The Forged Note Part 77

"Very well," said Mildred, seating herself at her desk. As she did so, her eyes fell upon an envelope with her name written across it, and marked personal. She broke the seal nervously. Calming herself, she straightened out the folded sheet, and read it carefully.

_Miss Mildred Latham_,

_My Dear Madam_:

It is impossible to state how much you have done for the sale of the book during my illness. I do not hesitate to say, that in view of the fact that I have struggled over a period of two years, with only a small measure of success, as compared to that which has come about since you have looked after it, that it is beyond me. I cannot, however, conscientiously accept it in the way you have offered it according to your statement. So I have, therefore, made over to you the sum total that you placed in the bank to my credit.

I am leaving the city for parts unknown, and may not return for a long time--and possibly not at all.

Regretting that I cannot thank you more amply, but hoping you will accept what is no more than due you, I am,

Very sincerely yours,

SIDNEY WYETH.

She laid the letter down and gazed into s.p.a.ce for a long time, not trying to understand anything. He had gone, and left her. He had given her all she had earned, and the privilege of earning more, but he had gone. Would he ever return?... She was sorry now that she didn't tell him all when it had been convenient; and still, in the next thought, she was glad she hadn't.

She was not excited, but went about the work without any outward sign that she had been the recipient of anything unusual; but all the day through, she was thinking of what had just pa.s.sed. She could not recall what she had expected, or that she had expected anything; but of one thing she was more conscious than ever before, and that was that she loved him with all her soul.

So she decided to allow matters to drift along and made no change.

Wyeth stood before the window of the city ticket office of a small railroad. He was attracted by a parish which appeared rather remote, but where a lake was advertised as a nice place to fish. He made up his mind to go there. It was a half day's journey by rail, and a train left in two hours. He returned to his room, and an hour later his trunk was at the depot. He pa.s.sed near the building, and from where he paused, he caught a sight of her sitting at the desk where she had sat the night before.

He could go to her now, and say what had been on his lips more than a year before. He gazed at her for a long time, and was conscious of a longing. He had loved her--oh, so very much. Indeed, she was everything he had desired. Then he thought of the hag and what she had said, and went his way to the depot.

Vellun Parish is perhaps the most remote part of the state. It lies toward the southwest, and is bounded on one side by the Gulf of Mexico.

Its land is all swamp, while no part of it is more than ten feet above the level of the sea. The most of it is under perhaps a foot of water.

Upon the dry portion a few people live. They make no effort to raise crops further than a garden, but depend mostly upon fis.h.i.+ng, and upon tourists for their living. One railroad pulls through the mighty swamps about it, and has a small station located on this dry spot. It is many miles to another station. Almost everybody leaves the place in summer, for mosquitoes hold sway, while sickness and swamp fever are prevalent.

It was high noon at this resort, and from down the track could be heard the whistle of a small locomotive--for the trestles would not hold up large, heavy ones, Presently, with a ringing of bells, it came to a stop before the station, and two people got off, other than members of the train crew. One from the rear, and the other from the front of the Jim Crow car.

The latter was Sidney Wyeth, and in his hands he carried a fis.h.i.+ng outfit and other matter, together with a suit case. Before the station loafed a few of the inhabitants, including an old man whose age was perhaps sixty. He regarded Wyeth strangely, but returned the nod curteously, when the other had spoken.

"Have any idea where I can find lodging about here?" he inquired. It was at the end of the winter season, and those who live the summer months through, had resigned themselves to the heat and mosquitoes. The old man surveyed Wyeth a moment critically before replying.

"Well, I dunno exactly," said he at last, and Wyeth was startled at his command of language, for in those parts few spoke English, and when they did it was bad. Creole was customary. The old man looked about a moment before continuing, but presently he said. "I live alone over beyond that clump of trees," and he pointed to a grove that Wyeth saw plainly, "and if you are alone, you might go along and look it over, and if satisfied, why we might make a deal."

"That's fair enough," agreed Wyeth. "I'm alone, and may be here a month, a week, or it may be three months, I can't say."

"Very well then, follow me."

He took part of the luggage, and they went across one of the few cleared spots of the parish. Finally they came to a neat log house behind a paling fence, before which a dog barked viciously. "Don, Don, hush the noise," the old man said. "He won't bite, but he is fond of barking."

The dog now rolled on his back at Wyeth's feet, and they soon became friends. Sidney patted his head and then rolled him over, much to the dog's delight.

"Well, well, Governor!" cried Wyeth enthusiastically, when they were inside, "but you're all fixed here, I must say."

"Yes," said the other, slowly and modestly, "I guess it'll do for an old relic like me," and he laughed humorously. Wyeth regarded him a moment, and then, for the first time told him his name.

"And mine is Jefferson Bernard."

"Well, Mr. Bernard, I have always taken pride in the fact that I am at home in the open," and he gazed out the window across the cleared spot, and into the forest that surrounded the house.

"Glad to hear that," cried the other. "I was under the impression that you were one of the fly butlers who come here with their people."

"No, I'm a sort of globe trotter, you might say. In fact, at the present I have no plans whatever for the future, so I might bunk with you here a few months. Depends on how my mind is at the end of each day."

"Restless, eh?"

"That's it. Have spent eleven years on the prairies of Dakota, and very often, the 'Call of the Wild' gets into my veins, and I want to get out where I cannot see any one, and sort of--well, forget the strenuous ways of life for a while."

Both laughed agreeably.

"Well," said Jefferson Bernard. "I bunk here alone and do my own cooking of course, and hunt and fish and read and sleep whenever I get ready."

Wyeth wondered at this man. About the wall everything was clean, while the clothes the other wore were a forest suit of brown cloth, with lace boots and a belt; his hat was a broad brimmed Stetson. They were all the best of material, and the man's appearance was anything else but the back-woods Negro. He started to inquire who he was, but something about the other did not invite familiarity, so he talked on other topics instead.

He had been there two weeks, and had been over all the part of the parish that was accessible, when one of the periodic rainy spells set in. For days they were unable to get outside without getting wet, and at times they told a great deal about themselves.

"And that Reminds me," said Bernard, "that you spoke of Cincinnati and that you came south from there, a bit over a year ago. I, then, left there after you did."

"Indeed," said Wyeth in surprise.

"Yes, I have been down here a little over a year only. I was reared in this same parish many years ago, and, since then, I always had a longing to come back and stay again until I got tired of it." He made himself comfortable as he drew away on a long pipe; while Wyeth, observing him, waited for the story he had to tell.

"Yes, I used to live in Cincinnati--in fact, I guess that is what I might call home, if not this."

"This is news to me," said Wyeth.

The other smiled languidly, and went on:

"I used to live on Walnut Hill, and was employed by Stephen Myer, a wealthy retired merchant, who not only was well-to-do in Cinci', but owned a number of interests in the south, in fact, he came to Cincinnati from the south not so long before, and never went back again, for he died.

"I was his valet for years. Got acquainted with him right here in this parish one winter, when he was staying at the hotel over there, and it was the second winter when he hired me and took me north with him.

"Stephen Myer was a good man at heart, but a sport until he died, and certainly believed in a good time with the women. He loved his family, but he would run around, which recalls his death whenever I think of it.

"He came back from the south about three years ago I think, and it was not long until I knew he was keeping a girl he had brought with him. I paid the matter no attention, because he always had somebody before; but strange to say, after that he had no other. It was kept very quiet and I knew nothing of it,--that is, from him, until the night he died. That took place while we were at a hotel in Detroit. His death was due to heart failure, but it didn't take him as it does most of its victims. He was conscious that he was going to die, although he was, to all appearances, well.

"It was then he told me the story.

"Calling me to his bedside, this is what he said. I do not think I shall ever forget it, because it was such an awful death. 'Jeff,' said he.

'I'm going to die.' I looked at him, saying: 'Oh, you're frightened;'

but he shook his head in such a way that I became frightened, and waited. 'Yes, Jeff,' he resumed: 'I'm goin' to die, and Jeff, I'm going to h.e.l.l,' I tried to soothe him, but he only frowned slightly, and went on. 'Yes, Jeff, I'm going to die and go to h.e.l.l, because I deserve to go there. I deserve to go there, Jeff, because I have sinned. Yes, Jeff, I've committed an awful sin, and it's no more than my due to burn in h.e.l.l in payment. I never believed much in such a place until not long ago, when I brought that girl to Cincinnati.' He breathed deeply and with some effort, and it was then I could see he wore a strange expression, and now, as I look back at it, I guess that meant death. He went on again, after a breathing spell: