she heard the crunch of feet upon the gravel street. She saw the side of
the car. It dazzled her. She was lost. She could almost feel the
presence of the other. One terrible moment she swayed, and the next, the
rear end of the car was before her. Welcome did the inside seem. She
_must_ catch that car, she felt--_or die_. A brass rail touched her
hand. Like electricity, it closed over it. She was raised and then felt
her body speeding through space. A cry from the inside and a "ting,"
then a shutting of brakes, and the car came to a stop.
"My God," the conductor was saying, "why did she grab that rail? This is
the only line left with cars with the open entry. None of the others
can be caught without the consent of the conductor." She looked about
her. She sat in the rear of the car that was now speeding into the
business section. About her were many anxious faces.
"Why, oh, why," their eyes and lips spoke, as soon as they saw her, "did
you take that terrible risk?" But she did not see their eyes, or hear
their words--for her eyes were looking for another. He was not there.
And they never knew.
CHAPTER EIGHT
_What Her Eyes Saw_
"Our daughter is late tonight, Gabriel," said Mother Jane, coming from
the door, where she had been many times. "It is now almost seven, and
she has not yet arrived. I am uneasy. But I will be patient. Maybe she
had to wait on some of her customers. It is so near the holidays, that
some may have been downtown buying presents for their friends, and she
is compelled to wait. Of course, she has never been late before, which
doesn't mean that she might not be late today--but, oh well, I'll wait."
Gabriel, her old husband, played with his fork and said nothing. He
never said anything. He had not said anything since '65. The rebels at
Fort Pillar stopped him from saying anything further, for since then he
had been speechless.
"We will have a big Christmas this year, Gabriel," said she. "Mildred's
being with us will make a difference." She was silent now, listening to
the fire that cracked in the grate. Presently her eyes sought a place at
the table. It was the place Mildred occupied, but she was thinking of
another. This other had been all to her, for he was her son. Tears came
to her eyes now, as she thought of the years gone by, and the times she
had fixed that place for him. Yes, she had fixed the plate there for him
a thousand times. But he did not--had not eaten from it for many a meal
now. No, he ate _elsewhere_. As she looked at the place today, strangely
she felt he would never eat there again. And he was her only child. If
he failed to carry the name beyond his present circumstances, then the
name of Gabriel Ware ended with her mute husband, who sat waiting
patiently.
"It will be so nice, Gabriel, to have her with us this Christmas. And
she stays right at home and reads to us both every night. She is a sweet
child, is Mildred. She has been our own daughter since she came here. It
has been a treat for me, because I love so much to read; while you have
liked since '65 to hear me; but my old eyes cannot follow the lines with
the accuracy they used to. No, the lines run together so often now, and
when they become clear again, it is so hard and tiresome to find the
place. But since she came, with her young eyes, her cheerful smiles, her
endless patience with old people, who at the best are hard to get along
with, I appreciate that things have been so different."
Gabriel nodded. They lived easily, these two. This may be a "white man's
country," but our "Uncle" took care of Gabriel and Mother Jane
comfortably. These many years, he gave to them many dollars at the end
of every quarter, and he had increased this, until now Gabriel received
ninety dollars four times a year.
A step sounded upon the porch. "There she is, God bless her," said
Mother Jane, and flew to the door, opening it wide, and then, alas! No
Mildred stood on the threshold--but a man.
His teeth shown, and his hat in hand, he stood with a bow, and inquired
if Miss Mildred Latham was within.
* * * * *
On the main street of the town, where all cars find their way, Mildred
alighted, and, crossing the street, she waited for the car that would
take her to the suburbs which was near where Mother Jane lived.
When Gabriel and she had built and settled, it was far from the town,
and they had not dreamed, that some day before they died, that their ten
acres would be surrounded. But the city grew, and they had sold the ten
acres long since, in lots for big prices. They had money, she now knew,
a part of which they had received for the lots, and they owned other
houses. But a part of what they had was gone. It had been invested in a
shoe store, incorporated and conducted by colored people. They knew not
how colored people act in such capacity, so, in due time, they failed;
therefore, going the way of thousands of such attempts in Dixie. For,
you see, these black people had not known how to conduct such a
business. They only knew how to wear shoes, when they were fitted by the
other race.
"Now for home," Mildred sighed, as she settled back and listened to the
hum of the car, as it sped on its way. "Oh, how glad I am that I eluded
him," she breathed happily. "I'll be late, which I dislike; but it's
better late than never. Blessed old dears," she added, impulsively. And
then fell to planning for the Christmas day. It was so near now, that
she would have to hurry in her few plans. Months ago, she had hoped she
was going to spend a real, genuine, merry Christmas with her friends,
the Jacobs; but now, long since, of course, she had given that up. But
she was glad that she had found this new place, and had been there long
enough to be so high in their favor, as to be the star guest for their
holiday.
They were industrious, and raised almost all they ate in a garden of a
half acre in the rear. And chickens! Mother Jane had raised two hundred
fifty. So they had this meat almost every day. For supper they would
have some surely, so, soon she would eat, and then the two would prepare
for the coming event. She was impatient to be there.
It was freezing outside. Ice could be seen from the car window,
gathering wherever there was water. A nice hot fire they would have, she
knew; while she had a good new book that was half read through. After
all was done, she would read to them, and so all three would be made
happy.
She fell to thinking, to thinking of others, and Sidney Wyeth came to
her mind. Last Christmas she had received two nice books from him. He
wrote no letter, nor did he autograph the same--he didn't even let her
know by word or letter that they were from him, but she knew.
Where was he--where had he been since? She wished she knew, for if she
did, as she thought now, she would send him a nice book for a Christmas
present. But he would never know it was from her. Her pleasure would be
in the giving. That was why presents were given. For the pleasure of
giving a token of remembrance. Some people did not consider it that way,
but then they were not Christians. She wondered, as the car sped along,
how many people who belonged to church did not know they were not
Christians.
"I wish I knew where he is," she said again, this time half aloud.
"Somehow I believe he would--forget--for a day." And then she thought of
Wilson Jacobs, and in doing so, recalled that, in the months gone by,
she had seen him at the end of a talk, and was forced to look away. She
could not stand the pain in his eyes. Did he care for her? She wouldn't
trust herself to believe it. It wouldn't be right. No. She was glad now
that it had gone no further. It wasn't right that he should be allowed
to do that, and then learn the truth. Oh, the truth! That was _her_
burden. The other had learned the truth, and then he went away. He would
never return. No. And Wilson Jacobs would do likewise. She had struggled
these months to keep it from him. If he learned from other lips, it
would be as sad; but she would at least not have to face him, and see
another suffering in his eyes. With Sidney Wyeth, it now seemed
different. As she had grown to feel, she believed she could meet him.
She felt now that if she could find his whereabouts, she would go to
him. Yes. She would go to him and see him, and let him see her. Oh, as
much as she loved him--for her love had never died--she believed now she
could look in his eyes and ask him to forget. She suddenly made up her
mind to leave and seek him. "But I can't," she moaned. "I can never
leave here until I know the worst in regard to the Y.M.C.A. No. I would
never be happy to leave them to their fate until I know the best--or the
worst." Somewhere in the great north, Wilson Jacobs had either by now,
succeeded or failed. Which? Until she knew, she couldn't bring herself
to leave.
By this time, she had arrived at the getting off place. She sprang
lightly from the car, and walked briskly to where a light shone, for one
always shone from Mother Jane's window. And it was this light which
guided her now. She skipped lightly along, humming a little song as she
did so. Again was she at peace with the world, and forgave all who
sinned against her. She had no malice in her heart against anyone, as
she approached the house--the house of the Wares'--where already the
smell of nourishment was in the air.
"Oh, how delightful it is to have a home. A place where someone with
love in their hearts awaits you, and, when the door is opened, gathers
you in welcome." She thanked Him that is Holy, for being so kind to her.
She had arrived at last, and with a delightful sigh, raised her foot to
the step, and as she did so, her eyes glanced through the window. The
next moment she fell back, and placed her hand upon her breast, while
her heart thumped violently within.
Then she turned, and disappeared into the night, while those inside
waited.
CHAPTER NINE
"_Wha's Y' Man?_"
On she flew. Across the car tracks she stumbled, but she didn't stop,
nor did she look to see whether anyone was coming or not. She thought of
nothing, but to be away, away, away! Down the street that was dark and
rough, and led to where she did not know, nor did she even care. She was
going away, away from everybody. She would hide herself from the world.
She could go to another city, but there was no use in that either. She
cried half aloud as she hurried along: "I can stand it no longer, I can
stand it no longer! I want to die, oh, I want to die!"
"I know," she choked at last, as she stumbled down the middle of a dark
alley, in which she now found herself. "I know," she cried again. And
she hurried on, as soon as she had caught her breath. "It is the river.
Yes, the river." She quickened her pace as she came into a street that
was at the end of the alley. It was wider. She hastened down a hill that
seemed to her a mile long, and maybe it was more. But when she had
hurried two blocks along this, she left the middle of the street and
took to the sidewalk, and slowed to a walk. "I can't go on like this. It
will excite people. I must walk, but I must hurry, hurry, hurry!"
She had covered many blocks, when she came abreast of buildings occupied
by colored people. There was a barber shop where men were being shaved,
and a restaurant where others were eating; a soda fountain also, and she
wondered whether the people who conducted it made any money this time of
the year.
The night seemed to have grown much colder, from the frost that was on
the windows, but Mildred Latham did not feel it. Her face, she felt it
for a moment, was flushed. And then it occurred to her that her throat
was dry. Oh, yes. She knew why, now. She had cried all the way from
Mother Jane's to here--wherever it was. And her face was hot, her throat
was dry, and she wanted water. She must have water, or she could no
longer swallow. For a moment she hesitated before the soda fountain.
Then she opened the door and entered. A man who sat in the rear
approached. He was a neat man, with a heavy mustache. He invited her to
a chair at a table that was near a glowing fire. She took it. He waited
her order politely.
"I would like some--a-soda water, if you please," she said hesitatingly.
He looked at her a moment keenly, winked his right eye, and then his
left--then his right eye again, twice. She looked at him without
understanding. He repeated it. She wondered what he meant. Presently he
moved behind the counter, and returned with her order.
While she drank it, another, a woman came in. Mildred watched him
incidentally. He repeated the winking process, while she glanced at the
other, who repeated it. He went now to a room in the rear, and when he
returned, he handed her something in a package. The woman gave him a
half dollar, and waited for no change.
"You're a stranger about here, Miss?" he said, observing her a bit
dubiously.
"Yes, sir," she replied, "I am a stranger about here."
"Oh, I see," he said, now gazing at her very keenly a few moments.
"You're one of the solicitors for the Y.M.C.A., I suppose," said he,
after a moment's thought.
"No, sir, I am not," she replied with a start, and wondered why he asked
her.
"They was a-planning t' have a meeting overhead here t'night, was why I
asked," he said.
"Oh, is that so," she commented, and then added: "I am not connected
with it in any way, but I am very much interested in it."
"Well, it's too bad," he said thoughtfully, "but I don't think we will
ever get such a thing in this town. It's going to be a failure, so I
hear."
"Indeed," she echoed, "how so?"
"Well, unless they get twenty-seven thousand dollars together in a week,
it's sure to be. And 'f anybody c'n raise that many dollars, 's hard's
times is now, I'd lak t' see them," he smiled grimly.
She wanted to ask him about Wilson, but hesitated. Had he returned? He
was speaking again:
"They ain't had no word frum the secretary since he left. He went north
some time ago, and it was hoped that he might succeed in raising the
amount among the wealthy northern people. But it's dollars t' doughnuts
that he don't. 'Cause I figure it's lak this: 'f he'd a-had any success
up there, some word-a come back by now frum 'im."
So no word had yet come from Wilson Jacobs, and as she thought of his
possible failure, all thought of herself and what had been in her mind a
moment ago, left her. When she left the place she was calm. But where to
go now was another problem. To go back to Mother Jane, never entered her
mind. She wandered about for an hour. She now recognized the locality.
She was on the same street she had found upon her arrival in the
city--Beal street. She walked up this for two blocks, and where many
Negroes were assembled. Several picture shows greeted her, but she had
no inclination for such amusement.
Presently she turned into another street that led down to the river. It
was narrow and poorly lighted, and the people, what few she saw, were
ragged and dirty, and forbidding. She walked some distance on this,
until she came across another that led in another direction. Into this
she turned aimlessly.
She had gone about three-quarters of a block, when her eyes, in glancing
up, caught sight of a house, dark and weather beaten, with a glimmering
light on the front, under which was written:
LODGING FOR MEN OR WOMEN
RATES RIGHT
She paused. Her hand touched her forehead; it was hot and throbbing.
She felt tired, and her eyes were heavy with sleep. She hesitated,
turned into the gate, and approached the door timidly. It was a
forbidding place, she saw as she came nearer. The door hung weakly upon
its hinges, while light came through the many cracks. She shuddered. How
different it was from Mother Jane's, where everything was spick and
span, clean and well kept. Oh, if she could be home now with Mother
Jane! She wrapped lightly upon the door, and it seemed a long time
before someone shuffled in that direction.
Presently, after a turning of bolts, or it seemed more like someone was
drawing a peg out of a staple, with a squeak, the door opened about a
foot. In the dim light, the face of an old woman looked out from a very
wrinkled face.
"What d' ya want?" she asked gruffly.
"I see you have a sign up here," and she pointed upward, "that says
rooms," she replied, timidly.
"Yeh. Is yu 'lone. Wha's yu man?"
Mildred shuddered, and then she recovered. She was tired and wanted to
sleep. Tomorrow she would try to do better. She replied as politely as
she could; "I am alone. I have no _man_."
"Hunh!" grunted the other, opening the squeaking door wide as she said:
"Come in!"
Mildred entered and stood looking about her, while the old witch
regarded her suspiciously.
"So you're alone, uh? Got no man. Hunh! That's funny." She hobbled to
where a lamp set, with chimney smoked, and upon which a crack had been
patched with paper. "There's a chair. Sit down, gal." She shuffled
about, and when the light was better, by turning it up a bit higher, she
came near where Mildred sat, and took a seat in an old rocker which had
a sack filled with straw, to make it more comfortable.
"How much do you charge for your rooms?" Mildred inquired.
"Two bits when you're alone. Thirty-five cents if yu got a man." Mildred
had surmised that would be the charge, and had the amount ready. She
didn't care to have this witch see that she had money. She handed her
the quarter. The old creature took it, held it to the light, and
examined it a moment before she dropped it into an old pocket.
"Wantta go t' bed now?" the other inquired, a little kinder than she had
spoken before.
"I feel sleepy," said Mildred, and looked it.
"All right," said the other, rising with much difficulty. "Ah, gal,
that's rheumatiz. Bad. When you gits lak dis, life don't hold much fo'
you."
Mildred tried to look sympathetic as she followed her, and murmured
something inaudible.
They had entered a room now that corresponded with the remainder of the
house, except that the ceiling seemed to be lower, and the room was a
bit cleaner. A small fireplace was in one side of the wall, and the bed
stood in an opposite corner. Two chairs, a table, a bureau, a wash stand
and a pitcher with a clean towel spread over it, made up the meagre
furnishings. A rag carpet covered the floor.
"I don't fu'nish fiah," said the other, when she saw Mildred's eyes rest
for a moment upon the fireplace. If there were a fire, she now felt she
would rest better.
"I should like to purchase some fuel of you to make a fire, if it is
possible," she said.
"I'll sell you a nickel's wo'th."
"Very well. Bring it in." When the other was gone, she took fifty cents
in change from her purse. She displayed this that the other might see
and feel that she possessed little. A few minutes later, she was alone
with a fire cracking in the grate, that soon made the room quite
comfortable.
She retired when the room had become warm. The heat, in contrast with
the air she had just come out of, made her yawn. So, after barring the
door securely, she retired, and was soon fast asleep.
She might have slept for an hour, or it may have been only a minute, but
she was slowly awakened by a stream of light that poured in through the
window. She sat up suddenly, and blinked as the rays fell across her
face, and saw that she had forgotten to draw the blind and that the
moonlight was streaming into her room.
But it was not that alone which had awakened her. There was some
commotion in the street, or rather, in the house next door. A wagon
stood at the front, and into it, policemen were pushing men and women.
The wagon was a police patrol, and they were making a raid. In a few
minutes it was all over, and, dropping back, she was soon asleep again.
CHAPTER TEN
"_Kick Higher Dare, Gal!_"
Christmas day had come and the whole country was gay and festive. In the
city of our story, the sun shone beautifully, and from the way the birds
sang, it was hard to believe it was late December. The streets, at an
early hour, were filled with pedestrians seeking the open air, freedom
and merriment. Fire crackers filled the air with noise; while the
discharge of blank cartridges and an occasional gunshot, as well as a
cannon now and then, added to the confusion. The sharp noises made many
people start suddenly, and then smile when they recalled that it was
Xmas day; the day when Jesus, our Saviour, came into the world, and
began a Christian civilization.
But there was one person who was neither gay, merry, nor festive;
although she had cherished hopes, dreams, and desires for that day.
Mildred Latham lurked in the confines of the room she had taken, seeing
the world--a small part of it--from the window of the room she had taken
a night or two before. She had remained in it ever since, venturing out
only to get something to eat and drink. She was almost oblivious to the
fact, that it was Xmas day, until the discharge of firearms and crackers
came to her ears from the street. And then she awakened to the reality
of what she would lose that day.
A Chinaman ran the restaurant where she bought her meals. At one of
their stores, she had purchased a few dishes and a knife, spoon and a
fork, so she brought the meals to her room, and ate the same at the
table. She had no plans now for Xmas day. She tried to forget it, but
the noise from the street did not permit her to do so. As the sun rose
higher, the revelry became more pronounced. She tried to forget the day
Mother Jane and she had planned to spend together. She tried to shut out
of her mind the day she might have spent with the Jacobs. And she tried,
likewise, not to see the dreary day she must now perforce spend--alone.
The sun rose higher and higher, and the day became warmer. So warm about
noon, that she raised her window and permitted the soft breeze to float
in upon her, filling her lungs with it, and sighing contentedly. She
watched the few people that passed that way, and noted that they all
appeared so happy. They were all apparently carefree and desirous of
getting all the enjoyment that the day afforded. Presently it occurred
to her to venture forth and get something. It was bad enough that she
must spend it alone; but to hover in the four walls of that little room,
was a fact she could no longer submit to.
She passed into the room that may have been called a sitting room, and
where the old woman was stewing some meat on the rusty stove. Before the
other turned at the sound of her footfall, she scrutinized her for a
moment, meditatively. She wondered who this old woman was, who lived
thus alone. She fancied what her life must be; she had other roomers,
she had observed; but they came in late and left early, so she had no
idea who they were, or what kind of people stayed there. She hesitated
for a second, and then the other turned and faced her.
"Uh, gal," she creaked in her shaky old voice, "be goin' out t' see a
li'l' Xmas, ha, ha! Sho' you might. Cain' stay shut up in that room all
time!" And she grinned, which made her features repulsive to Mildred.
"Yes, ma'am, I thought I would step out and look around a while," she
answered kindly. "I shall be back presently."
As she went toward the gate, the hag looked after her and shook her
head, as she muttered: "That gal's a puzzle, a devilish puzzle. I cain'
make her out; but of one thing I'm certain, she's straight. Huh! Yes,
she's straight," and she continued shaking her head.
And it was that fact that made her a mystery to this old woman.
She walked along slowly when she got into the street, looking from one
side to the other. At the end of the street, in the direction she had
taken, was the warehouse district. In the old days, this had been a
prominent shipping point by water; but now this had been largely
substituted by railroads. The yards were quiet today, as she made her
way along, while scarcely a wagon was in evidence around the many large
buildings.
She walked in the same direction until she came to a street that led
down to the river. She turned into this, and followed it until she stood
on the banks of the stream that flowed gently southward. It was filled
with a number of boats, while ferries plied back and forth to the other
side. For a half hour she stood thus, with her mind free of all care,
and enjoyed the stiff air that came with the breeze from the river. When
she presently turned to go, she felt strangely invigorated, and decided
to walk about more.
Without regard to direction, she finally found herself on Beal street,
which she recognized at once. She paused briefly before venturing into
it, but the street was filled with music; while across the way, several
electric shows invited the crowds that poured in and out. So she went
forward timidly. She stopped at length before a black boy who was
turning a street piano. The music was exhilarating, and she gave him a
nickel when he was starting away, whereupon he dropped the handles and
played her three of the popular airs. She gave him another nickel, and
he took delight in turning on three more. By this time a crowd had
gathered, and, thinking quickly, she slipped away and continued her way.
She stood before a large picture show for colored people a few minutes
later. At the front were gorgeous pictures, advertising the show within.
She hesitated briefly, and then, fishing a five cent piece from her
purse, she entered the show, and took a seat to one side. In a minute
her attention was centered on the screen, where a western play in which
red Indians and cowboys were in a mimic battle was being shown. The
play aroused much interest in the audience, which fairly raised from the
seats at times, especially when there was a gun play; and since gun
playing seemed to be in evidence, much excitement was attendant during
the whole time the reel was being run.
She recalled suddenly, what she had read in the book of Sidney Wyeth,
with regard to Indians. He had dwelt at some length upon this subject,
and had concluded a chapter with words to the effect that the Indian, as
he was today, and had been for years, was in no wise what he was
pictured upon the screen, or in novels, but a shiftless being, without
spirit. In truth, only an example of dull inertia.
The next reel was much more original, she thought, and, therefore, more
interesting--to her; but it wasn't to many of those about her, who, as
she heard them, made little effort to catch the moral of it.
It was a play of present day life, in which the hero was a man employed
as floor walker in a large department store, while the heroine was a
girl, employed in the most insignificant position in the basement of the
same. She studied the play, and was carried away with the great human
interest conveyed in the plot. It was a difficult task to keep her mind
and thoughts upon it, however, because all about her, many remarks came
from impatient creatures, who continually muttered aloud, demanding that
it be hurried off, and something with "ginger" put on.
"Hu'y, hu'y, 'n' git hit off! Git a gal out the' 'n' some song 'n'
dancin'," said one who sat next to her, and who, she observed, was
ragged and dirty in the bargain; his long, kinky hair stood erect on his
head, and made him resemble something recently departed from the jungle.
When the vaudeville in connection therewith was put on, she was filled
with disgust. It was not refined vaudeville, and in no way corresponded
with the pictures that had preceeded it; but of the most vulgar sort. It
brought shrill cries from the throats of those about her, and remarks
that showed the character of the crowd.
"Put the sof' pedal on it, kid, ke-ha!"
"Dat gal sho kin' sing, nigga, believe muh!"
"Kick higher, dare, gal! You ain' done nothin'," growled one, who was
not satisfied.
Mildred arose to go out. To get to the aisle, she must pass about ten
people, mostly men in rough clothing. "Set down, gal, don' git in
front-a me!" one next to her complained.
"Don' spile my gaze when dat gal's showing up lak she is," said another.
With a sigh and a disgusted feeling, she sank back and made herself
patient, until the disgusting performance was at an end. She had no
trouble then, for all those between her and the aisle filed out ahead of
her. Apparently they came to the show for the purpose of witnessing the
vaudeville only.
When she was on the street again, the sun was getting toward the west,
but she did not feel like going back to the hovel she called a room yet.
The noise and music seemed to make her forget her troubles and worries,
and, mingling with the masses that now filled the sidewalks, she
followed them aimlessly along the street. She stopped before other
shows, and, when, at last, finding one that appeared to have no
vaudeville in connection with the pictures, and which did not appear to
have such a big crowd about the entrance, she entered and took a seat
toward the rear.
She had been seated about half an hour, when she chanced, upon looking
back, to see someone whose face was familiar. She looked toward the
front, and then, after a few minutes, in which she tried to recall where
it was she had seen it before, she turned her head slowly, and looked
again. Behind her, and just seating themselves, were not only three
women belonging to Wilson Jacobs' church, and with whom she was well
acquainted--they had been her best friends, and had admired her playing
and singing--but in their midst, sat Constance herself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"_My Wife--Sick--HELL!_"
It was the day before New Years, and the city was in the grip of a
severe blizzard that has swept down from the northwest, and had driven
the people from the streets and into their homes, where they stayed
closely shut in. From her little room, Mildred Latham peeped out through
the small window, and was glad it was an ugly day without; for, being
so, she did not feel as lonesome, and so desirous of going forth, as she
had the few days previous; or, since Xmas day.
She would never forget the moments she went through, wondering how she
would extricate herself, when her friends entered the show and seated
themselves behind her.
She had sat with her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs, and hardly
dared to breathe. The play was a deep one that flashed upon the screen,
but her attention had wandered. She was trying, with all her senses, to
think of some way out, and the way would have to come quickly, for if
not, at the best, it would be only a question of minutes, possibly
seconds, before one of the trio saw and recognized her. She was almost
choking when there was a noise in the rear. All eyes turned quickly, and
then there was a snapping of films, or something; but, whatever it was,
the place was dark in a moment.
Now was her chance, she thought, as the theater was suddenly plunged
into darkness. She arose. Could she make it? In a flash the lights might
be on. "Great God!" she trembled. "Suppose they should be turned on!"
And with this fear gripping her heart until the perspiration started,
she struggled toward the door. She stepped on many toes, while growls
and complaints came from the lips of the owners, but she felt her way
resolutely forward and toward the aisle. It seemed like an age before
her feet found it. Through the place now, matches were flashing. She
glanced for a brief second in the direction of those from whom she was
fleeing, and, as she did so, someone struck a match. In that moment, the
faces of the four came full into view. "Oh, my God!" she cried
inaudibly, "they are looking straight at me." But before the flare had
died, she breathed a sigh of relief, for, at that moment the lights came
on, and they were looking toward the screen.
She passed quietly out, and, when once outside, hurried in the direction
of her room.
They had not seen her.
* * * * *
The day was fading into twilight. The sun had set, and with it the wind
had fallen; the air had become still, and the stars shone brightly from
above.
"If I don't get out of this place for an hour, I will surely die," cried
Mildred, walking the floor in a fit of impatience. Having become
accustomed to plenty of exercise, the days that had come and gone since
Xmas day had seemed like an eternity. Perhaps it was hard for her,
because she had not been further than the restaurant since that day. She
admitted to herself that she was afraid to go anywhere now. She had not
the courage to run the risk of being seen again, and had, therefore,
remained confined to her room.
She paused before the window, and looked long and earnestly into the
street. Never before had anything seemed so inviting. She was simply mad
to be in it, if for only a half hour; but to be in it, she felt she
must. After a time, she resolved to run the risk. She fixed herself as
best she could, and shuddered when she realized that she had not changed
her clothes for a week. At last, with a suppression of her excited
nerves, she slipped out of the house, and entered the street just as
darkness had set in, and the stars were the brightest.
She hurried along, and when she had arrived at the end of the street,
she turned into another, and in a direction she had not been before.
Along this she hurried, feeling the sting of the air, which brought the
blood to her cheeks, and made her feel real life, after many days of
fear and worry. She had been downtown one day before Xmas, where she
dispatched a telegram, and now, as she hurried along, it occurred to her
to go to the office again. She walked boldly in that direction, and a
moment after she had entered, she came out with a satisfied smile
playing about the corners of her mouth.
"Now," she whispered softly, "where shall I go?" Without answering her
own question, she began walking. She walked until she had exercised her
limbs, and they were tired. So she felt like sitting down and resting.
Still she continued the way she was going until, in turning a corner,
she ran fully into someone and fell back with: "I beg your pardon!" And
then suddenly the other fell back.
"Why, Miss Latham!" the other exclaimed, amazed.
"Miss Jones, I declare!" echoed the other, and stood abashed.
"I have not seen or heard of you for months. Indeed, I thought you left
town long since!"
"No-o," Mildred mumbled, frightened and embarrassed, all in one.
"And--what--what are you doing--in _this_ part of town!" the other
exclaimed, now regarding her suspiciously.
"_This_ part of town?" she echoed bewilderingly. "I--I--don't
understand. _Why_ this part of town?"
"Yes, _this_ part of town." She paused a moment and surveyed Mildred in
wonder, and then went on: "Why, didn't you know? _This_ part of town--is
the _restricted district_!"
"Oh--Miss Jones!" she wailed. "Heaven help me! I didn't know!"
The other looked at her keenly and a little dubious, and then she said,
with a toss of her head, as something seemed to have occurred to her
when the other looked at her strangely:
"I guess you wonder _what I_ am doing down here, too."
The other started, and her lips opened to say she had not, but before
she could say anything, the other continued:
"Well, I don't mind admitting what _I_ am doing down here, since I see
_you_ here, also; but I have been coming down here for a long time. Yes,
you see this is not the first time. I have been down here before," and
she laughed a hard laugh, as she ended with another toss of her head.
Mildred stood frozen. She could not collect her shattered wits to say
anything, but she was thinking. Miss Jones was a member of Wilson
Jacobs' church and sang in the choir. "It can't be possible!" she
murmured inaudibly. "It can't be possible!" And then, all of a sudden,
she felt sorry for Miss Jones, because she had liked her, and thought
her very sweet. And now she met her face to face _in the worst_ part of
the city! How could this be explained! Miss Jones being encountered in
the _worst part_ of the city!... And Miss Jones had, with her own lips,
admitted that 'she had been there before. _She had been coming there for
a long time._' "Oh, God," Mildred cried almost aloud: "This is
terrible!" _Why_ did Miss Jones come to this part of town?... Miss Jones
came to this part of town and _knew_ she was doing so.... Then, if that
were true--which it surely was--Miss Jones was _a bad girl_.... Miss
Jones a _bad girl_? She could not believe it; and yet, before she could
get all this through her whirling brain, she heard Miss Jones speaking
again. What was she saying? It couldn't be true! Surely Miss Jones could
not mean what she was saying. Oh, horrors! If Miss Jones meant what she
was saying, then, Miss Jones regarded her as a _bad girl_, too. "Miss
Jones, Miss Jones!" Something in her now was crying, although her lips
moved not. "Please don't, please don't! I am not that way. I am not a
_bad girl_, oh, no, please, _please_!" And still her lips had not moved.
She stood like a dumb person; but she heard Miss Jones clearly:
"Let's go over here to a place _I know_," she said. "It's safe--nobody
but a swell bunch goes there, no tramps or _talkers_."
She felt all she had heard a moment before now running through her mind,
and yet she did not speak. Miss Jones was speaking again:
"We are both in the same boat; one's as _bad_ as the other. No questions
asked...."
"Oh, Miss Jones," Mildred heard again, but her lips still were not
moved. "How can you, oh, how can you!" Why _didn't_ she do something?
She heard herself, but words were not spoken: "Why _do_ you stand,
Mildred Latham? Why do you not go--_hurry_? You have stood _too_ long
now. Hurry, hurry! To Mother Jane's--to Jacobs! Yes, to anywhere; but
go, go, go!" And still she stood in flesh, and made no reply.
"A swell bunch from the north, railroad fellows with plenty of coin.
Some good time, kid. Come on at once. Let's don't stand here and be
looked at."
She was in a trance now. She couldn't stand there; she was aware of
that. That would be worse. How to get out, she did not know, for she had
now forgotten how she came in. But she had no notion of following Miss
Jones. No. She would go to Mother Jane's--no, she would go to Jacobs.
Jacobs? _Who_ were they? Oh, yes. She remembered now. And when she knew
the Jacobs, she had known them for _the truth_. If she went to them and
told them she had just came from the----oh, no, no, no! She couldn't go
to Jacobs.... But now she had it. She would go to Sidney Wyeth.... Yes,
that was where she would go. He would welcome her. He would be good to
her; while she--she--_would tell him everything_--yes, _everything_. Oh,
she was glad she had thought of him in time. Because if she had waited a
little longer, she _might not be fit_ to go to him.
They were going now, Miss Jones and she. Miss Jones was going, where?
She didn't know, but she, Mildred Latham was going to her lover, Sidney
Wyeth. Oh, how she loved him--she had always loved him; but now she
loved him more than ever. And she was going to him, and when she
arrived, the first thing she would do, would be to get on her knees, as
she did when a little girl, at her prayers. She would tell him all. All
the truth from the time she was old enough to remember, until today.
Yes, she would tell _him all_. She would show him how faithfully she had
worked in the sale of his book. And she would tell him how she had been
driven from place to place, until she had no home nor friends; but,
withal, she had remained clean. _Clean?_ Yes, that was why she had
struggled so. She had fought _everything_, to keep clean.... And he, oh,
he--would be happy. Oh, he would be _so_ happy. And then they would
both--yes, _both_ go to the _Rosebud Country_ together. Wouldn't that be
delightful? They would go to the _Rosebud Country_ together and live
happily.
"Here we are," she heard Miss Jones saying. She rapped on the door in a
peculiar fashion. Presently the door opened, but no one stood beside it
or behind it. It had opened from the top of a stair, which they mounted
the moment they entered. This led to somewhere, but she followed.
Now they were at the top, and paused for a brief moment; then, turning
to the right, they crossed a hallway and entered a room. The door closed
behind them, and it was some time before her eyes became accustomed to
the darkness within. _Why_ was the room dark? She wondered; but just
then it became a blaze of light. She looked all around her
bewilderingly. It was a beautifully furnished room, with a soft, heavy
carpet, while about the room were many heavy chairs. In the center was a
table, and around the side were smaller tables. "What was this place?"
she asked herself, feeling the back of one of the heavy chairs. To one
side of the room was a huge buffet with a number of glasses, all thin
and of many varying sizes, artistically arranged. On the other end was a
piano, with an electric cord reaching it from above. And as she stood
looking at it, a light within it flashed, and it began to play a song
that made the room resound.
"Hark! What was that!" she cried, with her lips closed. She saw the eyes
of her companion, as her ears listened to the music. A smile, a wild
smile danced in the eyes of Miss Jones. She caught Mildred suddenly
about the waist, and before she was aware of it, was whirling her about
in a waltz. And the tune--was the _Blue Danube_!
In the midst of the sweet old tune, the door they had entered a moment
ago swung open, and two men entered. They were striking looking men and
were dressed in the latest style of clothes. They were both smoking
cigars, and the room was soon filled with the aroma. But they must have
been good cigars, because the odor they gave off was pleasant--so
Mildred thought.
Miss Jones dropped her at once and flew to one of them, who gathered her
in his arms, and dreadful, before the others he kissed her. As Mildred
swallowed, she turned and nestled in his embrace, and with his hands he
pulled her head back until her round throat stood out beautifully, and
kissed her again and again.
Mildred was shocked at such immodesty; but before she got over it, the
other stood over her, smiling down into her face with eyes that danced
like fire. She fell away from beneath his amorous gaze, and ran across
the room and got behind a chair. She turned and looked at him wildly
now. He hurried after her. His lips were pursed to say something funny,
and then he saw her eyes. He stopped suddenly and fell back a step,
while his smile died and his gaze, as he saw her now, grew pointed.
"Thunder!" he muttered slowly. The others disembraced themselves, and
regarded them for a moment. They looked from one to the other, and then
three pairs of eyes rested upon her alone. At first they were dubious,
and then, as they saw the frightened look, they changed to something
akin to contempt.
"Aw, kid," cried Miss Jones--and Mildred had never imagined she could be
so coarse. "'Cut' it. He's a _good_ guy, he is. A _thoroughbred_!" She
looked at the man now, who appeared a trifle angry. "You're spoiling it
all. He'd _like_ you; but he don't want too much of the kid play."
"These good lookers are always hard t' land," said the man. "But this
trick appears the hardest." Then to her he said: "Come on kid. Look
over my hurry of a moment ago. That face of yours, I must say, got me
'daffy'," and he laughed with a toss of the head.
Her tension relaxed, and she permitted herself to come from behind the
chair. A moment later they were seated around the large table in the
center of the room. A waiter now stood over them, with eyes askance.
"Little Sunny Brook'll do me," said one of the men. The other nodded the
same; his eyes rested upon Miss Jones, who tossed her head gayly, and
said:
"Aw, Dickie and Joe, I don't like it straight. Make mine a dry martini."
He attended Mildred now, while the others conversed. She did not know
what to say. She had not thought of anything to drink; but in that
moment she knew she would have to order something.
"A coca cola," she said quietly.
Three pair of eyes regarded her then with surprise evident. As it became
clear to them, all threw their heads back and laughed loudly. The waiter
stood with a little smile about the corners of his mouth, which showed
he possessed a sense of humor.
Mildred was silent and looked at them in surprise. Presently, when they
had quieted, Miss Jones said a little impatiently:
"You're a good one, kid. I must say so. Coca cola! ha, ha! But they
don't carry coca cola at this 'joint'," whereupon they laughed again.
"Yes, ma'am," now spoke the waiter. "We carry _coca cola_, but it's used
as a wash." They laughed long and earnestly.
"Bring us a quart of Sunny Brook," said the man who was nearest her.
"And--yes, bring this little girl here a coca cola--for a wash."
He lit a fresh cigar, and smiled.
"Play cards, kid?" he inquired, and looked at her. "Why don't you say
something, sweetness? Gee! Has the cat got your tongue?" he complained a
trifle nervously, as he flicked the ashes from the cigar.
The waiter had returned now with many glasses and bottles, and their
drinks were before them. Before her was placed a small bottle of the
drink she had ordered, while two glasses were arranged beside it, while
a larger glass filled with ice stood beside them. The others had before
them likewise, all except Miss Jones, whose drink was in a peculiar
glass with a long stem, and flashed green in the electric light.
The others poured their glasses about half full, while Mildred poured a
part of the fluid in one of the glasses before her. It foamed! She
stopped, and when it quit foaming, the glass was only about a third
full. She had not observed how much it lacked of being full, when
suddenly the room resounded with the music of the electric piano. It
took her so much by surprise, that she turned quickly and looked. When
she saw that it was only the piano, she turned to them again, as they
raised their glasses. She took up hers, at a sign from them. It was
full. They all drank together.
She had a mighty effort to swallow hers. When she had succeeded, she
made a wry face, and tasted the stuff gingerly. She had never drunk coca
cola that tasted like that before. The others smiled naively. She felt
strange. She raised her hands to her head. It felt stranger still. She
wondered at such a strange feeling after a drink of something she was
fond of? She had drunk as many as a half dozen bottles a day, and as
many as three bottles in an hour. But three bottles had never any
effect; while now, her head was whirling terribly. Everything about her
swam. She saw the others smiling, and then she heard herself talking and
laughing; but she was not aware of what she was saying.
It was perhaps an hour later, or it might have been only a half, but she
was on the street. She was trying to walk, but apparently she was not
succeeding, for the man she had run from was supporting her. He had his
arm about her waist; while his free hand held both of hers. She was not
talking now. She was resting. Her neck was limp. Presently they turned
into another place. She did not know where. Before them raised another
flight of stairs, and up this they walked--that is, he did and almost
carried her. A full minute it took before they reached the top. An old
woman met them. Mildred saw her for a brief moment, and recalled that
she resembled the one where she had a room.
"My wife is sick," she heard the man say, "is sick. I wish to get a
room."
"His wife?" she repeated, but that was all. Darkness was all about her
now; but the man repeated his words, and at the same time handed the old
woman a half dollar. A moment later a door closed behind them, and the
next a key turned.
But Mildred Latham didn't hear it.
The old woman looked after them a moment, as she rubbed the new coin in
her palm. She raised it to her lips and kissed it with a smack. She
regarded the door of the room in which they had disappeared, and then
she burst into a fit of laughing.
"My wife--sick--_Hell!_" And went about her duties.
CHAPTER TWELVE
_Midnight, December Thirty-first_
Wilson Jacobs sat in his study, gazing across the room at a clock. It
"tick-tocked" as it always had. The minute hand slipped from notch to
notch. There was nothing whatever wrong with it. It was a good clock. As
he gazed at it, he recalled that in the years it had stuck to the wall
there, it had never stopped; it had never varied from standard city time
more than a minute or two during those years. And yet he watched the
clock as though it were something strange; something uncanny; something
that spelled his end.
For it was, and it marked the failure of his great effort.
In a few hours now that clock would show another year, for it was the
night of December thirty-first.
In a few hours, it would tell him, as it had told him before, that a new
year had come. Yes. But this year it would tell him more. How much more?
It was hard to estimate. He made no effort to do so. He had already done
that in the past few days--the days he would always remember as the
darkest in his life of hope.
A noise in the other room came to his ears. It was a sigh. It was
Constance, and he was sorry for her. Yes, Constance had hoped until the
last minute that he would succeed. But he had failed....
Vainly he struggled in the great northeast, to secure those thousands to
complete the amount necessary. He had gone from town to town. The people
were kind; they were considerate, and they listened patiently; while he
waxed eloquent and forceful in his appeal for this great purpose. He met
the nicest people he had ever met--he knew that. So refined, and how
much they appreciated his great cause, was shown in every town, large
or small. They took him through many of the buildings. They were perfect
pictures, and the management was the best. The per cent of people who
could not read or write in those parts, did not include any of the
native born. He had never, he recalled this now strangely, met people
who were so courteous. He had been so long in Dixie, and, therefore,
accustomed to the country there, that he found it hard to believe that
white people could be so courteous to a Negro. True, but they held to
their money. They shook their heads and pointed across the water--and he
knew.
He had raised less than three thousand dollars. He lacked almost
twenty-five thousand of having the proper amount when he returned home.
His sister met him with a kiss. She looked hopefully into his eyes at
the same moment, and knew he had failed. So they had said nothing about
it. Others came in as soon as they learned he had returned, and it was
with a heavy heart that he told them the result.
"Well," said the professor of the colored high school, "you made a brave
fight, Reverend. Yes, you made a brave fight. More than ten thousand
dollars in such a short time is going some. You beat Grantville by twice
the amount, and did it in one-third the time."
"By the way, Doctor," said a mail clerk, as he was passing out. He
stopped, and lighting a cigar, continued: "What ever became of that
young lady who played at the church, and who started the cash
subscription?"
"Yes," said the professor, "I have intended to ask you myself."
"My friends," said Wilson, "it is the strangest thing I ever knew; but
we have not seen that young lady since the day you were here--in fact,
we have not seen her since she left the church that Sunday."
"Indeed!" both exclaimed. "That is strange!"
"The strangest thing, I should say," he declared. They spoke of it at
some length, and then they took their leave. Others had come, and made
it harder for him to tell. Words of consolation were given by all, which
made it still harder.
He arose after a time, and walked back and forth across the room. He
thought of the Y.M.C.A. in a northern city for colored men, and where he
had stopped. Such a delightful place it had been. There was a pool hall,
a cafe, a barber shop, a complete gymnasium, a swimming pool, a reading
room with piles of the latest magazines; in fact, there was everything
to keep young men out of bad company, and, at the same time, provided
for them a place for clean, manly sport. He had stopped there three
days, and during that time he had observed the great good it was doing
the young Negro men of that city. The Negro population was not
one-fourth that of this town, and still the schools there were the best;
while almost everything in the way of public conveniences was open to
the black people. If the Y.M.C.A. could be of such great good in a
community of that sort, words, figures, estimates, all were inadequate
to describe what a great benefit it would be to this town.
And, until the last day he did not despair. He hoped and he worked. "The
administration has balled the financial situation up so badly, that it
is useless to seek subscriptions for anything," one had told him.
"A million and more dollars he has given away," said the secretary of a
millionaire he had consulted. "Yes, I will arrange an appointment," but
from the way he said it, he was sure it would do no good.
"Crime and evil environments have undermined the foundations of our
society; those people, for whom a million men went to battle fifty years
ago and freed, have reached a place in our American society, where it is
the greatest mistake of a decade that they are not provided with better
surroundings." He said this time and again, and the people heard him
through, but in the end it was the same.
By some he was greatly encouraged. If the gift of the Jew could be
extended a year, all would be well, he was sure; but that had been
settled.
"I am asking you for assistance, because we have at our disposal
three-fourths of the amount necessary; but, without your assistance in
this, this three-fourths reverts back to those who have offered it."
"The country is in a bad shape," and they pointed again across the
water.
And now he had returned, and had to admit to himself and the others that
he had failed. He forgot his own desire; he wanted the association for
the great good it would do his people.
He seated himself, and mechanically his eyes sought the clock again. It
tick-tocked the minutes away, and the minutes became hours, and every
hour drew him near the end. If he could present twenty-five thousand
dollars to the Y.M.C.A. by twelve o'clock that night, it would be saved.
Suddenly it occurred to him to go into the street and walk about for a
time. Maybe he could forget it. He picked up his hat, that he had thrown
on the floor in his absentmindedness, and drawing on his overcoat, made
his way thither. It was a crisp night, and the chill, as he struck the
street, made him quicken his steps, and he walked briskly in the
direction of the river.
He observed with a start, presently, that he was going in the same
direction and the same street, he had taken before going north. The
incident and the words he had overheard came back to him, and he thought
of Mildred with a pang of the heart. "I wish I could see her now," he
said; and then, in the next breath, he said no. "I would have to tell
her that I had failed, after her kind words. She said I would succeed.
Yes, she said that--and meant it." He walked on, and finally fell to
talking to himself aloud.
"Yes, Wilson Jacobs, with all you have been through, you have come to
this in the end. You've failed." And then something somewhere in his
mind said: "Yes, you have failed, but don't despair. All may not be
lost. As long as there is life, there is hope." He laughed at this, and
wondered then at the strange caprice of the human brain. "Wonderful," he
commented. "I wonder how did man ever come to be. In the years when he
was wild, that was different. But now he is becoming so wise, that
almost miracles are accomplished. He continues to grow wiser as the
years go by, until I wonder what it will all come to in the end."
By now he had reached the place where he overheard the voices of a few
weeks before. It was dark. Not a soul nor a sound came from within. He
stood where he had heard the voices, but no voices came to him that
night. He presently retraced his footsteps. He could, at least, be home
and comfort his sister. She could not be allowed to be alone while the
old year died and the new sprang into being. He dragged himself along in
an aimless fashion, not hurrying. As he figured in his mind, he had yet
two hours.
When he arrived at the house and entered, he resumed his seat in the
study, and, since there was nothing else to do, he resumed his task of
watching the clock. Not as much time was left as he thought for. It was
now almost eleven. In one hour and a few minutes, it was goodby to
seventy-five thousand dollars for the purpose of building and
establishing a Y.M.C.A. for the black youth of the city.
He heard Constance in the other room, breathing heavily, and wondered
whether she was sick. He watched the clock now as a man who waits for
the death knell. Time seemed to go slowly, he thought. He would call his
sister when the clock reached a quarter of. Yes, and together they would
watch, watch, watch. He dozed off to sleep. Suddenly he awoke with a
start. He had slept the old year out, was his first thought. Then he
looked at the clock. No, not quite. He rubbed his eyes.
And then he listened. Had he heard someone, or something? "Of course
not," he muttered half aloud. "This game is telling on me," and he
raised his hand and grasped his head. And still he felt something had
happened. He arose and walked back and forth across the room, and then
sat down again. As he did so, his eyes saw the clock.
It was now eleven thirty-five.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_Into the Infinite Long Ago_
"That is the Ponca, dear," said Sidney, taking her hand, as they walked
up the road.
"But you did not call it that in your story, Sidney," said Mildred,
squeezing his hand fondly. "I have never been on its banks. When are you
going to take me there?" she now said poutingly.
He placed his free hand under her chin, and dared her to look into his
face with such a frown. She failed, and laughed instead.
"But I want to go," she cried, swinging the hand she held back and
forth. "Won't you take me soon--take me today?" she begged.
He drew her to him, placed his arms about her, and kissed her fondly.
A moment later they walked down the wide road.
"And this is the _Rosebud Country_," she said, allowing her eyes to
stretch over a land to which she saw no end.
"Yes, this is the _Rosebud Country_," he said contentedly.
She regarded him a moment closely, before she spoke. In that look, she
appeared to see him as she had never seen him before. This man was her
husband, and he had spent the prime years of his life in this land to
the northwest. He loved it, and now she would love it, because he did.
In the years gone by he had hoped--he had built his hopes here, and into
that life had come another. After that things had been different. Yes,
things had been different, and that was why she was here. But she was
happy. Yes, she was happy. He was too, so that made her more happy.
"See those rocks on yonder hill?" she heard him say, and she allowed her
eyes to follow the direction of his finger.
"Yes, and oh Sidney, I gaze each day at them, and at the smaller one
just this side of it. Tell me of them, and of the little one, too."
And as they strolled together down this prairie road to the valley of
the Ponca, Sidney Wyeth, her husband, told her the story of the two
hills.
"Many, I know not how many years ago, yon hill was the scene of many a
crime, so the squaws told me." And he sighed, as he seemed to look back
over the time. She placed her hand now in the curve of his arm and held
it closely. It seemed to satisfy him, and with a glance at her, and a
far away look in his eyes, he proceeded to tell the legend of the hills.
"It was before the days of the mighty Sitting Bull, and Red Cloud, too;
before the days of the cowboy--and even the squaw man. It was in the
days of Chief Stinking Eye, who was the bravest--so the Indians say--of
all the great Sioux warriors. Stinking Eye and Chief Bettleyon loved one
and the same maiden--the daughter of Chief Go-Catch-The-Enemy.
"Go-Catch-The-Enemy was a great chief, and owned all the land in what is
called the Bull Creek district now, while Bettleyon lived with the tribe
of his father in a part of this country far to the west, in that part
which is now called the Cottonwood Creek district.
"This vast tribe of red men lived by hunting principally; but their
women discovered that crops could be grown in this soil, and, with rude
plows and hoes, and whatever they had, they dug little patches in the
soil along the creek, and in springtime, they planted these patches in
maize and beans; so, when the zero weather of winter made the wigwams
the most comfortable place, they kept from starving by feeding thereon.
Of course, that was in the day when the buffalo was plentiful, and they
had meat; but with cornmeal this was made more delicious. So, in this
way, the Sioux Indians came through many cold winters, and went to war
again in the early springtime; that is, the men did, while the women
repeated the task each year, of planting the patches to Squaw corn or
maize.
"How they fought, and bled and died, is a matter not trivial. About this
time, there came a man. He rode a pony, and he had on boots--not
moccasins--and he wore a hat on his head. He carried a rifle in his
hand, and that was the first time _these_ red men had seen such a
weapon. Strange, as it was to them, he talked fluently in their tongue,
and withal his cleverness, he became a favorite among the many. Before
long he was, in reality, chief over all. From the Niobrara across the
Keya Paha, including the Ponca, the Mastadon, on to the Whetstone and
Landing Creek and to the White River, he ruled. They named him
Rain-In-The-Face, and he made them all believe that he was next to the
great white father.
"There came a day when he made love to Go-Catch-The-Enemy's daughter,
Winnetkha, which was her name, and she was said to have been the most
beautiful daughter of the Sioux Indians the _Rosebud_ had ever known.
"This, as you might expect, made enemies of Young Chief Bettleyon and
also Chief Stinking Eye. But the white man was shrewd. He thought at
night, when all was quiet and the Indians slept. So the mornings were
used in carrying out the thoughts of the night before, while the Indians
had to think of war.
"So, before any knew, the white man had made Winnetkha his own, and took
her to live in a real house, that he had made the Indians build for him,
of straight ash logs, with bark peeled off and hewn on the inside, until
the white wood glistened like silver.
"That was the beginning of the breeds, and after that, many became
crossed and have not stopped until recently; but Bettleyon and Stinking
Eye never got over it, and when the pale face was spending his time
herding the cattle that were now replacing the buffalo, they intrigued
cruelly against him.
"Winnetkha overheard their plan, and informed him when he came from the
herd that night, and so he kept watch. They came late, with a band of
picked men and loyal followers, and began at once to make war on the big
house. All night they fought, but the Indians were shrewd this time,
and fought from long range. They shot at the house with arrows that were
heated red hot on the point, until at last they set it on fire. This, of
course, drove the white man and his squaw out. They managed to escape
and reached safety ere they were discovered. But the white man was
angry, and he swore to have revenge, so, loading his rifle, he saddled
his horse and came down single-handed on the Indians and killed many,
and routed the rest.
"He was not bothered any more for years afterward, but the Indian, you
know, never forgets, so, one day, when he was grazing his herds near the
top of the hill, he looked up to find himself almost hemmed in by the
skulking red devils. He rushed to safety behind the rocks at the top,
where you see them. Here he fought until his ammunition was exhausted,
and he was without defense, with the Indians all about him.
"And it was then that he looked about for other weapons of defense, and
discovered a den of rattlers. Then, one at a time, he allowed the
Indians to approach him, and as they did and went to look for him, they
were struck in the face by a rattler. More than twenty were bitten, so
'tis said, and more than half died from the effects. And then they
killed him.
"Old Go-Catch-The-Enemy made war on them afterward and a reign of
outlawry began; but to the white man, his son-in-law, he gave a great
funeral, and did not bury him on a tree top, where buzzards picked the
bones, as had been the custom; but the Indians preferred such a burial
rather than that a coyote should dig them up from the earth. He was
buried on the top of the little hill to the side, as you see, with
stones arranged about him, and so deep in the earth, that the wolves
never bothered.
"So, that is the legend of those hills that you see, and they are the
land mark. Those who live here will not soon forget it."
They stood on the banks of the Ponca now, and listened to the happy
birds that filled the air with music like thousands of little bells. As
they stood, arm in arm, they appreciated all that life held in store for
them.
Suddenly from the west came a great noise. "Hark!" cried the husband. "A
prairie fire? Of course not. The settlers made that impossible long
since." He looked anxiously in the direction from whence came the noise.
The sun could not be seen, and everything at once grew dark. "A
tornado!" cried Sidney, and, grabbing his wife, he started to fall to
the ground, but too late! A sudden wind seemed to pick him up, and a
moment later whirled him into the air, while Mildred cried out in
agonizing tones:
"Sidney, Sidney, come back, come back; don't leave me!" But on he flew,
with the wind raising him higher and higher into the air, while she
moaned until she felt her heart would break. Everything was so dark
about her that she could not see, and then, suddenly it began to clear.
Darkness was not about her, for overhead burned an electric light. She
lay across a bed. She stood up and looked about her.
Her brain throbbed terribly, while she tried to recall where she was,
and then slowly it all came back to her. Miss Jones--the visit to the
blind tiger--a bottle of coca cola--"Oh, my God!" she cried in piteous
tones. "I'm lost! I'm lost! I'm lost!"
She rushed to the door. It was bolted. She paused a moment as she stood
by it. Where had _he_ gone! She had a watch on her wrist; she looked at
it. She had not been there long. She recalled looking at it just before
drinking the stuff in the glass. That was exactly an hour before. It was
fully a half hour later when she had been brought to this place. But
_where_ was the man.
She looked across the room to a chair. Over the back of it lay the
overcoat he had worn. Then it became clear to her. He had stepped out a
moment to get something perhaps. She walked to the door quickly and
tried the knob. It was locked and the key was gone. She became frantic
as she ran around the room. She tried the window again. Useless.
Besides, when she peeped under the shade, it was too far to the ground.
She stood dumbly for a moment. Presently, mechanically, she walked to a
dresser that stood to one side, and peered in the glass at herself. She
recoiled when she saw her face. It was swollen, and her eyes looked
strange. She could not believe herself. She looked again. "Yes," she
whispered, "this is _I_!" She looked away. The top of the dresser was
covered with a newspaper. Mechanically she found herself looking over
it. It was not a city paper, she could see, so, somewhat curiously, she
turned it over and saw the front page. Her eyes chanced to fall on an
article two columns in width. She read a few lines, and then, with a
muffled cry, she staggered backward, clutching the paper. She sought the
chair or the bed--anything, she was too weak to stand now. But, ere she
had reached either, she suddenly stood stiffly erect, while the blood
seemed to freeze in her veins.
A step sounded in the hallway, and a moment later, a key rattled in the
lock. The _man_ was returning.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"_Go Brother! In God's Name, Go!_"
"I am truly sorry to see the colored people of this town fail in their
effort to secure a Y.M.C.A. for their youth," said the secretary of the
white Y.M.C.A., as he rested his elbows for a moment upon the cigar
case.
"And they won't get it after all," said a young man whose father had
given five hundred dollars to the cause. "They certainly need something
of the kind. The crime and condition of the colored people of the
southern states, give this section a bad name in the eyes of the
enlightened world," he commented, lighting a cigarette and sprawling his
legs in front of him, when he had taken a seat.
"I regret it more because that fellow, Wilson Jacobs, the secretary, has
been a faithful worker, if there ever was one," the secretary said
thoughtfully.
"How did they happen to fall down on it? I understand that the white
association has subscribed twenty-five thousand dollars?" inquired
another.
"So did a Chicago Jew, and likewise seventeen thousand dollars were
subscribed from the city and other places, by the white people; but only
ten thousand dollars could be raised among the colored people--or
rather, only about five thousand. He secured about the same amount from
the white people here and in the north."
"I met that fellow down here one day, and say!" exclaimed another, "he
impressed me as much as any person I ever met, I want to tell you!"
"How did they ever come out with the effort over at Grantville?"
inquired another.
"They failed," said the secretary, and then added: "The gift from the
Jew philanthropist has run for five years, and expires tonight at twelve
o'clock." So saying, all eyes sought the clock that hung on the wall
above them.
"They have only a few minutes left, according to that," smiled one.
"Say, wouldn't it be a sensation, if that fellow came tearing in here at
one minute to twelve," said one, and laughed. The others joined in, but
the secretary did not share in the joke, notwithstanding that it was not
meant to be depreciating.
"If he should," said the secretary, walking from behind the case, "I am
authorized to acknowledge the same, and the colored people would get
their association. But, of course, I do not anticipate such miracles
tonight."
A moment later, they all filed to another part of the building, where
hundreds were gathered to watch the old year out and the new in, and
where music soon made them forget the subject they had been discussing.
* * * * *
Twenty minutes of the year was left. In five minutes Wilson Jacobs would
call his sister, and together they would watch. But the new year would
bring no joy to their hearts. It meant that a great struggle would end
in failure. He watched the clock by the minute. It was now eleven
forty-one. Nineteen minutes left.
Presently he heard a light footfall. He looked up and saw his sister
coming toward him. She looked tired and worn; the strain she had been
laboring under was plainly evident in her face.
She came straight to him. What was it that made her regard him as she
did. Had she seen, in these last minutes, how much it hurt him to have
to pronounce his great effort a failure. She advanced to where he sat,
and impulsively bent over and kissed him. As she raised up, both pairs
of eyes saw the clock, and both pair of lips murmured:
"Eighteen minutes left." And then his lips said:
"Yes, sister, eighteen minutes left to raise twenty-five thousand
dollars for the Y.M.C.A. for our people." He lowered his head, and
sighed long and deeply. She placed her hands about his forehead, and let
them slip back over his hair.
"My poor brother, my poor brother!" And then, for the first time she
observed a package. With womanly curiosity, she inquired:
"What is this, Wilson?" and pointed toward it. He sat up quickly as
though he had been asleep.
"That," he replied, blinking. "Why, I don't know. I declare. I didn't
know it was there." He was thoroughly awake now, as well as curious.
"Wonder what it is," she said, curiously.
"I don't know," he breathed, turning the package over. "And you are sure
you didn't put it there?"
"Oh, no, but I am curious to know what it contains," and she turned it
over, while her face lit with a little smile that was carefree. He saw
it, and said:
"Why dear, if it will please you, open it as the last thing in the old
year."
"Oh, brother, that is so nice of you," and she took the knife he handed
her, opened it, and quickly cut the strings. A package was enclosed,
tied with paper. She pursued the task of cutting strings, and then, as
she unwrapped the paper from about it she mused:
"Oh, I wonder what it can be!" It was open now, and two pairs of eyes
opened their widest, while her voice cried:
"Wilson, Wilson! My God! It's money! _It's money to save the Y.M.C.A.
for our people!_" Both now regarded the clock. Fifteen minutes was left
to reach the Y.M.C.A. building thirteen blocks away! It was she who
spoke:
"Go brother! In God's name, go!"
* * * * *
Had it been any other night but the night of December thirty-first, a
man who tore wildly down the middle of the street, bareheaded, and with
a woman with hair flowing loosely behind her, the officers on duty would
surely have made an arrest. But as it was, they only smiled amusedly, as
they remarked a new freak of meeting the new year. How little did any
feel or know that upon that wild run, depended one hundred thousand
dollars for the salvation of thousands of black youth, until the end of
time....
The papers carried the account in large headlines the following morning.
"REVEREND WILSON JACOBS SPRINGS A COUP
"Energetic worker and secretary of the Y.M.C.A. for the colored
people raised twenty-five thousand dollars, and completed the
condition of the association at two minutes of twelve o'clock last
night. Two minutes later, more than seventy-five thousand dollars
would have been unavailable for the purpose."
In a column and a half, the people of the city and elsewhere read the
account of the wonderful victory that meant so much for the colored
people of the city, of which the population was two-fifths. It was
likewise a victory for the white people, all of whom could appreciate
the fact. In securing the same, the city, with the unenviable reputation
of being one of the most criminal cities in the world, now took first
place in the line for uplift among the colored people, as it would be
the only city in the south to have a Y.M.C.A. for its black population.
The fact made thousands of black people buy the blind tigers and
drugstores out of whiskey on New Years day. _It was their greatest day
since freedom!_
In Grantville, everybody wondered how they had done it, and in Effingham
and Attalia; and then the people of the fortunate city wondered too,
after their excitement had cooled and they could think. Wilson Jacobs
wondered likewise, and so did Constance. Everybody wondered.
But they never knew.
END OF BOOK THREE