The Forged Note Part 75

"Were you very successful with the people in the building?" he inquired pleasantly.

"I received eleven orders there today."

"Too bad the young man, the stranger, took sick. You might have gotten a dozen," he said.

"Who took sick?" she inquired, with a start.

"The young man I spoke to you about this morning," explained the physician. "He was carried from the building shortly after you left, with a serious attack of typhoid-pneumonia." He was standing with his back to her when he said this, and, therefore, did not see her start and open her mouth. She swallowed the exclamation, and he was no wiser.

Hurrying to her room, she entered, locked the door, and sat down with a wild look in her eyes, plainly frightened.

"Sick," she mumbled. "Typhoid-pneumonia. Oh, merciful G.o.d!" She was silent then for a long time. Outside, the rain continued to fall, while in the other rooms she could hear Mrs. Jacques singing softly, as she busied herself in the preparation of the evening meal.

"If I had only known," Mildred whispered to herself. And then she was compelled to dismiss what she was thinking of, as being impractical. She continued to sit and meditate, until she was called to supper by Ernestine. She arose and bathed her face, realizing it would be advisable to appear unconcerned, for, as she now estimated, she would dislike to be questioned.

When the meal was over, she inquired of the physician where the patient had been taken.

"To the charity hospital," he replied.

"I see," she said calmly. "Is that a good place?"

"Oh, the best in the south. The Sisters of Mercy have it largely in charge, and they give the best possible care to all patients--black or white."

She went to her room, slightly relieved, and fell at once to planning.

The fact that he had taken an office, was self-evident that he was preparing some extensive campaign with regard to his book. As it stood now, whatever he had been arranging would stop at once.

It was late that evening when she retired. But, before sleep came to her eyes that night, she had decided upon a course of action.

Mildred arose early, dressed, heated some tea, and ate a light lunch.

Then she threw on a dress, hurried out of the house and down to the ferry. An hour later, she was at the hospital.

"I called, beg pardon," she began, "to inquire about a patient who was brought here last evening, and who, I understand, was stricken with typhoid-pneumonia. His name is Sidney Wyeth, and he is a colored man."

After a moment, in which the record was consulted, the informant turned to her and said: "Sidney Wyeth, a colored man, serious attack of typhoid-pneumonia. In the ward of contagious diseases. Cannot be seen, Madam, I regret to say."

"Indeed--ah,--did you say--it--was--quite serious?" she inquired, tremulously.

"Quite serious, Madam. Quite serious."

"There is no doubt, however--ah, that he will recover?"

"We are not allowed to give out information of that nature. He may recover, and still he may not; but we cannot say."

"Just another question, sir," she said hesitatingly. "About how long would it be, in case he should recover, before he will likely be on the street?"

"Cases as serious, and of that nature, rarely leave the hospital under two months, possibly three, and sometimes it is even four; but, if he should recover, it would not be possible under two months."

"Very well, I thank you," and, bowing, she left the desk.

Mildred walked down the wide street upon which the hospital faced. She had not consulted any one else, and in truth, had no idea that the disease would last so long.

"What can I do, what can I do?" she asked herself several times, as she pa.s.sed down the street. "He has just started up, and to think that such a misfortune should overtake him at the outset."

She walked on down the street, until she arrived at the corner, where she paused for a moment. She turned, and only a block away rose the Perier building. She could see his office. It was toward the rear, and, as she stood looking up at it meditatively, she caught an outline of the desk at which he had sat, when she came into the office, with no thought that she was near him.

"I am going up there, to the custodian of that building, and--well, I'm going," and she went.

"Are you the custodian of the building, sir?" she inquired a few minutes later, of an elderly man with a pointed beard and cleverly trimmed mustache.

"I am, Madam," he replied. "And at your service."

"A gentleman, who has recently taken an office here, was yesterday stricken with typhoid-pneumonia, and was taken to the charity hospital."

"Yes, Madam, so he was," acknowledged the other. "Too bad. He took the office only a short time ago, and seemed to be a very progressive young man. You are acquainted with him?" he asked, observing the worried look upon her face.

"Yes, sir. I am acquainted with him."

"Indeed! I suppose you are a relative or a close friend," he said, and then paused before proceeding. "His office is open--that is, no one is there to attend to it, and he seems to be the recipient of considerable mail, I have observed. So, if you are interested in his affairs, you may have the key and look after the matter, if you wish too." He was very cordial, and the fact saved her from explaining what she had in view when she entered.

"Yes," she said, "I am interested in his affairs, and it is very kind of you to make the suggestion. In truth, it was on his account that I called here. I should be glad to look after his business while he is indisposed," she ended bravely and kept her face straight.

The custodian gave her the keys, and a few minutes later, she found herself in the small office, looking curiously and guiltily about.

She a.s.sorted the mail, and then, going through what had been opened, she soon got an idea of his plans. Being engaged in this same work, it was easy for her to collect the broken threads, and resume his task. She carefully opened the mail that had come that day, and, a moment later, was typing replies to a score or more, in the manner he would have done, had providence given him the opportunity.

She worked late that evening, and neglected to canva.s.s at all, although it was a beautiful day.

She saw, by the copy in one of the drawers, that he was advertising for agents, and in an apparently successful way. Now, it had occurred to her before, that white people preyed upon Negroes as agents, and, moreover, from her own experience, she had come to realize that they would (white agents) attempt to sell anything, if inducements were made that seemed plausible.

When she was in her room alone that night, she did some more planning, some figuring, and some estimating. In the end, she decided to take the risk.

Being a business woman had always appealed to her fancy, and the work was, to her, a most absorbing diversion. She had learned how to operate a typewriter when she attended school, and was very clever at shorthand also, could keep books with proficiency, and was now glad she had learned these things, although, until she had taken up the sale of the book, she had had no occasion to use her ability.

The following day, she arrived at the office at eight o'clock sharp, and went to work at once. When the mail came, she was cheered to receive twenty dollars in the same, and also, to note three orders from agents, who were selling the book in other cities. She attended to all this, the packing and shipping of the books, wrote replies to all letters, including some of encouragement to those who were succeeding.

She had lunch at a nearby cafe, and returned to work immediately. She then made up a list of carbon copies, which she mailed before going home, to several newspapers all over the country, inclosing a money order in each to cover the cost of insertion.

"And now," she sighed, "I am happy. I feel better than I have felt for some time...." She closed her eyes meditatively, and thought of him.

Would he survive? Typhoid-pneumonia was a dreadful disease, and she was considerably worried. When she retired that night, she prayed a long prayer, and went to sleep with a smile upon her lips, at peace with the world, and with hopes for the best.

CHAPTER NINE

"_I Hope You--Won't--Won't be Angry_"

"We cannot give out information as to the condition of the patient, Madam," said the informant at the hospital, when Mildred had called to inquire regarding the condition of her lover. She turned wearily away, and went back to the office.