MISTRESS SUSAN SHARPE.
Dr. Oleander was by no means a coward, yet it is safe to say his heart
was bumping against his ribs, with a sensation that was near akin to
fear, as he ascended the stairs. He was really infatuatedly in love with
his fair-haired little enchantress, else he never had taken his late
desperate step to win her; and now, having her completely in his power,
it was rather hard to be threatened with her loss by melancholy madness.
"What _shall_ I do with her?" he asked himself, in a sort of
consternation. "I must keep her here until I get my affairs settled, and
that will be a week at the soonest. If we were safely _en route_ for
Havana, I should cease to fear. How will she receive me, I wonder?"
He tapped softly at the door. There was no response. The silence of the
grave reigned all through the lonely old house. He tapped again. Still
no answer. "Mollie!" he called. There was no reply. The next moment he
had inserted the key, turned it, and opened the prison door.
Dr. Oleander paused on the threshold and took in the picture. He could
see the low-lying, sunless afternoon sky, all gray and cheerless; the
gray, complaining sea creeping up on the greasy shingle; the desolate
expanse of road; the tongue of marshland; the strip of black pine
woods--all that could be seen from the window. The prison-room looked
drear and bleak; the fire on the hearth was smoldering away to black
ashes; the untasted meal stood on the table. Seated by the window, in a
drooping, spiritless way, as if never caring to stir again, sat bright
Mollie, the ghost of her former self. Wan as a spirit, thin as a shadow,
the sparkle gone from her blue eyes, the golden glimmer from the yellow
hair, she sat there with folded hands and weary, hopeless eyes that
never left the desolate sea. Not imprisonment, not the desolation of the
prospect, not the loneliness, not the fasting had wrought the change,
but the knowledge that she was this man's wife.
Dr. Oleander had ample time to stand there and view the scene. She never
stirred. If she heard the door open, she made no more sign than if she
were stone deaf.
"Mollie!" he called, advancing a step.
At the sound of that hated voice she gave a violent start, a faint,
startled cry, and, turning for the first time, eyed him like a wild
animal at bay.
"Mollie, my poor little girl," he said in a voice of real pity, "you are
gone to a shadow! I never thought a few days' confinement could work
such a change."
She never spoke; she sat breathing hard and audibly, and eying him with
wild, wide eyes.
"You mustn't give way like this, Mollie; you mustn't really, you know.
It will not be for long. I mean to take you away from here. Very soon we
will go to Cuba, and then my whole life will be devoted to you. No slave
will serve his mistress as I will you."
He drew nearer as he spoke. Quick as lightning her hand sought her
breast, and the blue gleam of the dagger dazzled his eyes.
"One step nearer," she hissed, between set, glistening teeth, "and I'll
bury it in your heart or my own!"
She raised it with a gesture grand and terrible, and rising slowly from
her seat, confronted him like a little tigress.
"Mollie," he said, imploringly, "listen to me--your husband!"
Her white teeth locked together with a clinching noise; she stood there
like a pale little fury.
"Have you no pity for such love as mine, Mollie? Is your heart made of
stone, that all my devotion can not melt it?"
To his horror, she broke into a discordant, mirthless laugh.
"His devotion! He tears me away from my friends, he locks me up in a
dungeon until he drives me mad! His devotion!"
She laughed hysterically again.
"It seems harsh, Mollie, but it is not meant in harshness. If there were
any other way of winning you, you know I would never resort to such
extreme measures. I am not the only man that has carried off the woman
he loved, when other means failed to win her."
Again he came nearer, holding out his hands with an imploring gesture.
"Only say that you will try and love me--only say that you will be my
wife--promise me on your word of honor, and I will take you back to New
York this day!"
But Mollie's answer was to raise her formidable knife.
"One step more," she said, glaring upon him with suppressed fury--"one
step nearer, if you dare!"
He saw in her face it was no idle threat, and he recoiled.
"Stay here, then," he angrily cried, "since you will have it so! It is
your own fault, and you must abide the consequences. Mine you shall be,
by fair means or foul! I leave you now, since my presence does no good,
but by this day week you will be sailing with me to sunny Cuba. There I
can have things my own way, and your high-tragedy airs will avail you
little."
He walked to the door, turned, paused. She stood like a statue, white as
marble, but with, oh! such fiercely burning eyes!
"I have brought you an attendant," he said, sullenly. "I will send her
up for those things," pointing to the untasted dinner; "she will wait
upon you during the brief time you are to remain here."
She never moved. She stood there white and defiant and panting, her
glittering eyes riveted to his face. With a sullen oath he opened the
door and walked out, baffled once more.
"Curse the little vixen!" he muttered, as he stalked down-stairs; "she's
made of the stuff that breaks but never bends. I believe in my soul if I
was to carry her off to sea to-morrow she would leap overboard and end
it all the day after. I wish I had never listened to Blanche's tempting.
I wish I had left the little termagant in peace. The game isn't worth
the candle."
He found Mrs. Susan Sharpe sitting where he had left her, with her
imperturbable face still turned to the fire, her bonnet and shawl still
on.
"Take off those things!" he ordered, harshly, pointing to the offending
garments--it was a relief to vent his spleen on some one. "Why the deuce
don't you take her to her room?" turning savagely upon Sally. "Let her
have the chamber next my patient, and then go into her room and fetch
away the tray, and see what you can do for her."
He flung himself into a chair. Mrs. Sharpe rose with an immovable face.
"Lor'!" said old Sally, "don't snap our heads off, Master Guy! I can't
help that young woman's tantrums upstairs; so, if she puts you out of
temper, you needn't come howling at me. This way, ma'am."
Mrs. Sharpe, with a stolid countenance, followed Sally upstairs. The old
woman, grumbling angrily all the way, led her into a small, draughty
apartment adjoining that of her charge.
"There!" said Sally, snappishly: "this here is your room, and the crazy
young woman's is next. Take off your things, and then come down-stairs
and see what he wants next, and don't have him biting at us as if we was
dogs!"
Mrs. Sharpe obeyed orders to the letter. In five minutes she was back in
the kitchen, ready for action. The carroty locks were partly covered
with a black, uncouth cap, and a large stuff apron protected her dingy
bombazine dress. She turned a questioning face upon her employer, but
spoke never a word.
"This is the key of your patient's room," he said, handing it to her;
"you will go up and introduce yourself, and do whatever is needful. I am
going back to town to-night. Don't let me have any fault to find with
you when I return."
Mrs. Sharpe took the key and turned to go.
"I know my duty, sir," she said, as she walked out. "I know what I came
to do, and I'll do it."
Dr. Oleander turned to his mother and old Sally when the nurse had gone.
"What do you think of her, mother?"
"I don't like her," Mrs. Oleander answered, promptly. "I wouldn't trust
a person with hair like that as far as I could see them!"
"Pooh, pooh! what's her hair got to do with it?"
"Very well," said Mrs. Oleander, nodding sagaciously. "It's nothing to
me; but a red-haired person is never to be trusted."
"Then watch her," said the doctor. "I trust you and Sally to do that. I
know nothing about her; but don't you let her play me false. It is of
the greatest importance to me that the insane girl upstairs does not
escape--and escape she will if she can. She will try to bribe the
nurse--do you watch the nurse. It will only be for a week at furthest."
"I am glad to hear it," said his mother, spitefully. "I don't like my
house full of mad-women and mad-women's nurses, and I don't like
playing the spy!"
"It will only be for a week," the doctor repeated. "I will never trouble
you in this way again. And now I must be off at once. I want to sleep in
New York to-night."
Without further parley Dr. Oleander stalked out of the kitchen and out
of the house. Five minutes more, and they heard the sharp rattle of his
wheels on the gravel. Then old Peter bolted and locked and put up the
chains, and made the lonely farmhouse as much like a jail as bolts and
bars could render it. Their situation was so isolated, and they
themselves so helpless, that, although there was but little to fear,
these precautionary measures were natural enough.
Meantime, the new nurse had ascended the stairs and unlocked her
captive's door. She rapped respectfully before entering; but, as usual,
Mollie deigned no notice, and after waiting an instant, she turned the
handle and went in.
Mollie had resumed her seat by the window, and, with her chin resting on
her hand, was gazing with gloomy eyes at the evening mists rising over
the bleak gray sea.
Much weeping had dulled the luster of those sparkling eyes and paled the
bright bloom of the once rounded cheeks.
The Christmas snows were not whiter nor colder than the girl who sat
there and stared in blank despair at the wide sea.
"I beg your pardon, miss," said Mrs. Susan Sharpe, halting in the
door-way; "I want to come in."
At the sound of the strange voice, the prisoner wheeled suddenly around
and confronted her.
"Come in, then," she said: and Mrs. Sharpe came slowly in and closed the
door. "Who are you?" Mollie asked, transfixing her with her steadfast
gaze. "I never saw you before."
"No, miss; I only came from New York to-day."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Susan Sharpe."
"And what are you doing here?"
"I'm to be your nurse, miss. Doctor Oleander hired me and brought me
down."
"Doctor Oleander is a villain, and you are, I suspect, his tool."
"I'm sorry you think so, miss," Mrs. Susan Sharpe said, composedly. "Is
there anything I can do for you?"
But Mollie did not reply. She was staring at her new attendant with all
her might.
"Who are you?" she said, breathlessly. "Surely someone I know."
The woman smiled.
"No one you know, miss--unless you have the advantage of me. I don't
suppose you ever heard my name before."
"I don't suppose I have," retorted Miss Dane; "but I have certainly
heard your voice."
"No! Have you, now? Where, I wonder?"
Mollie gazed at her wistfully, scrutinizingly. Surely that face, that
voice, were familiar; and yet, as soon as she strove to place them, all
became confusion. She turned away with a sigh.
"It's of no use. I suppose you're in league with the rest. I think the
people in this house have hearts harder than stone."
"I'm very sorry for you, miss, if that's what you mean," said Mrs. Susan
Sharpe, respectfully. "Yours is a very sad affliction, indeed."
"A very sad affliction! Do you mean being imprisoned here?"
"Oh, dear, no, miss!" looking embarrassed. "I mean--I'm sure, I beg your
pardon, miss--I mean--"
"You mean you pretend to believe Doctor Oleander's romance," interrupted
Mollie, contemptuously. "You mean I am crazy!"
"Don't be angry, miss," said Mrs. Sharpe, deprecatingly. "I wouldn't
give offense for the world."
"Look at me," said Mollie, impetuously--"look me in the face, Susan
Sharpe, and tell me if I look like one insane!"
Mrs. Sharpe turned the mild light of the green glasses on the pale,
excited young face.
"No, miss, I can't say you do; but it isn't for me to judge. I'm a poor
woman, trying to turn an honest penny--"
"By helping the greatest scoundrel that ever escaped the gallows to keep
prisoner an unoffending girl! Is that how you try to turn an honest
penny, Susan Sharpe?"
Susan Sharpe, shrinking, as well as she might, from the fiery flashing
of two angry blue eyes, murmured an inaudible something, and busied
herself among the dishes.
"Listen to me, woman," cried Mollie, pushing back her wild, loose hair,
"and pity me, if you have a woman's heart. This man--this Doctor
Oleander--led me into a trap, inveigled me from home, brought me here,
and keeps me here a prisoner. To further his own base ends he gives out
that I am insane. My friends are in the greatest distress about me, and
I am almost frantic by being kept here. Help me to escape--my friends in
Now York are rich and powerful--help me, Susan Sharpe, and you will
never know want more!"
Mrs. Susan Sharpe had keen ears. Even in the midst of this excited
address she had heard a stealthy footstep on the creaking stairs--a
footstep that had paused just outside the door. She took her cue, and
made no sign.
"I'm very sorry, miss," slightly raising her voice--"very sorry for you,
indeed. What you say may be all very true, but it makes no difference to
me. My duty's plain enough. I'm paid for it, I've promised to do it, and
I'll do it."
"And that is--"
"To wait upon you. I'll be your faithful attendant while I'm here; but
to help you to escape I can't. Doctor Oleander tells me you're insane;
you tell me yourself you're not insane. I suppose you ought to know
best; but I've been in lunatic asylums before now, and I never yet knew
one of 'em to admit there was anything the matter with 'em."
And with this cruel speech, Mrs. Susan Sharpe, keeping her eyes anywhere
but upon the young lady's face, lifted the tray and turned to go.
"Is there anything I can do for you, miss?" she said, pausing at the
door. "Is there anything nice you would like for supper?"
But Mollie did not reply. Utterly broken down by fasting, and
imprisonment, and solitude, she had flung herself passionately on
the floor, and burst out into a wild storm of hysterical weeping.
"I'm very sorry for you, Miss Dane," the nurse said for the benefit of
the eavesdropper without; "but my duty's my duty, and I must do it. I'll
fetch you up your supper presently--a cup of tea will cure the
'stericks."
She opened the door. Mrs. Oleander, at the head of the staircase, was
making a great show of having just come up.
"They'll be the death of me yet--those stairs!" she panted. "I often
tell my son I'm not fitted to mount up and down a dozen times a day, now
in my old age; but, la! what do young men care?"
"Very true, ma'am," replied the imperturbable nurse to this somewhat
obscure speech.
"And how's your patient?" continued the old lady.
"Very bad, ma'am--'stericky and wild-like. I left her crying, poor soul!"
"Crying! For what?"
"Because I wouldn't help her to escape, poor dear!" said Mrs. Sharpe in
a tone of commiseration. "She's greatly to be pitied."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Oleander, carelessly; "you couldn't help her, you know,
even if you would. There's Peter, and Sally, and me on the watch all day
long, and from nightfall we let loose Tiger and Nero. They'd tear you
both to pieces in five minutes. Tell her so, poor creature, if she talks
any more of escape."
"I will, ma'am," responded the respectful Mrs. Sharpe.
Mrs. Oleander ascended the stairs and went to her own room, very well
satisfied with the submissive and discreet new nurse; and the new nurse
descended to the kitchen, and prepared her patient's supper of tea and
toast, delicate sliced ham, and raspberry preserves.
The dusk of the sunless afternoon was falling out-of-doors ere her
preparations were completed, and the stair-ways and halls of the dreary
house were in deepest gloom as she returned to her patient's room.
She found that unhappy little patient lying prone on her face on the
floor, as still, as motionless as if death had hushed forever that
impulsive heart. She made no sign of having heard when Mrs. Sharpe
entered--she never moved nor looked up until the nurse set the tray
on the table, and stooping over her, gave her a gentle shake.
"Miss Dane," she said in her stolid tones, "please to get up. Here's
your supper."
And Mollie, with a low, wailing cry, raised her wan face and fixed her
blue eyes on the woman's face with a look of passionate reproach.
"Why don't you let me alone? Why don't you leave me to die? Oh, if I had
but the courage to die by my own hand!"
"Please to take your supper," was Mrs. Sharpe's practical answer to this
insane outburst. "Don't be foolish."
She lifted Mollie bodily up, led her over, seated her in her chair,
poured her out a cup of tea, and made her drink it, before that
half-distracted creature knew what she was about.
"Now take another," said sensible Mrs. Sharpe; "tea will do you a power
of good; and eat something; there's nothing like good, wholesome
victuals for curing people of notions."
Wearied out in body and mind, Mollie let herself be catered for in
submissive silence. She took to her new nurse as she had never taken
to any one else in this horrid house. She had a kindly face, had Mrs.
Susan Sharpe.
"You feel better now, don't you?" said that worthy woman, the meal
completed. "Suppose you go to bed? You look tired. Let me undress you
and tuck you in."
And again willful Mollie submitted, and dropped asleep as soon as her
head was fairly on the pillow. Motherly Mrs. Sharpe "tucked her in" and
kissed her, and then, with the remains of the supper, went down-stairs
to partake of her own evening repast.
Mrs. Oleander took tea with her servants, and was very gossipy indeed.
So, too, was old Sully; so, likewise, was old Peter. The beverage that
exhilarates seemed to lighten their aged hearts wonderfully; but Mrs.
Susan Sharpe did not thaw out under the potent spell of the best English
breakfast tea. Silent and attentive, she ate, and drank, and listened,
and responded when directly addressed; and, when it was over, helped
Sally to clear up, and then pounced upon a basket of undarned hose under
the table, and worked away with a will. Her energy and good-will, and
the admirable manner in which she filled up the holes in the stockings
with wondrous crisscross work, quite won the hearts of both Sally and
Sally's mistress.
The clock struck nine; work was laid aside; Mrs. Oleander read a chapter
aloud out of the Bible, and they then all adjourned to their respective
chambers. Doors and windows had been secured at nightfall, Tiger and
Nero liberated--their hoarse, deep growls every now and then making
night hideous.
Up in her own apartment, Mrs. Susan Sharpe's first act was to pull up
the curtain and seat herself by the window. The night was pitch
dark--moonless, starless--with a sighing wind and a dully moaning sea.
It was the desolation of utter desolation, down in that dismal sea-side
prison--the two huge dogs below the only living things to be heard.
"It's enough to drive any one mad, this horrible place," said Mrs. Susan
Sharpe, to herself; "and the very weather seems in the conspiracy
against us."
She took her lamp as she spoke, and held it close to the window, with an
anxious, listening face. Its solitary red ray streamed far out over the
black road.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, then a sound rent the night
silence--a long, shrill, sharp whistle.
"Thank the Lord!" said Mrs. Susan Sharpe. "I thought he wouldn't fail."
She dropped the curtain, set the light on the table, knelt down and said
her prayers, rose up and undressed herself; and then this extraordinary
female went to bed and to sleep.