A step sounded in the hallway, and a moment later, a key rattled in the lock. Themanwas returning.
"Go Brother! In God's Name, Go!"
"I am truly sorry to see the colored people of this town fail in their effort to secure a Y.M.C.A. for their youth," said the secretary of the white Y.M.C.A., as he rested his elbows for a moment upon the cigar case.
"And they won't get it after all," said a young man whose father had given five hundred dollars to the cause. "They certainly need something of the kind. The crime and condition of the colored people of the southern states, give this section a bad name in the eyes of the enlightened world," he commented, lighting a cigarette and sprawling his legs in front of him, when he had taken a seat.
"I regret it more because that fellow, Wilson Jacobs, the secretary, has been a faithful worker, if there ever was one," the secretary said thoughtfully.
"How did they happen to fall down on it? I understand that the white association has subscribed twenty-five thousand dollars?" inquired another.
"So did a Chicago Jew, and likewise seventeen thousand dollars were subscribed from the city and other places, by the white people; but only ten thousand dollars could be raised among the colored people—or rather, only about five thousand. He secured about the same amount from the white people here and in the north."
"I met that fellow down here one day, and say!" exclaimed another, "he impressed me as much as any person I ever met, I want to tell you!"
"How did they ever come out with the effort over at Grantville?" inquired another.
"They failed," said the secretary, and then added: "The gift from the Jew philanthropist has run for five years, and expires tonight at twelve o'clock." So saying,all eyes sought the clock that hung on the wall above them.
"They have only a few minutes left, according to that," smiled one.
"Say, wouldn't it be a sensation, if that fellow came tearing in here at one minute to twelve," said one, and laughed. The others joined in, but the secretary did not share in the joke, notwithstanding that it was not meant to be depreciating.
"If he should," said the secretary, walking from behind the case, "I am authorized to acknowledge the same, and the colored people would get their association. But, of course, I do not anticipate such miracles tonight."
A moment later, they all filed to another part of the building, where hundreds were gathered to watch the old year out and the new in, and where music soon made them forget the subject they had been discussing.
Twenty minutes of the year was left. In five minutes Wilson Jacobs would call his sister, and together they would watch. But the new year would bring no joy to their hearts. It meant that a great struggle would end in failure. He watched the clock by the minute. It was now eleven forty-one. Nineteen minutes left.
Presently he heard a light footfall. He looked up and saw his sister coming toward him. She looked tired and worn; the strain she had been laboring under was plainly evident in her face.
She came straight to him. What was it that made her regard him as she did. Had she seen, in these last minutes, how much it hurt him to have to pronounce his great effort a failure. She advanced to where he sat, and impulsively bent over and kissed him. As she raised up, both pairs of eyes saw the clock, and both pair of lips murmured:
"Eighteen minutes left." And then his lips said:
"Yes, sister, eighteen minutes left to raise twenty-five thousand dollars for the Y.M.C.A. for our people." He lowered his head, and sighed long and deeply. She placed her hands about his forehead, and let them slip back over his hair.
"My poor brother, my poor brother!" And then, for the first time she observed a package. With womanly curiosity, she inquired:
"What is this, Wilson?" and pointed toward it. He sat up quickly as though he had been asleep.
"That," he replied, blinking. "Why, I don't know. I declare. I didn't know it was there." He was thoroughly awake now, as well as curious.
"Wonder what it is," she said, curiously.
"I don't know," he breathed, turning the package over. "And you are sure you didn't put it there?"
"Oh, no, but I am curious to know what it contains," and she turned it over, while her face lit with a little smile that was carefree. He saw it, and said:
"Why dear, if it will please you, open it as the last thing in the old year."
"Oh, brother, that is so nice of you," and she took the knife he handed her, opened it, and quickly cut the strings. A package was enclosed, tied with paper. She pursued the task of cutting strings, and then, as she unwrapped the paper from about it she mused:
"Oh, I wonder what it can be!" It was open now, and two pairs of eyes opened their widest, while her voice cried:
"Wilson, Wilson! My God! It's money!It's money to save the Y.M.C.A. for our people!" Both now regarded the clock. Fifteen minutes was left to reach the Y.M.C.A. building thirteen blocks away! It was she who spoke:
"Go brother! In God's name, go!"
Had it been any other night but the night of December thirty-first, a man who tore wildly down the middle of the street, bareheaded, and with a woman with hair flowing loosely behind her, the officers on duty would surely have made an arrest. But as it was, they only smiled amusedly, as they remarked a new freak of meeting the new year. How little did any feel or know that upon that wild run, depended one hundred thousand dollars for the salvation of thousands of black youth, until the end of time....
The papers carried the account in large headlines the following morning.
"REVEREND WILSON JACOBS SPRINGS A COUP"Energetic worker and secretary of the Y.M.C.A. for the colored people raised twenty-five thousand dollars, and completed the condition of the association at two minutes of twelve o'clock last night. Two minutes later, more than seventy-five thousand dollars would have been unavailable for the purpose."
"REVEREND WILSON JACOBS SPRINGS A COUP
"Energetic worker and secretary of the Y.M.C.A. for the colored people raised twenty-five thousand dollars, and completed the condition of the association at two minutes of twelve o'clock last night. Two minutes later, more than seventy-five thousand dollars would have been unavailable for the purpose."
In a column and a half, the people of the city and elsewhere read the account of the wonderful victory that meant so much for the colored people of the city, of which the population was two-fifths. It was likewise a victory for the white people, all of whom could appreciate the fact. In securing the same, the city, with the unenviable reputation of being one of the most criminal cities in the world, now took first place in the line for uplift among the colored people, as it would be the only city in the south to have a Y.M.C.A. for its black population.
The fact made thousands of black people buy the blind tigers and drugstores out of whiskey on New Years day.It was their greatest day since freedom!
In Grantville, everybody wondered how they had done it, and in Effingham and Attalia; and then the people of the fortunate city wondered too, after their excitement had cooled and they could think. Wilson Jacobs wondered likewise, and so did Constance. Everybody wondered.
But they never knew.
END OF BOOK THREE
BOOK IV
"'Scriminatin' 'G'inst Nigga's"
"Do you read d' papers?"
"A' co'se I does. Wha' kind-a 'sinuations y're tryin' t' pass on me, nigga?" said one, whose feelings were, at that moment, very much injured.
The heavy train pulled cumbersomely to the summit, and stopped a moment, while the switch engine attached to the rear, was uncoupled. A moment later, it continued on its way.
Miles to the rear and below Effingham it struggled for one brief moment, and then, as a curve in the mountain was being made, it finally disappeared from view.
Sidney Wyeth settled back in his seat in the front end of the Jim Crow car, and, with his feet spread over the seat ahead, prepared himself languidly to enjoy the four hundred odd miles that were before him.
Only half a car, possibly not that much, was given over to the use of the colored passengers. It was as comfortable as the other part of the train, however, so no discrimination was evident. The portion given to them was, of course, next to the baggage car; while far to the rear, as he observed when the train rounded a curve, fully eight or ten cars were more or less filled with white passengers. About half the number were Pullmans.
"Den 'f y' read d' papers, yu autta know 'bout dis 'scrimination dat is a-goin' on up dere in Washington," he overheard between three or four Negroes a few seats to the rear.
"Ah reads th' papers eve' day; but I 'on know wha' you's a-drivin' at," contended another.
"Den you do'n read d' papers den, case all dis accurredup dere las' fall, 'n' dere was a big awgument 'bout it, 'n' all de no'then papers done took sides agi'nst d' president."
"Aw, sho!" cried the second speaker now quickly. "Ah knows what youah talkin' 'bout now, sho thing!" And he nodded his head understandingly. The other observed him nevertheless, dubiously, but was patient while the other enlightened him.
"Yeh; you 'ferrin' t' dat bill dey had up dare about 'scriminatin' ag'inst nigga's. M-m. Yeh. Des 'ere bill was a pretest from—well, somebody up no'th, a'-cose; but it's to make dem stop havin' nigga's eatin' in d' kitchen, dat us it, sho," and he looked about him into the faces of the listeners.
The first speaker, confident at first that he was going to show the other up as not knowing as much as he, looked a trifle disappointed; but he didn't grant the other the benefit of the doubt.
The second speaker went on:
"Yeh, I don read all 'bout dat. Yu see," he explained very ostentatiously, "dare was 'n' editor, a sma't nigga frum Boston who had donebeen t' school 'n' graduated frum college, and knowed ebreting, 'n' 'e 'as a bill down dare t' Washington, 'n' eve' body says t' 'im: 'Why 'on' you take dat bill up 'n' make d' president sign it!' So dis nigga 'e finally git mad 'n' takes it 'roun' to de president's office, 'n' shows it to'im 'n' tole him: 'Sign it!' Now, dy president he look at it, and read it over a little. Then 'e jumped up outer 'is chaeh, 'n' says: 'I won' sign tha' bill!' 'N' dey says 'e got awful mad, 'n' sto'med aroun' fo' 'n' houh.
"So dis Boston nigga 'e got mad den, too, 'n' den 'e got du' president tole. Says 'e: 'I voted fo' yu; 'n' so did a lotta udder crazy nigga's, 'n' now we 'us about t' be drivin outta du race, kase why? So now, I dun come all d' way heah frum Boston wi' dis bill that I wants you t' sign, t' make dese secretaries quit fo'cin' nigga's t' eat in d' kitchen!' Den du president 'e got madder still, 'n' wants t' fight. But they pa'ts 'm, but d' president 'lows: 'I won' sign dat bill, I won' sign it!' 'E stamps 'isfoot den, 'e be so mad. But dis nigga, 'e ain' no southern darkey 'n' 'e stans pat, an 'monstrates dat 'e will sign it, ah dare won' no mo' nigga's t' vote fo' 'im fo' president. Well, du' president 'e is so mad dat he sto'm, 'n' finally says: 'I won' sign dat bill, I won' sign hit! Befo' I'll sign that bill—'n' 'e strikes 'is desk wi' 'is fist—'I'll qui' mah job!'"
"But," said another, who, up to this time, had taken no part in the harrangue, "the president, ah taut, ain' axed t' sign a bill ontell it had been acted on by congress."
The others looked at each other now, in some surprise. Then they observed the speaker, in a manner that was serene with contempt, for his apparent ignorance. (?) Then the second speaker said:
"Aw, dis bill, y' see, 'us a secret. Dey wa'nt but three people knowed 'bout it. 'N' dey was du editor and du president—'n'—," he was thoughtful now, as he meditated for a moment, and then said, "Roosevelt!"
By this time the train had gotten under way, and it thundered on its way southward, down among the scrub pines that stood back from the single track. Croppings of iron, Wyeth observed, reached far to the south of Effingham, while the country, as far as soil was concerned, was a desolate lot of red clay and rock. The train tore through numerous little towns, consisting of a number of shacks, built mostly of plain boards, standing straight up and down, with smaller boards nailed on the cracks. Before some of these shanties played white children, whose appearance showed the life they lived, which was apparently that of poverty; while at some distance, he also observed were other houses, not as respectable as those behind which white children played, and occupied by Negroes. Little patches of cleared land that was scratched over, denoted that agriculture was attempted in even this poor soil. By the slenderness of the dead stalks, he could see that it would take many acres to produce a bale of cotton.
On to the south the train hurried, and as they neared the capital of the state, he observed, with some encouragement, that the soil grew a little deeper; but, at the best,would have been laughed at back in theRosebud Country. And the same sight met his gaze all along. This had once been a proud, aristocratic state; but, he wondered if it became so by the returns of crops from such poor land. Yet he was seeing only a small part of it from the car window.
A cotton gin greeted the traveler at almost every station; while everywhere the scrub pines and rocks were largely in evidence. If all the state was like what he saw from the car window, with the exception of that which lay about the capital for a distance of fifteen or twenty miles, he scarcely wondered that so many Negroes preferred the city, where wages were sufficient to give them something in life.
It was a cold, disagreeable day in the beginning; but, as afternoon wore on, he was cheered to see the elements clear, and the air become warmer.
The highlands were behind them now, and had given place to great trees, while back from the track log houses interspersed the forest here and there. The further south the train pulled, the deeper became the swamp, while the trees towered to heights that could not be fully estimated from the car window. The atmosphere, which had before been dry, was now charged with a peculiar dampness, that seemed to rise from the earth, which melted away from the tracks.
After many miles, in which the afternoon sun barely penetrated the deep forest, the train passed through another pine district. The trees were slender and scattered, while thousands of stumps stood lowly and darkly about. As he looked closer, he saw that among the standing timber, at the base, were little buckets. He made inquiries and was told that this was where turpentine came from. He laughed then at his ignorance. He had forgotten entirely that it was the south which produced the greatest amount of this article.
"And when they have tapped the tree for such a purpose, I suppose it is of no further good but to be cut down?"
"They cut them down at once, and make most ofthem into cord wood," replied the person of whom he asked.
"Now these people," said Wyeth, pointing to the black people, "they attend to the most of it?"
"Yes; the women to the turpentine, and the men to the timber."
The train had now come into a land of swamp. As far as eyes could see, there was a profusion of vines and palm leaves. He wondered if that was where the palm leaf fans came from. If so, the harvest was abundant. For miles and miles the swamp was thick with them, and they appeared to be all of fan size. Water stood a foot deep, while the track rose, perhaps, upwards of four or five feet above it all. The trees were a strange variety to him, while nowhere for miles did it appear possible for anyone to live. The mosquitoes, he judged, must surely find this place a haven when the days were warm; while fever could fairly thrive.
Now the train had left the deeper forests, and was rolling across numerous trestles that stood high above the water. Great lagoons were crossed, where large birds, sea gulls and others not so large, flew about undisturbed. Miles away at last, rose church spires and ship hoists, and he then knew they were approaching a city that was a great seaport.
A half hour later, they stood in the station. He found his way out over the tracks and into the station, where he entered the colored waiting room and lunch counter. They were supposed to stop twenty minutes there; but, before the lunch he had ordered was served, he observed the train pulling out. He tore out and was about to pass through a gate that was open, but was halted by a young white man, who informed him that it was the gate white people passed through.
"But I'm traveling on that train, and it is pulling out," he cried frantically.
"Don't make any difference," said the other coldly. "Enter through the niggers' gate," and pointed to the rear. Wyeth tore down there, but it was closed and locked. He gave up. Aboard the train was his luggage,while he must stand and see it go on without him, simply for the sake of a rule, that Negroes and whites cannot walk through the same gate. He was disgusted over such an occurrence, and stood watching his train disappear. It had gone well toward the end of the yards, when it came to a stop, while the locomotive attached thereto, whistled two or three times. Another man came to the gate, and Wyeth said to him:
"I'm traveling on that train. Can I not pass through this gate and catch it?"
He was permitted to, and breathed a deep drawn sigh. As he passed the fop who kept him back, he gave him a look, and wished they were both in theRosebud Countryat that moment....
A waiter, who had seen him go into the station, had the vestibule of the diner open, and it was through this he entered, as he caught the moving train.
"I knew you would get balled up!" he exclaimed. "I saw your controversy at the gate.... And wasn't surprised, for you see, this is awhite man's country." Thereupon he smiled a hard, dry smile. Wyeth passed forward to the Jim Crow car, and forgot the incident, for it was best so.
They had now come into the greater city, and he got off.
"Where can good accommodations be had here?" he inquired of the porter.
"Want a place to stop?" His face lightened perceptibly. "If you will wait until I get through—say ten or fifteen minutes—I'll carry you to a good place," he said, and Sidney waited.
He sat in the waiting room listening to the noise without. About the four sides of the wall, sat many little girls—that is, girls. They smiled upon him, and made immodest advances. He wondered at it, but then he recalled that this was supposed to be the most profligate town in our states. He paid little attention to them. Others entered, and they smiled upon them also.
Presently the porter appeared, clothing changed, and dressed neatly. Several of the girls gathered about him,and said many foolish things. He smiled upon some of them, while he told others to go to the devil; and still others he told to go to——but we will stop here. And then they told him he could go there, too. They left then, and Wyeth and he walked up a street that was the widest, he felt certain, that he had ever seen.
"Where are you from?" inquired the porter.
Wyeth told him; whereupon the other whistled.
"That's a long way from here. How do you like these parts?"
Wyeth didn't answer the last; but to the first he said: "Yes, a long way," and fell silent.
"Ever been here before?" said the porter.
"Twelve years and more ago."
"See quite a difference now, eh?"
"I was not here long enough to see what there was in the beginning."
They walked up a street that was intersected at various and irregular intervals, by numerous other streets, that were as narrow, if not more so, than the one they were following was wide. In the center of the wide street were four car lines. This part of the street was raised above the other, and was protected by a curbing, that prevented anything with wheels from crossing, only at the intersections. Wyeth remembered this. It was something he had never seen elsewhere, and he wondered who could have conceived the idea of making one street so wide, and then crossing it with others that were so narrow that only one single street car track was possible, and, when passing down it, the wagons on either side had to hug the curbing closely, or be collided with.
"A beautiful place," he commented, pointing to the maze of electric lights that lined the narrow cross streets, and made their way as bright as day—brighter, he came afterwards to see, when it rained.
"This town was settled by French and Spaniards many years ago, and they were very artistic in planning for the future of the city," said the other.
"It is apparent on all sides; I can see that," Wyeth agreed.
"There are some of the most beautiful colored people here you ever saw," said the other.
"There is one now," said Wyeth, as a woman, different from the kind he had been accustomed to, passed by.
"Creole," advised the other.
"And this is their native soil, so I understand," said Wyeth, turning his head to take another look at the woman with the beautiful face.
"There are some," said the porter, "who cannot speak English at all."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Wyeth.
"Yes," went on the other. "Plenty cannot speak a word of English, and they may be found in what is called the French district. It is there you find them with the most beautiful skin, and the finest and heaviest hair you ever saw."
"I hear they have frightful tempers," said Wyeth. "Is it true?"
"I would advise you to avoid any conflict with them, lest you find out," said the other, smiling amusedly.
"What is that?" said Wyeth, pointing to a bar before which stood many men drinking.
"Why, what?" said the other, then replied: "A saloon."
"And they are open on Sunday?" Yet he was not surprised when he had thought, for he had seen the same elsewhere. But the other replied:
"The saloons never close here."
"Never close! What do you mean?" said Wyeth.
"What I say," from the other.
"And still I do not understand you," said Wyeth. And then added: "What time do they open in the morning?"
"They do not close at night; therefore, they do not have to go to the trouble of opening in the morning."
"Uh huh!"
"There are saloons here that boast of having not closed since before the Revolutionary War."
"Good night!" Wyeth laughed. "Something historical down here!"
"You'll learn more when you have been here a while. This is the city of history—American history. We turn here."
And Wyeth came to see for himself. They were crossing the wide street now, and went up another that was as wide, but no cars ran up that way.
"This is Basin court," said the other, as they paused outside of a two-story structure, that opened its doors upon the street.
A big, fat, brown-skinned man appeared presently, and bade them enter.
When they were inside they met another—a woman, and she was fatter still. It was the man's wife, and she appeared to be in charge, from her statements regarding the rental. They were from Alabama, and one glance was sufficient to show they were not creole.
Wyeth bought some beer, and the fat man went for it with a pitcher. He returned with as much for a dime, as would have cost twenty-five cents in Effingham. He said so to the other, and then the others laughed and said:
"This is the city where they drink it. They drink more here than anywhere else in the world." Wyeth recalled a year before—but then these people had seen only a small part of the world, as their conversation later revealed, and, of course—but it didn't matter.
"You genemens goin' to the dance?" said the woman.
"To the dance?" Wyeth repeated. "This is Sunday!"
They smiled at him now—all of them—and then said:
"Sunday is the day of sport in this town. More dances occur on Sunday than any other day."
Wyeth whistled.
"This is the creole city," and they smiled again.
"This gentleman is from a more pious territory," said the porter, appreciatively. He seemed to be very intelligent.
"What kind of work do the genemen follow?" asked the hostess.
"Books," Wyeth replied.
"They don't read much down here," she said, dubiously.
"Some do everywhere—more or less!"
"They are strongly engaged in the art of having a good time here," remarked the porter, and laughed.
"I suppose so," said Wyeth. "And, since practically half of the colored people of the state are illiterate, I am, of course, compelled to agree with you."
They talked on other topics now, and Wyeth, not feeling sleepy, suggested venturing out sight seeing. He went alone, and what he saw, he did not soon forget.
When the door had closed behind him, and his steps died away in the distance, the fat man winked and the woman smiled; then the pair spoke, in the same breath:
"Books—huh! He he! Books—huh! He he!" They regarded the porter with a smile; but he did not, strange to say, share their point of view. But they had their say, nevertheless.
"Books—huh!"
At Last She Didn't Care
Mildred stood in the middle of the room, directly under the electric light that filled the room with its bright rays. She could see the end of the key, as it turned in the lock, and, in that moment, a scheme entered her head, like a flash. Locating the direction of the door, and facing toward it, she reached up suddenly and switched off the light. Instantly the room was ingulfed in darkness. She hurried to the door, and stood just to one side. Presently the knob turned and the man entered. He stood on the threshold a moment, and she heard him say:
"Ah, the little girl is sleeping peacefully," and laughed. "That was a devil of a dose a-whiskey that girl gave her, though! Knocked her stiff! Darned if I don't believe she was handing the straight dope after all." He advanced now toward the middle of the room. Quick as a flash she stepped out, and, seeing he had left the key in the lock, she jerked the door closed, and, turning the key, which she allowed to remain, rushed to the end of the steps, and hurried down as fast as she could safely venture.
It was dark outside, and no one stood about the entrance. She struck the pavement, looked up and down a brief moment, and then hurried in a direction that led to whither she knew not, but to escape was her only thought. She hurried along for fully three blocks, and then turned in another direction, and then one block in another, and paused—feeling safe at last.
Up to this time, she was not conscious that her head was aching to a point that was almost splitting. She placed her hand upon her forehead, and only then was she aware that she had the paper she had picked fromthe dresser, closely clutched in her hand. The words she had seen there, made her at once forget her headache and all else.
She thought of something then. She looked at the watch on her wrist. "Yes, thank God, there is yet time." An hour later she came back to the place where she had stood, and continued in the direction she had been going, looking from right to left for a lodging house.
She stopped at several places where a sign over the front advertised rooms, but, at each one they wanted men only. She had no thought of going back to where she had been stopping the last week; and, besides, she knew not where she was, nor did she know the street or number where she had been stopping, therefore was confident she could not have found it, had she wished to return.
Upon the street, she encountered many people celebrating the event of the coming year, and then she tried a small house that set back in a yard, and which appeared very neat from where she viewed it. She secured a room, and retired at once. Setting the oil lamp on a chair next to the bed, she unfolded the paper and read the article on the front page carefully, over and over again. It was an Effingham paper, and a date of some time before. When she had read it, until she was convinced that she was not dreaming, she sighed restfully as she murmured:
"At last, oh Lord, at last!"
It was the EffinghamAge-Herald, and the issue contained the article by Sidney Wyeth, in which he severely arraigned the leading people of his race in that city for their disregard of the general welfare of their people.
"I'm so glad, so glad," she whispered softly. "And to think that it came to my attention in such an extraordinary manner!" She felt her forehead, and winced when the heat and throb came into contact with the touch. She made a wry face, as she recalled the taste of stale whiskey. Only then did she become aware, that when she had turned at the sound of the piano, someone had filled her glass with liquor. And she had drunk itbefore she realized that it had been doped. She thought of the incident; from the time she had met Miss Jones at the corner, and had been informed of the part of the town she was in. She shuddered and drew the coverlets closely about her, as her mind went over it again. She then tried to recall how she had followed Miss Jones to the place where she had met the men. And there she had drunk for the first time in her life, whiskey, although she was not at the moment aware of it. She rose out of the bed, as the dream came back to her; how the tornado had taken Sidney into the air, and then the story of the hills and the Indians. She pondered for a time, and wondered if such a thing had been the history of theRosebud Country. And Sidney Wyeth had not been caught in a tornado, but had swept a multitude of people with his pen, in a burning article. She read over a part of it again. The very evils he had berated the most fiercely, were the things she had heard Wilson Jacobs deplore, and speak of more than once. Yes, Sidney Wyeth had written the truth. And from the way it was pictured, she reckoned that it must have created a bit of excitement. And that was the kind of man Sidney Wyeth was. She smiled as she thought of it.
"And I love him. Was it because of these principles, that I strangely felt were inherent in him, that he has been my dream, which has grown larger in my estimation, in the months I have had no word of him?" she asked herself. "I am going to him—I am, tomorrow. Of course," she replied to herself in the next sentence, "I am not going directly to him.... He wouldn't quite appreciate that—oh, he wouldn't appreciate me at all; but I love him, and am going where he is, and after that——" she had no other words, nor thoughts. To be where he was, maybe to see him, became the uppermost desire in her mind.
She did not, strangely enough, think any more about the Y.M.C.A. She thought of her lover as, with a peaceful smile, she fell asleep. She did not dream that night, but lay as she had fallen asleep, and it was six o'clock the following morning, the first of January, when she awakened.
She lay a half hour without any thoughts in her mind, and then, observing a window next to the bed, she raised it slightly, and peeped out. It was not yet so very light. It was, apparently, a quiet street, occupied by working people who were now in many numbers on the way to their work. A boy with a bunch of papers under his arm was passing in their midst, and then suddenly she wrapped on the window pane. He looked up, being accustomed to doing so, and, catching sight of her hand, entered the gate and stood under the window with an upraised paper, while she fished out a nickel and dropped it into his hand.
She smiled with an expression of satisfaction, as she read the article relating to the Y.M.C.A. for colored youth of the city, and was glad to note that Wilson Jacobs came in for a great deal of praise. She laid it aside for a time, and was thoughtful again.
"Yes," she whispered to herself, "I will leave the city at once. The one thing I so much desired, and which has kept me here through these weary months, has been obtained." She closed her lips and planned further.
She decided to go to Effingham. She would send an expressman for her things at Mother Jane's that morning. She would then purchase a ticket and go by the first train. She turned to the editorial column of the paper, and was made happy by a lengthy editorial, relating the effort for the Y.M.C.A., and praising Wilson Jacobs further.
She did not know, however, that the editor of the paper that she was reading, and who was one of the most ardent supporters in the Christian forward movement in the south, had been at the Y.M.C.A. the evening before. He had come with the others, out of curiosity, when Wilson Jacobs had torn into the building, bareheaded and looking like an insane man. And he had written the article the first thing in the new year.
She arose and dressed herself at seven o'clock, and slipped out of the house without awakening anyone. It was getting light now, and she went some blocks before she encountered an expressman that satisfied her.She gave him the instructions, and walked about, impatiently, while she waited for him to return. As she was waiting, she became possessed with a desire to see the little house occupied by the Jacobs, and where she had spent so many happy, hopeful months.
She had no trouble finding it, since light had given her an acquaintance with her surroundings. She found that she was not far from it, and then recognized with a start, that the same drayman she had sent for the goods, was the one who had taken the same from the Jacobs' a few months before. He had not recognized her, and she now gave him no further chance to do so.
She walked until the house was in sight, and then, going around a block, she found herself within a half block of it. Smoke was coming from the kitchen chimney, and she knew they were astir.
"Bless them!" she murmured, as she realized how happy must be their hearts that morning. "And that is why they are astir so soon. They do not usually arise until nearly eight o'clock."
As she stood gazing longingly at the house, she saw Constance emerge from the rear, and scatter wheat to a few chickens they had taken a delight in raising the past summer. "If I could only go to her in this minute, and feel her caress for just a moment, I would leave the city the happiest woman in the world." She stopped when she had said this. To realize that she was slipping out of the city like a criminal, without greeting the friends she had there, made her feel peculiarly guilty. She had no enmity in her heart toward anyone—not even the man who haunted her into the position she now assumed, and whose sole purpose had been to satisfy an animal desire. She knew she could not go to Constance, nor to Mother Jane's—nor to anyone. She would leave the city without saying goodbye to a soul. She turned her face away, as she recalled that she had left Cincinnati the same way. She had no friends there, and had avoided making acquaintances. She almost choked with guilty anguish as she asked herself:
"Is it always to be this way? Am I forever to go fromplace to place under cover like a criminal? Am I always to be without friends?" She couldn't make answer. She could have a certain kind of friends; but she shuddered when she realized what kind they would be. She had never told anyone the secret.
She had no desire, strangely, to do so. Only one person among those she loved knew it, she now conjectured. And she would leave to be near him soon. He knew—a part of it ... and he had turned away and had passed out of her life, when he learned it. He would never come back; he would never forget it—and even if, through any possible chance, she proved to him that it was all a very different problem, could he ever forgive her? Perhaps that was what made it harder to bear. She almost believed he would not. In reading his book, she had marked a cold, decided stand, and she felt that, if he had made up his mind against her, which he had apparently done, he was not likely to change.... It depended upon the strength of his resolutions. She could never get beyond a certain point in her dreams. But in spite of that fact, something within her longed to be near him; to see him; not to ask forgiveness—not to do anything; but just to be near him, that was all.
Wilson Jacobs stood on the porch at the front of the house now, smoking a cigar in a way, she could at this distance see, he enjoyed. Yesterday morning he could not have smoked in so much peace; but today, the future was brighter than it had ever been for him; she felt this, and it was true. As he stood looking about him, Wilson Jacobs was happy. He was not happy over his own success—for Wilson Jacobs did not feel that he had made the success—but he was happy from the fact that the young Negro men of that wicked, criminally torn city, would soon be the recipients of a movement that would insure a brighter future, less tinged with degradation and vice.
Presently he turned, as though responding to a call, and entered the house. Mildred surmised that he had been called to breakfast. She turned on her heel, and went back to the expressman's place, and met him returning with the things.
They were all packed. The trunk only required a rope around it, and it was ready for the station. She instructed the expressman to this end, and met him at the depot, where she purchased a ticket for Effingham.
She strolled outside and to a nearby restaurant, where she partook of a hearty breakfast, for she was hungry. She returned to the station, and waited patiently for the arrival of the train from the north, that would take her away from the city where she had been for many months. If it had not fallen to her lot to encounter the man who had known her back in Cincinnati, she could have left the city with friends at the depot, and much more ceremoniously; but she was glad that she was leaving it as it was. When she had awakened the evening before, she had, for a moment, felt that she could not leave it without a terrible pang of conscience.
The train had arrived, and the people were hurrying in that direction. She joined them, and, as she was passing through the gate, she turned for a moment, and looked into the face of the man who had sent her away like this. She regarded him without a tremor of fright. At last she didn't care. A moment later she entered the car.
"They Knew He Had Written the Truth"
"Yes," said the man, "I knew Sidney Wyeth well. He was, in fact, a personal friend of mine; and, let me tell you, Madam, there never was a fellow more interested in the welfare of his people, from a general point of view, than the one you inquire about."
"Indeed!" she echoed, with a pleased smile.
"Yes, Madam, I speak the truth. My name is Jones," he said. "I am the editor of theReporter, and Mr. Wyeth used to drop into the office here quite often, and talk with me about the condition of our people in the south. He was a conscientious fellow, void of pretense, and with a regard for anyone's point of view. Yes, Wyeth was a fellow who insisted upon calling a spade a spade, not a hoe; but there is an element of people here—or was, rather—before the appearance of an arraignment by Wyeth, who had only contempt for anyone's opinion other than their own. Oh, I'll tell you, Miss, you cannot imagine how this has been worrying me for years. I have been conducting this paper for some time, and have struggled to make it a good sheet; but, of course, we cannot collect from advertising and make our paper pay, as we would like to see it." He paused a moment, and then, making himself more comfortable, he fell into a long conversation, in which, with much fervor, he told Mildred Latham, whom he had observed was a careful and appreciative listener, of the conditions Sidney Wyeth had seen and had written about.
"The papers told about the success of Wilson Jacobs in securing a Y.M.C.A. for the town northwest of here, and God knows how glad I am to see that our people in the south are coming to appreciate a Christian forward movement. We have been, in a way, steering in a direction that got us nowhere, and that was the way Wyeth used to discuss it. We have here, and in the town just mentioned, the worst Negroes under the sun, and yet counted as civilized people. And it seems to have been forgotten or overlooked, that our salvation, in a moral sense, as well as in a practical and progressive, depends first upon our own initiative. I cannot account for the selfishness that has so pervaded the lives of our professional people. Last summer, in a lengthy article, a Mr. B.J. Dickson, editor of theAttalia Independent, scored the physicians of that city for a little incident, that in itself showed a mark of narrowness that few would or could be brought to believe."
He then related the article in brief, stating that the color line had been drawn among the colored people themselves, and became very much worked up over the fact that most of the people who had been invited, did not, as a rule, employ Negro doctors for professional purposes.
"I have hinted at the things Mr. Wyeth attacked in his article, and I have, more than once, pointed to the evils in our own society; but no one paid any attention. No, they were too self-opinionated. They could not see their faults in a Negro paper; but, when it was brought to their attention on the front page of one of the most conservative papers conducted by whites in the south, well, then, it appeared altogether different.
"They stewed and deplored, became indignant, and all that; but the truth cannot be played with. With all the noise that followed the publication of the article, conscience became a burden. They knew to the last one, that Sidney Wyeth had written the truth, and nothing but the truth. And, thanks to God, there were enough good people to say, when the demagogues were decrying it, that it was the truth. So now, in this city, where times are hard, and many people are out of work; but with plenty of time to think it over, there is in evidence a decided change, and it is my opinion, that next summer will see this new idea put into effect—at least started."
"So, Mr. Wyeth has located permanently here?" she inquired, after a pause.
"Oh, no," he replied quickly. "I had become so stirred, when I recalled how much life and appreciation that article of his had inspired in the order of existence about here, that I forgot to say that Mr. Wyeth has left the city. In fact, he left the city immediately after the appearance of the article."
She caught her breath, and swallowed with surprise and disappointment. He had left the city. Where had he gone to? She was afraid to inquire. But Jones was speaking again, and saved her the embarrassment of inquiring.
"Yes, he left a day or so afterward. He is not likely to locate in the south. And, moreover, his mission in these parts is not, I am sure, one of locating or hunting a location. He appears to be one seeking the truth about our people." He told her of Wyeth's departure to the creole city, and then, obviously anxious to unload his burden of opinions, to which she listened with patient interest, he continued:
"I am of the opinion that he will write a book on these conditions in the near future. And, if it compares with his article and carries a romance interwoven, it will meet with public appreciation. He always spoke of his home out west with much longing, and I suppose that the atmosphere out there must be of the progressive spirit, which makes a difference when one is forced to tolerate the conditions of sluggishness down here."
"How are the people here on Christian forward work?" she asked.
"They had never thought of such a thing until Wyeth wrote the article, and it was the same in regard to a library and a park. You see, Madam, it has been like this," he explained: "Our people have been in the habit of accepting everything (when it came to uplift) from the white people as a matter of course, never letting it worry them, as far as their own efforts were concerned. Then, again, what few books have been written, with some exceptions (novels especially, and of which ourrace has produced but few) have dealt with the Negro as a poor, persecuted character, deserving everybody's sympathy. In some manner, the authors have been either careful to avoid his more inherent traits, or they were so fired with their subject matter, that they forgot it.
"Yes, Wyeth brought in a couple of books he had sent for, and which were written by the most successful fiction writer our race has known. He read them, and pointed out that only a slight mention was made therein, that the Negro would lie—'excuse the expression'—and steal, get drunk, and fight, and kill and gamble to such an extent, that he would lose his last dollar, and lie out of paying an honest debt.
"Anyone who conscientiously knows the Negro, must certainly be aware of these traits. Why then, should a writer build a work of the imagination, in which he seeks to reveal to the reader the white man's hatred for his black brother, without including in the same statement, that the Negro has inherent traits, which are some of the worst evils good society is called upon to endure? Wyeth judged this was the reason why these books did not sell and the authors ceased to write, since they could not work without a living profit.
"Of course, when we allow ourselves, our thoughts, rather, to dwell upon the white man's prejudice, we will surely become pessimists. Who is not aware of it? But it is the purpose of the practical Negro to forget that condition as much as possible. To allow our minds to dwell upon it, and predict what is likely to happen, is only to prepare ourselves for eternal misery. So far as I believe, it is my opinion that the white man will always hate the Negro. It may be argued that it is un-Christianlike, which is true; but the fact to be reckoned with, and which remains, is that the white man dislikes Negroes. But, when we have our own welfare to consider first and last, it is logical that we turn our energies to a more momentary purpose.
"I read Derwins' first book, a work of sociology, and which met a great sale, and thereby brought him into public notice. Then I read his late one, a novel, inwhich he portrayed the evil of prejudice. Like the other author I refer to, he built his plot entirely upon that, leaving the fact that the Negro possesses the many vices I have mentioned to be understood. Of all races, the Negro is the most original and humorous. Those who know him, even the least, look for some humor. Fancy, then, how people must be disappointed, when they purchase and read a volume concerning that race, and find it void of humor! The work of both these men, like works other than fiction, by Negroes, is couched in the most select words; but the people look for what they know to be current. And when they do not find it, they are likely to lay the book aside, and pick up something that is more to their taste.
"And, with all due regard for the writings of these men, if you read their works carefully, you will discover their own lack of confidence in the race whose cause they champion. I will relate a little incident to show this:
"Follow the romance, and you will find it invariably centered about a white couple. Why have they done this? The answer will be, a moral; but, in my opinion, they could not imagine a Negro character strong enough to weave into the plot, and, therefore, substituted white lovers, because, in their imagination, it was more fitting.
"These men have quit writing, from the fact, that it did not pay; for, it takes a world of thought, concentrated upon a certain purpose, to write a novel. Any man with the ability to put a great thought into words, and to employ words that are select, in the manner these men did in their books, could, at least should be, practical enough to do so in such a manner as to win an audience that would pay sufficiently for their work to maintain them. Instead of that, they have both quit writing. They were sincere, but did the worst possible thing by quitting. For the quitter never gains anything; and, when it comes to championing the cause of a people, the persons who have attempted the same, should certainly adhere to the task." He paused now, as someone knocked at the door.
"Come in," he called.
A woman, neatly dressed and attractive in appearance, and apparently intelligent, entered.
"How do, Mr. Jones," she cried, stretching forth her hand. Mildred rose to go, but Jones waved her back.
"Mrs. Langdon," he said kindly, "I am glad to see you. Be seated." She took a seat. She turned to Mildred, who looked as though she felt she was intruding, and said:
"It is nothing private!"
She drew from her bag a few sheets of paper, and, smoothing them out, she handed them to the editor with: "Here is a little article I have written, in honor of the young lady who is soon to make her appearance here in recital, as you know, and which has been well advertised. I wish to have you publish it in your paper," and then she smiled sweetly and affected much modesty, as she added: "It will not be necessary that you mention the same is written by me."
"But I wish you to have all that is your due, Mrs. Langdon," he protested.
"Oh, very well, then," she said, and rising, with a few more words, she took her leave.
Jones glanced over the page, and then started. "Excuse me just a moment, Miss," he begged, and read the pages which were neatly written and punctuated. When he had finished, he smiled and said, under his breath: "That is certainly nerve."
Mildred regarded him curiously. He looked at her, and handed the manuscript across the desk, saying: "Please read it."
She obeyed, and when she was through, said: "It is a nice eulogy," and then her face showed the wonderment because of his expression of a moment ago.
"Yes," he agreed, "itisnice, but take a glance at this," and forthwith drew from the top of the desk, a pamphlet with the picture of an attractive colored girl thereon.
Mildred observed the picture, and then read the article on the other three pages. When she saw the editor's face again, she understood, but she didn't say,in fact, she didn't know what to say. The editor continued:
"These pamphlets are scattered all over town. Can you imagine a person with her appearance and obvious intelligence doing such a thing? And yet, this office is the recipient of many such instances."
The article had been copied from the three pages of the pamphlet he had handed her, and which were scattered all over the town.
The Woman With the Three Moles
She was now in the creole city. Before her lay the wide street that Sidney Wyeth had followed; but it was lighted by the sun, for she had arrived in the morning, whereas, he had come at night. She traveled with only a handbag to encumber her, and, therefore, did not take a car, but walked leisurely up the broad highway.
The street, she at once observed, was very wide; it was so wide that the buildings appeared very low that lined the sides. She counted the stories of one building, and found that it was not the wide street alone, for the buildings were not high after all, not nearly so high as any of the towns in which she had been. She wondered why they were not; and, of course, it did not occur to her, that the city was built over water that was only a few inches from the surface, and which, in fact, seeped and stood upon the top whenever it could. Keeping the water below the surface, in short, had been this city's problem ever since its location. And it is no wonder, for, if anyone takes notice, the water of the mighty river (that makes it possible as a port and encircles it largely) is very often above the town. At several times in the history of this city's existence, these waters have become so high, that they threatened for days to spill over, and, therefore, submerge all the city in a few minutes. But our story is not concerned with the possible submerging of the town; we are concerned in following Mildred Latham, as she walked curiously up one side of one of its broad highways.
She wondered, as had Sidney Wyeth—and as perhaps anyone else given to observation would wonder—that it should build some streets so wide, and at the same time make others so narrow that they were not adequate foran alley. The buildings, as she saw them, with few exceptions, were old; only a few had, apparently, been erected in the past ten years; while over most of the sidewalks were sheds.
As she continued her indefinite wandering, she observed many curiosities, not to be seen in other cities. "But, of course," she murmured, "this is the creole city, and is known to be much more historical than the rest of our country."
There are not so many colored people encountered on the streets as in other southern towns; although, viewing its last census of five years before, there should be now not less than one hundred thousand of that race within its limits. She saw many, however, and looked at them curiously. Here and there was one that looked like a creole; while most of them, were the usual kind.
Never had she seen so many cars on one street, as she saw on the four tracks that ran down the middle of this one. They were arranged with a curbing to protect, or keep slim-footed mules out of their way, so they had to avoid the pedestrians only. Many police protected at every intersection; but withal, she was nervous as she hurried across, at the beckon of one who wore the bluest uniform, and a white hat—no, it was a helmet.
She had arrived at Basin court, and did not know that she was within a few doors of the man she loved. She gazed about for a time, and then went on her way. She came, presently, abreast of a man—a colored man—and he was neat looking and intelligent. She paused with some constraint, and said:
"Could you advise me, Mister, where I could secure lodging? I am a stranger, and—I do not know where to go."
He looked at her keenly for a moment. Then his eyes glanced away and down a street that intersected. On either side of that street were houses—small houses that made a specialty of a room to the front, and these rooms contained—but we have not come to that. And then he looked at her again.
His eyes wandered back down that other street, andhe thought for a moment. He looked at her again, and then spoke. This girl might be stalling—so many of them did—but still she was intelligent, and that made a difference.
"I could not, Madam, I regret to say, for I do not live on this side. My home is in Tunis, which is across the river. That is why I do not know."
"Oh," she said, and her tone was sorry, "you do not live on this side?"
"No, ma'am. You are a stranger here?" He eyed her keenly again.
"Yes, sir. I have just arrived," and she told him also, that she sold books.
Her tone was pleasant; her words were correct; and she said them in such a way that he forgot his suspicion, and then showed her forthwith much courtesy.
"Indeed," he commented. "I wish I knew a place; but I am not so often on this side, for I am a physician, and my duties keep me mostly over there; but if you had happened to be wishing to stop over there, I could place you." She thought quickly.
Sidney Wyeth was on this side, undoubtedly. She might at any time encounter him. And she didn't know why, since that was what she had hoped for; but she rather feared to encounter him right now. She had no room or place to go, and, as she meditated, she could not see any reason why she should not as soon be on the other side as on this. She liked quietness. So she said:
"I had not decided whether I would stay across the river or here, though, of course, I expected to stay on this side. I would, however, as soon be on the other side, I think."
"In that event, then," said he, "you can accompany me home, for my wife—we are recently married and she is a stranger and would be glad of companionship—has a room, and it is for rent. So, when you have seen it, and in case you are satisfied, you could have it. The charge, I think, furnished, is seven dollars a month."
"That will be nice," she said, and was beside him. "I am sure I shall be satisfied."
"Thank you," said he, "I am going over now, so if you are agreeable, we will catch a ferry forthwith."
They now walked back down the broad highway, at the end of which could be seen the stacks of many steamers. He pointed out, very kindly, sights of interest and explained them.
"Now, here," he said, "is a store. The family who own it are rich, as rich as any in the city, and it is said they are part Negro; though, of course, they do not admit it. The city, you will find, is a historical old place in many instances." And as they walked down the broad highway, he told her a great deal that was so interesting, that it made the distance which had seemed a long way an hour before, appear real short. They went up to the river, and boarded a ferry.
It was a nice ride to the other shore. Once in the middle of the river, which was very wide at this point, the creole city rose and stood outlined in all its splendor. The waters near either shore were decorated with many river steamers, and as many, if not more, ocean liners. Great docks, grim and dark, opened their roller doors along the banks; while the steamers before them swung great loads of freight in their cellars.
"Miss Latham," said the doctor, when they had arrived at the house, "this is my wife, Mrs. Winnie Jacques."
They greeted each other, and murmured many words, and, when the introduction was over, Mrs. Jacques turned and asked Mildred to follow her. As she did so, upon her neck, which rose above the loose kimono she wore, was a mole; to the right of it another. Almost midway between the two, but an inch below, was another. And now Mildred Latham gave a start, then she swallowed hard.Where had she seen the moles before—the three moles? Only one person in the world, she was sure, possessed them. She followed the other to a room, and that night she didn't sleep.
The next morning she kissed the other, before she left, but Mrs. Jacques didn't know why. But she watched her strangely, as she walked toward the ferry.