"Didn't you know he was caught in the rolling-machine at Dana's?
Well, it was after you went away."
"This is the first I've heard of it."
"It was hard lines for him, sir, with the woman and the two
children, and nothing to eat in the house. The boys in the yard have
done what they could, but with the things from the drug-store, and so
on, we couldn't hold up our end. Mr. Dana paid the doctor's bill,
but if it hadn't been for Miss Slocum I don't know what would have
happened. I thought may be if I spoke to you, and told you how it
was"--
"Did Torrini send you?"
"Lord, no! He's too proud to send to anybody. He's been so proud
since they took off his hand that there has been no doing anything
with him. If they was to take off his leg, he would turn into one
mass of pride. No, Mr. Shackford, I came of myself."
"Where does Torrini live, now?"
"In Mitchell's Alley."
"I will go along with you," said Richard, with a dogged air. It
seemed as if the fates were determined to keep him from seeing
Margaret that night. Peters reached out a hand to take Richard's
leather bag. "No, thank you, I can carry it very well." In a small
morocco case in one of the pockets was a heavy plain gold ring for
Margaret, and not for anything in the world would Richard have
allowed any one else to carry the bag.
After a brisk five minutes' walk the two emerged upon a broad
street crossing their path at right angles. All the shops were closed
except Stubbs the provision dealer's and Dundon's drug-store. In the
window of the apothecary a great purple jar, with a spray of gas jets
behind it, was flaring on the darkness like a Bengal light. Richard
stopped at the provision store and made some purchases; a little
further on he halted at a fruit stand, kept by an old crone, who had
supplemented the feeble flicker of the corner street lamp with a
pitch-pine torch, which cast a yellow bloom over her apples and
turned them all into oranges. She had real oranges, however, and
Richard selected half a dozen, with a confused idea of providing the
little Italians with some national fruit, though both children had
been born in Stillwater.
Then the pair resumed their way, Peters acting as pioneer. They
soon passed beyond the region of sidewalks and curbstones, and began
picking their steps through a narrow, humid lane, where the water lay
in slimy pools, and the tenement houses on each side blotted out the
faint starlight. The night was sultry, and door and casement stood
wide, making pits of darkness. Few lights were visible, but a
continuous hum of voices issued from the human hives, and now and
then a transient red glow at an upper window showed that some one was
smoking a pipe. This was Mitchell's Alley.
The shadows closed behind the two men as they moved forward, and
neither was aware of the figure which had been discreetly following
them for the last ten minutes. If Richard had suddenly wheeled and
gone back a dozen paces, he would have come face to face with the
commercial traveler.
Mr. Peters paused in front of one of the tenement houses, and
motioned with his thumb over his shoulder for Richard to follow him
through a yawning doorway. The hall was as dark as a cave, and full
of stale, moldy odors. Peters shuffled cautiously along the bare
boards until he kicked his toe against the first step of the
staircase.
"Keep close to the wall, Mr. Shackford, and feel your way up.
They've used the banisters for kindling, and the landlord says he
shan't put in any more. I went over here the other night," added Mr.
Peters reminiscentially.
After fumbling several seconds for the latch, Mr. Peters pushed
open a door, and ushered Richard into a large, gloomy rear room. A
kerosene lamp was burning dimly on the mantel-shelf, over which hung
a coarsely-colored lithograph of the Virgin in a pine frame. Under
the picture stood a small black crucifix. There was little
furniture,--a cooking-stove, two or three stools, a broken table, and
a chest of drawers. On an iron bedstead in the corner lay Torrini,
muffled to the chin in a blanket, despite the hot midsummer night.
His right arm, as if it were wholly disconnected with his body,
rested in a splint on the outside of the covering. As the visitors
entered, a tall dusky woman with blurred eyes rose from a low bench
at the foot of the bed.
"Is he awake?" asked Peters.
The woman, comprehending the glance which accompanied the words,
though not the words themselves, nodded yes.
"Here is Mr. Shackford come to see you, Torrini," Peters said.
The man slowly unclosed his eyes; they were unnaturally brilliant
and dilated, and seemed to absorb the rest of his features.
"I didn't want him."
"Let by-gones be by-gones, Torrini," said Richard, approaching the
bedside. "I am sorry about this."
"You are very good; I don't understand. I ask nothing of Slocum;
but the signorina comes every day, and I cannot help it. What would
you have? I'm a dead man," and he turned away his face.
"It is not so bad as that," said Richard.
Torrini looked up with a ghastly smile. "They have cut off the
hand that struck you, Mr. Shackford."
"I suppose it was necessary. I am very sorry. In a little while
you will be on your feet again."
"It is too late. They might have saved me by taking the arm, but I
would not allow them. I may last three or four days. The doctor says
it."
Peters, standing in the shadow, jerked his head affirmatively.
"I do not care for myself," the man continued,--"but she and the
little ones--That is what maddens me. They will starve."
"They will not be let starve in Stillwater," said Richard.
Torrini turned his eyes upon him wistfully and doubtfully. "You
will help them?"
"Yes, I and others."
"If they could be got to Italy," said Torrini, after meditating,
"it would be well. Her farther," giving a side look at the woman, "is
a fisherman of Capri." At the word Capri the woman lifted her head
quickly. "He is not rich, but he's not poor; he would take her."
"You would wish her sent to Naples?"
"Yes."
"If you do not pull through, she and the children shall go there."
"Brigida!" called Torrini; then he said something rapidly in
Italian to the woman, who buried her face in both hands, and did not
reply.
"She has no words to thank you. See, she is tired to death, with
the children all day and me all night,--these many nights."
"Tell her to go to bed in the other room," said Richard. "There's
another room, isn't there? I'll sit with you."
"You?"
"Your wife is fagged out,--that is plain. Send her to bed, and
don't talk any more. Peters, I wish you'd run and get a piece of ice
somewhere; there's no drinking-water here. Come, now, Torrini, I
can't speak Italian. Oh, I don't mind your scowling; I intend to
stay."
Torrini slowly unknitted his brows, and an irresolute expression
stole across his face; then he called Brigida, and bade her go in
with the children. She bowed her head submissively, and fixing her
melting eyes on Richard for an instant passed into the adjoining
chamber.
Peters shortly reappeared with the ice, and after setting a jug of
water on the table departed. Richard turned up the wick of the
kerosene lamp, which was sending forth a disagreeable odor, and
pinned an old newspaper around the chimney to screen the flame. He
had, by an odd chance, made his lampshade out of a copy of The
Stillwater Gazette containing the announcement of his cousin's death.
Richard gave a quick start as his eye caught the illuminated
head-lines,--Mysterious Murder of Lemuel Shackford! Perhaps a slight
exclamation escaped Richard's lips at the same time, for Torrini
turned and asked what was the matter. "Nothing at all," said Richard,
removing the paper, and placing another in its stead. Then he threw
open the blinds of the window looking on the back yard, and set his
hand-bag against the door to prevent it being blown to by the
draught. Torrini, without altering the rigid position of his head on
the pillow, followed every movement with a look of curious
insistence, like that of the eyes in a portrait. His preparations
completed for the night, Richard seated himself on a stool at the
foot of the bed.
The obscurity and stillness of the room had their effect upon the
sick man, who presently dropped into a light sleep. Richard sat
thinking of Margaret, and began to be troubled because he had
neglected to send her word of his detention, which he might have done
by Peters. It was now too l ate. The town clock struck ten in the
midst of his self-reproaches. At the first clang of the bell, Torrini
awoke with a start, and asked for water.
"If anybody comes," he said, glancing in a bewildered, anxious way
at the shadows huddled about the door, "you are not to leave me alone
with him."
"Him? Whom? Are you expecting any one?"
"No; but who knows? one might come. Then, you are not to go; you
are not to leave me for a second."
"I've no thought of it," replied Richard; "you may rest easy....
He's a trifle light in the head," was Richard's reflection.
After that Torrini dozed rather than slumbered, rousing at brief
intervals; and whenever he awoke the feverish activity of his brain
incited him to talk,--now of Italy, and now of matters connected
with his experiences in this country.
"Naples is a pleasant place!" he broke out in the hush of the
midnight, just as Richard was dropping off. "The band plays every
afternoon on the Chiaia. And then the _festas,_--every third day
a festa. The devil was in my body when I left there and dragged
little Brigida into all this misery. We used to walk of an evening
along the Marinella,--that's a strip of beach just beyond the Molo
Piccolo. You were never in Naples?"
"Not I," said Richard. "Here, wet your lips, and try to go to
sleep again."
"No, I can't sleep for thinking. When the Signorina came to see
me, the other day, her heart was pierced with pity. Like the blessed
Madonna's, her bosom bleeds for all! You will let her come
to-morrow?"
"Yes, yes! If you will only keep quiet, Margaret shall come."
"Margherita, we say. You are to wed her,--is it not so?"
Richard turned down the wick of the lamp, which was blazing and
spluttering, and did not answer. Then Torrini lay silent a long
while, apparently listening to the hum of the telegraph wires
attached to one end of the roof. At odd intervals the freshening
breeze swept these wires, and awoke a low æolian murmur. The moon
rose in the mean time, and painted on the uncarpeted floor the shape
of the cherry bough that stretched across the window. It was two
o'clock; Richard sat with his head bent forward, in a drowse.
"Now the cousin is dead, you are as rich as a prince,--are you
not?" inquired Torrini, who had lain for the last half hour with his
eyes wide open in the moonlight.
Richard straightened himself with a jerk.
"Torrini, I positively forbid you to talk any more!"
"I remember you said that one day, somewhere. Where was it? Ah, in
the yard! 'You can't be allowed to speak here, you know.' And then I
struck at you,--with that hand they've taken away! See how I remember
it!"
"Why do you bother your mind with such things? Think of just
nothing at all, and rest. Perhaps a wet cloth on your forehead will
refresh you. I wish you had a little of my genius for not keeping
awake."
"You are tired, you?"
"I have had two broken nights, traveling."
"And I give you no peace?"
"Well, no," returned Richard bluntly, hoping the admission would
induce Torrini to tranquilize himself, "you don't give me much."
"Has any one been here?" demanded Torrini abruptly.
"Not a soul. Good Heaven, man, do you know what time it is?"
"I know,--I know. It's very late. I ought to keep quiet; but, the
devil! with this fever in my brain!... Mr. Shackford!" and
Torrini, in spite of his imprisoned limb, suddenly half raised
himself from the mattress. "I--I"--