CHAPTER EIGHT

"_Where Are You From?_"

Mildred worked hard that day. As she went from the rear of one house to another, she studied the people she met, more seriously than she had done before. By this time, her work had become automatic, and she did not find it hard or monotonous, to say the same thing over and over again. She had, moreover, become accustomed to the class of people among whom she worked. She liked it now, and for more than one reason; but perhaps the greatest reason, was because it brought her into the closest contact with humanity, without regard to conventionality. The people she met daily, with few exceptions, made no attempt to be conventional. They were human, almost all of them. She met them in their vocations; she studied their environment. Some she saw, grown people with families, but themselves like children. They gave their word with apparent sincerity, and did not make any more effort to keep it than the merest babe. Why did they not? She asked this question, and then studied them carefully for the answer. It was ignorance. It amused her to find so many who were positive they did not want it, did not even read, so how could they use it? "But you can read?" she would inquire. "Sho!" would invariably come the answer. Then came argument. Force of reason on her part, and sometimes, she guiltily felt, it was by force of argument they were induced to buy. She now paid little attention when they remarked that they did not want the book. Obviously, since the most stubborn ones were, very often after argument, the most appreciative buyers, she found it reasonable to ignore their words of objection.

Mildred's life was a diversion that was much to her liking. She was learning the greatest lesson a woman could learn--the study of human nature.

On Sunday, when she met others (Wilson Jacobs' church had for its members the more thoughtful and respectable Negro element), she was the recipient of many surprised expressions. They were, she invariably found, surprised that she canvassed among the servant class. She did not appraise them of the practical side of it; in fact, of the masses, these were more able to buy. She saw, as the Sundays went by, that much of the display was a pretense. Many of those who expressed such surprise were themselves unwilling to buy a book. Always she found (and especially among the teachers, whom she thought the most pretentious) some artful excuse. Most of them had a library which contained many books, but few by their own race. They had the works of a poet who had died some years ago; they also had a copy of a book or so by the principal of Tuskegee. And then, one day she learned, from a most reliable and unbiased source: "That those people bought the works of the now dead poet, because his name had become a fetish. The white people had accepted these men's work and called them great. Therefore, the Negroes had accordingly followed suit. So the Negro author must first get a white audience, which will laud the greatness of his pen, and then the Negroes will buy, calling the book great also."

Miss Latham found conditions thus, and governed her work accordingly. But, as time went on, she met surprises. They did not buy _The Tempest_, but they read it. She found it borrowed among them all. They never offered to buy it, but they read it nevertheless.

She did not understand this at first.

So she found the masses, often amusing, to say the least, but often with more active race regard. They had the many faults of ignorance; easy to influence into giving an order, they were still more ready to back out, lie out of taking it. Some of those who took orders, and even the books, did not read, she learned. While others could read, but did not; but when she told them all the story, the story of her hero, for now she held him thus, they were all thrilled, and inspired. Thus it happened that many bought the book because it was by a Negro, and said as much.

Mildred Latham succeeded in her work. And with her success, there came to her each day, almost every hour, thoughts of the one of her dreams. This day, and others as well, she shuddered when she could not forget what he had been told. It was worse, and more, because he had been told the truth. It hurt her. He was somewhere, and he didn't know that she loved him; but, even if he did, he could not accept this knowledge with any delight. No, he was out of her life, or, rather, she was out of his. He would never, no never, be out of hers. Never, because, as she felt every day, it was his memory that stimulated her, made her feel and appreciate what great good a life can do. And she did all she could, in her way, to assist others. Some day, maybe, she might be able to do more.

When she undressed each night to retire, she fell on her knees and offered thanks to Him that is Holy. She asked for strength and conviction and courage to continue in the same on the morrow. She struggled to lead a Christian life, and to be acceptable in the eyes of her Creator.... She was a believer.

Mildred was welcomed everywhere, and treated with all the courtesy due to a lady. When she left a house one day, where two women had given her their order, she overheard them say she was beautiful. She felt her heart throbbing. She was not vain, but she loved to be called attractive. Then she thought of him. He had called her beautiful also. She wondered whether he, at any time, forgot the words he heard, and remembered her as he had seen her that day. The day they had danced and he--kissed her. She seemed to feel still that kiss; she hoped to feel it always. She wondered, if he knew she was working in his memory and made happy thereby, would he be pleased--and would he, at least, try to forget as much as he could what he had been told. He could, of course, not forget. That made it hard. _She did not expect him to forget._

When the day's work was done, and she had returned to her place of abode, she lay upon her bed, and for a time, she gave up to thoughts of him. She knew not where he was. She did not try to find out, that would make it worse. Sometimes she felt that if she did, perhaps, it might help her in her picture of him; then again, she did not think it best. That might bring him too conspicuously before her. Sometimes at night she would suddenly awaken, and her very soul would be on fire. She sat up at these times, and almost declared it could not go on this way. She must know his whereabouts; he must feel, know that she loved him. And then, when the spell had died--was killed, for its death was inevitable, she would lie down again and try to forget. But she never succeeded in this.

More than a month had passed since she came hither. She had, with the assistance of Constance, sold more than three hundred copies of the book. She had saved the greater part of her earnings. She wondered, one day, as she left a Negro bank, where she kept it, what he would think of her, if he could know. She saw him viewing her in many ways, as she was now. But always she was left undecided. Never would what he had been told, seem to leave her free and undisturbed.

One day she returned home very much excited. She didn't let Constance see her though. She had an adventure that day. She encountered a man who looked at her strangely, when she was offering the book. She had seen him in Cincinnati; and she recognized him by a scar on his forehead; but she had not known this until she looked into his face, and asked him to give her his order. Then he started. Did he recognize her? She thought not, because she had not known he ever saw her, when he used to pass by the house in Cincinnati, where she then lived. When she recognized him this day, she had bungled in her talk. This fact made him suspicious. He regarded her with undisguised curiosity. Presently his face cleared, and he said: "You remind me of a girl I once used to see and know in Cincinnati. Where are you from?" She tried to ignore this question; she pretended not to hear him. Despite this effort, she choked. He observed it, and was convinced that she was the one he had seen and known. Then she was frightened, and, of course, did the worst thing she could have done. She asked to be excused, and forthwith fled. She had not gone many steps when she heard him mutter: "Well, I'll be damned!" And still before she got beyond the sound of his voice, she heard him again: "The same. Wonder what kind of a game she is playing here. Books. Hump! Well I'll be damned!"

She didn't canvass any more that day. She couldn't. She was too nervous and afraid. Then she was upset for other days. She feared to meet him. She could never again stand that gaze of suspicion. All that she had lived suddenly stood before her when she recalled it. Night came, and she retired early. The incident persisted in her memory. She was exhausted, and then she did what any unhappy girl is most likely to do. She cried all night.

Even if she felt Sidney Wyeth had closed the chapter of her in his life, she wanted him. She _needed_ him. To have felt now that he loved her, in spite of what he had heard, he could and would protect her. He stood before her now and she saw him as she had never seen him before. How strong and brave and courageous he was! He was her hero. She went to sleep after a time, a troubled, fitful sleep, and when she heard Constance calling her the following morning, she awoke with a start and was rested, although she could not understand how it was possible. But she was calm. After all, she felt, maybe, her fear was premature.

She worked that day with her usual good spirits.