CHAPTER ONE
"_That Gal's Crooked!_"
When Mildred Latham left the church, she hurried to her room, greatly
excited. Without delay, she threw her belongings together as quickly as
possible, and without care. When she had them tied and ready for moving,
she went out, locking the door behind her, and paused briefly to gaze up
and down the street. After a moment, in which she satisfied herself that
neither were in sight, she hurried down the street to where she knew a
man lived who owned a dray.
"Can you get a trunk and other matter for me at once?" she inquired,
subduing her excitement.
"I guess so. Sometime this afternoon. What number, Miss," he replied,
regarding her with admiring eyes. She bit her lips in vexation.
"But I would like it moved at once--right away," she said, quelling her
excitement as best she could.
"Oh, very well. Didn't know you were in such a hurry." He called to a
black boy in the rear, and, after instructions, turned to her and said:
"Fo'kes out, eh! He-he! Where you want it dumped?"
"Oh,----why, yes--oh,--you may just keep it here until I call for it,
please." Without further words, she hurried away. Down the street she
came to a boy with a push cart, directed him to the address, let him in,
saw to the loading of her luggage, and, when this was completed, slipped
quietly out behind him. When a few doors away, she paused long enough to
gaze longingly in the direction of the number she had just left. And
then, after a smothered sob, she caught a car that took her miles to
another side of town, and where the houses were recently built near a
new extension of the car tracks.
Two hours later, she had succeeded in getting a room from a woman who
had a daughter about her age. She would get her meals at a small
restaurant nearby, until she could arrange to cook them in her room, or,
maybe, she might be allowed to cook them in the kitchen, on the stove of
the family. She didn't request that privilege this day, for she was too
greatly excited to say more than she had to.
"It's terrible," she moaned silently, when alone in the room she had
secured. "I would not have left them like this for anything in the
world; but I could never stay there and take the risk. I could never
look in their faces again.... But, oh, how I dislike to be away from
them! It is almost the only real home I ever knew, and the only ones who
ever really loved me--but Sidney.... I must not think of him, I must
forget. But can I? That is what has worried me these months. I can never
forget how he looked at me that day; that day when he would have
spoken....
"And then he came.... That night--but that was the end, the end of my
dream. And yet, only yesterday, I don't know why, I couldn't seem to
help it; but I had hopes, dear hopes--but today----" She went to sleep
after a time, and all the night through, was asleep and awake by turns.
It seemed that morning would never come; and when it did at last, she
arose with heavy eyes.
She decided to go for a walk, and not canvass that morning. She was glad
now that Constance's work was in another part of the city, and she could
at least go about hers without any likelihood of meeting her.
"Did you rest well last night?" inquired the lady of the house, a
hard-faced dark woman, whose appearance did not appeal to Mildred the
night before, and now she was less impressed than before.
"Oh, very well, thank you," she replied quickly. So much so that the
other looked at her keenly, and when Mildred saw her eyes now, she
detected an air of suspicion therein. She flinched perceptibly. The
other saw this, and was more suspicious still.
"You seem worried, nervous," said the other, with feigned kindness; but
even in the tone, could be discerned a mockery.
"I never sleep well when I change rooms and sleep in a new bed," said
Mildred, calmly. The other nodded.
"This is my daughter," the other announced, as a tired looking black
girl came forward. Mildred accepted the introduction with forced
courtesy, and only returned the greeting. The other did likewise, while
her mother, appearing to wish to tantalize the feelings of her roomer,
said:
"You and she can be partners. You must take her, Myrtle, around to see
your friends." She now turned to Mildred and said: "Myrtle has many
admirers, so you and she can go out anytime and turn on a 'stunt.'" She
smiled a dry hard smile, that almost made Mildred shudder. She made an
excuse, and hurried into the street, preferring the outside air to the
evil atmosphere she felt within.
"That gal's crooked," said the black woman to her daughter, who had just
come in that morning.
"How do you know?" said the other coldly.
"How do I know!" she repeated derisively. "Do you suppose I have been in
this town and seen a thousand gals with her sweet face, and not know
that she ain' got a white man--maybe two or three--on her string."
"You're crooked--so crooked yourself, Ma, that you see everybody else
the same way," said the other, sinking into a chair and closing her
eyes.
"I've always tried to make you straight, and you know that," her mother
retorted grimly.
"A crooked mother can't raise a straight daughter. It's up to the
daughter--and I've failed." A moment later, she was snoring loudly. The
other regarded her now, with a pang in her evil heart. It always made
her sad to see her only daughter like that. She had fostered hopes,
while this one was growing up, that she would be a lady; she had sent
her to school with the funds she got in any way she could; but heredity
was too strong. They wouldn't have the girl after six months, at the
boarding school she attended in Grantville. No, they expelled her with
an emphatic letter, that she should not return the following season. She
swore when she read the letter from the president, and forthwith sent
her to another. The offense was repeated. She sent her then to a
catholic convent. But in some way she escaped from this, and when her
mother saw her two months later, she was living in adultery.
Mildred renewed her canvass that afternoon, and, under the spell of the
work, she was able, after a time, in part, to forget the worry that
possessed her. She returned to her room, humming a little song, much to
the surprise of herself. She hushed, however, when she approached the
house. The face of the black woman seemed more cruel every time she saw
it. She wished she had another place. But, since she had moved in, she
decided to make the best of it.
All that week she worked away diligently. She worked to forget what had
frightened her away from her friends, and her success was great. She
placed the book in scores of homes through her concentrated efforts, and
when she returned at night, she was invariably so much exhausted, that
she retired early, and fell asleep the minute she touched the bed, and
awakened each morning, rested and spurred on to a greater effort.
Sunday came again, and, having grown accustomed to attending church, she
knew it would be a long day for her without doing so. She inquired of
the people regarding a church, and was embarrassed to have the woman
remark:
"Oh, you attend church! Well, there's a big Baptist church down the
street and across five blocks; while there's a smaller one two blocks
up."
"Thank you," said Mildred so sweetly, that the other looked after her
with open mouth.
"I can't make that gal out," she said to her daughter, as they sat
together at breakfast.
"I'm glad of it," growled the daughter, without looking up.
"She's a puzzle. Sells a book; but I will never bring myself to believe
that she doesn't do something else on the side."
"Evil to him who evil thinks," said her daughter, still looking in her
plate. "I think I might possibly have been something, Ma, if you hadn't
been so evil. Now what right have you trying to trump up something
against that girl. Supposing she ain't straight, does that give you any
call for all time tryin' t' make her what she ain' showed herself t'
be?" Myrtle was impatient, and her mother had a way of hushing up when
she was in this mood.
"She c'n certainly make herself look good," commented the black woman,
as Mildred passed out, and went down the street in the direction given
to the big church.
"Has got some clothes, too," she commented further, as the other
remained silent. "She certainly knows how t' have her men. Don't none
of'm bother about where she lives; and 'she goes t' church on Sunday.'"
She laughed a low, hard laugh, but did not look in her daughter's
direction.
Mildred found the church. It was indeed a large structure. And a large
crowd attended it. She sat to one side, where a window was raised, and
the soft air floated in above her. As she caught the strains of the
mammoth pipe organ, and heard the music from a score or more voices in
the choir, she thought of her friends as never before, since she left
them. She had told Wilson--who was so good--that some day he'd be the
pastor of a big church. A big church like this, where thousands of
people attended. Only forty members comprised his congregation; he was
delighted, she recalled, when as many as one hundred attended. And she
had wanted so much to help Wilson Jacobs and his sister in their great
effort. As she recalled how unceremoniously she had left them, and at
the very time they needed her more than ever, she experienced a pain
that made her turn in the pew.
She heard the pastor now. He was preaching. She settled herself for a
long sermon. That was the kind the Baptists preached, she judged. Soon
she found herself listening to the words that came from his lips. He
told the story of Damon and Pythias. How glorious, she thought! Pythias
was a man--and so was Damon. They were strong men--with, what was that,
she was thinking of it all the time? Yes, they were strong men with the
strength of their convictions. "Amen" came all about her. And still the
pastor was preaching. And he was preaching a good sermon. She heard it
all, and it concerned men--and the strength of their convictions.
"To be a Christian," she heard him now, "you must be strong. You must be
courageous, and willing to sacrifice for your brother, as was Damon for
Pythias. There are those who are Christians with all the feeling--on
Sunday. Monday, they are like any other sinner. This version of
Christianity and religion, is the reason Hell is getting so many people
every day. Sometimes when I think it over, I don't wonder; because, all
my life, I have been constrained to observe, that too many people regard
Jesus as the individual, and not as the moral. It is the moral of the
Christ, his teachings and example, that we are to follow. We do not know
him, insofar as the Christian sense is concerned, as an individual. But
it is a fact that so many of our preachers wax eloquent, and literally
bring down the heavens, and, likewise, great demonstration from the
congregation thereby. But, to be a successful practitioner, one must be
strong; he must stand for something; to be a successful farmer, a man
must be practical; to be a successful business man, requires application
and fortitude; to be a good husband, and the father of a happy family,
requires strength--in short, to be anything in this life, requires
strength! Therefore, dear friends, fancy, if you can, how a weak man can
be a Christian. For, to be a Christian, requires the strength of all
things."
She was moved. Oh, it was a relief to listen to a good sermon! And she
was glad to hear a Baptist preacher speak so forcibly in such terms. She
was not so very well acquainted with this denomination and its pastors;
but, from her observation, she had almost concluded that they appealed
to the emotion, rather than to strength. She wondered now, as she saw
him making gestures in emphasizing his words, whether he had taken any
interest in the Y.M.C.A. She decided to find out, if she became an
attendant of this church.
When the sermon had closed, she contributed liberally to the table,
whereupon she was looked at closely by the man who took collections.
When she had reseated herself, and glanced in the direction of the
table, she saw the man pointing her out to the pastor, whose eyes, for a
moment, rested upon her in curiosity.
When she was leaving the church at the close of the services, someone
touched her arm. She turned quickly, with a pang of the heart, recalling
with fright, having been touched a week before. She had no need to fear,
however. It was the man who had taken collections.
"The pastor would like a word with you, Madam," he said, with his hat in
his hand, and all politeness. She blushed, and then, turning, followed
him back into the church, where she came upon the pastor, standing among
several people.
"Ah," he said, advancing as soon as she drew near. "And this is the
young lady we observed. Pardon me, Miss, but you are a stranger among
us. We wish you to feel welcome in our church. I hope the service didn't
bore you." He was a good man. Her ideal of a true Christian. She replied
with embarrassment, and blushed fearfully:
"Oh, no, indeed not, Sir! I enjoyed the service--oh, ever so much! And I
am delighted to be made welcome here. I hope to come to services very
often--every Sunday. I think you preached a wonderful sermon!" She
paused now, too embarrassed to go on. He saw it, and made haste to
dispell it. Introductions followed, and invitations were the order.
It was over now, and she was happy. At that moment, she felt at peace
with the world. And this included the evil black woman with whom she
roomed, and who didn't attend church. She grasped the hands that now
sought hers, and murmured kind words. Then she turned, and before her
stood the man with the scar. She uttered a low cry, and the next moment,
fell prone upon her face, in a dead faint.
CHAPTER TWO
"_It Was In That Church Last Sunday!_"
The Sunday following Mildred's departure was a sad one in the Jacobs'
household. Since she came to it months before, Sunday had always been
distinguished from other days. It was then that all talked and smiled,
and indulged at length in other pastimes that make home happy. And that
is why today was the saddest day they--Constance and her brother--felt
they had ever experienced. Neither could keep their gaze from wandering
to the empty chair, and down in the hearts of each was a constant cry,
though both surpressed it with a mighty effort: "Where is she today?"
It was Wilson who broke the silence. Was it perhaps the one woman who
had filled that empty chair only last Sunday, gay, cheerful, happy and
hopeful? Wilson Jacobs felt as though he should choke. Constance saw his
emotion 'ere he spoke, and experienced a choking sensation also. She
hadn't become reconciled to the absence, and all the week through, she
had been like one in a trance.
"Can we ever give Mildred up, Constance?" Constance did not reply. She
did not raise her head for fear he might happen to see her eyes. But
after a time, she could hold back the tears no longer. All at once they
came in a flood, and her whole being gave up to convulsive sobs.
"There, there, dear," he cried, rising and coming hurriedly around to
where she sat. Whereupon she became worse. He raised her to a standing
posture, and took her affectionately in his arms, but the weeping went
on unchecked. He held her and stroked her hair with his hand, but said
nothing. He could not, for he was too overcome himself. By and by, he
knew it would pass, and then they would speak of her in the terms they
had known her. She was a good girl.
"Oh, Wilson, I will never get over it--never, never, never!" Constance
moaned and gripped him convulsively. "Just think of it, too, and when we
were beginning to realize how much she was to both of us. And just think
how she acted about the Y.M.C.A.! Went to the bank and drew all the
money she had saved this summer, walking by day in the sun to sell the
book, and gave it, every dollar of it, to the cause of our people!" She
cried harder now than ever. He drew her closer, and as he did so, one
tear dropped from his eye upon her hair. She never felt it, and he would
not have had her know for anything. He was a strong man, and had ever
kept from tears.
"If we could only do something, only help a little," he said now, in a
constrained voice. "I would give the rest of my life to the cause of
that girl," he said, with words that spelled of fire. "Whatever this
lurking evil is that has driven her from the protection of those who
love her, _it was in that church last Sunday_!" He paused now, and while
he stood silent, his sister released herself, looking at him for a
moment sympathetically, and then sank again into the chair.
Their breakfast had been neglected, forgotten, and was growing cold.
"Come, Wilson," she called softly, and pointed to his plate. He heard
her and obeyed. They ate in absolute silence, automatically putting from
their minds the emotion that had possessed them.
And even as he ate the food, with the strength it required to force it
down, his mind played about the incident connected with her strange
leaving. He tried vainly to recall who was at the church that he did not
know. And it occurred to him that there were many. Yes. There were many;
then he remembered suddenly how cheered he had been, when he saw his
little church filled to its capacity. He recalled with a pang, that, as
he stood at the rostrum, Mildred had passed, and, upon seeing him, had
glanced at the congregation that had gathered, and then back at him and
smiled. He continued his meal, but he knew he could never forget that
smile.
Mildred Latham had wanted to help him. And when she saw his small church
filled with people that day, some there purposely, while others were
merely curious, she had, in that smile, shown how glad she was. It was
that unselfishness about her, which was evident in many little ways, and
which had finally won him.
And she had played and sung that day with all the strength of her body
and soul. She had struggled in every way she knew how, to help him in
his great effort. She had gone to the bank and drawn all she had saved
in the months he had known her, as further evidence of her regard for
this human welfare. She had acted, in doing so, at the most opportune
time. With such a sum from an unknown girl, others, during the week, had
surprised even themselves by subscribing sums that made the success of
his work seemed assured. And cash was given where it might not have been
otherwise. He knew his people a little. And when someone started the
ball rolling, by means of patience, fortitude, hard work and application
to the task, others can be found who will keep it going.
And why had Mildred Latham done this? Certainly she had not done so
because she was in love with him. She had never shown any affection for
him in that way. She had been interested in him, because she felt that
he was sincere in his effort to help his fellow men. And she had given
the sum to the proposed Y.M.C.A., because she was _interested in
humanity_, and that was her mite to prove it....
And on the heels of this, she had--almost in the same moment, been
driven from the place she had appreciated as home.... Who was this
beast, for positively he was a beast.... When he got to a man in the
case, he could never go further. For, think as he might, he could not,
in some way, connect her with a man. A man it might be; but he felt
positive she had no relation with anyone. And yet, what was it? Just
something, and after that, all was blank.
They had finished their meal now. And he rose and strolled out upon the
porch. He drew a cigar and, lighting it, started to smoke. It was a
beautiful morning, and one to make even the sorrowful happy. But Wilson
Jacobs was not happy. He gave up to the delight of the moment, and for a
time, he forgot the harrowing sorrows.
The trees that lined the street were heavy with foliage, and gave forth
the sound of many song birds; while a soft wind made the leaves rustle
ever so little.
Presently, a man came down the street. On he came until he was even with
the house, and then, for a brief spell, he paused at the gate. Until
then, he had apparently not observed the man sitting on the porch. He
glanced up and saw him. Then, with something akin to an air of guilt,
the stranger passed on, and, as he did so, Wilson gave a start. His
thoughts flew back over the past, with electric rapidity. Where had he
seen that man before? "Where, where, where?" His thoughts were fairly
alive. His lips grasped the cigar so tightly, that the lighted end fell
to the floor, for he had bitten it in two, in his excitement. He kicked
it from him with impatience, while he ransacked his brains in deep
thought. "Where, where, where?" he cried, now almost aloud. And, strange
as it seemed, in some way he connected this man with the disappearance
of Mildred Latham. He raised his hands to his head to steady the
thumping there, which by now had reached a state of violence. Just then
the sexton rang the bell of his church next door. The same broke forth
upon the clear morning air in stentorian tones, and floated beyond, and
then Wilson Jacobs sat up quickly, bolt upright.
"I have it! _I have it!_" he cried in a subdued voice, while his very
frame trembled. "It was at the meeting. That man came in late, I recall
it all now. He came in late and I saw him. He, I recall now, appeared to
have no interest in the service; but his eyes sought something, and then
I caught him looking at Mildred with a cunning expression!" Why had he
not thought of this before? It was all clear to him now, as he arose.
And then it occurred to him to follow. He tore into the house, and
seizing his hat, hurried out and through the yard, came into the street
and looked in the direction which he had seen the other take. No one was
in sight. He hesitated a moment, and then hurried forward in that
direction. He presently came abreast of a house where people sat upon
the porch. He halted a moment as they called out his name pleasantly,
bidding him good morning. He calmed himself, and after returning the
greeting, inquired quite casually whether a man had passed that way
recently, and he gave a description of him.
"No; but such a man as you describe came down as far as the corner back
there," one of them explained, "and turned in that direction," and he
pointed west.
"Thank you," he nodded calmly, and then retreated until he came to the
place the other had turned. He stood for a moment, apparently lost in
thought, while the people on the porch stared at him carelessly. A
moment later, he passed in the direction the other had taken.
But, while he had been advised that the other had gone in that
direction, no one was in sight, he now saw with sinking heart. He walked
for two blocks, making inquiries as he went, but no one had seen such a
man. He was downcast for a time. Presently, he returned to his home in a
disappointed mood. As he came by the church, the doors were open, and
his few members were filing scatteringly in. He hurried into his
clothes, and a few minutes later, stood before his congregation reading
the text.
CHAPTER THREE
"_Uh! 'es Got'im a Nigga!_"
When Mildred awakened, she found herself stretched upon a pew, with her
head in a woman's lap, while the pastor and many others whom she had met
a few minutes before, stood about with anxious expressions. Two ladies
were fanning her face vigorously. She awoke with a start, and recalled
quickly the moment she had fainted. She had never done so before, and
had often wondered how people must feel when they fainted. She knew now;
but that was not what she thought of, when it became clear to her. The
man was her chief concern. She sat up and looked about her quickly. If
she saw him, she felt that she must certainly lose consciousness again.
He was gone. With a sigh, she sank back into the arms of the woman for a
moment. The fanning was more vigorous now than ever. All was quiet about
her. She did not first understand it. Was it because they were afraid it
might disturb her; or was it--had they seen--and _understood_? She was
too weak just then to speculate about the situation; but she was
delighted to hear the pastor say, a moment later, stroking her forehead
kindly:
"You feel better now, Miss?"
She nodded, and felt now like crying. She understood facial expressions,
and they had not seen. She was so relieved--for the present, and did not
think then of the future. She had that to worry over later, and for this
moment at least, she was relieved. These good people hadn't suspected
the cause of her swoon. She sat up now, smiled with thanks upon those
about her, and wiped the cold perspiration from her forehead. Someone
held her hat, which they now handed to her. She placed it upon her head,
covering the mass of hair that many were looking at a moment before,
with natural admiration. Thanking them again in a kind and embarrassed
manner, she turned and left them, while they followed to the door, and
went their many ways.
When she got back to her room, she experienced a spell of nervousness
when she entered. She saw the black woman's face for a moment, and was
again relieved. The other had not been there, so she nodded coldly, and
entered her room. She closed the door, and, removing her apparel, got
into a kimono and threw herself upon the bed.
She had no thoughts for a time, but surrendered herself to idleness for
perhaps a half hour, and then her mind began to react. It took the form
of reminiscence. Sidney Wyeth came back into her memory, and for a long
time she lay thinking entirely of him.
It was he--and he never knew what had started her on this strange
journey. She now recalled--or tried to recall why. And then after a time
she knew. Yes. She loved Sidney Wyeth, and it was that which had made
the difference. But what kind of love was this that had no hope? And yet
did she not hope?
As she lay with the hot air floating in upon her, she gazed out into the
street, where a dozen or so little black boys played. She thought, with
her mind idly drifting, and she saw these boys as men, in her idle
fancy. They gathered presently in a circle, and when she watched them in
her half-conscious, half-waking manner for a few minutes, she saw they
were shooting craps. Think of it! These boys, ranging in years from
eight to twelve. And they were already engaged in that demoralizing
pastime. She trembled with sorrow as she watched the game proceed. Soon
she saw that an argument of some kind had come up. They became very
demonstrative, and while this was going on, suddenly, from a remote
direction, a blue-coated policeman appeared upon the scene. There was a
scramble and they flew in many directions. All escaped, with the
exception of one. He was a cripple, and as he tried to hobble away, the
burly cop swooped down upon him. He grasped him, without regard for his
infirmity, and disappeared up the street, dragging the cripple with him.
And that was a common occurrence in this city. Hundreds of young
men--boys--were started on a career of crime by premeditated arrests.
They were often placed in jail when they were so young, that it was a
tragedy. When they came out--for the courts could not bring themselves
to sentence below a certain age--they were then pointed at as having
"been in jail." And since they had the name, they often thereafter
diligently sought the game.
As the policeman passed up the street with the pitiful cripple, she
rushed to the window to look after him. A little boy stuck his head
through a broken fence, and she heard him say, as they went by: "Uh! 'es
got 'im a nigga!"
Mildred stretched herself upon the bed again; but her thoughts were now
of something else. The Y.M.C.A. and Wilson Jacobs. At this same hour
last Sunday, she had been with him in his effort--his great effort. And
the need of such an effort had just been demonstrated a few minutes
before, almost beneath her very eyes.
There was no place to go; no place, as a rule, where young men would go,
and this helped to make it so bad. Young men will play pool, some of
them, and they will seek some kind of diversion, other than the church.
Their natures call for these things, and she knew it. Since freedom, the
Negro has not been sufficiently practical to appreciate this point of
view. Plenty of churches are available, and services are held all day
Sunday. And it is easy, so easy, to say they ought to go--everybody
_ought_ to go. But _does_ everybody go? _Would_ everybody go? And the
most discouraging part of it is that _everybody does_ not go.
Some young men, if there were a clean place to go and indulge in the
pastimes that are a custom with many of them, would be glad to avail
themselves of the opportunity. Yes, they would be glad. And, by so
doing, they would perforce meet others, who were likewise seeking
amusement. Thus brought together, they would know and appreciate the
good in each other. And still further, when they would go their many
ways in life, they would naturally spread the gospel of good, or
whatever was worth while. Such was the natural tendency of environment.
She had just witnessed such an example, a mere incident in the city's
life. Those boys had not all known the game when they began to play. But
those who did know it, and had likewise learned it from somebody else,
had, of course, in turn taught it to these others, who would in turn
teach it still to others, and so on. Evil environment, bad influence.
She had seen these lurking evils in so many places in this city of the
south. And, as the months went by, they took heavy toll in startling
numbers among the black children.
The effort of Wilson Jacobs would not soon be appreciated. It would take
years for all these young men to see and know the real worth of such an
institution. But it was the duty of society, nevertheless (and what was
the church but the center of society), to put forward all its efforts
toward the evolution of its members.
Oh, some day Mildred Latham hoped she could do more. Apparently, for the
present, she had done her best. But, as to how she could continue doing
that which she loved better than anything else to do, helping others,
she could not now see clearly. She had no plans whatever for the future,
as she lay stretched across the bed this warm afternoon. She had no
thought of leaving the city, and still, she now knew that it was only a
question of time when she would hear from this man again. He had said
nothing, but she had read evil in his eyes. He _would_ strike sooner or
later, of that she was sure. But she was now resigned to the inevitable.
She decided to continue her work the next day, and to be brave. She was
away from those whom she would dislike to see embarrassed. Maybe he
might go about his business, if he had any, and let her alone. That was
all she asked. If he spoke to her again, and forced himself upon her,
she would ask him to do so. She would even beg him not to annoy her. And
in the next thought, she realized how useless this would be.
She was in the street now, and was walking along. This part of the city
stood upon a considerable hill, and some distance away ran the mighty
river. Its muddy water could be seen from where she stood. In that
moment, she wanted to be within its shining ripples. They led to the
mightier ocean, hundreds of miles below. Impulsively she now sought the
river, and decided to walk all the way. She had walked to it when she
had stayed with her dear friends--yes, very often. And then, as she
thought of them, a fear arose in her bosom, that she might possibly meet
them. That would never do, and she turned back. Oh, why could she not
meet them? How much would it have meant to her to feel herself in
Constance's arms; to feel those kisses upon her cheek, and to know that
someone loved her. Yes, to see Wilson, and appreciate his great
kindness. When these pleasant thoughts had spent themselves, she
realized they could never be anything more to her. No. She could go back
there, and they would take her in and ask no questions; they would be
good to her, and appreciate her desire to do good; but it would always
be different--now. No. Her life was before her--she must work out her
own destiny. Whither would it lead? She made no effort to answer this
question.
She thought now of Wyeth. She formed his name with her lips, and spoke
it aloud, and was made strangely happy and forgetful of that which
troubled her, when she heard it pronounced. She repeated it: "Sidney."
Oh, but to hear him call to her now as he did that day! The day they
danced, and she had heard him stifle the passion; she had seen his eyes,
and they had hypnotised her; and, in that moment of sweet insanity, she
had not resisted the kiss that she saw he would imprint. No. And she had
never been sorry. Somehow, that one moment had been her guiding star.
She would continue into the future, and thus it would always continue
so.
She arrived at the place--not home. She could never call this place
home; but where she had her room. She came around to the rear; she did
not know why. And then she was sorry too. Ranged about, without regard
as to how they sat, were men and women. Their faces were flushed, while
their smiles were amorous. She almost choked as she begged pardon, and
hurried around to the front. She had not gotten out of reach of their
voices, when she heard the men say: "Gee! Some kid! Who is she?"
"Aw, she's a little nicey, nicey girlie, that don't drink, nor smoke,
nor chew, nor--anything; but goes t' church on Sunday," the black woman
answered, and laughed a nasty laugh.
She was in her room and was glad she was shut away from the comment. To
forget it, she busied herself with the names of her subscribers, and
worked over the same until the sun had disappeared for the day, and
twilight was in the air. She lit a small lamp, drew down the shade, and,
taking up _The Tempest_, read until sleepiness drove her to bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
_"Please Go!" She Cried Hoarsely_
Weeks had passed, and Mildred Latham had not seen the man since that
Sunday at church. She had become an active worker in the big Baptist
church. She had no thought of becoming so, but, somehow, she couldn't
keep out of it. Such a great crowd of people attended it each Sunday!
But they are not the select class of people she had met at the
Presbyterian. They consisted of all classes, and from every walk in
life. Among them, she met many of her subscribers, and was pleased to be
remembered by them. They impressed her, all of them, as being good
people. In fact, she could never believe many of them bad. They were
simple and too free in their thoughts--when they had any. They impressed
her, at times, as so many children. Many of those who came to the church
regularly, did not, she observed, pay the least attention to the sermon.
For the most part, the large majority could not even have remembered the
text.
And yet they came every Sunday in great numbers, in droves even. Many of
them were very beautifully dressed. There were no kinky heads among
them, albeit, the original had been so. The most of the hair which was
theirs by birth was all straight, while the acquired portion was
beautifully matched.
But the point that reconciled her, was the fact that the pastor was a
good man, and a fit one. He preached always the sermon that spoke of
practical uplift. And this, she judged, after a time, was why he was not
liked by all, and why also, a great many made not the slightest effort
to listen to his sermons.
"Aw, Reverend Castle don't preach this religion lak I wants to hear it
preached," some complained.
"Um--m!" exploded others.
"They ain' no 'ligion no mo' 'mong the people; they is all out fo'
style!" still others said.
And thus it went. "Out for style," was, in a great measure, quite true;
but Reverend Castle's sermons could easily be understood, if those who
attended made any effort whatever to do so. But they did not, and
Mildred could never reconcile herself to this.
Back in Cincinnati, she recalled when she used to attend a certain
theatre. The only reason colored people were allowed to purchase
admittance, was because they did not come in great numbers. There were
theaters where they were denied entrance, because they made such
disgusting disturbances. And it was only because they would come and
make no effort to understand the performance, unless it was something
below par, and something entirely comic.
In this city, she had attended a great motion picture drama. It was a
play built upon an incident in the history of the struggle for
Christianity--the effort to overthrow the power of Caesar. Above all, it
was a play for Christians, which these multitudes professed very loudly
to be. And yet the entire performance was disturbed by the gallery,
where only the _black_ people were allowed to sit. They were assigned
this portion, because so few understood or made any effort to understand
the play. These were some of the facts in the lives of her people, which
exposed the Negro to the contempt of the white race.
Wilson Jacobs and Reverend Castle were preachers of a new type, and
there were many other such ministers; but the masses continued to preach
in the old style, regardless of the fact that many had prepared
themselves to preach as these men did. The old type still continued to
work upon the emotional fibre of the congregation. And, likewise, in so
doing, others were disturbed who wished to be taught. But the sermons of
Reverends Jacobs and Castle were not disturbed by emotional
demonstrations. The people were, if the truth be known, inspired to
higher ideals and a more lofty conception of life. Christ was pictured
in such sermons, not as the moralist, but in the highest type of
perfection, as an incentive to noble conduct.
* * * * *
Autumn finally came with its many varied tints, and the leaves were
falling. Jack Frost had placed his feathery designs for the third time
upon the window panes, and, in the meantime, the work for social
betterment went on apace.
The effort toward the securing of the colored Y.M.C.A., as it was
referred to, had proceeded to the extent that it was on everybody's
lips. Wilson Jacobs had proved to be a secretary of unusual efficiency.
Mildred kept herself informed of it through the columns of the papers,
and was always delighted to see that subscriptions were being paid to an
encouraging degree; but she saw that, of the thirty-five thousand
dollars to be raised by the colored people of the city, only six
thousand dollars had been paid in, after two months campaigning. This
was encouraging, nevertheless, for Grantville, with a much more
intelligent Negro population, had only secured two-thirds of this amount
at the end of six months. Yet twenty-nine thousand dollars were to be
paid in. This amount had been over subscribed, but, getting the money
was a different story. Would the black people of this town pay the
twenty-nine thousand dollars before, or by the first of the coming year?
For, on that day, the time limit of the Jew's contribution would expire;
also, that from other sources; but it was the money from the Jew
philanthropist, that figured most prominently. Frankly, when Mildred saw
it, she smothered her doubts as to their ability of obtaining the
desired amount.
Rallies for the purpose of raising money were given weekly, but
winter-time was approaching, and colored people very often had little
set aside for such a purpose. Then, already work was shutting down, and
had shut down in many cases. Hard times had been felt for some time, but
were beginning to be felt more so. Men by the hundreds walked the
streets in search of employment, and found instead, trouble. Arresting
for vagrancy had been stopped by the order of the court. Many preferred
being locked up, for they complained it was so difficult to secure
bread, and even at times an impossibility; whereas, while locked up,
they could eat. And that meant much.
Churches were now begging for money to buy coal; the annual interest on
indebtedness was past due, and Reverend Castle did double work--the
Y.M.C.A. and his church.
And it was about this time, when one evening Mildred returned from her
work, and was informed by the black woman, that she had a caller. She
was surprised, and looked it. The black woman was too, and she likewise
looked it. Moreover, she made comment. Mildred had never had a caller
before.
"A gentleman," said the other, when the look of surprise spread over her
face. The other winked and continued: "Some guy, too. Yes, swell," and
laughed in a way which Mildred always disliked to hear.
"Who was he?" she presently inquired, thinking of someone with a growing
fear.
"Didn't leave no name; said you wouldn't know it nohow," whereupon her
black face took on a look that was tantalizing. Mildred ended it by
going to her room. She felt the call would be repeated. And then would
come the climax. She experienced a tired feeling. This being sought by
one whom she did not seek, was nerve-racking; but she steeled herself
for the ordeal. She hoped, since she now felt that he would call, that
he would come again that same evening, and she would have it over.
And he did.
She was about to retire, but not to sleep. For, as the time passed, her
nerve began to break under the strain of waiting, and she was fatigued.
"The gentleman has returned, Miss," announced the voice of the black
woman, as her fingers played upon the door. Mildred opened it forthwith,
and--yes, there he was. He pushed himself in without being asked, and,
being surprised at the intrusion, Mildred let go the knob, whereupon he
grasped it, and closed the door. He smiled at her now; a smile that
lurked, that boded no good; and she felt this, with a heaving of the
breast.
"Haven't seen you for some time. Why don't you bid me welcome?" he
leered. Her eyes stared at him coldly, but her bosom heaved,
nevertheless.
"Don't stare at me as if I were an iceberg," said the other, with his
smiles. "Just an old acquaintance from"--and he jerked his thumb in the
apparent direction of Cincinnati. He smiled a cruel, hard smile, as he
did this, dropped uninvited into a chair and lit a cigarette.
"Have one?" he invited, and then snickered. "You are real cute
now-a-days, I observe," he tortured. "Quite a church lady, ha, ha!" And
he gave up to his mirth for a few seconds. "Quite cute with the
preachers. Wilson Jacobs is 'bugy' 'bout you. Awful bad for you t' get
up and steal away so mysteriously." He looked at her now with ill
concealed glee, and then continued: "I didn't know you'd 'beat' it until
the next Sunday; when I passed I didn't see you sitting on the porch
with him; but, instead, he sat there alone, looking like the devil
before dawn. About the time I saw him, he saw me, and looked at me as if
he had caught me trying to break in his house, or something, so I lit
out. I 'hunched' you'd fled d' coup then, 'n' as I was 'beating' it down
the street in no slow gate, I see's a drayman a-greasin' his old hack. I
had a premonition this guy, the way he regarded me, was likely to
follow. So I just slips into this old crow's nest, and gets behind
some-a-his junk, and gets int' conversation with him, and, sure enough,
it wasn't three minutes before this 'preacher' comes walking by
a-lookin' right and left for me. I laffed in my sleeve, and continued
talking with the old skate. A bent key encountered my hand on the
ground, 'n' I raised it up. The old buzzard spied it, and cried: 'That's
a gal's key that come down heah t' have me move her in a hurry las'
Sunday. I oughtta sent it to'r, but 'lows I ain' got the time.' Just lak
a flash, I get's wise, so I says t' 'im: 'Was she the girl that stayed
up at Jacobs'? If so, I'll carry it to her, since she's a'friend
a-mine's.' 'By gad,' he coughs, ''n' I'm the one that'll let y' too,'
and looked grateful. 'Where did she move to?' I inquired like I didn't
care, and then added: 'Y' see, I know the place by sight, but I can't
find it 's I'm turned around down here a little.' He puts me next, and I
beats it up to where youse 's roostin' 'n' I comes up, I see this ole
black hen a-workin' away with the house all open, 'n' nobody about, I
dopes at once that you, sweet little girlie, is off some'eres to church.
"You know the rest," and rising now, he came toward her. "You ought t'
be willin' t' give me a kiss now, honey, for showing how hard I'm
willin' to hustle for a sight a them eyes." He advanced to where she
stood. He smiled as he came, while she recoiled from the sight of him,
and retreated. That appeared to please him, and he began a merry chase,
dodging behind chairs and jumping up and down playfully. "Wants t'
tease, eh? That's a way with you little women, yu lak t' tease! Ah!
That's what makes us lak yu'. 'N', kid, I sho' does lak you. You are a
pretty little wench--I mean little gal," he corrected, continuing his
chase.
"Please go!" she cried hoarsely. "I don't know you. I don't want to know
you. Why do you torment me!" He only smiled now, and looked grim and
determined, as he at last cornered her. Between them was a chair. She
got behind it, and grasped the back of it. He halted on the other side,
and showed his teeth for a full minute, before he said a word, or a word
was spoken.
"Did you hear me! Why don't you go! If you were a gentleman, you'd go!"
His eyes narrowed to mere slits, and then he suddenly opened them wide.
"Just a kiss, dearie, why all this argument. Sometimes it goes so far
that it spoils all the sweetness. Just allow me to turn this chair until
I can be seated, and then I will draw you down, nicey, upon my knee, and
everything is O.K.--see!" He now grasped the chair, which, despite her
efforts to hold it as it was, he twisted slowly from her grasp. The next
minute he had succeeded, and nothing was between them. He made one step
in her direction, whereupon she recoiled in fright. He caught her wrist
with his right, and then with the left, he proceeded to encircle her
waist. The next moment, she felt his hot breath in her face, and then,
with her free hand, she struck him a resounding smack full on his cheek,
with all her strength. He released her so quickly, that he staggered
backward blindly for a moment. The next he had recovered, while his face
was colored with the blood she had brought to it. His eyes were narrower
now than ever, while his voice, as he spoke, came in gasps.
"Why, you little wench! You little imp! You little fourflusher! You
little ---- strike me, when I have kept my head closed all this time,
while you sailed about here with these big niggers, the nicest little
nicey. Ha! _Nice_--_Hell!_ How long do you figure these church people
would kite you about, if I told them _what you were back in Cinci'_!"
She flew to the door now, and jerked it wide. A bundle of meat with
clothes on, fell in with a scream. It was the black woman, and she had
heard all.
CHAPTER FIVE
_The Time Limit_
"What is the total, Constance?" her brother inquired wearily, as his
sister poured over a long list of figures on a balance sheet before her.
"In a minute," she said and continued her figuring. Presently, with a
sigh she straightened up, and handed him a sheet, showing a list of
names, at the right of which was registered various amounts.
"Seven thousand six hundred fifty-nine dollars and fifteen cents," he
repeated, half aloud. He looked at his sister, and saw in her tired
eyes, failure staring them in the face. Unless something extraordinary
occurred, the chances of securing a Y.M.C.A. for the colored youth of
the city was doomed to failure. He laid the sheet down, and picked up
another piece of paper--a letter. He had read it several times, but now
he read it again. He didn't want to believe what was written upon it,
and signed by the Jew philanthrophist. But it was before him in plain,
typewritten words, and was to this effect:
_Mr. Wilson Jacobs_,
_Secretary Y.M.C.A._
MY DEAR SIR: Receipt of your letter of December 1, is here
acknowledged. I note carefully what you say in regard to your
efforts in relation to the securing of funds for the Y.M.C.A. for
the colored youth of your city.
You are of course aware that my offer, made five years ago, in
which I agreed to give the sum of $25,000 to any city, where an
additional sum of $75,000 was forthcoming from other sources. The
time I made that offer was five years ago January of the coming
year. Therefore, the time will expire at twelve, December 31, this
month.
With regard to extending the time limit on these gifts, I regret to
say that I have made no such provision. Moreover, with the present
condition of the financial outlook, I cannot see my way clear to
do so. However, all cities that report favorably up to that date, I
will fulfill my agreement.
Regretting that I cannot write you more favorably, but hoping it
will be possible for you to comply with my offer, I beg to remain,
Very truly, J. ROSENTHAL.
He laid the letter aside. He had known before he wrote, what to expect,
for announcements had come from Grantville, that the philanthropist
would not extend the time on his gifts for this purpose. Hard times had
spread over the country, until not enough was being collected to
maintain the cost of the office and advertising, notwithstanding the
fact that they secured it at the smallest possible rate. Both were
compelled to acknowledge now that a failure seemed imminent. To secure
the gift of the Jew, it was necessary for them to raise still more than
twenty-seven thousand dollars.
Could he raise such a sum in view of prevailing circumstances?
"Have you received a decision from the railroad president, who
personally contributed five hundred dollars, Wilson?" Constance now
inquired.
"The hoped for appropriations for such purposes have been deferred
indefinitely," he replied. "So there is no hope now, only from the local
interests, and they, I fear, are hopeless."
"And you see no place where such a sum might be raised--in so short a
time?" she asked again, a trifle nervous.
"Only to go north, and try to enlist the sympathy of other philanthropic
persons."
"And--will--you go?" She looked at him now, anxiously.
"Yes, I will go," he returned.
"May God be with us!" she sighed, and picked up the afternoon paper. She
glanced over it, and saw the usual accounts relating to the shutting
down of various industrial concerns, and, as she looked further, there
were the same accounts regarding the colored people. The business of
fighting and stealing and getting drunk went on more actively than
usual, if such were possible. She laid it aside presently, and picked up
her subscription list. She was still selling the book, and had a great
many sales for the holiday trade.
When she paid the charges on a consignment of books a few minutes later,
and unwrapped them, she thought of her dear friend who had brought her
attention to the work. How much she would have liked to see her, she did
not conjecture; but she was glad now she had taken up the work. The
returns from the sale of it, had meant a great deal to the home in the
past months. Wilson, who usually made some money otherwise than what he
received from the church, which was small, had been unable to look after
or give his time to anything but the work of the Y.M.C.A. Therefore, the
money from the sale of the book had come in at an opportune time.
As for Mildred, the earth seemed to have swallowed her, insofar as they
had been able to ascertain. Wilson had worried to a point where he now
looked ten years older than he had six months before. Grantville had
given up in despair. Five thousand dollars was all they had been able to
raise, and, therefore, realized how useless it was to continue the
effort, which had subsequently come to an end. She believed in her
brother; she was confident he could raise the amount necessary, if he
had the time. If the gift from the Jew could have been possible a year
hence, she was confident he could raise the balance; but, with less than
four weeks, it seemed hopeless.
And yet, "as long as there is life there is hope!" He would go north the
coming Monday--this was Friday--and she hoped he would be successful.
Until he returned, she would not despair. She made preparations for his
departure, by packing his steamer trunk, washed his handkerchiefs,
purchased many little necessities from her own purse, and placed them
along with the rest of his belongings.
"Will you go to New York or Chicago?" she inquired as they sat at
dinner.
"I suppose the chances are better beyond New York. I shall, of course,
go directly to New York, but from there I will go into New England. I
have credentials from several well known white people, as well as
letters from the secretary of the white Y.M.C.A. here, and at Effingham
and Attalia, so I think that part is quite sufficiently looked after."
When Reverend Wilson Jacobs had dined, he felt like walking, and,
drawing on a light overcoat and cap, he strolled out into the chill
December night. The air was still, and the stars gleamed brightly, as he
strolled down the street in the direction of the river. When he had gone
three blocks, he decided to walk to the river, and look out upon its
water for a spell. So, increasing his speed, he walked briskly in that
direction.
To reach the river by the street he was following, it was necessary to
pass through a district of the town that had not the best reputation. It
was a part of the town, inhabited in former days by denizens of the
underworld, and was interspersed with many halls and buildings that had
been built for such purposes. Since liquor had been voted out of the
state, and the city likewise, while the women had also been forced to
scatter, due to the enforcement of the law relative to their profession,
the neighborhood had been given over largely to bootlegging. Places
operating under the guise of soft-drink shops, sold liquor as freely as
the saloons had, when they operated in the same places a year ago. And,
in this district, holdups and other cases of outlawry were a common
occurrence.
He had arrived, and was passing leisurely through this part of the town,
when, ahead of him, a figure crossed the street, and entered one of the
dives. Something about the swing of the arms, made him recall that he
had seen that person before. He thought it over, as he approached the
place the other had entered. He had not reached it, when the other
emerged, and made his way up the street ahead of him, only a few yards.
He studied the character, and when he turned into another place a few
doors up, he recalled where he had seen him. It was the man who had
paused before his gate months before, and whom he had started to follow,
but who had eluded him. He saw no reason for paying him further
attention now, and passed on to the river.
He returned by the same street, and as he came abreast of an open door,
he overheard voices and caught a glimpse of the man again. He halted,
and leaned beside the door in the shade of the building a moment, out of
sheer curiosity. The voices came to his ears plainly, as he stood there.
"I have reason to believe she has money," said one, whom he surmised was
that of the man he had seen.
"If she has, you have spoiled your chances of getting hold of any of
it."
"How do you figure that out?" said the other gruffly.
"Well, what you should have done was to have communicated with her while
she was stopping up here with that preacher and his sister, and made her
come across to keep you from putting them next. Now, 's I figure it out,
you blows in on her with your recognition game, and frightens her out of
her wits, and she flies the coup. And then, to make matters worse, you
trail her across town to where she 'beats' it, and, instead of using a
little diplomacy, you blow in on her and frighten her away from there.
You played a deuce of a game, you did." The tone was impatient, and,
from the way the other shifted, it was quite obvious that he was not
playing a clever one either.
"Well, she was such a good looking little wench that, to be truthful, I
lost my head over her," the other laughed a low, hard laugh, as he said
this.
"Lost your head, hump!" growled another. "I can't get into my nut, how
you blame nigga's get in your ugly knots, that a gal that's got the
sense you say this gal has, is going to fall to a cheap nigga like
yourself." The voice showed that the speaker was plainly disgusted.
"Aw, old shine, I've had some a's good looking a gals as her on my
string, don't fool yourself 'bout that," the first speaker retorted.
"How much sense did they have in their nuts? None! If they had, they'd a
never fooled with you."
"Well, I'm still trailing her. I ain' give up yet. I'm determined I'll
bring her to time, or I'll know the reason why," the other declared,
determinedly.
"Don't the ole cat down where she was roosting, know where she has
gone?" inquired the other now.
"Don't know a thing. Swears that she don't, and I b'lieve her. She's a
little sore 'cause I blew in and scared her away. Funny, too, 'cause
that old woman's so crooked she cain' lay straight in bed. And, say, you
know Lizzie, the good looking black gal that comes over to Dago's place,
and licks up so much booze?"
"Who, Slender Liz? Sure! Why?"
"That's her ma."
"The dickens!"
"Sure is!"
"That beats the devil. I know her; but I didn't know until this minute
that Liz was her brat. And you mean to say this little gal what you lost
your head about and chased away, was stopping with the old woman?"
"That was where she slapped me blind at."
"Well, I'll be darned. I shouldn't have thought she'd have stayed around
her very long, when she got next to what was going on."
"Well, the little wench was so frightened when she left this preacher up
here, that she didn't know where she was going, and she got into the
place hurriedly, and then after she had got tied up there, she seemed to
have decided to stick it out until she could do better. Then, besides,
the old woman told me that she don't think the gal knew she sold liquor,
and ran a crap game every Saturday night. Her room was so located that
the gamesters came and went without going near her room. Then, the gal
kept herself shut in like a prisoner, when she was around, besides."
"I wish you hadn't spoiled this deal. I believe we could have dug enough
dough out of her to stake us into a game, when we're settin' 'roun'
broke like we are now."
"I'll get her, just be patient. I don't believe she's left town; but I
can't pull the old woman for any more information. Besides, she ain' got
over me frightening her away, 'cause she said the gal was sure a fine
roomer, and that she is sorry now that I found her at all. These old
crooks can be won over when you come clean at that."
"Bet your life they can. And when you get the friendship of one like
that, they'd go through fire for you."
There was a shuffling about now, as if someone was coming toward the
door. Wilson hurried away, and walked rapidly in the direction of home.
CHAPTER SIX
_The Black Cavalry's Charge--"Onward Boys!"_
"Mildred, my Mildred, where are you, dear heart?" said Wilson Jacobs, as
he hurried in the direction of his home, after he had overheard the
words of the two men. He was in a turmoil of excitement. He had reached
no decision as to what he would do, that is, as to how he would find
her; but he was determined that he would search the city to the very
doors, until he found and brought back that girl to his home.
"She is being persecuted, being hounded out of her life, as she has been
out of the place she called her home--and by those brutes." And he
trembled with anger, as he thought of the dastardly creatures who were
pursuing her.
"I could corner that brute and make him confess what is behind this
mystery; but then I have overheard him admit that she has eluded him;
therefore, that would be useless. Until he ascertains her whereabouts,
it would be foolish even to whip the cur for his villainy." One thing he
decided on 'ere he had gone far in his reflections, and that was to keep
it from his sister. It would only serve to upset her more, and she was
worried enough already.
"My poor, dear little girl; my brave little girl; and you must bear this
burden and sorrow all alone," he murmured in a strained voice, as he
approached his abode. "Somewhere in this city she is in fear tonight, in
fear of these dark creatures. I would give half my life to find her this
very night. Oh, that I had some clue! She would not have me find her,
but that is a matter that I would waive aside. Her happiness, even her
very life, is in danger. And, whatever this evil may be, I will never
believe, even from her own lips, that Mildred Latham is guilty of any
act that would not become a lady. Somewhere in the past, she has, in
some way, become involved, and this, in some manner, is the occasion of
the mystery; but I have faith in her above all others." And so, with
this thought, he entered the house and his room, where he walked for
hours trying to form some plan of action.
"I will find her. I _must_ find her," he declared, with compressed lips,
time and again; but, as to how, no way seemed clear. "I must leave
Monday on the mission, and I must try to find her before then. I don't
care what it is--has been, and might be in the future--I love you,
Mildred, I love you--nothing else matters. I have faith in you; I
believe in you above all others; with your presence, under my
protection, I feel I could do the things you had faith I could do!" He
almost raved at times, during the still hours that followed.
All the kind words she had said to him in the months gone by, came back
to him as he trod the floor--thinking, thinking, thinking. "You will
succeed; you will become, 'ere long, a leader of men," she had said
once. "For it is you, courageous, with the strength of your convictions,
this race needs; and it is you they will eventually find."
She had said this with all the fervor of her soul. And he had listened;
he had hoped, and then he had worked. Yes, Wilson Jacobs had worked hard
to raise those few thousands, that would revert back to the donors in
four weeks, if a preponderous sum was not raised by midnight of December
thirty-first. December thirty-first, midnight? God, how that sounded in
his ears now. The fateful night! One minute after that hour, sixty-seven
thousand dollars, waiting from other sources than the black people of
this town, would be no longer available. Seventy-three thousand dollars
for the future moral welfare of thousands of young men of this race
would no longer be available, unless he, Wilson Jacobs, could raise
twenty-seven thousand dollars in a day over three weeks.
That was his burden.
If he, Wilson Jacobs, could raise such an amount, innumerable black
children yearly, and until the end of time, oh, how long.... _Until the
end of time_, would be saved and have their chance, their great chance,
to become _men_! How much they needed it, these black youth! Only to see
any daily, _every_ daily paper, would answer this! And how much would
they appreciate it? Yes, how much would they appreciate it?... And yet,
what did that matter?... Yes, there were plenty who would say off-hand,
"They would not know how to appreciate it; they are incapable of
appreciating it." ... But that was from those who did not think
deeply--and, yes, the majority, by far, of this race to which he
belonged, did not think deeply. But Wilson Jacobs did. He had made it a
part of his young life to think deeply, and in the interest of those who
needed him.
And _now_ they needed him. Oh, _how_ much they needed him, and how
_much_ strength he needed to raise twenty-seven thousand dollars before
midnight of December thirty-first!
"Black people _do_ appreciate that which is for their good; but, _be
merciful, dear God_, they know it not. But they _will_, and when they
_do_ come to know it, how _much_ life, how _much_ feeling and enthusiasm
they will exert! _And may we not say the same of all of us!_"
He had been a very young man when his country--yes, _his_
country--regardless of the fact that many of this race now said, with
pent up anger, "This is not _our_ country, it's the _white man's_
country." How much bitterness they put into the words, he could not soon
forget; but this _was his_ country, and he proclaimed it as such, and
had enlisted and gone away to that little island to the southeast.
He was with that cavalry; that cavalry of black men. And when thousands
of aimless bullets poured upon America's greatest cavalry (commanded by
the greatest American citizen since one immortal one, who met his death
cruelly, but for _this_ country), and tumbled them from the saddles like
so many playthings, he would never forget that battle cry, "Onward
boys!" And from another direction, they came, _black men_. Up a hill
that was forbidding in the abruptness of its ascent, they went. Under
the heavy fire of the enemy, they did not flinch.
What they did on that memorable day in our modern history, the world
knows. And if a part of our citizens _did_ not appreciate it at this
date, one did. And he proved it in after-years. So, when he heard these
poor men of his race now bemoan their fate, crying "This is a white
man's country. We have none!" he sighed, and felt pity in his heart for
them.
After the war, he had gone to Arizona, and spent one summer there at a
ranch during his vacation. And this ranch was among the Navajo's. Dull,
listless, inert creatures they were. They did nothing to make this
country a better place in which to live, and they had _never_ done so,
nor were they ever likely to. But, in spite of that, they are the
primitive inhabitants and heroes; but not in the best sense, could
anyone live among those people three months and conscientiously regard
them as _men_. And yet they were given every consideration, while black
men were thrust aside. And this was after three hundred years, out of
which two hundred and fifty were spent in developing that which is
called Dixie.
And, in spite of these conditions, Wilson Jacobs was the most optimistic
of all men. He conscientiously believed that this was a black man's as
well as a white man's country. Yes, he heard those others say: "This is
a white man's country!" and they said it very loudly; but these same men
were the scions of those who had tried, at the price of all their wealth
and blood, to divide it. He never let his memory dwell upon this. Other
black men did, though. So much so, that they made themselves unfit for
this new generation. What has been done, he always considered could
never be undone. If prejudice against his people was the custom here,
prejudice against the Jew elsewhere, was usual also. "But it isn't
right!" they would deplore. And, of course, he could only agree that it
wasn't. To hate thy brother, is contrary to the laws of Christianity,
under which we live.... But the prejudice remained after all that could
be said. "It's growing worse!" they cried. "Yes, it appears to grow
worse," he also agreed. "Then, what have you to say?" And he answered:
"Nothing!" And then asked: "And you?" "Nothing!" "Then, what are we to
do? Become examples of dull inertia by grieving over it, or shall we
struggle to become _men_, and through the strength of our mind and
bodies, make this a better place in which to live, if only for
ourselves? For live, we must. Not since the beginning of the world have
ten million souls sunk into oblivion." The pessimist always departed at
this point.
After all, Jacobs felt sorry and pitied both--the ones who bemoaned
their fate, and those who boasted. Both were in error. For, regardless
of what was said, he loved America, his home and "_a man's country_"!
So, when college had given Wilson Jacobs his degree, he drifted about
for a year among his people. He had never thought of the ministry as a
vocation. And it was only when he had seen his people as they were--not
altogether as they _ought_ to be, did he appreciate the fact that he
might be able to help them. He had learned while at school, but more in
actual life, that Jesus lived and died as a moral example. But his
people saw only the individual.
So back to school he had gone, where he studied five long years, to fit
himself for his present calling. His success was yet to come. Mildred
Latham had said _it would come_. "Oh, Mildred! For you I would go
through eternity," he declared feverishly. But only the silent walls
answered him.
After many hours, he retired. The sun was shining, although it was
December, when he heard Constance calling him to breakfast. How much he
would have liked to have said: "Constance, Mildred is somewhere in this
town, our Mildred! She is being persecuted, Constance, our Mildred is
being persecuted--being hounded out of the sweet life we know she lived,
and inspired in those about her!" And he knew that Constance would say:
"Go forth, my brother, and find her; bring her back into our home, that
we may love her and make her our sister, for it is as such she was, and
more, these many months." That was the spirit of the Jacobs. But he kept
his peace, and ate in silence.
Monday came, a cold, dreary day. Snow fell all over the country, and
Dixie land, far south, was white mantled. Wilson Jacobs went to the
depot, for he was leaving on a great mission. Would he succeed? He hoped
so; others hoped so; and Constance hoped so, as well as Mildred Latham.
But he never knew.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"_Please Stop--and Save Me!_"
"Breakfast is ready, my dear," said Mother Jane, for as such she was
known and called by all who knew her. She was speaking to Mildred
Latham.
A moment later, Mildred came out of her room and seated herself at the
table, at the head of which sat an old gray-headed man, and at the foot
sat Mother Jane, whose head was white also.
"And did you rest well, my dear?" inquired Mother Jane of Mildred,
bestowing upon her a smile full of kindness and tenderness.
"I slept beautifully," Mildred replied as kindly, and beamed upon the
old soul with all the consideration--maybe more--of her own child.
"And you sell a book?" inquired the elder woman, after a moment.
"Yes, ma'am, I sell a book. A book by a young colored author."
"By a young colored author? I do declare!" exclaimed the other, with
enthusiasm. "It is delightful when I know we have young men who are
doing something else besides making convicts." Mother Jane was known for
her wit.
"What is the text of this story?" she inquired later.
Mildred told her.
"Delightful, to say the least." The elder woman had secured some
learning in her childhood, and had studied by consistent reading, until
she was well informed, and used the most perfect English. "Went out into
the great west. To the _Rosebud Country_. Well, well. I read all about
that country when it was opened to settlers some years ago. I wanted my
son to go; but--he went elsewhere," and she paused to swallow, while a
tear shone in her old eyes. Mildred spoke of other things. The other
didn't say, but quick intuition told her that son had gone to the chain
gang.
She had found this place two days after the visit that was paid her by
the unwelcome guest. It was far removed from the black woman, and she
was glad of it. And yet, when she was taking her leave, that apparently
evil creature had shed tears and begged her to stay, saying that she
would not be molested further. Mildred felt a human pity for her, but
she knew she could not have stayed on. The longer she lived, the more
she was learning that secrets are not good things to share with others,
or for others to be in possession of, regardless of their good will
thereto. She now knew that the only way she would have people to know
these things, people she might chance to live with, would be to tell
them before she moved into the house. To have them find out afterwards,
and from others, would be, she felt, an infringement upon their
kindness. As for the man who had, with his persistency, driven her from
two places, she hoped he would not succeed in finding her in the
present.
The following day, she went about her work with heavy heart. She felt
she must continue in the work as long as she was in the city; and
besides, she had accumulated many orders for the holiday trade, and
could, with her efforts, secure many others. But it was not this alone
that held her in this city, it was something else.
She was following the effort of Wilson Jacobs to secure the Y.M.C.A.
Each week, she carefully noted the details in regard to the same, and
had fearfully observed that it might fail. She was aware of the time
limit, and she was worried over the lack of the twenty-seven thousand
dollars. "How can he raise such a large sum in so short a time?" she
asked herself many times each day. And yet she still hoped he would,
even when less than four weeks were left in which to do so.
She had managed, by dint of economy and hard work, to accumulate almost
two hundred dollars since she left them, and this she would give at the
right moment, when she saw there was any possible chance of his
succeeding. She would have to send it anonymously; but desire for his
success was her gravest concern.
Sunday came, and she stayed at home for the first time since she came to
the city. The sound of the bells made her feel terribly sad and lonely.
To have heard Wilson Jacobs, or Reverend Castle, would have been a
privilege of which she would have been thankful to have availed herself,
but fear kept her confined to her room all that day. She felt positive
that he would visit all the churches in search of her that day, and
other Sundays. So, with this pleasure denied her, she felt more lonely
now than she had ever felt before, since coming to the city.
She purchased a book, a new novel, the evening before; so in this she
concentrated her mind all that day. It was an unusual story, which made
it more interesting. It seemed that, in England, where the plot lay, a
postmaster was likely to be removed through subtle influences. To save
the position for him, because of her love, his wife, who was all to him,
made a sublime sacrifice. It came to his attention, and in doing so, the
fact of her past was also revealed. It was a terrible book, to say the
least, but between the lines was a moral that the reader was compelled
to appreciate. In the end, the man was redeemed to her through the
church--the Baptist church.
Two weeks passed without event. Her work went along nicely, and she
succeeded in delivering to almost all of her holiday customers. It was
about this time that she became deeply concerned with regard to the
possibility of securing the Y.M.C.A. Wilson Jacobs had not returned, nor
had any word come from him, so far as the public knew, as to whether he
had met with success. But Mildred entertained grave doubts regarding the
matter. If he were succeeding, it was her opinion, that some word would
be wired that cheer might fill the hearts of the anxious ones waiting.
She wished she could go to Constance, and comfort her during these
anxious days. That desire became so uppermost in her mind and heart,
that it was with difficulty she kept herself from rushing madly to the
house, and throwing herself to the other's feet. She felt strangely
guilty. She had convicted herself in their eyes, by fleeing. It couldn't
be changed now. No, she could not go to Constance, as much as she wanted
to. And, as she looked into it deeper, she came to realize that she
could never go to Constance again.... That was the hardest part of it.
Never to go to her again. Oh, the anguish it gave her when this was
regarded as a reality.
"Constance," she prayed on her knees that night. "Constance, will you,
can you forgive me; can you forgive Mildred? She loved you and your
brother, and it was because she was weak; because she felt that she
could never have stood to see both of you know--felt me otherwise than
as you knew me. Oh, I have suffered, Constance; I have died a living
death. Daily I long for you; I pray in the only way I know how that he,
your brother, whom I know to be so strong, and noble and good, may
succeed in this great effort; this effort which these others so much
need. Some day, oh, Lord, may it come to pass--though my mind cannot now
see it, I hope to feel that love again."
And then it came to pass, the next day she met the other upon the
streets, He smiled upon her through his ugly teeth, and in soothing
words, offered greeting. She passed him by, but knew, without looking
back, that he followed. She had completed her work for that day. Many
copies of _his_ book she had placed in other hands, and that night many
eyes would begin an acquaintance with those years in the west. And now,
at her heels followed her vendetta. He would follow her to Mother
Jane's? And then she trembled. She could never allow Mother Jane to even
think she was any other but "her dear daughter." For it was such Mother
Jane now called her. Anywhere now--but there.
She increased her steps, made them faster in a direction that led
to--she knew not where, nor cared; but anywhere but to Mother Jane's.
Supper would be awaiting her there at six-thirty, as it had waited for
her every day these past weeks; but Mother Jane would be disappointed
this evening. Mildred Latham would not see Mother Jane at that hour
today, and maybe she, Mother Jane, might never see "her daughter"
again....
On she went. Before her, over a hill, came a car. She could not catch
that one, but others would come that way soon. Maybe by the time she
arrived beside the tracks, another might meet her. She hurried. She
never looked back. She was too frightened. But intuition told her that
he followed. She wished she knew how far he was in the rear. Maybe if
the car came before he arrived, she could elude him. Oh, if it would!
She was trotting now. She was so near the tracks at this time, that they
glistened like steel rays in the distance. From a direction, which was
not the way the other car had come, she heard another car. It was
approaching, and now it flashed into sight.
The sun had disappeared long ago, and the stars stood out like a million
diamonds in the skies above. The evening air was chill, and she
rushed--she was running now--past the houses. The car was almost at the
crossing. Would she make it? She cried out and waved her hand
frantically. It was going to pass her, although she had arrived at the
crossing, and regarded it with eyes that were frantic--wild! "Please
stop, Mr. Motorman!" she cried piteously.