Mrs. Sylvanus Starr, who was indisposed, sat up in her _robe de nuit_ of
pink, striped outing-flannel and looked down into the street.
"Pearline," she said hastily, "turn the dish-pan over the roast beef and
cache the oranges. Planchette, hide the cake and just lay this sweet
chocolate under the mattress--the doctor's coming."
"She cleaned us out last time all right," commented Lucille.
"Her legs are hollow," observed Camille, "she can eat half a sheep."
"What's half a sheep to a growing girl?" inquired Mrs. Starr as she
plucked at her pompadour and straightened the counterpane.
The Starrs were still tittering when Dr. Harpe walked in. Their hilarity
quickly passed at the sight of her face. Another intelligence, a new
personality from which they unconsciously shrank looked at them through
Dr. Harpe's familiar features. The Starrs were not analytical nor given
to psychology, therefore it was no subtle change which could make them
stare. It was as though a ruthless hand had torn away a mask disclosing
a woman who only resembled some one they had known. She was a trifle
more than thirty and she looked to-day a haggard forty-five.
A grayish pallor had settled upon her face, and her neck, by the simple
turning of her head, had the lines of withered old age. Her lips were
colorless, and dry, and drooped in a kind of sneering cruelty, while
her restless, glittering eyes contained the malice and desperation of a
vicious animal when it's cornered. The uneasiness and erratic movements
of a user of cocaine was in her manner.
"What ails you now?" Her voice was harsh and Mrs. Starr flushed at the
blunt question.
She saw that Dr. Harpe was not listening to her reply.
"Get this filled." The prescription she wrote and handed her was
scarcely legible. "I'll be in again."
She stalked downstairs without more words.
The Starrs looked at each other blankly when she had gone.
"What's the matter with Dr. Harpe?"
Elsewhere throughout the town the same question was being asked. The
clairvoyant milliner cautiously asked the baker's wife as they watched
her turn the corner--
"Have you noticed anything queer about Dr. Harpe?"
There was that about her which repelled, and those who were wont to pass
her on the street with a friendly flourish of the hand and a "Hello,
Doc," somehow omitted it and substituted a nod and a stare of curiosity.
Her swaggering stride of assurance was a shamble, and, as she came down
the street now with her head down, her Stetson pulled low over her eyes,
her hand thrust deep in one pocket of her square cut coat, her skirt
flapping petticoatless about her, she looked even to the wife of the
baker, who liked her, and to the clairvoyant milliner, who imitated her,
a caricature upon womankind.
There was a look of evil upon her face at the moment not easy to
describe. She and Augusta had quarrelled--for the first time--and when
she could least afford to quarrel.
She had spoken often of Andy P. Symes as "the laziest man in Crowheart"
and Augusta always had giggled; to-day she had resented it. Was it, Dr.
Harpe asked herself, that she was losing control of Augusta because she
was losing her own? Nothing more disastrous could happen to her at this
time than to lose her footing in the Symes household. Her power over
Symes went with her prestige, for her word would have little weight if
the Dago Duke even partially carried out his threats. Her disclosure
would appear but the last resort of malice and receive little credence.
As she walked down the street with bent head she was asking herself if
the props were to be pulled from beneath her one by one, if the
invisible lines emanating from her own acts were tightening about her to
her undoing?
With a fierce gesture she pushed these thoughts from her as though they
were tangible things. No, no! she would not be beaten! Insomnia,
narcotics and stimulants had unnerved her for the time, but she was
strong enough to pull herself together and stay the circumstances which
threatened to swamp her midway in her career. Bolstered for the moment
by this resolve, she threw back her head and raised her eyes.
The Dago Duke, Dan Treu, and an important looking stranger were crossing
the street and she felt intuitively that it was for the purpose of
meeting her face to face. The Dago Duke bowed with his exaggerated
salutation of respect as they passed, the deputy-sheriff with an odd
constraint of manner, while the stranger who raised his hat in formal
politeness gave her a look which seemed to search her soul. It
frightened her. Who was he? She had seen him at old Dubois's funeral.
Was he some new factor to be reckoned with, or was it merely her crazy
nerves that made her see fresh danger at every turn, a new enemy in
every stranger?
She climbed the stairs to her office in a kind of nervous frenzy. She
felt like screaming, like beating upon the walls with her bare fists.
Inaction was no longer possible. She must do something, else this agony
of uncertainty and suspense would drive her mad. She strode up and down
at a pace which left her breathless, clenching and unclenching her
hands, while thickly, between set teeth, she raved at Essie Tisdale,
upon whom her venom concentrated.
"I could throttle her!" She looked at her curved, outspread fingers,
tense and strong as steel hooks. "I could choke her with my own hands
till she is black! Curse her--curse her! She's been a stumbling block in
my way ever since I came. The sight of her is a needle in my flesh. I'd
only want a minute if I could get my fingers on her throat! I'd shut
that baby mouth of hers for good and all. God! How I hate her!" She
hissed the words in venomous intensity, racked with the strength of her
emotions, weak from it, her ghastly face moist with perspiration.
"I've humiliated her!" she gasped. "I've made her suffer. I've downed
her, but there's something left yet that I haven't crushed! I'm not
satisfied; I haven't done enough. I want to break her spirit, to break
her heart, to finish her for all time!"
She groped for the door-knob as one who sees dimly, and all but ran down
the corridor. Even as she went the thought flashed through her mind that
she was making a fool of herself, that she was being led by an impulse
for which she would be sorry.
But she was at a pitch where the voice of caution had no weight; she
wanted what she wanted and in her heart she knew that she was going to
Essie Tisdale with the intention of inflicting physical pain. Nothing
less would satisfy her. Yet, when the door opened in response to her
knock, her upper lip stretched in its straight, mirthless smile.
"Hello, Ess!" She stepped back a bit into the dimly lighted corridor and
the girl all but shrank from the malice glowing in her eyes.