Sidney continued to gaze at the picture. There was profound silence, for neither spoke. One was not in the mood to do so, the other could not. He raised his hand mechanically to his head, as though to rid his mind of some obstruction. He tried to think coherently, but his senses were confused.
He turned, staggered slightly, groping as if blindly, for support, and passed on out into the open, and under God's pure heavens—anywhere away from the stifling air inside, and its hideous secret.
Sidney stood outside now, and the spring sun beat upon his bare head, as, with his trembling hand he shaded his eyes, and looked in the direction of the creole city. Back there he would go—he had to go! He couldn't say why—feel why—now. For, in the tangle of his confused thoughts, nothing seemed clear. But, he would go back. His hand sought his forehead again. Yes, he would go back.
Let us go back to a night when the heroine of our story got up from a drunken stupor, to find that the hour of fate—fate for the Y.M.C.A. was at hand. She had rushed breathlessly to the office of the Western Union, and had secured the money that had been transferred, at her request, from the Cincinnati bank some days before. She had known when Wilson Jacobs returned unsuccessful in his attempt, that some expedient was necessary.
When she realized a year before, that she was heiress to such a sum of money, she had worried as to what she would do with it. Her conscience would never let her touch a penny of it for personal use. It had been left on deposit, and, insofar as her daily life had been concerned, she had about forgotten it, until the climax of Wilson Jacobs' great effort had stood like a spectre before her.
For a time she had hesitated, feeling that such money should not be used for Christian purposes.... But, when she had awakened on that dreadful night, she came at once to appreciate how, through her and her alone, this effort should be realized.
So, she rushed pell mell through the streets that led to Wilson Jacobs' home. As she hurried along, visions of the great need passed fitfully through her mind. She recalled all the crime she had witnessed; thousands yearly herded on the gangs, torn mothers, prostituted sisters, homes broken up by that demon of liquor. She could see the condition which forced so many of her people to the belief that colored people could never be anything, regardless as to how much they might try.
Race prejudice, that demon of American society, had succeeded in convincing so many of these weak people that there was no future; that the only resort was to get all the excitement out of life that was possible. How they conducted themselves to secure such a life, was the one great detriment to the race, to the city, to the state, and in the end, to the United States.
As she rushed along, she could hear these poor creatures, and the words they uttered, when approached with offers for their salvation; for, in addition to the discouragement caused by race prejudice, there was another feature that was worse still—class prejudice. The folly of it. The effect was more damnable, she knew, than all the other causes, for, through it these poor creatures were made to feel that they were actually bad; bad beyond redemption, which made them unfit for the civilized world. Under this they fretted. They grew likewise to hate, and in the end, to become not only a disgrace to the race, community and state, but even enemies to society.