"THE BITTER END"
"She ain't here." Nell Beecroft, with arms akimbo, blocked the hospital
door.
"Upon your honor, Nell?"
She looked the sheriff squarely in the eyes.
"Upon my honor, Dan."
She saw the doubt lying behind his look, but she did not flinch.
"When she comes, send me word. No," on second thought, "you needn't;
I'll be back." He tapped the inside pocket of his coat significantly. "I
want to see Dr. Harpe most particular."
"I'll tell her," the woman answered shortly. She watched him down the
street. "He knows I'm lyin'," she muttered, and though the heat was
unusual, she closed the door behind her.
The muffled sound of beating fists drew her to the cellarway.
"Nell--let me out! Quick! Open the door!"
Nell Beecroft took a key from her apron pocket and demanded harshly as
she turned it in the lock:
"What's the matter with you, anyhow?"
Dr. Harpe stumbled blinking into the light.
"Oh-h-h!" she gasped in relief.
"You'd better stay cached." Nell Beecroft eyed, with a look of contempt,
the woman for whom she had lied. "Dan Treu was here; he's got a
warrant."
"I don't care--I'll not go down there!" She pinned wildly at the
loosened knot of dull red hair which lay upon her shoulders. "That was
fierce!" She looked in horror down the dusky cellarway.
"What ails you, Harpe?" There was no sympathy in the harsh voice.
Dr. Harpe laughed--a foolish, apologetic laugh.
"Spooks--Nell! I'm nervous--I'm all unstrung. Moses! I thought all the
arms and legs we've amputated were chasin' me upstairs. Did you hear me
scream?"
"No," the woman reiterated sharply. "Dan Treu was here. He wants to see
you most particular."
"You didn't tell him----"
"Of course not."
"You won't go back on me, Nell?"
The woman regarded her in cold dislike.
"No, I'll not go back on you, Harpe. A man or a woman that ain't got
some redeemin' trait, some one thing that you can bank on, is no good on
earth, and stickin' to them I've throwed in with happens to be mine.
What you goin' to do? stay and brazen it out--this mess you're in--or
quit the flat?"
"Nell," she replied irrelevantly with a quick, uncertain glance around,
"I'm _afraid_. Do you know what it is to be afraid?"
"I've been scart," the woman answered curtly.
"I've a queer, sinkin' feeling here," she laid her hand at the pit of
her stomach, "and my back feels weak--all gone. My knees take spells of
wobblin' when I walk. I'm afraid in the dark. I'm afraid in the light.
Not so much of any one thing as of some big, intangible thing that
hasn't happened. I can't shake off the feeling. It's horrible. My mind
won't stop thinkin' of things I don't want to think of. My nerves are a
wreck, Nell. I've lost my grip, my judgment. I'm not myself."
Nell Beecroft listened in hard curiosity, eyeing her critically.
"Oh, yes, you are, only you've never really seen yourself before. You've
took your brass for courage. Lots of people do that till some real
show-down comes."
"Look here, Nell,"--her voice held a whine of protest--"you haven't got
me sized up right." Yet in her heart she knew that the woman's brutal
analysis was true. Better even than Nell Beecroft she knew that what
passed with her following for shrewdness and courage in reality was
callousness and calculating cynicism.