go through;Many a lass I have let pass,And now I have caught you.”

Down came the arms of the “gates” over the head of the girl just under them. There was a shriek and a giggle. Then the one who was caught had to be a “gate,” and so it went on.

Dil looked, fascinated with a kind of remembered terror. It seemed as if she must have heard that in another world, it was so long, long ago. Before Bess was “hurted,” when Dan was a chubby baby, she had them both out, caring for them. At least, Dan was in the corner of the stoop, and Bess was tossing a ball for his amusement. A group of girls were playing this very game. The arms came down and took Dilsey Quinn prisoner, and all laughed because she had been so quick to evade them.

Something else – her mother’s heavy hand that dragged Dil out of the ring. The girls scattered, afraid of the tall, strong virago. Dil picked up the baby and took Bess by the hand. They were not living in Barker’s Court then. She shuddered, for she knew what awaited her. She should have been in the house, getting supper, to be sure. She had not meant to play so long, and even then she so seldom played.

Poor Dil! For a fortnight or so she carried the marks on her body.

“I’ll tache ye to be wastin’ of yer time foolin’ wid sich,” said her mother.

Then Bess was “hurted,” and her mother ill in bed for weeks. They were warned out of the house, and for some time it was hard lines for them all. Dil never played any more. Childhood was at an end for her.

And when she heard the merry voices here, a cold, terrible shiver came over her with the old memories. Was it softened by the thought that Bess could run about then? But even little Bess had sometimes been cruelly beaten. After that – was there a strange comfort that had never come before, that Bess’s accident had saved her many an unreasonable punishment? For Mrs. Quinn had let the poor little sufferer pretty much alone. Dil had managed to stand between, and take the blows and ill usage.

Does God note all the vicarious suffering in the world, and write it in the book of remembrance?

Dil turned her head away. Another party were playing “Ring a round a rosy.” And a group on the grass were being inducted into the mystery of “Jacks.” She wondered a little where her mother was. She did not want to see her, but she hoped matters were better with her. Surely she need not work so hard. And oh, if she would not drink gin! But Dil had noted the fact that most women did as they grew older.

Miss Lawrence came out presently with a bright cheery word for them all.

“You’re not playing,” she said to Dil. “You must run about and have some fun, and get some color in your cheeks. And you must not sit and brood over your hard life. That is all passed, and we hope the good Father has something better in store. And you must be friendly with the others.”

“Yes’m,” answered Dil, with soft pathos. “Only I’d rather sit here an’ look on.”

“Don’t get homesick after your boys,” and the lady’s smile went to Dil’s heart. “You’ll feel less strange to-morrow. I want this outing to be of real benefit to you. I’m going down to the city now, and will see Mrs. Wilson. When I come again I’ll bring you some word from the boys. I am sure everything will be done for your comfort.”

“Yes’m,” Dil answered meekly, but with an uplifted smile.

Several little girls ran and kissed her a rapturous good-by. When Dil saw her go out of the gate she felt strangely alone. She wanted to fly home to the boys, to get their supper, to listen to their merry jests and adventures, to see their bright eyes gleam, and hear the glad laughter. She felt so rested. Oh, if she had not promised Patsey to stay a whole long week. And one day was not yet gone.

She espied a vacant hammock, and stole lightly out from her leafy covert to take possession. It was odd, but the little hump-backed girl seemed a centre of attraction. She said so many droll, amusing things. She was pert and audacious to be sure. She could talk broken Dutch and the broadest Irish, and sing all the street songs. The children were positively fascinated with her. A wonder came to Dil as to how it would feel to be so enthusiastically admired.

She lay there swinging to and fro until the supper bell rang long and loud. One of the attendants came and talked with her while the children were tripping in from the woods. Something in her appearance and gentle manner reminded Dil of the hospital nurse.

There was a good deal of singing in the evening, but they all went to bed early. How wonderfully quiet it was! No dogs barking, no marauding cats wauling dismally on back fences, no rattle and whiz of “L” cars, no clatter of heavy wagons. And oh, the wonderful sweetness in the air! If Dil had ever achieved Bible reading, she would have thought of “songs in the night” and a “holy solemnity,” but she could feel the things unutterable.

The window was next to her bed. She sat up and watched the ships of fleece go drifting by. How the great golden stars twinkled! Were they worlds? and did people live in them? They made a mysterious melody; and though she had not heard of the stars singing for joy, she felt it in every pulse with a sweet, solemn thrill of rapture.

Was that heaven back of the shining stars? And oh! would she and Bess and John Travis be together there? For he would help her to call back Bess, as she came on Sunday. It was only a little while to wait now. She felt the assurance – for the poor ignorant little girl had translated St. Paul’s sublime, “By faith.”

The moon silvered the tree-tops, and presently sent one slant ray across the bed. Dil laid her hands in it with a trance of ecstasy. The delicious state of quietude seemed to make her a part of all lovely, heavenly things. It was the “land of pure delight” that John Travis sang about. A whole line came back to her, —

“And pleasures banish pain.”

Dilsey Quinn had attained to the spiritual pleasures. Pain was not, could not be again.

She was not a bit sleepy. She watched the moon dropping down and down. All the insects had stopped. A soft darkness seemed spread over everything, and by dozens the stars went out. Ah, how wonderful it all was! If people could only have chances to know!

“My child,” said Miss Mary at the breakfast table, “you are not eating anything! Don’t you like porridge, and this nice milk?”

“Yes, it’s so good,” replied Dil gratefully. “An’ the milk seems almost as if ’twas full of roses, it’s so sweet. But I can’t get hungry as I used, an’ when I eat just a little I seem all filled up.”

“Would you like bread better? And some nice creamed potatoes?”

“I don’t want nothin’ more.” Dil looked up with a soft light in her eyes. “Mebbe by noon I’ll be hungry – I most know I will.”

“Yes, I hope so.”

It was such a long morning to Dil, so hard to sit round and do nothing. If there had been a baby to tend, or a room to tidy. She would have been glad to go to the kitchen and help prepare the vegetables. She was so used to work that she could not feel at home in idleness.

She went over to the woods with the children to please Miss Mary, who suggested it so gently. But some feeling – the long disuse of childhood – held her aloof. She could not join in their plays, but it was a pleasure to watch them. And how wonderful the woods were! The soft grasses with feathery heads, the mosses, some of them with tiny red blossoms not as large as a pin’s head. There were a few wild flowers left, and long trails of clematis wandering about; shining bitter-sweet, green chestnut burrs in clusters, the long, fringy blossoms in yellow brown still holding on to some of them. There were bunches of little fox grapes, too bitter and sour for even children to eat.

She sat down on a stone and almost held her breath. It was the real, every-day country, not Central Park. The birds sang at their own sweet will, and made swift dazzles in the sunshine as they flew from tree to tree. Could heaven be any better? But there was no pain nor sickness nor weariness in heaven. And she felt so strangely tired at some moments.

She used her utmost endeavors to eat some dinner. It had such an appetizing flavor. The little girl next to her, who had swallowed her supper so quickly last night, eyed it longingly.

“You can have the potato and the meat,” Dil whispered softly. That travelled down red lane, and still seemed to leave a hollow behind. It was like the hungry boys at home, and she smiled.

She sat under the tree again, and Miss Mary tried to persuade her to go and play, but she was gently obstinate.

“Miss Lawrence asked me specially to look after her,” she said to another of the attendants. “She looks like a little ghost; but whether she is really ill, or only dead tired out, I can’t decide. It’s so natural for children to want to play, but she doesn’t seem to care to do anything but mope. Yet she speaks up so cheerful.”

“Poor children! How hard some of their lives are,” and her companion sighed.

Dil’s supper tasted good; and she was so sorry she couldn’t eat more, as she glanced up and caught Miss Mary’s eye.

“I’m ever so much better,” she said in her soft, bright manner. “I’m glad; for the boys wanted me to get well an’ fat, an’ have red cheeks. I’ll try my best, you’re all so good. An’ it’s such a beautiful place. I wonder what made – some one – think ’bout the little mothers? But the babies ought to be here too.”

“That wouldn’t give the little mothers much rest. Are there many babies in your family?”

“There ain’t any, but – but some that come in. Other people’s babies.”

“And does your mother keep a nursery?”

“I ain’t got any mother now. I took the babies ’cause I liked them.”

“But where do you live?”

“With my brother an’ – an’ the boys. I keep house.”

How unchildishly reticent she seemed. And most of the children were ready to tell everything.

The little household was called in for their evening singing.

XIV – VIRGINIA DEERING

Wednesday’s visitor was a tall, slim girl with an abundance of soft, light hair, that fell in loose waves and dainty little curls. Her gown was so pretty, a sort of grayish-blue china silk with clusters of flowers scattered here and there. Her wide-brimmed, gray chip hat was just a garden of crushed roses, that looked as if they might shake off.

There was a charm about her, for the children who had seen her the week before ran to her with joyful exclamations. They kissed her white hands, they caught hold of her gown, and presently she dropped on the grass and they all huddled about her. She told them a story, very amusing it must have been, they laughed so. Sadie Carr, the little deformed girl, seemed to lay instant claim to her.

Dil had a strange, homesick yearning to-day. She longed so to see the boys. Her eyes overflowed with tears as she thought of them and their warm, vital love. She seemed almost to have lost Bess. Could she see her again at Cent’l Park she wondered? She would ask Patsey to take her there as soon as she went home.

A great hay wagon had come and taken a load of the children down to the meadows. Three were in disgrace for being naughty, and had to spend an hour sitting on the stoop. Some were reading. The German girl was crocheting.

Dil sat out under the old branching apple-tree, whose hard red apples would be delightful along in the autumn. She was counting up the days. To-night they would be half gone. Would they let her go on Saturday she wondered? She looked at her poor little hands – they hadn’t grown any fat.

“Who is that little girl? and why does she keep apart from the others?” asked Miss Deering.

“I don’t know. She seems strange and hard to get on with. But she looks so weakly that even sitting still may do her good. Go and see what you can make of her, Miss Virginia.”

Miss Deering had several roses in her hand. She sauntered slowly down to Dil, and dropped the roses in her lap on the thin white hands.

“Oh, thank you!” Dil exclaimed gravely. She did not pick them up with the enthusiasm Miss Deering expected.