The Forged Note Part 2

some one spat out ominously.

"Me, too," said another.

"Aw, be patient. Jack's all right," argued one.

"Sho", echoed another.

"Yeh, dat' all right, 's fur it goes; but I'n handle mah money bet'n anybody else."

A heavy step sounded in the hallway, and presently a door opened into the room, admitting Jackson.

"All heah, boys, eh!" He said in a voice that revealed high spirits.

"Good--what's this? Havin' a little game already? Say! Looks like y'

might a-waited fo' old Jack, ha ha!"

"Well," he resumed after a general laughing, "Did eve' body vote straight?"

"Sho", they cried in chorus.

"N' how 'bout you, little breeches."

"Ke-heh! You say. 'Stamp ri' undah da' ole elephant's tail'; so when I got 'nside da' place wi one a dem ballets, 'n' all dem names ah did'n'

know nothin' 'bout; but I 'memb'd what you say, so I jes' caught hole that li'l ole thing 'n' went, bim! ri' unda' da' ole elephant's tail, ya-ha!" The room, for a time, resounded with laughter.

Just then, Wyeth heard someone rap at the street door, enter, and presently the counting and the clink of coins came to his ears. Then the door closed, and a moment later, retreating foot steps were heard in the hall-way. It was the lieutenant. And now the gurgle of throats could be heard plainly, and the game was resumed, with Jackson in charge.

In the other room, Wyeth stripped himself and retired, and, ere sleep came to him that night, he again had a vision of that t.i.tanic struggle and its human slaughter--and it had all been to give those black men the right. (?) Far into the night he thought it over, and when sleep did come at last, he went into slumberland, at a loss to know whether to condemn or to pity those poor creatures, who, that day--and before--had sold their birthright for a mess of pottage.

Weeks had pa.s.sed. Over all the north country, snowladen fields frowned.

Zero weather was felt in many places. Sidney Wyeth was about to quit it for a place far to the south, and at that moment, sat in the union station at Columbus. A man marked with a chalk upon the bulletin board the following:

TRAIN FOR CINCINNATI AND THE SOUTH, TWO HOURS LATE

And it was only then it occurred to him that a letter might be at the postoffice for him. Forthwith he betook himself, returning shortly with a small envelope, with his name written daintily across it in a feminine hand It was from Mildred Latham, the girl he loved, and the heroine of our story.

"Mildred, my Mildred!" he whispered softly, as he gazed fondly at the epistle, and then broke the seal and read it. "Tonight, my dear," he dreamily whispered, "I shall ask you to become my wife, for I love you, love you, love you!"

As he sat waiting, his thoughts went back to the time he had met her, and the place.

It was in Cincinnati, and before the election. He had, while canva.s.sing, come upon her in the door-way of a house with two stories, and a door that opened upon the street. She stood in that door-way, and he had approached her with much courtesy, and after his usual explanation, had sold her _The Tempest_. He had been struck at once by her appearance, and something about her expression--her obvious intelligence. She seemed possibly twenty-one or two. "And such features," he breathed unheard.

She also had, he quickly observed, a wonderful skin--a smooth, velvety olive, with round cheeks; where, notwithstanding the slight darkness, a faint flush came and went. As to size, she was not tall; and still not short; nor was she stout or slender; but of that indefinite type called medium. Serenely perched, her head leaned slightly back. She had a frank face and rounded forehead, from under which large, l.u.s.trous, soft dark eyes--somewhat sad--gazed out at him. And as he continued in his subtle observation, he was pleased to note that her nose was not large or flat, but stood up beautifully. Her lips were red as cherries. The chin was handsomely molded and firm, but slightly thin, and protruding. Her hair was the most captivating of all. Done in the fashion, it was coal black and wavy. It was of a fine, silken texture, and apparently long, from the size of the knot at the back of her head. All this he observed with favor. He had never seen a figure so clear cut. The girl was, furthermore, dressed in a plain, dark silk dress, with small feet, the toes of which, at that moment, peeped like mice from beneath the trimly hanging skirt. Now, before he had gotten far in his dynamic spiel, the sun, all red and glorious, as its rays slanted in the west, came suddenly from beneath a cloud, and played hide and seek upon her face.

And, in that moment, he saw that she was exquisitely beautiful.

After this, he had seen her when, and however it was convenient, and they had talked--they always talked--on so very many subjects. As time went by, he always felt good cheer, for at last, it seemed--and this meant much, for Sidney Wyeth had had much experience--he had met the One Woman.

One day she said to him, and it was in a tone that was very careful: "You wrote _The Tempest_, didn't you?" She had guessed his secret, although the book had been published anonymously--and he had always been guarded as to its author, so he replied somewhat awkwardly that he had.

"I felt it--was sure when I began reading," she said. "Because there is something in it about you that you never tell--in conversation, but you did in the book."

He was silent, for he knew not what to say at that moment. She resumed:

"Yes; and it is that which makes the book _so_ interesting--and so sad."

She fell silent then for a time, apparently engrossed in deep thought, but with worried and sad expression.

There were other times she had appeared sad; times when he felt she could have been happy and cheerful and gay. And that to him was ever a mystery. He wished he could help her out of that way--at any time....

Some day he would, too. He was firm in this....

Then came the time when he was to leave, and he pa.s.sed her way that day.

From across the street she saw him, and came at once with hands outstretched; but when he made known the fact of his proposed departure, she was downcast, and sorrowful and sad.

"I'm _so_ sorry," she said--and meant it. He was too, and said nothing.

"I shall miss you--oh, ever so much."

"I will you, too," he whispered. She looked up quickly, but what she saw in his eyes made her as quickly turn away. They entered the house and the parlor where it was dark for day-time, and sat together for a long while in silence. Presently, from the next house came the notes of a piano, and some one sang _Sweet Genevieve_. O, subtle art! It made them both feel sad. Impulsively he arose and caught her in his arms, when the music had changed to _The Blue Danube_. Around then, and around they waltzed, light-footed to the sweet old tune. And as they danced, both seemed to become strangely infected with a wild exhilaration. Entranced, he unconsciously sought her eyes with an awakening pa.s.sion, and saw that she had been transformed by the music, and perhaps the dance, into a wild, elfin-like creature, and he looked away.

Minutes went by like seconds and, after a time, he dared seek her eyes again, only to see that she had grown more elfin still. And, as abruptly as it had begun, the music stopped, and their dance ceased. They stood, however, as though forgetting the embrace, and thus heard each others hearts thump violently. One moment they stood thus, and then a breath of wind through the open window, lifted a stray lock of her hair and laid it against his cheek. He was intoxicated by its effect, and then suddenly he had lost all composure. He crushed her to him, close, closer, and, in bold defiance of all conventionality, he kissed her lips--once, twice, three times! She was not angry, but struggled, nevertheless, to be free. She heard his voice then, low, strained, palpitating, and with soul on fire: "Mildred!" Again he cried, "Mildred!

O, my Mildred!" She swayed helplessly. "I----", but she got no further.

He had caught sight of her eyes, helpless; but with a weak appeal, as her lips faltered:

"Please don't!" And in spite of his mad desire, and the words he could have then sung like the poets, he hesitated, and for some reason, for which he could not quite fully account, allowed her to disengage herself.

Freed now, she took several steps, and when at some distance she paused, and regarded him with forced defiance; but behind it, he caught again that sad distraction. "What is it," he uttered, almost aloud. And then, intuitively, he knew she was unhappy--aye, miserable. "I must help her,"

said he beneath his breath; but before he had decided how, he seemed to hear a voice saying: "No, not yet because,--well, _you_ can't!"

The strains of music again came floating through the open window. He was not aware of his gaze; but something in his expression seemed to inspire her confidence; for, involuntarily she turned and started in his direction. She took only a step or two, when she abruptly halted; paused hesitatingly, uncertainly, with her thin lips compressed, hands clinched, and her head thrown back in an obvious effort. But her throat swelled almost to choking, as she withheld something she seemed mad to say. An expression of superhuman effort seemed suddenly to be exerted, and suddenly whirling, without a word, she silently quit the room.

He was aroused now from his revery by "All a-bo-ar-d: Cincinnati and the South," and an hour later, he was whirling southward over snowladen fields to his Arcadia.

Cincinnati rose about him at eight o'clock that evening, as he emerged from the union station and started on his fateful quest. The snow, ground to slush by thousands of wheels, made the hard streets filthy. He scurried across, and caught a car that took him within two blocks of where she lived. Progress was slow, but only seemingly, for he was so impatient. It seemed fully an hour before he left it, although it was not fifteen minutes. Along the poorly lighted street he rushed in breathless haste. His heart kept up a tattoo that disturbed him, and he heard himself muttering: "Sidney Wyeth, what's the matter? Why do you feel this way? Pshaw! You ought surely to be happy, calm and imperious.

Mildred Latham loves you--and she needs you; but much she does with such nerves!" He braced himself as he neared the house, and pictured himself in the next hour. She would be in his arms--and all would be over--but the happiness. This picture became so vivid, that for a time it served to make him forget his nerves.

And now he had come unto the house, the house of his treasure, and within all was silent. Strangely, a feeling came over him of an approaching doom. Before him, shivering in the cold night, sat an old woman, a hag. She looked at him out of one evil old eye, and he shuddered noticeably. She was uncouth and unwelcome. "What's she doing here?" he muttered.

"Does--ah--Miss Mildred Latham live here?" He ventured at last.

"Yes," snapped the hag, and appeared more evil still.

"Thank you," he murmured with forced courtesy, but very uneasy. Drawing his card, he held it out to her, with: "Kindly take this and inform her that a gentleman--a friend--would be glad to speak with her." The old hag crushed it in her bony palm, and spat out five short words.... But, oh, what mean, cruel, hurting little words!

He reeled in spite of his strength, then stood like a statue, frozen to the spot.

The night was cold, and dark and dreary; but to Sidney Wyeth it was hot--suffocating in those next moments. His jaw dropped as he started to speak, but the words failed to come. After a time, the elements began to clear, but left him weak. He turned with a savage gripping at his heart, and stumbled back in the direction from whence he had come.