CHAPTER THREE

"_Uh! 'es Got'im a Nigga!_"

When Mildred awakened, she found herself stretched upon a pew, with her head in a woman's lap, while the pastor and many others whom she had met a few minutes before, stood about with anxious expressions. Two ladies were fanning her face vigorously. She awoke with a start, and recalled quickly the moment she had fainted. She had never done so before, and had often wondered how people must feel when they fainted. She knew now; but that was not what she thought of, when it became clear to her. The man was her chief concern. She sat up and looked about her quickly. If she saw him, she felt that she must certainly lose consciousness again.

He was gone. With a sigh, she sank back into the arms of the woman for a moment. The fanning was more vigorous now than ever. All was quiet about her. She did not first understand it. Was it because they were afraid it might disturb her; or was it--had they seen--and _understood_? She was too weak just then to speculate about the situation; but she was delighted to hear the pastor say, a moment later, stroking her forehead kindly:

"You feel better now, Miss?"

She nodded, and felt now like crying. She understood facial expressions, and they had not seen. She was so relieved--for the present, and did not think then of the future. She had that to worry over later, and for this moment at least, she was relieved. These good people hadn't suspected the cause of her swoon. She sat up now, smiled with thanks upon those about her, and wiped the cold perspiration from her forehead. Someone held her hat, which they now handed to her. She placed it upon her head, covering the mass of hair that many were looking at a moment before, with natural admiration. Thanking them again in a kind and embarrassed manner, she turned and left them, while they followed to the door, and went their many ways.

When she got back to her room, she experienced a spell of nervousness when she entered. She saw the black woman's face for a moment, and was again relieved. The other had not been there, so she nodded coldly, and entered her room. She closed the door, and, removing her apparel, got into a kimono and threw herself upon the bed.

She had no thoughts for a time, but surrendered herself to idleness for perhaps a half hour, and then her mind began to react. It took the form of reminiscence. Sidney Wyeth came back into her memory, and for a long time she lay thinking entirely of him.

It was he--and he never knew what had started her on this strange journey. She now recalled--or tried to recall why. And then after a time she knew. Yes. She loved Sidney Wyeth, and it was that which had made the difference. But what kind of love was this that had no hope? And yet did she not hope?

As she lay with the hot air floating in upon her, she gazed out into the street, where a dozen or so little black boys played. She thought, with her mind idly drifting, and she saw these boys as men, in her idle fancy. They gathered presently in a circle, and when she watched them in her half-conscious, half-waking manner for a few minutes, she saw they were shooting craps. Think of it! These boys, ranging in years from eight to twelve. And they were already engaged in that demoralizing pastime. She trembled with sorrow as she watched the game proceed. Soon she saw that an argument of some kind had come up. They became very demonstrative, and while this was going on, suddenly, from a remote direction, a blue-coated policeman appeared upon the scene. There was a scramble and they flew in many directions. All escaped, with the exception of one. He was a cripple, and as he tried to hobble away, the burly cop swooped down upon him. He grasped him, without regard for his infirmity, and disappeared up the street, dragging the cripple with him.

And that was a common occurrence in this city. Hundreds of young men--boys--were started on a career of crime by premeditated arrests. They were often placed in jail when they were so young, that it was a tragedy. When they came out--for the courts could not bring themselves to sentence below a certain age--they were then pointed at as having "been in jail." And since they had the name, they often thereafter diligently sought the game.

As the policeman passed up the street with the pitiful cripple, she rushed to the window to look after him. A little boy stuck his head through a broken fence, and she heard him say, as they went by: "Uh! 'es got 'im a nigga!"

Mildred stretched herself upon the bed again; but her thoughts were now of something else. The Y.M.C.A. and Wilson Jacobs. At this same hour last Sunday, she had been with him in his effort--his great effort. And the need of such an effort had just been demonstrated a few minutes before, almost beneath her very eyes.

There was no place to go; no place, as a rule, where young men would go, and this helped to make it so bad. Young men will play pool, some of them, and they will seek some kind of diversion, other than the church. Their natures call for these things, and she knew it. Since freedom, the Negro has not been sufficiently practical to appreciate this point of view. Plenty of churches are available, and services are held all day Sunday. And it is easy, so easy, to say they ought to go--everybody _ought_ to go. But _does_ everybody go? _Would_ everybody go? And the most discouraging part of it is that _everybody does_ not go.

Some young men, if there were a clean place to go and indulge in the pastimes that are a custom with many of them, would be glad to avail themselves of the opportunity. Yes, they would be glad. And, by so doing, they would perforce meet others, who were likewise seeking amusement. Thus brought together, they would know and appreciate the good in each other. And still further, when they would go their many ways in life, they would naturally spread the gospel of good, or whatever was worth while. Such was the natural tendency of environment. She had just witnessed such an example, a mere incident in the city's life. Those boys had not all known the game when they began to play. But those who did know it, and had likewise learned it from somebody else, had, of course, in turn taught it to these others, who would in turn teach it still to others, and so on. Evil environment, bad influence. She had seen these lurking evils in so many places in this city of the south. And, as the months went by, they took heavy toll in startling numbers among the black children.

The effort of Wilson Jacobs would not soon be appreciated. It would take years for all these young men to see and know the real worth of such an institution. But it was the duty of society, nevertheless (and what was the church but the center of society), to put forward all its efforts toward the evolution of its members.

Oh, some day Mildred Latham hoped she could do more. Apparently, for the present, she had done her best. But, as to how she could continue doing that which she loved better than anything else to do, helping others, she could not now see clearly. She had no plans whatever for the future, as she lay stretched across the bed this warm afternoon. She had no thought of leaving the city, and still, she now knew that it was only a question of time when she would hear from this man again. He had said nothing, but she had read evil in his eyes. He _would_ strike sooner or later, of that she was sure. But she was now resigned to the inevitable. She decided to continue her work the next day, and to be brave. She was away from those whom she would dislike to see embarrassed. Maybe he might go about his business, if he had any, and let her alone. That was all she asked. If he spoke to her again, and forced himself upon her, she would ask him to do so. She would even beg him not to annoy her. And in the next thought, she realized how useless this would be.

She was in the street now, and was walking along. This part of the city stood upon a considerable hill, and some distance away ran the mighty river. Its muddy water could be seen from where she stood. In that moment, she wanted to be within its shining ripples. They led to the mightier ocean, hundreds of miles below. Impulsively she now sought the river, and decided to walk all the way. She had walked to it when she had stayed with her dear friends--yes, very often. And then, as she thought of them, a fear arose in her bosom, that she might possibly meet them. That would never do, and she turned back. Oh, why could she not meet them? How much would it have meant to her to feel herself in Constance's arms; to feel those kisses upon her cheek, and to know that someone loved her. Yes, to see Wilson, and appreciate his great kindness. When these pleasant thoughts had spent themselves, she realized they could never be anything more to her. No. She could go back there, and they would take her in and ask no questions; they would be good to her, and appreciate her desire to do good; but it would always be different--now. No. Her life was before her--she must work out her own destiny. Whither would it lead? She made no effort to answer this question.

She thought now of Wyeth. She formed his name with her lips, and spoke it aloud, and was made strangely happy and forgetful of that which troubled her, when she heard it pronounced. She repeated it: "Sidney." Oh, but to hear him call to her now as he did that day! The day they danced, and she had heard him stifle the passion; she had seen his eyes, and they had hypnotised her; and, in that moment of sweet insanity, she had not resisted the kiss that she saw he would imprint. No. And she had never been sorry. Somehow, that one moment had been her guiding star. She would continue into the future, and thus it would always continue so.

She arrived at the place--not home. She could never call this place home; but where she had her room. She came around to the rear; she did not know why. And then she was sorry too. Ranged about, without regard as to how they sat, were men and women. Their faces were flushed, while their smiles were amorous. She almost choked as she begged pardon, and hurried around to the front. She had not gotten out of reach of their voices, when she heard the men say: "Gee! Some kid! Who is she?"

"Aw, she's a little nicey, nicey girlie, that don't drink, nor smoke, nor chew, nor--anything; but goes t' church on Sunday," the black woman answered, and laughed a nasty laugh.

She was in her room and was glad she was shut away from the comment. To forget it, she busied herself with the names of her subscribers, and worked over the same until the sun had disappeared for the day, and twilight was in the air. She lit a small lamp, drew down the shade, and, taking up _The Tempest_, read until sleepiness drove her to bed.