The Forged Note Part 61

To have heard Wilson Jacobs, or Reverend Castle, would have been a privilege of which she would have been thankful to have availed herself, but fear kept her confined to her room all that day. She felt positive that he would visit all the churches in search of her that day, and other Sundays. So, with this pleasure denied her, she felt more lonely now than she had ever felt before, since coming to the city.

She purchased a book, a new novel, the evening before; so in this she concentrated her mind all that day. It was an unusual story, which made it more interesting. It seemed that, in England, where the plot lay, a postmaster was likely to be removed through subtle influences. To save the position for him, because of her love, his wife, who was all to him, made a sublime sacrifice. It came to his attention, and in doing so, the fact of her past was also revealed. It was a terrible book, to say the least, but between the lines was a moral that the reader was compelled to appreciate. In the end, the man was redeemed to her through the church--the Baptist church.

Two weeks pa.s.sed without event. Her work went along nicely, and she succeeded in delivering to almost all of her holiday customers. It was about this time that she became deeply concerned with regard to the possibility of securing the Y.M.C.A. Wilson Jacobs had not returned, nor had any word come from him, so far as the public knew, as to whether he had met with success. But Mildred entertained grave doubts regarding the matter. If he were succeeding, it was her opinion, that some word would be wired that cheer might fill the hearts of the anxious ones waiting.

She wished she could go to Constance, and comfort her during these anxious days. That desire became so uppermost in her mind and heart, that it was with difficulty she kept herself from rushing madly to the house, and throwing herself to the other's feet. She felt strangely guilty. She had convicted herself in their eyes, by fleeing. It couldn't be changed now. No, she could not go to Constance, as much as she wanted to. And, as she looked into it deeper, she came to realize that she could never go to Constance again.... That was the hardest part of it.

Never to go to her again. Oh, the anguish it gave her when this was regarded as a reality.

"Constance," she prayed on her knees that night. "Constance, will you, can you forgive me; can you forgive Mildred? She loved you and your brother, and it was because she was weak; because she felt that she could never have stood to see both of you know--felt me otherwise than as you knew me. Oh, I have suffered, Constance; I have died a living death. Daily I long for you; I pray in the only way I know how that he, your brother, whom I know to be so strong, and n.o.ble and good, may succeed in this great effort; this effort which these others so much need. Some day, oh, Lord, may it come to pa.s.s--though my mind cannot now see it, I hope to feel that love again."

And then it came to pa.s.s, the next day she met the other upon the streets, He smiled upon her through his ugly teeth, and in soothing words, offered greeting. She pa.s.sed him by, but knew, without looking back, that he followed. She had completed her work for that day. Many copies of _his_ book she had placed in other hands, and that night many eyes would begin an acquaintance with those years in the west. And now, at her heels followed her vendetta. He would follow her to Mother Jane's? And then she trembled. She could never allow Mother Jane to even think she was any other but "her dear daughter." For it was such Mother Jane now called her. Anywhere now--but there.

She increased her steps, made them faster in a direction that led to--she knew not where, nor cared; but anywhere but to Mother Jane's.

Supper would be awaiting her there at six-thirty, as it had waited for her every day these past weeks; but Mother Jane would be disappointed this evening. Mildred Latham would not see Mother Jane at that hour today, and maybe she, Mother Jane, might never see "her daughter"

again....

On she went. Before her, over a hill, came a car. She could not catch that one, but others would come that way soon. Maybe by the time she arrived beside the tracks, another might meet her. She hurried. She never looked back. She was too frightened. But intuition told her that he followed. She wished she knew how far he was in the rear. Maybe if the car came before he arrived, she could elude him. Oh, if it would!

She was trotting now. She was so near the tracks at this time, that they glistened like steel rays in the distance. From a direction, which was not the way the other car had come, she heard another car. It was approaching, and now it flashed into sight.

The sun had disappeared long ago, and the stars stood out like a million diamonds in the skies above. The evening air was chill, and she rushed--she was running now--past the houses. The car was almost at the crossing. Would she make it? She cried out and waved her hand frantically. It was going to pa.s.s her, although she had arrived at the crossing, and regarded it with eyes that were frantic--wild! "Please stop, Mr. Motorman!" she cried piteously.

"Please stop--and save me." It tore by her, the front end. In the rear, she heard the crunch of feet upon the gravel street. She saw the side of the car. It dazzled her. She was lost. She could almost feel the presence of the other. One terrible moment she swayed, and the next, the rear end of the car was before her. Welcome did the inside seem. She _must_ catch that car, she felt--_or die_. A bra.s.s rail touched her hand. Like electricity, it closed over it. She was raised and then felt her body speeding through s.p.a.ce. A cry from the inside and a "ting,"

then a shutting of brakes, and the car came to a stop.

"My G.o.d," the conductor was saying, "why did she grab that rail? This is the only line left with cars with the open entry. None of the others can be caught without the consent of the conductor." She looked about her. She sat in the rear of the car that was now speeding into the business section. About her were many anxious faces.

"Why, oh, why," their eyes and lips spoke, as soon as they saw her, "did you take that terrible risk?" But she did not see their eyes, or hear their words--for her eyes were looking for another. He was not there.

And they never knew.

CHAPTER EIGHT

_What Her Eyes Saw_

"Our daughter is late tonight, Gabriel," said Mother Jane, coming from the door, where she had been many times. "It is now almost seven, and she has not yet arrived. I am uneasy. But I will be patient. Maybe she had to wait on some of her customers. It is so near the holidays, that some may have been downtown buying presents for their friends, and she is compelled to wait. Of course, she has never been late before, which doesn't mean that she might not be late today--but, oh well, I'll wait."

Gabriel, her old husband, played with his fork and said nothing. He never said anything. He had not said anything since '65. The rebels at Fort Pillar stopped him from saying anything further, for since then he had been speechless.

"We will have a big Christmas this year, Gabriel," said she. "Mildred's being with us will make a difference." She was silent now, listening to the fire that cracked in the grate. Presently her eyes sought a place at the table. It was the place Mildred occupied, but she was thinking of another. This other had been all to her, for he was her son. Tears came to her eyes now, as she thought of the years gone by, and the times she had fixed that place for him. Yes, she had fixed the plate there for him a thousand times. But he did not--had not eaten from it for many a meal now. No, he ate _elsewhere_. As she looked at the place today, strangely she felt he would never eat there again. And he was her only child. If he failed to carry the name beyond his present circ.u.mstances, then the name of Gabriel Ware ended with her mute husband, who sat waiting patiently.

"It will be so nice, Gabriel, to have her with us this Christmas. And she stays right at home and reads to us both every night. She is a sweet child, is Mildred. She has been our own daughter since she came here. It has been a treat for me, because I love so much to read; while you have liked since '65 to hear me; but my old eyes cannot follow the lines with the accuracy they used to. No, the lines run together so often now, and when they become clear again, it is so hard and tiresome to find the place. But since she came, with her young eyes, her cheerful smiles, her endless patience with old people, who at the best are hard to get along with, I appreciate that things have been so different."

Gabriel nodded. They lived easily, these two. This may be a "white man's country," but our "Uncle" took care of Gabriel and Mother Jane comfortably. These many years, he gave to them many dollars at the end of every quarter, and he had increased this, until now Gabriel received ninety dollars four times a year.

A step sounded upon the porch. "There she is, G.o.d bless her," said Mother Jane, and flew to the door, opening it wide, and then, alas! No Mildred stood on the threshold--but a man.

His teeth shown, and his hat in hand, he stood with a bow, and inquired if Miss Mildred Latham was within.

On the main street of the town, where all cars find their way, Mildred alighted, and, crossing the street, she waited for the car that would take her to the suburbs which was near where Mother Jane lived.

When Gabriel and she had built and settled, it was far from the town, and they had not dreamed, that some day before they died, that their ten acres would be surrounded. But the city grew, and they had sold the ten acres long since, in lots for big prices. They had money, she now knew, a part of which they had received for the lots, and they owned other houses. But a part of what they had was gone. It had been invested in a shoe store, incorporated and conducted by colored people. They knew not how colored people act in such capacity, so, in due time, they failed; therefore, going the way of thousands of such attempts in Dixie. For, you see, these black people had not known how to conduct such a business. They only knew how to wear shoes, when they were fitted by the other race.

"Now for home," Mildred sighed, as she settled back and listened to the hum of the car, as it sped on its way. "Oh, how glad I am that I eluded him," she breathed happily. "I'll be late, which I dislike; but it's better late than never. Blessed old dears," she added, impulsively. And then fell to planning for the Christmas day. It was so near now, that she would have to hurry in her few plans. Months ago, she had hoped she was going to spend a real, genuine, merry Christmas with her friends, the Jacobs; but now, long since, of course, she had given that up. But she was glad that she had found this new place, and had been there long enough to be so high in their favor, as to be the star guest for their holiday.

They were industrious, and raised almost all they ate in a garden of a half acre in the rear. And chickens! Mother Jane had raised two hundred fifty. So they had this meat almost every day. For supper they would have some surely, so, soon she would eat, and then the two would prepare for the coming event. She was impatient to be there.

It was freezing outside. Ice could be seen from the car window, gathering wherever there was water. A nice hot fire they would have, she knew; while she had a good new book that was half read through. After all was done, she would read to them, and so all three would be made happy.

She fell to thinking, to thinking of others, and Sidney Wyeth came to her mind. Last Christmas she had received two nice books from him. He wrote no letter, nor did he autograph the same--he didn't even let her know by word or letter that they were from him, but she knew.

Where was he--where had he been since? She wished she knew, for if she did, as she thought now, she would send him a nice book for a Christmas present. But he would never know it was from her. Her pleasure would be in the giving. That was why presents were given. For the pleasure of giving a token of remembrance. Some people did not consider it that way, but then they were not Christians. She wondered, as the car sped along, how many people who belonged to church did not know they were not Christians.

"I wish I knew where he is," she said again, this time half aloud.

"Somehow I believe he would--forget--for a day." And then she thought of Wilson Jacobs, and in doing so, recalled that, in the months gone by, she had seen him at the end of a talk, and was forced to look away. She could not stand the pain in his eyes. Did he care for her? She wouldn't trust herself to believe it. It wouldn't be right. No. She was glad now that it had gone no further. It wasn't right that he should be allowed to do that, and then learn the truth. Oh, the truth! That was _her_ burden. The other had learned the truth, and then he went away. He would never return. No. And Wilson Jacobs would do likewise. She had struggled these months to keep it from him. If he learned from other lips, it would be as sad; but she would at least not have to face him, and see another suffering in his eyes. With Sidney Wyeth, it now seemed different. As she had grown to feel, she believed she could meet him.

She felt now that if she could find his whereabouts, she would go to him. Yes. She would go to him and see him, and let him see her. Oh, as much as she loved him--for her love had never died--she believed now she could look in his eyes and ask him to forget. She suddenly made up her mind to leave and seek him. "But I can't," she moaned. "I can never leave here until I know the worst in regard to the Y.M.C.A. No. I would never be happy to leave them to their fate until I know the best--or the worst." Somewhere in the great north, Wilson Jacobs had either by now, succeeded or failed. Which? Until she knew, she couldn't bring herself to leave.

By this time, she had arrived at the getting off place. She sprang lightly from the car, and walked briskly to where a light shone, for one always shone from Mother Jane's window. And it was this light which guided her now. She skipped lightly along, humming a little song as she did so. Again was she at peace with the world, and forgave all who sinned against her. She had no malice in her heart against anyone, as she approached the house--the house of the Wares'--where already the smell of nourishment was in the air.

"Oh, how delightful it is to have a home. A place where someone with love in their hearts awaits you, and, when the door is opened, gathers you in welcome." She thanked Him that is Holy, for being so kind to her.

She had arrived at last, and with a delightful sigh, raised her foot to the step, and as she did so, her eyes glanced through the window. The next moment she fell back, and placed her hand upon her breast, while her heart thumped violently within.

Then she turned, and disappeared into the night, while those inside waited.

CHAPTER NINE

"_Wha's Y' Man?_"

On she flew. Across the car tracks she stumbled, but she didn't stop, nor did she look to see whether anyone was coming or not. She thought of nothing, but to be away, away, away! Down the street that was dark and rough, and led to where she did not know, nor did she even care. She was going away, away from everybody. She would hide herself from the world.

She could go to another city, but there was no use in that either. She cried half aloud as she hurried along: "I can stand it no longer, I can stand it no longer! I want to die, oh, I want to die!"

"I know," she choked at last, as she stumbled down the middle of a dark alley, in which she now found herself. "I know," she cried again. And she hurried on, as soon as she had caught her breath. "It is the river.

Yes, the river." She quickened her pace as she came into a street that was at the end of the alley. It was wider. She hastened down a hill that seemed to her a mile long, and maybe it was more. But when she had hurried two blocks along this, she left the middle of the street and took to the sidewalk, and slowed to a walk. "I can't go on like this. It will excite people. I must walk, but I must hurry, hurry, hurry!"

She had covered many blocks, when she came abreast of buildings occupied by colored people. There was a barber shop where men were being shaved, and a restaurant where others were eating; a soda fountain also, and she wondered whether the people who conducted it made any money this time of the year.

The night seemed to have grown much colder, from the frost that was on the windows, but Mildred Latham did not feel it. Her face, she felt it for a moment, was flushed. And then it occurred to her that her throat was dry. Oh, yes. She knew why, now. She had cried all the way from Mother Jane's to here--wherever it was. And her face was hot, her throat was dry, and she wanted water. She must have water, or she could no longer swallow. For a moment she hesitated before the soda fountain.

Then she opened the door and entered. A man who sat in the rear approached. He was a neat man, with a heavy mustache. He invited her to a chair at a table that was near a glowing fire. She took it. He waited her order politely.

"I would like some--a-soda water, if you please," she said hesitatingly.