CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"_Restitution_"

"I had to," cried Mildred bewilderingly, as she hurried, hatless, breathless, along the walk, when she left her lover so abruptly. She was distracted; she was not fully aware of what she said. All she knew was, that at the most supreme moment of her existence, she had broken away from the one she loved, and for whom she would have been willing to die; but to marry him at last, she felt she could not conscientiously do. "Oh, but it was manly, kindly--sublime, his offer, and how I love him for it!" she whispered. "I know he will forgive me; he will remember me kindly; he will never forget me, and my love for him--but to go to him and make him suffer with the thought of the past--never!"

She slowed down, as she neared the wide street, that crossed just ahead of her. She crossed the walk to the center of the street, where a car was coming, and caught it. Once inside and seated, she lay back, and became, for a time, dully listless. Presently, she saw the river just ahead, and when the car slowed down, she left it, crossed to the ferry, and went aboard. A half hour later, she was in her room.

Her sister greeted her pleasantly from the garden, which aroused her emotion to such a degree, that she choked slightly, in order to hold back words she had long wished to say.

When alone at last in her room, she lay across the bed, and gave up to the feeling of inertia, that had taken possession of her.

All that day she remained so. She could scarcely collect her wits. Again and again, the events connected with his return, flew through her dull, sluggish mind, and, at last, to relieve it, she dressed in a cool, thin dress, and went for a walk down by the river front.

She passed many docks, where not so many steamers lay at anchor as she had once noticed. She wondered why, since she had observed the falling off of traffic. Then she thought about the bloodshed that was going on each day across the water. She soon came abreast of a wharf where more than a score of great ocean goers were anchored. No smoke came from their funnels; no men worked away on their decks; in fact, they were as silent as the grave, their dark hulls casting a dull shadow above the water. She wandered down the board platform, and studied them idly. Then she read, painted on their sterns, names with Bremen and Hamburg as their port.... Her thoughts again reverted to the carnage across the waters.

She found the street again, and wandered aimlessly along the sidewalk. Suddenly she halted and strained her ears, as a sound came to her from some distance. She listened, and then looked up and across the river, where the creole city stretched, apparently endless, before her. She observed in doing so, for the first time, that the river curved in such a manner as to form a perfect crescent at this point, and, although her thoughts were confused, she did not fail to appreciate the beauty of it.

Her gaze had found the place from whence came the sound that had halted her. It was the bell of a church vibrating through the still evening air. The steeple in which it was mounted, raised far into the air above the buildings about it, and she watched it with growing reverence. As she continued to stare at it, it seemed to outline a mighty sepulchre, and she fell to speculating about it. She was familiar with it, in a measure, and recalled, as she found herself wandering vaguely along a few moments later, that she used to pass it each day. It was when _he_ lay ill at the hospital, that it was near. It was called St. Catherine. She had happily observed that may little colored children went to it each day, and Sunday. Their training, she had observed, was very different from the denominations with which she was acquainted. She had stopped before its steeple the first time, one day toward the close of Sidney's recovery. The next day she had entered it, and wandered down its carpeted aisles. She had gone up to the front, before she realized that any one was in the church. And then a sister came from an alcove, or from some place, but she could not imagine where.

She had halted embarrassed, but the other smiled upon her so pleasantly, that her confidence was won in a moment.

Mildred recalled it--the meeting--strangely today. She wondered what the life of a sister was like. She had guessed what it meant.... She had almost forgotten the sister, until she went her way this day, when the lot of those patient souls came to her mind again.

She reached a street presently, where two wide walkways intersected, and when she reached the center of the intersection, something gripped her and she stopped quickly, catching her breath. She continued to stand thus, but with eyes widening, nerves tense, and then she uttered beneath her breath: "Why not? Yes, why not? Why, why, why?" Then, completely absorbed in the idea, which had suddenly come to her, offering, as she felt it now, a solution of her life, she turned on her heel, and retraced her steps homeward.

And all the way she kept saying to herself: "Why not, why, why?"

She hesitated at the gate, and again there came to her ears from across the river the chime of the bell on St. Catherine. It echoed softly, and vibrating, it touched her soul to its depths. She stood at last transformed. As it continued to float across to her, she seemed to translate: "Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give thee rest."

When she entered the house, her head hung, with eyes cast down. She had decided to become a sister.

* * * * *

There came a day, bright, clear, and slightly breezy; but withal, invigorating, and she went to visit the old woman who lived alone in the deserted St. Louis--Royal Hotel. She had no tremors, because it had been the place where once her people were sold by thousands. She had met the old woman on one of her frequent pilgrimages alone in the creole city, and had become strangely fond of her. Mildred had, on more than one occasion, felt constrained to tell her the story.... So today, she came quietly upon the old soul sitting by the window, with the light streaming in upon her faded hair and features.

"You come today, Little Sister. I am always so glad to see you."

Mildred returned the greeting kindly and pleasantly, and sank into the proffered chair. She had told the other of her intentions, but offered no reason for her decision. She asked today that the other bless her, which was done. They sat afterward in mutual silence. Presently, however, the other broke it.

"A young man was here yesterday, a strange, kind, forgiving sort of fellow. He aroused me in a way; he brought back, by his presence, memories, and I don't know why; but I told him my story.... He listened so patiently, so kindly, and with such sympathy, I do declare, that I wept."

"A young man? A--"

"A young colored man from away off in the great northwest."

"Sidney, oh, Sidney," Mildred breathed, unheard.

"And do you know, dear Little Sister, I thought of you almost all the time he listened, and was near me.... I don't know why. I cannot imagine predestination in a large sense; but in some way I felt he suffered." She paused, and Mildred swallowed. After a time she said, in a small voice:

"I guess I'll go now."

The other did not detain her, though she wished she would never leave, but followed her out of the silent old place down to the street, and watched her out of sight.

She passed through one of the narrow streets to the banking section of the city, entered the one where Sidney's money was deposited, which he had given back to her, and she had it made into a draft. This was mailed forthwith to him. Then she recrossed the river, and when in her room, packed all her belongings securely, and then wrote a long letter to her sister. In this, she told of her life from the day she had left home on the mission ... omitting why she had done this ... up to the day. She wrote that she loved a young man, loved him, so that she could not bear to become his, and feel that she was guilty--unworthy. She closed it, asking her sister to accept all she left--which was everything, but what she wore.

She retired, for night had come, and slept so peacefully the night through, that she was surprised. She dressed before the others arose, and slipped into the street.

In due time, she stood at the gates of St. Catherine. It was still early, and the people were not much astir, when again the chimes came to her ears, a hundred and more feet above her. She listened, and as they continued to ring, she gradually became transformed. No one came, so she entered the gate, went around to the side, and took a seat.

Her mind became reflective and reverted to the past, and she found herself living it over, again and again. But, as she reviewed it, she seemed to have no regrets; she did not foster the kind of hopes she once had, and then she arose and found her way again to the front. She approached the door, and when she tried the knob, found that it was open. The priest was just leaving through a side door as she entered, and did not hear her footfall, as she passed lightly down the carpeted aisle.

She stood before the altar, when she had come to the other end, and getting down upon her knees, offered a silent little prayer. She remained there until the flood of emotion--for she found herself peculiarly emotional today--had passed, and then arose. She gazed at the emblem of the Christ before her for a moment, and then, turning, she walked into Sidney Wyeth, who had come upon her, and was waiting while she was in prayer.

"Mildred," he said, and his voice came low, even, and respectful. "I know...." This was all he said; but the hungry look in his eyes told all else....

She halted before him without any undue excitement in her manner, but her eyes were downcast. She recalled even now, that she had never been able to return his piercing gaze. She kept her head bent, with her small hands folded before her, but listened with something akin to a heavenly rapture. He was speaking again.

"I am not going to infringe upon your liberty by asking you to give up what is your intention. I've come, Mildred, just to see--to look into your eyes once more, before you go your way.... That is all I ask. You will grant me that, won't you, Mildred?" They stood facing each other, only a few feet apart. He held his hat crushed in his hand, while she did not release her grip on the cross she held. He watched her, as she slowly raised her head, as her eyebrows came slowly into view, and then at last her eyes.... They looked into his now. His looked into hers. Slowly, they spoke--both pairs of eyes. No words passed their lips, but each could seem to hear a soul within crying: "_Restitution! Restitution!_"

How long they stood thus, they did not know. But, after a time, something seemed to break the spell. Perhaps it was the departed souls. They knew not, were not even aware of what was passing. Still, the eyes of each, hypnotic, struggling with the fire of incarnation, slowly drew them nearer. They were at last near each other. Their breaths came in strange, tender gasps. Their eyes continued to see and regard each other in that heavenly rapture. And still no word was spoken.

His hands seemed to find hers and the cross. They gathered them and held them fast, while out of her ethereal eyes he saw a divine glory never to be forgotten. Then his left arm rose. It slowly encircled her form. They heard now, each others heart. And then something else seemed to guide him. His head went down, while his eyes still looked into Mildred's with that peculiar enchantment. He placed his cheek against hers, with gentleness and reverence.

When the good father came again into the church, he paused as he watched a couple pass slowly down the aisle. They were a man and a woman. His arm rested about the slender shoulders of his companion, with great tenderness.

So together, they went to that land in the west.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

On page 259 of this original, 1915 publication of The Forged Note, there is a line of missing text, which appears as a blank line on the page. In the 1916 reprint (which is available for viewing online at hathitrust.org) this missing line reads: "... the subject, and which would serve to substantiate her...." For the convenience of the reader, the missing line, as printed in the 1916 edition, has been inserted into this text.

Obvious typos and printer errors have been corrected without comment.

In addition to obvious errors, the following changes were made:

1. Page 165: "wan" was changed to "wane" in the phrase: "...he felt the interest wane...."

2. Page 255: "here" was changed to "hear" in the phrase "... and go, dy'e hear...."

With the above exceptions, inconsistencies in the author's spelling, punctuation, and use of hyphens are retained as in the original publication.

Unconventional spelling has been retained in words such as (but not limited to) the following:

Page 243: bisquits Page 344: surpressed Page 362: philanthrophist Page 389: wrapped (instead of rapped) Page 395: preceeded