The Lady Doc | Page 6

nearly thirty, there was still something of girlhood in her tired face. But she seemed engrossed in her own thoughts and returned to her room as soon as she had eaten. There she lay down upon the patchwork quilt which covered her bed, with her hands clasped above her head, staring at the ceiling and trying to forget the past in conjecturing the future.
The clatter of dishes ceased after a time and with the darkness came the sound of many voices in the hall below. There was laughter and much scurrying to and fro. Then she heard the explanatory tuning of a violin and finally a loud and masterful voice urging the selection of partners for a quadrille. Whoops of exuberance, shrill feminine laughter, and jocose personalities shouted across the room followed. Then, simultaneous with a burst of music, the scuffling of sliding soles and stamping heels told her that the dance was on.
The jubilant shriek of the violin, the lively twang of a guitar, the "boom! boom" of a drum marking time, the stentorian voice of the master of ceremonies, reached her plainly as she lay staring at the stars through the single window of her room. She liked the sounds; they were cheerful; they helped to shut out the dying face of Alice Freoff and to dull the pitiless voice of the coroner. She found herself keeping time with her foot to the music below.
An hour passed with no diminution of the hilarity downstairs and having no desire to sleep she still lay with her lamp unlighted. While she listened her ear caught a sound which had no part in the gayety below. It came faintly at first, then louder as a smothered sob became a sharp intake of breath.
Dr. Harpe sat up and listened intently. The sound was close, apparently at the head of the stairs. She was not mistaken, a woman was crying--so she opened the door.
A crouching figure on the top step shrank farther into the shadow.
"Is that you crying?"
Another sob was the answer.
"What ails you? Come in here."
While she struck a match to light the lamp the girl obeyed mechanically.
Dr. Harpe shoved a chair toward her with her foot.
"Now what's the trouble?" she demanded half humorously. "Are you a wall-flower or is your beau dancing with another girl?"
There was a rush of tears which the girl covered her face with her hands to hide.
"Huh--I hit it, did I?"
While she wept softly, Dr. Harpe inspected her with deliberation. She was tall and awkward, with long, flat feet, and a wide face with high cheek bones that was Scandinavian in its type. Her straight hair was the drab shade which flaxen hair becomes before it darkens, and her large mouth had a solemn, unsmiling droop. Her best feature was her brown, melancholy, imaginative eyes. She looked like the American-born daughter of Swedish or Norwegian emigrants and her large-knuckled hands, too, bespoke the peasant strain.
"Quit it, Niobe, and tell me your name."
The girl raised her tearful eyes.
"Kunkel--Augusta Kunkel."
"Oh, German?"
The girl nodded.
"Well, Miss Kunkel"--she suppressed a smile--"tell me your troubles and perhaps you'll feel better."
More tears was the girl's reply.
"Look here"--there was impatience in her voice--"there's no man worth bawling over."
"But--but----" wept the girl, "he said he'd marry me!"
"Isn't he going to?"
"I don't know--he's going away in a few days and he won't talk any more about it. He's waltzed every waltz to-night with Essie Tisdale and has not danced once with me."
"So? And who's Essie Tisdale?"
"She's the waitress here."
"Downstairs? In this hotel?"
Augusta Kunkel nodded.
"I don't blame him," Dr. Harpe replied bluntly, "I saw her at supper. She's a peach!"
"She's the belle of Crowheart," admitted the girl reluctantly.
"And who is he? What's his name?"
The girl hesitated but as though yielding to a stronger will than her own, she whimpered:
"Symes--Andy P. Symes."
"Why don't you let Andy P. Symes go if he wants to? He isn't the only man in Crowheart, is he?"
"But he promised!" The girl wrung her hands convulsively. "He promised sure!"
A look of quick suspicion flashed across Dr. Harpe's face.
"He promised--oh, I see!"
She arose and closed the door.
The interview was interrupted by a bounding step upon the stairs and a little tap upon the door, and when it was opened the belle of Crowheart stood flushed and radiant on the threshold.
"We want you to come down," she said in her vivacious, friendly voice. "It must be lonely for you up here, and Mr. Symes--he's giving the dance, you know--he sent me up to ask you." She caught sight of the girl's tear-stained face and stepped quickly into the room. "Why, Gussie." She laid her arm about her shoulder. "What's the matter?"
Augusta Kunkel drew away with frank hostility in her brown eyes and answered:
"Nothing's the matter--I'm tired, that's all."
Though she flushed at the rebuff, she murmured gently: "I'm