The Forged Note Part 79

"_Mildred, I've Come Back_"

It seemed a long way back to the city, as though he would never get there, and the train crept slowly along through the mighty swamps. But all the way, his mind was busy. Thought after thought came and went, but only one became fixed. "I love her," he cried, again and again. "I love her!" he exclaimed feverishly. "Nothing else matters--nothing else _can_ matter, now!"

He was going to her, just as fast as the slow train would carry him, and when he arrived--beyond those conflicting moments, he got no further.

He lay back in his seat after a spell, and calmed himself to a degree that he could see it all clearly. He wanted to see her now; he wanted to look deep into the eyes that he was sure must be tired; he wanted to see behind those mirrors, and to do his share to relieve the turmoil within.

After a time, his return to the office after his illness, recurred to him. He had found a letter from the publisher, and upon opening it, he had found it to contain a draft for a large sum of money. He didn't know then who had sold the book with so much success to him, and he had wondered. Strange, but it had not occurred to him then, that it was she.

But now, it was all clear--everything.

"And it was Mildred all the while!" he exclaimed in a controlled voice, despite the excitement it gave him. "How could I have misunderstood so long!" And then the instance of the five thousand dollars came back to him, and the sale of his work as he had left it. True, he had given this all over to her; but the fact to be reckoned with was that she had succeeded where he had not.... She had done this without any thought of herself.... No girl with so much ability, with such constructive thoughts, would have done as she had for others, unless inspired by some divine sacrifice.

It was all clear to him now. And then the other.... In all his life, virtue in women had been his highest regard. During the months he spent in the south, he had seen immorality of a nature that was revolting to his finer senses. It had been the custom since the landing of Negroes in this country, and was in evidence every where, in the many colors that made up his people; but, in spite of this, his high regard for the virtuous woman remained the same. So, when the words of the hag came back to him, amid all the good things he was thinking of her, for a time, all was swept from him in a wave of revolt.... How could he be blind henceforth to that?

He became weak and listless for a time. To pa.s.s 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 G.o.d!" he murmured, "how can I, _how can I_!"

And, as the train continued on its way over innumerable trestles with lagoons and marshes everywhere, it occurred to him, that the one who had made all this possible, and who, at the price of purity, which was a woman's all, was now, and for the sake of it, homeless and friendless.... Even that family, that bishop father, surrounded by thousands of hero worshippers, with his picture decorating the walls of thousands of homes, and pointed to by day, would scorn her. The thousands of young men, respectable, but poor, and who, for this girl's sacrifice, were given a great chance to conduct their future lives along Christian lines, even they would scorn her. All decent and respecting society would scorn her. _They would have to scorn her._ He himself _had already scorned her_.

He allowed his gaze to wander beyond the waters of a lagoon; until it rested upon a clump of trees that rose ragged in the background. He was too torn with anguish to think for a time. What price had been put upon virtue, for his people--and her people--was too great to estimate. But behind it all, was a homeless, friendless, loveless little girl, drifting about in the world. For Mildred Latham as he saw her again, was a mere girl, not yet twenty-two. She had a heart, but what kind of a heart must she have, after the suffering she had endured? Yet she was a human being, with a human desire after all.

What he had seen in her eyes in Cincinnati; that pain, and at times that wild, elfinlike, mad desire.... And, oh, that caress, that one kiss that seemed to have penetrated her very soul; the look she had given him; that weak protest, afterward united in its pathetic appeal for mercy....

She had been his dream; his mad desire. He had declared then, that he would help to dispell that worry; he had felt himself courageous enough to do so, too; but now before him was the test, and he was weakening under it.

Back in the _Rosebud Country_, he had lived alone for years, and during those long days, his greatest desire, his greatest hope, had been to love, to have that love returned by his ideal of womanhood. He dismissed what had followed. The other had not even courage enough to accept graciously what he had worked for. Any woman can, to a degree, mould the future of her husband. No man, he knew, could be oblivious to the condition of his household, and that which made it. That part of his life, however, had long since been a closed chapter. His great effort had been to forget it, and he had succeeded to such a degree, that he was able to concentrate his mind on other things; but now, it was different. Because, with the exception of the one thing, Mildred Latham was more than his picture, his ideal. But that one thing was the silent barrier.

It was springtime now, and back in the _Rosebud Country_ all must be busy. He thought of the years, and how busy he was at this time. And hopeful; because, whether the season proved successful or not, springtime, when the crops were planted, was always a hopeful time; every farmer believed, as he planted his seed, that the season would be successful. And now he was not there to plant the crops. He had not been there the year before; but, as he continued to recall the past, he knew that it had never occurred to him that he would have been anywhere else but there. He wanted to be there; but financially, he couldn't afford to be there any more.

After an interminable spell of mental depression, something came to his mind. It entered slowly, but at last took shape. He whispered after a time: "Yes, yes, I could. With that amount I could start all over again.... And out there, no one would know, no one would need to know.... Just being there with the right to continue as I once was; but with a terrible experience to remind me of what it is all worth--it would not be the same now."

He saw her now differently. That other side was pa.s.sing. It would come back--it would keep coming back; but it was his duty; it was his future--it was his very life to crush it as often as it came up; but that was not the half of it: Mildred Latham was homeless, and friendless as we know. After what she had done for so many others, was it not Christianlike to think of her?...

And now he had another thought. Yes, back in the _Rosebud Country_ it would be possible for two people to be happy; people who had no other hope, no other ambition, but to follow the pursuit of happiness and labor....

As it became clearer, he realized that he had never cared for conventionality. That other experience had thrust it upon him, and when he showed his dislike for it, he had been tortured. It would be different--now. Mildred Latham would not care for any thing but himself, and that which would make him happy.... And he, his experience had been too real and too bitter, not to appreciate what kindness, sincerity, and courage in one's convictions, means in future happiness.

The train stood in the station now, and all the other pa.s.sengers had left the cars. He came out of his revery with a start; and, hastily collecting his luggage, he rushed forth, and caught a car that took him within a block of his office. He deposited his grips in a cafe he knew, and, a few minutes later, he stood in the doorway.

It was late in the afternoon, and nearly everyone in the building had left for home; but she was there. Curiously, he had felt that she would be there. With the amount of business he had seen she had created, he was certain that he would find her, and he did.

She sat at the desk, as she had the afternoon he had returned from the hospital. She was working away, and he saw her before she noticed him.

When she did, she gave a start, opened her mouth, and then, as if she thought of something, closed it slowly, fumbled her pen, but said nothing.

He paused briefly and observed her, and as he did so, took note of the fact that she had lowered her head. And he knew. It was in shame.

Strangely now, since she knew that he was aware of at least a part of the past, she could not endure to have him look at her. But, in these moments, Sidney Wyeth was not observing her in scorn, as her colored cheeks gave evidence.

Mildred sat still and waited. She expected to be scorned; she had come to a place in life, where she expected anything. He might rebuke her, and she would say nothing; but intuitively, she had never felt _he_ would rebuke her. As she sat with drooped head, he saw one tear drop unchecked upon her lap. No others followed; but he knew the time had come to go to this girl. She had endured a hard lot. Not one person in a thousand, would have gone through what she had, but human endurance, wrestling with all life's vicissitudes, has a limit. How much it cost, that one tear, he could not fully estimate; but, if he knew life, if some one didn't come to Mildred Latham's rescue soon, she might become anything. Not far from where she sat, a thousand or more women were burning their souls in h.e.l.l. And all those women were there--not by preference; but because they were simply human beings and weak.

He approached, and a moment later stood near her, while her finger toyed with the pen. She had, as he noticed now, grown stouter since he knew her in Cincinnati. Her hair covered her head, and was beautiful to his eyes, while her skin appeared somewhat darker. He paused as one at a loss how to begin, because he had so much he then wished to say.

Presently he found his voice, and his excitement was controlled as he spoke her name:

"Mildred," said he. She heard him, but did not reply. So he repeated: "Mildred, I've come back." He paused again, and the room was silent. She did not answer him, and he did not expect her to. Presently he said it over again. "Yes, I've come back.... I was away. I was off in one of the parishes, one of the most remote, for, when I left, I wanted to be away, away from everybody.... But it happened out there, that I met a man, Mildred. I met a man ... and he told me a story, a long story.... What he told me, concerned something--something I will not tell, and somebody I will not mention, but what he told me, cleared the horizon.... And that's why I came back. On the way I faltered, I weakened for a time. I thought once of not stopping. I started to go on and on and on, maybe never stop. But when I thought again, and again, and kept on thinking, I couldn't. I couldn't, because, well, after all, I wanted to stop.

"So I stopped, Mildred, and then, I came here. Here--and to you.... I have come back, Mildred, and to you. Are you glad I've come back, Mildred?" He paused and listened, though he did not expect her to answer.

She remained as she was, and silent.

"On the way back, I thought of you, of nothing else, no one else but you. My thoughts went back to our acquaintance in Cincinnati, and the day we danced and I--I--kissed you, Mildred." He paused again, and gazed out over the rows of buildings below. "And then I realized what has been wrong with me ever since, and all my life.... It was because I have been hungry. I have been starving to death these many years for love, Mildred, love and understanding.... I am still hungry, and thirsty; but at last a hope has come to me. A hope that it will not long continue as it has these many years. But withal, I have thought of something else too. And that is, I want to go home. I want to go home to stay. I don't like it here; I don't like it anywhere, but in the _Rosebud Country_."

"The _Rosebud Country_?" she echoed, sitting erect and turning slightly.

"Yes, Mildred, The _Rosebud Country_." He paused again, and the ticking of his watch was quite audible to both. "Yes," he said presently, and after a time, in which he seemed to be engaged in deep thought, he resumed, "and I was going to say that I have decided to go back." He moved and stood beside her. The sinking sun now played a last evening ray across her face, and in turning from it, she happened to look up and into his face. He saw her now as he had never seen her before. Something she saw caused her to catch her breath and venture another look. His eyes appeared to see something far away, and she continued to stare at him.

"Yes, Mildred," he started again, and now his voice became low and strange. She understood, and knew that he was living in the past, oblivious to her presence. She listened with a strange rapture. "I've decided to go back to that land beyond the Big Muddy. Back to that little reservation, the name of which I love. But Mildred, it depends."

He halted and looked down into her face. Their eyes met now, and both seemed hypnotized for they continued to stare at each other, becoming more enraptured. "It depends," said he, very slowly, "_upon you_." She looked away, but he reached and caught her hand. He backed up until he reached the desk, upon which he seated himself. He looked at her now pleadingly. She gave one glance, and caught the same look she had seen but once before, more than a year before, and before he knew. He pulled her gently from the chair, and placed her beside him on the desk.

"It depends _upon you_ Mildred!" And still she said nothing.

"Out there, Mildred, I longed for you. Yes, it was you, you! These many years I waited for you. At last I have found you. Oh, I have found you, the _one Woman_. And now," he said this in a strong voice, "I'm through.

I'm through, and ready to go back, if you will go with me. Do you hear?

I mean, that I love you Mildred. Love you with all the pa.s.sion of a hungry heart." He paused again.

"And you have had a hard time, little girl, oh you've had a hard time. I _know_. But it's all over now, dear. Yes, it's all over now. There is no society that we are under obligation to; there are no pretentious persons to make us false to our convictions; there is nothing but impulse to direct us."

"Oh, Sidney," he heard her say with a slight tremble. His arm stole about her waist, and she did not remove it. She looked up into his eyes and saw him with trust. "And you'll go?" he said and waited.

"Do you mean it Sidney? Oh, Sidney, _do you mean it_?" Her voice now was low, strained, strangely wistful, and then, as if suddenly remembering something she had apparently forgotten, her eyes took on an expression of mute appeal, like that of a hunted animal. Her form became tense, while a spasm of agony contracted her features as she moaned:

"_No, No, No I can not. Oh, I will not!_" And before he could quite understand her sudden rebellion, she rushed from the room and into the hall, and soon her rapid footsteps died away in the distance.

He stood as she had left him, not comprehending that she had gone. "Am I awake?" he whispered dreamily putting his hands together, and gazing at them stupidly, as if to a.s.sure himself they were his own, "She has gone?

Gone, gone! Mildred--but--why?" He felt sadly weak, for the strain was beginning to tell upon him.

In a half stupor, he finally found a seat in the office chair, and mechanically let his gaze wander out over the city. After a time, it rested upon a street that led down to the wide thoroughfare. His eye soon caught sight of a figure hurrying along the walk. He leaned forward and observed it carefully, and when it reached another street, he made out that it was Mildred. He watched her as she crossed quickly to the center where a car was moving, and boarded it. In a moment it had disappeared down the street.

CHAPTER TWELVE

_The Slave Market_

Days pa.s.sed 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.