“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.”