A VISION OF THE NIGHT
“You are a very imprudent person,” said Luella, smiling, yet with a most
charming trace of anxiety under the smile.
“What have I been doing now?” I asked.
“That is what you are to tell me. Papa told us a little about your
saving his life and his plans this morning, but he was so very short
about it. Let me know the whole story from your own mouth. Was this the
arm that was hurt?”
I started to give a brief description of my morning's adventure, but
there was something in my listener's face that called forth detail after
detail, and her eyes kindled as I told the tale of the battle that
won Omega in the stock Board, and the fight that rescued the fruits of
victory in the office of the company.
“There is something fine in it, after all,” she said when I was through.
“There is something left of the spirit of the old adventurers and the
knights. Oh, I wish I were a man! No, I don't either. I'd rather be the
daughter of a man--a real man--and I know I am that.”
I thought of the Doddridge Knapp that she did not know, and a pang of
pity and sorrow wrenched my heart.
She saw the look, and misinterpreted it.
“You do not think, do you,” she said softly, “that I don't appreciate
your part in it? Indeed I do.” I took her hand, and she let it lie a
moment before she drew it away.
“I think I am more than repaid,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” said she, changing her tone to one of complete indifference.
“Papa said he had made you a director.”
“Yes,” I said, taking my cue from her manner. “I have the happiness to
share the honor with three other dummies. Your father makes the fifth.”
“How absurd!” laughed Luella. “Do you want to provoke me?”
“Oh, of course, I mean that your father does the thinking, and--”
“And you punch the head he points out to you, I suppose,” said Luella
sarcastically.
“Exactly,” I said. “And--”
“Don't mind me, Henry,” interrupted the voice of Mrs. Knapp.
“But I must,” said I, giving her greeting. “What service do you
require?”
“Tell me what you have been doing.”
“I have just been telling Miss Luella.”
“And what, may I ask?”
“I was explaining this morning's troubles.”
“Oh, I heard a little of them from Mr. Knapp. Have you had any more of
your adventures at Borton's and other dreadful places?”
I glanced at Luella. She was leaning forward, her chin resting on her
hand, and her eyes were fixed on me with close attention. “I should like
to hear of them, too,” she said.
I considered a moment, and then, as I could see no reason for keeping
silent, I gave a somewhat abridged account of my Livermore trip,
omitting reference to the strange vagaries of the Doddridge Knapp who
traveled by night.
I had reason to be flattered by the attention of my audience. Both women
leaned forward with wide-open eyes, and followed every word with eager
interest.
“That was a dreadful danger you escaped,” said Mrs. Knapp with a
shudder. “I am thankful, indeed, to see you with us with no greater
hurt.”
Luella said nothing, but the look she gave me set my heart dancing in a
way that all Mrs. Knapp's praise could not.
“I do hope this dreadful business will end soon,” said Mrs. Knapp. “Do
you think this might be the last of it?”
“No,” said I, remembering the note I had received from the Unknown on my
return, “there's much more to be done.”
“I hope you are ready for it,” said Mrs. Knapp, with a troubled look
upon her face.
“As ready as I ever shall be, I suppose,” I replied. “If the guardian
angel who has pulled me through this far will hold on to his job, I'll
do my part.”
Mrs. Knapp raised a melancholy smile, but it disappeared at once, and
she seemed to muse in silence, with no very pleasant thought on her
mind. Twice or thrice I thought she wished to speak to me, but if so she
changed her mind.
I ventured a few observations that were intended to be jocose, but she
answered in the monosyllables of preoccupation, and I turned to Luella.
She gave back flashes of brightness, but I saw on her face the shadow of
her mother's melancholy, and I rose at an early hour to take my leave.
“I wonder at you,” said Luella softly, as we stood alone for a moment.
“You have little cause.”
“What you have done is much. You have conquered difficulties.”
I looked in her calm eyes, and my soul came to the surface.
“I wish you might be proud of me,” I said.
“I--I am proud of such a friend--except--” She hesitated.
“Always an 'except,'” I said half-bitterly.
“But you have promised to tell me--”
“Some day. As soon as I may.” Under her magnetic influence, I should
have told her then had she urged me. And not until I was once more
outside the house did I recall how impossible it was that I could ever
tell her.
“What shall I do? What shall I do?” was the refrain that ran through my
brain insistently, as the battle between love and duty rose and swelled.
And I was sorely tempted to tell the Unknown to look elsewhere for
assistance, and to bury the memory of my dead friend and the feud with
Doddridge Knapp in a common grave.
“Here's some one to see you, sir,” said Owens, as I reached the walk,
and joined the guards I had left to wait for me. The rain had ceased,
but the wind, which had fallen during the day, was freshening once more
from the south.
“Yes, sor, you're wanted at Mother Borton's in a hurry,” said another
voice, and a man stepped forward. “There's the divil to pay!”
I recognized the one-eyed man who had done me the service that enabled
me to escape from Livermore.
“Ah, Broderick, what's the matter?”
“I didn't get no orders, sor, so I don't know, but there was the divil's
own shindy in the height of progression when I left. And Mother Borton
says I was to come hot-foot for you, and tell you to come with your men
if ye valued your sowl.”
“Is she in danger?”
“I reckon the thought was heavy on her mind, for her face was white with
the terror of it.”
We hastened forward, but at the next corner a passing hack stood
ready for passengers, and we rolled down the street, the horses' hoofs
outstripped by my anxiety and apprehensions.
One of the men was sent to bring out such of my force as had returned,
and I, with the two others, hurried on to Borton's.
There was none of the sounds of riot I had expected to hear as we
drew up before it. The lantern blinked outside with its invitation
to manifold cheer within. Lights streamed through the window and the
half-opened door, and quiet and order reigned.
As I stepped to the walk, I found the explanation of the change in the
person of a policeman, who stood at the door.
“Holy St. Peter! the cops is on!” whispered Broderick.
I failed to share his trepidation in the presence of the representative
of law and order, and stepped up to the policeman.
“Has there been trouble here, officer?” I asked.
“Oh, is it you, sor?” said Corson's hearty voice. “I was wondering about
ye. Well, there has been a bit of a row here, and there's a power of
broken heads to be mended. There's wan man cut to pieces, and good
riddance, for it's Black Dick. I'm thinking it's the morgue they'll be
taking him to, though it was for the receiving hospital they started
with him. It was a dandy row, and it was siventeen arrists we made.”
“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 assistant.
“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-snatcher, 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 Dick--curse his soul. And he's roasting in hell 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 passed 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 hell 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 scrap 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 Dick--the cursed scoundrel that's done for me. Oh!” she
groaned in pain.
“Maybe Black Dick 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.”
“Hush,” cried Mother Borton trembling. “If he should hear you! Your
throat will be cut yet, dearie, and I'm to blame. Drop it, dearie, drop
it. The boy is nothing to you. Leave him go. Take your own name and get
away. This is no place for you. When I'm gone there will be no one to
warn ye. You'll be killed. You'll be killed.”
Then she moaned, but whether from pain of body or mind I could not
guess.
“Never you fear. I'll take care of myself,” I said cheerily.
She looked at me mournfully. “I am killed for ye, dearie.”
I started, shocked at this news.
“There,” she continued slowly, “I didn't mean to let you know. But they
thought I had told ye.”
“Then I have two reasons instead of one for holding to my task,” I said
solemnly. “I have two friends to avenge.”
“You'll make the third yourself,” groaned Mother Borton, “unless
they put a knife into Barkhouse, first, and then you'll be the fourth
belike.”
“Barkhouse--do you know where he is?”
“He's in the Den--on Davis Street, you know. I was near forgetting to
tell ye. Send your men to get him to-night, for he's hurt and like to
die. They may have to fight. No,--don't leave me now.”
“I wasn't going to leave you.”
Mother Borton put her hand to her throat as though she choked, and was
silent for a moment. Then she continued:
“I'll be to blame if I don't tell you--I _must_ tell you. Are you
listening?”
Her voice came thick and strange, and her eyes wandered anxiously about,
searching the heavy shadows with a look of growing fear.
The candle burned down till it guttered and flickered in its pool of
melted tallow, and the shadows it threw upon wall and ceiling seemed
instinct with an impish life of their own, as though they were dark
spirits from the pit come to mock the final hours of the life that was
ebbing away before me.
“I am listening,” I replied.
“You must know--you must--know,--I must tell you. The boy--the woman
is--”
On a sudden Mother Borton sat bolt upright in bed, and a shriek, so
long, so shrill, so freighted with terror, came from her lips that I
shrank from her and trembled, faint with the horror of the place.
“They come--there, they come!” she cried, and throwing up her arms she
fell back on the bed.
The candle shot up into flame, sputtered an instant, and was gone. And I
was alone with the darkness and the dead.