The Forged Note. Micheaux Oscar

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      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 passed 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 passion, 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.

      "Oh, Mildred!" he wailed. "Mildred, Mildred! I can't believe it. … I can never, oh, never——and I loved you so!" On and on he went; at times walking, other times stumbling; but always uttering incoherent sentences. "It can't be true—it isn't true! That old hag—spiteful creature," he now growled distractedly—"lied! I'll go back, curse her! I'll go back and prove her the liar she is." He halted, staggered drunkenly against a building, and then abruptly turned his face in the direction from whence he had come. But, 'ere he had gone far, he desisted. Believe those words or not, something forbade this step. Weaker than ever, torn, distracted, and mentally prostrated, he paused and leaned against a building, and for a long time gave up to utter СКАЧАТЬ