The Forged Note Part 65

Wilson Jacobs sat in his study, gazing across the room at a clock. It "tick-tocked" as it always had. The minute hand slipped from notch to notch. There was nothing whatever wrong with it. It was a good clock. As he gazed at it, he recalled that in the years it had stuck to the wall there, it had never stopped; it had never varied from standard city time more than a minute or two during those years. And yet he watched the clock as though it were something strange; something uncanny; something that spelled his end.

For it was, and it marked the failure of his great effort.

In a few hours now that clock would show another year, for it was the night of December thirty-first.

In a few hours, it would tell him, as it had told him before, that a new year had come. Yes. But this year it would tell him more. How much more?

It was hard to estimate. He made no effort to do so. He had already done that in the past few days--the days he would always remember as the darkest in his life of hope.

A noise in the other room came to his ears. It was a sigh. It was Constance, and he was sorry for her. Yes, Constance had hoped until the last minute that he would succeed. But he had failed....

Vainly he struggled in the great northeast, to secure those thousands to complete the amount necessary. He had gone from town to town. The people were kind; they were considerate, and they listened patiently; while he waxed eloquent and forceful in his appeal for this great purpose. He met the nicest people he had ever met--he knew that. So refined, and how much they appreciated his great cause, was shown in every town, large or small. They took him through many of the buildings. They were perfect pictures, and the management was the best. The per cent of people who could not read or write in those parts, did not include any of the native born. He had never, he recalled this now strangely, met people who were so courteous. He had been so long in Dixie, and, therefore, accustomed to the country there, that he found it hard to believe that white people could be so courteous to a Negro. True, but they held to their money. They shook their heads and pointed across the water--and he knew.

He had raised less than three thousand dollars. He lacked almost twenty-five thousand of having the proper amount when he returned home.

His sister met him with a kiss. She looked hopefully into his eyes at the same moment, and knew he had failed. So they had said nothing about it. Others came in as soon as they learned he had returned, and it was with a heavy heart that he told them the result.

"Well," said the professor of the colored high school, "you made a brave fight, Reverend. Yes, you made a brave fight. More than ten thousand dollars in such a short time is going some. You beat Grantville by twice the amount, and did it in one-third the time."

"By the way, Doctor," said a mail clerk, as he was pa.s.sing out. He stopped, and lighting a cigar, continued: "What ever became of that young lady who played at the church, and who started the cash subscription?"

"Yes," said the professor, "I have intended to ask you myself."

"My friends," said Wilson, "it is the strangest thing I ever knew; but we have not seen that young lady since the day you were here--in fact, we have not seen her since she left the church that Sunday."

"Indeed!" both exclaimed. "That is strange!"

"The strangest thing, I should say," he declared. They spoke of it at some length, and then they took their leave. Others had come, and made it harder for him to tell. Words of consolation were given by all, which made it still harder.

He arose after a time, and walked back and forth across the room. He thought of the Y.M.C.A. in a northern city for colored men, and where he had stopped. Such a delightful place it had been. There was a pool hall, a cafe, a barber shop, a complete gymnasium, a swimming pool, a reading room with piles of the latest magazines; in fact, there was everything to keep young men out of bad company, and, at the same time, provided for them a place for clean, manly sport. He had stopped there three days, and during that time he had observed the great good it was doing the young Negro men of that city. The Negro population was not one-fourth that of this town, and still the schools there were the best; while almost everything in the way of public conveniences was open to the black people. If the Y.M.C.A. could be of such great good in a community of that sort, words, figures, estimates, all were inadequate to describe what a great benefit it would be to this town.

And, until the last day he did not despair. He hoped and he worked. "The administration has balled the financial situation up so badly, that it is useless to seek subscriptions for anything," one had told him.

"A million and more dollars he has given away," said the secretary of a millionaire he had consulted. "Yes, I will arrange an appointment," but from the way he said it, he was sure it would do no good.

"Crime and evil environments have undermined the foundations of our society; those people, for whom a million men went to battle fifty years ago and freed, have reached a place in our American society, where it is the greatest mistake of a decade that they are not provided with better surroundings." He said this time and again, and the people heard him through, but in the end it was the same.

By some he was greatly encouraged. If the gift of the Jew could be extended a year, all would be well, he was sure; but that had been settled.

"I am asking you for a.s.sistance, because we have at our disposal three-fourths of the amount necessary; but, without your a.s.sistance in this, this three-fourths reverts back to those who have offered it."

"The country is in a bad shape," and they pointed again across the water.

And now he had returned, and had to admit to himself and the others that he had failed. He forgot his own desire; he wanted the a.s.sociation for the great good it would do his people.

He seated himself, and mechanically his eyes sought the clock again. It tick-tocked the minutes away, and the minutes became hours, and every hour drew him near the end. If he could present twenty-five thousand dollars to the Y.M.C.A. by twelve o'clock that night, it would be saved.

Suddenly it occurred to him to go into the street and walk about for a time. Maybe he could forget it. He picked up his hat, that he had thrown on the floor in his absentmindedness, and drawing on his overcoat, made his way thither. It was a crisp night, and the chill, as he struck the street, made him quicken his steps, and he walked briskly in the direction of the river.

He observed with a start, presently, that he was going in the same direction and the same street, he had taken before going north. The incident and the words he had overheard came back to him, and he thought of Mildred with a pang of the heart. "I wish I could see her now," he said; and then, in the next breath, he said no. "I would have to tell her that I had failed, after her kind words. She said I would succeed.

Yes, she said that--and meant it." He walked on, and finally fell to talking to himself aloud.

"Yes, Wilson Jacobs, with all you have been through, you have come to this in the end. You've failed." And then something somewhere in his mind said: "Yes, you have failed, but don't despair. All may not be lost. As long as there is life, there is hope." He laughed at this, and wondered then at the strange caprice of the human brain. "Wonderful," he commented. "I wonder how did man ever come to be. In the years when he was wild, that was different. But now he is becoming so wise, that almost miracles are accomplished. He continues to grow wiser as the years go by, until I wonder what it will all come to in the end."

By now he had reached the place where he overheard the voices of a few weeks before. It was dark. Not a soul nor a sound came from within. He stood where he had heard the voices, but no voices came to him that night. He presently retraced his footsteps. He could, at least, be home and comfort his sister. She could not be allowed to be alone while the old year died and the new sprang into being. He dragged himself along in an aimless fashion, not hurrying. As he figured in his mind, he had yet two hours.

When he arrived at the house and entered, he resumed his seat in the study, and, since there was nothing else to do, he resumed his task of watching the clock. Not as much time was left as he thought for. It was now almost eleven. In one hour and a few minutes, it was goodby to seventy-five thousand dollars for the purpose of building and establishing a Y.M.C.A. for the black youth of the city.

He heard Constance in the other room, breathing heavily, and wondered whether she was sick. He watched the clock now as a man who waits for the death knell. Time seemed to go slowly, he thought. He would call his sister when the clock reached a quarter of. Yes, and together they would watch, watch, watch. He dozed off to sleep. Suddenly he awoke with a start. He had slept the old year out, was his first thought. Then he looked at the clock. No, not quite. He rubbed his eyes.

And then he listened. Had he heard someone, or something? "Of course not," he muttered half aloud. "This game is telling on me," and he raised his hand and grasped his head. And still he felt something had happened. He arose and walked back and forth across the room, and then sat down again. As he did so, his eyes saw the clock.

It was now eleven thirty-five.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_Into the Infinite Long Ago_

"That is the Ponca, dear," said Sidney, taking her hand, as they walked up the road.

"But you did not call it that in your story, Sidney," said Mildred, squeezing his hand fondly. "I have never been on its banks. When are you going to take me there?" she now said poutingly.

He placed his free hand under her chin, and dared her to look into his face with such a frown. She failed, and laughed instead.

"But I want to go," she cried, swinging the hand she held back and forth. "Won't you take me soon--take me today?" she begged.

He drew her to him, placed his arms about her, and kissed her fondly.

A moment later they walked down the wide road.

"And this is the _Rosebud Country_," she said, allowing her eyes to stretch over a land to which she saw no end.

"Yes, this is the _Rosebud Country_," he said contentedly.

She regarded him a moment closely, before she spoke. In that look, she appeared to see him as she had never seen him before. This man was her husband, and he had spent the prime years of his life in this land to the northwest. He loved it, and now she would love it, because he did.

In the years gone by he had hoped--he had built his hopes here, and into that life had come another. After that things had been different. Yes, things had been different, and that was why she was here. But she was happy. Yes, she was happy. He was too, so that made her more happy.

"See those rocks on yonder hill?" she heard him say, and she allowed her eyes to follow the direction of his finger.

"Yes, and oh Sidney, I gaze each day at them, and at the smaller one just this side of it. Tell me of them, and of the little one, too."

And as they strolled together down this prairie road to the valley of the Ponca, Sidney Wyeth, her husband, told her the story of the two hills.

"Many, I know not how many years ago, yon hill was the scene of many a crime, so the squaws told me." And he sighed, as he seemed to look back over the time. She placed her hand now in the curve of his arm and held it closely. It seemed to satisfy him, and with a glance at her, and a far away look in his eyes, he proceeded to tell the legend of the hills.