some time...." She closed her eyes meditatively, and thought of him.
Would he survive? Typhoid-pneumonia was a dreadful disease, and she was
considerably worried. When she retired that night, she prayed a long
prayer, and went to sleep with a smile upon her lips, at peace with the
world, and with hopes for the best.
CHAPTER NINE
"_I Hope You--Won't--Won't be Angry_"
"We cannot give out information as to the condition of the patient,
Madam," said the informant at the hospital, when Mildred had called to
inquire regarding the condition of her lover. She turned wearily away,
and went back to the office.
She was anxious to know the worst, if it came to that, and was worried
daily, until she could not restrain the desire to visit the hospital
each morning, before she went about the duties she had preempted.
"He is not dead," she whispered to herself, "and if I go each day, I can
work with my mind at peace; whereas, I would surely go crazy, if I were
compelled to go along, and not know whether he is living or dead."
Two weeks passed and he still lived, and at the end of that time, she
was advised at the hospital, that recovery was expected, but that he
would be, in all likelihood, unable to leave the hospital under two
months from that date.
She went to the office that day in the highest spirits, and was
especially cheered to find a pile of letters in answer to the
advertisements. Replies were many during the following days. In due
course of time, she had secured a large number of agents, and a greater
portion, upon following her instructions, were successful. Orders for
books began to fill the office, and after she had been in charge of the
office a month, she was pleased to see that she was actually succeeding.
Each mail brought money and express orders, and then, the work being too
heavy for one, she looked about for a stenographer to help her. She was
successful in securing a very intelligent girl, a creole, with French
ways and a command of that tongue which, at times, especially when
excited, conflicted with her English to a degree that was amusing.
As the days went by, business increased, until at the end of six weeks,
more than a thousand dollars was finding its way to the office each
week. Mildred was encouraged, she was delighted. She deposited the money
to his credit in a savings account, and used only what was necessary for
expenses and for her own living. She became so enthusiastic over the
same, that she almost forgot he would return, and then--but she got no
further.
"He will be able to leave the hospital in two weeks, possibly ten days,"
the informant advised her the last day she called, which was eight weeks
after he had taken sick. It was only then that she became fully
appreciative of the position she held. She now became uneasy, as, after
thinking it over for some time, she was unable to decide what to do. The
business was now so heavy, that it was impossible to be away from it;
money came in each mail, and sometimes in large sums, while orders and
inquiries for the agency, kept her dictating letters for hours each day.
She permitted herself, that day and other days that followed, to become
the heroine in a wild dream. She saw him well, which he would be soon,
and she fancied how much she could help him. But always, when she
recalled the past, there came a choking, and she would turn desperately
to her work in order to forget.
"And yet," she said to herself one day--and that was only a few days
before he was expected to return--"I must do something. I cannot sit
here and allow him to walk in upon me, because--he, oh, I'm afraid he
might resent it."
One morning the mail was heavier than usual, because it was Monday, and
Saturday had been a holiday. Springtime had come, with its time of
blossom, and the air was fragrant. She hummed a little tune and was
happy that day; happier than she had been for a long time. She went
about the great amount of work with a calmness and precision, that
resulted in finishing it before five o'clock. Ordinarily, there was
enough to have kept them busy until the next day noon.
"Well, Katherine," she said to the stenographer, "we have been very
industrious today, and I am going to bring you something nice tomorrow.
You are very helpful," and with a quick impulse she kissed the other,
who returned it as affectionately.
In that moment, she almost felt inclined to tell the girl the burden
that was upon her, but she thought better of it quickly, and, with a
kind word, she turned to her desk, and for a time listened to the
other's footstep in the hallway, where she moved occasionally, while
waiting for the elevator.
From a drawer she took some letters, and glanced over them reflectively.
They were letters from a girl she recognized in the story, and from
their tone, she surmised that the other had once loved him. That love,
however, had changed in the course of events, and now they were only
friends.
She sat for a long time and gazed dreamily out over the city, and then,
suddenly, it occurred to her, that she was sitting in the same position
he had occupied, when she had entered his office almost ten weeks
before. She stirred uneasily. At that moment a step sounded in the hall,
and came in the direction of the office. It paused a minute outside the
door, and then it was opened, and some person stood on the threshold.
It was getting dark, and as the man paused, she observed that he looked
about the office strangely--doubtfully. In so far as he knew, he had
felt the office was a thing of the past, and at this moment he muttered:
"Hump. Guess someone else is in this place." Presently, with another
muttering, he came toward the window. Mildred sat stupified, and seemed
unable to move any part of her body. She felt strangely paralyzed. When
he got near the middle of the room, he suddenly bethought himself of the
light, and turning, he went to the wall, where the switch was located,
and pressed the button.
She had rearranged the office, that is, she had added to the number of
lights, since there were only two bulbs when she came. Now there were
six. Over the desk set one, and it had a reflector. When he pressed the
button, the room became instantly illuminated by the bright rays, while
the one on the desk reflected full into her face.
She said something and turned her face, while he gave a start and cried:
"You!"
The next moment, he fell back and observed her strangely. She sat as he
had found her, with head lowered and heart thumping violently. He
advanced after a pause, and stood close to her, regarding her with a
look that was stranger still. He appeared to be at a loss what to say or
do; then he raised his hand to his forehead, while his gaze was one of
utter blankness. It occurred to her then, that he might be impaired in
some way, after such a severe illness. So, with an effort, she rose
boldly from the chair, and facing him, said:
"Yes, it is I, Sid--Mr. Wyeth." She was compelled, by the thumping of
her heart, to hesitate for a moment, and then she continued, more
calmly: "I have made bold to come here during your illness,
and--and--take charge of your work. I hope," she was now faltering,
while he was regarding her without understanding, from the expression he
wore. And--oh! She saw it now. He was regarding her with disfavor. A
frown played about his lips that appeared drawn and thin, while his eyes
gradually changed until they were openly hostile--contempt almost could
be read. She turned her eyes away.
This was her reward. She choked. Her brain became a whirl for a moment.
She had tried to help him, and had succeeded. She had thought of it in
that way; she now strangely realized that she had not expected any
thanks--indeed, she had never thought of anything but to make the
business a success. And, she was positive, that she had not expected any
reward.
She was saying something. She was not fully aware what it was, and her
head hung down, while her eyes sought the floor, instead of his face
with the hostile expression.
"I hope you--won't--won't be angry!" With a great effort, during which
she felt he was regarding her in the same critical manner, although she
was careful not to glance into his face, she explained briefly what had
transpired during his absence. "And so," she concluded, "here is
everything drawn down to date," and with that, she suddenly caught up
her light coat, drew her turban hat over her head, and went toward the
door.
As she did so, she was aware that he had turned and was looking after
her. She paused when she reached the door, and thought of his illness.
He might take sick again. She saw his eyes now for a brief moment, and
they were upon her. She could not read them altogether, but it seemed as
if the hostility was gone, and a look that bordered on appeal had taken
its place. Her gaze lingered kindly, and then she said:
"You are ill--have been. Please be careful." And, in spite of the effort
it cost her to say it, she added: "I will come again tomorrow," and was
gone.
All that night she tossed and tumbled in her little bed in Tunis. And
when morning came, she dropped off to sleep. Mrs. Jacques called her,
and then came to the room and knocked at the door. Presently, she
ventured to open it slightly. Mildred was snoring peacefully.
"She's tired, poor thing. Very tired." She looked at her again. Her face
was upturned and her throat was exposed. A beautiful brown throat. She
crossed the room easily to where she lay, gazed down at her for a
moment, and became conscious again of that same feeling that had been
haunting her since she knew her. She stopped presently, and drew the
lace night dress down a bit. The next moment she recoiled in fright.
"At last, oh God! At last I have found her! My sister!" The other
stirred. Light shown brightly through the window, for it was
seven-thirty, and the sun was climbing. But Mildred Latham was tired,
and was snoring again in calm repose. The other bent over her. She kept
from putting her arms about her with much effort, and then kissed her
lips fondly.
She stood a few feet away, and regarded her with a heavenly feeling, and
then, drawing the blind until the room was fully dark, she left her.
CHAPTER TEN
_Vellun Parish--Jefferson Bernard_
Sidney Wyeth sat for a long time at his desk after he had looked through
the statement before him. He could not for some time understand how it
had all come about. He had been carried from the office unconscious ten
weeks before, and during that time, or when he had come back into his
senses after many weeks, he had concluded that his effort, which had not
gone very far, was doomed to die, and had resigned himself to the
inevitable. Now before him was a statement, which showed that more than
a thousand dollars was finding its way to the office each week, in
excess of the cost of the books. More than five thousand dollars was to
his credit in a local bank. What miracle had been wrought to make such a
profit in so short a time--or any time at all? It had taken him two
years to reach a fourth edition of this book, while now the copies
before him stated ninth edition. How had it all happened?
There was but one answer, and that was, Mildred Latham.
He lived over again the years of the past. He saw her as he had met her
on that first day. He recalled her patience and appreciation, while he
explained to her the contents of the book, and the order she had given.
He remembered the dance and the kiss, with a strange pang of the heart.
In all his days, no kiss had seemed like that. And the look in her eyes
afterward. Was that love? Surely that was life. If God, our Creator,
made that possible, then life was worth the effort. He became so
absorbed in his reflections, that he started when he recalled his last
visit.
After that it was different. But for that--but he had worried himself
sick, and had succeeded in forgetting it and her until the day he took
sick. He was too weak and torn by the illness to think about the matter,
while he lay on his back in the hospital. But when convalescence had set
in, he had thought of it almost constantly. Try as he would, he had been
unable to understand how it all happened. He pondered over it until he
entered the office an hour ago, and now it was all plain.
"Who is this girl?" he asked himself. "What is she?" he demanded. "She
has always puzzled me." But, at the end of it all, the old hag on the
steps, with the words she had spoken, rose again before him, and he
forgot--he felt he was compelled to forget, all the rest.
He got up, after a time, and walked about the office. He felt tired, and
in view of her success, and of the circumstances surrounding it, he
would go somewhere and rest, until he had thought it all out. But of one
thing he was certain, and that was he must never see her again. He could
love her; he could do anything within his power for her--he was only too
glad to; but he felt he could never forget the few words he had heard a
long time ago.
So he wrote a letter to the effect that he had gone away, but he did not
state where.
* * * * *
"Oh, I have overslept myself dreadfully," cried Mildred, entering the
kitchen where the other worked away in silence.
"I started to awaken you, and you were resting so quietly, that I
desisted," Mrs. Jacques replied, regarding her with a fond glance that
the other did not understand.
"I must hurry, for, of all mornings, this is the very one I would not
have been late for anything," and she hurried through her breakfast and
was turning to go, when the other came up, threw her arms about her
impulsively, and kissed her long and lingeringly upon the lips. Mildred
returned the embrace, but she did not understand the expression in the
eyes of the other, as she took her leave.
She arrived at the office, and was surprised to find only Katherine
working away on the books.
"Has--ah, any one been here?" she inquired, after waiting to hear
something from the lips of the other.
"No, ma'am, no one," said the other, looking up in surprise for a
moment.
"Very well," said Mildred, seating herself at her desk. As she did so,
her eyes fell upon an envelope with her name written across it, and
marked personal. She broke the seal nervously. Calming herself, she
straightened out the folded sheet, and read it carefully.
_Miss Mildred Latham_,
_My Dear Madam_:
It is impossible to state how much you have done for the sale of
the book during my illness. I do not hesitate to say, that in view
of the fact that I have struggled over a period of two years, with
only a small measure of success, as compared to that which has come
about since you have looked after it, that it is beyond me. I
cannot, however, conscientiously accept it in the way you have
offered it according to your statement. So I have, therefore, made
over to you the sum total that you placed in the bank to my credit.
I am leaving the city for parts unknown, and may not return for a
long time--and possibly not at all.
Regretting that I cannot thank you more amply, but hoping you will
accept what is no more than due you, I am,
Very sincerely yours,
SIDNEY WYETH.
She laid the letter down and gazed into space for a long time, not
trying to understand anything. He had gone, and left her. He had given
her all she had earned, and the privilege of earning more, but he had
gone. Would he ever return?... She was sorry now that she didn't tell
him all when it had been convenient; and still, in the next thought, she
was glad she hadn't.
She was not excited, but went about the work without any outward sign
that she had been the recipient of anything unusual; but all the day
through, she was thinking of what had just passed. She could not recall
what she had expected, or that she had expected anything; but of one
thing she was more conscious than ever before, and that was that she
loved him with all her soul.
So she decided to allow matters to drift along and made no change.
* * * * *
Wyeth stood before the window of the city ticket office of a small
railroad. He was attracted by a parish which appeared rather remote, but
where a lake was advertised as a nice place to fish. He made up his mind
to go there. It was a half day's journey by rail, and a train left in
two hours. He returned to his room, and an hour later his trunk was at
the depot. He passed near the building, and from where he paused, he
caught a sight of her sitting at the desk where she had sat the night
before.
He could go to her now, and say what had been on his lips more than a
year before. He gazed at her for a long time, and was conscious of a
longing. He had loved her--oh, so very much. Indeed, she was everything
he had desired. Then he thought of the hag and what she had said, and
went his way to the depot.
* * * * *
Vellun Parish is perhaps the most remote part of the state. It lies
toward the southwest, and is bounded on one side by the Gulf of Mexico.
Its land is all swamp, while no part of it is more than ten feet above
the level of the sea. The most of it is under perhaps a foot of water.
Upon the dry portion a few people live. They make no effort to raise
crops further than a garden, but depend mostly upon fishing, and upon
tourists for their living. One railroad pulls through the mighty swamps
about it, and has a small station located on this dry spot. It is many
miles to another station. Almost everybody leaves the place in summer,
for mosquitoes hold sway, while sickness and swamp fever are prevalent.
It was high noon at this resort, and from down the track could be heard
the whistle of a small locomotive--for the trestles would not hold up
large, heavy ones, Presently, with a ringing of bells, it came to a stop
before the station, and two people got off, other than members of the
train crew. One from the rear, and the other from the front of the Jim
Crow car.
The latter was Sidney Wyeth, and in his hands he carried a fishing
outfit and other matter, together with a suit case. Before the station
loafed a few of the inhabitants, including an old man whose age was
perhaps sixty. He regarded Wyeth strangely, but returned the nod
curteously, when the other had spoken.
"Have any idea where I can find lodging about here?" he inquired. It was
at the end of the winter season, and those who live the summer months
through, had resigned themselves to the heat and mosquitoes. The old man
surveyed Wyeth a moment critically before replying.
"Well, I dunno exactly," said he at last, and Wyeth was startled at his
command of language, for in those parts few spoke English, and when they
did it was bad. Creole was customary. The old man looked about a moment
before continuing, but presently he said. "I live alone over beyond that
clump of trees," and he pointed to a grove that Wyeth saw plainly, "and
if you are alone, you might go along and look it over, and if satisfied,
why we might make a deal."
"That's fair enough," agreed Wyeth. "I'm alone, and may be here a month,
a week, or it may be three months, I can't say."
"Very well then, follow me."
He took part of the luggage, and they went across one of the few cleared
spots of the parish. Finally they came to a neat log house behind a
paling fence, before which a dog barked viciously. "Don, Don, hush the
noise," the old man said. "He won't bite, but he is fond of barking."
The dog now rolled on his back at Wyeth's feet, and they soon became
friends. Sidney patted his head and then rolled him over, much to the
dog's delight.
"Well, well, Governor!" cried Wyeth enthusiastically, when they were
inside, "but you're all fixed here, I must say."
"Yes," said the other, slowly and modestly, "I guess it'll do for an old
relic like me," and he laughed humorously. Wyeth regarded him a moment,
and then, for the first time told him his name.
"And mine is Jefferson Bernard."
"Well, Mr. Bernard, I have always taken pride in the fact that I am at
home in the open," and he gazed out the window across the cleared spot,
and into the forest that surrounded the house.
"Glad to hear that," cried the other. "I was under the impression that
you were one of the fly butlers who come here with their people."
"No, I'm a sort of globe trotter, you might say. In fact, at the present
I have no plans whatever for the future, so I might bunk with you here a
few months. Depends on how my mind is at the end of each day."
"Restless, eh?"
"That's it. Have spent eleven years on the prairies of Dakota, and very
often, the 'Call of the Wild' gets into my veins, and I want to get out
where I cannot see any one, and sort of--well, forget the strenuous ways
of life for a while."
Both laughed agreeably.
"Well," said Jefferson Bernard. "I bunk here alone and do my own cooking
of course, and hunt and fish and read and sleep whenever I get ready."
Wyeth wondered at this man. About the wall everything was clean, while
the clothes the other wore were a forest suit of brown cloth, with lace
boots and a belt; his hat was a broad brimmed Stetson. They were all the
best of material, and the man's appearance was anything else but the
back-woods Negro. He started to inquire who he was, but something about
the other did not invite familiarity, so he talked on other topics
instead.
He had been there two weeks, and had been over all the part of the
parish that was accessible, when one of the periodic rainy spells set
in. For days they were unable to get outside without getting wet, and at
times they told a great deal about themselves.
"And that reminds me," said Bernard, "that you spoke of Cincinnati and
that you came south from there, a bit over a year ago. I, then, left
there after you did."
"Indeed," said Wyeth in surprise.
"Yes, I have been down here a little over a year only. I was reared in
this same parish many years ago, and, since then, I always had a longing
to come back and stay again until I got tired of it." He made himself
comfortable as he drew away on a long pipe; while Wyeth, observing him,
waited for the story he had to tell.
"Yes, I used to live in Cincinnati--in fact, I guess that is what I
might call home, if not this."
"This is news to me," said Wyeth.
The other smiled languidly, and went on:
"I used to live on Walnut Hill, and was employed by Stephen Myer, a
wealthy retired merchant, who not only was well-to-do in Cinci', but
owned a number of interests in the south, in fact, he came to Cincinnati
from the south not so long before, and never went back again, for he
died.
"I was his valet for years. Got acquainted with him right here in this
parish one winter, when he was staying at the hotel over there, and it
was the second winter when he hired me and took me north with him.
"Stephen Myer was a good man at heart, but a sport until he died, and
certainly believed in a good time with the women. He loved his family,
but he would run around, which recalls his death whenever I think of it.
"He came back from the south about three years ago I think, and it was
not long until I knew he was keeping a girl he had brought with him. I
paid the matter no attention, because he always had somebody before; but
strange to say, after that he had no other. It was kept very quiet and I
knew nothing of it,--that is, from him, until the night he died. That
took place while we were at a hotel in Detroit. His death was due to
heart failure, but it didn't take him as it does most of its victims. He
was conscious that he was going to die, although he was, to all
appearances, well.
"It was then he told me the story.
"Calling me to his bedside, this is what he said. I do not think I shall
ever forget it, because it was such an awful death. 'Jeff,' said he.
'I'm going to die.' I looked at him, saying: 'Oh, you're frightened;'
but he shook his head in such a way that I became frightened, and
waited. 'Yes, Jeff,' he resumed: 'I'm goin' to die, and Jeff, I'm going
to hell,' I tried to soothe him, but he only frowned slightly, and went
on. 'Yes, Jeff, I'm going to die and go to hell, because I deserve to go
there. I deserve to go there, Jeff, because I have sinned. Yes, Jeff,
I've committed an awful sin, and it's no more than my due to burn in
hell in payment. I never believed much in such a place until not long
ago, when I brought that girl to Cincinnati.' He breathed deeply and
with some effort, and it was then I could see he wore a strange
expression, and now, as I look back at it, I guess that meant death. He
went on again, after a breathing spell:
"'Bring me that box over there Jeff, that one with the key in the lock.
I want to leave that one whom I have wronged something before I'm done
for.' I brought it to him, and he unlocked it, and took therefrom a lot
of papers, and a certified check for twenty-five thousand dollars, all
made out, and to be turned over to her through due recognition, as
attested by his lawyers in Cincinnati. 'Hadn't I better wire for your
family?' I inquired of him; but he waived it aside, and said he didn't
want them to know until it was over.
"'Now, Jeff,' he went on, 'you are to take this envelope to my attorney
and see that you get their receipt of it, after which, when you get back
to Cincinnati, you take this box as it is to her. I trust you, Jeff, and
believe that you will attend to it. And, too, I've left you well cared
for; but that is in the will, in due form. And now, if you'll just give
me a drink of water, I'll tell you the story.
"'My company had their southern office in Attalia, and we had quite a
bit of business with the financial department of one of the big
denominations of Negro churches. And that was how we came to become
involved in this deal. The financial secretary of the church very often
gave us his note in payment, and soon became well known to me, and I
liked him. Pretty soon, however, it came to me that he aspired to be a
bishop; although the office he held was a good graft, and we knew it,
altho' the niggers didn't. But he became crazy to be a bishop and a real
big Negro, proper.
"'About this time, it came to my attention that something crooked,
something underhanded was going on in the affairs of the church. Well,
one of the boys who worked as porter, was reading a Negro paper one day,
and I observed that this financial secretary's picture covered the whole
front page. I took the paper, and when I had read all the stuff he had
written under another's name, I began to figure what it was costing him
to become a bishop. Other extravagances came under my observation, and,
since the business we had with them was becoming involved, I began an
investigation regarding the preacher. It developed that he had been
married twice--that is, the present wife was his second. The first one
had died and left him two daughters. My investigation, which came
through a Negro detective by the name of Dejoie, although he was known
during the investigation as Edwards, developed that he was a despot. His
youngest daughter by his first wife realized this, and she threw it into
his face, and left when she was thirteen, going to a place in Michigan
where she educated herself. The other was a girl with much sense, but
somewhat subservient to the old man, regardless of the fact that she
possessed a mind of her own. Apparently it had been the old man's
practice to have them regard him as the great I am. She stayed with her
father, who lived with his second wife, and to that union were born
several children, I don't know how many.
"'Edwards uncovered all this and some more. He revealed the fact that
this preacher, who was so anxious to become a bishop, was not only
seeking it by extravagant methods, but had employed the church's funds
to the amount of more than five thousand dollars. And still, all those
pig headed niggers knew nothing of it. It's a great wonder they have
anything, they seem to know so little. My company was up against it for
what was due us; but that was not the end of it. On top of this, what
did that sinner do but write my name on a note for five thousand
dollars, and, through his standing with the bank, got the money and
covered the shortage before those niggers ever knew there was any!
Wasn't that the limit? He was elected bishop, and became the big nigger
his great ambition had aspired to.
"'I was too put out to do anything at once, although the note came due
before I was aware it had been given.
"'The night I discovered it, was one when I happened to be in my office
alone. I decided forthwith to place it in the hands of the law. It was
then that this daughter came to the office with a note from him, asking
for an appointment. I have an idea he was only then aware that the note
was due or past due. She caught me as mad as a hornet, and I told her
the whole thing. I shall not soon forget the expression on her face when
I had told her. She looked like she would die right there. It was then,
too, I saw how beautiful she was and so well formed. Suddenly a proposal
entered my head. I have always been impulsive, but I have never been
known to back up. So I got up and stood before her, and said my say. She
was terribly indignant and would have fled, but I stood between her and
the door. I became mad to have that girl. She fought me, but I grew
worse. I finally said to her: "Come with me to Cincinnati, and save your
rotten, sinning preacher father from the chain gang. A home it is up
there with plenty of everything, or fifteen years for your now bishop
father on the worst chain gang in the world." She regarded me wildly, as
the substance of it became clear to her. "Oh, I mean it," I cried. "I'm
going to send that dad of yours to the chain gang tomorrow--and you know
what that means." I think all the horror of it rose before her in that
moment. All the Negroes, spiteful, envious creatures crying: "Aw, you're
a big nigger, huh. Your daddy's a bishop!" And the next day: "Um-um!
What do you think of it! A big bishop done fo'ged a note!" And she had
seen the chain gang. All those stripes and chains frightened her. She
looked up at me with an appeal in her eyes that frightened me--even
then; but I was too wild to have her at that moment, to give heed. And
then she begged me to have mercy. She cried and beseeched--she did
everything, and then--in the end--well, I'll not soon forget those
appeals. "I'm a nice girl. Can you not appreciate what that means? I
will--to save my father and those little ones; but before God: Hear him,
please, see him. I may be yours in body, but never in soul; while--oh,
can't you see what you ask? Can you not see that you take everything I
have lived for? Don't you see, that when you rob a woman of her purity
you have destroyed her womanhood?" She fell on her face and sobbed
until, as I see it now, I can't imagine how I could have acted so.
"'And that is why, Jeff, I'm going to hell. Yes, to hell!' He was going
now, his eyes had a far away, an unearthly expression; but before he was
gone, he said--and his voice seemed to come from another world as I held
him. 'I'm going, Jeff, I'm going. Satan's waiting for me. And, say,
Jeff,' his voice now came in gasps, and sounded as if from eternity: 'I
don't mind it so much, no I don't, Jeff; but the only thing, and the
last request of God, is to be sure to send that old preacher down to
meet me sometime.' With that his muscles relaxed, a spasm contracted his
form, and he lay dead."
The two were silent now. Outside a bird hopped about, and finally lit on
the window sill, peering in as if to inquire the cause of the silence.
After a long time, it seemed, Wyeth spoke.
"Strange. And did--you--ah--fulfill the request?"
"Yes," said the other slowly. "I did at once, and let me tell you, my
friend, I will never forget that girl's face. Oh, I've seen many; but
this girl's face told the story, and her story was that of a pure girl,
a good girl, who had made a sublime sacrifice. Was that sacrifice worth
the cost?" Again silence reigned supreme, each with his thoughts.
The birds outside made sweet music, as they flitted happily about.
Sidney Wyeth was speaking again, and his voice was from a distance, as
he said quietly:
"What became of her?"
"What became of her? Oh yes," cried the other, sitting up and shaking
off his distraction, as though he had been awakened from sleep. "Why,
she left soon after. Came south, and when I was on the way down here, I
chanced to stop over in a town--I won't mention the name--because she
was there. Was selling a book, so I understood, but was staying with the
pastor of the Presbyterian church, and high in their favor. I was glad
to see it and never let on; but there was a skunk aboard the same train
from Cincinnati, and who stayed there. I've often thought about it
since, and I hope that devil never knew her and made trouble. She was a
good girl, and still may be saved if things go along right."
"Life is full of mysteries," Wyeth commented.
"Sure is," his companion replied, and then became dreary, as his mind
wandered sadly, solemnly, back into the past. Suddenly he sat bolt
upright, saying: "I trust you, and for that reason, since I have told it
to you, I have a small picture that I found in the old man's effects,
and considered it good policy to remove. So I have kept it, and I'm
going to show it to you."
While the other fished away in an old trunk, a strange thought came to
Sidney Wyeth, and he recalled singularly, the effort for the Y.M.C.A. in
that town up the river, and how twenty-five thousand dollars from a
source that no one could explain, was paid at almost the last minute....
He was doing some thinking and had forgotten all about the other, who
had closed the trunk now, and came before him with a small picture. He
sat up quickly when the other touched him, and held before his gaze the
picture of Mildred Latham.
And in that moment there came a vision of a dark, dreary night, when he
hurried through the streets of Cincinnati, and came to a place where an
old woman sat, an evil hag; and who regarded him with malicious
eyes--eyes that appeared to hate everyone--and the words in reply to his
request, came back with a shock: "_Gwan! She's with her man!_"
Sidney continued to gaze at the picture. There was profound silence, for
neither spoke. One was not in the mood to do so, the other could not. He
raised his hand mechanically to his head, as though to rid his mind of
some obstruction. He tried to think coherently, but his senses were
confused.
He turned, staggered slightly, groping as if blindly, for support, and
passed on out into the open, and under God's pure heavens--anywhere away
from the stifling air inside, and its hideous secret.
Sidney stood outside now, and the spring sun beat upon his bare head,
as, with his trembling hand he shaded his eyes, and looked in the
direction of the creole city. Back there he would go--he had to go! He
couldn't say why--feel why--now. For, in the tangle of his confused
thoughts, nothing seemed clear. But, he would go back. His hand sought
his forehead again. Yes, he would go back.
* * * * *
Let us go back to a night when the heroine of our story got up from a
drunken stupor, to find that the hour of fate--fate for the Y.M.C.A. was
at hand. She had rushed breathlessly to the office of the Western Union,
and had secured the money that had been transferred, at her request,
from the Cincinnati bank some days before. She had known when Wilson
Jacobs returned unsuccessful in his attempt, that some expedient was
necessary.
When she realized a year before, that she was heiress to such a sum of
money, she had worried as to what she would do with it. Her conscience
would never let her touch a penny of it for personal use. It had been
left on deposit, and, insofar as her daily life had been concerned, she
had about forgotten it, until the climax of Wilson Jacobs' great effort
had stood like a spectre before her.
For a time she had hesitated, feeling that such money should not be used
for Christian purposes.... But, when she had awakened on that dreadful
night, she came at once to appreciate how, through her and her alone,
this effort should be realized.
So, she rushed pell mell through the streets that led to Wilson Jacobs'
home. As she hurried along, visions of the great need passed fitfully
through her mind. She recalled all the crime she had witnessed;
thousands yearly herded on the gangs, torn mothers, prostituted sisters,
homes broken up by that demon of liquor. She could see the condition
which forced so many of her people to the belief that colored people
could never be anything, regardless as to how much they might try.
Race prejudice, that demon of American society, had succeeded in
convincing so many of these weak people that there was no future; that
the only resort was to get all the excitement out of life that was
possible. How they conducted themselves to secure such a life, was the
one great detriment to the race, to the city, to the state, and in the
end, to the United States.
As she rushed along, she could hear these poor creatures, and the words
they uttered, when approached with offers for their salvation; for, in
addition to the discouragement caused by race prejudice, there was
another feature that was worse still--class prejudice. The folly of it.
The effect was more damnable, she knew, than all the other causes, for,
through it these poor creatures were made to feel that they were
actually bad; bad beyond redemption, which made them unfit for the
civilized world. Under this they fretted. They grew likewise to hate,
and in the end, to become not only a disgrace to the race, community and
state, but even enemies to society.
She recalled once a man, a mulatto and obviously a pervert, who answered
a street preacher. She could never seem to forget his words.
"You say," he had said, "that I should get religion. _and I say, what's
the use_? I'm a _nigger_, and that means I'm a vagabond, a cast-off, a
thing to be hated, condemned and persecuted. You speak of brotherly love
and the reward hereafter. I laugh when you make such assertions. _Heaven
for a Negro?_ Why, do you suppose that even Satan would care for him? As
to brotherly love, why don't you go to the white man that keeps my
sister? Why don't you tell that man what you preach about? I am
illegitimate. My youngest sister, the white man's mistress, is too, and
so are all the rest! Then you speak of heaven and reward in the
hereafter for Negroes. The hereafter is the chain gang, where my
illegitimate brother is serving twenty years for murder. As for me, I'm
going to a blind tiger and get a drink. I'm going to get drunk. The idea
that a Negro can be anything is a joke. There may be a heaven for white
people, but for a Negro, oh, you fool!"
As all this and other instances passed through her mind, Mildred became
much excited. Then, as the reality dawned upon her, a picture of what
that money could do became clear to her, and with Wilson Jacobs as its
secretary, she presently came to feel that her sacrifice might be a
blessing in disguise.
On and on she hurried, until at last she came to the house. She paused
at the gate, and caught her breath. Her thoughts were busy for a moment,
as she tried to formulate a plan to deliver the money without being
caught. She struggled nervously, with first one plan and then another,
and then at last she boldly entered the gate and walked up to the front
door. As she reached to push the bell, she looked through the glass
door. Wilson sat nodding in the study. His position, she saw, was such
that he could see the clock, and watch the fatal moments pass. It was
then past eleven. She could see the clock and realized what those
moments meant. He had, as she observed him, fallen asleep from sheer
fatigue. As she watched him, there came to her mind a bold idea, and she
put it into effect at once. She tried the door, fearing it might be
locked, but was relieved when it opened with a turn of the knob.
She entered the house on tip-toe, passed through the hall to the study,
which was to one side, entered the room in which he sat, and, with
breath held, nerves tense, she cautiously crossed to where he sat. She
slowly drew her breath, when she saw he was sleeping peacefully. She
placed the package containing the price of her virtue upon the table.
She looked at him again, and caught her breath in fear, as he moved
slightly, but did not fully awaken.
The next moment she stole her way to the door, like a thief in the
night, and was outside. She turned, as she heard a sound, and saw
Constance, weary, tired, and apparently nervally exhausted, come from
the rear and enter the study. She dared stand and watch her, as she
entered the study where her brother sat, now fully awake, but oblivious
to the presence of the package. He was watching the clock that was
ticking away.
With a catch of her breath, she saw that Constance had discovered the
package, and she saw them open it with curiosity. She noted the look of
intense joy, as their eyes beheld the contents.
As she was leaving, these words floated out to her in the stillness of
night, "_Go, brother, in God's name, go!_"
No one, so far as we know, guessed where the much needed money came
from. But, strangely enough, the giving had relieved the giver. After
she left the Jacobs' home, she felt as she had never felt before, and
took life and what it brought very calmly. As she passed along, she
looked with silent relief into the faces of those of her race, who were
persecuted on one hand by fear of the superior white, and, on the other,
by cast. At times she had regarded them as so many dogs, lurking, hungry
dogs, who wait until darkness sets in, before lurking in the alleys and
searching garbage cans, expecting to be kicked or be killed upon
discovery, if, for no other reason, simply to give vent to a hatred.
They felt, as she saw it, that it was the lot of the Negro to be hated.
They got no kindness; they expected none; they even scoffed when it was
offered, regarding it as some subtle means of inviting them to a worse
fate, and this was what discrimination and prejudice had brought them
to.
There still remained the dispensation. No person in all the world, she
felt, was so fitted for the task as Wilson Jacobs. Care of the building,
after its completion, would itself be a problem. Then there was that
distrust to dispell. Too often, she knew, that arrogance on the part of
the leaders of these institutions, had a tendency to keep away from
their doors the very class whom they sought to attract. Unfortunately,
the Negroes themselves realized that those conditions were true.
Wilson Jacobs was not such a character. She felt relieved as she
realized this. When she thought again of her people, she appreciated
what in time this genuine Christianity of his would mean to them, when
they came to know him for the kind man he was. Her race was emotional,
superstitious, but withal, patriotic and enthusiastic. Nothing,
regardless of all she had seen, could make her think otherwise. And what
could be the attitude of her race, her brothers, when they realized the
efforts made in their behalf? Will they say:
"You want to help me? You _really_ want to be a brother, and take me
into that place and help me to lead a good, clean life? And I doubted
you! I scorned your offer and cursed you and all society. Oh, merciful
God, but I knew not what I did! And you say, that I am not bad, that I
never was bad? That I was merely weak--weak as other human beings were?
Can all this be true? I can hardly realize it. I have _never_ known
kindness. I have always been told that life held no future for me, a
Negro; that by the will of our Creator, I was born to be hated, hunted
and abused, a creature of no destiny, a thing to be spat upon and made a
slave of, a creature without morals. You say that all this was wrong,
and that I can be not only a good person, but an example for the good of
others? That I am, after all, only the victim of circumstances?"
Wilson Jacobs would convince them, and, when this was done, her reward
would come.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"_Mildred, I've Come Back_"
It seemed a long way back to the city, as though he would never get
there, and the train crept slowly along through the mighty swamps. But
all the way, his mind was busy. Thought after thought came and went, but
only one became fixed. "I love her," he cried, again and again. "I love
her!" he exclaimed feverishly. "Nothing else matters--nothing else _can_
matter, now!"
He was going to her, just as fast as the slow train would carry him, and
when he arrived--beyond those conflicting moments, he got no further.
He lay back in his seat after a spell, and calmed himself to a degree
that he could see it all clearly. He wanted to see her now; he wanted to
look deep into the eyes that he was sure must be tired; he wanted to see
behind those mirrors, and to do his share to relieve the turmoil within.
After a time, his return to the office after his illness, recurred to
him. He had found a letter from the publisher, and upon opening it, he
had found it to contain a draft for a large sum of money. He didn't know
then who had sold the book with so much success to him, and he had
wondered. Strange, but it had not occurred to him then, that it was she.
But now, it was all clear--everything.
"And it was Mildred all the while!" he exclaimed in a controlled voice,
despite the excitement it gave him. "How could I have misunderstood so
long!" And then the instance of the five thousand dollars came back to
him, and the sale of his work as he had left it. True, he had given this
all over to her; but the fact to be reckoned with was that she had
succeeded where he had not.... She had done this without any thought of
herself.... No girl with so much ability, with such constructive
thoughts, would have done as she had for others, unless inspired by some
divine sacrifice.
It was all clear to him now. And then the other.... In all his life,
virtue in women had been his highest regard. During the months he spent
in the south, he had seen immorality of a nature that was revolting to
his finer senses. It had been the custom since the landing of Negroes in
this country, and was in evidence every where, in the many colors that
made up his people; but, in spite of this, his high regard for the
virtuous woman remained the same. So, when the words of the hag came
back to him, amid all the good things he was thinking of her, for a
time, all was swept from him in a wave of revolt.... How could he be
blind henceforth to that?
He became weak and listless for a time. To pass on through the city; to
catch one of the ocean goers that he was often interested in observing
at the harbor, and go to Argentina, Brazil--anywhere and forget it all;
and then there came to him the thought of his people. All that he had
lived through when he saw the leaders with their selfishness, the
neglect of their Christian duty; how he had written of that selfishness,
fearlessly with jaws set and soul on fire; and of the reign of
excitement that followed--it was impossible to further contemplate other
plans.
And, amid all the chaos, there came to him thoughts of the success of
the Christian forward movement in the town up the river. With success
there, in the worst of two towns in the world, it was now an almost
foregone conclusion, that shortly, the spirit would prevail successfully
in other towns. Yes, it would have to. The public, for its own welfare,
would soon come to appreciate what such a movement meant to two-fifths
of its population. And how came this to be? Would the people of that
town up the river, now have a beautiful building in course of
construction, if it had been left to them to supply that fatal
twenty-five thousand? "Great God!" he murmured, "how can I, _how can
I_!"
And, as the train continued on its way over innumerable trestles with
lagoons and marshes everywhere, it occurred to him, that the one who
had made all this possible, and who, at the price of purity, which was a
woman's all, was now, and for the sake of it, homeless and
friendless.... Even that family, that bishop father, surrounded by
thousands of hero worshippers, with his picture decorating the walls of
thousands of homes, and pointed to by day, would scorn her. The
thousands of young men, respectable, but poor, and who, for this girl's
sacrifice, were given a great chance to conduct their future lives along
Christian lines, even they would scorn her. All decent and respecting
society would scorn her. _They would have to scorn her._ He himself _had
already scorned her_.
He allowed his gaze to wander beyond the waters of a lagoon; until it
rested upon a clump of trees that rose ragged in the background. He was
too torn with anguish to think for a time. What price had been put upon
virtue, for his people--and her people--was too great to estimate. But
behind it all, was a homeless, friendless, loveless little girl,
drifting about in the world. For Mildred Latham as he saw her again, was
a mere girl, not yet twenty-two. She had a heart, but what kind of a
heart must she have, after the suffering she had endured? Yet she was a
human being, with a human desire after all.
What he had seen in her eyes in Cincinnati; that pain, and at times that
wild, elfinlike, mad desire.... And, oh, that caress, that one kiss that
seemed to have penetrated her very soul; the look she had given him;
that weak protest, afterward united in its pathetic appeal for mercy....
She had been his dream; his mad desire. He had declared then, that he
would help to dispell that worry; he had felt himself courageous enough
to do so, too; but now before him was the test, and he was weakening
under it.
Back in the _Rosebud Country_, he had lived alone for years, and during
those long days, his greatest desire, his greatest hope, had been to
love, to have that love returned by his ideal of womanhood. He dismissed
what had followed. The other had not even courage enough to accept
graciously what he had worked for. Any woman can, to a degree, mould
the future of her husband. No man, he knew, could be oblivious to the
condition of his household, and that which made it. That part of his
life, however, had long since been a closed chapter. His great effort
had been to forget it, and he had succeeded to such a degree, that he
was able to concentrate his mind on other things; but now, it was
different. Because, with the exception of the one thing, Mildred Latham
was more than his picture, his ideal. But that one thing was the silent
barrier.
It was springtime now, and back in the _Rosebud Country_ all must be
busy. He thought of the years, and how busy he was at this time. And
hopeful; because, whether the season proved successful or not,
springtime, when the crops were planted, was always a hopeful time;
every farmer believed, as he planted his seed, that the season would be
successful. And now he was not there to plant the crops. He had not been
there the year before; but, as he continued to recall the past, he knew
that it had never occurred to him that he would have been anywhere else
but there. He wanted to be there; but financially, he couldn't afford to
be there any more.
After an interminable spell of mental depression, something came to his
mind. It entered slowly, but at last took shape. He whispered after a
time: "Yes, yes, I could. With that amount I could start all over
again.... And out there, no one would know, no one would need to
know.... Just being there with the right to continue as I once was; but
with a terrible experience to remind me of what it is all worth--it
would not be the same now."
He saw her now differently. That other side was passing. It would come
back--it would keep coming back; but it was his duty; it was his
future--it was his very life to crush it as often as it came up; but
that was not the half of it: Mildred Latham was homeless, and friendless
as we know. After what she had done for so many others, was it not
Christianlike to think of her?...
And now he had another thought. Yes, back in the _Rosebud Country_ it
would be possible for two people to be happy; people who had no other
hope, no other ambition, but to follow the pursuit of happiness and
labor....
As it became clearer, he realized that he had never cared for
conventionality. That other experience had thrust it upon him, and when
he showed his dislike for it, he had been tortured. It would be
different--now. Mildred Latham would not care for any thing but himself,
and that which would make him happy.... And he, his experience had been
too real and too bitter, not to appreciate what kindness, sincerity, and
courage in one's convictions, means in future happiness.
The train stood in the station now, and all the other passengers had
left the cars. He came out of his revery with a start; and, hastily
collecting his luggage, he rushed forth, and caught a car that took him
within a block of his office. He deposited his grips in a cafe he knew,
and, a few minutes later, he stood in the doorway.
It was late in the afternoon, and nearly everyone in the building had
left for home; but she was there. Curiously, he had felt that she would
be there. With the amount of business he had seen she had created, he
was certain that he would find her, and he did.
She sat at the desk, as she had the afternoon he had returned from the
hospital. She was working away, and he saw her before she noticed him.
When she did, she gave a start, opened her mouth, and then, as if she
thought of something, closed it slowly, fumbled her pen, but said
nothing.
He paused briefly and observed her, and as he did so, took note of the
fact that she had lowered her head. And he knew. It was in shame.
Strangely now, since she knew that he was aware of at least a part of
the past, she could not endure to have him look at her. But, in these
moments, Sidney Wyeth was not observing her in scorn, as her colored
cheeks gave evidence.
Mildred sat still and waited. She expected to be scorned; she had come
to a place in life, where she expected anything. He might rebuke her,
and she would say nothing; but intuitively, she had never felt _he_
would rebuke her. As she sat with drooped head, he saw one tear drop
unchecked upon her lap. No others followed; but he knew the time had
come to go to this girl. She had endured a hard lot. Not one person in a
thousand, would have gone through what she had, but human endurance,
wrestling with all life's vicissitudes, has a limit. How much it cost,
that one tear, he could not fully estimate; but, if he knew life, if
some one didn't come to Mildred Latham's rescue soon, she might become
anything. Not far from where she sat, a thousand or more women were
burning their souls in hell. And all those women were there--not by
preference; but because they were simply human beings and weak.
He approached, and a moment later stood near her, while her finger toyed
with the pen. She had, as he noticed now, grown stouter since he knew
her in Cincinnati. Her hair covered her head, and was beautiful to his
eyes, while her skin appeared somewhat darker. He paused as one at a
loss how to begin, because he had so much he then wished to say.
Presently he found his voice, and his excitement was controlled as he
spoke her name:
"Mildred," said he. She heard him, but did not reply. So he repeated:
"Mildred, I've come back." He paused again, and the room was silent. She
did not answer him, and he did not expect her to. Presently he said it
over again. "Yes, I've come back.... I was away. I was off in one of the
parishes, one of the most remote, for, when I left, I wanted to be away,
away from everybody.... But it happened out there, that I met a man,
Mildred. I met a man ... and he told me a story, a long story.... What
he told me, concerned something--something I will not tell, and somebody
I will not mention, but what he told me, cleared the horizon.... And
that's why I came back. On the way I faltered, I weakened for a time. I
thought once of not stopping. I started to go on and on and on, maybe
never stop. But when I thought again, and again, and kept on thinking, I
couldn't. I couldn't, because, well, after all, I wanted to stop.
"So I stopped, Mildred, and then, I came here. Here--and to you.... I
have come back, Mildred, and to you. Are you glad I've come back,
Mildred?" He paused and listened, though he did not expect her to
answer.
She remained as she was, and silent.
"On the way back, I thought of you, of nothing else, no one else but
you. My thoughts went back to our acquaintance in Cincinnati, and the
day we danced and I--I--kissed you, Mildred." He paused again, and gazed
out over the rows of buildings below. "And then I realized what has been
wrong with me ever since, and all my life.... It was because I have been
hungry. I have been starving to death these many years for love,
Mildred, love and understanding.... I am still hungry, and thirsty; but
at last a hope has come to me. A hope that it will not long continue as
it has these many years. But withal, I have thought of something else
too. And that is, I want to go home. I want to go home to stay. I don't
like it here; I don't like it anywhere, but in the _Rosebud Country_."
"The _Rosebud Country_?" she echoed, sitting erect and turning slightly.
"Yes, Mildred, The _Rosebud Country_." He paused again, and the ticking
of his watch was quite audible to both. "Yes," he said presently, and
after a time, in which he seemed to be engaged in deep thought, he
resumed, "and I was going to say that I have decided to go back." He
moved and stood beside her. The sinking sun now played a last evening
ray across her face, and in turning from it, she happened to look up and
into his face. He saw her now as he had never seen her before. Something
she saw caused her to catch her breath and venture another look. His
eyes appeared to see something far away, and she continued to stare at
him.
"Yes, Mildred," he started again, and now his voice became low and
strange. She understood, and knew that he was living in the past,
oblivious to her presence. She listened with a strange rapture. "I've
decided to go back to that land beyond the Big Muddy. Back to that
little reservation, the name of which I love. But Mildred, it depends."
He halted and looked down into her face. Their eyes met now, and both
seemed hypnotized for they continued to stare at each other, becoming
more enraptured. "It depends," said he, very slowly, "_upon you_." She
looked away, but he reached and caught her hand. He backed up until he
reached the desk, upon which he seated himself. He looked at her now
pleadingly. She gave one glance, and caught the same look she had seen
but once before, more than a year before, and before he knew. He pulled
her gently from the chair, and placed her beside him on the desk.
"It depends _upon you_ Mildred!" And still she said nothing.
"Out there, Mildred, I longed for you. Yes, it was you, you! These many
years I waited for you. At last I have found you. Oh, I have found you,
the _one Woman_. And now," he said this in a strong voice, "I'm through.
I'm through, and ready to go back, if you will go with me. Do you hear?
I mean, that I love you Mildred. Love you with all the passion of a
hungry heart." He paused again.
"And you have had a hard time, little girl, oh you've had a hard time. I
_know_. But it's all over now, dear. Yes, it's all over now. There is no
society that we are under obligation to; there are no pretentious
persons to make us false to our convictions; there is nothing but
impulse to direct us."
"Oh, Sidney," he heard her say with a slight tremble. His arm stole
about her waist, and she did not remove it. She looked up into his eyes
and saw him with trust. "And you'll go?" he said and waited.
"Do you mean it Sidney? Oh, Sidney, _do you mean it_?" Her voice now was
low, strained, strangely wistful, and then, as if suddenly remembering
something she had apparently forgotten, her eyes took on an expression
of mute appeal, like that of a hunted animal. Her form became tense,
while a spasm of agony contracted her features as she moaned:
"_No, No, No I can not. Oh, I will not!_" And before he could quite
understand her sudden rebellion, she rushed from the room and into the
hall, and soon her rapid footsteps died away in the distance.
He stood as she had left him, not comprehending that she had gone. "Am I
awake?" he whispered dreamily putting his hands together, and gazing at
them stupidly, as if to assure himself they were his own, "She has gone?
Gone, gone! Mildred--but--why?" He felt sadly weak, for the strain was
beginning to tell upon him.
In a half stupor, he finally found a seat in the office chair, and
mechanically let his gaze wander out over the city. After a time, it
rested upon a street that led down to the wide thoroughfare. His eye
soon caught sight of a figure hurrying along the walk. He leaned forward
and observed it carefully, and when it reached another street, he made
out that it was Mildred. He watched her as she crossed quickly to the
center where a car was moving, and boarded it. In a moment it had
disappeared down the street.
CHAPTER TWELVE
_The Slave Market_
Days passed and still he waited, still he watched, and still he
listened, but in vain. And always he moved about distractedly. He had no
plans, he had no hopes now, but was simply moving in a circle. At times
he would utter stupidly, "Where is she? Where is Mildred?" And after
that he would become silent; he would be thinking--yes, always thinking.
He ransacked the office; he made inquiries to ascertain where she
stayed--but in vain. He knew not how to look for her; he knew not where
to begin. But the work in the office--the result of her
ability--continued to increase. Mail was brought four times a day, and
in each, letters from far and near would contain money orders, express
checks, cheerful letters, and still orders for more books. But they gave
him no cheer, notwithstanding he mechanically went about the work, with
the system he saw she had created.
And as the days went by, he grew more anxious, more worried in regard to
her fate, and he grew determined to find her, if he could.
"Poor little girl. Poor little Mildred. Why has she done all this? And
she is alone somewhere--always alone--and I know not where."
There came a day when he felt he could stand it no longer.
He took a walk; he knew not where it led to. Possibly it led nowhere.
Yet he felt he must walk, not in the direction he was accustomed to go
(to the river, where he had wandered many a night, and observed the
mighty ocean liners, receiving and discharging their cargoes; or where,
on the deck of packets, he listened to steam calliopes), but in a
direction he had never gone before.
It was in one of the creole city's narrow ways, where he presently found
himself. Sidney strolled along, oblivious to all whereabouts, and found
that this part of the city was much unlike any part he had known.
He felt as one in a strange land, to be sure. On all sides he was
greeted by little low houses, opening into the narrow streets. Peculiar
people moved about and spoke in a tongue he could not understand, but he
knew it was creole. They were quieter than those in the neighborhood he
lived, and he understood. They were all Catholics, he had been told, and
"obeyed" the priest. He was glad of it. He wished all his race would
obey something other than their animal instincts.
He paused at last before a statue in a small square. Four rows of
buildings faced it on that many sides. Only one side confronted him,
however, and to this he finally went. He stopped before a large church,
a cathedral, and read that it had been built almost two hundred years
before. Next to the church, was the museum. Curious, and for a time
forgetting his troubles, he wandered in. He went up a winding stairway
to the second floor. As he passed upward, great oil paintings greeted
him. All old, this he saw; for, under many were inscriptions, showing
that many had been painted more than a hundred years ago. While he had
never studied this art, he readily appreciated that many were wonderful.
Elegant ladies gazed at him from the frames, their eyes following him
strangely out of sight; for, no matter where he stood, whether in front
or from either side, they seemed to scrutinize him.
He passed into the museum and began to examine, through the glass cases,
relics of another day. That the city was old was shown by the age of
papers and documents of numerous mention. Pictures of fond old mammies,
gray and white-haired old uncles, grand dames (such as Dixie had seen),
caught his attention everywhere.
An old, old man, scion of a decayed aristocracy, sat in a chair within
this art room, and Sidney approached him. "Have you," said he, "any
record of the sale of slaves, in this museum?" The other pointed to a
room Wyeth had not observed, but spoke no word.
Wyeth wandered into it, and his gaze immediately encountered what he was
curious to see.
"Know all men by these presents:
"Being the last will and testament of Joan Becuare.
"To my wife and life companion, I do bequeath to thee, all I have after
death. To-wit:
"One thousand acres of land in Caddo Parish, unencumbered.
"One hundred niggers, of various ages and the following description:
"One mammy, age eighty. A better wench never lived. Name: Diana.
"One 'uncle', eighty-seven, beloved servant of his master, and faithful
ever. Name: Joe.
"One wench, twenty-two, robust, healthy, a good servant of the house.
Name: Martha."
And so on the description ran, which seemed strange and unnecessary in a
will; then he recalled the sentiment of the southerner.
In still another case, he read a sale bill, written in long hand with an
artistic flourish:
"Having sold my plantation, I will hereby sell to the highest bidder, at
public auction, the following named property, to-wit:
"One nigger wench, sixteen years, hail and hearty, promises to be a good
breeder, and is now with child by Ditto, a young nigger, strong as a
lion, healthy and a good worker. Not 'sassy'.
"One nigger wench, twenty-three, name, Mandy. This is the most
attractive wench in Gretna Parish. She is expecting a third child soon."
Wyeth wondered why the father was not mentioned. And then he thought of
something, and knew.... His own father was the son of a master.
He read other such documents, and then observed that almost all sales
were recorded to be held at the "slave" market. After an hour or more,
he passed out.
He went up a street, which was narrow--like all those in the old
section of the city, and walked on, whither he had no idea. Not far
away, he could see the river and many great vessels moving up and down.
Just ahead of him, appeared an odd, long, two-story building. The first
glance revealed that, once upon a time, it had been a grand affair.
"Wonder what it was?" he muttered idly.
And now he came up to it, and paused near one end. He viewed it many
minutes curiously from across the street, but he could not make out what
it had been. As he saw it now, it was evident that it had been empty for
many, many years.
Presently, he crossed to where a door greeted him, only to find, when he
had come to it, that it was bolted from the inside, while the heavy iron
knob was rusted until it was hardly recognizable. He glanced up, and,
straining his eyes, he read an inscription over the door:
ST. LOUIS--ROYAL HOTEL
SLAVE MARKET
"So this is the place," he whispered, observing everything before him
now with a new interest. "Herein were sold, in the days of old,
hundreds--aye, thousands of _my_ people." He passed to the street upon
which the hotel faced for a block, and walked down this, observing the
decaying structure with greater curiosity. The entire building was,
apparently, empty. A porch, supported by massive iron pillars, reached
over the walk, the entire length of the building. The large windows of
the second story were without glass, and gaped darkly, seeming to tell a
story which he would like to have known. The lower floor had evidently
been given over to business purposes, judging from the wide windows that
now were boarded over with two-inch planks. All this was decorated with
stage announcements.
When he reached the other end, there was an opening; the door was to one
side, and, more curious now than ever, he paused, and gazed into the
dark interior. Soon he passed within. The place seemed almost as dark
as a dungeon at first, and he stood for a minute, until he had become
accustomed to it. He passed into the interior, and finally came into a
room that was perfectly round. "An arch chamber, or what?" he
conjectured. Out of the gloom a block arose. Something about it
attracted him, and he crossed to where it was fitted into the wall. At
one side he now read, "Sheriff's desk." On the other side he read,
"Clerk." And now he looked at the block, and knew that it was on this
_his_ people had been sold--at auction. He closed his eyes for a time,
and allowed his thoughts--his imagination--to go back into the past,
when rich planters, grand ladies, and harsh overseers once held sway.
And before him rose a picture.
"Hear me," the auctioneer, "I now offer the best nigger that ever held a
plow. A good, strong rascal, that is worth:--How much am I offered to
start him? How much am I offered to start him? Five hundred! Who is
insane, or jokes? Five hundred for a nigger like this? Nonsense! Now,
here, come forward, and feel this nigger's muscles, examine his teeth,
strike his breast." And, to emphasize his good, robust property, he
struck the slave a resounding lick across the breast, that would have
knocked over half the people before him. Wyeth could seem to see the
man, the black man, merely smile at all the faces about him.
"And now I am going to offer you something that will arouse you. Bring
forward the wench, the pretty young wench."
A young mulatto Negress now stood before the crowd. A stirring, a
collecting near the front, a crowding about the block; some almost
getting upon it, in their excitement. A murmur went the rounds, and
words could be heard. "I'd like to own her!" There was a consulting of
bank books, a figuring of credit, and then the auctioneers voice was
heard again.
"Look at 'er, look at 'er! Ha! A fine one, eh? Yes, a fine one.... Look
at her form.... Look at her face! Here, bright eyes, hold up, hold up,
and let the boys see what I have got.... What am I bid?"
"$1000."
"Say! The man that made that bid ought to be hung! A thousand dollars
for a wench like this? Why, by all the pious gods, she is worth that for
a year...."
"$1500."
"$2000."
"$2500."
"$3000."
"Ah, sir," said someone, and Wyeth came back to the present, to look
down upon and old, white-haired woman, who was standing, observing him
from the doorway. He bowed apologetically, got down, and went toward
her.
"I have charge of the building," said she, speaking in a little strained
voice. "Would you not like to view the interior?"
"I should like to, I am sure," he replied.
He followed her back to the door through which he had entered, and up a
flight of winding, iron stairs to the next floor. Even these, he saw,
had once been most magnificent. His guide offered no comment, but caught
her breath in gasps as she ascended. When the landing had been reached,
both paused for breath, while Wyeth's attention was immediately caught
by the decaying grandeur, that was evident all about him. "Wonderful,"
he said at last, in a low, respectful voice, and as though he feared to
disturb some of those grand persons that once had frequented it.
"Wonderful, you say?" echoed the woman, and regarded him out of small,
sharp eyes.
"Magnificent."
"And, be you a stranger in the city?" she now asked.
"Yes."
"And from where do you come?"
"The great northwest. Dakota."
"Ah, Dakota--m-m. That is far, far away?"
"Yes; far, far away."
"I have never been there. I have never been anywhere, but have always
lived here in Bienville Parish. I was born here, a creole."
They now walked down the wide hall, and where he gazed into the
deserted rooms on either side, all of which revealed a once great
splendor.
"Here," she said, "is a room that once played a conspicuous part in the
old south." She led him then into a large room, much larger than any
other in the building. It was a round room, and he could see that it had
been made to be used for convention purposes. She was explaining.
"It was once used as a temporary capitol, and later as a rendezvous for
secessionists. And still later, after the war, Sheridan made a raid, and
arrested many conspirators."
"I suppose," said Sidney, "that this place has seen many grand
occasions?"
"Ah, indeed it has. All the aristocrats of the southland always stopped
here, as well as counts and dukes and lords and great ladies, and still
from South America and Mexico the best people stopped here."
They passed out of the room, across the hallway, and entered another
room that was furnished. "I live here," said the woman, to his surprise.
"Here--alone?"
She nodded. "Yes, alone for many years."
He understood now, and, running his hands into his pockets, he pulled
forth a half dollar, and handed it to her. She accepted it with many
thanks, and gave him then, some pictures and relics.
"I suppose you have many visitors--tourists?" he inquired, starting
toward the door.
"Well, no, I do not," she said, somewhat regretfully. "The people do not
seem to wander down into this section. They do not appear curious for
relics, as they used to be."
"That's too bad--for you," he said kindly.
"It is, since I am old, and have no other way of getting my living," and
she sighed.
"How old are you?"
"Eighty-nine."
"And you have no--no children?" he asked now, with curious interest.
"None. And that--and that, perhaps, is why I'm like I am today...."
Wyeth listened kindly, patiently. The other appeared sad and
reminiscent.
"No, I shall never seem to get over it, either. I am the last of a
family that came here from France, many, many years ago--two hundred, to
be exact. For many years, we were the richest family in Bienville
Parish, and perhaps almost as rich as any other in the state. We owned
land, and slaves, until we could hardly count them. Of course, the war
meant--you can understand what we lost with the freedom of the blacks.
But after that, we were still immensely rich. But, somehow, a curse
seemed to come over the family. No boy babies were born to any. The
girls became subject to consumption, until all had died but myself. Then
I married. My husband was Spanish and French, very affectionate, and was
good to me, and we were hopeful and happy--until I bore him no
offspring. He grew crabbed, nervous and impatient.
"Before long, I came to see that he was intimate elsewhere. He began to
drink, to gamble, and to carouse. He stayed out until all hours of the
night, and then he got so he would not come home at all. For days I
would not see him, and then for weeks." She paused long enough now to
wipe a tear. "I began to fear for him, for, I recalled that his
ancestors had come to abrupt ends, and I worried. Because I could bear
him no children, I gave him freely of the fortune that was left to me.
He ran through with his, and then with mine." She was weeping quietly
now, and he felt inclined to comfort her, but did not know how.
After a time she was calm again. She took a seat by the window, and
gazed with a tired expression out into the street, while he waited.
"Well," she resumed, "they brought him home one day, dead, and I have
been alone since."
"Too bad," said Wyeth, and shifted about, listening for more, for,
carefully observant, he saw that she was not through.
"One day, there came a woman, an attractive colored woman, with large
eyes and the most beautiful hair and skin and form I had ever, I think,
seen. She led a little boy by the hand, and when he looked up at me, I
screamed. I knew then, and didn't have to be told, that he was my
husband's son.
"Strangely, I was happy. To know that my good husband--for he had been
good in the beginning--had left his name, somewhat cheered me, and we
agreed to educate and give him a chance.
"We placed him later, at my expense, in a good school, and he grew to be
a handsome, bright-eyed young man. I watched him, however, with a slight
fear--for I remembered. But he made a man of himself, a successful man,
and with the last few thousands I could gather, I helped to start him in
business, and in due time he had made a name that was an envy. He became
the owner of much of the best property in the city, land in the northern
part of the state, and, in the end, married one of the wealthiest and
most attractive girls in the town." She paused again, and Wyeth listened
without a word. Something remained yet to be told....
The woman was speaking again.
"Yes, he grew to success and happiness--and then, well, something
happened."
"Something happened?" Wyeth echoed.
"Yes. Something happened." She was silent now, and gazed again out of
the window.
"Heredity."
"Heredity?" And still he did not understand. He could not be patient
longer. "Who was this man--that is, ah--what was his name. I don't think
I ever heard of him--a colored man?"
She looked straight at him now, without a change of expression, and
answered: "He was not colored!"
"Not colored?"
"I should have said," she corrected, "that he didn't go as colored....
He _passed_ for white."
"Oh...."
"But that was not it--heredity."
Wyeth said nothing.
"He ran around. He took up drink--and then he wanted--colored women."
After this, both were silent for a long time; but Wyeth was thinking. He
was hearing over again what he had heard before--many times. "_Colored
women!_" In Dixie, he felt that if he could keep his ears deaf to
hearing of white men--and those who "passed" for white--wanting--and
having--colored women, he could, he possibly might like the country; but
everywhere he had heard this. The woman broke the silence.
"This city is possessed with that desire. Have you observed
it--everywhere you might chance to look, you will see it?"
He sighed. She looked at him again, and then became silent.
Across the way, a large, municipal building rose far above St.
Louis--Royal Hotel--Slave Market. Through the window from where they
sat, busy clerks worked away over books. When their eyes glanced to the
street, it was broken with automobiles, and busy people hurrying to and
fro.
"I have a visitor," he heard the woman say. "She is a sweet, kind, but
sad sort of girl. She has been to see me several times of late, and I
have been talking religion with her. In all my days, no human being has
interested me as she has. I love her. And while I can't object, I regret
to feel in some way that she is going to enter the convent, and become a
sister."
"Are you a Catholic?"
"All French are Catholic," she answered.
"Then you perforce sanction this intention of your girl friend?"
"Yes, I do; but, oh, how much I shall miss her!"
"Will she enter soon?"
"Very soon!"
"Have you known her long?"
"A few months; but it seems I have known her all my life."
"Is she--what is she, colored or white?" he asked.
"Colored."
"Indeed. Her name?"
"I have it; but I forget. I call her always Little Sister. I have her
picture and will let you see it. She had it taken a few days ago, out
there on that grass plot," and she pointed to the yard of the municipal
building. She was a few minutes finding the picture, and then Wyeth was
overcome by a strange feeling, with regard to what he had heard. A girl
... sad ... going to enter a convent.... Who was this girl? Who, who,
who?
"Here is her picture," said the woman.
He took it, and saw Mildred smiling up at him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"_Restitution_"
"I had to," cried Mildred bewilderingly, as she hurried, hatless,
breathless, along the walk, when she left her lover so abruptly. She was
distracted; she was not fully aware of what she said. All she knew was,
that at the most supreme moment of her existence, she had broken away
from the one she loved, and for whom she would have been willing to die;
but to marry him at last, she felt she could not conscientiously do.
"Oh, but it was manly, kindly--sublime, his offer, and how I love him
for it!" she whispered. "I know he will forgive me; he will remember me
kindly; he will never forget me, and my love for him--but to go to him
and make him suffer with the thought of the past--never!"
She slowed down, as she neared the wide street, that crossed just ahead
of her. She crossed the walk to the center of the street, where a car
was coming, and caught it. Once inside and seated, she lay back, and
became, for a time, dully listless. Presently, she saw the river just
ahead, and when the car slowed down, she left it, crossed to the ferry,
and went aboard. A half hour later, she was in her room.
Her sister greeted her pleasantly from the garden, which aroused her
emotion to such a degree, that she choked slightly, in order to hold
back words she had long wished to say.
When alone at last in her room, she lay across the bed, and gave up to
the feeling of inertia, that had taken possession of her.
All that day she remained so. She could scarcely collect her wits. Again
and again, the events connected with his return, flew through her dull,
sluggish mind, and, at last, to relieve it, she dressed in a cool, thin
dress, and went for a walk down by the river front.
She passed many docks, where not so many steamers lay at anchor as she
had once noticed. She wondered why, since she had observed the falling
off of traffic. Then she thought about the bloodshed that was going on
each day across the water. She soon came abreast of a wharf where more
than a score of great ocean goers were anchored. No smoke came from
their funnels; no men worked away on their decks; in fact, they were as
silent as the grave, their dark hulls casting a dull shadow above the
water. She wandered down the board platform, and studied them idly. Then
she read, painted on their sterns, names with Bremen and Hamburg as
their port.... Her thoughts again reverted to the carnage across the
waters.
She found the street again, and wandered aimlessly along the sidewalk.
Suddenly she halted and strained her ears, as a sound came to her from
some distance. She listened, and then looked up and across the river,
where the creole city stretched, apparently endless, before her. She
observed in doing so, for the first time, that the river curved in such
a manner as to form a perfect crescent at this point, and, although her
thoughts were confused, she did not fail to appreciate the beauty of it.
Her gaze had found the place from whence came the sound that had halted
her. It was the bell of a church vibrating through the still evening
air. The steeple in which it was mounted, raised far into the air above
the buildings about it, and she watched it with growing reverence. As
she continued to stare at it, it seemed to outline a mighty sepulchre,
and she fell to speculating about it. She was familiar with it, in a
measure, and recalled, as she found herself wandering vaguely along a
few moments later, that she used to pass it each day. It was when _he_
lay ill at the hospital, that it was near. It was called St. Catherine.
She had happily observed that may little colored children went to it
each day, and Sunday. Their training, she had observed, was very
different from the denominations with which she was acquainted. She had
stopped before its steeple the first time, one day toward the close of
Sidney's recovery. The next day she had entered it, and wandered down
its carpeted aisles. She had gone up to the front, before she realized
that any one was in the church. And then a sister came from an alcove,
or from some place, but she could not imagine where.
She had halted embarrassed, but the other smiled upon her so pleasantly,
that her confidence was won in a moment.
Mildred recalled it--the meeting--strangely today. She wondered what the
life of a sister was like. She had guessed what it meant.... She had
almost forgotten the sister, until she went her way this day, when the
lot of those patient souls came to her mind again.
She reached a street presently, where two wide walkways intersected, and
when she reached the center of the intersection, something gripped her
and she stopped quickly, catching her breath. She continued to stand
thus, but with eyes widening, nerves tense, and then she uttered beneath
her breath: "Why not? Yes, why not? Why, why, why?" Then, completely
absorbed in the idea, which had suddenly come to her, offering, as she
felt it now, a solution of her life, she turned on her heel, and
retraced her steps homeward.
And all the way she kept saying to herself: "Why not, why, why?"
She hesitated at the gate, and again there came to her ears from across
the river the chime of the bell on St. Catherine. It echoed softly, and
vibrating, it touched her soul to its depths. She stood at last
transformed. As it continued to float across to her, she seemed to
translate: "Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give
thee rest."
When she entered the house, her head hung, with eyes cast down. She had
decided to become a sister.
* * * * *
There came a day, bright, clear, and slightly breezy; but withal,
invigorating, and she went to visit the old woman who lived alone in
the deserted St. Louis--Royal Hotel. She had no tremors, because it had
been the place where once her people were sold by thousands. She had met
the old woman on one of her frequent pilgrimages alone in the creole
city, and had become strangely fond of her. Mildred had, on more than
one occasion, felt constrained to tell her the story.... So today, she
came quietly upon the old soul sitting by the window, with the light
streaming in upon her faded hair and features.
"You come today, Little Sister. I am always so glad to see you."
Mildred returned the greeting kindly and pleasantly, and sank into the
proffered chair. She had told the other of her intentions, but offered
no reason for her decision. She asked today that the other bless her,
which was done. They sat afterward in mutual silence. Presently,
however, the other broke it.
"A young man was here yesterday, a strange, kind, forgiving sort of
fellow. He aroused me in a way; he brought back, by his presence,
memories, and I don't know why; but I told him my story.... He listened
so patiently, so kindly, and with such sympathy, I do declare, that I
wept."
"A young man? A--"
"A young colored man from away off in the great northwest."
"Sidney, oh, Sidney," Mildred breathed, unheard.
"And do you know, dear Little Sister, I thought of you almost all the
time he listened, and was near me.... I don't know why. I cannot imagine
predestination in a large sense; but in some way I felt he suffered."
She paused, and Mildred swallowed. After a time she said, in a small
voice:
"I guess I'll go now."
The other did not detain her, though she wished she would never leave,
but followed her out of the silent old place down to the street, and
watched her out of sight.
She passed through one of the narrow streets to the banking section of
the city, entered the one where Sidney's money was deposited, which he
had given back to her, and she had it made into a draft. This was mailed
forthwith to him. Then she recrossed the river, and when in her room,
packed all her belongings securely, and then wrote a long letter to her
sister. In this, she told of her life from the day she had left home on
the mission ... omitting why she had done this ... up to the day. She
wrote that she loved a young man, loved him, so that she could not bear
to become his, and feel that she was guilty--unworthy. She closed it,
asking her sister to accept all she left--which was everything, but what
she wore.
She retired, for night had come, and slept so peacefully the night
through, that she was surprised. She dressed before the others arose,
and slipped into the street.
In due time, she stood at the gates of St. Catherine. It was still
early, and the people were not much astir, when again the chimes came to
her ears, a hundred and more feet above her. She listened, and as they
continued to ring, she gradually became transformed. No one came, so she
entered the gate, went around to the side, and took a seat.
Her mind became reflective and reverted to the past, and she found
herself living it over, again and again. But, as she reviewed it, she
seemed to have no regrets; she did not foster the kind of hopes she once
had, and then she arose and found her way again to the front. She
approached the door, and when she tried the knob, found that it was
open. The priest was just leaving through a side door as she entered,
and did not hear her footfall, as she passed lightly down the carpeted
aisle.
She stood before the altar, when she had come to the other end, and
getting down upon her knees, offered a silent little prayer. She
remained there until the flood of emotion--for she found herself
peculiarly emotional today--had passed, and then arose. She gazed at the
emblem of the Christ before her for a moment, and then, turning, she
walked into Sidney Wyeth, who had come upon her, and was waiting while
she was in prayer.
"Mildred," he said, and his voice came low, even, and respectful. "I
know...." This was all he said; but the hungry look in his eyes told all
else....
She halted before him without any undue excitement in her manner, but
her eyes were downcast. She recalled even now, that she had never been
able to return his piercing gaze. She kept her head bent, with her small
hands folded before her, but listened with something akin to a heavenly
rapture. He was speaking again.
"I am not going to infringe upon your liberty by asking you to give up
what is your intention. I've come, Mildred, just to see--to look into
your eyes once more, before you go your way.... That is all I ask. You
will grant me that, won't you, Mildred?" They stood facing each other,
only a few feet apart. He held his hat crushed in his hand, while she
did not release her grip on the cross she held. He watched her, as she
slowly raised her head, as her eyebrows came slowly into view, and then
at last her eyes.... They looked into his now. His looked into hers.
Slowly, they spoke--both pairs of eyes. No words passed their lips, but
each could seem to hear a soul within crying: "_Restitution!
Restitution!_"
How long they stood thus, they did not know. But, after a time,
something seemed to break the spell. Perhaps it was the departed souls.
They knew not, were not even aware of what was passing. Still, the eyes
of each, hypnotic, struggling with the fire of incarnation, slowly drew
them nearer. They were at last near each other. Their breaths came in
strange, tender gasps. Their eyes continued to see and regard each other
in that heavenly rapture. And still no word was spoken.
His hands seemed to find hers and the cross. They gathered them and held
them fast, while out of her ethereal eyes he saw a divine glory never to
be forgotten. Then his left arm rose. It slowly encircled her form. They
heard now, each others heart. And then something else seemed to guide
him. His head went down, while his eyes still looked into Mildred's with
that peculiar enchantment. He placed his cheek against hers, with
gentleness and reverence.
When the good father came again into the church, he paused as he watched
a couple pass slowly down the aisle. They were a man and a woman. His
arm rested about the slender shoulders of his companion, with great
tenderness.
So together, they went to that land in the west.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
On page 259 of this original, 1915 publication of The Forged Note, there
is a line of missing text, which appears as a blank line on the page. In
the 1916 reprint (which is available for viewing online at
hathitrust.org) this missing line reads: "... the subject, and which
would serve to substantiate her...." For the convenience of the reader,
the missing line, as printed in the 1916 edition, has been inserted into
this text.
Obvious typos and printer errors have been corrected without comment.
In addition to obvious errors, the following changes were made:
1. Page 165: "wan" was changed to "wane" in the phrase: "...he felt
the interest wane...."
2. Page 255: "here" was changed to "hear" in the phrase "... and
go, dy'e hear...."
With the above exceptions, inconsistencies in the author's spelling,
punctuation, and use of hyphens are retained as in the original
publication.
Unconventional spelling has been retained in words such as (but not
limited to) the following:
Page 243: bisquits
Page 344: surpressed
Page 362: philanthrophist
Page 389: wrapped (instead of rapped)
Page 395: preceeded