CHAPTER ELEVEN

"_I'm Worried About Mildred_"

"Wilson, I'm worried. I'm worried about Mildred. Something is haunting that girl. Something has been haunting her for days. She says nothing, of course; but I can see, I can't help but see. She is worried almost to insanity." So Constance said to her brother, some days after Mildred met the man who saw her in Cincinnati.

"I wonder what it can be," said he, thoughtfully.

"I'd give anything to know," she sighed. "The only thing I know is that she is worried. I dare not ask her. She is not inviting in her demeanor, when it comes to confidences. She seems to be looking for something, simply uneasy always, and hesitant. Some days, she seems to dislike to go canvassing; in fact, for some time now, she has been nervous every time she ventures out."

"I wonder whether it would not be advisable to ask her to lay off a few days."

"I have thought of that," said she; "but she has so many deliveries to make that she is almost compelled to go out every day. And then, if what she fears is to happen, I'm sure she would be more worried if she stayed in."

"I'm willing to do anything to help Mildred." She looked at him, but they were both too preoccupied to take notice of the fact that he had called her by her first name.

"The only time I can seem to get her away from that worried, tired expression, is when I play. She listens and becomes, at least for a time, oblivious to her troubles."

* * * * *

By day, Mildred, when she was canvassing, hourly expected to meet again the man whose recognition had frightened her. But the days went by without further encounter, and when she failed to meet him, she began to relax. She was worried constantly, but she was relieved after two weeks. The fright had passed, and she was cheerful again, much to the relief of her two friends. It had pained her to see that both were obviously worried on her account. And she respected them, because they were considerate enough not to ask her questions that would have annoyed her.

"You sang that beautifully, Miss Latham," said Wilson, one afternoon, when she left the piano, after singing a song that had been introduced lately into church services; and which, while sentimental, nevertheless possessed more thrill than the average.

"Do you think I can satisfy the congregation now?" she asked sweetly. She had been practicing it for several afternoons.

"I should say you could," he cried, enthusiastically. "You could satisfy any congregation, much less our little crowd." He looked sorrowful, as he said this. She understood. The great majority did not attend his services. They went to the big Baptist church two blocks away. Many of them even smiled, when they passed his little church and observed the few people sitting therein. Mildred sympathised with him, because she realized that he was a courageous young man, willing to go to any extent, so far as effort was concerned, in order to help those about him. They needed it too, these black people.

"Oh," she cried, so kind that he choked, "you will have a larger church some day. I am confident you will--I _know you will_." And she meant all she said. "In time the people will come to appreciate your efforts. As it is now, they don't think deep enough to do so. They want sermons, as yet, that make them feel by merely listening; whereas, it is necessary to study what you say.... That makes it difficult now. When the people become more intelligent, more practical, and more thoughtful, they will appreciate religion in a practical sense." He was overwhelmed with gratitude, as he heard these words. For a moment he couldn't speak. He felt the tears come.

"You are so kind, Miss Latham. You seem to understand, and see below the surface. And what you have said is timely. I am one, you may be sure, who appreciates it." He stopped here.

A choking, which he didn't wish her to notice, made it necessary. She was aware of the gratitude, the sincere gratitude in his tone, and her sympathy went out to him more than ever. As she saw him sitting there, with head bowed and face hid, he seemed his mother's boy. She felt strangely that other part. Impulsively, she advanced to where he sat by the window, with the sunlight streaming in upon him. In the bright, soft light, his curly hair shone, and seemed more beautiful than she had noticed it before. She laid her hand upon it. An hour ago, she would not, could not have dreamed she would do this. And then she spoke in words, the kindest, he felt, he had ever heard.

"There, now. It will be all right. Just give yourself time. Oh, it's a great struggle, this human problem. All these black ones of ours. But you are pursuing the right course, and some day they will see it. Then will come your success. It's going to come. It will come. It _must_ come. These people can't keep on going along as they are; this crime--murder. It's terrible. Someone will help to stem the tide of it, someone will lead them. They need leaders. They are not bad people, with all we see and now know of them. They simply need some one to lead them into the light. I feel you will be that person. Yes. I am sure you are the person." She paused a moment, and it was only then, she became aware that her hand still rested upon his head. She removed it now, and silently left the room.

* * * * *

"I love her! I love her!" cried Wilson Jacobs. "Oh, God lead me, for I know not whither I go!"

It was the first time in his thirty-one years that Wilson Jacobs had felt so. But he was a man. And the fact made him respect Mildred Latham the more. Not for anything would he have her know his secret after this. She had thought of him in no other way but to help him. That was all. He would have to go forth now with a secret from Constance even.

He studied his text for the coming Sunday, and prepared himself to preach as he had never preached before.

"Here is an example of how much our people down here desire a Y.M.C.A., Miss Latham," said Reverend Jacobs later. "You may recall that, last spring the colored people of Grantville (which had a population, in the last census, of one hundred ten thousand people, almost forty thousand being colored), made a great campaign to secure a Y.M.C.A." He laid before her a Negro journal, published weekly at Grantville. She picked it up and read the whole article.

It went into detail concerning the campaign that was made to secure a Y.M.C.A. for the colored youth of Grantville. She had been interested in the campaign and knew that in a few days, thirty-three thousand dollars and more had been subscribed. The publishing house that printed this paper, had issued a daily of sixteen pages during the campaign, and had heralded the spirit of the colored people in their liberality. They had been liberal indeed, but it was only in subscribing. The paying was different, quite different.

After six months, only something over four thousand dollars of that amount had been paid in. The building, equipped, would cost one hundred thousand dollars. A millionaire Jew, the head of one of the greatest mail order houses in the country, would give twenty-five thousand dollars. The white Y.M.C.A. gave an equal amount. From other sources, seventeen thousand dollars were forthcoming. The colored people were expected to raise the remainder. It had been oversubscribed, but only four thousand had been paid in. Six months had passed, and she knew (although the paper was optimistic and had no other thought, apparently, than that the colored people would raise the amount) subscriptions would be paid slower now than before. She did not know what to say when she had read the article.

"Do you realize what they are up against?"

"Yes," she said resignedly.

"And they do not seem to know it."

"No."

"It's discouraging."

She nodded.

"It would be no trick at all for any of a dozen churches in the town to raise four thousand dollars in sixty days in a rally." She remained silent but listened, and knew that he spoke the truth.

"They have hundreds of churches all over the south, that have cost, in actual money, one hundred thousand dollars, and they have paid the amount without assistance from other sources; whereas, the white people are offering sixty thousand dollars of this amount."

"And, I gather," said she, in a voice that was listless, "that Grantville, with its many schools and much more intelligent colored people, is far more likely to succeed in such an effort than this town."

He nodded.

"But this place needs it, it needs it badly. It needs a Y.M.C.A. worse than any town in the south--"

"In the world," he insisted.

"And you do not think it would be worth while to inaugurate a campaign for that purpose here, before long?"

He sighed sadly, and then grew thoughtful.

"Last week, the number of murders exceeded any previous week for two years...."

"And over one hundred Negro churches have preaching in them every Sunday."

"And from what I can learn, these murders are rarely mentioned, in any."

"I have been thinking for a long time--before you came--of a Y.M.C.A. for our people in this town, but I have never spoken of it. But since I have known and talked with you, Miss Latham, and have seen the way our people are conducting themselves, I have been constrained to take up the effort of securing one." He said this very calmly, with no undue excitement.

"Have you, Mr. Jacobs?" She made no attempt to use the clerical term. Her tone was eager, anxious.

"Yes," he repeated. "I have decided to begin at once, regardless of the discouraging spectacle of Grantville."

"Oh, I'm so glad," she sighed, relieved.

He looked at her, but said nothing. He knew that she would be glad to hear it. He was glad, though, that she had spoken.

"Yes," he resumed. "I have discussed the matter with the heads of three of the big trunk lines operating in and out of this town, and all of whom have shops here that hire black men, and, as you might, of course, expect, they are all in favor of it. They have, moreover, advised me that they will bring such a movement to the attention of the board of directors. They have further advised me, however, that I must not expect to exceed five thousand dollars from either, and not to be disappointed if the board failed to give anything at all. That, they explained, and I understood without explanation, was due to the financial conditions of the railroads. I have met the same response from other local interests. But by them all, I have been encouraged. Of course, the white Y.M.C.A. are agreeable to giving assistance as in other towns, and have given me to understand that they will put in twenty-five thousand dollars. And then the Chicago philanthropist, of course, has a like amount awaiting. But the time limit expires in six months."

"From these, I have gone to our people."

"You went?" She held her breath now.

"To those others, the preachers."

"And they were----"

"Against it, almost to a man."

"God be merciful!"

"Of course, all of them did not say so in so many words--in fact, as you might expect, 'Yes, brother, this town sure needs a Y.M.C.A,' But when cooperation was suggested to that end, quibbling began. Most of them, not a bit original, put forward the same excuse, _too_ busy. All were preachers, yet too busy to save souls. Then, of course, the next excuse was their church was loaded up with debt; they were now preparing a rally to raise such and such an amount. And still others had just closed a rally, which meant their flock was strapped and would be until another rally. And there are three churches in this very town that cost equally as much as this thing, all told.

"Next, I tried the teachers. The professors, of course, were full of the idea. I found only two, however, who had paid enough attention to the effort in Grantville, to know that the people were likely not to succeed. These, I was glad to hear, spoke of this fact, and we then discussed the matter from a serious point of view."

"Have you not found ignorance a great stumbling block?" she inquired.

"The greatest, in a measure, I think. To be ignorant means, that they will be easily discouraged, when they discover the obstacles."

"When do you intend beginning the campaign?"

"Sunday. I have prepared a speech to that end for that day, but, of course, I would have to concentrate a greater effort before it can be started with any effect. I have, however, prepared an article, rather, several articles, and which the newspapers, the white dailies, have agreed to publish conspicuously. But before we can expect much from the white people, we will ourselves have to show greater activity. That is where the hard part comes. It is hard to arouse the local leaders to any appreciation of such a thing. There is so much surface interest, and so little heart enthusiasm. So many will say a lot of sweet things that mean nothing, not even an effort to be serious. But I shall open the campaign Sunday, and I was thinking of asking your assistance in singing and playing."

"Oh, I'd be only too glad to help in any way I know how, but that is so little," she said bashfully.

"We will start only in a small way. I have thought it best to begin with my congregation. I have been to them all, and have already secured liberal subscriptions, all of whom paid a part of it in cash. This I will employ as a means of stimulating others. So Sunday, at three P.M., I will lecture on it and ask subscriptions, detailing first those who have already subscribed."

* * * * *

"What is my balance, please," inquired Mildred the next afternoon, at the window of the paying teller.

"One hundred fifty," said the cashier, who looked surprised.

"I wish to withdraw it. And you may make it into a draft, payable to the colored Y.M.C.A."

His mouth opened slightly. He regarded her with a different look, and then did as she instructed.

* * * * *

A fairly good crowd greeted Wilson Jacobs, when he got up to speak on the proposed campaign for a colored Y.M.C.A. To cheer the listeners, he asked Miss Latham to play and sing the song she had practiced, and which was new to the congregation. She did so, with all the art of which she was capable, and was pleased, when she turned to face the audience, that she had given both pleasure and satisfaction. Her eyes wandered over them for a moment, and then rested upon someone she had seen before.

"Where was it," she mused, in a half whisper. Wilson Jacobs was speaking. For two hours he spoke in behalf of the Christian forward movement. He made plain in so many ways, the urgent need of such, and did this eloquently. He arraigned the high murder record, which made all of those before him feel alarmed. The time for some united effort was necessary. Eventually something had to be done. Plenty of churches, it was true, were open; but churches were arranged for worship, and not for clean sport, pool, billiard, gymnasiums and other amusements in which young men might indulge, would indulge, and did indulge; but in so many ways and places, that were not conducted in a Christian manner.

"And now," he said, at the close, "we have decided to start this movement today at home. We will be pleased to make an example we hope the other churches will follow." With that, he read the names of the donors and subscribers. Among them, one hundred fifty dollars by Mildred Latham, the organist, led in cash. They were surprised. Very few had even become acquainted with her. Now all desired to. When the meeting had closed, many gathered about her and were introduced. Then, as she was turning to go, the person she had observed when she finished playing, approached. His hand was extended, while his eyes looked into hers with something that frightened her when she saw him--and recognized him as the man she had seen back in Cincinnati, and who now recognized her.

When she went home that day, she had reached a decision.