"Where is Mother Borton?"
"The ould she-divil"s done for this time, I"m a-thinking. Whist, I forgot she was a friend of yours, sor."
"Where is she--at the receiving hospital? What is the matter with her?"
"Aisy, aisy, sor. It may be nothing. She"s up stairs. A bit of a cut, they say. Here, Shaughnessy, look out for this door! I"ll take ye up, sor."
We mounted the creaking stairs in the light of the smoky lamp that stood on the bracket, and Corson opened a door for me.
A flickering candle played fantastic tricks with the furniture, sent shadows dancing over the dingy walls, and gave a weird touch to the two figures that bent over the bed in the corner. The figures straightened up at our entrance, and I knew them for the doctor and his a.s.sistant.
"A friend of the lady, sor," whispered Corson.
The doctor looked at me in some surprise, but merely bowed.
"Is she badly hurt?" I asked.
"I"ve seen worse," he answered in a low voice, "but--" and he completed the sentence by shrugging his shoulders, as though he had small hopes for his patient.
Mother Borton turned her head on the pillow, and her gaunt face lighted up at the sight of me. Her eyes shone with a strange light of their own, like the eyes of a night-bird, and there was a fierce eagerness in her look.
"Eh, dearie, I knew you would come," she cried.
The doctor pushed his way to the bedside.
"I must insist that the patient be quiet," he said with authority.
"Be quiet?" cried Mother Borton. "Is it for the likes of you that I"d be quiet? You white-washed tombstone raiser, you body-s.n.a.t.c.her, do you think you"re the man to tell me to hold my tongue when I want to talk to a gentleman?"
"Hush!" I said soothingly. "He means right by you."
"You must lie quiet, or I"ll not be responsible for the consequences,"
said the doctor firmly.
At these well-meant words Mother Borton raised herself on her elbow, and directed a stream of profanity in the direction of the doctor that sent chills chasing each other down my spine, and seemed for a minute to dim the candle that gave its flickering gloom to the room.
"I"ll talk as I please," cried Mother Borton. "It"s my last wish, and I"ll have it. You tell me I"ll live an hour or two longer if I"m quiet, but I"ll die as I"ve lived, a-doin" as I please, and have my say as long as I"ve got breath to talk. Go out, now--all of you but this man. Go!"
Mother Borton had raised herself upon one elbow; her face, flushed and framed in her gray and tangled hair, was working with anger; and her eyes were almost lurid as she sent fierce glances at one after another of the men about her. She pointed a skinny finger at the door, and each man as she cast her look upon him went out without a word.
"Shut the door, honey," she said quietly, lying down once more with a satisfied smile. "That"s it. Now me and you can talk cozy-like."
"You"d better not talk. Perhaps you will feel more like it to-morrow."
"There won"t be any to-morrow for me," growled Mother Borton. "I"ve seen enough of "em carved to know when I"ve got the dose myself. Curse that knife!" and she groaned at a twinge of pain.
"Who did it?"
"Black d.i.c.k--curse his soul. And he"s roasting in h.e.l.l for it this minute," cried Mother Borton savagely.
"Hush!" I said. "You mustn"t excite yourself. Can"t I get you a minister or a priest?"
Mother Borton spat out another string of oaths.
"Priest or minister! Not for me! Not one has pa.s.sed my door in all the time I"ve lived, and he"ll not do it to-night. What could he tell me that I don"t know already? I"ve been on the road to h.e.l.l for fifty years, and do you think the devil will let go his grip for a man that don"t know me? No, dearie; your face is better for me than priest or minister, and I want you to close my eyes and see that I"m buried decent. Maybe you"ll remember Mother Borton for something more than a vile old woman when she"s gone."
"That I shall," I exclaimed, touched by her tone, and taking the hand that she reached out to mine. "I"ll do anything you want, but don"t talk of dying. There"s many a year left in you yet."
"There"s maybe an hour left in me. But we must hurry. Tell me about your trouble--at Livermore, was it?"
I gave her a brief account of the expedition and its outcome. Mother Borton listened eagerly, giving an occasional grunt of approval.
"Well, honey; I was some good to ye, after all," was her comment.
"Indeed, yes."
"And you had a closer shave for your life than you think," she continued. "Tom Terrill swore he"d kill ye, and it"s one of the miracles, sure, that he didn"t."
"Well, Mother Borton, Tom Terrill"s laid up in Livermore with a broken head, and I"m safe here with you, ready to serve you in any way that a man may."
"Safe--safe?" mused Mother Borton, an absent look coming over her skinny features, as though her mind wandered. Then she turned to me impressively. "You"ll never be safe till you change your work and your name. You"ve shut your ears to my words while I"m alive, but maybe you"ll think of "em when I"m in my coffin. I tell you now, my boy, there"s murder and death before you. Do you hear? Murder and death."
She sank back on her pillow and gazed at me with a wearied light in her eyes and a sibyl look on her face.
"I think I understand," I said gently. "I have faced them and I ought to know them."
"Then you"ll--you"ll quit your job--you"ll be yourself?"
"I can not. I must go on."
"And why?"
"My friend--his work--his murderer."
"Have you got the man who murdered Henry Wilton?"
"No."
"Have you got a man who will give a word against--against--you know who?"
"I have not a sc.r.a.p of evidence against any one but the testimony of my own eyes," I was compelled to confess.
"And you can"t use it--you dare not use it. Now I"ll tell you, dearie, I know the man as killed Henry Wilton."
"Who was it?" I cried, startled into eagerness.
"It was Black d.i.c.k--the cursed scoundrel that"s done for me. Oh!" she groaned in pain.
"Maybe Black d.i.c.k struck the blow, but I know the man that stood behind him, and paid him, and protected him, and I"ll see him on the gallows before I die."