"'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 thelimit? 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 mentionthe 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, forsupport, 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. Shecould 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 anigger, 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 andenter 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 ofher 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? Youreallywant 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 haveneverknown 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.
"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 elsecanmatter, 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 constructivethoughts, 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 occurredto 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 himselfhad 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 theRosebud 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 womancan, 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 theRosebud Countryall 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 theRosebud Countryit would be possible for two people to be happy; people who had no other hope, no otherambition, 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 felthewould rebuke her. As she sat with drooped head, he saw onetear 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?" Hepaused 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 theRosebud Country."
"TheRosebud Country?" she echoed, sitting erect and turning slightly.
"Yes, Mildred, TheRosebud 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 dependsupon youMildred!" 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, theone 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. Iknow. 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.
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 allthose 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 ofmypeople." 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 asa 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 thishispeople 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 hegazed 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.... Hepassedfor 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.
"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 whenhelay 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 verydifferent 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 oldwoman 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'smoney 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, andrespectful. "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