Wilson Jacobs was not such a character. She felt relieved as she realized this. When she thought again of her people, she appreciated what in time this genuine Christianity of his would mean to them, when they came to know him for the kind man he was. Her race was emotional, superstitious, but withal, patriotic and enthusiastic. Nothing, regardless of all she had seen, could make her think otherwise. And what could be the attitude of her race, her brothers, when they realized the efforts made in their behalf? Will they say:
"You want to help me? You really want to be a brother, and take me into that place and help me to lead a good, clean life? And I doubted you! I scorned your offer and cursed you and all society. Oh, merciful God, but I knew not what I did! And you say, that I am not bad, that I never was bad? That I was merely weak—weak as other human beings were? Can all this be true? I can hardly realize it. I have never known kindness. I have always been told that life held no future for me, a Negro; that by the will of our Creator, I was born to be hated, hunted and abused, a creature of no destiny, a thing to be spat upon and made a slave of, a creature without morals. You say that all this was wrong, and that I can be not only a good person, but an example for the good of others? That I am, after all, only the victim of circumstances?"
Wilson Jacobs would convince them, and, when this was done, her reward would come.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Mildred, I've Come Back"
It seemed a long way back to the city, as though he would never get there, and the train crept slowly along through the mighty swamps. But all the way, his mind was busy. Thought after thought came and went, but only one became fixed. "I love her," he cried, again and again. "I love her!" he exclaimed feverishly. "Nothing else matters—nothing else can matter, now!"
He was going to her, just as fast as the slow train would carry him, and when he arrived—beyond those conflicting moments, he got no further.
He lay back in his seat after a spell, and calmed himself to a degree that he could see it all clearly. He wanted to see her now; he wanted to look deep into the eyes that he was sure must be tired; he wanted to see behind those mirrors, and to do his share to relieve the turmoil within. After a time, his return to the office after his illness, recurred to him. He had found a letter from the publisher, and upon opening it, he had found it to contain a draft for a large sum of money. He didn't know then who had sold the book with so much success to him, and he had wondered. Strange, but it had not occurred to him then, that it was she. But now, it was all clear—everything.
"And it was Mildred all the while!" he exclaimed in a controlled voice, despite the excitement it gave him. "How could I have misunderstood so long!" And then the instance of the five thousand dollars came back to him, and the sale of his work as he had left it. True, he had given this all over to her; but the fact to be reckoned with was that she had succeeded where he had not.... She had done this without any thought of herself.... No girl with so much ability, with such constructive thoughts, would have done as she had for others, unless inspired by some divine sacrifice.