The Forged Note Part 30
Thus the city had developed, regardless of circ.u.mstances, which our story will unfold.
But Sidney Wyeth, our erstwhile observer and literary contemporary, had not been long in Effingham, before he had come to learn that it was not the city Attalia was, in spite of its great industries, and its million dollar payroll, which was employed in advertising the iron city.
To begin with, capital--hard cash--was a very expensive thing to use toward the development of its extension. When the city incorporated the many little towns that make up a large part of its present population, it began to run in debt; a great deficit was customary at the end of each year, and now, at the time of our story, it was still energetically engaged in the same task--piling up a deficit. The many little towns that are a part of the city, and where most of the great industrial concerns are located, are practically controlled by the interests. But when the Tennessee Coal and Iron Company became a vested interest, it took over all these various concerns, and merged them into a trust, which is a problem to every congress. And now as Sidney Wyeth saw it, the company owned everything. It almost owned the Negroes, and thousands of foreigners who were employed by the company.
But there was one thing the T.C.I. company did not own, and that was train loads of liquor consumed by its black help, and, of course, the whites also, to a degree, but not in such proportion. Drink was very popular in Effingham, exceedingly popular. It operated to an alarming degree everywhere, and about pay days, held sway in certain portions of the town, and made everything run riot. And yet there were not nearly so many saloons in Effingham as there might have been. It cost too much for the privilege. At three thousand dollars a year, only about one hundred fifty saloons were in operation. But some years before, while the state was under prohibition, "tigers" became the order. And now many of them still operated. Especially on Sunday and after closing hours, they were busy. They dealt in a liquor known, in general, as "busthead;" and to say that it deserved such a t.i.tle, is saying little enough.
It was Miss Palmer, who became at once a personal friend of Wyeth's, and who first told him of these conditions. From her, before he had time to observe of his own initiative, he also learned a great deal in regard to the black people.
He was waiting on the porch for her when she returned late that afternoon, in fact, it was night when she arrived. She was tired, but cheerful and greatly encouraged. She had secured eleven orders for his book, and collected considerable more deposits in connection therewith.
"I certainly did some talking to those Negroes this afternoon," she exclaimed, drawing herself upon the porch when she arrived. "I talked a blue streak; and believe me, one after another succ.u.mbed," she boasted.
"You work too late," he said, with a note of kindness and admiration in his voice. "I do not usually work to exceed six hours a day, and quit by six at the latest," he added.
"That's the trouble with Annie," said her cousin, and a teacher also.
"She has so much ambition when she sees herself succeeding, that she invariably wears herself out."
"Have you met my roomers?" Miss Palmer inquired. He shook his head and waited, while she, with much ostentation, introduced them one by one.
"This is Mr. Jones, who carries mail upon a rural route; Mr. Farrell is a student at Tuskegee. He is spending his vacation in our city. And you have been talking with my cousin, Miss Black."
Mr. Farrell was a small creature, so black in the darkness of the night, that only a gloomy outline of his features was discernable, while his white eyes reminded Sidney as he winked them, of a pair of lightning bugs on a warm June night. This was augmented by the occasional flash of his white teeth. He was studying architectural drawing. There was another student from the same school, a West Indian Negro, and who, like his kind, was always apparently desirous of learning, and asked Sidney many questions. Mr. Jones, who happened to be another cousin of Miss Palmer, and the aforementioned mail carrier, was a suave creature who read books, and discoursed with much practical intelligence.
The following morning, Miss Palmer and Sidney were starting toward the car, on their way to canva.s.s, when they stepped in a small drugstore conducted by a tall, slender man, of about thirty-five. Wyeth had been in the store two evenings before, or the day he arrived, and overheard a big argument. He had now come to know, that this was a place for warm debate, with the druggist ever conspicuous as one of the debaters.
He had not displayed his book there, or suggested a sale to the druggist. There were certain cla.s.ses of his race to whom he never made a practice of showing the book for several reasons. The first and most significant of these reasons was, that he almost always found the Negroes who were engaged professionally, including teachers, not very appreciative of the work of their race, although any of them would have been insulted if this were told them. He had also made observation from other sources, concerning the possible sale of his book. His decision to dispense henceforth with showing the book to certain cla.s.ses, had resulted, because of a little incident the year before in Cincinnati. He had observed the same in other cities before he reached Cincinnati. In Dayton, Indianapolis, and elsewhere; but in Cincinnati, it was so evident, that he was, in a way, ashamed to tell it afterwards. This is what occurred:
The colored people were making great efforts to secure a Y.M.C.A., and were, when he left the city, within fifteen thousand dollars of the amount they were required to raise. The white people had given sixty thousand. He became well acquainted with the secretary, and it was from him that he learned, without inquiring, that, of twenty-nine colored teachers who were receiving a minimum of sixty dollars a month, twenty-one had not subscribed one dollar toward this small amount the colored people were strenuously trying to raise. And of the eight who had subscribed, five had grudgingly given one dollar each. The secretary, himself a former teacher, admitted this with great humiliation.
Wyeth had always found the teachers profuse with excuses, when it came to buying the book. And he had found the doctors little better; but, to avoid what he had grown to expect, and which he invariably met, he had decided to ignore this cla.s.s of his race. He did not offer criticism upon the whole teaching staff, because, of the three teachers out of twenty-nine in Cincinnati, who had actually contributed toward the colored Y.M.C.A., the professor had shown his sincerity and race appreciation, by subscribing one hundred dollars, and had paid it.
So Sidney Wyeth would never have shown the book to the druggist, with a view of sale, but Miss Palmer did. In her insistent manner, she urged him to buy. Now Wyeth, as was his custom, always went to the leading book store in each town, and had never failed to sell them a few books.
The leading store in Effingham had purchased ten copies, and had placed an advertis.e.m.e.nt of ten inch s.p.a.ce in the colored paper, that ran for a month, and which the druggist had seen. So, when Miss Palmer approached him insistently, he declared that he had seen the book advertised at that store, and, as was their custom, sometime during the year they offered all books at forty-nine cents, he would, if he wanted the book, purchase it then. Of course, he didn't want it, and Wyeth was provoked that Miss Palmer had even shown it to him; but Miss Palmer had, and, upon being told of these conditions, she at once ceased her efforts.
Of course, the druggist was wrong, and Wyeth knew it; but the druggist didn't. He wanted to bet--any amount, that he was right--that one of the biggest booksellers in the southland, offered all books, regardless of "best sellers," sometime during the year at forty-nine cents a copy. It cost the druggist two dollars to learn that he could be wrong, or mistaken at least, even if he had _been to school and graduated from college_, which, in the minds of his august contemporaries, meant that he _knew_ everything.
It was Miss Palmer who advised Sidney that Dr. Randall, for druggists were called doctors also, among these people, had _been to school and graduated from college_.... And Miss Palmer was much chagrined that Wyeth had acted so hastily.... For times were hard and two dollars was _something_.... If he had caught her eye when she tried so hard to get his, she would have gotten him outside for a minute, one little minute, and then she would have told him who the other was.... She was almost in tears as she remonstrated with him for his hasty act.... Miss Palmer was sincere and meant it, because, for some reason, she was unable as yet to account; she really liked Mr. Wyeth. "He has such eyes," she told her cousin when she returned, while the bet was being settled.
"Well, we have lost two hours, so we will have to get a move on us now, to make up for lost time. Of course," he said cheerfully, "I've made two dollars, which is as much, maybe more, than we would have made in the meantime----"
"You did what!" Miss Palmer was amazed.
It was some time before she could be brought to believe it.
"We will go to a different part of the quarter today," she said after a time. Wyeth looked at her. Miss Palmer was very kind. And Sidney Wyeth longed for kindness. When he saw Miss Palmer as she was that day, he felt something amiss in his heart. She had said nothing today; whereas, yesterday she had acted, he thought, boldly.
The car now seemed to be flying through s.p.a.ce. It roared like a mad thing, and filled him with a peculiar feeling; exhilaration overwhelmed him. For one moment he forgot everything, and he felt a burning desire to touch the woman. At his side sat Miss Palmer. She had been kind to him, even though he had known her almost no time. And then suddenly his hand found hers, and, closing over it one moment, he crushed it. A moment later the impulse had pa.s.sed.
The powerful car thundered on its way.
Miss Palmer worked hard that day. All the hours through, she talked and talked. She simply _made_ those black people buy. "The story of a young man, a young man of our race, who had the strength and courage of a pioneer, went alone into the wilds of the great northwest, and there made conquest. Think of that as an example, and incentive to effort for your children!" They nodded and joined her in seriousness, though they knew not what it all meant; but they did feel the strength of her eyes, and the insistence held them.
Wyeth suggested the route.
She offered no objection. Whither he suggested, she followed meekly, almost subserviently. And always, she sought, whenever she could get his attention, his eyes, and into them she looked for something; but it was ever something unfathomable she saw therein. But the more she was unable to fathom those depths, the more her eagerness to do so became apparent.
She talked of her work as a teacher, she told him then of her ambition, and her hopes; but Miss Palmer, withal she felt that day, could not, somehow, impart the secret of her great ambition. Vainly she tried, in her most artful way, to have him tell her something--something of himself.
But he never did. That made it harder for Miss Palmer, for soon, she felt, she just _had_ to know.
"Over there," said she, pointing to a row of new houses, uniform in splendor, "are homes that are beautiful and still economical. It is my intention to begin the purchase of one of them next year. All the people living there in those houses are personal acquaintances of mine and friends. And, as you will observe, there is a school just around the corner, which adds greatly to the value of the property. I want also to buy another home in that neighborhood, as soon as I have the first one well under payment, and so have it paid for by the time my boy becomes of age."
"Your boy!"
"Yes," she admitted, with a tired, hard smile.
"Oh...."
"I have been married."
"Oh...."
"But am now a widow."
"Oh...."
"But not by death."
"Oh...."
"No; _he_ is not dead--at least he wasn't a month ago." She shrugged her shoulders, and went on now somewhat doggedly. "I am a gra.s.s widow, and you know what that means...."
He made no answer; but she knew he heard her, and was listening. She went on as only an unsuccessful and unhappy woman could. "Yes, when a woman marries a man that she loves, and gives to him the best that's in her, and, after years, is forced to give up the fight, her very heart, for a piece of paper marked 'divorce,' she is never the same woman she was, and might have continued to be. There are those who say: 'Oh, I don't care;' but I'm going to tell you, they do. The woman lives on apparently gay, but her heart is dead within her." For a long time now, there was silence. Presently, she spoke again.
"I am living entirely now for my little boy. He is all I have, and I am willing, I feel, to slave until the skin falls from my fingers, that he may have his chance. I am planning to graduate him as early as possible, and place him in a good northern school in the study of medicine."
Again Sidney Wyeth felt a peculiarity about his heart. His thoughts went back into yesterdays, and he recalled all that he had lived and hoped for, and then for one brief moment, another stood before him. Miss Palmer was talking, but her voice seemed to come from far away.
Presently she touched him. He looked up and she saw the _something_ in his eyes, and suddenly all she had been feeling pa.s.sed, as she now observed him closely. Her lips parted. They started to say: "You strange man. You've had your troubles too." And then something else seemed to say: "But you're game, oh you're game. You've lived a bitter pill, a very bitter pill. Look into those eyes; study them, and if you have suffered, and by that suffering you have learned, you can read that a secret lurks therein; you say nothing, but you feel, nevertheless." What Miss Palmer did say when her lips spoke was: "We'd better be going, Mr.
Wyeth. It's getting late. Hear the whistle of the furnace, and across from that we hear another. That belongs to the Semet Solvay; but they both are right. It's one o'clock and thirty minutes. Time to canva.s.s; we must go." Her voice was kinder now than ever.
They went.
CHAPTER FOUR