THE HOMESTEADER
From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
"SOMETHING HAPPENED AND I WAS STRANGELY GLAD
AND CAME HERE BECAUSE I—I—JUST HAD TO SEE YOU,
JEAN."
THE HOMESTEADER
A NOVEL
BY
OSCAR MICHEAUX
Author of "The Forged Note"
ILLUSTRATED BY W.M. FARROW
SIOUX CITY, IOWA
WESTERN BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY OSCAR MICHEAUX
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
BELOVED MOTHER
THIS
TO
YOU
PUBLISHERS TO THE READER
How much of the story of Jean Baptiste is a work of the
author's own imagination and how much comes from an authentic
source we do not consider it necessary to say. But that he
has in this instance drawn more largely and directly from fact
than is the practice of the novelist is admitted, and we have his
consent therefore, to make certain statements concerning himself
that relate to the story, and why he has written it.
To begin with, that which any writer has been more closely
associated with, are the things he can best portray. Wherefore,
in "THE HOMESTEADER," Oscar Micheaux has written
largely along the lines he has lived, and, naturally of what
he best knows. His experience has been somewhat unusual;
his association largely out of the ordinary. Born thirty-three
years ago in Southern Illinois, he left those parts at an early
age to come into his larger education in the years that followed
through extensive traveling and a varied association. Purchasing
a relinquishment on a homestead in South Dakota at
the age of twenty; five years later he had succeeded and owned
considerable lands in the country wherein he had settled.
Always literarily inclined he wrote articles for newspapers and
magazines as a beginner, and then during his twenty-sixth and
twenty-seventh years occurred the conflicting incident that
changed the whole course of his life, and gave him more than
anything else, the subsequent material for the building of this
story.
Shortly after this his first book appeared, and he at last
had found his calling. He wrote his second book two years
later. But the episode that had changed his life from ranching
to writing was ever in his mind and always so forcibly until he
was never a contented man until he had written it—and "The
Homesteader" is the story.
CONTENTS
ILLUSTRATIONS
| "Something happened and I was strangely glad and came here
because I—I just had to see you, Jean" |
Frontispiece |
|
FACING
PAGE |
| He was young, The Homesteader—just passed twenty-two—and
vigorous, strong, healthy and courageous |
22 |
| He raised on an elbow and looked into her face while she staggered
forward in great surprise |
35 |
| "But, Jean, the cases are not parallel. What I did for you I
would have done for anybody. It was merely an act of
providence; but yours—oh, Jean, can't you understand!" |
138 |
| "Miss Pitt was so anxious to meet you and I was, too, because
I think you and her would like each other. She's an awfully
good girl and willing to help a fellow" |
159 |
| "He's going to kill you out here to make him rich, and then
when you are dead and—" "Please don't, father!" she almost
screamed. She knew he was going to say: "in your
grave, he will marry another woman to enjoy what you have
died for," but she could not quite listen to that |
245 |
| He tried to throw off the uncanny feeling, but it seemed to
hang on like grim death. And as he stood enmeshed in its
sinister thraldom, he thought he saw her rise and point an
accusing finger at him |
518 |
LEADING CHARACTERS
Agnes, Whose Eyes Were Baffling
Jean Baptiste, The Homesteader
Jack Stewart, Agnes' Father
Augustus M. Barr, an Infidel
Isaac Syfe, a Jew
Peter Kaden, The Victim
N. Justine McCarthy, a Preacher
Orlean, his Daughter, Without the Courage of Her Convictions
Ethel, her Sister, Who Was Different
Glavis, Ethel's Husband
Eugene Crook, a Banker
[Pg 13]
EPOCH THE FIRST
THE HOMESTEADER
CHAPTER I
AGNES
THEIR cognomen was Stewart, and three years had
gone by since their return from Western Kansas
where they had been on what they now chose to regard
as a "Wild Goose Chase." The substance was, that as
farmers they had failed to raise even one crop during the
three years they spent there, so had in the end, therefore, returned
broken and defeated to the rustic old district of Indiana
where they had again taken up their residence on a
rented farm.
Welcomed home like the "return of the prodigal," the
age old gossip of "I told you so!" had been exchanged,
and the episode was about forgotten.
But there was one in the family, the one with whom our
story is largely concerned, who, although she had found
little in Western Kansas to encourage her to stay there,
had not, on the other hand, found much cheer back in old
Indiana so long as they found no place to live but "Nubbin
Ridge." Although but a girl, it so happened through circumstances
over which she had no control, that whatever
she thought or did, concerned largely the whole family's
welfare or destiny.
Her father was a quaint old Scotchman, coming directly
from Scotland to this country, a Highlander from the highest
of the Highlands, and carried the accent still. But concerning
her mother, she had never known her. Indeed, few[Pg 14]
had known her mother intimately; but it was generally understood
that she had been the second wife of her father,
and that she had died that Agnes might live. She was
the only offspring by this marriage, although there were
two boys by the first union. These lived at home with her
and her father, but were, unfortunately, half-witted. Naturally
Agnes was regarded as having been fortunate in being
born of the second wife. But, what seemed rather
singular, unlike her half brothers who were simple, she, on
the other hand, appeared to be possessed with an unusual
amount of wit; rare wit, extraordinary wit.
She was now twenty, and because she possessed such
sweet ways, she was often referred to as beautiful, although,
in truth she was not. Her face was somewhat square, and
while there was a semblance of red roses in her cheeks when
she smiled, her complexion was unusually white—almost
pale. Her mouth, like her face, was also inclined to be
square, while her lips were the reddest. She had a chin
that was noticeable due to the fact that it was so prominent,
and her nose was straight almost to the point where it took
a slight turn upwards. It was her hair, however, that was
her greatest attraction. Unusually long, it was thick and
heavy, of a flaxen tint, and was her pride. Her eyes, however,
were a mystery—baffling. Sometimes when they
were observed by others they were called blue, but upon
second notice they might be taken for brown. Few really
knew their exact color, and to most they were a puzzle.
There was a flash about them at times that moved people,
a peculiarity withal that even her father had never been
able to understand. At such times he was singularly
frightened, frightened with what he saw, and what he didn't
see but felt. Always she then reminded him of her mother
whom he had known only briefly before taking her as his[Pg 15]
wife. He had loved her, this wife, and had also feared
her as he now feared this daughter when her eyes flashed.
Her mother had kept a secret from him—and the world!
In trust she left some papers. What they contained he did
not know, and would not until the day before she, Agnes,
was to marry; and should she not marry by the time she
reached thirty, the papers were to be given her then anyhow.
And so Jack Stewart had resigned himself to the situation;
had given her the best education possible, which had not
been much. She had gone through the grade schools, however,
and barely succeeded in completing two years of the
high school course. The love that he had been deprived of
giving her mother because of her early death he had given to
Agnes; she was his joy, his pride. She read to him because
his eyes were not the best; she wrote his letters, consulted
with him, assisted and conducted what business he
had, and had avoided the society of young men.
So we have met, and know some little of the girl we are
to follow. In the beginning of our story, we find her anything
but contented. Living in quaint old "Nubbin Ridge,"
could not, to say the most, be called illustrious. It was a
small district where the soil was very poor—as poor, perhaps,
as Indiana afforded. So poor indeed, that it was
capable of producing nothing but nubbins (corn) from which
it derived its name. When a man went to rent a farm in
"Nubbin Ridge" he was considered all in, down and out....
To continue life there was to grow poorer. It was a
part of the state wherein no one had ever been known to
grow rich, and Stewarts had proven no exception to the
rule. But this story is to be concerned only briefly with
"Nubbin Ridge," so we will come back to the one around
whom it will in a measure center.
Her chief accomplishments since their disastrous con[Pg 16]quest
of Western Kansas had been the simple detail of
keeping a diary. But at other times she had attempted
musical composition and had even sent the same to publishers,
one after another. Of course all she sent had duly
come back, and she had by this time grown to expect the
returned manuscripts as the inevitable. But since sending
the same gave her a diversion, she had kept it up—and had
today received a letter! A letter, that was all, and a short
one at that; but even a letter in view of her previous experiences
was highly appreciated. It stated briefly that her
composition had been carefully examined—studied, but
had, they very much regretted to inform her, been found
unavailable for their needs. Although they had returned
the same, they wished to say that she had shown some merit—"symptoms"
she thought would have sounded better—and
that they would always be patient and glad to examine
anything she might be so kind as to submit!
She read the letter over many times. Not that she hoped
that doing so would bring her anything, but because in her
little life in "Nubbin Ridge" there was so little to break
the usual monotonous routine. When she had read and
studied it until she knew every letter by heart, she sighed,
picked up her diary, and wrote therein:
There is little to record tonight. Today just passed was
like yesterday, and yesterday was like the day before that,
except it rained yesterday, and it didn't the day before.
Papa and Bill and George have just completed picking
corn—nubbins, the kind and only thing that grows in Nubbin
Ridge. Verily does the name fit the production! We
will perhaps have enough when it is sold to pay the rent,
send to Sears & Roebuck for a few things, and that's all.
George wants a gun and thinks he's worked hard enough[Pg 17]
this summer to earn one. He has found one in the catalogue
that can be had for $4.85 and is all heart that papa will get
it for him; along with four boxes of shells that will, all
told, reach $6.00. Little enough, to say the least, for a
summer's work! Bill has his mind set on a watch, but
papa bought him a suit of clothes that cost $5.89 two months
ago when we sold the hogs, so I don't think Bill will get in
on anything this fall or winter. As for me, I would like
to have a dress that I see can be had through a catalogue
for a reasonable sum; but if it will crowd papa I will say
nothing about it. He has the mortgage on the horses to
pay, and by the time we get the few other necessities, it
will not leave much, if anything.
Later—Papa has been growing very restless of late. I
don't wonder, either. Any one that had any energy, any
spark of ambition, would grow restless or crazy in Nubbin
Ridge! The very name smacks of poverty, ignorance and
degeneration! But a real estate man from South Dakota
has been in the neighborhood for a week, and has told some
wonderful tales of opportunities out there. He has made
it plain to papa that Western Kansas has been a failure to
thousands of people for forty years; that South Dakota is
different; that the rainfall is abundant; the climate is the
best, and that every renter in Indiana should there proceed
forthwith. I'm surprised that he should waste his time
talking with papa who has no money, but he seems to be
just as anxious for him to go as he is for others. Perhaps
it's because he wishes a crowd. A crowd even though
some are poor would, I imagine, appear more like business.
Bill and George are full for going, and papa has hinted
to me as to whether I would like it. How should I know?
It couldn't be worse than this place even if it was the jumping
off place of all creation! I have about come to the[Pg 18]
place where I am willing to try anywhere once. There
surely must be some place in this wide world where people
have a chance to rise. Of course, with us—poor Bill and
George, and papa's getting old, I don't suppose we will ever
get hold of much anywhere. But the real estate man says
we could all take homesteads; that in those parts—I cannot
quite call the name, I'll study a while.... The Rosebud
Country, is what he called it—there had been a great land
opening, and there would be another in a few years. That
we could go out now and rent on a place, raise big crops
and get in good financial circumstances by the time the
opening comes, go forth then and all take homesteads and
grow rich! It sounds fishy—us growing rich; but since
we have nothing we couldn't lose.
He says that people have grown wealthy in two years;
that among the successful men—those who have made it
quickly—is a colored man out there who came from—he
couldn't say just where; but that if a colored man could
make it, and get money together, surely any one else should.
I will close this now because it is late, the light is low; besides
I'm sleepy, and since that is surely one thing a person
can do with success in "Nubbin Ridge," I will retire and
have my share of it.
A month later—It has happened! We are going
West! The real estate man has gone back, and papa has
been out there. He is carried away with the country. Says
it is the greatest place on earth. I won't attempt to put
down the wonders he has told of. Rich land to be rented
for one-third of the crops—and we pay two-fifths in
Nubbin Ridge where there is no soil, just a sprinkling of
dust over the surface. Has rented a place already, and
has made arrangements with the man that we owe to give
him a year's time to pay the two hundred dollars. So[Pg 19]
we have enough to get out there and buy seed next spring!
Everybody says we are going on another "Wild Goose
Chase," but they would say that if we were going into
the next county. It would seem better, however, if we
would wait until spring, but Papa is getting ready to
go right after Xmas. That settles it! I will make no more
notes in this diary until we have reached the "promised
land." In the meantime I am full of dreams, dreams,
dreams! I had a strange dream last night; a real dream in
which things happened! Always I have those day dreams,
but last night I had a real dream. I dreamed that we went
out to this country and that we rented and lived on a farm
near the colored man the real estate man spoke of. I
dreamed that he was an unusual man, a wonderful personality,
and that we—he and I—became very close friends!
That a strange murder occurred near where we went; a
murder that no one could ever understand; but that in after
years it was all made plain—and I was involved! Think
of such a dream! Me being involved in anything; I, of
"Nubbin Ridge!" I am sure that if I told out there the
name of the place from where we came they would think
we were crazy! But that was not all the dream—and it
was all so plain! It frightens me when I think of it. I
cannot realize how I could have had such a strange dream.
I dreamed after we had been there a while that I fell in love—but
it's the man I fell in love with which makes the
dream so unusual, and—impossible! Yet there is a saying
that nothing is impossible!
I will not record here or describe the one with whom I
fell in love. Strangely I feel that I should wait. I cannot
say why, but something seems to caution me; to tell me not
to say more now.
There remains but one thing more. Yesterday I hap[Pg 20]pened
to glance at myself in the mirror. As if by magic I
was drawn closer and studied myself, studied something
in my features I had never seen before—at least not in
that way. I observed then my hands. They, too, appeared
unlike they had been before. It seems to have been the
dream that prompted me to look—and the dream that revealed
this about myself that I cannot understand. My eyes
did not appear the same; they were as if—as if, they
belonged to some other! My lips were red as usual; but
there was about them something too I had not seen before:
they appeared thicker, and as I studied them in the mirror
more closely, I couldn't resist that singularity in my eyes.
They became large and then small; they were blue, so blue,
and then they were brown. It was when they appeared
brown that I could not understand. I will close now for
I wish to think. My brain is afire, I must think, think,
think!
[Pg 21]
CHAPTER II
THE HOMESTEADER
THE DAY was cold and dark and dreary. A storm
raged over the prairie,—a storm of the kind that
seem to come only over the northwest. Over the
wide, unbroken country of our story, the wind screamed as
if terribly angry. It raced across the level stretches, swept
down into the draws, where draws were, tumbled against the
hillsides, regained its equilibrium and tore madly down the
other side, as if to destroy all in its path. A heavy snow
had fallen all the morning, but about noon it had changed to
fine grainy missiles that cut the face like cinders and made
going against it very difficult. Notwithstanding, through
it—directly against it at most times, The Homesteader
struggled resolutely forward. He was shielded in a measure
by the horses he was driving, whose bulks prevented
the wind from striking him in the face, and on the body at
all times. At other times—and especially when following
a level stretch—he got close to the side of the front wagon
with its large box loaded with coal, which towered above his
head and shoulders.
Before him, but not always, the dim line of the trail,
despite the heavy snow that had fallen that morning, was
outlined. Perhaps it was because he had followed it—he
and his horses—so often before in the two years since he
had been West, that he was able to keep to its narrow way
without difficulty today. And still, following it was not as
difficult as following other trails, for it was an old, old[Pg 22]
trail. So old indeed was it, that nobody knew just how
old it was, nor how far it reached. It was said that Custer
had gone that way to meet his massacre; that Sitting Bull
knew it best; but to The Homesteader, he hoped to be able
to follow it only as long as the light of day pointed the
way. When night came—but upon that he had not reckoned!
To be caught upon it by darkness was certain death,
and he didn't want to die.
He was young, The Homesteader—just passed twenty-two—and
vigorous, strong, healthy and courageous. His
height was over six feet and while he was slender he was
not too much so. His shoulders were slightly round but
not stooped. His great height gave him an advantage now.
He followed his horses with long, rangy strides, turning his
head frequently as if to give the blood a chance to circulate
about and under the skin of his wide forehead. The fury of
the storm appeared to grow worse, judging from the way the
horses shook their bridled heads; or perhaps it was growing
colder. Almost continually some of the horses were striking
the ice from their nosepoints; while very often The Homesteader
had to rest the lines he held while he forced the
blood to his finger tips with long swings of his arms back
and forth across his breast.
His claim lay many miles yet before him, and his continual
gaze toward the west was to ascertain how long the
light of day was likely to hold out. Behind, far to the rear,
lay the little town of Bonesteel which he had left that morning,
and now regretted having done so. But the storm had
not been so bad then, and because the snow was falling he
had conjectured it would be better to reach home before it
became too deep or badly drifted. As it was now he was
encountering all this and some more.
From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
HE WAS YOUNG, THE HOMESTEADER—JUST PASSED
TWENTY-TWO—AND VIGOROUS, STRONG, HEALTHY
AND COURAGEOUS.
"Damn!" he cried as they passed down a slope to where[Pg 23]
the land divided, and where the wind seemed to hit hardest.
His course lay directly northwest, straight against the wind
which he could only avoid by hanging the lines over the
lever of the brake and fall in behind the trail wagon.
But this, unfortunately, placed him too far away from
the horses. He had walked all the way, for to walk was
apparently the only way to keep from freezing. He soon
reached the other side of the draw, and when he had
come to the summit beyond, he groaned. Ahead of him
just above the dark horizon the sun came suddenly from
beneath the clouds. On either side of it, great, gasping sundogs
struggled. They seemed to vie with the red sinking
orbit; and as he continued his anxious gazing in that direction
they seemed to have triumphed, for as the sun sank
lower and lower, they appeared suddenly empowered with
a mighty force for only a few minutes later the sun had
fallen into the great abyss below and the night was on!
"We can make it yet, boys," he cried to his horses as if
to cheer them. And as if they understood, they crashed
forward with such vigor that he was thrown almost into
a trot to keep up.
As to how long it went on thus, or as to how far they
had gone, he was not able to reckon; but out of the now
pitch darkness he became conscious of a peculiar longing.
He had a vision of his sod house that stood on the claim,
and he saw the small barn with its shed and the stalls for
four. He saw the little house again with its one room,
the little monkey stove with an oven on the chimney, and
imagined himself putting a pan of baking powder bread
therein. He saw his bed, a large, wide, dirty—'tis true—but
a warm bed, nevertheless. He fancied himself creeping
under the covers and sleeping the sound way he always did.
He could not understand his prolific thoughts that followed.[Pg 24]
He thought of his boyhood back in old Illinois; he
took stock of the surroundings he had left there; he
lived briefly through the discontentment that had ultimately
inspired him to come West. And then he had
again those dreams. Regardless of where his train of
wandering thoughts began or of where they followed,
always they were sure to end upon this given point, the
girl. The girl of his dreams—for he had no real girl.
There had never been a real girl for Jean Baptiste, for
this was his name. In the years that had preceded his
coming hither, it had been one relentless effort to get the
few thousands together with which to start when he finally
came West. At that he had been called lucky. He had no
heritage, had Jean Baptiste. His father had given him
only the French name that was his, for his father had been
poor—but this instant belongs elsewhere. His heritage,
then, had been his indefatigable will; his firm determination
to make his way; his great desire to make good. But we
follow Jean Baptiste and the girl.
Only a myth was she. She had come in a day dream
when he came West, but strangely she had stayed. And,
singularly as it may seem, he was confident she would come
in person some day. He talked with her when he was
lonely, and that was almost every day. He told her why
he had come West, because he felt it was the place for young
manhood. Here with the unbroken prairie all about him;
with its virgin soil and undeveloped resources; and the fact
that all the east, that part of the east that was Iowa and
Illinois had once been as this now was, had once been as
wild and undeveloped and had not then been worth any more—indeed,
not so much. Here could a young man work
out his own destiny. As Iowa and Illinois had been developed,
so could this—so would this also be developed.[Pg 25]
And as railways had formed a network of those states, so
in time would they reach this territory as well. In fact it
was inevitable what was to come, the prime essential, therefore,
for his youth, was to begin with the beginning—and
so he had done.
So he had come, had Jean Baptiste, and was living alone
with a great hope; with a great hope for the future of this
little empire out there in the hollow of God's hand; with
a great love, too, for her, his dream girl. So in his prolific
visions he talked on with her. He told her that it was
a long way to the railroad now—thirty-two miles. He had
that far to haul the coal he and others burned. There were
yet no fences, and while there were section lines, they were
rarely followed. It was nearer by trail. But he was
patient, he was perseverant. Time would bring all else—and
her. He had visions of her, she was not beautiful; she
might not be vivacious, for that belonged to the city; but
she was good. Always he understood everything that was
hers, and he was confident she would understand him. Her
name was sweet and easily pronounced. How he loved to
call it!
He staggered at times now and didn't know why. He had
wanted to be home and in his bed where he could sleep;
but home as he now regarded it was too far. He couldn't
make it, and didn't need to. Why should they blunder and
pull so hard to get home when all about them was a place
where they could rest. The prairie was all about; and he
had slept on the ground before with only the soft grass beneath
him. Why, then, must he continue on and on!
The air was pleasant—warm and luxuriant, and he,
Jean Baptiste, was very tired—oh, how tired he really
was!
It was settled! He had gone far enough. He would[Pg 26]
make his bed right where he was. He called to the horses.
But somehow they didn't seem to hear. He called again
then, he thought, louder, and still they failed to hear. He
wondered at their stubbornness. They were good horses
and had never disobeyed before. He called now again at
the top of his voice, but they heeded him not; in the meantime
forging onward, onward and onward! It occurred to
him to drop the reins, but such had never been a custom.
Within his tired, freezing and brain-fagged mind, there was
a resolution that made him cling to them, but struggling to
pull them down to a stop he continued.
And as he followed them now onward toward the sod
house that stood on the claim, all realism seemed to desert
him; he became a chilled mechanician; he seemed to have
passed into the infinite where all was vague; where turmoil
and peculiar strife only abided.... For Jean Baptiste did
not understand that he was on the verge of freezing.
Stewarts were pleased with the country. They had arrived
in early January. The weather had not been bad,
although the wind blew much stronger here than it did in
Indiana. However, they had not forgotten how it blew
in Western Kansas and were therefore accustomed to it.
The house upon the place they had rented was small,
just four rooms, but it was well built and was warm. A
village was not far. The people in it called it a town, but
you see they were enthusiastic. To be more amply provided
they could get what they needed at Gregory which
was seven miles. Seven miles was not far to one who could
ride horseback, and this Agnes had learned in Western
Kansas.
"You had best not go to town today, my girl," cautioned
Jack Stewart, her father, as she made ready to ride to[Pg 27]
Gregory after ordering Bill to saddle Dolly, the gray mare
that was their best.
"Tut, tut, papa," she chided. "This is a day to take the
benefit of this wonderful air. The low altitude of Nubbin
Ridge made me sallow; there was no blood in my cheeks.
Here—ah, a nice horseback ride to Gregory will be the
best yet for me!"
"I don't like the wind—and so much snow with it," he
muttered, looking out with a frown upon his face.
"But the snow is not like it was," she argued, almost
ready. "It's letting up."
"It's growing finer, which is evidence that it is growing
colder."
"Better still," she cried, jumping about frolickingly, her
lithe young body as agile as an athlete's. "Now, dada," she
let out winsomely, "I shall dash up to Gregory, get all we
need, and be back before the sun goes down!" And with
that she kissed away further protest, swung open wide the
door, stepped out and vaulted lightly into the saddle. A
moment later she was gone, but not before her father cried:
"If you should be delayed, stay the night in town. Above
all things, don't let the darkness catch you upon the
prairie!"[Pg 28]
CHAPTER III
AT THE SOD HOUSE
SHE enjoyed the horseback ride to Gregory. Although
she trembled at times from the sting of the intense
cold, the exercise the riding gave her body kept the
blood circulating freely, and she made the trip to the little
town without event.
Once there, after thawing the cold out of her face and
eyes, she proceeded to do her trading, filling the saddlebags
to their fullest.
"Which way do you live from town?" inquired the
elderly man who waited upon her at the general store where
she was doing her trading.
"Seven miles southeast," she replied.
"Indeed!" he cried as if surprised. "But you didn't
come from there today—this afternoon? That would be
directly against this storm!"
She nodded.
"Well, now, who would have thought you could have
made it! 'Tis an awful day without," he cried as he regarded
her in wonder.
"It wasn't warm, I admit," she agreed; "but I didn't
seem to mind it so much!"
"You will not go back today—rather tonight?"
"Oh, yes."
"But it would be very risky. Look! It's grown dark
already!" She looked out and observed that it had really[Pg 29]
grown almost pitch dark during the few minutes she had
lingered inside. She was for a moment at a loss for a
reply, then, conscious that the wind would be to her back,
she laughed lightly as she said:
"Oh, I shan't mind. It will take me less than forty minutes,
and then it'll all be over," and she laughed low and
easily again. The man frowned as he pursued:
"I don't like to see you start, a stranger in such a night
as this. Since settlement following a trail is rather treacherous.
One may leave town on one, but be on some other
before they have gone two miles. And while the wind will
be to your back, the uncertainty of direction, should you
happen to look back or even around, is confusing. One
loses sense of the way they are going. I'd suggest that you
stick over until morning. It would be safer," he concluded,
shaking his head dubiously.
"Oh, I am not afraid," she cried cheerfully. She was
ready then, and with her usual dash, she crossed the short
board walk, vaulted into the saddle, and a few minutes
later the dull clatter of her horse's hoofs died in the distance.
With the wind to her back she rode easily. She enjoyed
the exercise the riding gave her, and was thrilled instead of
being frightened over what was before her. She followed
quite easily the trail that had taken her into the village.
In due time she passed a house that she had observed when
going in that stood to one side of the trail, and then suddenly
the mare came to an abrupt halt. She peered into the darkness
before her. A barbwire fence was across the trail.
She could not seem to recall it being there on her way in.
Yet she argued with herself that she might have come around
and not noticed it. For a moment she was in doubt as to
which way to go to get around it. As she viewed it, it did
not extend perhaps more than a quarter mile or a half at[Pg 30]
the most, after which she could come around to the other
side and strike the trail again. She gave the ever faithful
mare rein and they sailed down the fence line to where she
estimated it must shortly end.
She did not know that this was the old U-Cross fence,
and that because it stood on Indian land, it had not been
taken up when the great ranch had been moved into the
next county when giving up to the settler. In truth only a
few steps to her right she had left the trail she had followed
into town. The old trail had been cut off when The Homesteader
in whose house she had seen the light, had laid out
his claim, and it was this which caused the confusion. She
did not know that one could go to town, or to the railroad
today and returning on the morrow, find the route changed.
Homesteaders were without scruples very often in such matters.
The law of the state was that before a followed trail
was cut off, it should be advertised for five weeks in advance
to that effect; but not one in twenty of the settlers knew
that such a law existed.
So Agnes Stewart had ridden fully two miles before she
became apprehensive of the fact that she had lost her way.
Now the most practical plan for her would been to have
turned directly about and gone back to where she had started
down the fence. But, charged with impatient youth, she
sought what she felt to be the quickest way about. Now
upon looking closely she could see that wires hung down in
places and that a post here and there had sagged. She urged
the mare over a place and then, once over, went in the direction
she felt was home. The stiff, zero night air had somewhat
dulled her, and she made the mistake of looking back,
thereby confusing her direction to the point where after a
few minutes she could not have sworn in what direction
she was going, except that the wind was still at her back.[Pg 31]
She peered into the darkness before her. She thought
there would be lights of homesteaders about, and while
there was, the storm made it impossible for her to see them.
After a time she became alarmed, and recalled her father's
warning, also the store-keeper's. But her natural determination
was to go on, that she would get her bearings, presently.
So, with a jerking of her body as if to stimulate
circulation of the blood, she bent in the saddle and rode another
mile or more. She had crossed draws, ascended
hills, had stumbled over trails that always appeared to lead
in the wrong direction, and at last gave up for lost at
a summit where the wind and fine snow chilled her to
the marrow. She was thoroughly frightened now. She
thought to return to Gregory, but when she turned her eyes
against the wind, she could catch no sight of anything.
She was sure then that she could not make it back there had
she wished to. Not knowing what to do she allowed the
mare to trot ahead without any effort to direct her. She
had not gone far before she realized that they were following
a level stretch. And because she seemed to keep warm
when the horse moved, she allowed the mare to continue.
A half mile she estimated had been covered when out of
the darkness some dark shape took outline. She peered
ahead; the mare was ambling gently toward it, and she saw
after a time that it was a quaint, oblong structure, a sod
house apparently, many of which she had observed since
coming West into the new country. She was relieved. At
least she was not to freeze to death upon the prairie, a fact
that she had begun to regard as a possibility a few minutes
before. The mare fell into a walk and presently came up to
a low, square house, built of sod, with its odd hip roof reposing
darkly in the outline. She called, "Hello," and was
patient. The wind bit into her, and she was conscious of[Pg 32]
the bitter cold, and that she was beginning to feel its severe
effects. There was no response, and she called again, dismounting
in the meantime. When she saw no one she
went around to where she observed a low door at which
she knocked vigorously. From all appearances the place
was occupied, but no one was at home. She tried the
knob. It gave, and she pushed the door open cautiously.
All was darkness within. Then, dropping the bridle reins
she ventured inside. She could not understand why her
feet made no sound upon the floor, but in truth there was no
floor except the earth. She felt in her coat pocket and
presently produced a match. When the flaring light illuminated
the surroundings, she gazed about. It was, she
quickly observed, a one room house. There was at her side
a monkey stove with an oven on the pipe; while at her left
stood a table with dishes piled thereupon. There was also
a lantern on the table and this she adjusted and lighted before
the blaze died. She swung this about, and saw there
was a bed with dirty bed clothing, also a trunk, some boxes
and what nots.
"A bachelor, I'd wager," she muttered, and then blushed
when she considered her position. She looked about further,
and upon seeing fuel, proceeded to build a fire. This
done, she passed outside, found a path that extended northwest,
and, leading the horse, soon came to a small barn.
Here she saw two stalls with a manger filled with hay.
She had to push the mare back to keep her from entering
and making herself at home. She passed around the barn
and entered the door of a small shed, for cattle obviously,
but empty. Hay was in the manger, and, taking the bits
from the mare's mouth, she tied the reins to the manger,
unsaddled, and, leaving the shed after fastening the door,
she carried the saddle with her to the house.[Pg 33]
The little stove was roaring from the fire she had started,
and she was surprised to find the room becoming warm.
She placed the saddle in a convenient position and lifted
her cap, whereupon her heavy hair fell over her shoulders.
She caught it up and wound it into a braid quickly, guiltily....
She unbuttoned her coat then, and took a seat.
"There is no one here," she muttered to herself. "So
since I don't know the way home, and there's no one here
to tell me, guess I'll have to give it up until morning." She
was thoughtful then. This was something of an adventure.
Lost upon the prairie: a bachelor's homestead: there alone.
Then suddenly she started. From the storm swept outside
she thought she caught a sound, and thereupon became
quickly alert, but the next moment her tension relaxed. It
was only the wind at the corner of the house. The room
had become warm, she was uncomfortable with the heavy
coat about her. She was conscious, moreover, that her eyes
were heavy, sleep was knocking at her door. She shook off
the depression and fell again to thinking. She wondered
who could live there and she continued in her random
thinking until shortly, unconsciously, she fell into a doze.
She could not recall whether she had dozed an hour or
a minute, but she was awakened suddenly and jumped to her
feet; for, from the storm she had caught the sound of horses
and wagons passing the house at only a short distance. She
stood terrified. Her eyes were wide, her lips were apart as
she listened to the grinding of the wagon wheels—and they
went directly toward the barn. Then all was silent, and
she placed her hand to her heart, to still the frightened
beating there. She heard the horses shake in their harness,
and came to herself. The man of the place had returned;
she had taken charge of his house, he a bachelor and
she a maid. She felt embarrassed. She got into her coat[Pg 34]
and buttoned it about her hurriedly; and then drawing the
cap over her head, she waited, expectantly, although she was
sure that time sufficient had expired, whoever drove the
teams had not come toward the house. She could hear the
horses, but she could not ascertain that they were being
unhitched. She was undecided for a moment, then, catching
up the lantern, she quickly went outside. Two wagons
loaded heavily with coal greeted her. She passed to the
front and found four horses, white with the frost from
perspiration, standing hitched to the loads. She passed to
their heads. No one was about, and she was puzzled. She
passed around to the other side, and as she did so, stumbled
over something. With the lantern raised, she peered down
and then suddenly screamed when she discovered it was a
man. Then, on second thought, fearing he had fallen from
the wagon and become injured, she put her arm through the
bail of the lantern, reached down, caught him by the shoulders
and shook him. He was not injured, she was relieved
to see; but what was the matter? In the next moment she
gave a quick start. She realized in a twinkling then, that
the man was freezing—perhaps already frozen!
From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
HE RAISED ON AN ELBOW AND LOOKED INTO HER FACE
WHILE SHE STAGGERED IN GREAT SURPRISE.
With quick intuition she reached and caught him beneath
the arms, and turning, dragged him to the house. She
opened the door, and lifting his body, carried him in her
arms across the room and laid him upon the bed. Then,
realizing that the night was severely cold, she rushed out,
closing the door behind her, and a half hour later had the
horses unhitched, unharnessed and tied in their stalls. This
done she returned hurriedly to the house to find the man
still unconscious, but breathing heavily. She did not know
at once what to do, but going to his feet, took off his shoes.
This was rather difficult, and she feared that from the way
they felt, his feet were frozen. She rubbed them vigor[Pg 35]ously,
and was relieved after a time to feel the blood circulating
and the same giving forth warmth. She sighed
with relief and then pulling off the heavy gloves, she exercised
the same proceeding with the hands, and was cheered
to feel them give forth warmth after a time. She unbuttoned
the coat at his throat, and rolling him over, managed
to get it off of him. Next she unbuttoned the collar,
drew off the cap, and for the first time saw his face. It was
swollen and very dark, she thought. She brought the
lantern closer and looked again. She gave a start then and
opened her mouth in surprise. Then she fell to thinking.
She went back to the chair beside the fire and reflected.
"It is all the same, of course," she said to herself. "But
I was just surprised. It all seems rather singular," she
mused, and tried to compose herself. The surprise she had
just experienced, had, notwithstanding her effort at self possession,
disconcerted her. She turned suddenly, for she had
caught the sound of a noise from the bed. She got up
quickly and went to him. He had turned from his side to
his back. She stood over him with the lantern raised. To
see him better she leaned over, holding the lantern so that
her face was full in the light. She had unbuttoned her
coat at the throat, and seeking more comfort, had also removed
the cap she wore. She had, however, forgotten her
hair which had been held about her head by the cap and it
now fell in braids over her slender shoulders. On the instant
the man's eyes opened. He raised on an elbow, looked
into her face, smiled wanly, and murmured:
"It is you, Agnes. You have come and oh, I am glad,
for I have waited for you so long." In the next breath he
had fallen back upon the bed and was sleeping again, while
she staggered in great surprise. Who was this man that he
should call her name and say that he had waited?[Pg 36]
But with Jean Baptiste, he snored in peace. His dream
had come true; the one of his vision had come as he had
hoped she would. But Jean Baptiste was not aware of the
debt he owed her; that through strange providence in getting
lost she had come into his sod house and saved his life.
But what he was yet to know, and which is the great problem
of our story, the girl, his dream girl, Agnes Stewart, happened
to be white, while he, Jean Baptiste, The Homesteader,
was a Negro.[Pg 37]
CHAPTER IV
SHE COULD NEVER BE ANYTHING TO HIM
JEAN BAPTISTE slept soundly all the night through,
snoring loudly at times, turning frequently, but never
awakening. And while he slept, unconscious of how
near he had come to freezing to death upon the prairie, but
for the strange coincidence of Agnes Stewart's having gotten
lost and finding him, she sat near, listening to the dull
roar of the storm outside at times; at other times casting
furtive, anxious and apprehensive glances toward the bed,
half in fear. More because the position she realized herself
to be in was awkward, not to say embarrassing.
Her eyes became heavy as the night wore on, and she
arose and walked about over the dirt floor in an attempt to
shake off the inertia. And in the meantime, the man she
had saved slept on, apparently disturbed by nothing. Presently
she approached him shyly, and, taking the coat he had
worn and which lay near, she spread it carefully over him,
then tiptoed away and regarded him curiously. Her life
had never afforded character study in a broad sense; but
for some reason, which she could not account for, she
strangely trusted the sleeping man. And because she did,
she was not in fear lest he awaken and take advantage of
the compromising circumstances. But in her life she had
met and known no colored people, and knew directly little
about the Negro race beyond what she had read. There[Pg 38]fore
to find herself lost on the wide plains, in a house alone
with one, a bachelor Homesteader, with a terrific storm
without, gave her a peculiar sensation.
When the hand of the little clock upon the table pointed
to two o'clock a.m., she put coal on the fire, became seated
in a crude rocking chair that proved notwithstanding, to be
comfortable, and before she was aware of it, had fallen
asleep. Worn out by the night's vigil, and the unusual circumstances
in which she found herself, she slept soundly
and all sense of flying time was lost upon her. The storm
subsided with the approach of morn, and the sun was peeping
out of a clear sky in the east when she awakened with a
start. She jumped to her feet. Quickly her eyes sought
the bed. It was empty. The man had arisen. She looked
out through the little window. The blizzard had left the
country gray and streaked. Buttoning her coat collar about
her throat, she adjusted her cap by pulling it well down over
her head, and ventured outside.
Never had she looked upon such a scene as met her eyes!
Everywhere, as far as she could see, was a mantle of snow
and ice. Here the snow had been swept into huge drifts
or long ridges; while there it sparkled in the sun, one endless,
unbroken sheet of white frost and ice. Here and there
over the wide expanse a lonesome claim shack reposed as if
lost; while to the northwest, she could see the little town
to which she had gone the afternoon before, rising heroically
out of the snow. Upon hearing a sound, she turned to find
The Homesteader leading her horse, saddled and bridled
from the barn. She turned her eyes away to hide the confusion
with which she was suddenly overcome, and at the
same time to try to find words with which to greet him.
"Good morning," she heard from his lips, and turned her
face to see him touch the cap he wore.[Pg 39]
"Good morning, sir," she returned, smiling with ease,
notwithstanding her confusion of a moment before.
"I judge that you must have become lost, the why you
happened along," said he pleasantly, courteously.
"I did," she acknowledged, marveled at finding herself
so much at ease in his presence, and him conscious. In the
same instance she took quick note of his speech and manner,
and was strangely pleased.
"I see," she heard him mutter. She had cast her eyes
away as if to think, but now turned again toward him to find
him regarding her intently. She saw him give a quick
start, and catch his breath as if in surprise, whereupon she
turned her eyes away. But she did not understand the
cause of his start; she did not understand that while he had
recognized her as his dream girl, that only then had he
realized that she was white, while he had naturally supposed
his dream girl would be of his own blood, Ethiopian.
He lowered his eyes as this fact played in his mind, and
as he hesitated, she again turned her eyes upon him and regarded
him wonderingly. And in that moment the instance
of the night before when he had awakened and looked up
into her eyes for the first time when she stood over him,
and had uttered the words she would never as long as she
lived, forget, came back. "It is you, Agnes. You have
come and, oh, I am glad, for I have waited for you so long."
"How did he know my name and come to say what he
did?" was the question she now again, as she had been
doing all the night through, asked herself. She prayed that
she might find a way to ask him—how deeply her curiosity
to know was aroused. And then, while she was so deeply
engrossed, abruptly he raised his head, and his eyes fell
searchingly again upon her. He saw and wondered at the
curious intentness he saw there, and as he did so, he caught[Pg 40]
that something in her eyes; he saw what she had seen before
leaving Indiana; and as she had been when she had seen it,
he too, was strangely moved and could not understand.
Apparently he forgot all else as the changing color of her
eyes held him, and while so, unconsciously he advanced a
step nearer her. She did not move away, but stood as if in
a thraldom, with a feeling stealing over her that somewhere
she had seen and known him once.... But where—where,
where! She had never known an Ethiopian, she
full well recalled; but she was positive that she had seen this
man somewhere before. Then where—where, where!
As for the man, Jean Baptiste, he seemed to relax after a
time, and looked away. He had seen her at last; she had
been his dream girl; had come in a dream and as she stood
before him she was all his wondrous vision had portrayed.
Her face was flushed by the cold air, and red roses in full
bloom were in her cheeks; while her beautiful hair, spread
over her shoulders, and fanned by a light breeze, made her
in his eyes a picture of enchantment. When he observed
her again and saw that her eyes were blue and then again
were brown, he was still mystified; but what was come over
Jean Baptiste now was the fact, the Great fact: The
fact that between him and his dream girl was a chasm
so deep socially that bridging was impossible. Because
she was white while he was black, according to the custom
of the country and its law, she could never be anything to
him....
Her back was to the rising sun, and neither had observed
that it was mounting higher in the eastern skies. She suppressed
the question that was on her lips to ask him, the
eternal question, and in that instant he came out of his
trance. He turned to her, and said:
"It was sure fortunate for me that you lost your way,"[Pg 41]
and so saying his eyes went toward the place she had found
him, and she understood. She could not repress a happy
smile that overspread her face. He saw it and was pleased.
"It was rather providential; but I would forget it. To
think that you might have frozen to death out there makes
me shudder when I recall it."
"I cannot seem to understand what came over me—that
I was in the act of freezing while I walked."
"It was a terrible night," she commented. "I, too,
might have frozen, but for the good fortune of my horse
finding your house."
"Isn't it strange," he muttered abstractedly.
"I hadn't the least idea where I was," said she, musingly.
"Such a coincidence."
"Indeed it was——, but please, shall we forget it," and
she shuddered slightly.
"Yes," he replied readily. "Where do you live?"
She pointed to where the smoke curled from the chimney
of their home, a mile and a half away.
"The Watson place? I see. You are perhaps, then,
newcomers here?"
"We are," and she smiled easily. He did also. He
handed her the bridle reins then, and said:
"I trust you will pardon my forgetfulness. Indeed I
was so absorbed in the fact that I had been saved, that I
forgot to—to be courteous."
"Oh, no, sir!" she cried quickly. "You did not.
You—" and then she broke off in her speech. It occurred
to her that she was saying too much. But strangely she
wanted to go on, strangely she wanted to know more of
him: from where he had come; of his life, for already she
could see that he was a gentleman; an unusual person—but
he was speaking again.[Pg 42]
"You have become chilled standing there—it is severely
cold. Step back into the house and warm yourself before
you start. I will hold your horse while you do so." And
he reached for the bridle reins.
She looked up into his face, and again trusted him; again
she experienced a peculiar gratitude, and turning she obeyed
him. As she stood inside over the little monkey stove a moment
later, she could see him, and appreciated how thoughtful
he was.
She returned after a few minutes, stood beside the animal
he had brought and was ready to go. Suddenly she vaulted
into the saddle. She regarded him again intently, while he
returned the same a bit abstractedly. She started to urge
the mare forward, and then she drew her to a stop before
she had gotten fully started. Impulsively she leaned forward
and stretched her hand toward him. Mechanically he
took it. She unconsciously gripped his, as she said:
"I'm glad it happened.... That I became lost and—and—you
were saved." His dark face colored with gratitude,
and he had an effort to keep from choking when he
tried to reply. In the meantime, she bestowed upon him a
happy smile, and the next moment her horse had found the
trail and was dashing along it toward the place she lived.
And as she went homeward over the hill, the man in
whose life she was later to play such a strange and intimate
part, stood looking after her long and silently.[Pg 43]
CHAPTER V
WHEN THE INDIANS SHOT THE TOWN UP
THE CLAIM of Jean Baptiste, containing 160 acres
of land, adjoined the little town of Dallas on the
north, and it was one of the surprises that Agnes
Stewart had not wandered into it when she found the sod
house and had later found Jean Baptiste in the snow.
The town had been started the winter before. A creek
of considerable depth, and plenty of water ran to the south
of it a half mile, and up this valley the promoters of the
town contended that the railroad would build. It came up
the same valley many miles below where at a way station it
suddenly lifted out of it and sought the higher land to Bonesteel.
Now the promoters, because the Railroad Company
owned considerable land where the tracks left the valley to
ascend to the highland, contended that it was the purpose
of the railroad to split the trade country by coming up the
valley, and that was why the town had been located where
it was, on a piece of land that had once belonged to an
Indian.
There were three other towns, platted by the government
along a route that did not strike Dallas, and if the railroad
should continue the route it was following where its tracks
stopped west of Bonesteel, it was a foregone conclusion that
it must hit the three government townsites.
This had ever been, and was, the great contention in the
early days of the country of our story. But to get back
to the characters in question, we must come back to the little
town near the creek valley.[Pg 44]
The winter preceding, when the town had been started,
men had chosen to cast their lot with it, and by the time
spring arrived, there was a half dozen or more business
places represented. From Des Moines a man had come and
started a lumber yard; while from elsewhere a man had
cooperated with the promoters in establishing a bank. Two
men, whose reputations were rather notorious, but who,
nevertheless, were well fitted for what they chose, started
a saloon. From a town that had no railroad in the state
on the south, a man came with a great stock of merchandise.
A weazened creature had been made postmaster; while a
doctor, beliquored until he was uncertain, had come hither
with a hope of redemption and had hung out his shingle.
He was succeeding in the game of reform (?) as the best
customer the saloon had. A tired man was conducting a
business in a building that had been hauled many miles and
was being used as a hotel. Many other lines of business
were expected, but at this time the interest was largely in
who the settlers were that had come, and those who were
to come.
A beautiful quarter section of land joined the town on
the east, and the man who had drawn it had already established
his residence thereupon, so that he was known. On
the south the land was the allotment of an Indian; while
the same was true on the west. Naturally, when it was
reported that a Negro held the place on the north, considerable
curiosity prevailed to meet this lone Ethiopian.
But Jean Baptiste was a mixer, a jolly good fellow of the
best type and by this time such was well known. As to
where he had come from, we know; but his name had occasioned
much comment because it was odd. To make it
more illustrious, the settlers had added "Saint," so he was
now commonly know as St. Jean Baptiste. The doctor,[Pg 45]
whose name was Slater, had improved even upon this. He
called him "St. John the Baptist." But nobody took Doc
very seriously. So full was he of red liquor most of the
time, that he was regarded as a joke except in his profession.
Here he was considered one of the best,—his redeeming
feature.
The coal The Homesteader had hauled from Bonesteel
was not all for himself, but for the lumber yard which sold
it at fifteen dollars the ton, and the quality was soft, and
not of the best grade at that.
He hauled it into town the morning following the episode
of our story, and after unloading it and taking his check
for the hauling, returned home, took care of his stock, and
upon returning to town, forgot to relate anything concerning
his experiences.... Perhaps he forgot.... Jean
Baptiste could be depended upon to forget some things....
Especially the things that were best forgotten.
He walked across the quarter mile that lay between his
claim and the town, and up to the saloon. Inside he encountered
the usual crowd, Doc among them.
"Hello, there, St. John the Baptist," cried that one in
beliquored delight. "Did you crawl through all that
storm?"
"I'm here," laughed Baptiste. "How's Doc?"
"Finer'n a fiddle, both ends in the middle," and called
for another drink. Just one. It is said that saloons would
not be so bad if it was not for the treating nuisance. Well,
Doc could be regarded here then, as practical, for he never
bought others a drink.
"See you got your nose freezed, Baptiste," Doc laughed.
Baptiste went toward the bar, took a look at himself, and
laughed amusedly upon seeing the telltale darkness at the
point of his nose, his cheeks and his forehead.[Pg 46]
"T' hell, I didn't know that," he muttered. The crowd
laughed.
"Play you a game of Casino?" suggested Doc.
"You're on!" cried Baptiste.
After they had played awhile a Swede who lived across
the creek entered, took a seat and drawing his chair near,
watched the game. Presently he spoke. "The Indians are
coming in today, so I guess there will be a shooting up the
town."
The players paused and regarded each other apprehensively.
Others overheard the remark, and now exchanged
significant glances. This had been the one diversion of the
long winter. Indians who lived on the creek, coming into
town, getting drunk, and then as a sally ride up and down
the main street and shoot up the town. The last time this
had taken place, the bartender's wife had been frightened
into hysterics. And thereupon the bartender had sworn
that the next time this was attempted, they would have to
reckon with him.
The few people about became serious. They knew the
bartender was dangerous, and they feared the Indians,
breeds, mostly, who made this act their pastime. They
were annoyed with such doings; but were inclined to lay the
blame at the saloon door, for, although the law decreed that
Indians should not be sold liquor they were always allowed
to purchase all that they could possibly carry away with
them inside and out. So upon this announcement, those
about prepared themselves for excitement. The news
quickly spread and to augment the excitement, a few minutes
later the breeds in full regalia dashed into town. They tied
their horses at the front, and proceeded at once to the bar.
"Whiskey," they cried, shifting their spurred boots on
the barroom floor.[Pg 47]
"Sorry, boys, but I can't serve you," advised the bartender
carelessly.
"What!" they cried.
"Can't serve you. It's agin' the law, yu' know."
"T' hell with the law!" exclaimed one.
"I didn't make it," muttered the bartender.
"You've been playing hell enforcing it," retorted another.
"Now, don't get rough, my worthy," cautioned the bartender.
"Give us what we called for, and none of this damn
slush then," cried one, toying with the gun at his holster.
The bartender observed this and got closer to the bar for a
purpose. Those about, being of the peaceful kind, began
shifting toward the door.
"We've been breakin' the law to serve you," said the bartender
"and you've been breaking the law after we done it.
Now the last time you were here you pulled off a 'stunt'
that caused trouble. So I'll not serve you whiskey, and
advise you that if you try shooting up the town again,
there'll be trouble."
"Oh, is that so?" cried the bunch. "Well," sniffed one,
who was more forward than the rest, "we'll just show you
a trick or two. And, remember, when we've shot your little
chicken coops full of holes, we are going to return and be
served." With a hilarious laugh, they went outside, got
into the saddles and had their fun. The population took
refuge in the cellars in awed silence.
It was over in a few minutes and the breeds, true to their
statement, returned to the saloon, and stood before the
bar.
"Whiskey," they cried, and couldn't repress a grin.
Ordinarily they were cowards, and their boldness had surprised
even themselves.[Pg 48]
"Whiskey?" said the bartender, nodding toward the
speaker.
"That's my order!" the other cried uproarously. The
bartender arranged several bottles in a row. This they did
not understand at first. They did, however, a moment
later.
"Very well," he cried of a sudden as his eyes narrowed,
whereupon, with deliberation he caught the bottles one by
one by the neck and as fast as he could let go, threw the
same into the faces before him with all the force he could
concentrate quickly. So quickly was it all done that those
before him had not time to duck below the bar before many
had been the recipients of the deluge. Within the minute
there was a wild scramble for the door—all but three.
For while the others disappeared over the hill toward the
creek, Dr. Slater took thirty stitches or thereabouts in the
faces of the recalcitrants.[Pg 49]
CHAPTER VI
THE INFIDEL, A JEW AND A GERMAN
A MILE north from where stood the house of St.
Jean Baptiste, there lived a quaint old man.
He was a widower; at least this was the general
opinion, especially when he so claimed to be. In a new
country there may be found among those who settle much
that is unusual, not to say quaint and oftentimes mysterious.
And in the case of this man, by name illustrious, there was
all this and some more.
Augustus M. Barr, he registered, and from England he
hailed. How long since does not concern this story at this
stage. Besides, he never told any one when, or why—well,
he had been in America long enough to secure the
claim he held and that was sufficient. But that Barr had
been a man of some note back from where he came, there
could be little doubt. Among the things to prove it, he was
very much of a linguist, being well versed in English,
French, Polish, German; the Scandinavian he thoroughly
understood—and Latin, that was easy!
He had been a preacher and had pastored many years in
a Baker street church, London. Then, it seems, he concluded
after all that there was no God; there was no Satan
nor Hell either—so he gave up the ministry and became
an infidel. And so we have him. But there was something
A.M. Barr had never told—but that was the mystery.
And while he will be concerned with our story, let us
not forget that two miles and more west of the little town[Pg 50]
of Dallas, there lived another, a Jew. He was not a merchant,
nor was he a trader; then, Jews who are not the one
or the other are not the usual Jew, apparently. Well, Syfe
wasn't, for that was his name, Isaac Syfe, and from far
away Assyria he had come. He was dark of visage with
dark hair, and piercing but lurking eyes with brows that
ran together; while his nose was long and seemed to hang
down at the point, reminding one of the ancient Judas.
His mouth was small and close; and there was always a
cigarette between the dark lips. He was of medium size,
somewhere in the thirties, perhaps, lived alone, on a homestead
that was his own, and so we have Isaac Syfe. But
there is another still.
He lived about as far southwest of Dallas as Syfe
lived to the west and, unlike Syfe, he was light, a blond,
thick, short and stout. His neck was muscular and slightly
bull like; while his features were distinctly Germanic: his
face was rounded and healthy with cheeks soft and red,
and they called him Kaden, Peter Kaden. He also held
a claim, having purchased a relinquishment in the opening,
lived alone as did Syfe and numerous other bachelors, and
did his own cooking, washing and ironing.
Augustus M. Barr appeared very much impressed with
Jean Baptiste. He was a judge of men, withal, and much
impressed with Baptiste as a personality; but the fact that
Baptiste had broken one hundred and thirty acres on his
homestead and now had it ready for crop, the first year of
settlement; and had wisely invested in another quarter
upon which a girl had made proof, delighted Barr. He
admired the younger man's viewpoint and optimism. So
when Barr was in town, and the conversation happened
around that way, he was ever pleased to speak his praise
of Baptiste.[Pg 51]
It was the day of the Indian episode when Barr, driving
a team hitched to a spring wagon, came to town, hoping
that the lumber yard had received the much needed coal.
"And how about the coal," cried Barr to the lumberman
before he drew his team to a stop.
"Coal a plenty," replied the lumberman cheerfully.
"Good, good, good!" exclaimed Barr, his distinguished
old face lighting up with great delight.
"Yep," let out the lumberman, coming toward the buggy.
"I've weighed you, and round to the bin is the coal. St.
Jean Baptiste arrived last night—that is, I think he got
home last night, although he brought the coal this morning,
two loads, four tons."
"Eighty hundred pounds of coal, you don't say! And
it was Jean Baptiste who brought it! Now, say, wasn't
that great! Not another man on this whole Reservation
save he could have made it," he ended admiringly.
"Jean Baptiste is the man who can bring it if anybody,"
rejoined the other.
At this moment a large, stout man came driving up in a
one horse rig.
"Any coal?" he called lazily from his seat.
"Plenty," cried Barr.
"Thank God," exclaimed the other, whose name was
Stark, and who held the claim that cornered with the town
on the northeast, and therefore joined with the Baptiste
claim on the east.
"Thank Jean Baptiste," advised Barr. "He's the man
that brought it."
"So?" said Stark thoughtfully. "When?"
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
"That's what the lumberman said."[Pg 52]
"Well, I'll be blowed!"
"You'll be warmed, I guess."
"Well, I should say!"
"That Baptiste is some fellow."
"Well, yes. Although I sometimes think he is a fool."
"Oh, not so rash!"
"Any man's a fool that would have left Bonesteel with
loads yesterday."
"Then I suppose we should be thankful to the fool. A
fool's errand will in this case mean many lazy men's comfort."
"And last summer you recall how it rained?"
"I sure do."
"Well, you know that fellow would go out and work in
the rain."
"And has a hundred and thirty acres ready and into crop
while I have but thirty."
"I have but ten, but—"
"You will be in the hole—at least behind at the end of
this summer."
"But I'm advertised to prove up."
"And leave the country when you have done so."
"Well, of course. I have a house and lot and three acres
back in Iowa."
"And Jean Baptiste has 320 acres. In a few years he
will have a rich, wonderful farm that will be a factor in the
local history and development of this country; it will also
mean something for posterity."
"Well, I don't care."
"You drew your land and got it free excepting four
dollars an acre to the government. Baptiste bought his and
paid for the relinquishment. You were lucky, but it will
be up to Jean Baptiste and his kind to make the country.[Pg 53]
Had they been as you appear to be, we would perhaps all
be in Jerusalem, or the jungle. Let's load the coal."
"Good lecture, that," muttered the lumberman when the
two were at the bin. "Lot's o' truth in it, too. Old Stark
needed it. He's too lazy to hitch up a team, so rides to
town in that little buggy with one horse hitched to it."
"What are you talking about?" inquired another, coming
up at this moment.
"Jean Baptiste."
"So?"
"Barr and Stark have just had a set-to about him."
"M-m?"
"Stark says a man that would come from Bonesteel a
day like yesterday was a fool."
"Why will he partake of the fuel he brought to keep
from freezing, then?"
"Well, Stark is too lazy to care. He's advertised to
prove up, you know, and he always has something to say
about working."
"Used to come to town after the mail during the rainy
spell last summer, and upon seeing Baptiste at work in the
field, cry 'Just look at that fool nigger, a workin' in the
rain.'" Both laughed. A few minutes later the town was
thrown into an uproar over the incident related in the last
chapter.
Now it happened that day that Augustus M. Barr went to
the postoffice and received a heavy envelope. He glanced
through the contents with a serious face, and put the papers
in his pocket. On the way to his claim, he took them out
and went through them again, and returned them to his
pocket. A few minutes later he reached into the pocket,
drew out what he thought to be the papers, and silently[Pg 54]
tore them to threads, and flung the bundle of paper to the
winds.
When Jean Baptiste left the town for his little sod house
on the hill, he saw A.M. Barr just ahead of him. He followed
the same route that Barr had taken, and when he
reached the draw on the town site that lay between his place
and the town, he espied some papers. He picked them up,
continued on his way, and presently observed the torn ball of
paper that Barr had cast away. He idly opened the package
he held. He wondered at the contents and as he read them
through he became curious. The papers had to do with
something between Augustus M. Barr, Isaac Syfe, and
Peter Kaden.
"Now that is singular," he said to himself. He continued
to read through the papers, and as he did so, another
fact became clear to him. Kaden was a sad character.
And because he was so forlorn, never cultivated any friendship,
lived alone and never visited, the people had begun
to regard him as crazy. But now Jean Baptiste understood
something that neither he, nor any of the people in the
country had dreamed of. He read on. He recalled that
the summer before a young lady, beautiful, refined but
strange at times, had stayed at the Barr claim. Barr had
introduced her as his niece. The people wondered at her
seclusion. She had a fine claim. Barr had come to him
once and spoken about selling it, stating that the girl had
fallen heir to an estate in England and was compelled to
return therewith.... Later he had succeeded in selling
the place. She had disappeared; but he had never forgotten
the expressions he had observed upon the face of Christine....
He had thought it singular at the time but had thought
little of it since. He read further into the papers, and
learned about some other person, a woman, but concerning[Pg 55]
her he could gather nothing definite. He could not understand
about Christine either, except that she had fallen heir
to nothing in England; was not there, but not more than
three hundred miles from where he stood at that moment.
But there was before him what he did understand, and
which was that there was something between Augustus M.
Barr, Isaac Syfe, and Peter Kaden, and something was
going to happen.[Pg 56]
CHAPTER VII
THE DAY BEFORE
NEVER since the night at the sod house had Agnes
Stewart been the same person. She could not seem
to dismiss Jean Baptiste, and the instance of her
providence in getting lost and thereby saving him, from her
mind. His strange words and singular recognition of her
was baffling. Being so very curious therefore, she had
since learned that he was well known in the community and
held in popular favor.
She knew little and understood less with regard to predestination;
but she had, since meeting him, recalled that he
was the one she had seen in her dream—and loved! She
tried to laugh away such a freak; but do what she might,
she grew more curious to see him again as the days passed;
to talk with him, and learn at last what she was anxious to
know—curious to know. How did he come to utter her
name and say that he had waited?
And, coincident with this, she recalled anew what she had
learned—which positively was little—regarding her
mother. She had been told that she inherited that one's
peculiarity; that her mother had possessed rare eyes, which
in a measure explained her own. But she had not been told
or knew why her mother had arranged the legacy as she
had. Not until the day before she was to marry must she
know. And then should she not have won a husband to
herself by the time she had reached thirty, she was to have
the same then, anyhow. Singular, but in a sense practical.
Well, it was so, and she could only sigh and be patient.[Pg 57]
Most girls she had known back in "Nubbin Ridge" were
usually married by the time they had reached her present
age. But she was not quite like other girls, and did not
even have a beau.
She wondered if the man she had saved had a sweetheart.
And when she thought of this, she had a feeling that
she would know in time. And as the days passed she began
at last to believe that in some manner he would play
a part in her own life. But Agnes Stewart was too innocent
to know—at least appeared not to be aware of—the
custom of the country and its law, and therefore
could not appreciate the invisible and socially invincible
barrier between them. 'Twas only the man Jean Baptiste
she saw and reckoned according to what she understood.
Therefore, because she could get nowhere in her wonderings,
as a diversion she turned to the little diary and recorded
therein:
January 20th, 19— I have not had the patience since
arriving here to record any of the events that have transpired
since we left Indiana. We have been here now nearly
three weeks. Have not as yet had time to draw any conclusion
with regard to the country, but this much I can
cheerfully say—and which did not prevail back where we
came from—there is spirit in the country, the spirit of the
Pioneer.
The weather has been cold, cold every day since we arrived.
Because we ran out of urgent provisions soon after
coming here I ventured to go to Gregory, which is seven
miles distant, for some more. I have been too much upset
over what took place on that memorable trip to say much
about it. Because I have never kept anything from him, I
told papa how I started from the town, became lost, and[Pg 58]
stayed all night at a house and saved a man thereby. He
has been so frightened over what happened that he will not
let me go anywhere alone again—not even in the daytime.
"Just think, my girl," he has said time and again, "supposing
you had not stumbled into that house, you would
surely have frozen to death on the plains!" I somehow feel
that Dolly would have brought me home; but that is a matter
for conjecture. But what I say to papa in return is:
"Had I not gotten lost, that man that is known so well about
the country must surely have suffered death!" This seems
to pacify him, and he is pleased after all to know that my
getting lost was so provident and opportune.
He has met the man, Jean Baptiste, (such an odd name,)
and likes him very much—in fact, he is very much carried
away with him. I have not seen him since the morning I
left him at his sod house; but I cannot get out of my mind
the events that passed while I was there. Always I can
see him look up into my eyes with that strange recognition,
and then as he turned, call "Agnes, it is you. I'm glad you
have come for I've waited for you so long." What that
means I would give most half my life to know. I know that
I shall never rest in peace until I have become well enough
acquainted with him to ask him why and how he knew me.
Then followed the morning when he talked to himself and
did not know I heard. It is all so vivid in my mind.
Of late I have had an uncontrollable desire. I have
wanted to know more of my mother. It seems that if I
could have known her, I would understand myself better.
I am positive now, that she must have been a rare person.
That she was French and very high tempered, papa has
told me; and also that she had lived in the West Indies before
he met her, but that she was born in France. As to
the legacy, he lays that to her peculiarity. She was always[Pg 59]
peculiar in a way, says he; and that at all times she was mysterious.
She had been over almost all the world, and was
wise in many things. He thinks I have inherited much of
her wit, and that eventually it will express itself in some
manner, which is all so strange. I hope, however, it will.
To rise in some manner out of the simple, uneventful life
I've lived would certainly be appreciated; but whatever it is
I cannot conclude.
Should I ever rise in any way, I feel now it would be due
in some manner to my meeting that strange colored man.
I have wondered so often since meeting him, how it feels
to be a Negro. Papa and I have discussed it often since.
I understand there is a sort of prejudice against the race
in this country; that in the South they are held down and
badly treated; that in the North, even, they are not fairly
treated. Papa and I were both agreed about it. We cannot
understand why one should be disliked because his skin
is dark; or because his ancestors were slaves. But withal
I cannot understand how one could deal unfairly with them
because of this. It is said that some of the race are very
ignorant and vicious; that they very often commit the unspeakable
crime. I suppose that is possible. If so, then
they should be educated. Take this Jean Baptiste, for instance,
an educated man, and what a gentleman! But papa,
(he is very vindictive!) he says that only about half the
colored people in this country are full blood; that in the
days of slavery and since, even, the white man who is very
often ready to abuse the black men, has been the cause of
this mixture.... I should think their consciences would
disturb them.
Oh, well, I am glad that I have grown up where prejudice
against races is not a custom. My mother was French; my
father Scotch all through, and because I know him and am[Pg 60]
so ingrained with his liberal traditions—even tho' he be
poor,—I am at peace with all mankind.
We haven't all the money we need, and the fact worries
me. Papa says he will hire Bill to some one if any one
should need help. It might be that the colored man will
hire him, maybe. They say he is going to hire a man.
Papa intends to speak to him about it. The only thing that
worries us is that we have to explain that weakness in Bill
and George. George is impossible: too slow, talks too
much, and would never earn his salt. But if one is patient
with Bill until he catches on, he is an excellent worker, and
faithful. I wish the colored man would give him the job.
He owns the quarter that corners with us, which he expects
to complete breaking out and putting into flax next summer,
so we are told. If Bill could get that job it would be
handy. Handy for Bill, for Mr. Baptiste, and for us.
We have not met many people as yet. Because it is so
cold to get out, I haven't met any so to speak; but papa appears
to be getting acquainted right along. We are going to
town—to Gregory again Saturday. I am looking forward
to it with pleasant anticipation. I sincerely trust it will be a
beautiful day. In the meantime the clock has struck one,
papa is turning over in bed and I can hear him. I'll hear
his voice presently, so I will close this with hopes that Saturday
will be a beautiful day and that I'll meet and become
acquainted with some nice people.
[Pg 61]
CHAPTER VIII
AN ENTERPRISING YOUNG MAN
WHEN JEAN BAPTISTE had found the papers
belonging to Barr, and had come to understand
that it had been Barr's intention to destroy the
same, natural curiosity had prompted him to read into and
examine what was in his possession.
But after having read them, and realizing fully to return
the same then, would be to have Barr know, at least feel,
that he was in possession of such a grave secret, would make
their, up to this time agreeable, relationship rather awkward,
he was at a loss as to what to do. So in the end he laid the
papers away, and waited. If Barr should make inquiries
for them, he would try to find some convenient way to return
the same. But on after thought, he knew that Barr
would hardly start an inquiry about the matter—even if
he did come to realize he had lost instead of destroyed the
papers.
A few days later he saw Peter Kaden in the village, and
this time observed him more closely than had been his wont
theretofore. Always sad, he so remained, and down in Baptiste's
heart he was sorry for the wretch. It was after he
had returned home and lingered at the fire that he heard a
light knock at the door. He called "Come in." The door
was opened and Augustus M. Barr stood in the doorway.
Baptiste was for a time slightly nervous. He was glad
then that it was dark within the room, otherwise Barr must
have seen him give a quick start.[Pg 62]
"Ah-ha," began Barr, cheerfully, coming forward and
taking the chair Baptiste placed at his disposal. "Quite
comfortable in the little sod house on the claim."
"Quite comfortable," returned Baptiste evenly, his mind
upon the papers so near. He didn't trust himself to comment.
He waited for whatever was to happen.
"Suppose you are thinking about the big crop you will
seed in the springtime," ventured Barr.
"Yes," admitted Baptiste, for in truth, the same had been
on his mind before Barr put in his appearance. "Suppose
you will put out quite a crop yourself in the spring," he
ventured in return.
"Well, I don't know," said Barr thoughtfully. "I fear
I'm getting a little old to farm—and this baching!"
Baptiste thought about Christine who was not so far away
instead of in England.... He marveled at the man's calm
nerve. It did not seem possible that a man of this one's
broad education could be so low as to resort to fallacies.
"No," he heard Barr again. "I don't think that I shall
farm next summer. In fact I have about decided to make
proof on my claim, and that is what I have called on you
in regard to. I suppose I can count you as witness to the
fact?" Baptiste was relieved. Barr still thought he had
destroyed the papers. He was smiling when he replied:
"Indeed, I shall be glad to attest to the fact you refer
to."
"Thanks," Said Barr, and rose to go.
"No hurry."
"I must go into town on a matter of business," said Barr
from the doorway. "Well," he paused briefly and then
said, "I am applying for a date, and when that is settled I
shall let you know."
"Very well. Good day."[Pg 63]
"Good day, my friend," and he went over the hill.
Baptiste was thoughtful when he was gone. He looked
after him and thought about the papers. He marveled again
at the man's calmness.... Then suddenly he arose as a
thought struck him, and going to his trunk, lifted from the
top the last issue of the Dallas Enterprise. He glanced
quickly through the columns and then his eyes rested on a
legal notice. He smiled.
"Old Peter is going to make proof.... So is Barr.
The eternal triangle begins to take shape...." He got up
and went to the door. Over the hill he saw Barr just
entering the town.... "This is beginning to get interesting.... But
I don't like the Kaden end of it.... I wish
I could do something.... Something to help Kaden...."
Saturday was a beautiful day. To Gregory from miles
around went almost everybody. So along with the rest
went Jean Baptiste. He fostered certain hopes,—had
ulterior purposes in view. Firstly, it was a nice day, the
town he knew would be filled; and secondly, he was subtly
interested in Kaden. He had seen by the paper that he was
advertised to make proof that day on his homestead.... Another
thing, whenever he thought of Kaden, he could
not keep Barr, and Syfe, and lastly, Christine, out of his
mind....
He found the little town filled almost to overflowing
when he arrived. Teams were tied seemingly to every
available post. The narrow board walks were crowded, the
saloons were full, red liquor was doing its bit; while the
general stores were alive with girls, women and children.
A jovial day was ahead and old friendships were revived
and new ones made. There is about a new country an air
of hopefulness that is contagious. Here in this land had[Pg 64]
come the best from everywhere: the best because they were
for the most part hopeful and courageous; that great army
of discontented persons that have been the forerunners of
the new world. Mingled in the crowd, Jean Baptiste regarded
the unusual conglomeration of kinds. There were
Germans, from Germany, and there were Swedes from
Sweden, Danes from Denmark, Norwegians from Norway.
There were Poles, and Finns and Lithuanians and Russians;
there were French and a few English; but of his race he
was the only one.
As a whole the greater portion were from the northern
parts of the United States, and he was glad that they were.
With them there was no "Negro problem," and he was
glad there was not. The world was too busy to bother with
such: he was glad to know he could work unhampered. He
was looked at curiously by many. To the young, a man of
his skin was something rare, something new. He smiled
over it with equal amusement, and then in a store he walked
right into Agnes, the first time he had seen her since the
morning at the sod house. He was greatly surprised, and
rather flustrated,—and was glad again his skin was dark.
She could not see the blood that went to his face; while
with her, it showed most furiously.
As the meeting was unexpected, all she had thought and
felt in the weeks since, came suddenly to the surface in her
expression. In spite of her effort at self control, her blushing
face evidenced her confusion upon seeing him again.
But with an effort, she managed to bow courteously, while
he was just as dignified. They would have passed and
gone their ways had it not been that in that instant another,
a lady, a neighbor and friend of Baptiste's, came upon them.
She had become acquainted with Agnes that day, and was[Pg 65]
very fond of Baptiste. Although her name was Reynolds,
she was a red blooded German, sociable, kind and obliging.
She had not observed that they had exchanged greetings—did
not know, obviously, that the two were acquainted;
wherefore, her neighborly instincts became assertive.
Coming forward volubly, anxiously, she caught Baptiste
by the hand and shook it vigorously. "Mr. Baptiste, Mr.
Baptiste!" she cried, punctuating the hand shaking with her
voice full of joy, her red, healthy face beaming with smiles.
"How very glad I am to see you! You have not been to
see us for an age, and I have asked Tom where you were.
We feared you had gone off and done something serious,"
whereupon she winked mischievously. Baptiste understood
and smiled.
"You are certainly looking well for an old bachelor," she
commented, after releasing his hand and looking into his
face seriously, albeit amusedly, mischievously. "We were
at Dallas and got some of the coal you were brave enough
to bring from Bonesteel that awful cold day. My, Jean,
you certainly are possessed with great nerve! While that
coal to everybody was a godsend, yet think of the risk
you took! Why, supposing you had gotten lost in that terrific
storm; lost as people have been in the West before!
You must be careful," she admonished, kindly. "You are
really too fine a young man to go out here and get frozen to
death, indeed!" Baptiste started perceptibly. She regarded
him questioningly. Unconsciously his eyes wandered
toward Agnes who stood near, absorbed in all Mrs.
Reynolds had been saying. His eyes met hers briefly, and
the events of the night at the sod house passed through the
minds of both. The next moment they looked away, and
Mrs. Reynolds, not understanding, glanced toward Agnes.[Pg 66]
She was by disposition versatile. But she caught her breath
now with sudden equanimity, as she turned to Agnes and
cried:
"Oh, Miss Stewart, you!" she smiled with her usual delight
and going toward Agnes caught her arm affectionately,
and then, with face still beaming, she turned to where Baptiste
stood.
"I want you, Miss Stewart," she said with much ostentation,
"to meet one of our neighbors and friends; one of the
most enterprising young men of the country, Mr. Jean Baptiste.
Mr. Baptiste, Miss Agnes Stewart." She did it
gracefully, and for a time was overcome by her own vanity.
In the meantime the lips of both those before her parted to
say that they had met, and then slowly, understandingly, they
saw that this would mean to explain.... Their faces
lighted with the logic of meeting formally, and greetings
were exchanged to fit the occasion.
For the first time he was permitted to see her, to regard
her as the real Agnes. There was no embarrassment in her
face but composure as she extended her small ungloved hand
this time and permitted it to rest lightly in his palm. She
smiled easily as she accepted his ardent gaze and showed a
row of even white teeth momentarily before turning coquetishly
away.
He regarded her intimately in one sweep of his eyes.
She accepted this also with apparent composure. She was
now fully normal in her composition. That about her which
others had understood, and were inspired to call beautiful
now seemed to strangely affect him.
Was it because he was hungry for woman's love; because
since he had looked upon this land of promise and
out of the visions she had come to him in those long silent
days; because of his lonely young life there in the sod[Pg 67]
house she had communed with him; was it that he had
imagined her sweet radiance that now caused him to feel
that she was beautiful?
She had looked away only briefly, as if to give him time
to think, to consider her, and then she turned her eyes upon
him again. She regarded him frankly then, albeit admiringly.
She wanted to hear him say something. She was
not herself aware of how anxious she was to hear him
speak; for him to say anything, would please her. And
as she stood before him in her sweet innocence, all the
goodness she possessed, the heart and desire always to be
kind, to do for others as she had always, was revealed to
him. His dream girl she was, and in reality she had not
disappointed him.
If visionary he had loved her, he now saw her and what
was hers. Her wondrous hair, rolled into a frivolous knot
at the back of her head made her face appear the least
slender when it was really square; the chestnut glint of it
seemed to contrast coquettishly with her white skin; and
the life, the healthy, cheerful life that now gave vigor to
her blood brought faint red roses to her cheeks; roses that
seemed to come and go. Her red lips seemed to tempt him,
he was captivated. He forgot in this intimate survey that
she was of one race while he, Jean Baptiste, was of another....
And that between their two races, the invisible barrier,
the barrier which, while invisible was so absolute, so strong,
so impossible of melting that it was best for the moment
that he forget it.
While all he saw passed in a moment, he regarded her
slenderness as she stood buttoned in the long coat, and
wondered how she, so slight and fragile, had been able to
lift his heavy frame upon the bed where he had found
himself. And still before words had passed between them,[Pg 68]
he saw her again, and that singularity in the eyes had come
back; they were blue and then they were brown, but withal
they were so baffling. He did not seem to understand her
when they were like this, yet when so he felt strangely a
greater right, the right to look into and feast in what he
saw, regardless of the custom of the country and its law....
And still while he was not aware of it, Jean Baptiste
came to feel that there was something between them.
Though infinite, in the life that was to come, he now came
strangely to feel sure that he was to know her, to become
more intimately acquainted with her, and with this consciousness
he relaxed. The spell that had come from meeting
her again, from being near her, from holding her hand
in his though formally, the exchange of words passed and
he gradually became his usual self; the self that had always
been his in this land where others than those of the race to
which he belonged were the sole inhabitants. He was relieved
when he heard Mrs. Reynolds' voice:
"Miss Stewart and her folks have just moved out from
Indiana, Jean, and are renting on the Watson place over
east of you; the place that corners with the quarter you
purchased last fall, you understand."
"Indeed!" Baptiste echoed with feigned ignorance, his
eyebrows dilating.
"Yes," she went on with concern, "And you are neighbors."
"I'm glad—honored," Baptiste essayed.
"He is flattering," blushed Agnes, but she was pleased.
"And you'll find Mr. Baptiste the finest kind of neighbor,
too," cried Mrs. Reynolds with equal delight.
"I'm a bad neighbor, Miss Stewart," he disdained. "Our
friend here, Mrs. Reynolds, you see, is full of flattery."
"I don't believe so, Mr. Baptiste," she defended, glad[Pg 69]
to be given an opportunity to speak. "We have just become
acquainted, but papa has told me of her, and the
family, and I'm sure we will be the best of friends, won't
we?" she ended with her eyes upon Mrs. Reynolds.
"Bless you, yes! Who could keep from liking you?"
whereupon she caught Agnes close and kissed her impulsively.
"Oh, say, now," cried Baptiste, and then stopped.
"You're not a woman," laughed Mrs. Reynolds, "but you
understand," she added reprovingly. Suddenly her face
lit up with a new thought, and the usual smiling gave way
to seriousness, as she cried:
"By the way, Jean. We hear that you are going to hire
a man this spring, and that reminds me that Miss Stewart's
father has two boys—her brothers—whom he has not
work enough nor horses enough to use, so he wishes to hire
one out." She paused to observe Agnes, who had also become
serious and was looking up at her.
At this point she turned to Baptiste, and with a slight
hesitation, she said:
"Do you really wish to hire a man—Mr.—a—Mr.
Baptiste?" Saying it had heightened her color, and the
anxiety in her tone caused her to appear more serious. She
had turned her eyes up to his and he was for the instant captivated
again with the thought that she was beautiful. His
answer, however, was calm.
"I must have a man," he acknowledged. "I have more
work than I can do alone."
"Why, papa wishes to hire Bill—" It was natural to say
Bill because it was Bill they always hired, although George
was the older; but since we know why George was never
offered, we return to her. "I should say William," she
corrected awkwardly, and with an effort she cast it out of[Pg 70]
her mind and went on: "So if—if you think you could—a—use
him, or would care to give him the job," she
was annoyed with the fact that Bill was halfwitted, and it
confused her, which explains the slight catches in her voice.
But bravely she continued, "That is, if you have not already
given some one else the job, you could speak to papa, and
he would be pleased, I'm sure." She ended with evident
relief; but the thought that had confused her, being still in
her mind, her face was dark with a confusion that he did
not understand.
Hoping to relieve the annoyance he could see, although
not understanding the cause of it, he spoke up quickly.
"I have not hired a man, and have no other in sight;
so your suggestion, Miss, regarding your brother meets
with my favor. I will endeavor therefore, to see your
father today if possible, if not, later, and discuss the matter
pro and con."
He had made it so easy for her, and she was overly
gracious as she attempted to have him understand in some
manner that her brother was afflicted. So her effort this
time was a bit braver, notwithstanding as anxious, however,
as before.
"Oh, papa will be glad to have my brother work for you,
and I wish you would—would please not hire any other
until you have talked with him." She paused again as if
to gather courage for the final drive.
"You will find my brother faithful, and honest, and a
good worker; but—but—" it seemed that she could not
avoid the break in her voice when she came to this all embarrassing
point, "but sometimes—he—he makes mistakes.
He is a little awkward, a little bunglesome in starting,
but if you would—could exercise just a little patience
for a few days—a day, I am sure he would please you."[Pg 71]
It was out at last. She was sure he would understand.
It had cost her such an effort to try to make it plain without
just coming out and saying he was halfwitted. She
was not aware that in concluding she had done so appealingly.
He had observed it and his man's heart went out to
her in her distress. He remembered then too, although he
had on their first meeting forgotten that he had been told
all about her brothers, and had also heard of her.
"You need have no fear there, Miss Stewart," he wilfully
lied. "I am the most patient man in the world."
He wondered then at himself, that he could lie so easily.
His one great failing was his impatience, and he knew it.
Because he did and felt that he tried to crush it, was his
redeeming feature in this respect. But the words had lightened
her burden, and there was heightening of her color, as
she spoke now with unfeigned delight:
"Oh, that is indeed kind of you. I am so glad to hear
you say so. Bill is a good hand—everybody likes him
after he has worked a while. It is because he is a little
awkward and forgetful in the beginning that worries my
father and me. So I'm glad you know now and will not be
impatient."
In truth while she did not know it, Jean was pleased with
the prospect. He had not lived two years in the country,
the new country, without having experienced the difficulty
that comes with the usual hired man. The class of men,
with the exception of a homesteader, who came to the
country for work usually fell into the pastime of gambling
and drinking which seemed to be contagious, and many
were the griefs they gave those by whom they were employed.
And Jean Baptiste, now that she had made it plain
regarding her brother, had something to say himself.
"There is one little thing I should like to mention, Miss[Pg 72]
Stewart," he said with apparent seriousness. She caught
her breath with renewed anxiety as she returned his look.
In the next instant she was relieved, however, as he said:
"You understand that I am baching, a bachelor, and the
fare of bachelors is, I trust you will appreciate, not always
the best." He paused as he thought of how she must feel
after having seen the way he kept his house, and hoped
that she could overlook the condition in which she knew he
kept it. But if he was embarrassed at the thought of it, it
was not so with her. For her sympathy went out to him.
She was conscious of how inconvenient it must be to bach,
to live alone as he was doing, and to work so hard.
"It is not always to hired men's liking to forego the
meals that only women can prepare, and for that reason
it is sometimes difficult for us to keep men."
"Oh, you will not have to worry as to that, Mr. Baptiste,"
she assured him pleasantly. She caught her breath
with something joyous apparently as she turned to him.
"You see, we live almost directly between your two places,
and my brother can stay home and save you that trouble and
bother." She was glad that she could be of assistance to
him in some way, though it be indirectly. With sudden impulse,
she turned to Mrs. Reynolds who had not interrupted:
"It will be nice, now, won't it?"
"Just dandy," the other agreed readily. "I am so glad
we all three met here," she went on. "In meeting we have
fortunately been of some service to each other. You will
find Mr. Baptiste a fine fellow to work for. We let our
boys go over and help him out when he's pushed, and we
know he appreciates it to the fullest." She halted, turned
now mischievously to Baptiste and cried:
"We are always after Jean that he should marry. Why,[Pg 73]
just think what a good husband he would make some nice
girl." She had found her topic, had Mrs. Reynolds. Of
all topics, she preferred to jolly the single with getting
married to anything else, so she went on with delight.
"He goes off down to Chicago every winter and we wait
to see the girl when he returns, but always he disappoints
us." She affected a frown a moment before resuming:
"It is certainly too bad that some good girl must do without
a home and the happiness that is due her, while he lives
there alone, having no comfort but what he gets when he
goes visiting." She affected to appear serious and to have
him feel it, while he could do nothing but grin awkwardly.
"Oh, Mrs. Reynolds, you're hard on a fellow. My!
Give him a chance. It takes two to make a bargain. I
can't marry myself." He caught the eyes of Agnes who
was enjoying his tender expression. Indeed the subject
appealed to him, and he had found it to his liking. She
blushed. She enjoyed the humor.
"I suspect Mrs. Reynolds speaks the truth," she said
with affected seriousness, but found it impossible to down
the color in her flaming cheeks nevertheless.
"Oh, but you two can jolly a fellow." He became serious
now as he went on: "But it isn't fair. There is no
girl back in Chicago; there is no girl anywhere for me."
He was successful in his affectation of self pity, and her
feelings went out to him in her words that followed:
"Now that is indeed, too bad, for him, Mrs. Reynolds,
isn't it? Perhaps he is telling the truth. The girls in
Chicago do not always understand the life out here, and
cannot make one feel very much encouraged." She wondered
at her own words. But she went on nevertheless.
"Even back in Indiana they do not understand the West.
They are—seem to be, so narrow, they feel that they[Pg 74]
are living in the only place of civilization on earth." Her
logical statement took away the joke. They became serious.
The store was filling and the crowd was pushing. So they
parted.
A few minutes later as Baptiste passed down the street,
he saw Peter Kaden coming from the commissioners' office.
Across the way he observed Barr and Syfe stop and exchange
a few words. The next moment they went their
two ways while he stood looking after them.[Pg 75]
CHAPTER IX
"CHRISTINE, CHRISTINE!"
ONE WEEK from the day Peter Kaden made proof at
Gregory on the homestead he held, the court record
showed that he had transferred the same to some
unknown person. In the course of events it was not noticed
by the masses. It was because Jean Baptiste was expecting
something of the kind that he happened to observe the record
of the transfer in the following week's issue of the paper.
He couldn't get the incident out of his mind, and he found
his eyes wandering time and again in the direction of the
house of Augustus M. Barr in the days that followed.
From what he had gleaned from the papers, he was sure
that something sinister was to occur in that new land soon.
He tried in vain to formulate some plan of action—rather,
some plan of prevention. But the plot, the intrigue, or
whatever it may be called, was deep. It had taken root before
either had ever seen the country they now called home.
And because of its intricate nature, he could formulate no
plan toward combatting the thing he felt positively in his
veins was to take place.
Over the hill two miles and more the claim shack of Peter
Kaden could not be seen. But he could always feel where
it was and the events that went on therein. This healthy,
but sad, forlorn German had aroused his sympathy, and
always when he thought of him, strangely he thought of
Christine.
The days passed slowly and things went on as usual.[Pg 76]
He saw Barr occasionally and as often saw the dark Syfe.
He read as was his wont, and then one evening when his
few chores were done, he had a desire to walk. He drew on
his overcoat, and, taking a bucket, he walked slowly down
the slope that led up to his house, to the well a quarter mile
distant. He could never after account for the strange feeling
that came and went as he ambled toward the well. He
reached it in due time, filled his bucket, and was in the act
of returning when out of the night he caught the unmistakable
sound of horses' hoofs. Some one on horseback
was coming. He set the bucket down and bent his ears
more keenly to hear the sound.
Yes, they were hoof beats, an unusual clatter. He gave
a start. Only one horse in the neighborhood made such a
noise with the hoofs when moving, for he had heard the
same before, and that horse belonged to A.M. Barr, and
was a pacer. Christine had use to ride him. And when
he recalled it, he became curious. Christine was not there,
he knew, unless she had come that day, which was not
likely.... Then who rode the horse? He had never seen
Barr on horseback.... They were coming from about
where Barr's house stood, coming in his direction along the
road. He estimated at that moment they must be about a
quarter of a mile away. He listened intently. Onward
they came, drawing closer all the while. He got an inspiration.
Why should he be seen? He moved back from
the road some distance. There was no moon and the night
was dark, but the stars filled the night air with a dim ray.
He lay upon the ground as the horseman drew nearer.
Presently out of the shadow he caught the dim outline of the
rider. He saw that a heavy ulster was worn, and the collar
of the same was around the rider's neck, almost concealing
the head; but he recognized the rider as A.M. Barr.[Pg 77]
"Now where can he be going," he muttered to himself,
standing erect as he listened to the hoof beats on the road
below. He pondered briefly. "Why does he never ride
in the daytime?" From down the road the sound of hoof
beats continued. And then Baptiste was again inspired.
"Kaden!" he cried, and fell into deep thought.
At his left was a small creek, usually dry. This stream
led in an angling direction down toward the larger stream
south of the town. It led directly toward the claim of
Peter Kaden, although the homestead lay beyond the creek.
By following it, one could reach Kaden's house in about two-thirds
the distance if going by trail.
A few minutes later Jean Baptiste was speedily following
the route that led to the creek. He paused at intervals and
upon listening could hear the hoof beats along the trail in
the inevitable direction. He reached the creek in a short
time, found his way across it, and once on the other side, he
hurried through a school section to Kaden's cabin that was
joined with this on the south. He crossed the school section
quickly, and in the night air he could smell, and presently
came to see, the smoke curling from the chimney.
He approached the house cautiously. He was glad that poor
Kaden didn't keep a dog. When he had drawn close
enough to distinguish the objects before him, he saw Barr's
horse tied out of the wind, on the south side of the little
barn. He looked closer and observed another near. He
reckoned that one to be Syfe's. "So the triangle is forming,"
he muttered.
He went up to the house noiselessly. He passed around
its dark side to where he saw light emanating from the small
window. He peered cautiously through it. Sitting on the
side of the bed, Kaden's face met his gaze. He regarded it
briefly before seeking out the others. Never, he felt, if he[Pg 78]
lived a hundred years would he ever forget the expression of
agony that face wore! Upon its usual roundness, perceptible
lines had formed; in the light of the dim lamp he
caught the darkness about the eyes, the skin under almost
sagging and swollen. He permitted his gaze to drift
further, and to take in the proportions of the room.
On a stool near sat Syfe, the Jew. He wore his overcoat.
Indeed, Baptiste could not recall having ever seen
him without it about him; also he wore his thick, dark
cap. His little mustache stood out over the small mouth,
between the lips of which reposed the usual cigarette. He
was drawing away easily at this, while his ears appeared to
be attentive to what was going on. He was listening to
Barr, who stood in the center of the room, talking in much
excitement, making gestures; while he could see the agonized
Kaden protesting. He could not catch all that was
being said, but some of it. Barr, in particular, he observed,
while speaking forcibly, was nevertheless controlled. It was
Kaden whose voice reached his ears more often on the outside.
"I kept you from Australia...." this from Barr.
"They had you on shipboard.... Your carcass would be
fit for the vultures now on that sand swept desert you were
headed for...."
"But I was innocent, I was innocent," protested Kaden.
"I didn't go to Russia that trip. I didn't go to Russia, and
to Jerusalem, I have never been!"
"But you hadn't proved it. You were done for. They
had you, and all you could do or say wouldn't have kept you
in England. It was I, me, do you understand.... You do
understand that I kept you from going. I, me, who saved
you. No law in this land could keep you here if they knew
now where you were...."[Pg 79]
"But you forget Christine, my poor Christine! You have
her, is that not enough? Oh, you are hard. You drive me
most insane. Tell me about Christine. Give her back to
me and all is yours."
A wind rose suddenly out of the west. A shed stood
near, a shed covered over with hay and some poles that had
been cut green, and the now dry leaves gave forth a moaning
sound. He saw those inside start. With the noise,
Baptiste knew he could hear no more, and might be apprehended.
Stealthily he departed.
And all the way to the sod house that night he kept
repeating what he had heard. "Christine, Christine! You
have her, is she not enough? Give her back and all is
yours!"
If he could only ascertain what was between Kaden and
Christine—but it was all coming to something soon, and
he knew that Augustus M. Barr was taking the advantage
of some one; that Kaden was innocent but couldn't prove
it; that Syfe was in some way darkly connected, and the
eternal triangle held to its sinister purpose.[Pg 80]
CHAPTER X
"YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS WAY BEFORE"
WHEN AGNES STEWART found her father and
they were ready to return home, she inquired:
"Did he see you?"
"See who?"
"You? You don't understand. I mean the colored
gentleman, Mr. Baptiste?"
"Why, no, my dear," her father replied wonderingly.
"I saw him, but I had no word with him. I don't understand."
"Why, I met him. Mrs. Reynolds, who knows you—she
and I became acquainted, and we met and had a long
talk with Mr. Baptiste, and he is going to hire a man, so we
discussed Bill. He said he would see you." Her father
drew the team to a stop.
"I don't understand. I should see him, and I did, but
he was talking with some fellows who live north of town.
I think it was about horses. He went with them, so I suppose
we may as well go on home and see him later."
"I'm so sorry," she said and showed it in her face. "I
had hoped he would get to see you, and that it would all be
settled and Bill would get the job."
"Don't be so out of hope," said he. "I have no doubt
that we will get to see Mr. Baptiste, and talk it over."
"I am worried, because—you know, papa, when we
have paid for the seed and feed, we will have very little
left."[Pg 81]
"Such a wonderful, such a thoughtful little girl I have,"
he said admiringly, stroking her hand fondly in the meantime.
"I can't imagine how I could get along without my
Aggie."
"See him and get Bill hired and I'll not worry any more."
"I'll do so, I'll do so tomorrow."
"You say you saw him going north of town?"
"Yes."
She was silent, while he was thoughtful. Presently he
inquired of what passed when she met him.
She told him.
"I never spoke of having met him before."
"You didn't?"
"Why, no, papa. How could I? It would be hard to
explain."
"Well, now, coming to think of it, it would, wouldn't it?"
"It shouldn't," she said. She didn't relish the situation.
"Did he?"
"What?"
"Speak of it."
"Oh, no! He didn't...."
"I wonder has he ever."
"I don't think so."
"That is very thoughtful of him."
"It is. He is a real gentleman."
"So everybody says."
"And so pleasant to listen to."
"Indeed."
"Mrs. Reynolds is carried away with him. Says he's
one of the most industrious and energetic young men of the
country."
"Isn't that fine! But it seems rather odd, doesn't it?
Him out here alone."[Pg 82]
"It is indeed singular. But he is just the kind of man a
new country needs."
"If the country had a few hundred more like him we
wouldn't know it in five years."
"In three years!" she said admiringly.
"How shall we explain in regards to Bill?..."
"I've explained."
"You have!"
"Oh, I didn't come out and say it in words, of course. I
didn't need to."
"Then how? How did you make him understand?"
"It was easy. It was easy because he is so quick witted.
He seems to readily understand anything."
"I'll bet!"
"He spoke of the fact that being a bachelor it was awkward
to keep hired men, and this fact seemed to worry him."
"But why didn't you explain that Bill could stay home?"
"I did."
"Oh!"
"And he was so relieved."
"I'm sure he was. It is very inconvenient."
"It is. And I feel rather sorry for him."
"Needs a wife."
She was silent.
"Wonder why he doesn't marry?"
"I don't know."
"Will make some girl a fine husband."
Silence.
"I guess he has a girl, though, and will likely marry
soon."
"I don't think so."
"Why?"
"Well," she said slowly. She blushed unseen and went[Pg 83]
on: "Mrs. Reynolds joked him about it, and he denied it."
"But any man would do that. They like to be modest;
to appear like they have no loves. It creates sympathy.
Men are sentimental, too. They like sympathy."
"Yes, I suppose so," she said slowly, thoughtfully. "But
I don't think he has a girl. In my mind he is a poor lonesome
fellow. Just like he has no close friends...."
He was silent now.
"I have thought about it since I met him."
"You have?"
"Why, yes. Certainly."
Her father laughed.
"Why are you laughing?" she asked, somewhat nettled.
"I was thinking."
"Thinking? Thinking of what?"
"Of Jean Baptiste."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, there is a good chance for you."
"Father!"
"Why not!"
"Father! How can you!"
He laughed. She acted as if angry. He looked at her
mischievously. She did not grant him a smile.
"Tut, tut, Aggie! Can't you take a joke?"
"But you should not joke like that."
"Oh, come now. It pleased me to joke like that."
"Why should it please you?"
"Why, I have a sense of humor."
"A sense of humor?"
"Yes."
"But I don't see the joke?"
"Why, Aggie," he turned to her seriously. "Almost I
don't think it is a joke."[Pg 84]
"Father!"
"Well, dear? You seem to be so interested in the man."
"Father, oh, father!" and the next instant she was crying.
He reached out and caught her fondly to him. "My girl,
my girl, I didn't intend to upset you. Now be papa's little
darling and don't cry any more!"
"You have never been this way before," she sobbed.
He caressed her more now.
"Well, dearest. You see. Well, your mother—"
"My mother!" she sat quickly up.
"We are going to raise a great crop this year. I feel
sure of it."
"But my mother!"
"I think I know where I can get some good seed oats."
They rode along in silence the rest of the way, consumed
with their own thoughts. No words passed, but
Agnes was thinking. She would never get out of her mind
what her father had started to say. But he had stopped
in time.... Her mind went back to the strange incidents
in her life. She lived over again the day she had looked
in the mirror and had seen that strange look, she connected
it singularly with what her father had started to say. She
was silent thereafter, but her soul was on fire.[Pg 85]
CHAPTER XI
WHAT JEAN BAPTISTE FOUND IN THE WELL
"WELL, my friend," said A.M. Barr, stopping before
Baptiste's hut one day shortly after his visit
to Kaden's, "I have my date and will make proof
on the 22nd of March. I have listed you as one of my witnesses.
Guess I may depend on you to be ready that day?"
"I shall remember it, Mr. Barr," answered Baptiste.
"Have you rented your place yet?"
"No, I have not. Rather, not the buildings. My
neighbor across the road, however, will put the thirty acres
I have broken into crop, and break a few more."
"M-m."
"How much do you plan seeding this season?"
"All of both places anyhow."
"Ah, young man, I tell you, you are a worker! Such
young men as you will be the making of this country.
And you'll be rich in time."
"Oh, no," cried Baptiste disdainfully.
"If I were young and strong like you, I would be doing
the same."
"You expect to go away when you have completed your
proof...."
"Well, I don't know," whereupon A.M. Barr cast a
furtive glance in his direction. Baptiste pretended not to
see it.
"What'll you do with your horses?" Another furtive
glance.[Pg 86]
"Well, I might advertise a sale," he said boldly. He cast
a dark look in Baptiste's direction, which the other pretended
not to see—but did see nevertheless. "Why, what
could he know," was in Barr's mind. "Nothing," he answered
his own question. A moment later he was the same
Barr; the officious Englishman when he drove down the
road a few minutes later, and none the wiser therefor.
March the twenty-second came and went, and Augustus
offered proof on his homestead, and passed, Baptiste assisting
him as witness.
Sunday was the next day, and when it came, all calm
and beautiful, Baptiste realized that he did not have enough
seed wheat to sow all his land that he wished put in wheat.
A squaw man had raised a large crop to the southwest of
him the year before, and this, he understood, was for sale.
He decided to call on the squaw man, ascertain the fact,
and if so, purchase a share of it for his purpose.
Accordingly, Sunday morning after he had breakfasted,
and piled the dishes bachelor fashion (unwashed) he started
out.
The route he took carried him directly by Peter Kaden's
claim, and when he had gone that far, and found himself
looking at the low, sod house that stood a few paces back
from the road, he was curious. He paused unconsciously
before the house and observed it idly a few moments.
He was struck with the quietness about, and at once became
curiously apprehensive. No smoke emerged from the
chimney. There was no evidence that any one was about.
Impelled by his growing curiosity, he approached the house
and knocked at the door. There was no response from
within. He tried it again. Still no response. He tried the
knob. It gave. He pushed the door open cautiously, and
peered in. The house was empty but for the crude fur[Pg 87]niture.
He entered curiously and looked about. The bed
was spread over, there was no fire in the stove, the coldness
of the atmosphere within impressed him with a theory that
no fire had been in the stove that day or the night before.
The dishes were clean and piled on the table with a cloth
spread over them. He went outside, closing the door behind
him and swept the surrounding country with his gaze
which revealed no Peter Kaden. He lowered his eyes in
thought as his lips muttered:
"Wonder where he is?"
A path began at his feet. It led down to a draw some
two hundred yards away. He fell into it aimlessly and
followed its course for a short way. Presently, upon looking
up, he saw a well at the side of the draw which obviously
was the terminus of the path.
Forthwith he made the well his objective. In that country
wells were not plentiful. The soil was of the richest and
blackest loam with a clay subsoil; but water except where
there was sand, was not easily found only in or near a
draw, or a flat. He reached the well, and, drawing aside
the bucket that reposed on the lid, he opened the well and
lowered the bucket to the water some thirty feet below.
The bright sun rays somewhat blinded him and for a
moment he could not see the water clearly. The bucket
struck, in due time, however, and he wondered why there
was no splash. He jerked it over, and when it struck again
there was the sound of water, but it appeared difficult to
sink it. He peered down into it again to ascertain what
the matter was. A wave of ripples caught his gaze, while
the bucket seemed to be resting on something. He gave
the rope another jerk and twist, and it came down bottom-side
up on the dark object.
"Hell," he muttered, "this well is dry!" He took an[Pg 88]other
look. "No, it isn't dry. There is something in the
well." Bending until his face was shaded by the shadow
of the well, he searched below very closely with his eyes.
He could distinguish that there was something; and that
the something seemed to bobble. He withdrew the bucket,
unfilled, and, allowing a few moments for the ripples
to subside, he searched the darkness below again closely.
He became conscious of a cold feeling stealing up his
spine, then he caught and held his breath as slowly what
was below took outline. It was not a dog, a coyote, a pig,
or an animal of any kind. It was something else ... and
the something else had features that were familiar. At
last realization was upon him, his fingers gripped the boards
they held as he gradually straightened up.
"My God!" he cried at last, terror stricken.
For below him, with white face turned upward as if
laughing, was the dead body of Peter Kaden.[Pg 89]
CHAPTER XII
MISS STEWART RECEIVES A CALLER
COINCIDENT with the finding of Peter Kaden's body
in the well, certain things became public with regard
to others. But to complete this part of it. After
finding the body Jean Baptiste hurried into Dallas and gave
the alarm. Excitement ran high for a time, and as it was
Sunday, in a few hours the spot around the well was
crowded. From over all the reservation the people came,
and the consensus of opinion was that it was suicide....
Perhaps Jean Baptiste was the only one who had his doubts.
If it was suicide, then he was positive it was a precipitated
suicide.
Until the coroner arrived there was no disposition made
of the remains, and when he did, the decision of suicide was
sustained.
Since the man Baptiste had started to see was brought
to the spot by the excitement, the business in hand was
settled thereupon, and that evening, he went to call on the
Stewarts with a view to hiring Bill.
He found Agnes alone, but was invited to enter. From
her expression, he could see that he was expected, and while
he waited for her father who had gone across the road,
they fell into amiable conversation.
"Springtime is knocking at our door," he ventured.
"And I am glad to see it, and suppose you are also," she
answered.[Pg 90]
"Who isn't! It has been a very severe winter."
"I think so, too. Are the winters here as a rule as cold
as this one has been?" How modest he thought she was.
She was dressed neatly in a satin shirtwaist and tailored
skirt; while from beneath the skirts her small feet incased
in heavy shoes peeped like mice. Her neck rose out of her
bodice and he thought her throat was so very round and
white; while he noticed her prominent chin more today
than he had before. He liked it. Nature had been his
study, and he didn't like a retreating chin. It, to his mind,
was an indication of weak will, with exceptions perhaps
here and there. He reposed more confidence in the person,
however, when the chin was like hers, so naturally he was
interested. As she sat before him with folded hands, he
also observed her heavy hair, done into braids and gathered
about her head. It gave her an unostentatious expression;
while her eyes were as he had found them before, baffling.
"Why, no, they are not," he said. "Of course I have
not seen many—in fact this is the second; but I am advised
that, as a rule, the winters are very mild for this latitude."
"I see. I hope they will always be so if we continue to
live here," and she laughed pleasantly.
"How do you like it in our country?" he inquired now,
pleased to be in conversation with her.
"Why, I like it very well," she replied amiably. "What
I have seen of it, I think I would as soon live here as back
in Indiana."
"I have been in Indiana myself."
"You have?" She was cheered with the fact. He
nodded.
"Yes, all over. What part of Indiana do you come
from?"
"Rensselaer," she replied, shifting with comfort, and[Pg 91]
delighted that by his having been in Indiana, he was making
their conversation easier.
"Oh, I see," she heard him. "That is toward the northern
part of the state."
"Yes," she replied in obvious delight.
"I have never been to that town, but I have been all
around it."
"Well, well!" She was at a loss in the moment how to
proceed and then presently she said:
"You have traveled considerably, Mr. Baptiste, I understand."
He felt somewhat flattered to know that she had discussed
him with others apparently.
"Well, yes, I have," he replied slowly.
"That must be fine. I long so much to travel."
"You have not traveled far?"
"No. From Indiana to Western Kansas where we were
most starved out, and then back to Indiana and out here."
He laughed, she also joined in and they felt nearer each
other by it.
"And how do you like it, Mr. Baptiste?"
"Out here, you mean?"
"Yes, why, yes, of course," she added hastily.
"Why, I like it fine. I'm thoroughly in love with the
country."
"That's nice. And you own such nice land, I don't
wonder," she said thoughtfully.
"Oh, well," he replied, modestly, "I think I should
like it anyhow."
"Of course; but when one has property—such nice
land as you own, they have everything to like it for."
"I'm compelled to agree with you."
"I'm sorry we don't own any," she said regretfully.[Pg 92]
"But of course in a way we are not entitled to. We
didn't get in 'on the ground floor,' therefore we must be
satisfied as renters."
He was silent but attentive.
"Papa never seems to have been very fortunate. It may
be due to his quaint old fashioned manner, but he has never
owned any land at all, poor fellow." She said the last
more to herself than to him. He was interested and continued
to listen.
"We went to Western Kansas with a little money and
very good stock, and were dried out two years straight, and
the third year when we had a good crop with a chance to
get back at least a little of what we had lost, along came a
big hail storm and pounded everything into the ground."
"Wasn't that too bad!" he cried sympathetically.
"It sure was! It is awfully discouraging to work as hard
and to have sacrificed as much as we had, and then come
out as we did. It just took all the ambition out of him."
"I shouldn't wonder," he commented tenderly.
"And then we went back to Indiana—broke, of course,
and having no money and no stock; because we had to
sell what we had left to get out of Western Kansas. So
since 'beggars can't be choosers' we had to take what we
could get. And that was a poor farm in a remote part of
Indiana, in a little place that was so poor that the corn
was all nubbins. They called it 'Nubbin Ridge.'"
He laughed, and she had to also when she thought of it.
"Well, we were able to live and pay a little on some more
stock. Because my brothers didn't take much to run around
with like other boys but stayed home and worked, we finally
succeeded in getting just a little something together again
and then a real estate man came along and told us about this
place, so here we are." She bestowed a smile upon him[Pg 93]
and sighed. She had told more of themselves than she
had intended, but it had been a pleasant diversion at that;
moreover, she was delighted because he was such an attentive
listener.
"So that is how you came here?" he essayed. "I have
enjoyed listening to you. Your lives read like an interesting
book."
"Oh, that isn't fair. You are joking with me!" Notwithstanding,
she blushed furiously.
"No, no, indeed," he protested.
She believed him. Strangely she reposed such confidence
in the man that she felt she could sit and talk with him
forever.
"But it is certainly too bad that you have been so unfortunate.
I am sure it will not always be so. You are
perseverant, I see, and 'riches come to him who waits.'"
"An old saying, but I hope it will not wait too long.
Papa is getting old, and—my brothers would be unable to
manage with any effect alone...." He understood her
and the incident was overlooked.
"Your mother is dead?"
"Yes, my mother is dead, Mr. Baptiste."
"Oh."
"Died when I was a baby."
"Well, well...."
"I never knew her."
"Well, I do say!" He paused briefly, while she was
silent but thinking deeply.... Thinking of what her father
had started to say and never finished.
"And I venture to say that you have just about raised
yourself?"
She blushed.
"You must be a wonderful girl."[Pg 94]
She blushed again and twisted her hands about. She
tried to protest; but couldn't trust herself to say anything
just then. How she liked to hear him talk!
"You have my best wishes, believe me," he was at a loss
for the moment as to how to proceed.
"Oh, thank you." She didn't dare raise her eyes. He
regarded her as she sat before him, blushing so beautifully,
and wished they were of the same race.... Footsteps
were heard at that moment, and both sat up expectantly.
Quickly, then, she rose to her feet and went to the door and
opened it in time to meet her father who was about to enter.
"Oh, it's you, father! I'm glad you've come. Mr. Baptiste
is here to see you."
"Ah-ha, Mr. Baptiste, I am honored," cried Jack Stewart,
her father, and he marched forward with outstretched hand
and much ado; Scotch propriety.
"Glad to know you, Judge," Baptiste returned warmly,
grasping the proffered hand.
"Be seated, be seated and make yourself comfortable;
make yourself at home," he said, pushing forward the chair
out of which Baptiste had risen. Agnes was smiling pleasantly.
She could see that the two were going to become
friends, for both were so frank in their demeanor.
"Now, Aggie, you must prepare supper for Mr. Baptiste
and myself," he said, taking hold of her arm.
"Oh, no," disdained Baptiste. "Don't think of it!"
"Now, now, my worthy friend," admonished Stewart,
and then stopped. "Why—you have met my daughter?"
"Yes, we have met," they spoke in the same breath, exchanging
glances.
"Then, while you fix us something good to eat, we will
discuss our business."[Pg 95]
They found no difficulty in reaching a bargain in regard
to Bill, the bargain being that Bill was to board home and
sleep there also; and the consideration was to be one dollar
per day, and by the time this was completed, Agnes called
them to supper.
"This is an unexpected pleasure, even though it be an intrusion,"
said Baptiste as he was gently urged into a seat.
"Ah-ha, and I see you have a sense of humor," whereupon
Jack Stewart's eyes glistened humorously behind the
old style glasses he wore. Baptiste colored unseen, while
Agnes regarded him smilingly.
"We haven't much, but what is here you are welcome to,"
she said.
"It's a feast," said he.
"About as good as baching, anyhow," joined Stewart.
"Hush!"
"How do you like it?"
"Didn't I say hush? That should be sufficient!" Agnes
took a seat and surveyed the table carefully to see that all
was there. Her father was pious. He blessed the table,
and when this was over, fell to eating with his knife.
"By the way," cried Baptiste near the end of the meal.
"Did you hear the news?"
"What news," they asked in chorus.
"The man dead in the well."
"Is that so!" they exclaimed, shocked.
He then told them in detail all about the finding of the
body, and the opinion that it was a suicide. They listened
with the usual awe and curiosity. But Jean Baptiste did not
voice his suspicions, or tell them anything he knew. At a
later hour he took his leave.
And neither of the three realized then that the self-same[Pg 96]
tragedy linked strangely an after event in their lives. But
when Jean Baptiste went over the hill to his sod house that
stood on the claim, Jack Stewart went outside and walked
around for almost an hour. He was thinking. Thinking
of something he knew and had never told.[Pg 97]
CHAPTER XIII
THE COMING OF THE RAILROAD
IT IS NOT likely that the people in the neighborhood of
Dallas would have ever known any more than they did
regarding A.M. Barr, had it not been for two accounts.
When proof had been offered by him on his homestead and
a loan sought, to keep from invalidating the title to his
land, he was compelled to admit that he was married;
but, fortunately for him, it was not necessary to state when
or how long he had been married, and this he obligingly
did not state. But the surprise came when upon admittance,
he then confessed to the promoters that he had married
Christine.... Of course everybody was positive then
that he had been married to Christine when he came to the
country, and that he was married to her at the time
she was holding the claim. Perjury was a penitentiary
offense. He had sold her claim on pretense that she must
go to England. Christine, as Baptiste had come to know
by the papers he found, had not, of course, gone to England;
but merely to Lincoln, Nebraska, where she was safe to
keep silent about what she knew in regard to the subtle
transactions of Augustus M. Barr.
The incident went the usual route of gossip, the people
wondering how such a beautiful girl as Christine could be
happy as the wife of an old, broken down infidel like Barr.
But they never came into the truth, the whole truth; they
never connected Barr with the dark Assyrian Jew, Isaac
Syfe; nor were they aware that he had ever known the
forlorn Peter Kaden. Only Jean Baptiste knew this, and[Pg 98]
that, although Barr called a sale and immediately left the
country, there was something still to be completed. But
Jean Baptiste didn't know then that it would all come back
to him in such an unusual manner. However, the public
learned a little more concerning the previous activities of
this august contemporary before long. It came in the form
of a sensational newspaper feature story. And was in brief
to wit:
While pastor of the Baker Street church, London, Isaac
M. Barr, and not Augustus, mind you, although there was
no question about the two being one and the same became
very much in the confidence of his flock. Of London's great
middle class they were and possessed ambition, which Barr
apparently appealed to. The result was that a great colony
set sail for a land of promise, the land being Western Canada.
The full details were not given; but it seems that Barr
was the trustee and handled the money. On arrival, Barr
suddenly disappeared and the good people from England
never saw him again, which perhaps accounts in some
measure for his becoming an infidel.... Who would not
under such circumstances?
There is a feature regarding a new country—that is, a
country that lays toward the western portion of the great
central valley, that is always questioned, and is ever a source
for knockers. But we should explain one thing that might
be of benefit to those who would go west to settle and develop
with hopes of success. And this is rainfall. In this
country of our story, which lay near the line where central
time is changed to mountain time, near the fifth principal
meridian the altitude is about 2000 feet above the level of
the sea, and the rainfall may be estimated accordingly.
Rainfall is governed by altitude and is a feature beyond[Pg 99]
discussion. This is a very serious matter, and could multitudes
of people going west to take homesteads, or settle, be
impressed with the facts and know then what to expect,
much grief could be avoided.
But unfortunately this is not so. Masses can be convinced—were
convinced in the country of our story, and
all the west beyond, in other parts, that rainfall was governed
by cultivation. An erroneous idea! As has been
stated, rainfall is governed by elevation: air pressures are
such that when in contact with the heavy air due to the
lower elevation, thunder showers and general rains fall more
frequently on the whole and this can be certified by the
record of any weather bureau, comparing the elevation to
the amount of precipitation over a given period, say five or
ten years. It is a fact, however, that in the most arid districts
cloudbursts do occur, but they are always a detriment
to the parts over which they may fall. And it is also true
that in a given year or season, more rain may fall over a
certain arid district than some well cultivated portion in a
country where the fall of rain is beyond question.
Because of these contending features, many portions of
the country have received a boom one season and failed to
produce the next. When one year had proven exceedingly
wet, the theory was that the whole climatic origin of
the country had changed; drought had passed forever, and
people and capital flowed in to sometimes go out, broken and
shattered in spirits, hopes and finances later. Such instances
hurt and hinder a country instead of helping it. If,
in coming to the country of our story the masses of people
could have understood that at an elevation of from two
thousand to twenty-two hundred feet, the rainfall over a
period of ten years would approximate an average of
twenty-five inches annually, it is reasonable to suppose that[Pg 100]
they would expect dry years and wet years; some cold winters
and some fair, open winters; some cloudbursts and
some protracted droughts. But when the first years of settlement
were accompanied by heavy rains, the boom that
followed is almost beyond our pen to detail.
From over all the country people came hither; people with
means, for it was the land of opportunity. The man who
was in many cases wealthy in older portions of the country,
had come there with next to and very often with nothing and
had grown rich—not by any particular ability or concentrated
effort on the part of himself; not by the making and
saving, investing and profiting, but because in the early days
the land was of such little value and brought so little when
offered for sale that it had been a case of staying thereon;
result, riches came in the advance later in the price according
to demand.
Such was not the circumstances altogether in the land
where Jean Baptiste had cast his lot in the hope for ultimate
success. While opportunity was ripe, a few thousands had
been expedient. For what could be had for a small amount
here would have cost a far greater amount back east. But
while land was selling and selling readily the country would
and could not maintain its possible quota of development
without railroad facilities. This question, therefore, was
of the most urgent anxiety. When would the railroad be
extended out of Bonesteel westward? At Bonesteel they
said never. Others, somewhat more liberal said it might be
extended in twenty years. They argued that since it had
taken that many years after Bonesteel had been started before
the company placed their tracks there, the same would
in all probability hold with regards to the country and the
towns west. So be it.
The promoters of the town of Dallas argued that it would[Pg 101]
not be extended from Bonesteel at all; that when it was
extended, it would come up the valley from the town some
miles below Bonesteel, where the tracks lifted to the highlands.
Meaning, of course that Dallas would be the only
town in the newly opened portion of the country to get the
railroad.
Jean Baptiste and Bill had seeded all the land that was
under cultivation on Baptiste's property, and were well under
way of breaking what was left unbroken, when Baptiste
was offered a proposition that looked good to him. It was
200 acres joining his place near Stewart's, the property of
an Indian, the allotee having recently expired. Under a
ruling of the Department of the Interior, an Indian cannot
dispose of an allotment under twenty-five years from the
time he is alloted. This ruling is dissatisfactory to the Indian;
for, notwithstanding all the reles in which he is characterized
in the movies and dramas as the great primitive
hero, brave and courageous, the people of the West who are
surrounded with red men, and know them, know that they
wish to sell anything they might happen to possess as soon
as selling is possible. Therefore, when one happens to expire,
leaving his land to his heirs who can thereupon sell,
dispose, give away or do what they may wish with the land,
as long as it accords with the dictates of the Indian agent,
the tract of land in question can be expected to pass into
other hands forthwith.
The two hundred acres offered Jean Baptiste was convenient
to his land, and was offered at twenty dollars per
acre. Other lands about had sold as high as thirty dollars
the acre. A thousand dollars down and a thousand dollars
a year until paid was the bargain, and he accepted it, paying
over the thousand, which was the last of the money he had
brought from the East with him.[Pg 102]
This was before something happened that turned the
whole country into an orgy of excitement.
A few days after this one of the long rainy periods set
in, and the little town was overrun with homesteaders,
agreeing that the land that was broken was acting to their
advantage: bringing all the good rains, and drought would
never be again.
Then one day a man brought the news. The surveyors
were in Bonesteel. It was verified by others, and really
turned out to be true. The surveyors being in Bonesteel
was an evident fact that the railroad would follow the highlands
and would not come up the valley, and that settled
Dallas as a town. It was doomed before a stake was set,
and here passes out of our story, in so far as a railway in
its present location was concerned. But whatever route a
railroad took, it meant that the value to a homestead by the
extension of the railroad would approximate to exceed ten
dollars per acre. And Jean Baptiste now owned five hundred
and twenty acres.
Since the work now in breaking the extra two hundred
acres was before him, and was more than three miles from
his homestead, he sought more convenience, by determining
to approach the Stewarts with a request to board him.
It was a rainy day, when he called, only to find Jack
Stewart out, while George and Bill were tinkering about the
barn. They had not been informed of his purchase.
"Oh, it is you—Mr. Baptiste," cried Agnes upon opening
the door in response to his knock. "Come right in."
"Where's the governor?" he inquired when seated.
"Search me," she laughed. "Papa's always out, rain or
shine."
"Busy man."
"Yes. Busy but never gets anything by it, apparently."[Pg 103]
She was full of humor, her eyes twinkled. He was also.
It was a day to be grateful. Rainfall, though it bring delay
in the work, such days always are appreciated in a new
country. It made those there feel more confident.
"Lots of rain."
"Yes. I suppose you are glad," she said interestedly.
"Well, I should be."
"We are, too. It looks as if, should this keep up, we will
really raise a crop."
"Oh, it'll keep up," he said cheerfully, confidently. "It
always rains in this country."
"How optimistic you are," she said, regarding him admiringly.
"Thanks."
She smiled then and bit her lip.
"How's your neighbors across the road? I've never become
acquainted with them."
"Their name is Prescott. I don't know much about them;
but papa has met them."
"How many of them?"
"Three. The man and wife and a son."
"A son?"
"M-m."
"How old is he—a young man?"
"M-m."
He smiled mischievously.
"Oh, it will be great," and she laughed amusedly.
"He farms with his parents?"
"I don't think so. He has rented a few acres on the
place north of us. Don't seem to be much force."
"You should wake him up."
"Humph!"
"My congratulations," irrelevantly.[Pg 104]
"Please don't. He's too ugly, too lazy; loves nothing but
a stallion he owns, and is very uninteresting."
"Indeed!" Suddenly he jumped up. "I have forgotten
that I came to see your dad."
"I can't say when papa will be home," she answered,
going toward the door and looking out.
"I wanted to see him regarding a little business about
boarding. I wonder if he could board me?"
"He'll be home about noon, anyhow."
"That won't be so long, now," said he, regarding the
clock.
"So you are tired of baching," she said with a little
twinkle of the eyes.
"Oh, baching? Before I started. But that is not what
has expedited my wishing to board. I bought some more
land. Couple hundred acres of that dead Indian land over
south."
"You did!"
"Why, yes." He did not understand her exclamation.
"Oh, but you are such a wonderful man, and to be such
a young man!" She was not aware of the intimacy in her
reference, and spoke thoughtfully, as if to herself more than
to him.
He was flattered, and didn't know how to reply.
"You are certainly deserving of the high esteem in which
you are held throughout the community," and still she was
as if speaking to herself, and thoughtful.
He could not shut out at once the vanity she had aroused
in him. He wished to appear and to feel modest about it,
however. After all, he had most of the other land to pay
for, which, nevertheless, gave him no worry. His confidence
was supreme. He continued silent while she went
on:[Pg 105]
"It must be wonderful to be a young man and to be so
courageous; to be so forceful and to be admired."
"Oh, you flatter me."
"No; I do not mean to. I am speaking frankly and
what I feel. I admire the qualities you are possessed with.
I read a great deal, and when I see a young man like you
going ahead so in the world, I think he should be encouraged."
How very frankly, and considerately she had said it all.
His vanity was gone. He saw her as the real Agnes. He
saw in her, moreover, that which he had always longed for
in his race. How much he would have given to have heard
those words uttered by a girl of his blood on his trips back
East. But, of course the West was foreign to them. They
could not have understood as she did. But the kindness
she had shown had its effect. He could at least admire her
openly for what she was. He spoke now.
"I think you are very kind, Miss Stewart. I can't say
when any one has spoken so sensibly to me as you have, and
you will believe me when I say that such shall never be forgotten."
He paused briefly before going on. "And it will
always be my earnest wish that I shall prove worthy of such
kind words." He stopped then, for in truth, he was too
overcome with emotion, and could not trust himself to go
on.
She stood with her back to him, and could he have seen
her eyes he would also have observed tears of emotion.
They were honest tears. She had spoken the truth. She
admired the man in Jean Baptiste, and she had not thought
of his color in speaking her conviction. But withal she felt
strangely that her life was linked in some manner with this
man's.
Her father's appearance at this moment served to break[Pg 106]
the silent embarrassment between them, the embarrassment
that had come out of what she had said.
They settled with regards to his boarding with them, and
a few minutes later he took his leave. As he was passing
out, their eyes met. Never had they appeared so deep;
never before so soft. But in the same he saw again that
which he had seen before and as yet could not understand.[Pg 107]
CHAPTER XIV
THE ADMINISTRATING ANGEL
NEVER before since Jean Baptiste had come West and
staked his lot and future there, doing his part toward
the building of that little empire out there in
the hollow of God's hand, had he worked so hard as he did
in the days that followed that summer. When the rains for
a time ceased and the warm, porous soil had dried sufficiently
to permit a return to the fields, from early morn
until the sun had disappeared in the west late afternoons,
did he labor. Observation with him seemed to be inherent.
Ever since he had played as a boy back in old Illinois he
had been deeply sensitive with regards to his race. To him,
notwithstanding the fact that he realized that less than fifty
years had passed since freedom, they appeared—even considering
their adverse circumstances—to progress rather
slowly. He had not as yet come fully to appreciate and
understand why they remained always so poor; always the
serf; always in the position to gain so little—but withal to
suffer so much! Oh, the anguish it had so often given
him!
His being in the West had come of an ulterior purpose.
It has been stated that he was a keen observer. While so
he had cultivated also the faculty of determination. By now
it had became a sort of habit, a sort of second nature as it
were. But there were certain things he could not seem to
get away from. For instance: It seemed to him that the
most difficult task he had ever encountered was to convince
the average colored man that the Negro race could ever be
anything. In after years he understood more fully why this[Pg 108]
was—but we deal with the present; those days when Jean
Baptiste with a great ambition was struggling to "do his
bit" in the development of the country of our story. He
struggled with these problems at times until he became
fatigued; not knowing that he could never understand until
the time came for him to.
When he dined late one afternoon and found himself
alone with Agnes, he spoke of being tired.
"You work too hard, Jean," she said, kindly.
"Perhaps so," he admitted. "And, still, the way I
choose to see that is, that I'll not know the difference this
time next year."
"That is quite possible," she agreed thoughtfully. "But
your case is this, I think. You seem inspired by some high
compulsion; some infinite purpose in the way you work,
and in your mind this is so uppermost that you forget the
limit of your physical self." She paused and gazed at the
knife she held. Her mind appeared to deliberate, and he
wondered at her deep logic. What a really mindful person
she was, and still but a girl.
"I cannot help thinking of you and your effort here," she
resumed, "and if I was asked, I would advise you to exercise
more discretion in regard to yourself. To labor as
you do, without regard to rain, sun, or time, is not practical.
It would be very sad if, in conducting yourself as
you do, something should happen to you before you had
quite fulfilled that to which you are aspiring—not to accomplish
altogether, but to demonstrate."
"You seem to have such a complete understanding of
everything, Agnes," he said. "You appear to see so much
deeper than the people I have met, to look so much beneath
the surface and read what is there. I cannot always understand
you." He paused while she continued in that[Pg 109]
thoughtful manner as if she had not heard what he said.
"Now in your remark of a moment ago, you so defined
a certain thing I would like to tell you.... But I shall not
now. The instance is always so much in my mind that
indeed, I lose sense of physical endurance; I lose sight of
everything but the one object. It is not that I care so much
for the fruits of my labor; but if I could actually succeed,
it would mean so much to the credit of a multitude of
others.—Others who need the example...." He paused
and thought of his race. The individual here did not count
so much, it was the cause. His race needed examples; they
needed instances of successes to overcome the effect of ignorance
and an animal viciousness that was prevalent among
them.
In this land, for instance, which had been advertised
from one end of the country to the other; this land where
four hundred thousand acres of virgin soil had been opened
to the settler, he was about the only one of that race who
had come hither, or paid the instance any attention. Such
examples of neglected opportunity stood out clearly, and
were recorded; and the record would give his race, claiming
to be discriminated against, no credit.... Such examples
of obliviousness to what was around them would be hard to
explain away. So in his ambitious youth, Jean Baptiste's
dream was to own one thousand acres of land. He was now
twenty-three and possessed half that much. He conjectured
that he could reach the amount by the time he was thirty—providing
nothing serious happened to retard him....
He had finished his meal and was ready to go back
to that little place over the hill. The girl who had made
proof on the homestead he had purchased, had lived fourteen
months alone in a little sod house her father had built
for her in which he now had his bed. She had come of a[Pg 110]
prosperous family in the East. She had come hither and
put in the time, and the requirements, and had sold the land
that he had bought at a good profit to herself. Such instances
were common in that country, so common indeed,
that little was thought of it. In his trips back East when
Baptiste told of such opportunities, he was not taken seriously.
The fact that the wealth of the great Central Valley
was right at their door; that from the production there they
purchased the food they ate; that sheep were raised whose
wool was later manufactured into the very clothes they
wore, had no meaning to them. And always he felt discouraged
when he returned from a visit among them.
He had never seen Agnes so serious as she was that night.
She arose and followed him to the door, and stood with him
a moment before he left. Her eyes were tired and she
appeared worried. He became possessed with an impulse to
shake her hand. She seemed to sense his desire, and as he
stepped out into the night, she extended it. He grasped and
held it briefly. He whispered goodnight to her, and as he
went through the yard and out into the road, she watched
him from the open door until he was out of sight.
Jean Baptiste thought he had secured a bargain in a team
he had purchased a week before, and, from all appearances he
had. For, after working them a week, he found them model
horses—apparently. As stated, he slept in the little sod
house on the place near Stewart's, and also had a barn there
in which he kept his horses while working. The morning
following the conversation with Agnes, just related, he went
out to curry and feed this team along with the other horses,
and received a kick that was almost his ending. Right at
the temple one spiked him, and he knew no more for hours.
"I wonder why Jean is so late," said Agnes, going to the[Pg 111]
window and gazing up the road. He was a hardy eater and
the fact that he was late for breakfast was unusual. They
waited a while longer and then ate without him. Bill who
had been to care for his horses at the place before breakfast,
reported that he had seen Baptiste go into the barn.
So he had arisen, that was sure; but why had he not come
for his meal? The subject was dismissed by all except
Agnes, who was strangely uneasy.
"Bill," said she, "see what is the matter with your boss
when you go over, and tell him to come to breakfast."
Bill had no difficulty ascertaining, and returned quickly
with the news.
"I knew it!" exclaimed Agnes, excitedly. "I just felt
that something was the matter," whereupon she got into
a light coat and followed her father and brothers to where
he lay outside the barn door, bleeding freely from the
temple.
They carried him into their house, and were cheered to
see that the blood had ceased to flow. His head was
bandaged while Bill went for Doc. Slater, who pronounced
the wound serious but not fatal. He awakened later in
the day and called for water. It was brought him forthwith
by Agnes.
When he had drunk deeply and lay back weakly upon
the pillow, he heard:
"How do you feel, Jean?" He looked around in the
semi-darkness of the room, and upon seeing her, sighed
before answering. When he did it was a groan. She came
quickly to where he lay and bent over him.
"Jean," she repeated softly, tenderly. "How do you
feel? Does your head pain you much?"
"Where am I?" he said, turning his face toward her.
She put her hand lightly over his bandaged head.[Pg 112]
"You're here, Jean. At Stewart's. You are hurt, do
you understand?"
"Hurt?" he repeated abstractedly.
"Yes, hurt, Jean. You were kicked on the temple by
one of your horses."
"Is that so?" and he suddenly sat up in the bed.
"Careful, careful," she cried, excitedly, pushing him
gently back upon the pillow. He was silent as if in deep
thought, while she waited eagerly. Presently she said in
a low voice:
"Do you feel hurt badly, Jean?"
"I don't know." He raised his hand to his head as if
trying to think more clearly. She caught his hands and
held them as if trying to estimate his pulse, to see if he
had any fever.
"How did you come to get kicked, Jean?" she asked,
speaking in the same low tone.
"I don't know. When I opened the barn door I had a
vision of one of the horses moving and I knew no more."
"You must be very careful and not start the bleeding
again," she advised. "You bled considerably."
"And you say I am at your house. At where I board?"
"Yes, Jean."
He turned and stared at her, and for the first time seemed
to be himself. He closed his eyes a moment as if to shut out
something he did not wish to see.
"And you have me here and are caring for me?"
"We brought you here and are caring for you, Jean,"
she repeated.
"It is singular," said he.
"What is singular?"
"That you have twice happened to be where you can[Pg 113]
serve me when I am injured or in danger." She was
silent. She didn't know how to answer, or that there was
to be any answer.
"Has a doctor been here?"
"Yes."
"What did he seem to think of it?"
"He said your wound was serious, but not fatal."
"Did he say I could get up soon?"
"He didn't say, Jean; but I don't think it would be wise."
He groaned.
"Now you must be patient and not fret yourself into a
fever," she said seriously.
"But I have so much work to do."
"That will have to wait. Your health is first," she said
firmly.
"But the work should be done," he insisted.
"But you must consider your health before you can even
think about the work."
He groaned again. She was thoughtful. She was considerate,
and she could see that he would worry about his
work and injure himself or risk fever.
"I'll speak to papa, and perhaps George can take your
place for a few days, a week or until you can get out."
"You are so kind, Agnes," he said then. "You are always
so thoughtful. I don't know how I can accept all you
do for me."
"Please hush—don't mention it." She arose and presently
returned with her father.
"Ah-ha," he always greeted. "So you've come to.
Thought something would show up in that 'bargain.'"
"Please don't, father," admonished Agnes, frowningly.
"I'll look after everything while you are down, old man,"[Pg 114]
said Stewart. "I'll start the horses you've been working
this afternoon. Aggie has explained everything. I understand."
"I'm so thankful," he said, then closing his eyes, and
a few minutes later had fallen asleep.[Pg 115]
CHAPTER XV
OH, MY JEAN!
WHEN JACK STEWART left Indiana, and left
owing the two hundred dollars which was secured
by a chattel mortgage on his horses, he failed to do
something he now had cause to regret. The man to whom
he owed this money agreed to give him one year in which
to pay it, but didn't renew the mortgage. He was a close
friend of Jack's, and there had been no worry. But the
man died; his affairs fell into the hands of an administrator,
whose duties were to clean up, to realize on all due
and past due matter. And because the note of Jack Stewart's
was due and past due, the extension being simply a
verbal one, the administrator wrote Jack demanding that he
take up his note at once.
We know the circumstances of Jack Stewart; that because
Jean Baptiste had hired his son Bill, and now was
boarding with them, he was able to get along; but Jack
Stewart had nothing with which to pay $200 notes....
So while Jean Baptiste was recovering from his illness, Jack
Stewart had cause to be very much worried.
Possessed, however, with a confidence, Jack took the
matter up with the banker in the town where he received
his mail. Now a common saying in a new country is:
"I'm going to borrow five dollars and start a bank...."
Inferring that while there is, as a whole, an abundance of
banks in a new country, they do not always have the where[Pg 116]withal
to loan. What they have is usually retained for the
accommodation of their regular patrons, and they were unable
to accommodate Jack, even had they wished to do so.
Now, he could have secured the money had he been a
claimholder or a land owner. But Jack, being neither,
found himself in a bad plight. He had Aggie write a
long letter in which he tried to explain matters, and requested
until fall to pay, as had been verbally agreed upon.
But the class of people in the old East who regard the new
West as a land of impossibilities, where drought burns all
planted crops to crisp, where grasshoppers eat what is left,
who still regard those who would stake their fortunes and
chances in the West as fools, were not all dead.
The administrator happened to be one of this kind. He
had no confidence in the country Jack wrote about, the
crops he had planted; what he expected to reap, and no
patience withal into the bargain. So he wrote Jack a brief
letter, and also one to the bank in the town, sending the
papers with it at the same time, with instructions to foreclose
at a given time. And when Jack knew more of it, he
was confronted with paying the note in thirty days or having
his horse taken, and sold at auction.
Jean Baptiste recovered, went back to his work, and
noticed that Jack Stewart and Agnes were much worried;
but, of course, didn't understand the cause of it.
"Have you tried elsewhere, father?" said Agnes when
they had gotten the notice giving them thirty days' grace.
"But I am not known, dear. There is not much money
in a new country, and it is very difficult to get credit where
there is nothing to lend."
"There must be some way to avoid this. Oh, that man,
why couldn't he be reasonable!"
"It is always bad when one has to write. If I were[Pg 117]
back in Indiana I could go and see this man and reason
it out, but when a thousand miles is between us—it's
bad!"
"If we could have only just three months."
"Two months," he exclaimed.
The days that followed were days of grave anxiety, of
nervous anticipation for them. There was but one person
they could turn to at such a time, and that was Jean Baptiste.
Agnes thought of him, she started to speak with her
father regarding him, but in the end did not bring herself
to do so.
So the time went on, and the thirty days became twenty;
and the twenty fell to ten; and the ten fell to five, and then
Jean Baptiste could bear their worry no longer without
speaking.
"You and your father have been very kind to me, Agnes,
and I can see you are greatly worried about something. If
I could help you in any way, I would be glad to do so."
She was so near to crying when she heard this that she
had much difficulty keeping back the tears. But she managed
to say:
"Why, it's nothing serious. Just a little matter, that's
all," and she went into her room. He pondered. It was
more than that. Of this he was sure. He left the house
and came around to where Jack sat, and was moved by his
expression. But Jack would say nothing. He could not
understand. He tried to dismiss the subject from his mind,
and so came Sunday, the day of days.
He was walking from his meal to his place to look over
his crops, when from up the road he caught the sound of
buggy-wheels. Two men, driving a single horse hitched to
a light buggy were coming his way. When they caught
sight of him, they hurried the animal forward slightly by[Pg 118]
touching him up with the whip, and beckoned to him to stop.
Presently they drew up to where he stood and he recognized
one as a homesteader, and having a claim near and the other
as a professional dealer in horses. They exchanged greetings
and some remarks about the weather and crops, and
then the trader said:
"By the way, Jean, where does that old Scotchman live
out this way? The old fellow who moved out here recently
from Indiana?"
"That's the place there," and Baptiste pointed to the
top of the house that could just be seen from where they
stood.
"I see," said the other thoughtfully. "Wonder where
that dappled gray mare he owns is grazing. I'd like to take
a look at 'er."
"I think you will see her grazing in the pasture," said
Baptiste curiously.
"How—what kind of animal is it?"
"Why, she's a hum-dinger," returned Baptiste more curiously.
His curiosity aroused the other, who, looking at
him said:
"Well, you see the old man is to be sold out—foreclosed,
and I thought I'd take a look at his stuff and if I thought
there was anything in it, I might save the old scout the
humiliation by buying it."
"T' hell you say!" exclaimed Baptiste.
"Oh, yes. Hadn't you heard about it?"
"This is my first knowledge of it."
"Yes, the sheriff's coming to get the stuff Tuesday—that
is, providing the old man don't come across with a
couple of hundred before that time, and it is not likely he
can, I don't think."
"Well, well!" Baptiste exclaimed, thinking of the worry[Pg 119]
he had observed in the faces of Agnes and her father, and
at last beginning to understand.'
"Yes, it's rather bad, that. But this follows the old gent
from where he comes, and he is not known here, so I guess
I'll mosey along and take a look at the stuff—just a glance
at it from the road, you understand. And if things look
good, I'll drop by 'n see him later." Whereupon they went
their way cheerfully, while Baptiste resumed his, thoughtfully.
He returned to his house by a roundabout way, and, later,
hitching a team to a light buggy, he drove into the town
where Jack traded and looked up the banker.
"Say, Brookings," he opened, "what kind of deal is the
old Scotchman up against out there? You understand."
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the cashier. "The old man out
there on the Watson homestead! Well, it seems like the
old fellow stands a good chance of being sold out." He
then explained to Baptiste regarding the note and the circumstances.
"That don't look just right to me," muttered Baptiste
when he had heard the circumstances.
"Well, now, it isn't right. But what can be done?"
"Can't you loan the old man the money?"
"I could; but I don't like letting credit to strangers and
renters. If he could get a good man on his note I'd fix it
out for him, since we've just received quite a sum for deposit."
"Well, if I should go it," said Baptiste suggestively.
The other looked quickly up.
"Why, you! Gee, I'd take care of him for ten times the
amount if you'd put your 'John Henry' on the note."
"Well, I'll be in town early in the morning," said Baptiste,
turning to drive away.[Pg 120]
"All right, Jean. Sure! I'll look for you."
The day was bright and lovely for driving, and Baptiste
drove to his homestead, and from there to the Reynolds'
where he had dinner and visited late. The next morning
he went to the town, and when Jack Stewart, exhausted by
the strain of worry under which he was laboring, came into
town, having decided to try and sell the mare and one of
the other horses, thereby leaving him only one with which
to complete the cultivating of his corn and the reaping of
his crops, he was called into the bank.
"Now if you'll just sign this, Mr. Stewart," said Brookings,
"you can have until December first on that stuff."
"You mean the note!" the old man exclaimed, afraid to
believe that he had heard aright.
"Yes, the note that is about to be foreclosed. You've
been granted an extension." Jack Stewart was too overcome
to attempt to comment. The realization that he was
to be allowed to go on and not be sold out or be forced to
dispose of his little stock at such a critical time, was too
much for words. He caught up the pen, steadied his nerves,
and wrote his name, not observing that the banker held a
blotter over the lower line of the note. Jean Baptiste had
cautioned him to do this. In view of the circumstances he
had not wished Stewart or Agnes to know that he had gone
on the note.
Jack Stewart hurried home in a fever of excitement. He
could not get there fast enough. He thought of Agnes, he
did not wish her to have a minute more grief than what she
had endured. He reached home and stumbled into the
house, and to Agnes he said:
"Oh, girl, girl, girl! They have extended the note! The
sheriff is not coming! We are saved, saved, saved!" He
was too overcome with emotion and joy then to proceed.[Pg 121]
He sank into a chair, while Agnes, carried away with excitement
over the news, caressed him; said words of love
and care until both had been exhausted by their own emotions.
When they at last became calm, she turned to her
father who now walked the floor in great joy.
"How did they come to extend the note, father?"
"Why—why, dear, that had never occurred to me! I
became so excited when they told me that I had been granted
an extension, I can only recall that I signed the note and
almost ran out of the bank. The man had to call me back
to give me my old note and mortgage. I don't know why
they granted the extension." He stood holding his chin
now and looking down at the floor as if trying to understand
after all how it happened. Then his eyes opened suddenly
wide. "Why, and, do you know, now, since I come to
think of it, they did not take a new mortgage on the
stock."
"I don't believe that the administrator had anything to
do with it," she said after a time. "I know that man. He
would sell his mother out into the streets. Now I wonder
who has influenced the bank into giving us this time...."
"Bless me, dear lord. But right now I am too tickled to
try to think who. To be saved is enough all at once. Later,
I shall try to figure out who has been my benefactor." And
with this he left the house and went to walk with his joy
in the fields where George was plowing corn, unconscious
of the fact that the team he was driving was to have been
seized on the morrow and sold for debt.
"Now I wonder who saved papa," Agnes said to herself,
taking a seat by the window and gazing abstractedly out into
the road. She employed her wits to estimate what had
brought it about, and as she sat there, Jean Baptiste came
driving down the road. He had not been there since break[Pg 122]fast
the morning before. He had taken his morning's meal
at the restaurant in the town. As he drove down the slope
that began above the house wherein she sat, his dark face
was lighted with a peaceful smile. He drove leisurely
along, concerned with the bright prospects of his four hundred
acres of crop. He was so absorbed in his thoughts
that he passed on by without seeing Agnes at the window;
without even looking toward the house.
Upon seeing him Agnes had for the moment forgotten
what she was thinking about. But when he had passed
by, she was suddenly struck with an inspiration. She
jumped quickly to her feet: She raised her hands to her
breast and held them there as if to still a great excitement,
as she cried:
"Jean! Jean, Jean Baptiste! It was you, you, who did
it. It was you who saved my father, saved me; saved us
all! Oh, my Jean!"
She was overcome then with a great emotion. She sank
slowly upon a chair. And as she did so sobs broke from her
lips and she wept long and silently.[Pg 123]
CHAPTER XVI
BILL PRESCOTT PROPOSES
SUMMERTIME over the prairie country; summertime
when the rainfall has been abundant, is a time of
happiness to all settlers in a new land. And such
a summer it was in the land of our story. God had been
unusually kind to the settlers; he had blessed them with
abundant moisture; with sunshine, not too warm and not
too cold. The railroad was under course of construction
and would be completed far enough west for the settlers
from the most remote part—from the farthest corner of
the reservation to journey with their grain or hogs, chickens
or cattle to it and return to home the same day. And now
the fields which had been seeded to winter wheat had turned
to gold. Only a few thousand acres had been sowed over
the county, and of this amount one hundred thirty acres
grew on the homestead of Jean Baptiste. The season for
its growth had been ideal, and the prospects for a bumper
yield was the best. Ripe now, and ready to cut, the air was
filled with its aroma.
He had brought a new self-binder from Gregory which
now stood in the yard ready for action, its various colors
green, red, blue and white, resplendent in the sunlight.
So now we see Jean Baptiste the cheerful, Jean Baptiste
the hopeful, with hopes in a measure about realized; Jean
Baptiste the Ethiopian in a country where he alone was
black. He whistles at times, he sings, he is merry, cheery
and gay.[Pg 124]
But while Jean Baptiste was happy, cheerful and gay,
there was in him what has been, what always will be that
which makes us appreciate the courage that is in some men.
Bill Prescott, from the first day he had seen Agnes, had
considered a match between her and himself a suggestive
proposition. Bill Prescott might be referred to as a "feature."
He was not so fortunate as to have been born handsome,
and could not be called attractive. He had not, moreover,
improved the situation by cultivation of wit, of art or
pride. The West had meant no more to him than had the
East, the South—or the West Indies, for that matter.
Because Bill had no homestead, no deeded land, and had not
tried to get any. His wealth consisted of a few horses,
among which, an old, worn out, bought-on-credit-stallion,
was his pride.
Of this stallion Bill talked. He told of his pedigree,
tracing him back almost to the Ark. He was fond of tobacco,
was Bill Prescott; he chewed, apparently, all the
time. He had lost his front teeth; wore his thin hair
long, and upon his small head a hat, oiled to the point where
its age was a matter for conjecture. He had apparently
appreciated that the wind blew outrageously over those
parts at times, and, therefore, had hung a leather string to
his hat which he pulled down over the back of his head
to hold his hat in place. This succeeded in frumpling the
long, thin hair and kept it in a dishevelled condition.
Now Bill had been a frequent caller at the Stewarts' home
since they had come West. He did not always take the
trouble to remove his hat when inside. That he was fond
of Agnes was apparent, and smiled always upon seeing her,
and at such times showed where his front teeth had been
but where tobacco more frequently now was, with lazy delight.[Pg 125]
He called this day wearing a clean, patched jumper over
his cotton shirt. When once inside, sprawling his legs before
him, and while Jack Stewart worked in the sun outside,
repairing harness, he said to Agnes:
"Well, old girl, how'd you like to marry?" Agnes
changed color a few times before she could decide whether
to answer or not. In the meantime, patient and in no hurry,
Bill grinned with pleasure at the ease with which he had
started; showed tobacco where his teeth had been, and spat
a pound of juice, with plenty of drippings trailing out the
window by which she sat. It made considerable argument
getting through the screen, but succeeded finally—most of
it, the remainder, clung, hesitated, wavered, and finally giving
up, dripped slowly to the ledge below.
"Dog-gone, myself," said Bill, getting up heavily from
his chair, and going to the window and thumping it lightly,
whereupon the hesitant amber, dashed in many directions
about. Agnes had observed it all with calm disgust. Bill,
however, not the least perturbed over his apparent breach of
impropriety, became reseated, and resumed:
"Well?"
She turned her eyes slowly toward him, surveyed him
coldly, and continued at her sewing.
Bill muttered something.
She regarded him again with cold disdain.
"Haw, haw!" he laughed loudly. "You don't pretend
t' hear me, haw! haw! Then I guess you're stuck on that
nigger you got a hangin' round here."
"Will you go!" she cried, as she quickly jumped to her
feet and swung open the door. She controlled herself with
considerable effort.
"Oh, ho! So that's the way you treat a white man—and
honor a d—n nigger!" And with that he dashed out[Pg 126]
and passed to where the senior worked away over his harness.
Jack Stewart saw and heard Bill approaching without
looking up. He greeted:
"Ah-ha, William. And how are you today?"
Bill was struck with a sudden inspiration. In his way
he really liked Agnes, and it was all settled in his mind to
wed her. He realized now that he had rather bungled matters,
and thereupon decided to exercise a little more discretion.
So, choking down the anger that was in him, and
swallowing a bit of tobacco juice at the same time, he said
to Stewart:
"Good morning! Ah, by the way, Jack, I'd like to marry
Agnes." So saying, he was pleased with himself again,
and spat tobacco juice more easily in the next squirt. Jack
continued working at his harness. For the moment he did
not appear to comprehend, but presently he raised his eyes
with the old style glasses before them, and surveyed Bill
slowly.
"You want to do what?" he said, uncomprehendingly.
"To marry Agnes," Bill repeated calmly. He paused,
looked away, sucked his soft mouth clean of amber and
spat it tricklingly at Jack's feet, and looked up and at Jack
with a wondrous smile.
Now Jack Stewart was possessed with certain virtues.
He did not smoke, chew, drink, swear nor shave. He was
rather put out, but with considerable effort at self control
he managed to say:
"Well, if that's the way you feel about it, why don't you
take it up with the girl?" Bill hesitated at this point,
sucked his mouth clear again of tobacco juice, cleared his
throat, spat the juice, and, after a hasty glance toward the
house, decided not to mention that he had spoken with
Agnes. He replied:[Pg 127]
"Well, I thought it best to speak to you, and if it's all
right with you, it ought to be all right with the gal."
Jack Stewart drew up, and then tried to relax. He did
not think so much of Bill; but he did think the world of
Agnes and wanted her respected by everybody. Moreover,
he did not like to hear her "galled." He turned to William;
he regarded him keenly, and then in a voice and words
that were English, but accent that was very much Scotch,
the which we will not attempt to characterize, he said:
"You're a joke. Just a great, big joke." He paused
briefly, and then continued: "I'd like to be patient with
you; but honestly, with you it wouldn't pay. You are not
worth it. And in so far as my girl—any girl is concerned,
I cannot imagine how you could even expect them to be
interested." He paused and looked away, too full up to go
ahead. In the meantime he heard Bill:
"Is that so!"
"Is it so!" cried Stewart with a touch of vehemence.
"Gad! See yourself. See how you go! Don't you observe
what's around you close enough to see that girls
want some sedateness; they admire in some measure cleverness,
clothes, and—well, manhood!"
"So I don't guess I have it?" retorted William, sneeringly.
"Oh, you bore me!" Jack returned disgustingly. He
bent to his work in an attempt to forget it. And then he
again heard from Bill:
"So that's the way yu' got it figgered out, eh!" He drew
his mouth tight shut. He gave another soft suck that drew
his skin close to his gums, and with his tongue, he cleared
his mouth and spat tobacco, juice and all in a soft lump at
Stewart's feet and said in unconcealed anger: "So that's
the way you got me figgered out! And I want to say, now,[Pg 128]
that I don't think I want yer gal, anyhow. I'm a white
man, I am. And what white man would want a gal that a
nigger is allowed to hang aroun' and court!"
Jack Stewart was struck below the belt. He was fouled,
and for a time everything went dark around him, he was
so angry. He did not know that Jean Baptiste had saved
him from losing his stock or being forced to sell them; he
had never connected Baptiste and Agnes as being other than
friends, and friends they had a right to be. But Jack
Stewart did regard Jean Baptiste as a gentleman and gentlemen
he respected. His knockout therefore was brief. He
soon recovered. He could not speak, he could not even
stammer; but with a sudden twitch of the tug his hands
held, he came away around with it, and the heavy leather
took Bill fairly in the mouth, in the middle of the mouth.
And then Jack got his voice, and ready for another swing;
but not before Bill found something, too. It was his feet.
"You stinkin', low down, pup!" cried Stewart, falling
over from the force of the swing he had missed. "You
trash of the sand hills! You tobacco chewin', ragga-muffin!"
Getting his balance, and turning after William
madly, he resumed: "You ornery, nasty, filthy, houn'! If
I get my han's on you, I swear t' God I'll kill you."
But Bill Prescott now held the advantage. He was
younger, and more fleet of foot; so therefore out ran Jack,
who was left before he reached the gate, far to the rear,
and Bill gained his side of the wide road with a safe lead.
Jack finally came to a stop before getting off the premises
with his blood boiling with such heat that he drew his hat
off and beat himself with it. In the meantime, Agnes, who
had witnessed the controversy from the gate, ventured out
to where her father stood and taking him gently by the arm,
she led him inside.[Pg 129]
"My blood's up, my blood's up!" Jack kept crying and
repeating. "That stinkin', triflin' peace a nothin', has been
gittin' smart. Tryin' to low rate me; tryin' to low rate my
girl. Insultin' Jean Baptiste! Dang him, dang him!"
"Father, father!" cried Agnes soothingly.
"Did you hear'm! Did you hear'm! Why, the low
down, good for nothin', I'm a good mind to go cross the
road and skin him alive!"
"Father, father!" begged Agnes.
"Did you hear what he said," insisted the infuriated
senior.
"Yes, father," she confessed. "I heard him."
"You did! 'N that's worse!" Whereupon he tore loose
and threw up his arms in an angered gesture.
"Now, papa," Agnes argued kindly. "I heard him, and
what he said to you. He was in here and insul—spoke to
me before he went out there.... I understand all about
it.... So you must simply be calm—and forget it.
That's all...."
"I don't care so much for myself, but that he should
speak about you and Baptiste! I just wish Baptiste could
have heard him and just beat the gosh danged manure right
out of him."
"Please be quiet, papa. Forget Bill Prescott and what
he has tried to insinuate.... We understand him and
what he is, and we understand Mr. Baptiste—and what
he is, so let us just think of other things."
"Yes, Aggie, I suppose you're right. You always seem
to be right. And I will try to forget it; but I'll say this
much: If that ornery, lazy cuss ever crosses this road
to my place again I'll thresh him within an inch of his
life!"
"You've agreed to forget it, father...."[Pg 130]
"I agree again; but it's outrageous that he should say
what he did about Jean Baptiste, now isn't it?"
"It is, father," she admitted with downcast eyes.
"Of course it is. Never was there more of a gentleman
in the world than Jean Baptiste."
"Mr. Baptiste is a real gentleman," acknowledged Agnes
again.
"There never was, and he knows it, the pup!"
Agnes was strangely silent, which Jack, in his excitement
overlooked.
"And even if he should like my girl—"
"Father!"
"Well?"
"Oh, please hush!"
"I will, Aggie," he said slowly. He bent forward presently,
folded her close, kissed her, and then placing his hat
on his head, went back to his work....[Pg 131]
CHAPTER XVII
HARVEST TIME AND WHAT CAME WITH IT
HARVEST time, harvest time! When the harvest
time is, all worries have passed. When the harvest
time is, all doubts, droughts, fears and tears are
no more. When the golden grain falls upon the canvas;
when the meadow larks, the robins and all the birds of the
land sing the song of harvest time, the farmer is happy, is
gay, and confident.
And harvest time was on in the country of our story.
Jean Baptiste pulled his new binder before the barn,
jumped from the seat, and before he started to unhitch,
he gazed out over a stretch of land which two years before,
had been a mass of unbroken prairie, but was now a world
of shocked grain. Thousands upon thousands of shocks
stood over the field like a great army in the distance. His
crop was good—the best. And no crops are like the crop
on new land. Never, since the beginning of time had that
soil tasted tamed plant life. It had seemed to appreciate
the change, and the countless shocks before him were evidence
to the fact.
From where he stood when he had unhitched, he gazed
across country toward the southeast where lay his other
land. Only a part of which he could see. As it rose in the
distance he could see the white topped oats; and just beyond
he could see the deep purple of the flaxseed blossoms. He
sighed contentedly, unharnessed his horses, let them drink,
and turned them toward the pasture. He was not tired;[Pg 132]
but he went to the side of the house which the sun did not
strike, and sat him down. At the furthest side of the field
he observed Bill and George as they shocked away to finish.
He was at peace again, as he always was, and thereupon fell
into deep thought.
"My crop of wheat will yield not less than thirty bushels
to the acre," he whispered to himself. "And one hundred
and thirty acres should then yield almost four thousand
bushels. I should receive at least eighty cents the bushel,
and that would approximate about three thousand dollars,
with seed left to sow the land again." He paused in his
meditation, and considered what even that alone would mean
to him. He could pay the entire amount on the land he
had purchased, and perhaps a thousand or two more from
the flax crop. That would leave him owing but four hundred
dollars on the land he had bought, and that amount he
felt he would be able to squeeze out somewhere and have
520 acres clear!
He could not help being cheerful, perhaps somewhat vain
over his prospects. He was now just twenty-three and
appreciated that most of his life was yet before him. With,
at the most, two or three more seasons like the present one,
he could own the coveted thousand acres and the example
would be completed.
That was the goal toward which he was working. If he
or any other man of the black race could acquire one thousand
acres of such land it would stand out with more credit
to the Negro race than all the protestations of a world of
agitators in so far as the individual was concerned.
"It is things accomplished," he often said to himself.
"It is what is actually accomplished that will get notice—and
credit! Damn excuses! The best an excuse can secure
is dismissal, and positively that is no asset." He would[Pg 133]
then invariably think deeply into the conditions of his race,
the race who protested loudly that they were being held
down. Truly it was an intricate, delicate subject to try to
solve with prolific thinkings. He compared them with the
Jew—went away back to thousands of years before. Out
of the past he could not solve it either. All had begun together.
The Jew was hated, but was a merchant enjoying
a large portion of the world commerce and success. The
Negro was disliked because of his black skin—and sometimes
seemingly for daring to be human.
At such times he would live over again the life that had
been his before coming West. He thought of the multitudes
in the employment of a great corporation who
monopolized the sleeping car trade. Indeed this company
after all was said, afforded great opportunities to the men.
Not so much in what was collected in tips and in other
devious ways, nor from the small salary, but from the great
opportunity of observation that that particular form of
travel afforded.
But so few made the proper effort to benefit themselves
thereby. He continued to think along these lines until his
thoughts came back to a point where in the past they were
wont to come and stop. He could not in that moment understand
why they had not been coming back to that selfsame
point in recent months.... Since one cold day during
the first month of that year.... He gave a start when he
realized why, then sighed. It seemed too much for his
thoughts just then. He regarded Bill and George at their
task of trying to finish their work. Upon hearing a sound,
he turned. Behind him stood Agnes.
"My, how you frightened me!" he cried.
She held in her hand a basket containing lunch for him
and her brothers. This she had brought every day, but he[Pg 134]
had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had quite
forgotten that she was coming on this day as well. As
she stood quietly before him, she seemed rather shorter
than she really was, also more slender, and appeared
withal more girlish than usual. Her eyes twinkled and
her heavy hair drawn together at the back of her head,
hung over her shoulders. Her sunkist skin was a bit
tanned; her arms almost to the elbows were bare, brown
and were very round. And as Jean Baptiste regarded
her there in the bright golden sunlight she appeared to
him like the Virgin Mary.
"You are tired," he cried, and pointed to a crude bench
that reposed against the sod house, which he had just left
in his prolific thinking of a moment before.
"Sit down, please, and rest yourself," he commanded.
She obeyed him modestly, with a smile still upon her
pleasant face.
"I judge that Bill and George will finish in a few minutes,
so I'll wait, that we may all dine together. You'll
be so kind as to wait until then, will you not?" he asked
graciously, and bowed.
"Until then, my lord," she smiled, coquettishly.
"Thanks!" he laughed, good humoredly. Suddenly
she cried:
"Oh, isn't it beautiful!" And swept her hands toward
the field of shocked wheat. He had been looking away,
but as she spoke he turned and smiled with satisfaction.
"It is."
"Just lovely," she cried, her eyes sparkling.
"And all safe, that's the best part about it," he said.
"Grand. I'm so glad you have saved it," she said with
feeling.[Pg 135]
"Thank you."
"You have earned it."
"I hope so. Still I thank you."
"It will bring you lots of money."
"I am hoping it will."
"Oh, it will."
"I was thinking of it before you came up."
"I knew it."
"You knew it!"
"I saw you from a distance."
"Oh...."
"And I knew you were thinking."
"Oh, come now."
"Why shouldn't I? You're always thinking. The only
time when you are not is when you are sleeping."
"You can say such wonderful things," he said, standing
before her, the sun shining on his tanned features.
"Won't—ah—won't you be seated?" she invited. He
colored unseen. She made room for him and he hesitatingly
took a seat, at a conventional distance, on the
bench beside her.
"Your other crops are fine, too," she said, sociably.
"I'm going over to look at them this afternoon."
"You should."
"Where is your father today?"
"Gone to town."
"Wish I'd known he was going; I'd had him bring out
some twine for me. I think the oats will be ready to cut
over on the other place right away, and I don't want to
miss any time."
"No, indeed. A hail storm might come up." He
glanced at her quickly. She was gazing across the field[Pg 136]
to where her halfwitted brothers worked, while he was
thinking how thoughtful she was. Presently he heard her
again.
"Why, if it is urgent—you are out, I—I could go to
town and get the twine for you." She was looking at him
now and he was confused. Her offer was so like her, so
natural. Why was it that they understood each other
so well?
"Oh, why, Agnes," he stammered, "that would be asking
too much of you!"
"Why so? I shall be glad—glad to oblige you in any
way. And it is not too much if one takes into consideration
what you have done for—I'll be glad to go...."
"Done for what?" he said, catching up where she had
broken off, and eyeing her inquiringly.
She was confused and the same showed in her face.
She blushed. She had not meant to say what she did.
But he was regarding her curiously. He hadn't thought
about the note. She turned then and regarded him out of
tender eyes. She played with the bonnet she held in her
lap. She looked away and then back up into his face, and
her eyes were more tender still. In her expression there
was almost an appeal.
"What did you mean by what you started to say, Agnes,"
he repeated, evenly, but kindly.
"I—I—mean what you did for papa. What—you—you
did about that—that—note." It was out at last
and she lowered her eyes and struggled to hold back the
tears with great effort.
"Oh," he laughed lowly, relievedly. "That was nothing."
And he laughed again as if to dismiss it.
"But it was something," she cried, protestingly. "It
was something. It was everything to us." She ended with[Pg 137]
great emotion apparent in her shaking voice. He shifted.
It was awkward, and he was a trifle confused.
"Please don't think of it, Agnes."
"But how can I keep from thinking of it when I know
that had it not been your graciousness; your wonderful
thoughtfulness, your great kindness, we would have been
sold out—bankrupted, disgraced, oh, me!" She covered
her face with her hands, but he could see the tears now
raining down her face and dropping upon her lap.
"Oh, Agnes," he cried. "I wish you wouldn't do that!
Please don't. It hurts me. Besides, how did you know
it? I told Brookings that your father was not to know it.
I did not want it known." He paused and his voice shook
slightly. They had drawn closer and now she reached
out and placed her small hand upon his arm.
"Brookings didn't tell. He didn't tell papa; but I
knew." She was looking down at the earth.
"I don't understand," she heard him say wonderingly.
"But didn't you think, Jean, that I understood! I understood
the very day—a few minutes after papa returned
home, brought the old note and told me about the extension."
She paused and looked thoughtfully away across
the field. "I understood when you drove by a few minutes
later. You had forgotten about it, I could see, and
your mind was on other things; but the moment you came
into my sight, and I looked out upon you from the window,
I knew you had saved us."
Her hand still rested lightly upon his arm. She was
not aware of it, but deeply concerned with what she was
saying. Presently, when he did not speak, she went on.
"I understood and knew that you had forgotten it—that
you were too much of a man to let us know what you had
done. I can't forget it! I have wanted to tell you how[Pg 138]
I felt—I felt that I owed it to you to tell you, but I
couldn't before."
"Please let's forget it, Agnes," she heard him whisper.
"I can keep from speaking of it, but forget it—never!
It was so much like you, like the man that's in you!" and
the tears fell again.
"Agnes, Agnes, if you don't hush, almost I will forget
myself...."
"I had to tell you, I had to!" she sobbed.
"But it is only a small return for what you did for me.
Do you realize, Agnes, had it not been for you, I—I—would
not be sitting here now? Oh, think of that and then
you will see how little I have done—how very little I can
ever do to repay!" His voice was brave, albeit emotional.
He leaned toward her, and the passion was in his face. She
grasped his arm tighter as she looked up again into his
face out of her tear bedimmed eyes and cried brokenly:
"But Jean, the cases are not parallel. What I did for
you I would have done for anybody. It was merely an
act of providence; but yours—oh, Jean, can't you understand!"
He was silent.
"Yours was the act of kindness," she went on again,
"the act of a man; and you would have kept it secret;
because you would never have had it known, because you
would not have us feel under obligation to you. Oh, that
is what makes me—oh, it makes me cry when I think of
it." The tears flowed freely while her slender shoulders
shook with emotion.
From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
"BUT, JEAN, THE CASES ARE NOT PARALLEL. WHAT I
DID FOR YOU I WOULD HAVE DONE FOR ANY ONE; BUT
YOURS—OH, JEAN, CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND!"
And when she had concluded, the man beside her had
forgotten the custom of the country, and its law had
passed beyond him. He was as a man toward the maid
now. Beside him wept the one he had loved as a dream
girl. Behind him was the house with the bed she had laid[Pg 139]
him upon when she saved his life. And when he had awakened,
before being conscious of where he was or what had
happened to him, he had looked into her eyes and had seen
therein his dream girl. She was his by the right of God;
he forgot now that she was white while he was black. He
only remembered that she was his, and he loved her.
His voice was husky when he answered:
"Agnes, oh, Agnes, I begged you not to. I almost beseeched
you, because—oh, don't you understand what is
in me, that I am as all men, weak? To have seen you that
night—the night I can never forget, the night when you
stood over me and I came back to life and saw you. You
didn't know then and understand that I had dreamed of
you these two years since I had come here: that out of
my vision I had seen you, had talked with you, oh, Agnes!"
She straightened perceptibly; she looked up at him with
that peculiarity in her eyes that even she had never come
to understand. They became oblivious to all that was
about them, and had unconsciously drawn closer together
now and regarded each other as if in some enchanted
garden. She sang to him then the music that was in her,
and the words were:
"Jean, oh, Jean Baptiste, you have spoken and now at
last I understand. And do you know that before I left
back there from where I came, I saw you: I dreamed of
you and that I would know you, and then I came and so
strangely met and have known you now for the man you
are, oh, Jean!"
Gradually as the composure that had been theirs passed
momentarily into oblivion, and the harvest birds twittered
gayly about them, his man's arm went out, and into the
embrace her slender body found its way. His lips found
hers, and all else was forgotten.
EPOCH THE SECOND
EPOCH THE SECOND
CHAPTER I
REGARDING THE INTERMARRIAGE OF RACES
IT WAS winter, and the white snow lay everywhere;
icicles hung from the eaves. All work on the farms
was completed. People were journeying to a town
half way between Bonesteel and Gregory to take the train
for their former homes; others to spend it with their relatives,
and Jean Baptiste was taking it for Chicago and
New York where he went as a rule at the end of each year.
He was going with an air of satisfaction apparently;
for, in truth, he had everything to make him feel so—that
is, almost everything. He had succeeded in the West.
The country had experienced a most profitable season, and
the crop he reaped and sold had made him in round numbers
the sum of seven thousand five hundred dollars. He
had paid for the two hundred acres of land he had bargained
for; he had seeded more land in the autumn just
passed to winter wheat which had gone into the winter
in the best of shape; his health was the best. For what
more could he have wished?
And yet no man was more worried than he when he
stepped from the stage onto the platform of the station
where he was to entrain for the East.... It is barely possible
that any man could have been more sad.... To explain
this we are compelled to go back a few months; back[Pg 144]
to the harvest time; to his homestead and where he sat
with some one near, very near, and what followed.
"I couldn't help it—I loved you; love you—have loved
you always!" he passionately told her.
For answer she had yielded again her lips, and all the
love of her warm young heart went out to him.
"I don't understand you always, dear," he whispered.
"Sometimes there is something about you that puzzles
me. I think it's in your eyes; but I do understand that
whatever it is it is something good—it couldn't be otherwise,
could it?"
"No, Jean," she faltered.
"And did you wonder at my calling your name that
night?"
"I have never understood that fully until now," she replied.
"You came in a vision, and it must have been divine, two
years ago gone now," she heard him; "and ever since your
face, dear, has been before me. I have loved it, and, of
course, I knew that I would surely love you when you
came."
"Isn't it strange," she whispered.
"But beautiful."
"So beautiful."
"Was it providence, or was it God that brought you that
night and saved me from the slow death that was coming
over me, Agnes?"
"Please, Jean, don't! Don't speak again of that awful
night! Surely it must have been some divine providence
that brought me to this place; but I can never recall it
without a tremor. To think that you would have died out
there! Please, never tell me of it again, dear." She
trembled and nestled closer to him, while her little heart[Pg 145]
beat a tattoo against her ribs. They looked up then, as
across the field her halfwitted brothers were approaching.
It was only then that they seemed to realize what had transpired
and upon realization they silently disembraced. What
had passed was the most natural thing in the world, true;
and to them it had come because it was in them to assert
themselves, but now before him rose the Custom of the
Country, and its law. So vital is this Custom; so much is
it a part of the body politic that certain states have went
on record against it. Not because any bad, or good, any
wealth or poverty was involved. It had been because of
sentiment, the sentiment of the stronger faction....
So it ruled.
In the lives of the two in our story, no thought but to
live according to God's law, and the law of the land, had
ever entered their minds, but now they had while laboring
under the stress of the pent-up excitement and emotion
overruled and forgot the law two races are wont to
observe and had given vent and words to the feeling which
was in them.... They stood conventionally apart now,
each absorbed in the calm realization of their positions in
our great American society. They were obviously disturbed;
but that which had drawn them to the position they
had occupied and declared, still remained, and that was
love.
So time had gone on as time will; never stopping for anything,
never hesitating, never delaying. So the day went,
and the week and the month, and the month after that and
the month after that, until in time the holidays were near,
and Jean Baptiste was going away, away to forget that
which was more to him than all the world—the love of
Agnes Stewart.
He had considered it—he had considered it before he[Pg 146]
caught the one he loved into his arms and said the truth
that was in him.... But there was another side to it
that will have much space in our story.
Down the line a few stations from where he now was,
there lived an example. A man had come years ago into
the country, there, a strong, powerfully built man. He
was healthy, he was courageous and he was dark, because
forsooth, the man was a Negro. And so it had been with
time this man's heart went out to one near by, a white. Because
of his race it was with him as with Jean Baptiste.
Near him there had been none of his kind. So unto himself
he had taken a white wife. He had loved her and she
had loved him; and because it was so, she had given to him
children. And when the children had come she died.
And after she had died and some years had passed, he
took unto himself another wife of the same blood, and
to that union there had come other children.
So when years had passed, and these selfsame children
had reached their majority, they too, took unto themselves
wives, and the wives were of the Caucasian blood. But
when this dark man had settled in the land below, which, at
that time, had been a new country, he decided to claim himself
as otherwise than he was. He said and said again,
that he was of Mexican descent, mongrel, forsooth; but
there was no Custom Of The Country with regard to the
Mexican, mongrel though he be. But the people and the
neighbors all knew that he lied and that he was Ethiopian,
the which looked out through his eyes. But even to merely
claim being something else was a sort of compromise.
So his family had grown to men and women, and they
in turn brought more children into the world. And all
claimed allegiance to a race other than the one to which
they belonged.[Pg 147]
Once lived a man who was acknowledged as great and
much that goes with greatness was given unto him by the
public. A Negro he was, but as a climax in his great life,
he had married a wife of that race that is superior in life,
wealth and achievements to his own, the Caucasian. So
it had gone.
The first named, Jean Baptiste never felt he could be
quite like. Even if he should disregard The Custom Of
The Country, and its law, and marry Agnes, he did not
feel he would ever attempt that. But to marry out of
the race to which he belonged, especially into the race
in which she belonged, would be the most unpopular thing
he could do. He had set himself in this new land to succeed;
he had worked and slaved to that end. He liked his
people; he wanted to help them. Examples they needed,
and such he was glad he had become; but if he married
now the one he loved, the example was lost; he would be
condemned, he would be despised by the race that was his.
Moreover, last but not least, he would perhaps, by such a
union bring into her life much unhappiness, and he loved
her too well for that.
Jean Baptiste had decided. He loved Agnes, and had
every reason to; but he forswore. He would change it.
He would go back from where he had come. He would
be a man as befitted him to be. He would find a girl; he
would marry in his race. They had education; they were
refined—well, he would marry one of them anyhow!
So Jean Baptiste was going. He would forget Agnes.
He would court one in his own race. So to Chicago he
now sped.
He had lived in the windy city before going West,
and was very familiar with that section of the city on the
south side that is the center of the Negro life of that great[Pg 148]
metropolis. Accordingly, he approached a station in the
loop district, entered one of the yellow cars and took a seat.
He looked below at the hurly-burly of life and action, and
then his eyes took survey of the car. It was empty, all save
himself and another, and that other was a girl, a girl of
his race! The first he had seen since last he was in the
city. How little did she know as she sat across the aisle
from him, that she was the first of his race his eyes had
looked upon for the past twelve months. He regarded her
curiously. She was of that cross bred type that are so
numerous, full bloods seemingly to have become rare about
those parts. She was of a light brown complexion, almost
a mulatto. She seemed about twenty-two years of age. Of
the curious eyes upon her she seemed entirely unaware,
finally leaving the train at a station that he was familiar
with and disappeared.
At Thirty-first Street he left the train, fell in with the
scattered crowd below and the dash of the city life was
his again in a twinkling. He found his way to State Street,
the great thoroughfare of his people. The novelty in viewing
those of his clan now had left him, for they were all
about. Even had he been blind he could have known he was
among them, for was not there the usual noise; the old
laugh, and all that went with it?
He hurried across and passed down Thirty-first to Dearborn
Street, Darktown proper; but even when he had
reached Federal, then called Armour, he had seen nothing
but his race. He had friends—at least acquaintances,
so to where they lived he walked briskly.
"And if it isn't Jean Baptiste, so 'elp me Jesus," cried
the woman, as she opened the door in response to his knock,
and without further ceremony encircled his neck with her
arms, and kissed his lips once and twice. "You old dear!"[Pg 149]
she exclaimed with him inside, holding him at arms' length
and regarding him fondly. "How are you, anyhow?"
"Oh, fine," he replied, regarding her pleasantly.
"You are certainly looking good," she said, looking up
into his face with fun in her eyes. "Sit down, sit down and
make yourself at home," she invited, drawing up a chair.
"Well, how's Chicago?" he inquired irrelevantly.
"Same old burg," she replied, drawing a chair up close.
"And how's hubby?"
"Fine!"
"And the rest of the family?"
"The same. Pearl, too."
"Oh, Pearl.... How is Pearl?"
"Still single...."
"Thought she was engaged to be married when I was
here last year?"
"Oh, that fellow was no good!"
"What was the matter?"
"What's the matter with lots of these nigga' men 'round
Chicago? They can't keep a wife a posing on State Street."
"Humph!"
"It's the truth!"
"And how about the women? They seem to be fond of
passing along to be posed at...."
"Oh, you're mean," she pouted. Then: "Are you
married yet?"
"Oh, lordy! How could I get married? Not thirty
minutes ago I saw the first colored girl I have seen in a
year!"
"Oh, you're a liar!"
"It's the truth!"
"Is it so, Jean? Have you really not seen a colored girl
in a whole year?"[Pg 150]
"I have never lied to you, have I?"
"Well, no. Of course you haven't; but I don't know
what I would do under such circumstances. Not seeing
nigga's for a year."
"But I've seen enough already to make up."
She laughed. "Lordy, me. Did you ever see so many
'shines' as there are on State Street!" She paused and
her face became a little serious for a moment. "By the
way, Jean, why don't you marry my sister?"
"You're shameful! Your sister wouldn't have me. I'm
a farmer."
"Oh, yes she would. Pearl's getting tired of getting
engaged to these Negroes around Chicago. She likes you,
anyhow."
"Tut, tut," he laughed depreciatingly. "Pearl would
run me ragged out there on that farm!" She laughed too.
"No, she wouldn't, really. Pearl is good looking and is
tired of working."
"She's good looking, all right, and perhaps tired of working;
but she wouldn't do out there on the farm."
"Oh, you won't do. I'll bet you are married already."
"Oh, Mrs. White!"
"But you're engaged?"
"Nope!"
"Jean. I'll bet you'll marry a white girl out there and
have nothing more to do with nigga's."
"Now you're worse."
"And when you marry a white woman, I want to be
the first one to shoot you—in the leg."
He laughed long and uproariously.
"You can laf all you want; but you ain't goin' through
life lovin' nobody. You gotta girl somewhere; but do
what you please so long as it don't come to that."[Pg 151]
"Come to what?"
"Marrying a white woman."
"Wouldn't that be all right?"
She looked up at him with a glare. He smiled amusedly.
"Don't you laf here on a subject like that! Lord! I think
lots of you, but if I should hear that you had married a
white woman, man, I'd steal money enough to come there
and kill you dead!"
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Why would I want to do that? Humph! What you
want to ask me such a question for? The idea!"
"But you haven't answered my question?"
She glared at him again, all the humor gone out of her face.
Presently, biting at the thread in some sewing she was doing,
she said: "In the first place, white people and Negroes
have no business marrying each other. In the second place,
a nigga' only gets a po' white woman. And in the third
place, white people and nigga's don't mix well when it comes
to society. Now, supposin' you married a white woman
and brought her here to Chicago, who would you associate
with? We nigga's 's sho goin' to pass 'er up. And the
white folks—you better not look their way!"
He was silent.
"Ain't I done outlined it right?"
"You've revealed some very delicate points with regard
to the matter," he acknowledged.
"Of course I have, and you can't get away from it. But
that ain't all. Now, to be frank with yu'. I wouldn't ceh
so much about some triflin' no 'count nigga' marrying some
old white woman; but that ain't the kind no white woman
wants when she stoops so low as to marry a nigga'. Uh,
naw! Naw indeedy! She don't fool with nothin' like
that! She leaves that kind for some poor colored woman[Pg 152]
to break her heart and get her head broken over. She marries
somebody like you with plenty of money and sense with
it, see!"
He laughed amusedly.
"No laffin' in it. You know I'm tellin' the truth. So
take warning! Don't marry no white woman up there and
come trottin' down here expectin' me to give you blessin'.
Because if you do, and just as sure as my name is Ida
White, I'm going to do something to you!"
"But a white woman might help a fellow to get up in
the world," he argued.
"Yes, I'll admit that, too. But ouh burden is ouh burden,
and we've got to bear it. And, besides, you c'n get
a girl that'll help you when you really want a wife. That
ain't no argument. Of course I'd like to see Pearl married.
But you ain't going to fool with her, and I know it.
Pearl thinks she would like it better if she could marry
somebody from out of Chicago; but they'd all be the same
after a month or so with her."
"Well," said he, "I'd better get over to the Keystone.
You've interested me today. I've learned something regarding
the amalgamation of races...."
"I hope you have, if you had it in your mind. Anything
else might be forgiven, but marrying a white woman—never!"
They parted then. She to her sewing, and Jean Baptiste
to his thoughts....[Pg 153]
CHAPTER II
WHICH?
JEAN BAPTISTE returned to the West after two
months' travel through the East, and the spring following,
sowed a large crop of small grain and reaped
a bountiful yield that fall. About this time the county
just west of where he lived was opened to settlement, and
a still larger crowd than had registered for the land in
the county he lived came hither and sought a quarter
section.
The opening passed to the day of the drawing, and
when all the lucky numbers had secured their filings, contracts
for the purchases of relinquishments began. By
this time the lands had reached great values, and that
which he had purchased a short time before for twenty
dollars the acre, had by this time reached the value of
fifty dollars the acre. And now he had an opportunity
of increasing his possessions to the number coveted, one
thousand acres.
He had paid a visit to his parents that winter, and
found his sisters, who were mere children when he had
left home, grown to womanhood, and old enough to take
claims. So with them he had discussed the matter. Inspired
by his great success, they were all heart and soul
to follow his bidding; so thereupon it was agreed that he
would try to secure three relinquishments on good quarters,
and upon one or more of these they would make filings.
His grandmother, who had raised a family in the days of[Pg 154]
slavery agreed and was anxious to file on one; one sister on
another, and the third place,—was to be his bride's.
By doing this, he could have her use her homestead
right, providing she filed on the claim before marrying him.
So it was planned. But Jean Baptiste knew no girl that
he could ask to become his wife, therefore this was yet
to be. When he had given up his real love to be loyal to
his race, he had determined on one thing: that marriage
was a business, even if it was supposed to be inspired by
love. But when Agnes was left out, he loved no one.
Therefore it must be resolved into a business proposition—and
the love to come after.
So, resigned to the fact, he set himself to choose a wife.
On his trip East the winter before he met two persons
with whom he had since corresponded. One, the first, was
a young man not long out of an agricultural college whose
father was a great success as a potato grower. He and
Jean became intimate friends. It now so happened that the
one mentioned had a sister, and through him Jean Baptiste
was introduced to her by mail.
Correspondence followed and by this time it had become
very agreeable. She proved to be a very logical young
woman, and Jean Baptiste was favorably impressed. She
was, moreover, industrious, ambitious, and well educated.
Her age was about the same as his, so on the surface he
thought that they should make a very good match. So be it.
In the meantime, however, he had opened a correspondence
with another whom he had met on his trip the winter
before where she had been teaching in a coal mining town
south of Chicago. The same had developed mutually, and
he had found her agreeable and obviously eligible. Her
father was a minister, a dispenser of the gospel, and while
for reasons we will become acquainted with in due time,[Pg 155]
he had cultivated small acquaintance with preachers, he
took only such slight consideration of the girl's father's profession
that he had good cause to recall some time later.
About the time he was deeply engrossed in his correspondence
with both the farmer's daughter and the young
school teacher, he received a letter from a friend in Chicago
introducing him to a lady friend of hers through mail.
This one happened to be a maid on the Twentieth Century
Limited, running between New York and Chicago. Well,
Jean Baptiste was looking for a wife. Sentiment was in
order, but it was with him, first of all, a business proposition.
So be it. He would give her too a chance.
He was somewhat ashamed of himself when he addressed
three letters when perhaps, he should have been addressing
but one. It was not fair to either of the three,
he guiltily felt; but, business was business with him.
From his friend's sister he received most delightful
epistles, not altogether frivolous, with a great amount of
common sense between the lines. But what was more to
the point, her father was wealthy, and she must have some
conception of what was required to accumulate and to
hold. He rather liked her, it now seemed.
Now from the preacher's daughter he received also pleasing
letters. Encouraging, but not to say unconventionally
forward. He appreciated the fact that she was a preacher's
child, and naturally expected to conform to a certain
custom.
But from New York he received the most encouragement.
The position the maid held rather thrilled him. He
loved the road—and she wrote such letters! It was plain
to be seen here what the answer would be.
Which?
He borrowed ten thousand dollars, giving a mortgage[Pg 156]
upon his land in security therefor. He purchased relinquishments
upon three beautiful quarter sections of land
in the county lying just to the west. The same, having to
be homesteaded before title was acquired, had all ready
been in part arranged for. His grandmother and sister
were waiting to file on a place each—the third was for
the bride-to-be. There remained a few weeks yet in which
to make said selection; but, notwithstanding, all must be
ready to make filing not later than the first day of October—and
September at last arrived.
He became serious, then uneasy. Which? He wrote all
three letters that would give either or all a right to hear
the words from him, but did not say sufficient to any to
give grounds for a possible breach of promise suit later.
He rather liked the girl whose father had made money.
Yes, it so seemed—more than either of the other two. A
match with her on the surface seemed more practical. But
for some reason she did not reply within the time to the
letter he had written her. Oh, if he could only have
courted her; could have been in the position to have seen
her of a warm night; to have said to her: "——."
Poor Jean Baptiste your life might not have later come to
what it did....
He waited—but in vain. October was drawing dangerously
near when at last he left for somewhere. Indeed he
had not a complete idea where, but of one thing he had
concluded, when he returned he would bring the bride-to-be.
At Omaha he made up his mind. The girl whose father
had made money had had her chance and failed. He regretted
it very much, but this was a business proposition,
and he had two thousand dollars at stake that he would
lose if he failed to get some one to file on that quarter
section he had provided, on October first.[Pg 157]
He was rather disturbed over the idea. He really would
have preferred a little more sentiment—but time had become
the expedient. "Of course," he argued, as he sped
toward Chicago, "I'll be awfully good to the one I choose,
so if it is a little out of the ordinary—why, I'll try to
make up for it when she is mine."
With this consolation he arrived in Chicago, wishing that
the girl who lived two hundred miles south of Omaha and
whose father was well-to-do had replied to his letter. He
really had chosen her out of the three. However, he resigned
himself to the inevitable—one of the other two.
He left the train and boarded the South Side L. He
got off again at Thirty-first Street, and found what he had
always found before, State Street and Negroes. He was
not interested in either this time. He had sent a telegram
to New York from Omaha to the effect that he was
headed for Chicago. It was to the maid, for she had drawn
second choice. He planned to meet her at the number her
dear friend—and the match maker, lived.
So it was to this number he now hurried.
"Oh, Mr. Baptiste," cried this little woman, whose name
happened to be Rankin, and she was an old maid. She
gave him her little hand, and was "delighted" to see him.
"And you've come! Miss Pitt will be so glad! She
has talked of nobody but Mr. Baptiste this summer. Oh,
I'm so glad you have come!" and she shook his hand
again.
"I sent her a telegram that I was coming, and I trust she
will let me know...."
"She is due in tomorrow," cried their little friend, and
her voice was like delicate music.
"I expect a telegram," he said evenly. "I am somewhat
rushed."[Pg 158]
"Indeed! But of course, you are a business man, Mr.
Baptiste," chimed Miss Rankin with much admiration in
her little voice. "How Miss Pitt will like you!"
Jean Baptiste smiled a smile of vanity. He was getting
anxious to meet Miss Pitt himself—inasmuch as he expected
to ask her to become his wife on the morrow.
"Ting-aling-aling!" went the bell on the street door, and
little Miss Rankin rushed forth to open it.
"Special for Mr. Jean Baptiste," he heard and went to
get it. After signing, he broke the seal a little nervously,
and drawing the contents forth, read the enclosed message.
He sighed when it was over. Miss Pitt had been taken
with a severe attack of neuralgia in New York, was indisposed
and under the care of a physician, but would be in
Chicago in six days. He studied the calendar on the wall.
Six days would mean October second!
Too late, Miss Pitt, your chance is gone. And now we
turn to the party of the third part who will follow us through
our story.
From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
"MISS PITT WAS SO ANXIOUS TO MEET YOU AND I WAS,
TOO, BECAUSE I THINK YOU AND HER WOULD LIKE EACH
OTHER. SHE'S AN AWFULLY GOOD GIRL AND WILLING TO
HELP A FELLOW."
[Pg 159]
CHAPTER III
MEMORIES—N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY
"SHE will not be in tomorrow," said Baptiste, handing
the letter to Miss Rankin.
"Oh, is that so!" cried Miss Rankin in a tone
of deep disappointment, as she took the letter. "Now isn't
that just too bad!"
"It is," agreed Baptiste. "I will not get to see her, since
I shall have to return to the West not later than two or
three days." He was extremely disappointed. He sat
down with a sigh and rested his chin in his palm, looking
before him thoughtfully.
"I'm sure sorry, so sorry," mused Miss Rankin abstractedly.
"And you cannot possibly wait until next
week?" she asked, anxiously.
He shook his head sadly.
"Impossible, absolutely impossible."
"It is certainly too bad. Miss Pitt was so anxious to
meet you. And I was, too, because I think you and her
would like each other. She's an awfully good girl,
and willing to help a fellow. Just the kind of a girl you
need."
He shifted his position now and was absorbed in
his thoughts. He had come back to his purpose. He was
sorry for Miss Pitt; but he had also been sorry that Miss
Grey had not answered his letter.... The association with
neither, true, had developed into a love affair, so would not[Pg 160]
be hard to forget. He had agreed with himself that love
was to come later. He had exercised discretion. Any one
of the three was a desirable mate from a practical point of
view. After marriage he was confident that they could
conform sufficiently to each other's views to get along, perhaps
be happy. Miss McCarthy was, in his opinion, the
most intelligent of the three, as she had been to school and
had graduated from college. He had confidence in education
uplifting people; it made them more observing. It
helped them morally. And with him this meant much.
He was very critical when it came to morals. He
had studied his race along this line, and he was very
exacting; because, unfortunately as a whole their standard
of morals were not so high as it should be. Of
course he understood that the same began back in the
time of slavery. They had not been brought up to a regard
of morality in a higher sense and they were possessed with
certain weaknesses. He was aware that in the days of
slavery the Negro to begin with had had, as a rule only
what he could steal, therefore stealing became a virtue.
When accused as he naturally was sure to be, he had resorted
to the subtle art of lying. So lying became an expedient.
So it had gone. Then he came down to the point
of physical morality.
The masters had so often the slave women, lustful by disposition,
as concubine. He had, in so doing of course,
mixed the races, Jean Baptiste knew until not more than one
half of the entire race in America are without some trait of
Caucasian blood. There had been no defense then, and
for some time after. There was no law that exacted punishment
for a master's cohabitation with slave women, so
it had grown into a custom and was practiced in the South
in a measure still.[Pg 161]
So with freedom his race had not gotten away from these
loose practices. They were given still to lustful, undependable
habits, which he at times became very impatient
with. His version was that a race could not rise higher
than their morals. So in his business procedure of choosing
a wife, one thing over all else was unalterable, she must
be chaste and of high morals.
Orlean McCarthy, however she as yet appeared from a
practical standpoint, could, he estimated rightly, boast of
this virtue. No doubt she was equally as high in all other
perquisites. But strangely he did not just wish to ask Miss
McCarthy to become his wife. He could not understand
it altogether. He was confident that no girl lived who perhaps
was likely, as likely, to conform to his desires as she;
but plan, do as he would, that lurking aversion still remained—infinitely
worse, it grew to a fear.
He sighed perceptibly, and Miss Rankin, catching the
same, was deeply sympathetic because she thought it was
due to the disappointment he felt in realizing that he was
not to see Miss Pitt on the morrow. She placed her arm
gently about his shoulders, leaned her small head close to
his, and stroked his hair with her other hand.
"Well," said he, after a time, and to himself, "I left the
West to find a wife. I've lived out there alone long
enough. I want a home, love and comfort and only a wife
can bring that." He paused briefly in his mutterings. His
face became firm. That will that had asserted itself and
made him what he was today, became uppermost. He
slowly let the sentiment out of him, which was at once
mechanically replaced by a cold set purpose. He smiled
then; not a sentimental smile, but one cold, hard, and
singularly dry.
"Oh, by the way, Miss Rankin," he essayed, rising, ap[Pg 162]parently
cheerful. "Do you happen to be acquainted with
a family here by the name of McCarthy?"
"McCarthy?"
"Yes. I think the man's a preacher. A Rev. N.J.
McCarthy, if I remember correctly." She looked up at
him. Her face took on an expression of defined contempt
as she grunted a reply.
"Humph!"
"Well...."
"Who doesn't know that old rascal!"
"Indeed!" he echoed, in affected surprise; but in the
same instant he had a feeling that he was to hear just this.
Still, he maintained his expression of surprise.
"The worst old rascal in the state of Illinois," she pursued
with equal contempt.
"Oh, really!"
"Really—yes, positively!"
"I cannot understand?"
"Oh well," she emitted, vindictively. "You won't have
to inquire far to get the record of N.J. McCarthy. Lordy,
no! But now," she started with a heightening of color,
"He's got a nice family. Two fine girls, Orlean and Ethel,
and his wife is a good little soul, rather helpless and without
the force a woman should have; but very nice. But
that husband—forget him!"
"This is—er—rather unusual, don't you think?"
"Well, it is," she said. "One would naturally suppose
that a man with such a family of moral girls as he has,
would not be so—not because he is a preacher." She
paused thoughtfully. "Because you know that does not
count for a high morality always in our society.... But
N.J. McCarthy has been like he is ever since I knew him.
He's a rascal of the deep water if the Lord ever made one.[Pg 163]
And such a hypocrite—there never lived! Added to it,
he is the most pious old saint you ever saw! Looks just as
innocent as the Christ—and treats his wife like a dog!"
"Oh, no!"
"No!" disdainfully. "Well, you'd better hush!" She
paused again, and then as if having reconsidered she turned
and said: "I'll not say any more about him. Indeed, I
don't like to discuss the man even. He is the very embodiment
of rascalism, deceit and hypocrisy. Now, I've said
enough. Be a good boy, go out and buy me some cream."
And smilingly she got his hat and ushered him outside.
"Well, now what do you think of that," he kept repeating
to himself, as he went for the ice cream, "what do you
think of that?" Suddenly he halted, and raised his hands
to his head. He was thinking, thinking, thinking deeply,
reflectively. His mind was going back, back, away back
into his youth, his earliest youth—no! It was going—had
gone back to his childhood!
"N.J. McCarthy, N.J. McCarthy? Where did I know
you! Where, where, where!" His head was throbbing,
his brain was struggling with something that happened a
long time before. A saloon was just to his left, and into it
he turned. He wanted to think; but he didn't want to think
too fast. He took a glass of beer. It was late September,
but rather warm, and when the cold beverage struck his
throat, his mind went back into its yesterdays.
It had happened in the extremely southern portion of the
state, in that part commonly referred to as "Egypt," where
he then lived. He recalled the incident as it occurred about
twenty years before, for he was just five years of age at
the time. His mother's baby boy they called him, because
he was the youngest of four boys in a large family of children.
It was a day in the autumn. He was sure of this[Pg 164]
because his older brothers had been hunting; they had
caught several rabbits and shot a few partridges. He had
been allowed to follow for the first time, and had carried
the game.... How distinctly it came back to him now.
He had picked the feathers from the quail, and had held
the rabbits while his brothers skinned them. And, later,
they had placed the game in cold water from their deep well,
and had thereupon placed the pan holding the same upon
the roof of the summer kitchen, and that night the frost
had come. And when morning was again, the ice cold
water had drawn the blood from the meat of the game,
and the same was clear and white.
"Now, young man," his mother said to him the following
morning, "you will get into clean clothes and stay clean, do
you understand?"
"Yes, mama, I understand," he answered. "But, mama,
why?" he inquired. Jean Baptiste had always asked such
questions and for his doing so his mother had always rebuked
him.
"You will ask the questions, my son," she said, raising
his child body in her arms and kissing him fondly. "But
I don't mind telling you." She stood him on the ground
then, and pointed to him with her forefinger. "Because we
are going to have company from town. Big people. The
preachers. Lots of them, so little boys should be good, and
clean, and be scarce when the preachers are around. They
are big men with no time, or care, to waste with little boys!"
"M-um!" he had chimed.
"And, why, mama, do the preachers have no time for
little boys? Were they not little boys once themselves?"
"Now, Jean!" she had admonished thereupon, "you are
entirely too inquisitive for a little boy. There will be other
company, also. Teachers, and Mrs. Winston, do you un[Pg 165]derstand!
So be good." With that she went about her
dinner, cooking the rabbits and the quail that he had
brought home the day before.
It had seemed an age before, in their spring wagon followed
by the lumber wagon, the dignitaries of the occasion
wheeled into the yard. He could not recall now how many
preachers there were, except that there were many. He
was in the way, he recalled, however, because, unlike his
other brothers, he was not bashful. But the preachers did
not seem to see him. They were all large and tall and
stout, he could well remember. But the teachers took
notice of him. One had caught him up fondly, kissed him
and thereupon carried him into the house in her arms. She
talked with him and he with her. And he could well recall
that she listened intently to all he told her regarding his
adventures of the day before in the big woods that was at
their back. How beautiful and sweet he had thought she
was. When she smiled she showed a golden tooth, something
new to him, and he did not understand except that
it was different from anything he had ever seen before.
After a long time, he thought, dinner was called, and, as
was the custom, he was expected to wait. He had very
often tried to reason with his mother that he could sit at
the corner of the table in a high chair and eat out of a
saucer. He had promised always to be good, just as good
as he could be, and he would not talk. But his mother
would not trust him, and it was understood that he should
wait.
At the call of dinner he slid from the teacher's lap upon
the floor and went outside. He peeped through the window
from where he stood on a block. He saw them eat, and
eat, and eat. He saw the quail the boys had shot disappear
one after another into the mouths of the big preachers,[Pg 166]
and since he had counted and knew how many quail there
were, he had watched with a growing fear. "Will they not
leave one?" he cried.
At last, when he could endure it no longer, he ran into
the house, walked into the dining room unseen, and stood
looking on. Now, the teacher who had the golden tooth
happened to turn and espy him and thereupon she cried:
"Oh, there is my little man, and I know he is hungry!
Where did you go, sweet one? Come, now, quick to
me," whereupon she held out loving arms into which he
went and he had great difficulty in keeping back the tears.
But he was hungry, and he had seen the last quail taken
from the plate by a preacher who had previously taken two.
Upon her knee she had sat him, and he looked up into
all the faces about. He then looked down into her plate and
saw a half of quail. His anxious eyes found hers, and then
went back to the plate and the half of quail thereon.
"That is for you, sweetness," she cried, and began to
take from the table other good things, while he fell to eating,
feeding his mouth with both hands for he was never before
so hungry.
After a few moments he happened to lift his eyes from
the plate. Just to the side of the beloved teacher, he observed
a large, tall and stout preacher. He wore a jet
black suit and around his throat a clerical vest fit closely;
while around his neck he wore a white collar hind part
before. The preacher's eyes had found Jean's and he gave
a start. The eyes of the other were upon him, and they
were angry eyes. He paused in his eats and gazed not understanding,
into the eyes that were upon him. Then suddenly
he recalled that he had observed that the preacher
had been smiling upon the teacher. He had laughed and
joked; and said many things that little Jean had not un[Pg 167]derstood.
As far as he could see, it appeared as if the
teacher had not wished it; but the flirtation had been kept
up.
At last, in his child mind he had understood. His crawling
upon the teacher's lap had spoiled it all! The preacher
was angry, therefore the expression in his eyes.
From across the table his mother stood observing him.
She seemed not to know what to say or do, for it had
always been so very hard to keep this one out of grown
people's way. So she continued to stand hesitatingly.
"Didn't your mother say that you were to wait,"
growled the preacher, and his face was darker by the anger
that was in it. This frightened Jean. He could find no
answer in the moment to such words. His little eyes had
then sought those of the teacher, who in reply drew him
closely to her.
"Why, Reverend," she cried, amazed, "he's a little boy,
a nice child, and hungry!" Whereupon she caressed him
again. He was pacified then, and his eyes held some fire
when he found the preacher's again. The others, too, had
grown more evil. The preacher's lips parted. He leaned
slightly forward as he said lowly, angrily:
"You're an impudent, ill mannered little boy, and you
need a spanking!"
Then suddenly the child grew strangely angry. He
couldn't understand. Perhaps it was because he had helped
secure the quail, all of which the preachers were eating, and
felt that in view of this he was entitled to a piece of one.
He could not understand afterward how he had said it, but
he extended his little face forward, close to the preacher's,
as he poured:
"I ain't no impudent 'ittle boy, either! I went to hunt
with my brothers yistidy and I carried all the game, and[Pg 168]
now you goin' eat it all and leave me none when I'm hungry.
You're mean man and make me mad!"
As he spoke everything seemed to grow dark around him.
He recalled that he was suddenly snatched from the teacher's
lap, and carried to the summer kitchen which was all
closed and dark inside. He recalled that switches were
there, and that soon he felt them. As a rule he cried and
begged before he was ever touched; but strangely then he
never cried, and he never begged. He just kept his mouth
shut tightly, and had borne all the pain inflicted by his
mother, and she had punished him longer than she had ever
done before. Perhaps it was because she felt she had to
make him cry; felt that he must cry else he had not repented.
After a time he felt terribly dazed, became sleepy, and
gradually fell into a slumber while the blows continued
to fall.
How long he slept he could not remember, but gradually
he came out of it. There were no more blows then. Yet,
his little body felt sore all over. When he looked up (for
he was lying on his back in the summer kitchen), his
mother sat near and was crying and wiping the tears with
her apron, while over him bent the teacher, and she was
crying also. And as the tears had fallen unchecked upon
his face he had heard the teacher saying:
"It's a shame, an awful shame! The poor, poor little
fellow! He was hungry and had helped to get the game.
And to be punished so severely because he wanted to eat
is a shame! Oh, Mrs. Baptiste, you must pray to your
God for forgiveness!" And his mother had cried more
than ever then.
Presently he heard a heavy footfall, and peeped upward
to see his father standing over him. His father was fair of
complexion, and unlike his mother, never said much and[Pg 169]
was not commonly emotional. But when he was angry he
was terrible, and he was angry now. His blue eyes shone
like fire.
"What is this, Belle," he cried in a terrible voice, "you've
killed my boy about that d—n preacher!" His father
stooped and looked closely into his face. In fear he had
opened his eyes. "Jean!" he heard his father breathe,
"God, but it's a blessing you are alive, or there would be
a dead preacher in that house."
"Oh, Fawn," his mother cried and fell on him, weeping.
The teacher joined in to pacify him, and in that moment
Jean was forgotten. Stiffly he had slipped from the room,
and had gone around near the kitchen step of the big
house to a place where the dogs had their bed. Here he
kept a heavy green stick, a short club. He passed before
the door, and observed the preacher still sitting at the table,
talking with Mrs. Winston. He glared at him a moment
and his little eyes narrowed to mere slits. Then he thought
of something else.... It was Mose Allen, Mose Allen, a
hermit who lived in the woods. It was miles—in his mind—to
where Mose lived, through heavy forests and timber;
but he was going there, he was going there to stay with old
Mose and live in the woods. He had done nothing wrong,
yet had been severely punished. Before this he had thought
several times that when he became a man he would like to
be a preacher, a big preacher, and be admired; but, now—never!
He would go to old Mose Allen's, live in the woods—and
hate preachers forever!
Later, deep into the forest he plodded. Deep, deeper,
until all about him he was surrounded with overgrowth,
but resolutely he struggled onward. He crossed a branch
presently, and knew where he was. The branch divided
their land with Eppencamp's, the German. From there the[Pg 170]
forest grew deeper, the trees larger, and the underbrush
more tangled. But he was going to Mose Allen and remembered
that that was the way. He grasped his green
club tighter and felt like a hunter in the bear stories his
big brothers had read to him. He crossed a raise between
the branch and the creek where the water flowed deeply,
and where they always went fishing. He paused upon
reaching the creek, for there a footlog lay. For the first
time he experienced a slight fear. He didn't like foot logs,
and had never crossed one alone. He had always been
carried across by his brothers; but his brothers were not
near, and he was running away! So he took courage, and
approached the treacherous bridge. He looked down at the
whirling waters below with some awe; but finally with a
grimace, he set his foot on the slick trunk of the fallen tree
and started across. He recalled then that if one looked
straight ahead and not down at the water, it was easy;
but his mind was so much on the waters below. He kept
his eyes elsewhere with great effort, and finally reached the
middle. Now it seemed that he could not go one step
further unless he saw what was below him. He hesitated,
closed his eyes, and thought of the whipping he had received
and the preacher he hated, opened them, and with
calm determination born of anger, crossed safely to the other
side.
He sighed long and deeply when he reached the other
side. He looked back at the muddy waters whirling below,
and with another sigh plunged into the forest again and on
toward Mose Allen's.
He gained the other side of the forest in due time, and
came into the clearing. A cornfield was between him and
another forest, and almost to the other side of this Mose
Allen lived. The sun was getting low, and the large oaks[Pg 171]
behind him cast great shadows that stretched before him
and far out into the cornfield. He thought of ghosts and
hurried on. He must reach Mose Allen's before night,
that was sure.
It was a long way he thought when he reached the other
side, and the forest before him appeared ominous. He was
inclined to be frightened, but when he looked toward the
west and home he saw that the sun had sunk and he plunged
grimly again into the deep woodland before him.
Now the people of the neighborhood had made complaints,
and it was common talk about the country, that
chickens, and young pigs, and calves had been attacked and
destroyed by something evil in the forests. At night this
evil spirit had stolen out and ravaged the stock and the
chickens.
Accordingly, those interested had planned a hunt for
what was thought to be a catamount. It was not until he
had gone deeply into the woods, and the darkness was everywhere
about him, that he remembered the catamount. He
stopped and tried to pick the briers out of his bleeding
hands, and as he did so, he heard a terrible cry. He went
cold with fear. He hardly dared breathe, and crouched
in a hole he had found where only his shoulders and head
were exposed. He awaited with abated breath for some
minutes and was about to venture out when again the
night air and darkness was rent by the terrible cry. He
crouched deeper into the hole and trembled, for the noise
was drawing nearer. On and on it came. He thought
of a thousand things in one minute, and again he heard
the cry. It was very near now, and he could hear the
crunch of the animal's feet upon the dry leaves. And still
on and on it came. Presently it was so close that he could
see it. The body of the beast became dimly outlined before[Pg 172]
him and he could see the eyes plainly, as it swung its head
back and forth, and its red eyes shone like coals of fire.
Again the varmint rent the night air with its yell, as it
espied its prey crouching in the hole.
By watching the eyes he observed the head sink lower
and lower until it almost touched the earth. And thereupon
he became suddenly calm and apprehensive. He held
his breath and met it calmly, face to face. His club was
drawn, his eyes were keen and intense. He waited. Suddenly
the air was rent with another death rendering cry,
and the beast sprung.
It had reckoned well, but so had he. He had, moreover,
struck direct. The blow caught the beast on the
point of its nose and muffled and spoiled its directed spring.
He quickly came out of the hole and then, before the animal
could get out of his reach, he struck it again with such
force at the back of the head, that the beast was stunned.
Again and again he struck until the head was like a bag
of bones. When his strength was gone, and all was quiet,
he became conscious of a drowsiness. He sank down and
laid his head upon the body of the dead animal, and fell into
a deep sleep.
And there they found him during the early hours of
the morning and took him and the dead catamount home.
"Another beer, Cap'n?" he heard from the bartender.
He quickly stood erect and gazed about in some confusion.
"Yes," he replied, throwing a coin upon the bar. He
drank the beer quickly, went out, bought Miss Rankin the
cream and after delivering it to her, went outside again
and up State Street.
He was overcome with memories, was Jean Baptiste. He
had a task to accomplish. He was going to Vernon Avenue[Pg 173]
where Miss McCarthy lived to ask her to become his wife.
And the preacher who had been the cause of his severe
punishment twenty years before was her father, the Rev.
N.J. McCarthy.[Pg 174]
CHAPTER IV
ORLEAN
"OH, MAMA," cried Orlean E. McCarthy, coming
hastily from the hallway into the room where
her mother sat sewing, and handing her a note,
"Mr. Baptiste is in the city and wishes to call at the earliest
possible convenience."
"Indeed," replied her mother, affecting a serious expression,
"this is rather sudden. Have you sent him word
when he could?"
"Yes, mama, I wrote him a note and returned it by the
boy that brought this one, that he could call at two o'clock."
Her mother's gaze sought the clock automatically.
"And it is now past one," she replied. "You will have
to get ready to receive him," she advised ceremoniously.
"All right, mama," said Orlean cheerfully, and suddenly
bending forward, kissed her mother impulsively upon the
cheek, and a moment later hurried upstairs.
"What is this I hear about somebody coming to call,"
inquired another, coming into the room at that moment.
Mrs. McCarthy looked up on recognizing the voice of her
younger daughter, Ethel, who now stood before her. She
gave a perceptible start as she did so, and swallowed before
she replied. In the meantime the other stood, regarding
her rather severely, as was her nature.
She was very tall, was Ethel, and because she was so
very thin she appeared really taller than she was. She did[Pg 175]
not resemble her mother, who was a dumpy light brown
skinned woman. She was part Indian, and possessed a
heavy head of hair which, when let down, fell over her
shoulders.
Ethel, on the other hand, was somewhat darker, had a
thin face, with hair that was thick, but rather short and
bushy. Her eyes were small and dark, out of which she
never seemed to look straight at one. They appeared
always to be lurking and without any expression, unless it
was an expression of dislike. Forsooth, she was a known
disagreeable person, ostentatious, pompous, and hard to get
along with.
She was a bride of a few weeks and was then resting
after a short honeymoon spent in Racine, Wisconsin, sixty
miles north of Chicago.
"Why, Mr. Baptiste is coming. Coming to call on your
sister. He has been corresponding with her for some time,
you understand," her mother returned in her mild, trained
manner.
"Oh!" echoed Ethel, apparently at a loss whether to be
pleased or displeased. She was as often one way as the
other, so her mother was apprehensive of something more.
"I think you have met him, have you not?" her mother
inquired.
"Yes, I've met him," admitted Ethel. "Last winter
while teaching."
"And what do you think of him, my dear?"
"Well, he has some ways I don't like."
"What ways, please?" She had started to say
"naturally" but thought better of it.
"Oh, he does not possess the dignity I like in a man.
Struck me as much too commonplace."
"Oh," her mother grunted. She was acquainted with[Pg 176]
Ethel's disposition, which was extremely vain. She loved
pomp and ceremony, and admired very few people.
"What's he calling to see Orlean for?"
Her mother looked up in some surprise. She regarded
her daughter keenly. "Why, my dear! Why do you ask
such a question! Why do young men call to see any
young ladies?" Both turned at this moment to see Orlean
coming down the stairway, and attention was fastened upon
her following.
"All 'dolled' up to meet your farmer," commented Ethel
with a touch of envy in her voice. In truth she was envious.
Her husband was just an ordinary fellow—that is,
he was largely what she was making of him. It was said
that she had found no other man who was willing to tolerate
her evil temper and that, perhaps, was why she had married
him. While with him, he had been anxious to marry her
to satisfy his social ambition. Although an honest, hardworking
fellow, he had come of very common stock. From
the backwoods of Tennessee where his father had been a
crude, untrained preacher, he had come to Chicago and had
met and married her after a courtship of six years.
"You look very nice, my dear," said her mother, addressing
Orlean. Between the two children there was a great
difference. Although older, Orlean was by far the more
timid by disposition. An obedient girl in every way, she
had never been known to cross her parents, and had the
happy faculty of making herself generally liked, while Ethel
invited disfavor.
She was not so tall as Ethel, and while not as short as
her mother, she was heavier than either. She was the image
of her father who was dark, although not black. After
her mother she had taken her hair, which, while not as
fine, was nevertheless heavy, black and attractive. Her eyes[Pg 177]
were dark like her mother's, which were coal black. They
were small and tender. Her expression was very frank;
but she had inherited her mother's timidness and was subservient
unto her father, and in a measure unto her younger
sister, Ethel.
She was a year older than the man who was coming to
see her, and had never had a beau.
"Do I look all right, mama?" she asked, turning so that
she might be seen all around.
"Yes, my dear," the other replied. She always used the
term "my dear." She had been trained to say that when
she was a young wife, and had never gotten out of the
habit.
"Now sit down, my daughter," she said judiciously, "and
before the young man comes to call on you, tell me all about
him."
"Yes, and leave out nothing," interposed Ethel.
"She is talking to your mother, Ethel. You will do her a
favor by going to your room until it is over," advised their
mother.
"Oh, well, if I'm not wanted, then I'll go," spit out Ethel
wickedly, whereupon she turned and hastened up the stairs
to her room and slammed the door behind her.
"Ethel has such a temper," her mother sighed deploringly.
"She is so different from you, dear. You are like
your mother, while she—well, she has her father's ways."
"Papa is not as mean as Ethel," defended Orlean, ever
obedient to her mother, yet always upholding her father,
it mattered not what the issue.
Her mother sighed again, shifted in her chair, and said
no more on that subject. She knew the father better than
Orlean, and would not argue. She had been trained not
to....[Pg 178]
"Now where did you meet Mr. Baptiste, my dear?" she
began.
"Where I taught last winter, mother," she replied obediently.
"And how did you come to meet him, daughter?"
"Why, he was calling on a girl friend of mine, and I
happened along while he was there, and the girl introduced
us."
"M-m. Was that the first time you had seen him?"
"No, I had met him on the street when he was on the
way down there."
"I see. Did he speak to you on the street?"
"Oh, no, mother. He did not know me."
"But he might have spoken anyhow...."
"But he was a gentleman, and he never spoke." She
paused briefly, and then, her voice a trifle lower, said: "Of
course he looked at me. But—"
"Well, any man would do that. We must grant that
men are men. How were you impressed with him when
you met him later at this friend's house?"
"Well, I don't know," returned Orlean hesitatingly.
"He seemed to be a great talker, was very commonplace,
dressed nicely but not showily. He knew quite a few people
in Chicago that we know, and was born near the town in
which I met him. He was just returning from New York,
and—well, I rather admired him. He is far above the
average colored man, I can say."
"M-m," her mother mused thoughtfully, and with an air
of satisfaction. She couldn't think of anything more to
say just then, and upon looking at the clock which showed
ten minutes of two, she said: "Well, you had better go in
the parlor, and after he has called, when convenient, call
me and permit me to meet him. You will be careful, my[Pg 179]
dear, and understand that we have raised you to be a
lady, and exercise your usual dignity."
"Yes, mama."
On the hour the street door bell was pulled with a jerk,
and arising, Orlean went toward the door expectantly.
"Oh, how do you do," she cried, a moment later, her face
lighted with a radiant smile as she extended her hand and
allowed it to rest in that of Jean Baptiste's.
"Miss McCarthy," he cried, with her hand in one of his,
and his hat in the other, he entered the door.
"May I take your hat?" asked Orlean, and taking it,
placed it on the hall tree. In the meantime, his habitually
observing eyes were upon her, and when she turned she
found him regarding her closely.
"Come right into the parlor, please, Mr. Baptiste, and be
seated." She hesitated between the davenport and the
chairs; while he, without ado, chose the davenport and became
seated, and the look he turned upon her commanded
more than words that she, too, be seated. With a little
hesitation, she finally sank on the davenport at a conventional
distance, beside him.
"I was not certain, judging by your last letter, just when
you would get here," she began timidly. He regarded her
out of his searching eyes attentively. He was weighing her
in the balance. He saw in those close glances what kind
of a girl she was, apparently, for, after a respite, he relaxed
audibly, but kept his eyes on her nevertheless.
"I was not certain myself," he said. "I am so rushed
these days that I do not know always just what comes
next. But I am glad that I am here at last—and to see
you looking so well."
They exchanged the usual words about the weather, and
other conventional notes, and then she called her mother.[Pg 180]
"Mama, I wish you to meet Mr. Baptiste. Mr. Baptiste,
this is my mother."
"Mr. Baptiste," said her mother, giving him her hand,
"I am glad to know you."
"The same here, madam," he returned cheerfully.
"Guess your health is good!"
"Very good, I'm glad to say."
They talked for a time, and all were cheered to find
themselves so agreeable.
"I think I can slightly recall your people, Mr. Baptiste,"
her mother remarked, thoughtfully. "My husband, Dr.
McCarthy," she said, giving him an honorary term, "pastored
the church in the town near where you were born,
many years ago."
"I do say," he echoed non-commitally.
"Do you recall it?" she asked.
He appeared to be thinking.... He hardly knew what
to say, then, after some deliberation he brightened and
said: "I think I do. I was very young then, but I think
I do recall your husband...."
"Your name—the name of your family has always remained
in my mind," said she then, reflectively.
"Indeed. It is a rather peculiar name."
"It is so, I should say," she cried. "If it is quite fair,
may I ask where or how your father came by such a
name?"
"Oh, it is very simple. My father, of course, was born a
slave like most—almost all Negroes previous to the war—and
took the name from his master who I suppose was of
French descent."
"Oh, that explains it. Of course that is natural. M-m;
but it's a beautiful name, I must say."
He smiled.[Pg 181]
"It is an illustrious name, also," she commented further.
"But the man who carries it in this instance, is much to
the contrary notwithstanding," he laughed depreciatingly.
"It is a very beautiful day without, my dear," she said,
addressing her daughter, "and perhaps Mr. Baptiste might
like to walk out and see some of the town."
"I most assuredly would," he cried, glad of something
for a change. He was restless, and estimated that if he
felt the air, with her at his side, it might help him.
Orlean arose, went upstairs, and returned shortly wearing
a large hat that set off her features. He rather liked
her under it, and when they walked down the street
together, he was conscious of an air of satisfaction.
"Where would you like to go?" she asked as they neared
the intersection.
"For a car ride on the elevated," he replied promptly.
"Then we will go right down this street. This is Thirty-third,
and there's an elevated station a few blocks from
here."
They walked along leisurely, she listening attentively,
while he talked freely of the West, his life there and what
he was doing. When they reached the L. he assisted her
upstairs to the station, and in so doing touched her arm for
the first time. The contact gave him a slight sensation but
he felt more easy when they had entered the car and taken
a seat together. A moment later they were gazing out over
the great city below as the cars sped through the air.
It was growing dark when they returned, and she invited
him to dinner. He accepted and thereupon met Ethel and
her husband.
Ethel was all pomp and ceremony, while her husband,
with his cue from her, acted in the same manner, and they
rather bored Jean Baptiste with their airs. He was glad[Pg 182]
when the meal was over. He followed Orlean back to the
parlor, where they took a seat on the davenport again, and
drew closer to her this time. Soon she said: "Do you
play?"
"Lord, no!" he exclaimed; "but I shall be glad to listen
to you."
"I can't play much," she said modestly; "but I will
play what little I know." Thereupon she became seated
and played and sang, he thought, very well. After she
had played a few pieces, she turned and looked up at him,
and he caught the full expression of her eyes. He could
see that they were tender eyes; eyes behind which there was
not apparently the force of will that he desired; but Orlean
McCarthy was a fine girl. She was fine because she was
not wicked; because she was intelligent and had been carefully
reared; she was fine because she had never cultivated
the society of undesirable or common people; but she was
not a fine girl because she had a great mind, or great
ability; or because she had done anything illustrious. And
this Jean Baptiste, a judge of human nature could readily
see; but he would marry her, he would be good to her; and
she would, he hoped, never have cause to regret having
married him. And thereupon he bent close to her, took
her chin in his hand and kissed her upon the lips. She
turned away when he had done this. In truth she was
not expecting such from him and knew not just how to
accept it. Her lips burned with a new sensation; she had
a peculiar feeling about the heart. She arose and went to
the piano and her fingers wandered idly over the keys as
she endeavored to still her beating heart.
Shortly she felt his hand upon her shoulder and she
turned to hear him say:[Pg 183]
"Won't you come back into the parlor? I—would like
to speak to you?"
She consented without hesitation, and arising followed
him timidly back to the seat they had occupied a few minutes
before. Again seated he drew closely but did not deign
to place his arm about her, looked toward the rear of the
house where the others were, and, seeing that the doors
were closed between them, sighed lightly and turned to her.
"Now, Miss McCarthy," he began, evenly. "I am going
to say something to you that I have never said to a woman
before." He paused while she waited with abated breath.
"I haven't known you long; but that is not the point.
What I should say is, that in view of our brief correspondence,
it will perhaps appear rather bold of me to say
what I wish to. Yet, there comes a time in life when circumstances
alter cases.
"Now, to be frank, I have always regarded matrimony as
a business proposition, and while sentiment is a very great
deal in a way, business considerations should be the first
expedient." She was all attention. She was peculiarly
thrilled. It was wonderful to listen to him, she thought,
and not for anything would she interrupt him. But what
did he mean; what was he going to say.
"Well, I, Miss McCarthy, need a wife. I want a wife;
but my life has not been lived where social intercourse with
girls of my race has been afforded, as you might understand."
She nodded understandingly, sympathetically.
Her woman's nature was to sympathize, and what she did
was only natural with all women.
"It has not been my privilege to know any girl of my
race intimately; I am not, as I sit here beside you able to
conscientiously, or truly, go to one and say: 'I love you,[Pg 184]
dear, and want you to be my wife,' in the conventional
sense. Therefore, can I be forgiven if I say to you; if I
ask you, Miss McCarthy," and so saying, he turned to her,
his face serious, "to become my wife?"
He had paused, and her soul was afire. Was this a
proposal or was it a play? For a time she was afraid to
say anything. She wouldn't say no, and she was afraid to
say yes, until—well, until she was positive that he had
actually asked her to marry him. As it was, she hesitated.
But it was so wonderful she thought. It was so beautiful to
be so near such a wonderful young man, such a strong young
man. The young men she had known had not been like this
one. And, really, she wanted to marry. She was twenty-six,
and since her sister had married, she had found life
lonely. To be a man's wife and go and live alone with him
must be wonderful. She was a reader, and he had sent her
books. In all books and life and everything there was love.
And love always had its climax in a place where one lived
alone with a man. Oh, glorious! She was ready to listen
to anything he had to say.
"Now, I do not profess love to you, Miss McCarthy, in
trying to make this clear. I could not, and be truthful.
And I have always tried to be truthful. Indeed, I could
not feel very happy, I am sure, unless I was truthful. To
pretend that which I am not is hypocrisy, and I despise a
hypocrite. I am an owner of land in the West, and I believe
you will agree with me, that it behooves any Negro
to acquire all he can. We are such a race of paupers!
We own so little, and have such little prestige. Thankfully,
I am at present, on the high road to success, and, because
of that, I want a wife, a dear, kind girl as a mate, the most
natural thing in the world." She nodded unaware. What
he was saying had not been said to her in that way; but the[Pg 185]
way he said it was so much to the point. She had not been
trained to observe that which was practical; indeed, her
father was regarded as a most impractical man; but she
liked this man beside her now, and was anxious for him to
go on. He did.
"I own 520 acres of very valuable land, and have consummated
a deal for 480 more acres. This land is divided
into tracts of 160 acres each, and must be homesteaded before
the same is patented.
"Now, my grandmother, and also a sister are already in
the West, and will homestead on two places. The other, I
have arranged for you. The proceeding is simple. It will
be necessary only for you to journey out West, file on this
land as per my directions, after which we can be married
any time after, and we can then live together on your
claim. Do you understand?"
"I think so," she said a bit falteringly.
"Now, my dear, do not feel that I am a charter barterer;
we can simply acquire a valuable tract of land by
this process and be as we would under any other circumstances.
Once you were out there all would be very plain
to you, but at this distance, it is perhaps foreign to you, that
I understand."
She looked up into his face trustingly. Right then she
wanted him to kiss her. It was all so irregular; but he
was a man and she a maid, and she had never had a love....
He seemed to understand, and passionately he caught
her to him, and kissed her many, many times.
It was all over then, as far as she was concerned. She
had not said yes or no with words, but her lips had been her
consent, and she knew she would love him. It was the
happiest hour in the simple life she had lived, and she was
ready to become his forever.[Pg 186]
CHAPTER V
A PROPOSAL; A PROPOSITION; A CERTAIN MRS. PRUITT—AND
A LETTER
"OH, MAMA, Mr. Baptiste has asked me to marry
him," cried Orlean, rushing into the room and to
the bed where her mother lay reading, after Jean
Baptiste had left.
"Why, my child, this—this is rather sudden, is it not?
Mr. Baptiste has known you only a few months and has
been corresponding with you just a little while," her mother
said with some excitement, suddenly sitting erect in the bed.
"Yes, mama, what you say is true, but he explained. He
said—well, I can't quite explain, but he—he wants to
marry me, mama, and you know—well, mama, you understand,
don't you?"
"Yes, I understand. All girls want husbands, but it must
be regular. So take off your clothes, dear, get into bed
and tell me just what Mr. Baptiste did say."
The other did as instructed, and as best she could, tried
to make plain what Jean had said to her regarding the land
and all. She didn't make it very plain, and the matter
rather worried her, but the fact that he had asked her
to marry him, was uppermost in her mind, and she finally
went to sleep happier than she had ever been in her life
before.
"Now, when the young man calls today, you will have
him take his business up with me," her mother instructed
judiciously the following morning.[Pg 187]
"He will explain it all, mama. He can do so very
easily," she said, glad to be relieved of the difficult task.
Yet she had her worries withal. Her mother was a very
difficult person to explain anything to; besides, Orlean knew
her mother was in constant fear of her father who was a
Presiding Elder, traveling over the southern part of the
state, and who came into the city only every few months.
And if her mother was hard to make understand anything,
her father was worse—and business, he knew next to nothing
about although he was then five and fifty.
Jean Baptiste had accomplished a great many more difficult
tasks than explaining to his prospective mother-in-law
in regard to the land. When she seemed to have sensed
what it all meant, he observed that she would give a peculiar
little start, and he would have to try it all over again. In
truth she understood better than she appeared to; but it was
the girl's father whom she feared to anger—for in all
her life she had never been able to please him.
But she found a way out along late that afternoon when
a caller was announced.
The visitor was a woman possessed of rare wits, and of
all the people that Mrs. McCarthy disliked, and of all who
disliked Mrs. McCarthy, Mrs. Pruitt was the most pronounced.
Yet, it was Mrs. Pruitt who settled the difficulty
and saved the day for Orlean and Jean Baptiste. But as to
why Mrs. Pruitt should dislike Mrs. McCarthy, and Mrs.
McCarthy should dislike Mrs. Pruitt, there is a story that
was known among all their friends and acquaintances.
When Miss Rankin had said what she did about Rev.
N.J. McCarthy, she had not told all, nor had she referred
to any woman in particular. She was not a scandal monger.
But she knew as all Chicago knew, that in so far as the
parties in question were concerned there was a friendship[Pg 188]
between Mrs. Pruitt and the Reverend that was rather subtle,
and had been for years. And it was this which caused
the two mentioned to dislike each other with an unspoken
hatred.
But Mrs. McCarthy trusted Orlean's going eight hundred
miles west to file on a homestead, and what might
come of it, to Mrs. Pruitt rather than to herself. While she
could—was aware of it—she did not dare venture anything
to the contrary where it might come back to her husband's
ears, she knew Mrs. Pruitt had more influence with
her husband than had she.... Therefore when she invited
Jean Baptiste to meet Mrs. Pruitt, who had met him
years before, she breathed a sigh of relief.
It was over in a few hours. Mrs. Pruitt would accompany
Orlean to the West and back, with Jean Baptiste paying
expenses, and preparations were made thereto.
In two days they had reached Gregory where the great
land excitement was on. From over all the country people
had gathered, and the demand for the land had reached
its greatest boom since Jean Baptiste had come to the
country.
His sister and grandmother had arrived during his absence,
and, after greeting them, he was handed a letter,
which read:
My dear Mr. Baptiste:
Your most delightful letter was received by me today, and
that you may see just how much I appreciate it, I am answering
at once and hope you will receive the same real
soon.
To begin with: the reason I have not answered sooner is
quite obvious. I was away on a short visit, and only returned
home today, to find that your most interesting letter[Pg 189]
had been here several days. Think of it, and I would have
given most anything to have had it sooner.
Well, in reference to what you intimated in your letter
regarding the land up there, I am deeply interested. Nothing
strikes my fancy so much as homesteading—which I
think you meant. I would the best in the world like to hold
down a claim, and am sure I would make a great homesteader.
But why write more! An hour with you will
explain matters more fully than a hundred letters, so I will
close with this: You hinted about coming down, and my invitation
is to do so, and do so at your earliest possible convenience.
I am waiting with great anxiety your honored
appearance.
In the meantime, trusting that you are healthy, hopeful
and happy, please believe me to be,
Cordially, sincerely—and anxiously yours,
Irene Grey.
He regarded the letter a little wistfully, and the next
moment tore it to bits, flung it to the winds, and went about
his business.[Pg 190]
CHAPTER VI
THE PRAIRIE FIRE
"MY MOTHER grabbed me, kissed and hugged me
time and again when I returned," Jean Baptiste
read in the letter he received from his wife-to-be
a few days after she had returned to the windy city, and he
was satisfied. "She had been so worried, you see, because
she had written father nothing about it, and this was the
first time in her married life that she has dared do anything
without a long consultation with him. But she is glad I
went now, and thinks you are a very sensible fellow therefor.
Papa sent a telegram advising that he had been reappointed
Presiding Elder over the same district, and would
come into Chicago for a few days before entering into another
year of the work.
"I am deluged with questions regarding the West, and
it gives me a great deal of pleasure to explain everything,
and of the wonderful work you are doing. Now, papa will
be home in a few days, and, knowing how hard he is to
explain anything to, I am preparing myself for quite a
task. I will close now. With love and kisses to you, believe
me to be,
"Your own,
"Orlean."
Jean now went about his duties. His sister and grandmother
were with him, and he had planned to put them on
their claims at once, so as to enable them to prove up as[Pg 191]
soon as possible. Therefore to their places he hauled lumber,
coal and provisions. Their claims lay some forty-five
miles to the northwest beyond the railroad which now had
its terminus at Dallas. And, referring to that, we have not
found occasion to mention what had taken place in the
country in the two years passed.
When the railroad had missed Dallas and struck Gregory
and the other two government townsites, Dallas was apparently
doomed, and in a few months most of the business
men had gone, and the business buildings, etc., had
been moved to Gregory. This town, because of the fact
that it was only five miles from the next county line—the
county that had been opened and which contained the land
that Jean Baptiste had secured for his relatives and bride—was,
for a time, expected to become the terminus. And
to this end considerable activity had transpired with a view
to getting the heavy trade that would naturally come with
the opening and settlement of the county west, which had
twice the area of the county in which Gregory lay.
Now, it was shortly after the railroad was under course
of construction that one, the chief promoter of the townsite,
called on the "town Dad's" of Gregory with a proposition.
The proposition was, in short, to move Dallas to
Gregory, and thereupon combine in making Gregory a real
city.
Unfortunately for Gregory, her leaders were men who
had grown up in a part of the country where the people
did not know all they might have known. They consisted in
a large measure of rustic mountebanks, who, because, and
only because, Gregory happened to have been in the direct
line of the railroad survey, and had thereby secured the
road, took unto themselves the credit of it all. So, instead
of entertaining the offer in a logical, business and appreci[Pg 192]ative
manner, gave the promoter the big haw! haw! and
turned their backs to him.
There was a spell of inactivity for a time on the part of
the said promoter. But in the fall, when the ground had
frozen hard, and the corn was being gathered, all that was
left in the little town of Dallas, laying beside the claim of
Jean Baptiste, was suddenly hauled five miles west of the
town of Gregory. And still before the Gregory illogics
had time even to think clearly, business was going on in
what they then chose to call New Dallas—and the same
lay directly on the line of the two counties, and where the
railroad survey ended.
It is needless to detail the excitement which had followed
this. "Lies, lies, liars!" were the epithets hurled from
Gregory. "The railroad is in Gregory to stay; to stay
for"—oh, they couldn't say how many years, perhaps a
hundred; but all that noise to the west was a bluff, a
simon pure bluff, and that ended it. That is, until they
started the same noise over again. But it had not been a
bluff. The tracks had been laid from Gregory to Dallas
early in the spring that followed, and now Dallas was the
town instead of Gregory, and the boom that had followed
the building of the town, is a matter never to be forgotten
in the history of the country.
Gregory's one good fortune was that she had secured the
land office which necessitated that all filings should be entered
there, and in this way got more of the boom that was
occasioned by the land opening at the west than it had expected
to when the railroad company had pushed its way
west out of the town.
It was about this time while great excitement was on and
thousands of people were in the town of Dallas that something
occurred that came near literally wiping that town[Pg 193]
off the map. Jean Baptiste had loaded his wagons and
was on the way from his land to the claims of his sister
when the same came to pass.
The greatest danger in a new country comes after the
grass has died in the fall and before the new grass starts
in the spring. But in the fall when the grass is dry and
crisp, and the surface below is warm and dry, is the time of
prairie fires. No time could have been more opportune for
such an episode than the time now was. The wind had been
blowing for days and days, and had made the short grass
very brittle, and the surface below as hot as in July. Jean
Baptiste was within about a mile of where New Dallas
now reposed vaingloriously on a hillside, her many new
buildings rising proudly, defiantly, as if to taunt and annoy
Gregory, against the skyline, when with the wind greeting
him, he caught the smell of burning grass. He reached a
hillside presently, and from there he could see for miles to
the west beyond, and the sight that met his gaze staggered
him.
"A prairie fire," he cried apprehensively, and urged his
teams forward toward Dallas. One glance had been sufficient
to convince him what it might possibly mean. A
prairie fire with the wind behind it as this was, would
bid no good for Dallas, and once there he could be of a little
service, since he knew how to fight it.
When he arrived at the outskirts of the embryo city, he
was met by a frightened herd of humanity. With bags and
trunks and all they could carry; with eyes wide, and mouths
gaped, in terror they were hurrying madly from the town
to an apparent place of safety—a plowed field nearby.
Miles to the west the fire and smoke rose in great, dark
reddened clouds, and cast—even at that distance, dark
shadows over the little city. As he drew into the town,[Pg 194]
he could see a line of figures working at fire breaks before
the gloom. They were the promoters and the townspeople,
and he imagined how they must feel with death possible—and
destruction, positive, coming like an angry beast directly
upon them.
Soon, Jean Baptiste, with wet horse blankets, was with
them on the firing line. The speed at which the wind was
driving the fire was ominous. Soon all the west was as if
lost in the conflagration, for the sun, shining out of a clear
sky an hour before was now shut out as if clouds were over
all. The dull roar and crackle of the burning grass brought
a feeling of awe over all before it. The heat became, after
a time, intense; the air was surcharged with soot, and the
little army worked madly at the firebreaks.
Rolling, tumbling, twisting, turning, but always coming
onward, the hurricane presently struck the fire guards. In
that moment it was seen that a mass of thistles, dried
manure, and all refuse from the prairie was sweeping before
it, as if to draw the fire onward. The fire plunged
over the guards as though they had not been made, pushed
back the little army and rushed madly into the town.
It was impossible now to do more. The conflagration
was beyond control. Now in the town, an effort was therefore
made to get the people out of their houses where some
had even hidden when it appeared that all would be swept
away in the terrible deluge of fire. One, two, three, four,
five, six—ten houses went up like chaff, and the populace
groaned, when, of a sudden, something happened. Like
Napoleon's army at Waterloo there was a quick change.
One of those rare freaks—but what some chose to claim
in after years as the will of the Creator in sympathy
with the hopeful builders, the wind gradually died down,
whipped around, and in less than five minutes, was blowing[Pg 195]
from the east, almost directly against its route of a few
minutes before. The fire halted, seemed to hesitate, and
then like some cowardly thing, turned around and started
back of the same ground it had raged over where it
lingered briefly, sputtered, flickered, and then quickly died.
And the town, badly frightened, hard worked, but thankful
withal, was saved.[Pg 196]
CHAPTER VII
VANITY
"MY FATHER is home, and, oh! but he did carry on
when he was informed regarding my trip West
to take the homestead," Orlean wrote her betrothed
in her next letter. "He was so much upset over it
that he went out of the house and walked in the street for
a time to still his intense excitement. When he returned,
however, he listened to my explanation, and, after a time,
I was pleased to note that he was pacified. And still later
he was pleased, and when a half day had passed he was
tickled to death.
"Of course I was relieved then also, and now I am
fully satisfied. I have not written you as soon as I should
have on this account. I thought it would be best to wait
until papa had heard the news and was settled on the matter,
which he now is. He has written you and I think you
should receive the letter about the same time you will this.
He has never been anxious in his simple old heart for me
to marry, but of course he understands that I must some
day, and now that I am engaged to you, he appears to be
greatly pleased.
"By the way, I have not received the ring yet, and am
rather anxious. Of course I wish to be quite reasonable,
but on the whole, a girl hardly feels she's engaged until she
is wearing the ring, you know. Write me a real sweet[Pg 197]
letter, and make it long. In the meantime remember me as
one who thinks a great deal of you,
"From your fond,
"Orlean."
Baptiste heard from his father-in-law-to-be in due time,
and read the letter carefully, replying to the same forthwith.
We should record before going further that the incident
which had happened between them in his youth had been
almost as completely buried as it had been before the day
of its recent resurrection. In his reply he stated that he
would come into the city Xmas, which meant of course,
that they would meet and come to understand each other
better. He was glad that the formalities were in part
through with, and would be glad when it was over. He
did not appreciate so much ado where so little was represented,
as it were. He had it from good authority without
inquiry that the Reverend McCarthy had never possessed
two hundred dollars at one time in his life, and the formalities
he felt compelled to go through with far exceeded that
amount already. And with this in mind he began gathering
his corn crop which he had been delayed in doing on
account of the stress of other more urgent duties.
He had been at work but a few days when snow began to
fall. For days it fell from a northwesterly direction, and
then turning, for a week came from an easterly direction.
This kept up until the holidays arrived, therefore most of
the corn crop over all the country was caught and remained
in the field all the winter through. By the hardest work his
sister and grandmother succeeded in reaching his place from
their homesteads, and stayed there while he went into
Chicago.[Pg 198]
"Mr. Baptiste, please meet my father," said Orlean when
he called, following his arrival in the city again. He looked
up to find a tall, dark but handsome old man extending his
hand. He regarded him, studied him carefully in a flash,
and in doing so his mind went back twenty years; to a
memorable day when he had been punished and had followed
it by running away. He extended his hand and
grasped the other's, and wondered if he also remembered....
They exchanged greetings, and if the other recalled
him, he gave no evidence of the fact in his expression.
When he had sat beside the teacher, such a long time
before, Baptiste recalled now, that at the back of the other's
head there had been a white spot where the hair was changing
color; but now this spot spread over all the head, and
the hair was almost as white as snow. With his dark skin,
this formed a contrast that gave the other a distinguished
appearance which was noticeably striking. But his eyes did
not meet with Baptiste's favor, though he was not inclined
to take this seriously. But as he continued to glance at
him at times during the evening he did not fail to see that
the other seemed never to look straight and frankly into
his eyes; and there was in his gaze and expression when he
met Baptiste,—so Baptiste thought—a peculiar lurking, as
if some hidden evil were looking out of the infinite depths
of the other's soul. It annoyed Baptiste because every
time he caught the other's gaze he recalled the incident of
twenty years before, and wanted to forget it; declared he
would forget it, and to that task he set himself, and apparently
succeeded while in the city.
With Ethel and her husband, whose name was Glavis, he
never got along at all. Ethel was pompous, and known
to be disagreeable; while Glavis was narrow, and a victim[Pg 199]
of his wife's temper and disposition. So unless the talk
was on society and "big" Negroes, which positively did not
interest Jean Baptiste, who was practical to the superlative,
there was no agreement.
So when Jean Baptiste returned West, he was conscious
of a great relief.
The severe winter passed at last and with early spring
everybody completed the gathering of the corn and immediately
turned to seeding their crops. Work was plentiful
everywhere, and to secure men to complete gathering his
crop of corn, Baptiste had the greatest difficulty. Stewarts
had failed to secure any land at all—either of the four in
the drawing, and, being unable to purchase relinquishments
on even one quarter at the large sum demanded therefor, had
gone toward the western part of the state and taken free
homesteads. As for Agnes, she had apparently passed out
of his life.
He labored so hard in the cold, wet muddy fields in trying
to get his corn out that he was taken ill, and was not
able to work at all for days, and while so, he wrote his
fiancee his troubles; and that since he was so indisposed,
with a world of work and expense upon him she would do
him a great favor if she would consent to come to him and
be married.
Now the McCarthys had given Ethel a big wedding although
her husband received only thirteen dollars a week for
his work. Two hundred dollars, so it was reported, had
been expended on the occasion. Such display did not appeal
to the practical mind of Jean. He had lived his life too
closely in accomplishing his purpose to become at this late
day a victim of such simple vanity; the ultra simple vanity
of aping the rich. Upon this point his mind was duly set.
The McCarthys had started to buy a home the summer be[Pg 200]fore
which was quite expensive, and had entered into the
contract with a payment of three hundred dollars. The
Reverend had borrowed a hundred dollars on his life insurance
and paid this in, while Glavis had paid another. Ethel
had used what money she had saved teaching, to expend in
the big wedding, so Orlean had paid the other hundred out
of the money she had saved teaching school.
Now, if there was any big wedding for Orlean, then he,
Jean Baptiste, knew that he would be expected to stand
the expense. Therefore, Baptiste tried to make plain to
Orlean in his letters the gravity of his position. She would
be compelled to establish residence on her homestead early
in May, and this was April, or forfeit her right and sacrifice
all he had put into it.
But Orlean became unreasonable—Jean Baptiste reasoned.
She set forth that she did not think it right for her
to go away out there and marry him; that he should
come to her. She seemed to have lost sense of all he had
written her, regarding the crops, responsibilities, and other
considerations. He wrote her to place it up to her mother
and father, which she did, to reply in the same tenor. They
had not agreed to it, either. He replied then heatedly, and
hinted that her father was not a business man else he would
have realized his circumstances, and, as man to man, appreciated
the same.
The next letter he received had enclosed the receipt for
the first payment of the purchase price of six dollars an acre,
a charge the government had made on the land, amounting
to some $210, in the first payment. She released him
from his promise—but kept the ring.
"Now, don't that beat the devil!" he exclaimed angrily,
when he read the letter. "As though this receipt is worth
anything to me; or that it would suffice to get back the[Pg 201]
$2,000 I paid the man for the relinquishment. The only
thing that will suffice is, for her to go on the land, so I guess
I'll have to settle this nuisance at once by going to Chicago
and marrying her."
So he started for the Windy City.
At Omaha he sent a telegram to her to the effect that he
was on the way, and would arrive in the city on the
morrow.
He arrived. He called her up from the Northwestern
station, and she called back that it was settled; she had
given him her word. The engagement was off.
"Oh, foolish," he called jovially.... "It isn't," she
called back angrily.... "Well," said he, "I'll call and
see you...." "No need," she said.... "But you'll see
me," he called.... "Yes, I'll see you. I'll do you that
honor...."
Now when Jean Baptiste had called over the 'phone,
Glavis had answered the call, and thereupon had started an
argument that Orlean had concluded by taking the receiver
from his hand. Of course she had jilted Jean Baptiste and
had sent back the papers; moreover, she had declared she
would not marry him—under any circumstances. But she
would attend to that herself and did not need the assistance
of her brother-in-law....
Glavis was quite officious that morning—acting under his
wife's orders. When the bell rang, although he should have
been at his work an hour before he opened the door. Baptiste
was there and Glavis started to say something he felt
his wife would be pleased to know he said. But, being affected
with a slight impediment of speech, his tongue became
twisted and when he could straighten it out, Baptiste
had passed him and was on his way to the rear of the house
where Orlean stood pouting. Ethel stood near with her[Pg 202]
lips protruding, and Mrs. McCarthy, whom he had termed,
"Little Mother Mary," stood nearby at a loss as to what
to say.
"Indeed, but it looks more like you were waiting for a
funeral than for me," as he burst in upon them. Pausing
briefly, he observed the one who had declared everything
against him, turned her face away and refused to greet him.
"What's the matter, hon'," he said gaily and laughed, at
the same time gathering her into his arms.
"Will you look at that!" exclaimed Ethel, ready to start
something. But Glavis, countered twice the morning so
soon, concluded at last that it was his time to keep his place.
So deciding, he cut his eyes toward Ethel, and said: "Now,
Ethel, this is no affair of yours," and cautioned her still
more with his eyes.
"No, Ethel," commanded Orlean, "This is my affair.
I—" she did not finish, because at that moment Jean Baptiste
had kissed her.
"It beats anything I ever witnessed," cried Ethel, almost
bursting to get started.
"Then don't witness it," said Glavis, whereupon he
caught her about the waist and urged her up the stairs and
locked her in their room.
"You've been acting something awful like," chided Baptiste,
with Orlean still in his arms. She did not answer
just then. She could not. She decided at that moment,
however, to take him into the parlor, and there tell him all
she said she would. Yes, she would do that at once. So
deciding, she caught him firmly by the arm, and commanded:
"Come, and I will get you told!"
He followed meekly. When they reached the parlor she
was confronted with another proposition. Where would[Pg 203]
they sit? She glanced from the chairs to the davenport; but
he settled it forthwith by settling upon the davenport. She
hesitated, but before she had reached a decision, she found
herself pulled down by his side—and dreadfully close.
Well, she decided then, that this was better, after all, because,
if she was close to him he could hear her better. She
would not have to talk so loud. She did not like loud talking.
It was too "niggerish," and she did not like that.
But behold! He, as soon as she was seated, encircled her
waist with his arm. Dreadful! Then, before she could tell
him what she had made up all the night before to say to him,
she felt his lips upon hers—and, my! they were so warm,
and tender and soft. She was confused. Ethel and her
father had said that the country where Jean lived was wild;
that all the people in it were hard and coarse and rough—but
Jean's kisses were warm, and soft and tender. She almost
forgot what she had intended telling him. And just
then he caught her to him, and that felt so—well, she
did not know—could not say how it felt; but she was forgetting
all she had planned to tell him. She heard his voice
presently, and for a moment she caught sight of his eyes.
They were real close to hers, and, oh, such eyes! She had
not known he possessed such striking ones. How they
moved her! She was as if hypnotized, she could not
seem to break the spell, and in the meantime she was forgetting
more of what she had made up her mind to say. He
spoke then, and such a wonderful voice he seemed to have!
How musical, how soft, how tender—but withal, how
strong, how firm, how resolute and determined it was. She
was held in a thraldom of strange delight.
"What has been the matter with my little girl?" And
thereupon, as if they were not close enough, he gathered her
into his arms. Oh, what a thrill it gave her! She had for[Pg 204]gotten
now, all she had had in mind to say and it would take
an hour or so, perhaps a day, to think and remember it all
over again.... "Hasn't she wanted to see me? Such
beautiful days are these! Lovely, grand, glorious!" She
looked out through the window. It was a beautiful day, indeed!
And she had not observed it before.
"And hear the birds singing in the trees," she heard.
And thereupon she listened a moment and heard the birds
singing. She started. Now she had felt she was thoughtful.
She really loved to listen to the twitter of birds—and
it was springtime. It was life, and sunshine and happiness.
She had not heard the birds before that morning,
therefore it must have been because she had let anger rule
instead of sunshine. And as if he had read her thoughts,
she heard his voice again:
"And because you were angry—gave in to evil angriness
and pouted instead of being cheerful, happy and gay, you
have failed to observe how beautiful the sun shone, and that
the birds were singing in the trees."
She felt—was sensitive of a feeling of genuine
guilt.
"And away out west, where the sunshine kisses the earth,
and the wheat, the corn, the flax, and the oats grow green
in great fields, everybody there is about his duty; for, when
the winter has been long, cold and dreary, the settlers must
stay indoors lest they freeze. So with such days as these
after the long, cold and dreary winters, everybody must be
up and doing. For if the crops are to mature in the autumn
time, they must be placed in the earth through seed in the
springtime. But there is, unfortunately, one settler, called
St. Jean Baptiste, by those who know him out there, who
is not in his fields; his crops are not being sown; his fields—wide,
wide fields, which represent many thousands of[Pg 205]
dollars, and long years of hard, hard work, are lying idle,
growing to wild weeds!"
"But, Jean," she cried of a sudden. "It is not so?"
"Unfortunately it is so, my love!"
"Then—Jean—you must go—hurry, and sow your
crops, also!" she echoed.
"For years and years has Jean Baptiste labored to get
his fields as they are. For, in the beginning, they were
wild, raw and unproductive, whereupon naught but coyotes,
prairie dogs and wild Indians lived; where only a wild grass
grew weakly and sickly from the surface and yielded only
a prairie fire that in the autumn time burned all in its path;
a land wherein no civilized one had resided since the beginning
of time."
"Oh, Jean!"
"And he has longed for woman's love. For, according
to the laws of the Christ, man should take unto himself a
wife, else the world and all its people, its activity, its future
will stop forthwith!"
"You are so wonderful!"
"Not wonderful, am I," quoth Baptiste. "Just a mite
practical."
"But it is wonderful anyhow, all you say!"
"And yet my Orlean does not love me yet!"
"I didn't say that," she argued, thinking of what she had
written him.
"Since therefore she has not said it, then methinks that
she does not."
"I—I—oh, you—are awful!"
"And she will not go to live alone with me and share my
life—and my love!"
"I—oh, I didn't say I wouldn't do all that." She was
done for then. She had shot her last defense.[Pg 206]
"Then you will?" he asked anxiously. "You will go
back with me, and be mine, all mine and love me forever?"
She sought his lips and kissed him then, and he arose
and caught her close to him and kissed her again and looked
into her eyes, and she was then all his own.[Pg 207]
CHAPTER VIII
MARRIED
"WHY—why—why, what does this mean!" exclaimed
"Little Mother Mary" coming upon
them at this minute. Notwithstanding the fact
that she was surprised, it was obviously a glad surprise.
She admired Jean Baptiste, and had been much upset
over their little controversy. She understood the root
of the trouble, and knew that it had been on account of
what Baptiste had written and intimated in the letter regarding
the Elder. Her husband did not admire real men,
although of course, he was not aware of it. In truth, he admired
no man, other than himself. And when others did
not do likewise, he usually found excuses to disagree with
them in some manner.
Jean Baptiste was not the type of man to make friends
with her husband. He was too frank, too forward, too progressive
in every way ever to become very intimate with N.
Justine McCarthy. To begin with, Jean had never flattered
his vanity as it was not his wont to give undue praise. And
as yet he had no reason especially to admire the Reverend.
That it had not been Orlean who had objected to coming
West to marry him he was aware. Nor had it been her
mother. It had been N. Justine who had a way of making
his faults and shortcomings appear to be those of others—especially
within his family, and in this instance his elder
daughter bore the blame.
"What would you expect us to do, Little Mother," he
said, turning a beaming face upon her.[Pg 208]
"But—Orlean, I thought—I thought—"
"Oh, Mother," cried Jean Baptiste, "don't think. It
will hurt you. Besides, it will not be necessary for you to
think any more with regards to us now. We are as we
were, and that is all. There is nothing wrong between us—never
has been, nor between you and I now either, is
there?" Whereupon he drew her down and upon the
davenport and placed himself between her and her daughter.
"Now let's reason this thing out together," he began.
"There is no need for quarreling. We'll leave that to idle,
disagreeable people. The first thing in life is to know what
you want—and then go get it. That's the way I do.
When I proposed to Orlean I did so after due consideration.
There has been some little disagreement with regards
to my coming to get her, which was due to the fact
that I have been so overrun with work until I really felt I
had not the time to spare. However, here I am and ready
to marry her. So let's get those who are concerned together
and have it over with. What do you say to it?" he
said, looking from one to the other. In the meantime, Ethel
had crept down from upstairs to see what was going on,
and saw the three on the davenport together, with Jean
Baptiste in the middle. Whereupon, she turned and hurried
back upstairs to where her husband was, with these words:
"Glavis, Glav—is," she cried all out of breath with exasperation.
"I just wish you'd look! Just step down
there and look!"
"Why, why—what is the matter, Ethel!" he cried, rising
from his chair in some excitement.
"Why, that Jean Baptiste is sitting down there on the
davenport with mama on one side of him and my sister
on the other!"
"Oh, is that all!" he breathed with relief.[Pg 209]
"Is that all!" she echoed in derision, her narrow little
face screwed up.
"Well?"
"Will you 'well' me when that man just comes in here
and takes the house and all that's in it!"
"Oh, Ethel." he argued. "Will you use some sense!"
"Will I use some sense! After what Orlean said? You
remember well enough what she said, no longer than last
night when she received that telegram. That she was
through with that man; that she was not going to marry
him, and had sent his old papers back to him to prove it!"
"Well, now, get all excited over the most natural thing
in the world! Have you never seen a woman who never
changed her mind—especially when there was a man in the
case?"
"Of course I have," she shouted. "I am one who has
never changed their mind!"
"I agree, and that is what's the matter with you," so
saying, he made his get-away to avoid what would have
followed.
"Now, you will have to deal with my husband in regard
to this matter, Mr. Baptiste," admonished Mother Mary.
She had given into him along with Orlean. It was useless to
try to pit their weak wits against the commanding and domineering
reason, the quick logic and searching intuition of
Jean Baptiste. So they had quickly resigned to the inevitable,
and left him to the rock of unreason, the Reverend N.
J. McCarthy.
"All settled. I'll bounce right out and get him on the
wire. Best words to send are: 'Please come to Chicago
today. Important!' Will that be alright?"
"Jean Baptiste, you are a wonder!" cried Orlean, and,
encircling his neck with her arms, kissed him impulsively.[Pg 210]
In answer they received by special delivery a letter that
night, stating that his honor, N.J., was on the way, and
would arrive the following morning. Preparations were entered
into at once therefore for a simple wedding, only
Ethel holding aloft from the proceedings. It was while at
the supper table that evening that Orlean took upon herself
to try to set Baptiste right with what was before him in
dealing with regards to her father.
"Now, my dear," she said lovingly, "if you would get
along with papa, then praise him—you understand, flatter
him a little. Make him think he's a king."
"Oh-ho!" he laughed, whereat she was embarrassed.
"That's the 'bug,' eh!"
"Well," she hesitated, awkwardly, "he is rather vain."
Baptiste was thoughtful. Rev. McCarthy was vain....
He must be praised if one was to get along with him....
Make him think he was a king. His Majesty, Newton
Justine, sounded very well as a title. All he needed now,
then, was a crown. If necessary for peace in the family
he would praise him, although it was not to his liking.
Jean Baptiste had little patience with people who must be
praised. In his association he had chosen men, men who
were too busy to look for or care for praise. But he
failed to reckon then that he was facing another kind of
person, one whom he was soon to learn.
His Majesty, Newton Justine, arrived on schedule the next
morning, very serious of expression, and apparently tired
into the bargain. Baptiste recalled when he saw him what
he had been advised with regards to making him think he
was a king. "Well," sighed Baptiste, "providing 'His
Majesty' is not a despot, we may be able to get along for a
day or two."
Later, when convenient, Baptiste attempted and was ap[Pg 211]parently
successful in making the matter so plain that
despite his reputed dislike for fair reasoning, the Elder was
compelled to call his daughter and say:
"Now, Orlean, you have heard. Are you in love with
this man?" The melting smile she bestowed him with was
quite sufficient, so seeing, he continued:
"And do you wish to become his wife?" She looked
down into her lap then, turned her hands in childish fashion,
and replied in a very small voice:
"Yes."
"Then, that settles it," said the Elder, and thereafter
made himself very amiable. By the morrow arrangements
had been completed for a simple little home wedding, and
at two o'clock, the ceremony was performed.
And when the bride and groom had been kissed according
to custom, a storm without broke of a sudden, and the
wind blew and the rain fell in torrents. So terrible became
the storm that the piano, which some one played loudly,
as if to shut out the roar of the storm outside, could
hardly be heard. And in the meantime, so dark did it become
that at two thirty the lights had to be turned on, the
people could hardly distinguish each other in the rooms.
Nor did the storm abate as the afternoon wore on, but continued
in mad fury far into the night and the guests were
compelled to leave in the downpour and wind.
And there were among those who departed, many who
thought and did not speak. They were, for the most part,
the new Negro, hence loathe to admit of superstitions—besides,
they had great respect for the two who were about to
start upon matrimony's uncertain journey. But regardless
of what they might have said openly, it was a long time before
they forgot.[Pg 212]
CHAPTER IX
ORLEAN RECEIVES A LETTER AND ADVICE
"JEAN!" called Orlean three months later, as she came
out of the house, the house where Stewarts had
lived, and which Jean Baptiste had rented for the
season so as to be near all his land in the older opened
county. "I have something to tell you."
"What is it, dear?" he replied, drawing his horses to a
stop, while she climbed on the step of the spring wagon he
was riding in. He could see she was excited, and he was
apprehensive.
She got up on the seat beside him, and placing her arms
around him, began to cry. He petted her a moment and
then, placing his hand under her chin, raised her head and
said: "Well, now, my dear, what is the matter?" whereupon,
he kissed her. Drawing his head down then, she
whispered something in his ear.
"Oh!" he cried, his face suddenly aglow with an expression
she had never seen in it before. The next instant
he caught and drew her closely to him, and kissed her
fondly. "I am so happy, dear; the happiest I have been
since we married!"
"But, Jean!" she started and then hesitated. He appeared
to understand.
"Now, my wife, you must not feel that way," he admonished.
"That is the ultimate of young married life—children.
Of course," he added, slowly, "couples are not[Pg 213]
always ready they feel, but such does not wait. We are
not always ready to die, but old death comes when he gets
ready and there's no use trying to argue a delay. So now,
instead of looking distressed, just fancy what a great thing,
a beautiful and heavenly thing after all it is, and be real
nice." He kissed her again and assisted her from the
buggy, and while he drove to his work she went into the
house and picked up a letter.
It was from Ethel, and ran:
"My dear sister:
"I am writing you to say that I am very unhappy. You
cannot imagine how disagreeable, how very inconvenient it
is to be as I am. Never did I want a child—or children;
but that silly man I'm married to is so crazy for a family
that he has given me no peace.
"As a result I must sit around the house during these
beautiful summer days and be satisfied to look out of the
window and go nowhere. Oh, it is distressing, and I am so
mad at times I can seem not to see! Can you sense it:
Him so anxious for a family, when what he earns is hardly
sufficient to keep us in comfort and maintain the payments
on the home. I have tried to reason with him on the score,
but it is no use at all. So while I sit around so angry I
cannot see straight, he dances around gleefully, wondering
whether it will be a girl or a boy!
"Now, I thought I would write you in time so that you
could protect yourself. I am, therefore, sending you certain
receipts which have been given me—but too late!
They will not be again, though—trust me to attend to that!
Don't wait too long, and use them as per direction. Do
it and run no chance of getting to be as I am.
"I hope you are well and write me any time anything
happens, and if these don't work, then tell me right quick
and I will send you something that is sure. I depend on
you taking care of yourself now, and don't let anybody put
foolishness in your head.[Pg 214]
"Hoping to hear from you soon, and that you are safe as
yet, believe me to be,
"As ever your sister,
"Ethel."
When she had completed the letter, she was thoughtful as
her eyes wandered out to where her husband worked away
in the field beyond. She tried to see a few months ahead.
It was then midsummer, and Ethel and her father and all
the girls were writing her already that they supposed they
might as well not expect her until Xmas. But Jean had
intimated already that he did not expect to go to Chicago
Xmas. Still, that was several months away, and the dry
weather of which he was complaining at the present, might
be offset by rain soon. So she might get to see old Chicago
Xmas after all. But she would be unable to go out if she
did go to the city Xmas with what she knew now. She
pondered, and while she did so, she read through certain
receipts her sister had sent her. One was very simple, and
she was tempted. It stated that the blossom of a certain
weed was positive when made into a tea.
She was thoughtful a moment, and her eyes wandered
again toward where her husband worked in the field.
Finally they fell upon the creek that ran near the house,
and she gave a start as she saw growing upon its banks,
a peculiar weed with purple blossom. She wondered what
kind of weeds they were. She made a mental note of the
same and decided that when her husband came to luncheon
she would ask him. She sighed then as she thought of the
months to come, and what was to come with it. Presently,
having nothing else urgent to do, she picked up paper, pen
and ink and replied to Ethel's letter:
"My dear sister:
"Receipt of your recent letter is here acknowledged, and[Pg 215]
in reply, will say that I have read the same carefully, and
made a note of what you said.
"I hardly know how to reply to what you set forth in
your letter, and I am not fully decided. But I might as
well admit that I have just discovered that I also am to become
a mother and, Jean, like Glavis, is tickled to death!
I just told him this morning and he said it was the happiest
moment he had experienced since we have been married.
"I am entirely at a loss what to do; but I will consult
him regarding it. I don't think I ought to do as you advise—not
let him know anything—because that would
hardly be fair. He is just as good to me as he can be, and
considers my every need. Sometimes I do not think he
loves me as much as I would wish, but what can I do! He
is my husband and gives me all his attention. I am, therefore,
afraid that he will object to the measures you suggest.
I am very much afraid he will, but I will ask him.
"He's a perfect dear, so jolly, so popular everywhere
about, and, I repeat, so good to me that I hardly think my
conscience would be clear if I did something in secret and
something that he would not like.
"In the meantime, thanking you for your suggestions,
and begging you not to act foolish, I am,
"Your affectionate sister,
"Orlean."
Jean Baptiste drove into the yard at noon singing cheerfully.
He was met by his wife at the gate which she
opened. The wind was blowing from the south, and the air
was very hot. It had been blowing from that direction for
days. He stopped singing while he unhitched the horses
and gazed anxiously toward the northwest.
"What is it, dear?" she inquired, observing the old frown
upon his face. He shook his head before replying, and tried
to smile.
"This wind."
"The wind?"[Pg 216]
"Yes. It's terribly hot. It's awfully drying. The oats
are suffering, the wheat is hurt. I wish it would rain, and
rain soon," whereat he shook his head again and his frown
grew deeper.
He led the horses to the well to drink and while they
were drinking she stood near, holding her hands and looking
at the patch of strange weeds that were in blossom
near. Presently she observed him, and, seeing that his
mind was concerned with problems, she would satisfy her
mind.
"Jean!" she called.
"Yes," he replied abstractedly.
"What kind of weeds are those?" and she pointed to
the wild blossoms.
"Those!" he said, his mind struggling between what he
was thinking about and the question. "Oh, those are evil
weeds," he concluded, and turning, led his horses into the
barn.
"Evil weeds!" she echoed. Slowly she turned and
looked again. She was strangely frightened. Then taking
courage, she went playfully to where they grew, and,
gathering a bunch in a sort of bouquet, carried them into the
house, laid them down, and began to place the meal upon
the table.
"Why, Orlean," she heard, and turned to meet her husband.
"What are you doing with these old things in
here! My dear, you could find something better for the
table than these things! Just outside the fence in the road
roses are blooming everywhere, and the air is charged with
their sweet fragrance." He paused briefly and held them
to his nose. "And, besides, they stink. Booh!" he cried,
holding them away. "They make me sick! Now, if you'll
agree I'll throw these things away and run out into the road[Pg 217]
and get you a big bunch of roses. Will that be all right,
dear?"
"Yes," she answered, and he did not understand why her
eyes were downcast.
"Good!" he exclaimed, and she was glad to see that the
frown upon his face was gone, if only for a while. "I'll
bring you some nice flowers. You know," he paused in
the doorway and turned to her, "I never liked this weed,
anyhow. I have always connected them with all that's vile
and evil." So saying, he turned and a few minutes later
she heard his voice coming cheerfully from the road where
he picked the various shades of roses.
"Now, my dear," said he pleasantly, "I have brought you
a real bouquet," and he placed the vase containing the same
in the center of the table, stood back and regarded the
flowers admiringly.
"Why," he suddenly exclaimed, his eyes widening,
"what is the matter?"
"Oh, nothing," she stammered more than spoke.
"Now there must be something?" While standing where
he was he caught sight of Ethel's letter. Immediately she
reached forth to snatch it from beneath his gaze. He made
no effort to take it, but regarded her in the meantime
wonderingly. The receipt concerning the weed lay in plain
sight, and he could hardly help reading it. She caught it
up then, while he still looked after her wonderingly. He
raised his hand to his head and was thoughtful, before
saying:
"Why were you so disturbed over me seeing the letter,
Orlean? You have never been so before. Of course," he
said, and hesitated, and then went on patiently, "I have no
wish to pry into women's affairs or secrets, but I am curious
to know why you acted as you did?"[Pg 218]
She was an emotional girl. Never in her life had she
violated the rules of her parents, and she had never thought
of disobeying, or keeping secrets from her husband. When
she was confronted with the situation, she broke down thereupon,
and crying on his breast, told him all the letter contained,
and what the receipt meant.
He listened patiently and when she was through he hesitated
before speaking. After a moment he led her to the
table, sat down, and fell to eating the luncheon.
"When we have dined," he paused after a few minutes
to remark, "and you have washed the dishes, we will spare
a few minutes for a talk, Orlean."
"Now," he resumed at the appointed time, "when we
married, Orlean, it was my hope—and I feel sure 'twas
yours, that we would live happily."
"Of course, Jean," she agreed tremulously.
"Then, dear, there are certain things we should come to
an understanding thereto lest we find our lives at variance.
To begin with, I wish your sister would not write you such
letters as the one you received today. But, if she must and
offer—yes, criminal advice, I trust you will not incline
toward such seriously. You and I, as well as those who
have gone before us; and as those who must perforce come
after us, did not come into this world altogether by ours
or others' providence. And if the world, and the people
in the world are growing wicked, as yet, thank God, race
suicide has not come to rule!" He was meditatively silent
then for a time, gazing as if into space off across the sunkist
fields.
"First," he resumed, "selfishness is a bad patient to
nurse. Secondly, we must appreciate that ours—our lives
have a duty to fulfill. Bringing children into the world[Pg 219]
and rearing them to clean and healthy man and womanhood
is that duty—our greatest duty. And now with regards to
that receipt, or receipts.
"I will not seek to deny that such practices are not in
some measure a custom. Such very often are given
thoughtlessly as to the infinite harm, ill health and unhappiness
they might later bring. But the fact that others cultivate
and heed such is no reason, dear, do you feel, that
we should?"
"No, Jean," she admitted without hesitation and very
humbly.
"I feel more inspired to say this at this point in our new
union, Orlean, because I cannot believe that it is your
nature to be wicked; to wilfully practice and condone the
wrong."
"Oh, Jean," she cried, moving toward him; laying her
hands upon him, and seeking his eyes with her soul
standing out in hers. "You are so noble and so good,"
and in the next minute she was weeping silently upon his
shoulder.
The dry weather continued over all the West, and for
two weeks the wind remained in the south, and blew almost
day and night. Heretofore, it had been known to
blow not more than a week at the most, before the heat
would be broken by a rain. And coincident with the heat
and drought, the crops began to fire, plants of all kinds
to wither, and every one in the country of our story became
ominous.
But the Creator seemed to be with the struggling people of
the new country, the drought was broken by rain before the
crops were destroyed; the harvest was very good, and with[Pg 220]
the completion of the same, Orlean met her husband one
evening with a letter, announcing that her father was coming
to visit soon. And the next day they got another
letter—no, a paper. It was a summons, and concerned
Orlean.[Pg 221]
CHAPTER X
EUGENE CROOK
TRIPP COUNTY, laying just to the west of the town
of Dallas and where Jean Baptiste had purchased the
relinquishments for his people was a large county
and rich in soil. There had been little delay on the part of
the railroad company in extending their line into it. But
before this occurred—before even the county had been
thrown open to the settlers, new promoters, conscious of the
great success which had been achieved by the men who had
promoted Dallas, purchased an allotment from an Indian,
or a breed and started a town thereon almost directly in the
center of the county in a valley of a creek known as the
Dog Ear.
And it was about this time that a political ring was
formed in the newer county for the avowed and subtle
purpose of securing the county seat. Settlement on the
whole had not as yet been possible, so the politics included
the rabble. The cowboy, and the ex-cowboy; saloon men,
bartenders—some freighters, squaw men and cattle thieves
represented the voters. So it happened that before the
bona-fide settlers had a chance in the way of political expression,
they found the county organized, controlled and
exploited by this ilk. But, as we have already stated, a
town in the West—nor the East for that matter—is ever
a town until a railway has found its way thither.
The difficulty began when the survey was run. Notwithstanding
the fact that the county seat had been secured[Pg 222]
by the promoters of the town in the valley of the Dog Ear,
the surveyors, from the route they took, did not seem to
have had any orders to go via of Lamro, the county seat in
question. On the contrary, they went smack through a
section of land that had been secured in due time by the
promoters who had made Dallas possible as a town.
Where the line of the survey stretched, less than two
miles northwest of the county seat, they started a town,
and were now bidding the townspeople and business men
of the county seat to move their building over. A bitter
fight was the answer—at the start. A railroad is everything
almost to an aspiring town, and these people were
capable of appreciating the fact. As a result, the little
town in the valley a few months later, was no more. Another
election was held and through the same the bona fide
settlers asserted their rights and administered a severe rebuke
by defeating the town in the valley and electing the
new town which had been entitled Winner as the county
seat.
Nevertheless, a few people remained in what was left of
the valley town. Some were unable to move their buildings,
others were indifferent, while others still remained
there for purposes of their own.
Among those who remained, there was a banker, whose
little bank reposed all alone with caves and broken sidewalks
and all the leavings of the moved away town about.
His name was Crook, Eugene Crook, and it was common
knowledge that he was fond of his name and conducted his
affairs so as to justify it. 'Gene Crook would rather, it was
said, acquire something by beating some one in a deal than
to secure it honestly. He possessed an auto, and had business
to the northwest of the town some fifteen or eighteen
miles, and had been seen in the neighborhood quite often.[Pg 223]
Perhaps it was due in some measure to an unscrupulous
character who had drawn a claim in those parts, and pretended
to be homesteading there; but who in truth homesteaded
more around the saloons of Winner and Crook's
town than he did on the claim. His name was James J.
Spaight.
James J. Spaight, and Eugene Crook were very close.
'Gene Crook had advanced Spaight considerable money towards
his claim, and had him tied up in many ways, therefore,
they were understood cohorts.
"They are never here," said Spaight, jumping from the
auto and sweeping his hand about over a beautiful quarter
section of land, one of the finest in the county.
"But I see a sod shack over in the draw," returned Crook.
"They have apparently called themselves establishing a
residence on the land."
"Yes; but let me tell you," said Spaight. "I can get you
this piece of land—I can win it for you through contest.
I know a thing or two, and I believe when we let the fellow
know that we've got him dead to right, he'll weaken, and
sell it to you for a song."
"Well," said Crook, thoughtfully, "we'll drive back to
town and consult Duval about it."
On the way they drove by the homesteaders near and
held subtle conversations with many, always in the end
ascertaining how many times the people had been seen on
the claim they had just left.
When they returned to the town in the valley, and retired
into the private office of the little bank, Spaight went for
Duval, a lawyer, who came forthwith. He was a tall, lean
creature who attracted attention by his unusual height and
leanness. He, also, was one of the "left overs." He was
told of the beautiful homestead, and that the claimant had[Pg 224]
been seen only a few times there, and of the proposition to
contest it.
"Who holds the place, did you say?" inquired Duval in
his deep, droll voice, crossing his legs judiciously.
"Why, a nigger woman," said Spaight.
"A Negro woman?"
"Yes, what do you think of that?" pursued Spaight, his
eyes widening. "I told Crook that if he worked a bluff
good and right he could more than likely scare them out.
A nigger in a white man's country!"
Crook smiled; Duval was thoughtful.
"What's her name—this Negress? Is she a single
woman or married?"
"Why, she was single when she took it, of course. But
she's got married since. I think the guy she married
put up the money, and that's where we have them again."
"And the name?" inquired Duval again.
"Oh, yes, Baptiste. That's it. Jean Baptiste is her husband's
name."
"Oh, hell!" cried Duval, and spat upon the floor.
"Why—what's the matter?" cried Crook and Spaight
in chorus.
"I was struck with the joke."
"The joke?"
"Yes. The bluffing."
"But we don't understand?"
"Then you ought to. Jean Baptiste, huh! You'll bluff
Jean Baptiste! Say, that's funny." Suddenly his face
took on a cold hard expression. "Why, that's one of the
shrewdest, one of the wisest, one of the most forcible men
in this country. Have you never heard of Jean Baptiste?
Oh, you fools! He's worth forty thousand dollars—made
it himself and is not over twenty-five."[Pg 225]
"Is that so?" they echoed, taken aback.
"Well, I should say so, and everybody in the county
knows it."
"But they haven't lived on the place as they should!"
protested Spaight, weakly.
"Something like yourself," laughed Duval. Spaight colored
guiltily.
"But I can prove it," insisted Spaight.
"Well, in so far as that goes, I wouldn't doubt but
they have not lived on the land. Baptiste owns a lot of
land in the county east, and the chances are that he's been
so busy that his wife has neglected to stay on the claim as
she should have. Yes, that is quite likely."
"Then we can contest it?" cried Spaight.
"Of course. You can contest any place so far as that
goes."
"Well, that's what we intend to do. And I have the
goods on him and am sure we can win."
"They're all sure of that when they start," said Duval,
sarcastically. "But I want to disillusion you. If you contest
the place then do so with a realization of what we are
up against. Don't go down there with any 'rough stuff'
or with a delusion that you are going to meet a weakling.
Go down there with the calm, considerate understanding
that you are going to vie with a man all through, and that
man is Jean Baptiste. And while I'll take the case and do
what I can, before we start, I'd advise that you keep away
from that fellow as much as possible."
"Well, now, to be frank, Duval," said Crook, "What
do you think of it anyhow?"
Duval regarded him closely a moment out of his small
eyes. And then spoke slowly, easily, carefully. "Well,
Crook, being frank with you, I don't think you can beat that[Pg 226]
fellow fairly. No one will beat Jean Baptiste in a fair
fight. But of course," he added, "there are other ways.
Yes, and when the time is right—if ever, you may try the
other way."[Pg 227]
CHAPTER XI
REVEREND McCARTHY PAYS A VISIT
"WELL," said Baptiste to his wife, following the
service of the summons. "We're up against
a long, irksome and expensive contest case."
Under his observation had come many of such. Only those
who have homesteaded or have been closely related to such
can in full appreciate the annoyance, the years of annoyance
and uncertainty with which a contest case is fraught.
Great fiction has been created from such; greater could be.
Oh, the nerve racking, the bitterness and very often the
sinister results that have grown out of one person trying to
secure the place of another without the other's consent.
Murder has been committed times untold as a sequel—but
getting back to Jean Baptiste and his wife.
He was inclined to be more provoked than ordinarily,
for the reason that by sending his wife—at least taking
her to the homestead, he knew he could have avoided the
contest. As a rule places are not contested altogether
without a cause. He felt that it was—and it no doubt was—due
to his effort to farm his own land and assist his
folks in holding their claims as well. He had discovered
before he married Orlean that she was likely to prove much
unlike his sister, who possessed the strength of her convictions,
for she was on the clinging vine order. Being
extremely childish, this was further augmented by a stream
of letters from Chicago, giving volumes of advice in re[Pg 228]gards
to something the advisors had not a very keen idea of
themselves. He also was cautioned not to expose her. So
she had, in truth only gone to her homestead when taken
by him, returning when he did as well. The fact that he
had arranged in regards to the renting of his land the next
season would be no evidence to assist him before the bar
that would hear his case.
The contest against his wife's homestead did not, of
course alter his plans in any way. He would continue along
the lines he had started. But there were other things that
came to annoy him at the same time. Chiefly among these
was his wife's father. Always there had to be some ado
when it came to him. He had reared his daughter, as before
intimated, to consider him of the world's greatest
men—especially the Negro race's, and to avoid friction,
Baptiste came gradually to see that he would almost have
to be beholden unto this creature in whom he was positively
not very deeply interested.
N. Justine McCarthy's accomplishments were of a nature
which Baptiste would rather have avoided. The fact that
he had been a Presiding Elder in one of the leading denominations
of Negro churches out of which he managed to
filch about a thousand a year, was in a measure foreign to
his son-in-law. And the Reverend was not an informed or
practical man.
The truth was that all the pretensions made to the Elder,
flattering him into feeling he was a great man, Jean Baptiste
came to regard as a deliberate fawning to flatter an extreme
vanity. Far from being even practical, N.J. McCarthy
was by disposition, environment and cultivation, narrow,
impractical, hypocritical, envious and spiteful. As to how
much he was so, not even did Jean Baptiste fully realize
at the time, but came to learn later from experience.[Pg 229]
He was expected in early October. The hearing of the
contest was to convene a few days later, so as a greeting
to his Majesty, he was to be given an opportunity to see
Orlean on the stand and mercilessly grilled by non-sentimental
lawyers. Baptiste was appreciative of what might
result, and wished the visit could have been deferred for
a while.
Another source of irritation continually, was Ethel's letters,
and his wife's nervousness over the child that was to
come. For the first time in her life she had been disobedient.
Secretly she had, after many misgivings, fears
and indecisions, brewed a tea from the weed as per Ethel's
prescription—but in vain! Later, the guilt, the never-to-be-forgotten
guilt; the unborn child that refused the poison,
seemed to haunt her. And she could not tell her husband.
But this was not all. Ethel's letters continued to come,
filled with the same advice; the same suggestions; the same
condemnation of motherhood—and she was compelled to
keep it all a hopeless secret from the man she had sworn
to love and obey.
One thing was agreed upon, they decided not to inform
the Elder—at least, in so far as Orlean was concerned, she
left it to Jean, and Jean, with as many troubles as he cared
for and more, to deal with, was becoming perceptibly irritant.
So with this state of affairs prevailing, the Reverend
finally arrived for his long anticipated visit.
The letter advising the day he would arrive did not happen
to reach them in time to meet him. Accordingly,
neither was at the station to greet him, but, recalling that
Baptiste had spoken of the Freedom and no narrow prejudices
and customs to irk one, the Elder went forthwith
to the leading hotel in Gregory where he was accorded
considerable attention as a guest. This indeed satisfied his[Pg 230]
vanity, and he was taken much notice of by those about
because of his distinguished appearance. A fact that he
seldom ever lost sight of.
But Baptiste happened to be in town that night on horseback,
and when the train had come and gone, he inquired
carelessly of a fellow he met, and who had come in on the
train, if he had seen a colored man aboard.
"Yes," said the other. "An elderly man, very distinguished
looking."
"My father-in-law!" ejaculated Baptiste, and went forthwith
to the hotel to find his erstwhile compatriot very much
at ease among those filling the place.
"And it's a great way to greet me," exclaimed the Reverend,
cheerfully, upon seeing him. Baptiste made haste to
explain that he had not been aware of the day when he
would arrive.
"Oh, that's all right, my son," said the other heartily.
"And how is Orlean?"
"Fine! She'll be tickled to death to see you."
"And I her." The old gent was very cheerful. Such
a trip was much to him. A life spent among the simple
black people to whom he preached afforded little contrast
compared with what was about him now. And, pompous
by disposition, he was thrilled by the diversity. Baptiste
decided thereupon to try to make his sojourn an agreeable
one.
"Now, there is an old neighbor of mine in town with
a buggy, and I'll see him and figure to have him take you
out with him, as I am in on horseback."
"Very well," returned the Elder, and Baptiste went for
the neighbor who happened to be a German with a very
conspicuous voice. He found him at a saloon where the[Pg 231]
old scout was pretty well "pickled" from imbibing too
freely in red liquor.
"Sure thing," he roared in his big voice when Baptiste
stated his errand. "Bring him down here and I'll buy him
a drink."
"But he's a preacher," cautioned Baptiste with a laugh.
"A preacher! Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed the
German, humorously. Whereupon he ordered drinks for
the house, and two for himself. Baptiste grinned.
"I shall now depart," essayed the German, swaying not
too steadily before the bar, and raising his glass, "to become
sanctimonious and good," and drained his glass. The
crowd roared.
"Where is he?" called the German loudly, as he drew his
team to a stop before the hotel. Baptiste got out, went
in and called to the Reverend. The other came forward
quickly, carrying his bags and other accessories.
"Ah-ha!" roared the German from the buggy, sociably,
"So there you are!"
"Why—Jean—the man is—drunk, is he not?" whispered
the Elder.
"But he's alright—gets that way when he comes to
town, but is perfectly safe withal." The Reverend stood
for a moment, regarding the other dubiously.
"Come on, brother, and meet me!" called the German
again in a voice sufficiently loud almost to awaken the dead.
"But, Jean," said the Reverend, lowly but apprehensively,
"I don't know whether I want to ride with a
drunken man or not."
Now it happened that the German's ears were very
keen, and he overheard the Elder's remark, so without
ceremony, and while the Reverend hesitated on the pave[Pg 232]ment,
the German who did not like to be referred to as
drunk, roared:
"Ah-ha! Naw, naw, naw! You don't have to ride with
me! Naw, naw, naw!" And turning his horses about,
he went back to the saloon where his voice rang forth a
minute later in a raucous tune as he unloaded another
schooner.
The Reverend beat a hasty retreat back into the hotel,
while Baptiste called after him:
"I'll send Orlean for you in the morning," and went to
look up his neighbor who had made himself so conspicuous.
"Well, now, if this doesn't beat all," cried the Reverend
when he had kissed his daughter the following morning and
they were spinning along the road on the way to the farm.
"I would never have believed three months ago had some
one said you could and would be driving these mules!"
"Oh, I have driven them fifty miles in a day—John!"
she called suddenly to the off mule who was given to mischievous
tricks.
"Well, well," commented the Reverend, "but it certainly
beats all."
She was cheered and pleased to demonstrate what she
had learned. They sailed along the country side in the
autumn air, and talked of home, Ethel, her mother, Glavis
and Jean. They came presently to Baptiste's homestead
and viewed with great delight the admirable tract of land
that stretched before them. She talked on cheerfully and
told her father all that had passed, of how happy they
were, but said nothing about her prospects of becoming a
mother. When they had passed her husband's homestead
and were nearing a corner where they must turn to reach[Pg 233]
the house in which they were living, they passed an automobile
carrying two men. They bowed lightly and the
men returned it. When they had gotten out of hearing distance,
one of the men whispered to the other:
"That's her!"
'Gene Crook thereupon turned and looked after the retreating
figure of the girl in the buggy whose place he had
determined to secure through subtle methods. But not even
'Gene Crook himself conceived of the unusual circumstances
that came to pass and brought him on a visit to these selfsame
people, later.[Pg 234]
CHAPTER XII
REVEREND MCCARTHY DECIDES TO SET BAPTISTE
RIGHT, BUT—
"NOW the first thing, daughter," said the Reverend,
"when Jean comes and you have the time,
is to go up and see your claim." Orlean swallowed,
and started to tell him that it was contested; but
on second thought, decided to leave the task to her husband,
and said instead:
"I have a fine claim, papa. Jean says it is the best piece
of land we have."
"Now isn't that fine!"
"It is," Orlean said, thinking of her husband.
"Your husband has a plenty, my dear, and we have been
surprised that you have not been sending money to Chicago
to have us buy something for you."
Orlean swallowed again and started to speak; to say that
while her husband was a heavy land holder, the crops had
not been the best the year before and were not as good this
year as he had hoped for. Then she thought Jean could
explain this better, also, instead she said:
"I—I haven't wanted for anything, papa."
"No, perhaps not. But you know papa always thinks of
his baby; always buys her little things and so on, you know."
He paused, regarded her and the dress she wore. He recognized
it as one that she had bought just before she had
gotten married—forgetting that Jean Baptiste had paid
for it—and said:[Pg 235]
"And you have on the same dress you wore away from
Chicago! Indeed, and that is a spring dress! Why do you
not wear some of your summer dresses? Some you have
bought since you have been married?"
"I haven't bought—my husband hasn't—I haven't
needed any more clothes, really," she argued falteringly.
He saw that she was keeping something back, and pursued:
"Why, dear, what do you mean! You don't mean to
say that Jean hasn't bought you any dresses since he married
you, and him owning so much land!"
"But I haven't needed any, papa—I have not asked him
for any." He looked at her keenly. He saw that she was
shielding the man she married, but with this he had no
patience.
"Now, now, my dear. Jean ought not to treat my girl
like that. He ought to buy you lots of things, and pretty
things. I'm rather inclined to think he is miserly—have
rather felt he was all the time." He paused briefly, posed in
the way he did when preaching, and then went on. "Yes,
you are sacrificing a great deal by coming away out here
in a new country and living with him. Yes, yes, my dear.
You see you are deprived of many conveniences; conveniences
that you have been accustomed to." He looked
around the little house; at its floor with only rugs, and its
simple furniture. "Just compare this to the home you
came out of. The good home. Yes, yes. I'm afraid that—that
the rough life your husband has been living rather
makes him forget the conventions my daughter has been accustomed
to. Yes, I think so. I'm afraid I'll have to kind
of—a—bring such to his attention that he might see his
duty. Yes, my dear—"[Pg 236]
"But, papa! I—I—think you had—better not. You
see—" and she caught his arm and was thoughtful, looking
downward in the meantime. She loved Jean Baptiste,
but she was not a strong willed person by nature, training
or disposition. She had inherited her mother's timidness.
At heart she meant well to the man she married,
but she had always been obedient to her father; had never
sauced him and had never crossed him, which was his boast.
Perhaps it was because of these things and that he knew it,
that his nature asserted itself.
"I'm afraid you, like any newly married wife, are inclined
to forget these things, rather accept your husband's
excuse. Now your husband has a plenty, and can well afford
to give to you. And, besides, you—he should not
forget the sacrifices you are making for him. That is what
he should see. Yes, yes. Now take Ethel," he suddenly
turned to her. "Why, Glavis only makes thirteen dollars
a week, and—why, Ethel makes him do just what she
wants him to. Buys her a dress any time she wants it; a
hat, a pair of shoes—and whatever she wishes. That's
Ethel," he ended, forgetting to add that Glavis also bought
and paid for the food Mrs. McCarthy ate, or that he, himself
only brought—and never bought things to eat only
when he came into Chicago, three or five times a year—and
sent a few things infrequently. But Orlean had taken
a little courage. It was rather unusual, and she was surprised
at herself. She was surprised that she dared even
argue—just a little—with her father. He had always
been accepted as infallible without question. To get along
with him—have peace, her mother and she had always followed
the rule of letting everything be his way, and be
content with their own private opinion without expression
as to conclusions. Moreover, whether he was right or[Pg 237]
wrong, abused or accused, the rule was to praise and flatter
him notwithstanding. And at such times they could depend
on him to do much for them. But she found her voice.
Jean Baptiste was her husband, and she was not ungrateful.
He gave her real love and husbandry, and it was perhaps
her woman's nature to speak in defense of her mate.
So she said:
"But Jean is not like Glavis, papa. They are two different
men entirely."
"Well, yes, my dear," he said slowly, his dark face taking
on a peculiar—and not very pleasant expression, "I'm
afraid I will have to agree with you. Yes. They are different.
Glavis is a fine boy, though. Don't own a thousand
acres of land, but certainly takes care of home like a man.
No, no. I never have to worry about anything. Just come
home every few months to see that everything is all right—and
find it so. Yes, that is Glavis. While Jean," and
his mind went quickly back to an incident that had happened
twenty-one years before, "is rather set in his ways.
Yes, very much so, I fear. That is one of his failings.
Some people would call it hard headed, but I should not
quite call it that. No. Then, again," he paused a moment,
looked at the floor and looked up. "He's crazy to get rich.
You see, dear—of course you don't know that. Not old
enough. That's where your father has the advantage over
you—and Jean also. He's older. It's bad when a man
is ambitious to get rich, for he is liable to work himself
and his wife to death. Jean's liable to do that with you.
Not like your old father, you know."
"Here he comes now," she cried excitedly, going quickly
to the kitchen and making a fire and starting the meal.
Her father looked after her. He looked out the window to
where his son-in-law was unhitching his horses. He looked[Pg 238]
back to where his daughter was working nervously over the
stove, and muttered to himself. "Has her trained to run
like something frightened at his approach. That's the same
spirit I tried to conquer twenty-one years ago and it is still
in him. M-m. I'll have to look after that disposition."
And with that he went outside to where his daughter's
husband worked.
"Hello, Reverend," called Jean cheerfully. The "Reverend"
darkened and glowered unseen. He did not like
that term of address. Glavis called him "father." That
was better. But he returned apparently as cheerful:
"Hello, my boy. So you are home to dinner?"
"Yes. Guess it's ready. She is very prompt about having
my meals on time. Yes. Orlean is a good girl, and appreciates
that I believe in always being on time," he rattled
off.
"And how are the crops?"
"Not so good, not so good, I regret to say," said Jean
moodily. "No; to be truthful, it is the poorest crop I have
ever raised. Yes," he mused as if to himself. "And I
need a good crop this year worse than I have ever needed
one. Yes, I sure do.
"Indeed so. Got lots of expense. Borrowed ten thousand
dollars to buy that land out there in Tripp County,
and have none of it producing anything. And on top of
that a guy comes along and slaps a contest on Orlean's
place, and so I have that on my hands in addition to all the
other burdens. So, believe me, it keeps me hopping."
"A contest on Orlean's place? What does that mean?"
"Does that mean! But of course you couldn't understand,"
whereat, Baptiste tried to explain to him what it
meant.
"So you see you find us with our troubles." The Rev[Pg 239]erend
made no reply to this. Indeed, he had never been able
to reply to Jean Baptiste. In the first place, the man was
ever too hurried; moreover, he understood so little regarding
practical business matters until their relations had never
been congenial. When Jean had watered and fed his teams
he came back to where the Elder stood and said:
"Well, Judge, we'll go in to dinner." Now the Reverend
was almost upset. Such flat expressions! Such a little
regard for his caste. Horrid! He started to speak to
him regarding his lack of manners, but that one had his
face in the tub where the horses had drank, washing himself
eagerly. When he was through, he drew water from
the well, and pouring it into a wash basin rinsed himself,
and called for the towel. No sooner had he done so
than out of the house came Orlean with the goods.
"Wash up," cried Baptiste, pointing to the horse tub.
"Jean!" called his wife remonstratingly. "You forget
yourself. Asking papa to wash where the horses have
drank! You must be more thoughtful!"
Baptiste laughed. "Beg pardon, Colonel. You see this
open life has made me—er—rather informal. But you'll
get used to and like it with time. Wash up and let's eat!"
"He's wild, just wild!" muttered the Reverend, as he
followed them into the house.[Pg 240]
CHAPTER XIII
THE WOLF
"NOW, ELDER," said Baptiste, getting up from the
table without going through the usual formalities
of resting a few minutes after the meal. "I've
bought a building in town that I'm going to move onto
Orlean's place. I'm preparing to jack it up and load it, so
if you would like to come along, very well, we'll be glad to
have you. But it's rather a rough, hard task, I'll admit."
"Now, now, son," started the Reverend, holding back
his exasperation with difficulty. His son-in-law had never
addressed him more than once by the same name. It was
either Colonel, Judge, Reverend, Elder, or some other
burlesque title in the sense used. He wanted to tell him
that he should call him father, but before he had a chance
to do so, that worthy had bounced out of the room and was
heard from the barn. The Reverend looked after him with
a glare.
"Dreadful!" he exclaimed when the other was out of
hearing distance.
"What, papa?" inquired his daughter, regarding him
questioningly. She had become accustomed to Jean's ways
and did not understand her father's exclamation.
"Why, the man! Your husband!"
"Jean?"
"Such rough ways!"[Pg 241]
"Oh," she exclaimed. "That's his way. He has always
lived alone, you know. And is so ambitious. Is
really compelled to hurry a little because he has so much
to do."
"Well, I never saw the like. I'm afraid he and Ethel
would never get along very well. No, he—is rather unusual."
"Oh, father. You must pay no attention to that! Jean
is a fine fellow, a likeable man, and is loved by every one
who knows him," she argued, trying to discourage her
father's mood to complain. She had never been able to
bring her father and husband very close. Perhaps it was
because of their being so far apart in all that made them;
but she was aware that Jean had never flattered her father,
and that was very grave! No relation had ever risked
that. Her father was accustomed to being flattered by
everybody who was an intimate of the family, and Jean
Baptiste had come into the family, married her, and apparently
forgot to tell the Reverend that he was a great
man. Moreover, from what she knew of her husband,
he was not likely to do so. Her mother had tried to have
Baptiste see it, she recalled, her little mother of whom
Baptiste was very fond of. As has been stated it was generally
known that her father was not very kind and patient,
with her mother, and never had been.
It was, moreover, no secret that her father was unusually
friendly with Mrs. Pruitt. But she was not supposed to
let on that she was aware of such. If she was—and she
certainly was—she did not mention the fact. Jean Baptiste
knew of the Reverend's subtle practices, and in his
mind condemned rather than admired him therefor. He
knew that the Elder expected to be praised in spite of all
these things. Now what would it all come to?[Pg 242]
This thought was passing through Orlean's mind when
she heard her father again:
"Now, he said something about a contest." She caught
her breath quickly, swallowed, changed color, and then
managed, hardly above a whisper, to say:
"Oh!"
"I don't understand. And he never takes the time to explain
anything. Seems to take for granted that everybody
should know, and tries to know it all himself, and it makes
it very awkward," he said complainingly.
"It's all my fault, papa," Orlean admitted falteringly.
"Your fault!" the other exclaimed, not understanding.
"Yes," she breathed with eyes downcast.
"And what do you mean? How can it be your fault
when you have sacrificed the nice home in Chicago for this
wilderness?"
"But, papa," she faltered. "You have never been West
before. You—you don't understand!"
"Don't understand!" cried the Reverend, anger and impatience
evident. "What is there to understand about this
wilderness?"
"Oh, papa," she cried, now beseechingly. "You—"
she halted and swallowed what she had started to say.
And what she had started to say was, that if he kept on like
he had started, he would make it very difficult for her to
be loyal to her husband and obedient to him as she had
always been; as she was trying to be. Perhaps it was becoming
difficult for her already. Subservience to her
father, who insisted upon it, and obedience and loyalty to
her husband who had a right and naturally expected it.
It was difficult, and she was a weak willed person. Already
her courage was failing her and she was beginning to sigh.[Pg 243]
"It is very hard on my daughter, I fear," said the Elder,
his face now full of emotion and self pity. "I worked all
my life to raise my two darlings, and it grieves me to see
one of them being ground down by a man."
"Oh, father, my husband is not cruel to me. He has
never said an unkind word. He is just as good to me as a
man can be—and I love him." This would have been
sufficient to have satisfied and pacified any man, even one
so unscrupulous. But it happens that in our story we have
met one who is considerably different from the ordinary
man. The substance of N. Justine McCarthy's vanity had
never been fully estimated—not even by himself. Orlean
did not recall then, that since she had been married she had
not written her father and repeated what a great man he
was. She had, on the other hand, written and told him
what a great man her husband was. In her simplicity, she
felt it was expected of her to tell that one or the other
was great. But here she had encountered discouragement.
Her husband apparently was considerably opposed to flattery.
And she had difficulty to have him see that it was an
evidence of faith on her part. But her husband had not
seen it that way. He had dismissed it as a waste of time
and had gradually used his influence with her to other ends;
to the road they were following; the road to ultimate success,
which could only be achieved by grim, practical
methods. And that was one of his words, practical. But
her father was speaking again.
"Now I wish you would explain how you could be at
fault for this contest upon your place, and why your husband
accuses you of such?"
"But Jean does not accuse me of being at fault, father,"
she defended weakly. "I accuse myself. And if you will
be just a little patient," she begged almost in tears, "I'll[Pg 244]
explain." He frowned in his usual way, while she sighed
unheard, and then fell to the task before her.
"It is like this," she began with an effort at self control.
"Jean has not wished to ask me to stay on my claim alone as
his sister and grandmother have done, you see."
"Oh, so he has them living out there alone like cattle,
helping him to get rich!"
"They do not live like cattle, father," she defended in the
patient manner she had been trained to. "They have a
horse and buggy that he has furnished them, and get all
their needs at the stores which is charged to him. They
have good neighbors, awfully nice white people—women,
too, who live alone on their claims as his sister and grandmother
are doing."
"But they are not like you, daughter. Those are all
rough people. You cannot live like them. You have been
accustomed to something."
She sighed unheard again and did not try to explain to
his Majesty that most of the people—women included—were
in a majority from the best homes in the East, as
well as families; that many had wealth where she had
none; and that Jean's sister had been graduated from high
school and was very intelligent. It was difficult, and she
knew it, to explain anything to her father; but she would
endeavor to tell him of the contest.
"Well, father, since I was not on my place as I should
have been, a man contested it, and now we must fight it out,
Jean says, so that is it."
"M-m-m," sighed that one. "He's going to kill you out
here to make him rich. And then when you are dead
and—"
"Please, don't, father," she almost screamed. She knew
he was going to say: "and in your grave, he will marry[Pg 245]
another woman and bring her in to enjoy what you have
died for." But she could not quite listen to that. It was
not fair. It was not fair to her and it was not fair to
Jean. She was surprised at the way she felt. She forgot
also, and for his benefit, that they had never been
very happy at home when he was in Chicago. They had
only pretended to be. It had been because of him being
away all the time and their relation having been confined
to letters that they had been contented. But Orlean had
made herself believe for this occasion that when he came
to visit, they were going to have a really pleasant time.
And now so soon she was simply worn out. She had become
more sensitive of her tasks in life than it had occurred
to her she could ever be. For the first time she was
getting the idea that, after all they were burdensome.
From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
"HE'S GOING TO KILL YOU OUT HERE TO MAKE HIM RICH,
AND THEN WHEN YOU ARE DEAD AND"—"PLEASE DON'T,
FATHER!" SHE ALMOST SCREAMED. SHE KNEW HE WAS
GOING TO SAY: "IN YOUR GRAVE, HE WILL MARRY ANOTHER
WOMAN TO ENJOY WHAT YOU HAVE DIED FOR,"
BUT SHE COULD NOT QUITE LISTEN TO THAT.
"Wouldn't you like to go to town, papa?" she cried,
trying to be jolly. "Jean is ready now, and please come
along and see the nice little house he has bought and is going
to move on my claim." She was so cheerful, so anxious
to have him enjoy his visit that his vanity for once took a
back seat, and a few minutes later they were driving into
Gregory.
As they drove along Baptiste told of what he was doing;
discussing at length the West and what was being done
toward its development. When they arrived in the town
they approached the small but well made little building
that he had purchased for $300, and went inside.
"Awfully small, my boy," said the Reverend, as they
looked around.
"Of course," admitted Baptiste. "But it is not practical
to invest in big houses in the beginning, you know. We
must first build a good big barn, and that, I cannot even
as yet afford."[Pg 246]
"Places his horses before his wife, of course," muttered
the Reverend, but obligingly unheard.
"And you say you intend to move it. Where? Not
away down on that farm southeast?" he said, standing outside
and looking up at the building.
"Oh, no," Baptiste returned shortly. "Onto Orlean's
place, west of here."
"Oh. How far is that?"
"Not so far. About fifty miles."
"Good lord!" And the Reverend could say no more.[Pg 247]
CHAPTER XIV
THE CONTEST
MOVING a building fifty miles across even a prairie
is not an easy task, and before Jean Baptiste
reached his wife's homestead with the building he
had purchased, he had suffered much grief. And with the
Reverend along, ever ready to keep their minds alive to
the fact, it was made no easier. But because he was so
chronic, he was left to grumble while his son-in-law labored
almost to distraction into getting the building to the
place before he would be compelled to turn back and face
the contest which was scheduled for an early hearing.
They succeeded in getting it within twenty miles of the
claim when they were compelled to abandon the task for
the time and return to Gregory to fight the contest.
This developed at times into a rather heated argument,
and a prolonged one that tried the patience of all, dragging
over a period of three days. It became obvious during the
proceedings that the contestant and his cohorts desired as
much as possible to keep away from Baptiste and on the other
hand to concentrate their cross-fire upon his wife. But, expecting
this, they found him on his guard, countering them
at every angle, and, assisted by an able land attorney, he
was successful in upsetting in a large way, their many,
subtle and well laid plans, causing them to fail in making
the showing they had expected to.
To begin with their corroborating witness, James J.
Spaight, developed before the close to more definitely cor[Pg 248]roborate
for the defense. He had come to the trial with
false testimony prepared, and had, under a fusillade of
cross-examinations, broken down and impaired and weakened
the prosecution. In all such cases the one contesting
is placed at a moral disadvantage, and the fact that Crook
was a banker, fully able to have purchased relinquishment
as others over all the county had done, was ever in the witness'
mind, and did not help his case. Baptiste's wife
proved much stronger after the first day. This was due
largely to the fact that her father had been present on the
first day, and had kept her so much alive to what she was
sacrificing in struggling to assist her husband in his ambition
to be rich, until she was perceptibly weak. The time
limit on his ticket having about expired he had been compelled
to return to Chicago the morning of the second day
of the trial.
It was the consensus of opinion that she would retain
her claim, though with so many cases to consider, it was obvious
that it would take many months, and possibly a year
to get a hearing—that is, before the officers of the local
land offices could settle the case.
This done, Jean Baptiste returned and completed moving
the house on the claim, fixed it up, dug a well, fenced in a
small pasture and returned to gather his corn which
amounted to about half a crop.
So time passed and the holidays approached and another
phase in their relations took shape when the Reverend insisted
that they come to Chicago to spend the holidays. It
was very annoying. Orlean was expecting to become a
mother in the early spring, and because they had never informed
him of the fact, it brought considerable embarrassment
to all.
It was difficult to explain to his Majesty that they would[Pg 249]
not come into the city for the holidays. The Elder had insisted
that he would send them tickets, and because Jean
Baptiste had scoffed at the idea, trouble was brewing as a
result. It was then he lost his patience.
"Can your father not understand, Orlean," he complained,
with a deep frown, "that I cannot accept his charity?
Because I have made up my mind not to go to Chicago,
does not mean that I am not able to purchase our transportations
there and back. It's the expense of the trip and
what goes with it that has caused me to decide to dispense
with it. But it's almost useless to try to reason anything
with him, and I'll not waste the effort." Whereupon he
would say no more.
He was having troubles of his own. He owed ten thousand
dollars, and upon this, interest accrued every few
months, and the rate was high. Besides, he had other pressing
bills, and the grain he had raised was bringing very low
prices. Therefore, he was in no mood to dally with a poverty
poor preacher whose offer was more to show himself
off and place Baptiste in a compromising position, than
his desire for them to be home. He made no effort to
appreciate the sentiments or to understand Jean Baptiste.
And the fact that his daughter loved her husband and was
willing to help him seemed to be lost sight of by N. Justine
McCarthy. Being accustomed to having people flatter him
as a rule, was so engraved in his shallow nature, that he
was unable to see matters from a liberal point of view.
Their relations reached a climax when Orlean was with
his sister on the claim a few days before the Yuletide.
Baptiste received a letter addressed to her from the Elder.
Thinking that, since she was on the claim, it might be something
urgent, he opened it. It was urgent. It contained a
money order covering the price of a ticket to Chicago with[Pg 250]
a trite note that he expected her soon, and that he, her husband,
could come on later.
We shall not attempt to describe the anger that came over
Jean Baptiste then. And, as is most likely the case when
a man is angry, he does the thing he most likely would not
do when his feelings are under control. With hands that
trembled with anger, he turned the note over, wrote in a few
words that he had defined his position with regards to coming
to Chicago; that he would be obliged if the other
would mind his own business; that he had married his wife
and was trying to be a husband in every way to her; but
that he was running his house, and was therefore returning
the money therewith.
It served as a declaration of the war between the two that
had been impending for months. We are too well acquainted
with their regard for each other, so upon this we
will not dwell; but upon receipt of Baptiste's letter, the
Reverend sang his anger in a letter that fairly scorched the
envelope in which it was enclosed. He threatened to turn
the world over, and set it right again if the other did not do
thus and so. To the threats, Baptiste made no reply. In
a measure he was relieved; he had at last made his position
clear to the other, and his wife, of course, was with
him in the controversy. In view therefore, of the manner
in which she had been trained, this made matters rather
awkward. The yield of crops had not been one half the
average, and it took almost all he had made to pay the interest,
taxes and expenses. Baptiste was not cheerful;
but Orlean was to become a mother, and he was a practical
man. So together they passed a happy Xmas after all.
In fact the only cloud upon their horizon of happiness was
her father.
Evidently he voiced what he had done to near friends,[Pg 251]
and they had not endorsed his action. Orlean was the wife
of Jean Baptiste and if he expected her to stay with him,
it was their affair, even if the Reverend had only intended
to help. Attempting to force charity on others is not always
sensible, so the Elder wrote later that it was "up to
them," and if they had agreed to stay in the West Xmas,
it was alright with him.
This was very considerate of him—apparently, after all
the noise he had made, and Orlean was much relieved, and
loved her father still. Her husband was also relieved, and
forgot the matter for the time. But did the Reverend?
Well, that was not his nature. He never forgot things
he should forget. Oh, no! He had not been a hypocrite
forty years for nothing! In the meantime, the Xmas
passed as it has for more than nineteen hundred years,
winter set in, and the spring was approaching when the
catastrophe occurred.[Pg 252]
CHAPTER XV
COMPROMISED
"PLEASE don't go, Jean," she begged. "I don't
want you to go. Stay with me."
"Now, Orlean," he said gently. "I have such
a lot of work to do. I will go, tear down some of the old
buildings on the homestead and be back before many days."
She cried for a time while he held her in his arms. Crying
was nothing new with her. As the time for her delivery
drew near, she was given to such spells. He was
patient. After a few moments she dried her eyes and said:
"Well, dear, you can go. But hurry back. I want you
to be home then, you understand."
"Of course I want to be home then, wifey, and sure
want it to be a boy."
"It will be a boy, Jean," she said with a strange confidence.
"I believe it. I am sure it will."
"I shall love you always then, my wife. All our cares
and burdens will vanish into the air, and we shall be as
happy as the angels."
"Oh, Jean, you can make life seem so light."
"Life should be made to appear light, sweetheart," he
said, caressing her. "Grandmother will be here with you
and if you need for anything, draw a check and have the
neighbors below bring it out. It is only three miles over
the hill to Carter, you understand."
"By the way, dear," she said suddenly, going into the
bedroom, and returning presently with a letter. "This is[Pg 253]
from mama. She writes that they have never told papa
yet, and hopes that nothing serious will happen for then
she would never—we would never be forgiven by him."
"Dear Little Mother Mary," he said fondly. "I hope
nothing will happen, Orlean, for our sakes." And then he
paused. He had started to say that he was not worried
about her father's forgiveness. He had lost what little
patience he had ever had with that one, and did not propose
to be annoyed with his love, the love that he had to be
continually making excuses and apologies to entertain. But
before he had spoken he thought better of it, and decided
to say nothing about it. His wife had been trained to regard
her father as a king, and because he had succeeded in
letting her see that after all he was just a Negro preacher
with the most that went with Negro preachers in him, she
had at last ceased to bore him with telling him how great
her father was.
They were at her claim, and he was about to depart for
his original homestead to clean up work preparatory to
moving onto her claim permanently as he had intended to do.
Already his wagons with horses hitched thereto stood near,
and he was only lingering for a few parting words with
her.
"I am kind of sorry we placed mother in this position,"
he heard her say as if talking more to herself than he.
"In what position, Orlean?"
"In keeping this a secret."
"From your father, you mean?" said he, frowning.
"Yes."
"Well, Orlean, I have tried to be a husband to you."
"And you have been, Jean."
"Then it is our business if I chose to keep such a
secret."[Pg 254]
"Yes, Jean," she said, lowering her eyes and thinking.
"But the one burden of our married life has been your
father. I never anticipated that his love would be such a
burden. Ever since we have been married we have had
to waste our substance on fear over what he will think.
He seems to lose sight of a husband's sentiment or right.
I can fancy him in my position with regard to your mother
before they had been married long. My God, if any father
or mother would have ventured any suggestion as to how
they should live or what they should do I can see him!"
His wife laughed.
"Have I spoken rightly?"
"Yes," she agreed and was momentarily amused.
"Yes. But he just makes our life a burden with his
kind of love. Now take this matter for instance. Why
should we be keeping this a secret from him—rather, why
should I? It's just simply because I have too much other
cares to be annoyed with a whole lot of to-do on his part.
If he knew you were going to become a mother, he would
just make our life unbearable with his insistences and love.
Your mother knows it, and Ethel. Ethel who would have
had you dispose of that innocent, knows it and keeps it
from him, with fear all the while of what will come of it,
should anything happen.
"Now, I'll say this much. I don't propose to make any
excuses to him about anything I do or have you do
hereafter. I'm going to be husband and master, and have
nothing to do with what he does with regard to your mother.
As long as I am good and kind to you, and don't neglect you,
then I have a right, and positively will not be annoyed even
by your father!"
"Please hush, Jean," she begged, her arms about him.
But he was aroused. He had made himself forget as he[Pg 255]
should have forgotten the punishment he had been given
twenty-two years before. But he did not like the man's
conduct. Everywhere and with everybody back in Illinois
who knew N. Justine McCarthy, he was regarded as an
acknowledged rascal.
"Just look how he treats your mother!" She pulled
at him and tried to still his voice; but speak he would. "If
I was ever guilty of treating you as your father has treated
your mother ever since he married her, I hope the Christ
will sink my soul into the bottom-most pit of hell!"
"Jean, my God, please hush!"
"But I speak the truth and you know it. Would you like
to look forward and feel that you had to go through all
your life what your mother has endured?"
"Oh, no, no, no! But you must hush, Jean, in heaven's
name, hush." He did then. The storm that had come over
him had spent its force and he kissed her, turned then,
went to where his teams stood, got into the front wagon,
and looking back, drove upon his way.
"Poor Jean," murmured Orlean. "Father and he will
never be friends and it makes it so hard for me." She continued
to stand where he left her, looking after him until
he had disappeared over the hills to the east.
Arriving at Gregory late that afternoon, Jean found a
Lyceum concert, the number consisting of Negroes, one of
whom, a girl, he had known some years before, for she had
lived next door to where he then roomed.
He attended and afterward renewed their acquaintance.
It so happened that a lumber company was going out of
business in the next town east from Gregory, and some
coal sheds there were for sale. Desiring something of the
kind to use as a granary on his wife's claim, Baptiste
journeyed hither the following day to look the same over.[Pg 256]
Now it also happened that the same concerters were billed
for the same town for an evening performance of that day.
The day after being Sunday, and the company laying over
until Monday, the days were passed together, with Baptiste
scheduled to go out to his old place Sunday night.
It was a cheer to revive old acquaintances; to talk of
Chicago and olden days with those who still lived there.
It was a cheer to all, but Jean Baptiste had cause to regret
it as we shall later see. In the meantime, he went to his
old place as per schedule, returning to the little town the
following morning, where he purchased a hundred foot
shed and prepared to move it to his wife's claim forthwith.
A few miles only had been traversed before an intermittent
thaw set in, the soft uncertain surface of the earth
making it hazardous to pull a heavy load over. So when
he reached his old place, he decided to leave it there, tear
down his old granary and haul the lumber instead.
While in this act, his sister, who had been on a visit to
Kansas, returned, and worried with regards to his wife,
alone with his grandma out on the homestead, he hurried her
therewith at once. The next day he was relieved to receive
a letter from Orlean, advising that she was well, but to
come home as soon as possible.
A week had passed and Saturday was upon him again before
he was ready to make a start. Now there often comes
in the springtime in the West, severe winds that may blow
unchecked for days. And one came up just as Jean Baptiste
had set out, and blew a terrific gale. It almost upset his
wagons, and made driving very difficult. This was augmented
further, because the wind was right in his face, and
there was no way to avoid it. However, he finally reached
a town about eleven miles west of Dallas, by the name of
Colome that day. The next morning the wind had gone[Pg 257]
down and the day was beautiful, and he was cheered to
think he could reach home that day, by getting started
early. But bad luck was with Jean Baptiste that day, which
was Sunday, and when he was going down a hill, the wagon
struck a rocky place, bounced, and the right front wheel
rolled out ahead of him. The axle had broken, and his
load went down with a crash.
He went to a house he saw near, secured a wagon, and
there met a man who had known his father, and had lived
and run a newspaper in the same town near where he was
born twenty-six years before. He wasted hours getting his
load transferred to another wagon, and finally got started
again. But not two miles had been covered before the
coupling pole snapped, and his loads almost went down
again. What trick of fate was playing him, he wondered,
and swore viciously. Hours it took before the break was
repaired, and he pulled into Winner, eighteen miles from
home, late that night.
Early morning found him, however, resolutely on the
way. He had covered about half the distance when he met
a man who lived neighbor to him on his wife's claim, who
told him he had tried to get him on the 'phone Saturday,
at Gregory and again at Dallas; that his wife had given
birth to a baby which had come into the world dead, on a
Saturday.
He almost tumbled from the wagon when he heard
this. "Dead!" he repeated. Finally he heard himself
speaking, and in a voice that seemed to come from far
away:
"Ah—well—did my wife have—attention?"
"Oh, yes," said the other. "Your sister, and two doctors.
Yes, she had all the attention necessary. But I'm
sorry for you, old man. It was sure a big, fine kid. She[Pg 258]
couldn't give it birth, so they had to kill it in order to save
her life."
He started to resume his journey East, while Baptiste, now
with unstrung nerves, started to resume his way West. But
before his horses had gone many steps he suddenly drew
them down to a halt, and, turning, heard the other call out:
"I went to Carter and sent her father a telegram as per a
request of hers. I suppose it was all right," and continued
on his way.
"To him!" cried Baptiste inaudibly. "To him!" he
repeated. "To him no doubt, that the baby—which he had
not known was to be, had come and—dead!"
Mechanically he drove upon his way. He did not think,
he did not speak. He said nothing for a long, long time;
but down in his heart Jean Baptiste knew that he was coming
nearer to the parting of the ways.
Back in old Illinois N. Justine McCarthy, upon receiving
the telegram, he realized would in all probability depart at
the earliest convenience for the West. And when he arrived,
would learn still more than the message had told;
would learn that he had been absent when his wife had
given birth to the dead baby. Oh, his child, why could it
not have lived.... Yes, she had had all the attention that
was possible; but such would not be credited by N. Justine
McCarthy. The fact that not every man had found it
possible to be present at the bedside of their wives when
children came, would not be considered by N. Justine McCarthy.
The fact that he himself had been absent when his
own Orlean came into the world would be no counter here.
Jean Baptiste's absence at the critical time would serve as
an excuse for the Reverend to vent his spite, and he would
demand a toll. Jean Baptiste was compromised, and would
have to make a sacrifice....[Pg 259]
CHAPTER XVI
THE EVIL GENIUS
"OH, JEAN," breathed Orlean, from the bed, "where
have you been?"
He had come unto the house then, and the
man in him was much downcast. He was, and had cause to
feel discouraged, sorrowful and sad. So he explained to
the one who lay upon the bed where he had been, and what
had happened to him, and why he had been delayed.
She sighed when he was through and was sorry. For
a long time he was on his knees at the bedside, and when
an hour had passed, she reached and placed her arm about
his neck, and was thankful that he was spared to her, and
they would live on hopeful; but both felt their loss deeply.
"I sent papa a telegram," she said presently. Because he
knew he made no answer. He knew the other would come,
and he was resigned as to what would follow. She sighed
again. Perhaps it was because she knew and also feared
what was to follow.... She had not known her father
her lifetime without knowing what must happen. But she
loved her husband, and now in the weak state the delivery
had left her she was struggling to withstand the subtle attack
her father was sure to make.
Two days passed, and she was progressing toward health
as well as could be expected. Since her marriage her
health on the whole had improved wonderfully. The petty
aches and pains of which she complained formerly had[Pg 260]
gradually disappeared, and the western air had brought
health and vigor to her.
And then on the third day he arrived. Moreover, he
brought Ethel with him. They rode over the hill that led
to the claim in a hired rig, and Baptiste espied them as
soon as they were in sight.
Our pen cannot describe what Jean Baptiste read in the
eyes of N.J. McCarthy when he alighted from the buggy
and went into the house. But suffice to say, that what had
passed twenty-two years before had come back. There was
to be war between them and as it had been then Baptiste was
at a disadvantage, and must necessarily accept the inevitable.
Ethel was crying, and her tears meant more than words.
She had never cried for love. It had always been something
to the contrary. But we must turn to the one in bed—and
helpless!
She saw her father when he stepped from the buggy,
and understood what he carried behind his masklike face.
He did not allow his eyes to rest on Jean Baptiste, and she
noted this. She settled back upon the pillow, and tried
to compose herself for the event that was to be. Her husband
was compromised, and could not defend himself....
Therefore it fell upon her and from the sick bed to defend
him.
He was inside the house now, and came toward her, and
she was frightened when he was near and saw his face and
what it held. Hatred within was there and she shuddered
audibly. She closed her eyes to shut it out. Oh, the
agony that came over her. She opened her eyes when his
lips touched hers, and then began the struggle that was
to be hers.
"Papa," she whispered, and in her voice there was a great
appeal. "Don't blame Jean. Jean has burdens, he has re[Pg 261]sponsibilities—he's
all tied up! He's good to me, he loves
me, he gives me all he has." But before she had finished,
she knew that her appeal had fallen upon deaf ears. Her
father had come—and he had brought a purpose to be fulfilled.
He caressed her; he said many foolish things, and she
pretended to believe him; she made as if his coming had
meant the saving of her life; but she knew behind all he
pretended was the evil, the evil that was his nature, and
the fear that filled her breast made her weaker; made her
sick.
The doctor had said that she would be able to leave the
bed in ten days, probably a week; but now with grim realization
of what was before her she became weak, weaker,
weakest. And all the time she saw that it was being
charged to Jean Baptiste, and to his neglect.
We should perhaps try to make clear at this point in this
story that Jean Baptiste could have settled matters in a
very simple manner.... True, the manner in which he
could have settled it, would be the manner in which wars
could be avoided—by sacrificing principle. He could have
gone to his Majesty and played a traitor to his nature by
pretending to believe the Elder had been right and justified
in everything; whereas, he, Jean Baptiste, had been as duly
wrong. He could have acted in such a manner as to have
his Majesty feel that he was a great man, that he had been
honored by even knowing him, much less in being privileged
to marry his daughter. This, in view of the fact that having
been absent from her bedside at that crucial time, he was
compromised, would have satisfied the Elder, and Baptiste
would not have been compelled to forego all that later came
to pass in their relations. But Jean Baptiste had a principle,
and was not a liar, nor a coward, nor a thief. And, al[Pg 262]though,
he had been so unfortunate as not to have been by
the bedside of his wife during that hour, he could have sentimentally
appeased his father-in-law, but Jean Baptiste had
not nor will he ever in the development of this story, sink
so low. Of what was to come—and the most is—in this
story, Jean Baptiste at no time sacrificed his manhood for
any cause.
N. Justine McCarthy, and this is true of too many of
his race and to this cause may be attributed many of their
failures, was not a reader. He never read anything but the
newspapers briefly and the Bible a little. He was, therefore,
not an informed man. As a result he took little interest
in, and appreciated less, what the world is thinking
and doing. He had never understood because he had not
tried, what the people around where Jean Baptiste had come
were doing for posterity. Yet he claimed very loudly to be
an apostle of the race—to be willing—and was—sacrificing
his very soul for the cause of Ethiopia. He took
great pride in telling and retelling how he had sacrificed for
his family—wife included. As he was heard by others,
he had no faults; could do no wrong, and would surely
reach heaven in the end!
So while they lingered at the bedside of Orlean, he and
Ethel, as a pastime argued with each other, and involved
everybody but themselves with wrongs. For instance, the
Reverend, affecting much piety, would in discussing his
wife, whom he ever did in terms regarding her faults, find
occasion to remark in a burst of self pity—and of self pity
he had an abundant supply:
"After all I have done for that woman; after all I have
sacrificed for her; after all the patience I have endured while
she has held me down—kept me from being what I would
have been and should, she is ever bursting out with:[Pg 263]
'You're the meanest man in the world! You're the meanest
man in the world!'" Whereupon he would affect a look of
deep self pity and eternal mortification.
Unless we lengthen the story unnecessarily, we would not
have the space to relate all he said in reference to his son-in-law
in subtle ways during these days. But Jean Baptiste
was too busy building a barn and other buildings to listen to
these compliments the Elder was bestowing upon his wife
with regard to him. "Yes, my dear," he said time and
again, "If Jean was like your father, you would not be
here now with your child lying dead in the grave. No,
no. You would be in the best hospital in Chicago, with
nurses and attendants all about you and your darling baby
at your side," and, so saying, he would affect another sigh of
self pity.
At first she had struggled to protest, but after a few days
she gave up entirely and became resigned to the inevitable.
She received an occasional diversion, however, when the
Elder and Ethel entered into a controversy. Unlike Orlean,
Ethel was not afraid of her father, especially when he had
something to say about Glavis. The truth was, that while he
so pretended, N.J. McCarthy had no more love for Glavis
than he had for Baptiste; but he could tolerate Glavis because
Glavis endeavored to satisfy his vanity. Baptiste, on
the other hand, while he now accepted all his father-in-law
chose to pour upon him in the way of rebuke for what he had
done and should not have, and what he had not done and
should have, he never told the Elder that he was a great
man.
The first few days the Elder had held the usual prayer;
but after some days he dispensed with this, and turned all his
energy to rebuking Jean Baptiste, when he was out of sight.
"Now, don't you talk about Glavis," cried Ethel one day[Pg 264]
when his Majesty had tired of abusing Baptiste and sought
a diversion by remarking that Glavis had come from a
stumpy farm in the woodlands of Tennessee. "No, you
don't! Glavis is my husband and you can't abuse him to his
back like you are doing Baptiste!"
"Just listen how she treats her father, Orlean," cried the
Elder, overcome with self pity. Orlean then rebuked Ethel
and chided her father. But the part which escaped her,
was that Ethel defended her mate, while Orlean suffered to
have hers rebuked at will. The greatest reason why Ethel
and her father could not agree, as was well known, was that
they were too much alike.
When Jean Baptiste had completed his barn, and his wife
was out of danger, according to the doctor—but would
never be according to the Elder—who insisted that the only
cure would be for her to return to Chicago with them,—he
was ready to go to work. His wife wanted to go to
Chicago, for what the Reverend had done to her in the
days he had sat by her and professed his great love, would
have made her wish to go anywhere to appease him for
even a day.
"Now, after the expense we have been to," said Baptiste,
"I hardly know whether I can let you go to Chicago or
not."
The Elder sighed, and said to her low enough for her
husband's ears not to hear: "Just listen to that. After all
I have done! Then I will have to pay your way to Chicago
where I shall endeavor to save your life, your dear life
which this man is trying to grind out of you to get rich."
"But I'll think it over," said Baptiste. "We have lots of
work this summer, and will try to get caught up," and the
next moment he was gone.
"Did you hear that, daughter?" said the Reverend, now[Pg 265]
aloud, when the other's back was turned. "Oh, it's awful,
the man you have married! Just crazy, crazy to get rich!
And puts you after his work; after his horses; after his
everything! And after all your poor old father has done
for you," whereupon he let escape another sigh, and fell into
tears of self pity.
Orlean stroked his head and swallowed what she would
have offered in defense of the man she had married. It
was useless to offer defense, he had broken this down long
since.
"Yes, he is wanting to kill, to kill my poor daughter after
all she has sacrificed," he sobbed, "and when you are dead
and in your grave like your baby is out in this wild
country," his voice was breaking now with sobs, "he will up
and marry another woman to enjoy the fruits of your sacrifice!"
He was lost in his own tears then, and could say
no more.
"Now, dear," she suddenly heard her husband, and looked
up to find that he had returned. He stooped and kissed her
fondly, and then went on: "I am going up to my sister's
homestead to start the men to work with the engine breaking
the land and I must haul them the coal, which I will
get at Colome. Now I will not be back for several days,
but will make up my mind in the meantime as to whether I
can let you go to Chicago or not."
"All right, dear," she said, raising from the bed and
caressing him long and lingeringly. She could not understand
how much she wanted him then, it seemed that she
could hold him so forever. She kissed him again and again,
and as he passed out of the room she looked after him long
and lingeringly, and upon her face was a heavenly smile as he
passed out of sight and disappeared over the hill. As he did
so, the Elder got from his position at the other side of the[Pg 266]
bed, went to the door, and also watched him out sight. As
he turned away, Baptiste's grandmother who had fed many
a preacher back there in old Illinois, the Reverend included,
started. She had seen his face, and what she had seen
therein had frightened her. When he went back into the
room and to the bed where Orlean lay, she dropped by the
table and buried her face in her old arms and sobbed, long
and silently. And a close observer could have heard these
shaken words:
"Poor Jean, poor Jean, poor Orlean, oh, poor Orlean!
You made all the fight you could but you were weak. You
were doomed before you started, for he knew you and knew
you were weak. But would to God that the world could end
today, for it will end tomorrow for you two. Poor Orlean,
poor Jean!"[Pg 267]
CHAPTER XVII
THE COWARD
"HELLO, JEAN," cried a friend of his at Colome
some days later, as he was leading his horses
into the livery barn, after loading the coal he
was hauling to the men who were breaking prairie on his
sister's claim with a steam tractor. "Were those your folks
I seen driving into town a while ago?"
"My folks?"
"Yeh. Three of them. A man and two women. One
of the ladies appears to be sick."
"Oh," he echoed, and before he could or would have answered
in his sudden surprise, the other passed on. It was
some moments before he recovered from the shock the
other's words had given him. He knew without stopping to
think that the ones referred to were the Reverend, Ethel and
his wife. He had written his wife a few days before that
he would be home the following Sunday, and when he would
be caught up in his hauling sufficiently and could spend a
few days there.
"So he moves without my consent or bid," he breathed,
and for a time he was listless from the feeling that overcame
him. He attended to his horses, mechanically, had
supper and went to verify what he had heard.
He had little difficulty in doing so, for the town was small,
but that night, happened to be full of people, and the Reverend
had found some difficulty in securing lodging. The
day had not been a beautiful one by any means. It was in[Pg 268]
early April and the month had borrowed one of the dreary
days of the previous month. Light snow had fallen, which,
along toward evening had turned into a dismal sleet. A bad
day to say the least, to be out, and a sick person of all things!
He went directly to the preacher when he saw him. He
was aroused, and the insults he had suffered did not make
him pleasant.
"Now, look here, Reverend McCarthy," he said and his
tone revealed his feelings, "what kind of a 'stunt' are you
pulling off with my wife?" And he blocked his way where
they stood upon the sidewalk.
"Now, now, my son—"
"Oh, don't 'son' me," said the other impatiently. "You
and I might as well come to an understanding right here tonight
as any other time. We are not friends and you know
it. We have never since we have known each other been
in accord—not since we met—yes, twenty-two years ago.
Oh, you remember it." The other started guiltily when Jean
referred to his youth.
"You remember how my mother licked me for letting
Miss Self help me upon her lap and fed me, thereby disturbing
your illegitimate flirtation...." The other's pious
face darkened. But it was not his nature to meet and argue
openly as men should and do. Always his counter was
subtle. So while Jean Baptiste was in the mood to come to
an understanding, to admit frankly to the other, that enemies
they were, the Elder permitted a womanish smile to spread
over his face and patted the other on the back, saying:
"Now, now, Jean. You are my daughter's husband, and
it is no time or place to carry on like this. The girl lays
sick over here and if you would be a husband you would go
to her. Now let's dispense with such things as you refer
to and go forth to the indisposed." He appeared more[Pg 269]
godly now than he had ever. Distrust was in the face of
Baptiste. He knew the preacher was not sincere, but his
wife, the girl he had married, lay ill. He suspicioned that
the Elder had intended stealing her away without his knowledge;
he knew, moreover, that all his affected tenderness was
subtle; but he hushed the harsh words that were on his
tongue to say and followed the other.
"Yes, my children," his pious face almost unable to veil
the evil behind the mask, "here we are together," he said
when he entered the room followed by Baptiste. Orlean was
in bed and made no effort to greet her husband; while Ethel
sat sulkily in a chair nearby and kept her mouth closed.
Jean went to the bed and sat by his wife and regarded her
meditatively. She did not seem to recognize him, and he
made no effort to arouse her to express her thoughts which
seemed to come and go. He was lost in thoughts, strange
and sinister. Verily his life was in a turmoil. The life he
had come into through his marriage had revived so many
old and unpleasant memories that he had forgotten, until he
was in a sort of daze. He had virtually run away from
those parts wherein he had first seen the light of day, to
escape the effect of dull indolence; the penurious evil that
seemed to have gripped the populace, especially a great portion
of his race. In the years Jean Baptiste had spent in
the West, he had been able to follow, unhampered, his convictions.
But now, the Reverend's presence seemed to have
brought all this back.
In a conversation one day with that other he had occasion
to mention the late James J. Hill, in his eulogy of the
northwest and was surprised to find—and have the Reverend
admit—that he had never even heard of him. Indeed,
what the Elder knew about the big things in life would
have filled a very small book. But when it came to the[Pg 270]
virtues of the women in the churches over which he presided,
he knew everything. And whenever they had become
agreeable in any way, it was sure to end with the Reverend
relating incidents regarding the social and moral conduct
of the women in the churches over which he presided.
Moreover, the Elder sought in his subtle manner, to dig into
the past life of members of Baptiste's family, of what any
had committed that could be used as a measure for gossip.
And this night, as they sat over Jean's wife whose sentiment
and convictions had been crushed, the Elder attempted to
dwell on the subject again.
"Yes, when your older sister taught in Murphysboro, and
got herself talked about because she drew a revolver on
Professor Alexander, that was certainly too bad."
"Looks as if she was able to take care of herself," suggested
Baptiste, deciding to counter the old rascal at his own
game.
"But that's what I'm trying to show you, and you could
see it if you wasn't inclined to be so hard headed," argued
the Elder.
"We'll leave personalities out of it, if you please," said
Baptiste, coloring.
"Oh, but if your sister had had protection, such a deplorable
incident would not have happened. Now, for instance,"
argued the Elder, "my girls have never had their
good names embarrassed with such incidents."
"Oh, they haven't," cried Baptiste, all patience gone.
"Then what about their half brother in East St. Louis, eh?
And the other one who died—was stabbed to death. Those
were yours, and you were never married to their mother!"
The other's face became terrible. The expression upon
his face was dreadful to behold. He started to rise, but[Pg 271]
Baptiste was not through. He was thoroughly aroused now,
and all he had stood from this arch sinner had come back
to him. Therefore, before the other could deny or do anything,
said he:
"Oh, you needn't try to become so upset over it. Your
morals are common knowledge to all the people of Illinois,
and elsewhere. And let me tell you, you can—as you have—in
your family, force those who know it and condemn it
to keep quiet by making yourself so disagreeable that they
will honey you up to get along with you. But it is not because
they, or all those who know you, are not aware of it!
That's your reputation, and some day you are going to suffer
for it. You deliberately make people miserable to satisfy
your infernal vanity; your desire to be looked upon and
called great. Now right here you are bent upon crucifying
your own daughter's happiness just because I haven't tickled
your rotten vanity, and lied." He arose now, and pointed a
threatening finger at the other.
"You are out to injure me, and you are taking advantage
of your own child's position as my wife to do so. I'm
going to let you go ahead. Orlean's a good girl, but she's
weak like the mother that you have abused for thirty years!
But remember this, N.J. McCarthy, and I've called you
Reverend for the last time. The evil that you do unto
others will some day be done unto you and will drag your
ornery heart in its own blood. Mark my words!" And the
next instant he was gone.
The other looked after him uneasily. The truth had
come so forcibly, so impulsively, so abruptly, that it had
for the time overcome his cunningness; but only for a
moment after the other had disappeared was he so. He
regained his usual composure soon enough, and he turned[Pg 272]
to the sick woman for succor—to her whom he was dragging
down to the gutter of misery for his own self
aggrandizement.
"Did you hear how he abused your father?" he cried,
the tears from his piggish eyes falling on her cheeks. She
reached and stroked his white hair, and mumbled weak
words.
"Oh, I never thought I would come to this—be brought
to this through the daughter that I have loved so much. Oh,
poor me, your poor old father," whereupon he wept bitterly.
"You see, you see," cried Ethel, who had risen and stood
over her, pointing her finger to Orlean as she lay upon the
bed. "This is what comes of marrying that man! I tried,
oh, I tried so hard to have you see that no good could come
of it, no good at all!" The other sighed. She was too
weak from mortification to reply in the affirmative, or the
negative.
"I tried, and I tried to have you desist, but you would!
When I had at last gotten you to quit him, and you swore
you had, no sooner did he come and place his arm about you
and whisper fool things in your ear, than did you but up
and consent to this. This, this, do you hear? This that
has brought your poor father to that!" and she stopped to
point to where that one lay stretched across the bed, sobbing.
The night was one long, miserable, quarrelsome night.
Ethel and the Elder wore themselves out abusing Baptiste,
and along toward morning all fell into a troubled sleep.
Baptiste met them the next morning as they came from
the rooms, and helped his wife across the street to a restaurant.
When they had finished the meal, he said to her as
they came from the restaurant,
"Now, dear, I'll step into the bank here and get you
some money—"[Pg 273]
"No, no, no, Jean," she said quickly, cutting him off before
he completed what he had started to say.
"Well," and he started toward the bank again as if he
had not understood her.
"No, no, no, Jean," she repeated, and caught his arm
nervously. "No, don't!"
"But you are going away, dear, and will surely need
money?" he insisted.
"Yes, but—Jean—Jean—I have money."
"You have money?" repeated the other uncomprehendingly.
"But how came you with money? That much
money?"
"I—I had—a—check cashed. That is—papa had
one cashed for me."
"Oh, so that was it. M-m. Your father had it cashed
for you?" he understood then, and his suspicion that the
Elder had intended taking her to Chicago without letting
him know it was confirmed. They walked down the street
toward the depot, and while she held nervously to his arm,
his mind was concerned with his thoughts. It occurred to
him that he should take his wife back to the claim right then.
He felt that if she went to Chicago there would be trouble.
He began slowly to appreciate that in dealing with Reverend
McCarthy he was not dealing with a man; nor a near man.
He was not dealing with a mere liar, or a thief, even—he
was dealing with the lowest of all reptiles, a snake! Then
why did not he, Jean Baptiste, act?
Perhaps if he had, we should never have had this story
to tell. Jean Baptiste did not act. He decided to let her
go. Beyond that he had no decision. It seemed that his
mind would not work beyond the immediate present. Soon
she heard him, as she clung to his arm, allowing her body to
rest against his shoulder:[Pg 274]
"How much for, Orlean?"
"Two—two—hundred dollars."
"Why—two hundred dollars!" he cried. "Why, Orlean,
what has come over you?" She burst into tears then,
and clung appealingly to him. And in that moment she was
again his God-given mate.
"Besides," he went on, "I haven't such an amount in the
bank, even." He looked up. A half a block in their lead
walked Reverend McCarthy, carrying the luggage.
"Papa, p-a-pa!" called Orlean at the top of her voice.
"Pa-p-a," she called again and again until she fell into a fit of
coughing. He halted, and was uneasy, Baptiste could see.
They came up to him. Orlean was running despite her
husband's effort to hold her back.
"Papa, papa! My God, give Jean back that money.
Give it back, I say! Oh, I didn't want to do this, oh, I
didn't want to! It was you who had me sign that check,
you, you, you!" She was overcome then, and fell into a
swoon in her husband's arms. He stood firmly, bravely,
then like the Rock of Gibraltar. His face was very hard,
it was very firm. His eyes spoke. It told the one before
him the truth, the truth that was.
And as the other ran his hand to his inside vest pocket
and drew forth the money, he kept saying in a low, cowardly
voice:
"It was her, it was her. She did it, she did it!"
Baptiste took the money. He looked at it. He took fifty
dollars from it and handed the amount to the other. He
spoke then, in a voice that was singularly dry:
"I will not keep her from going. She can go; but you
know I ought not let her."
They carried her to where the cars stood, and made her
comfortable when once inside. She opened her eyes when[Pg 275]
he was about to leave upon hearing the conductor's call.
She looked up into his eyes. He bent and kissed her. She
looked after him as he turned, and called: "Jean!"
"Yes, Orlean!"
"Goodby!"
He stood on the platform of the small western station
as the train pulled down the track. A few moments later
it disappeared from view, and she was gone.[Pg 277][Pg 276]
EPOCH THE THIRD
EPOCH THE THIRD
CHAPTER I
CHICAGO—THE BOOMERANG
THE REVEREND MCCARTHY had scored. He
had succeeded in separating his daughter from the
man she married. The fact that there was positively
no misunderstanding between the two, was not seen or considered
by him. Jean Baptiste had opposed him, and that
was enough. He hated any member of his household, or any
one related to the one of his household who dared disagree
with him. Of course his "Majesty" did not see it that
way. He saw himself as the most saintly man in the world
and sympathized with himself accordingly. No man
thought himself more unjustly abused than did N. Justine
McCarthy.
But there were other things to complete. He had not
wilfully participated in what had just passed—in fact, he
had not meant to part the couple at all. He prided himself
with having some judgment. He was merely undertaking
that which in a way had grown common to him—the task
of getting even.
Now he had estimated that he knew Jean Baptiste, although
studying characters and their natural tendencies had
not been a part of his theme in life. He felt albeit, that he
had this one's tender spot clearly before him. To begin
with: he put himself right with his own conscience by believing
that Baptiste was a vain, selfish character, bent on
one purpose—getting rich! He concluded—because he[Pg 280]
wished to—that Baptiste did not, and had never, loved
Orlean. The fact that Orlean had not said anything to the
contrary did not matter. He was her father, and therefore
predicated and privileged to think and act for her. That
was why he had always been of so much service, such
fatherly help. He was protecting his daughter from the
cruelty of men. But how he had planned it all!
"Now that hard-headed rascal," meaning of course his
son-in-law, "is not going to lay down. Oh, no! My poor
girl has that claim. He does not want her, but he does want
the claim. To hold the claim, he must have her, and have
her back on the claim. He's all war now; but when he
realizes that to lose her is to lose the claim into the bargain—oh,
well, I'll just set right down at home here and wait.
Yes, I'll wait. He'll be coming along. And when he appears
here, then I'll bend his ornery will into the right way of
seeing things." So thereupon he took up his vigil, waiting
for Jean Baptiste to put in his appearance.
But for some reason the other had not hastened to Chicago
as soon as the Elder had anticipated he would. Three weeks
had been consumed in the trip West, so he was somewhat
behind in his church work. While it was true that ministers
in some of the towns in his itinerary collected from the members
at the quarterly conference and sent the money to him;
on the other hand if he expected to get what was due him
in any great measure, it was highly necessary that he be there
in person. Accordingly, the time he spent in Chicago, waiting
for the coming of his son-in-law that he might have the
satisfaction of bending the other to his will began to grow
long and irksome.
Moreover, if he sat at home, he was obliged to meet and
greet the many visitors who called to see his sick daughter.
More largely of course for the purpose of securing informa[Pg 281]tion
for gossip, but compelling him therefore to make or
offer some explanation. And here arose another phase of
the case that was not pleasant. Following Jean Baptiste's
marriage to Orlean, and after the Reverend had paid them
his first visit, he had said a great deal in praise of his "rich"
son-in-law. That he was so extremely vain, was why he
had done this. It had tickled his vanity to have the people
see his daughter marry so well, since it was well known
about Chicago that Jean Baptiste was very successful.
When the Elder had boasted to the people he met of the
"rich" man his daughter had married, he wrote telling the
young couple of it. To be referred to as "rich" he conjectured,
should have flattered any man's vanity—it would
have his—and he estimated that he was doing Baptiste a
great favor when he let him know that he, the Elder, was
advertising him as rich.
But the same had brought no response from that one. He
had been too busy to take any interest in being praised. And
even after the Elder had made his first visit, and returned
and told of the wonders his daughter had married into, he
still hoped this would soften Baptiste's disposition into praising
and fawning upon him. It was not until Baptiste had
returned the money he had sent his daughter for railway
fare the Xmas before that the Reverend had thrown down
the gauntlet and declared war. So the very thing he had
played up a few months before, came back now to annoy him.
Because he had never lived as he should have it was proving
a boomerang. He had made a practice of pretending not
to hear what was being said about him by others. But he
could not seal his ears to the fact that the people were asking
themselves and everybody else what had happened to his
daughter, or between his daughter and the "rich" son-in-law.
This was very uncomfortable, it was very annoying.[Pg 282]
It was reported that he was compelled to go out West and
get her, and it was exasperating to explain all without
making it seem that what he had said a few months before
was boast, pure and simple.
"Yeh. All you could hear a few months ago, was the
'rich' man Orlean had married. Yeh. Mr. Mc. would
make it his business to get around so you had to ask
'im about them. Then he'd swell up lak a big frog and tell
all about it. Then of a sudden he jumps up and goes out
there and brings her back. Ump! Now I wonder what is
the mattah."
During these times, those of the household had little
peace. With impatience over Baptiste's not showing up so
he could read him the riot act, and his work being neglected;
with having to listen to no end of gossip that his meddling
had brought about, he became the most obstinate problem
imaginable about the house. All the love he had pretended
for Orlean while on the claim, was now changed to severe
chastisement. He no longer fondled and wasted hours
over her. She had no longer the convenient check book.
The fact that she had to have a little medicine, and that she
also had to have other necessities; that she had to eat—and
the most of this he was forced to provide, made him so
irritable, that those near prayed for the day when he would
leave. But if Jean Baptiste would only come so that he
could say to him what he had planned to say. Just to have
the opportunity to bend that stubborn will—that would be
sufficient to repay him for all he was now actually sacrificing.
As for "Little Mother Mary" these were the darkest
days of her never happy married life. Of all the men she
had met or known, she had truly admired and loved Jean
Baptiste more than any other. In truth it was her disposi[Pg 283]tion
to be frank, kind and truthful. She dearly loved her
son-in-law for his manly frank and kind disposition. She
trusted him, and, knowing that Orlean was of her disposition,
weak and subservient to the will of those near, she had
been relieved to feel that she had married the kind of man
that would be patient and love a person with such a disposition.
She had been sincere in her praise of him to her many
friends. She had told of him to everybody she knew or
met. So much so indeed, that the Reverend on his last
trip West in his daily rebuke, then had said: "And Mary
has just sickened me with telling everybody she meets about
Jean." Ethel had joined with him in this. The truth was
that when her mother had sung her praise to the people regarding
Jean Baptiste, there was nothing left to say about
Glavis, but more especially about the Elder.
What the Reverend was forced to endure at this time,
he promptly of course charged to the indiscretions of Jean
Baptiste. If he had not done this, or if he had done that, the
Elder would not have been forced to endure such annoyance.
If he would only show up with his practical ideas in
Chicago! Every morning when the door bell rang, he
listened eagerly for the voice of his son-in-law. He
watched the mail, and in assorting the letters, looked anxiously
for the Western postmark. But a week passed, and
no letter and no Jean Baptiste. Then at the end of two
weeks, the same prevailed. And at the end of three weeks,
he knew he would have to go to work or reckon with the
bishop.
So on Tuesday of the following week, the Elder left for
his work, and that same afternoon, Jean Baptiste arrived in
Chicago.[Pg 284]
CHAPTER II
THE GREAT QUESTION
THE DAYS that followed after the Elder had taken his
wife away, were unhappy days for Jean Baptiste.
In his life there were certain things he had held
sacred. Chief among these was the marriage vow. While
a strong willed, obviously firm sort of person, he was by
nature sentimental. He had among his sentiments been an
enemy of divorces. Nothing to him was so distasteful as the
theory of divorce. He had always conjectured that if a
man did not drink, or gamble, or beat his wife there could be
no great cause for divorce; whereas, with the woman, if she
was not guilty of infidelity a man could find no just cause,
on the whole, to ask for a divorce. But whatever the cause
be—even a just cause—he disliked the divorcing habit.
He persisted in believing that if two people whose lives were
linked together would get right down to a careful understanding
and an appreciation of each other's sentiments,
or points of view, they could find it possible to live together
and be happy.
Fancy therefore, how this man must have felt when he
arrived at the little house upon the wife's claim and found
his grandmother alone. They had taken his wife and all her
belongings. He lived in a sort of quandary in the days that
followed. His very existence became mechanical. And one
day while in this unhappy state, he chanced to find a little
sun bonnet that they had evidently overlooked. She had[Pg 285]
bought it the summer before, and it was too small. But he
recalled now that he had thought that it made her look very
sweet. How much the bonnet meant to him now! He
placed it carefully away, and when he was alone in the house
in after days with only her memory as a companion he
would get and bring it forth, gaze at it long and tenderly.
It seemed to bring back the summer before when he had
been hopeful and happy and gay. It brought him more
clearly to realize and appreciate what marriage really meant
and the sacred vow. And during these hours he would
imagine he could see her again; that she was near and from
under the little bonnet that was too small he communed
with her and he would thereupon hold a mythical conversation,
with her as the listener.
Was it all because Jean Baptiste loved his wife? What
is there between love and duty? It had never been as much
a question with Jean Baptiste as to how much he loved
her as it was a question of duty. She was his wife by the
decree of God and the law of the land. Whatever he had
been, or might have been to others, therefore had gone
completely out of his mind when he had taken her to him
as wife. And now that she was away, to his mind first came
the question, why was she away?
Yes, that was the great question. Why was she away?
Oh, the agony this question gave the man of our story.
Not one serious quarrel had they ever had. Not once had
he spoken harshly to her, nor had she been cross with him.
Not once had the thought entered his mind that they would
part; that they could part; that they would ever wish to part.
In the beginning, true, there had been some little difficulties
before they had become adjusted to each other's ways. But
that had taken only a few months, after which they had
gradually become devoted to each other. And so their lives[Pg 286]
had become. Out there in the "hollow of God's hand,"
their lives had become assimilated, they had looked forward
to the future when there would be the little ones, enlarging
their lives and duties.
And yet, why was his wife in Chicago without even a letter
from her to him; or one from him to her? Why, why, why?
N. Justine McCarthy!
Oh, the hatred that began to grow—spread and take roots
in the breast of this man of the prairie toward the man who
had wilfully and deliberately wronged him, wrecked that
which was most sacred to him. The days came and went,
but that evil, twisting, warping hatred remained; it grew,
it continued to grow until his very existence became a burden
and a misery. No days were happy days to him. From
the moment he awakened in the morning until he was lost in
slumbers in the evening, Jean Baptiste knew no peace.
While that perpetrator of his unhappiness waited impatiently
in Chicago with plans to grind and humiliate him further,
this man began to formulate plans also. With all the bitter
hatred in his soul against the cause of his unhappiness, his
plans were not the plans of "getting even," but merely to
see his wife where no subtle influences could hamper her
or warp her convictions and reason. He knew that to write
to her would be but to prove useless. The letters would be
examined and criticized by those around her. He knew that
sending her money would be only regarded as an evidence of
weakening on his part, and if he was to deal, weakness
must have no place. So as to how he might see his wife, and
give her an opportunity to appreciate duty, became his daily
determination.
The great steam tractor, breaking prairie on his sister's
homestead was diligently at its task, and while it turned over
from twenty to thirty acres of wild sod each day, it also ate[Pg 287]
coal like a locomotive. So to it he was kept busy hauling
coal over the thirty-five miles from Colome. On the land
he was having broken (for he had teams breaking prairie
in addition to the tractor) he had arranged to sow flaxseed.
For two years preceding this date, crops had been perceptibly
shorter, due to drought. Therefore seeds of all
kind had attained a much higher price than previously.
Flaxseed that he had raised and sold thousands of bushels
of in years gone by for one dollar a bushel he was now compelled
to pay the sum of $3.00 a bushel therefor.
So with a steam tractor hired at an average cost of $60
a day; with extra men in addition to be boarded; and with
hauling the coal for the tractor himself such a distance and
other expenses, Jean Baptiste, unlike his august-father-in-law,
had little time or patience to sit around consuming his
time and substance perpetrating a game of spite.
But he was positive that he would needs lose his mental
balance unless he journey to Chicago and see his wife.
Alone she would have time, he conjectured to think, to see
and to realize just what she was doing. Why should they be
separated? Positively there was nothing and never had been
anything amiss between them, was what passed daily through
his mind. Well, he decided that he would go to her as soon
as he had arranged matters so he could. He was peeved
when he recalled that the spring before he had been forced
to make a trip to that same city that could as well have been
avoided. But when anything had to be done, Jean Baptiste
usually went after it and was through. In business where
he was pitted against men, this was not difficult, and instead
of disliking to face such music, he rather relished the zest
it gave him. But when a man is dealing with a snake—for
nothing else can a man who would sacrifice his own blood
to vanity be likened to, it must be admitted that the task[Pg 288]
worried Jean Baptiste. If N. Justine McCarthy had been a
reader, an observer, and a judge of mankind as well as a
student of human nature and its vicissitudes he could have
realized that murder was not short for such actions as he
was perpetrating. But here again Jean Baptiste was too
busy. He had no time to waste in jail—for even if killing
the man who had done him such an injury be justified
he realized that justice in such cases works slowly. But
it would be vain and untruthful to say that with the bitterness
in his heart, Jean Baptiste did not reach a point in his
mind where he could have slain in cold blood the man with
whom he was dealing.
At last came the time when he could be spared from his
farm, and to Chicago he journeyed. Positively this was one
trip to that city that gave him no joy. He estimated before
reaching there, that he should best not call up the house, but
bide his time and try to meet his wife elsewhere. But when
he arrived in the city, and not being a coward, he dismissed
this idea and went directly to the house in Vernon Avenue.
He was met at the door by "Little Mother Mary," who did
not greet him as she might have, but for certain reasons.
The most she could do even to live in the same atmosphere
with her husband was to pretend to act in accordance with
his sentiments. Baptiste followed her back to the rear room
where she took a seat and he sat down beside her. She had
uttered no word of greeting, but he came directly to the
point. "Where is Orlean?"
"She's out."
"Out where?"
"She just walked out into the street."
"How is she?"
"Better than when she came home," meaningly.
"When she was brought home," he corrected.[Pg 289]
"Well?"
"But I am not here to argue whereof. I am here to see
her."
"But she's out."
"However, she'll return, I hope. If not, then, where
might I find her?"
"She'll return presently."
He was silent for a time while she regarded him nervously,
listening in the meantime as if expecting some one. She was
afraid. Her husband had left the city only that morning;
but behind him he had left an escutcheon who could—and
was, as capable of making matters as disagreeable. It was
Ethel, and Mrs. McCarthy was aware that that one was
upstairs. The household had been conducted according to
the desires and dictates of the Elder. Wherefore she was
uneasy. Baptiste observed her now, and made mental note
as to the cause of the expression of uneasiness upon her face.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
She did not reply, but sighed.
"What's the matter, Mother Mary?" he asked kindly.
Her love and admiration asserted itself momentarily in the
look with which she replied to him. How in that moment
she wanted to tell him all, and to be to him as she had
always wanted to be. But only a moment was she so, then
that look of hunted fear overspread her face again, and she
turned uneasily toward the stairs.
"Won't you tell me what the matter is, mother?" she
heard him again. For answer the quick glance over her
shoulder was sufficient. It was as if to say. "Hush!
Enemies are near!" He then estimated that the Elder had
gone to the southern part of the state, but Ethel must be
near, and it was Ethel whom the mother feared. He understood
then, that the Reverend had a cunning way of having[Pg 290]
Ethel do his bidding. Because she was possessed of his
evil disposition, he could trust her to carry out anything on
this order—that is, providing she disliked the person in
question, and that was usually the case, for, like him, there
were few people whom she really liked.
"What have you been doing to my child?" he heard from
Mother Mary, presently. He studied her face again and
saw that she was trying to reckon with him herself, although
he knew that it mattered little what she thought or did on
the whole.
"Has she told you what I have been doing to her?" he
said. She shifted uncomfortably, looked around a little,
listened for a sound that she expected to hear sooner or later,
and then replied, and in doing so, he saw that she was again
subservient to the old training.
"My husband told me," she countered.
"Oh," he echoed.
"You have not acted with discretion," she said again, and
he understood her. Acting with "discretion" would been
never to have given the Reverend an excuse for making that
trip....
"I have been good to your daughter; a husband to the best
of my ability."
"But you—you—should not have blundered." Again
he was reminded of what it meant to displease or give her
husband any excuse.
"I did not agree in this room a year ago to be regardful
of the opinion of others," he defended. "I agreed to the
word of the law and of God. I have tried to fulfill that
word. I did not intend to be absent when the child came."
She shifted again uneasily, and her mind went back to the
day Orlean was born and that her husband, too, had been
away....[Pg 291]
"If I can see Orlean that will be sufficient," he said.
"She went to walk."
"Mother?"
She regarded him again, and then turned her eyes away
for she could not stand to look long into his. The truth
there would upset her and she knew it.
"Why must this be so?" She shifted uneasily again.
Oh, if she could only be brave. If she could only dare—but
she was not brave, Orlean was not brave. They had
lived their lives too long subservient to the will of others
to attempt bravery now. She rested her eyes on some sewing
she pretended to do and waited. It could only be for a
little while. Ethel must learn sooner or later of his presence,
and then—! There would be a scene or he must
go.
"It's a shame," said the other.
"You should have been careful," she returned meaningly.
But in her mind was still the dream. If she could be
brave....
"Mother!" called some one sharply. Jean recognized the
voice, the command. The other's face went pale for a
moment, while her eyes closed. He understood. The worst
had come. In the minutes they had been sitting there, she
had almost dared hope that Orlean would return, and that
in some way—perhaps it would have to come from heaven—they
could fly. But chances now were gone. His cohort
had appeared. "Who is it out there?" she asked, and came
toward where they sat. She saw him then, and regarded
him coldly. Through her mind shot the fact that her father
had waited three weeks for him, and had just left that morning.
Her disappointment was keen. For a moment she was
frightened. In truth she held a fearsome admiration for the
man, and then she stiffened. She had come back to herself;[Pg 292]
to the fact that she had a reputation for being disagreeable.
She turned to him, and said:
"What are you doing here?"
He answered her not. Her mother was trembling.
"Get out of this house!" she commanded, getting control
of herself.
Baptiste was in a quandary. He recalled how he had seen
her make her husband jump as if trying to get out of his
skin when she was in her evil spasms.
"Did you hear!" she almost screamed.
"I am waiting for my wife," he replied then calmly.
"She is my sister!" she screamed again.
"I suppose I am aware of that."
"Then you cannot have her!"
"She is mine already."
"You're a liar!" she yelled, crying now, and her evil
little face screwed up horribly in her anger. Mrs. McCarthy
was trembling as if a chill had come over her.
Ethel suddenly flew to the 'phone. She got a number, and
he heard her scream:
"Glavis! Glav—is.... That man is here!... Glav—is!...
That man is here!..." He could understand no
more, then, but saw that she was frantic. He finally heard
Mother Mary.
"You're wanted at the 'phone," she said, tremblingly.
He got up and went to it. Ethel was dancing about the
room like a demon.
"Hello!" he called.
"Hello!" came back. "Ah—ha—who—who—who
is th-is?" the other sputtered, all excitement.
"Baptiste," replied the other, wondering at his excitement.
"Wh—at a—re yo—u do-i-ng a—t m-y h-o-u-s-e?"[Pg 293]
"Oh, say," called back Baptiste. "There's nobody dead
out here. Now calm yourself and say what you want to.
I'm listening."
"We—ll," said the other, a little better controlled. "I
ask what you are doing at my house?"
"Your house!" echoed Baptiste, uncomprehendingly.
"Why, I do not understand you."
"I want to know what you are doing at my house after
what you said about me!"
"At your house after what I said about you!" Baptiste
repeated.
"Yes. You said I was 'nothing but a thirteen dollars a
week jockey,' and all that." Baptiste was thoughtful. He
had never said anything about Glavis—and then he understood.
Some more of the Elder's work.
"Now, Glavis, I do not understand what you mean when
you say what I said about you; but as for my being here,
that is distinctly no wish of mine. But you know my wife
is here, and it is her I am here to see. No other."
"But I want to see you downtown—you come down
here!"
Baptiste was thoughtful. He knew that he could exert
no influence over Orlean when she did return with Ethel
acting as she was, so he might as well be downtown for the
present as elsewhere. So he answered:
"Well, alright."
Ethel slammed and locked the door behind him, and he
walked over to Cottage Grove Avenue and boarded a car.[Pg 294]
CHAPTER III
GLAVIS MAKES A PROMISE
GLAVIS tried to appear very serious when Baptiste
called at where he worked an hour later, but it was
beyond him to be so. It was said that he was in
the habit of trying to appear like the Reverend, but since
the pretended seriousness of that one had never affected
Jean Baptiste, Glavis' affectation had still less effect.
"Well, Glavis," he began pointedly. "I'm here as per
your suggestion, and since it is quite plain what the matter
is, we may as well come directly to the point."
"Well, yes, Baptiste, I guess I may as well agree with
you," replied Glavis.
"Then, to begin with. That remark you made over the
'phone regarding what I had said about you, let me say is
a falsehood pure and simple. What I said or would say to
your back I will say to your face."
"Well, Baptiste," he replied quickly, and his expression
confirmed the words that followed, "I believe you."
"I have no occasion to lie. It is very plain that our
father-in-law and I are not in accord, and while it may be
nothing to you perhaps, I do not hesitate to say that there
is nothing wrong between Orlean and me—and never has
been. It is all between her father and me, and he is using
her as the means."
"Well, that is rather direct," suggested Glavis.
"Evidently so; but it's the truth and you know it. It is
simply a case which you are supposed not to see all sides of."[Pg 295]
"Now, Baptiste," defended Glavis, "I am no party to
your wife's being here in Chicago."
"And I agree with you," returned Baptiste. "It is not
your nature to make trouble between people, Glavis. I'll
do you that honor. People are inclined to follow their natural
bent, and yours, I repeat, is not to cause others misery.
Therefore, you can rest assured that I do not mean to involve
you in any of my troubles."
"That is sure manly in you, Baptiste," Glavis said heartily.
"But it is a fact, I venture, that you have been advised
that I spoke ill of you—at least, I spoke disparagingly of
you while your folks were in the West. Am I speaking
correctly?"
"I'll have to admit that you are," and he scowled a little.
"Do you believe these statements?"
The other scowled again, but didn't have the courage to
say that he did—or, perhaps to lie. He knew why he had
been told what he had. To unite with the Reverend in his
getting even with Baptiste, Glavis had been told that Baptiste
had "run him down."
"Well, Glavis, the fact that my wife is at your home—under
your roof—I, her husband, am therefore placed at
a disadvantage thereby. You cannot help being indirectly
implicated in whatever may happen."
"Now, now, Baptiste," the other cried quickly. "I do
not want to have anything to do with you and Orlean's
troubles. I—"
"It is not Orlean and my troubles, Glavis. It is her father's
and my troubles."
Glavis shifted uncomfortably. Presently he said hesitatingly:
"The old man just left town this morning. Wished you
and he could have had your outs together."[Pg 296]
"Yes, it is too bad we did not. As I see it, I have no
business with him. In him I am not interested, and never
have been. Because I have held aloof from becoming so
is the cause of the trouble. I was told before I married
Orlean, and by her herself, that I should praise her father;
that I should make him think that he was a king, if I would
get along with him. Indeed, I did not, I confess, at the time
consider it to be as grave as that, that I had this to do in
order to live with Orlean."
It was positively uncomfortable to Glavis. He could find
no words to disagree with the other because he knew that he
spoke the truth. He knew that he had catered to the Reverend's
vanity to be allowed to pay court to Ethel before he
was married to her; he knew that he had done so since; and
he knew—and did not always like it—that he was still
doing so, and boarding the Reverend's wife into the bargain,
and Orlean now was added thereto. He did not relish the
task. He earned only a small salary that was insufficient
for his own and his wife's needs. Up to a certain point his
wife defied her father; but since she was so like him in
disposition, and had been instrumental in assisting to separate
Orlean and her husband, she had not the courage to
rebel and compel—at least insist—that the Reverend take
care of his wife and the daughter he had parted from her
husband.
So it was all thrown onto Glavis. He made a few dollars
extra each week by various means, and this helped him
a little. In truth, he wished that Orlean was with her husband,
and knowing very well that there was where she
wanted to be, he was inclined for the moment to try to help
Baptiste. Besides, he rather admired the man. Few people
could be oblivious to the personality of Baptiste and be
honest with themselves. Even the Elder had always found[Pg 297]
it expedient to be disagreeable in order to dispel the effect
of his son-in-law's frank personality.
"The way we are lined up, Glavis, you must appreciate
that you cannot keep out of it. You are aware that I have
no wish to hang around your abode; but I didn't come all
the way from the West to fail to see Orlean. You know
full well that Ethel would never let her meet me elsewhere,
that her father has left orders to that effect. Now, what am
I to do? If I call, your wife will make it so disagreeable
that nothing can be accomplished."
"Dammit!" exclaimed Glavis suddenly. "It isn't all my
fault or the old man's or my wife's! It's Orlean's!"
"Well," agreed Baptiste, thoughtfully, "on the whole, that
is so."
"Of course it is! If Orlean was a woman she would be
right out there with you now where she belongs!"
"And I agree with you again, Glavis. But Orlean isn't
a woman, and that is what I have been trying to make her.
She has never been a woman—wasn't reared so to be. By
nature she is like her mother, and she has grown up according
to her training."
"She cannot be two things at the same time," Glavis
argued, "and that is a daughter to her father and a wife
to you!"
"No, that is where the difficulty lay," said Baptiste.
"But her father's influence over her is great, you will
admit. She has been taught to agree with him, and that—I
can never, nor will I try to do."
"It certainly beats hell!"
"It's the most awkward situation I have ever been placed
in. But here's the idea: I took that girl for better or for
worse. Now, what am I to do? Throw up my hands and
quit, or try to see Orlean and get her around to reason?[Pg 298]
It isn't Orlean. It's her father. So I have concluded to
make some sort of a fight. Life and marriage are too serious
just to let matters go like this."
"Yes, it is," agreed Glavis. "It certainly worries me.
And it annoys me because it is so unnecessary." He was
thoughtful and then suddenly he said:
"I'm sorry you let the old man—er—ah—get you
mixed up like this." He appeared as if he wished to say
more. To say that: "For when you let him get into it,
the devil would be to pay! Keep him out of your affairs
if you would live in peace."
"Well," said Baptiste, rising, "your time here belongs to
the company you are working for, and not to me or my
troubles. So I'm going to 'beat' it now out to Thirty-first
Street."
"Well," returned Glavis, "believe me, Baptiste, I'm sorry
for you, and for Orlean. It's rotten." It was remarkable
how he saw what was causing it; but how he cleverly kept
from directly accusing his father-in-law. "And I'll meet
you at Thirty-first Street after supper. At the Keystone,
remember." With that he grasped the other's hand warmly,
and as Jean Baptiste went down the stairway from where
Glavis worked, he knew that he had a friend who at least
wanted to help right a most flagrant wrong. The only question
was, would E.M. Glavis have the courage to go through
with it?
Well, Glavis might have the courage—but Ethel was his
wife. And Jean Baptiste realized that of all things in the
world, a woman's influence is the most subtle.[Pg 299]
CHAPTER IV
THE GAMBLER'S STORY
THE KEYSTONE was the oldest and most elite hostelry
for Negroes in Chicago and the West for many
years. It is located near Thirty-first and State
Street, in the heart of the black belt of the southside of the
city. It was built previous to the World's Fair and still
maintains its prestige as the most popular hangout for
Negroes of the more ostentatious set. And it was here that
Jean Baptiste went, following his departure with Glavis.
When Chicago was a "wide open" town, gambling had
been carried on upstairs as a business. Porters, waiters,
barbers and politicians who held the best jobs had always
found their way eventually to the Keystone. Likewise did
the Negroes in business and the professions and workers in
all the trades, as well as mail carriers, mail clerks, and the
men of the army and actors. In short the Keystone was the
meeting place for men in nearly all the walks of life.
Always the freest city in the world for the black man,
Chicago has the most Negroes in the mail service and the
civil service; more Negroes carry clubs as policemen; more
can be found in all the departments of the municipal courts,
county commissioners, aldermen, corporation counsels, game
warden assistants, and so on down. Indeed, a Negro feels
freer and more hopeful in Chicago than anywhere else in
the United States.
So it was such a crowd that Jean Baptiste encountered at
the Keystone that day. There were two real estate men[Pg 300]
who had once run on the road with him and who had since
succeeded in business; also there was another who was a
county commissioner; and still another one, an army officer.
So, upon seeing him they did all cry:
"Baptiste! Well, well, of all things! And how do you
happen to be down here in the spring?"
"Oh, a little business," he returned, and joined with the
crowd, bought a drink for them all, and was apparently
jolly.
Among the number was a gambler by the name of Speed.
He shook the visitor's hand heartily, and when the visit with
the others was over, he went to a table and, sitting down,
beckoned for Baptiste. When the other responded, he
begged him to be seated, and then said:
"Now, I know what you are down here about—heard
about it the day he brought her home." Baptiste regarded
him wonderingly. "Yes, I understand," he said, making
himself comfortable as if to tell a long story. "You are
wondering how I come to understand about your father-in-law,
and if you are not in a hurry, I'll tell you a little
story."
"Well," said the other, "let's have a drink before you
start."
"I don't care," and he beckoned to the bartender.
"Small bottle, a Schlitz," he said, and turned to Baptiste.
"Make it two," said the other, and turned to hear the
story the other had to tell.
"It happened fifteen years ago," began Speed when their
beer had been served. "I was a preacher then.—Hold on,"
he broke off at the expression on Baptiste's face.
"Yes, of course you can hardly believe it; but I was then
a preacher. I was the pastor of the church in a little town,
and I won't tell the name of the town; but it's all the same,[Pg 301]
I was a preacher and pastor of this church. I had not been
long ordained, and was ambitious to succeed as a minister.
The charge had not been long created, and was, of course,
not much of a place for money. But it so happened that
a quarry was opened about the time I was sent there and it
brought some hundred and fifty Negro families to live
in the town, and in almost a twinkling, my charge became
from among the poorest, to one of the best from a financial
point of view. The men worked steadily and were paid
well, and their families found quite a bit of work to do
among the wealthy whites of the town.
"There were two young ladies living a few doors from
where I preached, girls who made their own living, honestly,
nice, clean girls, and I was much impressed with them. I
sought, and finally succeeded in getting them interested in
the church, and later began keeping company with one.
Now here is where your folks come in. The Reverend McCarthy—old
Mac, I called him, was filling the same line
he now is, Presiding Elder, and this church was in his
itinerary. I was therefore under his recommendation. He
had been visiting the church regularly, holding his quarterly
conference every three months, and getting his little bit.
It was shortly after I had started going with this young
lady that McCarthy got awful nice and treated me so good
until I became suspicious. Then one day it came out.
"'By the way, Speed,' he said. 'Who're those girls living
near the church?' I knew who he was referring to
because I had seen him trying to smile on them the day before
which had been a Sunday. But I pretends I don't
know what or who he's talking about.
"'Who?' I inquired as innocent as a lamb.
"'Oh, those two girls living near the church,' and he
called their names.[Pg 302]
"'Why, they are two young ladies who came here not
long ago,' I said, and waited.
"'Is that all?' he asked then, and I looked at him. He
grinned, and said:
"'Aw, come on, Speed! Be a good fellow. Now, are
those girls straight?' and he specified the one I had begun
going with.
"'Why,' said I, 'Reverend McCarthy, I am surprised at
you to ask such a question, or to offer such an insinuation.
Besides,' I went on, 'Why?'
"'Aw, now, Speed,' he laughed easily, his big fat round
face shaking. 'Be a good sport and put me onto these
girls. Now, I'll tell you what I want you to do,' he said,
drawing his chair close to mine. 'I'll make it my business
to get back over here next Sunday night, and I want you to
"fix" it for me with that one, and—' he winked in a way
I did not at the time understand—but I did later—'I'll
make it right with you. You understand,' he said, rising,
'I'll make it right with you.'
"I was never so put out in my life. Here was this man,
a minister of the Gospel, and a Presiding Elder, who had
just deliberately delegated me to make a previous engagement
for him without regard to morals—and with the girl
I loved. I don't think he knew I was paying her court, but
the moral was the same.
"I was outdone! But true to his words, the next Sunday
night he was back!
"'Well, Speed,' he said when the services were over.
'What's the rip? Everything O.K.?' He was very anxious,
and I'll never forget his face. But, I was afraid of the
old rascal, still I hadn't lost my manhood at that. So I
says:
"'Now, Reverend, you place me in a very awkward pre[Pg 303]dicament.
To begin with, I have the highest respect for
those young ladies. And, again, even if I did not, I could
not be expected to cohort as you suggested.'
"'Aw, Speed,' he cut in. 'You're no good. Pshaw! I
just know the older of those two girls is not straight—am
positive of it. And you could fix things if you would,'
and I detected a touch of angry disappointment in his tone.
"Well, to get out of it, I told the old rascal what I thought
of his suggestion and left him. I never saw him again until
near conference, and then not to speak with him. I was
confident that I had satisfied the people, and that I would
be sent back without any argument.
"So imagine when I went to conference and when the
charges were being read off and I heard the Secretary call
'Reverend Speed to Mitchfield!' instead of the town from
which I had gone.
"I was just sick, man; so sick until I almost dropped
dead on the floor! Oh, the agony it gave me! I finally
got outside some way, and stood leaning against the church.
How long I stood thus, I never knew; but the church let
out by and by, while I still stood there—and let me explain.
Mitchfield was a charge that contained exactly a
dozen members—the Reverend McCarthy came out and I
looked up straight into his eyes.... I knew then why I
had been sent to Mitchfield instead of back to the charge I
had been at.
"Well, I went to Mitchfield, and by working around
town by the day, in connection with the charge, I managed
to make it. Some months later, I married the girl I have
spoken of, and we began to keep house in Mitchfield.
"It was pretty hard, and sometimes I don't wonder at
what later happened. But to make a long story short, I
was compelled to get work in a near-by town to make a[Pg 304]
living for me and my wife, and was gone all the week until
Saturday night. At the end of six months, Reverend McCarthy
had taken my wife, and she had left me and was
living in St. Louis!"
Baptiste was regarding him strangely.
"Have you heard the rest of it?" the other paused
to ask. "Well, Reverend McCarthy became the father of
her two sons. One was killed some years ago, the other
lives in St. Louis."
"But what—what became of their mother?" Baptiste
inquired curiously.
"Her? What becomes of women who are deceived? If
you visited St. Louis and the district, you might find her.
She was there the last I heard of her."
"And you?"
"Me?" the other repeated in a strangely hollow voice.
"You know what I am. A gambler, and with an old score
to settle with that man if I ever get the chance."[Pg 305]
CHAPTER V
THE PREACHER'S EVIL INFLUENCE
WITH all Ethel's excited ways, she was not to be
reckoned a fool when she had in mind to accomplish
some purpose. She understood full
well, that it would be up to her at this time to keep Orlean
from returning West with her husband, unless she recalled
her father. This she did not wish to resort to, until she
had exhausted all her force without avail. She appreciated
the fact that Jean Baptiste could and would influence her
husband as well as her mother, while as to Orlean, she
would only need a half a chance to fall away from her influence
and go back to her husband.
So with this in mind, Ethel, who had inherited from her
father, much evil and the faculty of making people miserable
began, as soon as Baptiste had left the house, to formulate
plans to counter any effort on his part to see Orlean.
Her first move, therefore, was to recall Orlean who was
visiting near, a fact which her mother had feared to tell
Baptiste. She convinced her forthwith that she was sick,
in danger, and sent her to bed, not telling her that Baptiste
was even in town. She followed this by sending her mother
to the kitchen, and keeping her there.
"Now what I must do—succeed in doing," she muttered
to herself, "is to keep Orlean from seeing or meeting him
in private and even in public for as much as an hour." She
realized that keeping a man and wife apart was a grave task,
and that she could not trust to the sympathy of any friends.[Pg 306]
But one person could she trust to be an ally in the task she
was trying to accomplish, and that was her father. She
rather feared her husband at this time, for, while she held
him under her control at most all times, he was by disposition
inclined to be kind and good. And, although he was
jealous of Baptiste in a measure, this did not reach proportions
where he was likely to be a very ready accomplice
with the plan in hand. Indeed, if it was left to him, Orlean
would sleep in her husband's arms that very night!
"I wish papa had stayed just another day," she grumbled
as she walked the floor and tried to formulate some effective
plan of action. "To think that he left only this morning
and that man came this afternoon!" She was provoked
at such a coincidence. She did not like to think too
deeply, or to scheme too long, for it hurt her. So she was
compelled to take a chair for a time and rest her mind.
She was not positive how long Baptiste would stay, and she
would have difficulty in keeping her sister in bed for any
length of time. But she decided to keep her in the house
if she had to sit on guard at the front door.
And it was while she was yet undecided upon her plan
of action, that Glavis came home. Once in a great while,
when she wanted a change, a diversion, she would have
his supper waiting. Other times it was left to her mother.
He loved her in spite of all her evil, and was always
pleased when she had his supper ready. So when she
heard his footsteps outside, she was suddenly struck with
an inspiration. She rushed toward the rear, and began
hurriedly to set the table. Her mother had the meal ready,
so she affected to be very cheerful when Glavis came into
the room, and even kissed him fondly. He was so surprised,
that the instance made him temporarily forget what was on
his mind, which was just what she wished him to do.[Pg 307]
"Where is Orlean?" he inquired after a time, whereupon
his wife's face darkened.
"Oh, she's sick, and in bed," replied Ethel guardedly.
Glavis grunted. He was thinking. For a time he forgot
all that was around him; his wife, the supper, his
work, all but Jean Baptiste and the wife that was being
harbored under the roof that he kept up. He suddenly got
up. He walked quickly out of the room and hurried upstairs
while his wife's back was turned, and knocked at the
door of the room wherein Orlean was supposed to lay
sick.
"Come in," called the other.
"Oh, it's you, Glavis," she cried, dropping back into bed
when he entered the door.
"A—ah—Orlean," he said in his stammering sort of
way. "A—ah—how are you?"
"Why, I feel well, Glavis," she replied wonderingly. She
had never felt just right mentally since before she left the
West. And when she allowed herself to think, she found
that it hurt her. She had always been obedient—her
father had told her that time and again, and gave her great
credit for being so. "Think of it, my dear," he had so
often said, "in all your life you have never 'sassed' your
father, or contraried him," whereupon he would look
greatly relieved. So her father had laid down the rule she
was following—trying to follow. Her husband must certainly
have been in grave error—not that she had observed
it, or that she had been badly treated by him, for she had
not. However, whenever she tried to see and understand
what it all meant, it hurt her. She was again the victim of
those nervous little spells that had harassed her before she
married, but which had strangely left her during that time.
But to do her father's will—for he never bid—always his[Pg 308]
was an influence that seemed to need no words—she was
trying. So she looked up at Glavis, and observed something
unusual in his face.
"What is the matter, Glavis?" she inquired, sitting up in
bed again. Glavis shifted about uneasily before replying.
"Ah—why—Orlean, it's Baptiste, your husband."
"Jean!" she cried, forgetting everything but her husband—forgetting
that she had allowed herself to be parted
from him. "What—what is the matter with him, Glavis?
With Jean? Has something happened? Oh, I'm always so
afraid something will happen to Jean!"
"No, no," exclaimed Glavis, pushing her gently back upon
the pillow. "Nothing has happened. Ah—er—ah—"
"Oh, I'm so relieved," she sighed, as she fell over in the
bed.
"He's here—in the city," she heard then from Glavis.
"He is!" she cried, sitting suddenly erect again. For a
moment she hesitated, and then, raising her hand to her
forehead as if in great pain, she groaned perceptibly. The
next moment she had again sunk back upon the pillow, and
her breath came hard. Perspiration stood upon her brow,
and he saw it.
"Orlean, oh, Orlean," he cried then upon impulse.
"Great God, this is a shame, a shame before God!" he
lamented with great emotion.
Suddenly he rushed to the door and then halted as he
heard his wife calling him from below. He turned to where
Orlean lay in the bed, sick now for true.
"Aren't you coming down to supper, Orlean?" he called.
"No, Glavis. I am not hungry."
"But you should eat something, Orlean."
"No, Glavis," she repeated in a tired voice, a voice in
which he detected a sigh. "I couldn't eat anything—now."[Pg 309]
He looked at her a moment with great tenderness, let escape
a sigh, and then as if resigned to the inevitable, he turned
and passed down the stairway to where his wife waited
below.
She regarded him keenly, and during the meal, she kept
casting furtive glances in his direction. "I wonder what
he's been saying to Orlean?" she kept muttering to herself.
She concluded then, that she would have to watch
him closely. He had never been in accord with her and
her father's plan, and they had borne false witness to influence
him against Baptiste. But he had seen Baptiste she
knew, and was also aware of the fact that Glavis liked both
her sister and brother-in-law, and it was going to be a
task to keep him from following his natural inclination.
She thought about her father again, and wished that he
was in Chicago.
She had never been delegated to handle such a task alone,
and she disliked the immense responsibility that was now
upon her, and no one to stand with her in the conflict.
"Well, Ethel," Glavis said, arising from the table when
the meal was over, "I'm going to walk out for a while."
She started up quickly. Her lips parted to say that he
was going to meet Baptiste and conspire with him against
her father, but she realized that this would not be expedient.
He might revolt. She rather feared this at times, notwithstanding
her influence over him, therefore she decided to exercise
a little diplomacy. Accordingly she sank back into
the chair, and replied:
"Very well, dear."
He regarded her keenly, but she appeared to be innocently
completing her meal. He sighed to think that she
did not make herself disagreeable, the anticipation of which
had made him fear and dread the task that was before him.[Pg 310]
But now he was compelled to feel a little grateful because
she was apparently very prudent in the matter.
He hurried quickly to the hall tree, slipped into a light
overcoat, and left the house. As he walked down the
street, he was in deep thought.[Pg 311]
CHAPTER VI
MORE OF THE PREACHER'S WORK
JEAN BAPTISTE was thoughtful for a long time
after the other had left him. He had heard before he
married Orlean that the Reverend was the father of
two illegitimate children, but from Speed's story he had
met the whole of it. Not only was he the father of two
illegitimate children, but he had taken another man's wife
to become so—and all this while he was one of the most
influential men in the church!
This fact, however, did not cause Baptiste any wonderment.
It was something he had become accustomed to. It
seemed that the church contained so many of the same kind—from
reports,—until it was a common expectation that a
preacher was permitted to do the very worst things—things
that nobody else would have the conscience to do. He arose
presently and going to the bar, ordered another bottle of
beer. He looked around the large room while he drank
at the usual class who frequented the place. He knew that
here and there among them were crooks, thieves, "con"
men, gunmen, and gamblers. Many of these men had perhaps
even committed murder—and that for money. Yet
there was not one he was positive, that would deliberately
separate a man and his wife for spite. And that was the
crime this preacher father-in-law of his had committed.
Always in the mind of this man of the prairie this played.
It followed him everywhere; it slept with him, arose with
him, and retired with him. And all through long sleep[Pg 312]less
nights it flitted about in his dreams like an eternal
spectre, it gave him no peace. Gradually it had brought
him to a feeling that the only justifiable action would be
to follow the beast to his lair and kill him upon sight.
Often this occurred to him, and at such times he allowed
his mind to recall murder cases of various phases, and wondered
if such a feeling as he was experiencing, was the kind
men had before committing murder. Then if so, what a
relief it must be to the mind to kill. He had a vision of
this arch hypocrite writhing at his feet, with death in his
sinful eyes, and his tongue protruding from his mouth.
He drank the beer and then ordered liquor. Somehow
he wanted to still that mania that was growing within him.
He had struggled for happiness in the world, for success
and contentment, and he did not wish his mind to dwell on
the subject of murder. But he was glad that this man had
left the city. A man might be able to accept a great deal
of rebuke, and endure much; but sometimes the sight of
one who has wronged him might cause him for a moment
to forget all his good intentions and manly resolutions.
Yes, he was glad that Reverend McCarthy had left the city,
and he shuddered a little when he recalled with a grimace
that he had traveled these many miles to see and reckon with
his wife.
"Well, you are here," he heard then, and turned to greet
Glavis.
"Oh, hello, Glavis," he returned with a tired expression
about his eyes from the effect of the strain under which he
had been laboring. "Have a drink."
"An old-time cocktail," Glavis said to the bartender. He
then turned to Baptiste.
"Well, how's everything over home?" said Baptiste,
coming directly to the point.[Pg 313]
"Your wife's sick," said Glavis a little awkwardly.
"And I, her husband, cannot call and see her. I'm compelled
to hear it from others and say nothing." He paused
and the expression on his face was unpleasant to behold.
Glavis saw it and looked away. He could not make any answer,
and then he heard the other again.
"This is certainly the limit. I married that girl in good
faith, and I'll bet that she has not told you or anybody else
that I mistreated her. But here we are, compelled to be
apart, and by whom?" His face was still unpleasant, and
Glavis only mumbled.
"That damn preacher!"
"Oh, Baptiste," cried Glavis, frowningly.
"Yes, I know—I understand your situation, Glavis.
But you must appreciate what it is to be thrown into a mess
like this. To have your home and happiness sacrificed to
somebody's vanity. I'm compelled to stand for all this for
the simple crime of not lauding the old man. All because
I didn't tickle his vanity and become the hypocrite he is,
for should I have said what he wanted me to say, then I
would have surely lied. And I hate a liar!"
"But come, Baptiste," argued Glavis, "we want to figure
out some way that you and your wife can get together
without all this. Now let's have another drink and sit
down."
"Well, alright," said the other disconsolately, "I feel
as if it would do me good to get drunk tonight and kill somebody,—no,
no, Glavis," he added quickly, "I'm not going
to kill anybody. So you needn't think I am planning anything
like that. I'm too busy to go to jail."
"Now, I'm willing to help you in any way I can, Baptiste,"
began Glavis, "as long as I can keep my wife out of it.
I've got the darndest woman you ever saw. But she's my[Pg 314]
wife, and you know a man must try to live with the one he's
married to, and that's why I am willing to help you."
They discussed plans at some length, and finally decided
to settle matters on the morrow.
But when the morrow came, Ethel blocked all the plans.
She refused to be sent away across town and let Baptiste
come into the house and see his wife. She knew what that
would mean, so she stood intrenched like the rock of Gibraltar.
Other plans were resorted to, but with the same
result. The days passed and Baptiste became obsessed with
worry. He knew he should be back in the West and to his
work; he began to lose patience with his wife for being so
weak. If he could only see her he was certain that they
would come to some agreement. Sunday came and went,
and still he saw her not. Ethel took confidence; she smiled
at the success with which she had blocked all efforts of communication.
Baptiste wrote his wife notes, but these she
intercepted and learned his plans. She convinced her sister
that she was sick and should be under the care of a physician.
This reached Baptiste, and he secured one, a brilliant
young man who was making a reputation. He had known
him while the other was attending the Northwestern Medical
College, and admired him; but this too was blocked.
For when he knocked at the door with the doctor at his
side, they were forbade admittance. Thereupon Baptiste
was embarrassed and greatly humiliated at the same time.
Ethel had a good laugh over it when they had left and
cried: "He had his nerve, anyhow. Walking up here with
a nigger doctor, the idea! I wish papa had been home,
he'd have fixed him proper! Papa has never had one of
those in his house, indeed not. No nigger doctor has ever
attended any of us, and never will as long as papa has anything
to do with it!"[Pg 315]
Glavis finally succeeded in getting a hearing. By pleading
and begging, he finally secured Ethel's consent to allow
him to bring Baptiste to the house and sit near his wife for
just thirty minutes—but no more. He did not apprise
Baptiste of this fact nor of the time limit, but caught him
by the arm and led him to the house as though he were a
privileged character. He took notice of the clock when he
entered, because he knew that Ethel, who was upstairs had
done so. And he was very careful during the time to keep
his eyes upon the clock. He knew that Ethel would appear
at the expiration of thirty minutes and start her disagreeableness,
so at the end of that time he quietly led Baptiste
away after he had been allowed only to look at his wife, who
was like a Sphinx from the careful dressing down she had
had before and preparatory to his coming.
So, having carried out what he considered a bit of diplomacy,
Glavis was relieved. Baptiste could expect no
more of him, and so it ended.
Ethel wrote her father a cheerful letter and stated that
that "hardheaded rascal" had been there from the West;
but that Orlean had declined to see him but once, and had
refused to go back at all, whereupon her father smiled satisfactorily.
Jean Baptiste returned to the West, defeated and downcast.
He had for the first time in his life, failed in an undertaking.
He had never known such before, he could not
understand. But he was defeated, that was sure. Perhaps
it was because he was not trained to engage in that
particular kind of combat. He had been accustomed to
dealing with men in the open, and was not prepared to
counter the cunning and finesse of his newly acquired adversaries.
Over him it cast a gloom; it cast great, dark shadows, and[Pg 316]
in the days that followed the real Jean Baptiste died and
another came to live in his place. And that one was a
hollow-cheeked, unhappy, nervous, apprehensive creature.
He regarded life and all that went with it dubiously; he
looked into the elements above him, and said that the
world had reached a time whence it would change. The air
would change, the earth would become hot, and rain would
not fall and that drought would cover all the land, and the
settlers would suffer. And so feeling, it did so become, and
in the following chapter our story will deal with the elements,
and with how the world did change, and how drought
came, and what followed.[Pg 317]
CHAPTER VII
A GREAT ASTRONOMER
NOT LONG AGO a man died who had made astronomy
a specific study for sixty years. He knew the
planets, Mars and Jupiter, and Saturn and all the
others. He knew the constellations and the zodiac—in
fact he was familiar with the solar system and all the workings
of the universe. This man had predicted with considerable
accuracy what seasons would be wet, and what
seasons would be dry. He also foretold the seasons of
warmth and those of cold. And he had said that about
every twenty years, the world over would be gripped with
drought. This drought would begin in the far north, and
would cover the extreme northern portion of the country
the first year. The second year it would reach further
south, and extend over the great central valleys and be most
severe near the northern tier of states. Following, it would
go a bit further south the next year, and so on until it would
finally disappear altogether.
So according to this man's prediction, the country of our
story would experience a severe drought soon, preceded by
a slight one as a forerunner. For two years the crops would
be inferior but the following year would see it normal again.
So be it.
It had been dry the year before, and had been just a little
bit so the year before that. We know by the shortage of
crops Jean Baptiste had raised that such had been so. So,
with hundreds of acres, and the sun shining hot, and the[Pg 318]
wind blowing from the south, it was no surprise when he
became now, an altogether different person. (For you see
the life—that life that makes men strong and fearless and
cheerful had gone from the body of Jean Baptiste.) Then
he began to grow uneasy. It is, perhaps, somewhat difficult
to portray a drought and its subsequent disasters. We beg
of you, however, that you go back to the early years in the
peaceful, hopeful, vigorous country of our story: In the
years that had been before when everything had pointed to
success. Rainfall had been abundant; frost had waited until
October before it showed his white coat upon the window
sill. Land values had climbed and climbed, and had gone
so high until only the moneyed could even reckon to own
land. And Jean Baptiste controlled a thousand acres.
Over all the country, the pounding of steam and gasoline
tractors filled the air with an incessant drumming; the
black streaks everywhere told the story of conquest. The
prairie was giving place to the inevitable settler, and hope
was high in the hearts of all. So the wind had blown hot
many days before the settlers became apprehensive of anything
really serious.
Never since they had come to this country had they experienced
such intense heat; such regular heat; such continued
heat. A week passed and the heat continued. It
blew a gale, and then a blast; but always it was hot, hot,
hot!
Two weeks passed, and still it blew. Before this it had
at least subsided at night, although it did begin afresh in the
morning. But now it blew all night and all day, and each
day it became hotter, the soil became dryer, and presently
the crops began to fire.
"Oh, for a rain!" every settler cried. "For a rain, a
rain, a rain!" But no rain came.[Pg 319]
So every day there was the continual firing of the crops.
The corn had been too small in the beginning to require
much moisture, and the dry weather had enabled the farmer
to kill the weeds, so it stood the gaft quite well, for a time,
and grew like gourd vines in the meantime. It was the
wheat, the oats, the rye and the barley that were first to
suffer. These were at their most critical stage, the time
when tiny little heads must dare seek the light. And as
they did so, the cruel heat met and burned them until thereupon
they cried and died from grief. And still the drought
continued.
No showers fell. The crops needed water. After the
third week of such intense heat, the people groaned and
said "'93" had returned with all its attendant disaster.
And still the wind kept blowing. The air grew hot, hotter;
almost to stifling with the odor of the burning plants. The
aroma mixed with the intense heat was suffocating. The
grass upon the prairie gave up, turned its tiny blades to
the sun and died to the roots, while all the grain of the land,
slowly became shorter. It struggled, it bent, and at last
turned what had pointed upward, downward, and also died
of thirst.
And then the people awakened to the emergency. They
began to take note of the fact that many had gone into
debt so deeply until there were many who could never get
out unless they sold their land! This had been so with poor
managers, speculators, and others before. When they found
that they were unable to make it, there had always remained
the alternative of selling out. And this had been so easy,
because the people at large wanted the land. So instead,
heretofore, of retiring in defeat, the weakest had retired in
apparent victory. "For my homestead, I received $8,000,"
or maybe it had been $10,000. So it had been. Great prices[Pg 320]
to all who wanted to sell. Only a small portion of them,
however, had wanted to sell up to date.
But when the crops were surely a failure for the most
part, hundreds and thousands and even more quarters were
offered for sale. Then came the shock—the jolt that
brought the people to a stern realization of what was before
them. The buyers! There were no buyers! No, the buyers
now when many wished to sell, stayed in Iowa, and
Illinois and wherever they lived, and refused to come
hither!
So, for the first time the people in the new country were
face to face with a real problem. And this continued to be
augmented by the intense heat. Hotter it had grown, and
at last came a day when all the small grain was beyond redemption,
only the corn and the flaxseed were yet a possibility.
So to Jean Baptiste we now return.
He had written to his wife, and she had replied to his
letter. He read them where he lived, on the homestead she
had left, and longed simply for her to return. He lived
with his mind in a dull quandary. It was useless to try to
find consolation hating the cause of his troubles, so him, he
tried much to forget. It would all come right some day, he
still hoped, and worried between times over his debts. He
had borrowed more money to develop his land; was behind
in the interest, now, and also the taxes, and his wife wrote
for money.
This was what Glavis had advised him to do—Send her
money and all would be right. Yes, that was what Ethel
and her mother and her father had all thought right. Send
her money. But the day of plenty of money for Jean
Baptiste was slipping. The burning, dried crop that lay in
the field, would bring no money. But this he dared not
write. If he wrote and told the woman he had married[Pg 321]—for
a wife she surely was no more—that would be to tell
the family. And that Prince of Evil, the Reverend, would
say with his wonted braggadocio: "Um-m. Didn't I tell you
right! That is a wild country out there for wild people,
only." So Baptiste kept what was ruining the crops to himself.
He sent her five dollars, and this brought the most pleasant
letter he had yet received. It also brought one from
Glavis, who followed the same with another, which was
more to the point. It was this he wrote:
"Chicago, Ill., June, 30th, 191—
"Dear friend Baptiste:
"I have your recent letter, and it gives me a great pleasure
to reply to it. You would have had my last letter
sooner; but I left it to Ethel to mail, and this she did not
do, so that explains the delay.
"Now we are getting along very well in Chicago, and hope
the same prevails in the West. By the papers I read where
considerable dry weather is prevailing over a part of the
West, but hope it hasn't struck your part of the country.
Appreciating, however, your disposition to come directly to
a point, I will now turn to a subject that I am sure will be
of greater interest to you than anything else, and which is
Orlean, your wife.
"It gives me a pleasure to state that she appears more relieved
of recent than she has since returning home. But I
will not hesitate to tell you why. It is because of you, and
you only. Always she talks of you—to me—and it pleases
me to talk with her concerning you, for it is with you her
mind is at all times. I fear that you cannot appreciate her
now as you were once inclined to do; but really think you
would be justified, fully so, if you did.
"Now, for instance, when you sent the money not long
ago, it gave her great delight. That you haven't forgotten
that she is your wife and have some regards, in spite of all,[Pg 322]
meant to her very much. She took it and bought her a pair
of shoes, with a part; the other she spent to have pictures
made so that she might send you one. And I speak truly
that to send you one was the sole object in her having them
made.
"The poor girl has suffered much—agonies. It is not
her disposition to be as she has somehow been compelled to
be. I can't quite explain it, but if it was left to Orlean's
dictates, things would not be as they are. Yet, you might
not appreciate this, either. But to make it plainer: Orlean
has her mother's disposition, and that is not to assert her
rights. Too bad.
"Well, there was a little incident that touched me the
other day, and which I will tell you of. A certain lady was
over and seeing her with the new shoes, she asked who had
bought them. Poor Orlean! It is certainly to be regretted
that a girl of her temperament, and kind disposition must be
placed forever in a false light. Frankly it worries me. I
trust you will understand that the true state of affairs has
not been given to the public, and here I will draw a long
line instead of saying what will be best left unsaid——But
Orlean replied to the lady in these words: 'My husband
bought them for me.'
"I wish you could understand that it is all one great mistake.
I wish you knew the truth and the suffering this poor
girl has been put to; for if you did you would know that she
is a good girl, and loves the man she has married with all her
soul—but Orlean is not like other women. She's weak
and—oh, well, I must close here because it hurts me to
tell more.
"I will, however, in conclusion say: Do not despair,
or grow bitter toward her. This is a strange world, and
strange things happen in it. Of but one thing I can assure
you, and that is: The right must come and rule in the
end. Yes, nothing but right can stand, all else passes.
Therefore, hoping that you will be patient, and trust to that
I speak of, believe me to be,
"Always your friend,
"E.M. Glavis."
[Pg 323]
Now it so happened that when Glavis had completed this
letter, he was called to the phone, and later into the street.
He was gone a half hour or more, and in the meantime,
Ethel came upon it, and read it. Her evil little eyes narrowed
to mere slits when she had finished. She had noted
what had been going on—Orlean and her husband always
finding each other's company so congenial.
"Well," she muttered after a time. "The time to
strike iron is while it's hot. I'll have to get that man of
mine straightened out." Whereupon she went to her room,
and here is the letter she wrote:
Chicago, Ill., June 30th, 191—
"The Reverend N.J. McCarthy, Cairo, Ill.
"Dear Father: We received your letter and were glad
to hear you say that you expected to come to Chicago soon.
I was just thinking awhile ago, that if you could come soon,
real soon, it might be best. Certain matters need your attention.
I will not state which, but I, you know, am aware
of how you have been slandered and vilified by a certain
person that you know. Well, that person is again finding
a way to influence those who are near to us. So knowing
how equal you are to the most arduous task, I take this
means of communicating that which is most expedient.
"Hoping that your health is the best, and that we may
see you real soon, believe me to be, as ever,
"Your loving daughter,
"Ethel."
So it happened that out in the West where the most
terrific and protracted drought the country had ever experienced
was burning crops and hopes of the people included,
Jean Baptiste was made joyful.
He understood Glavis' letter; he understood what he had
said and what he had not said. He had suffered. He saw
disaster creeping upon him from the drought rent fields.[Pg 324]
Is it, therefore, but natural that in his moments of agony
and unhappiness, shattered hopes and mortal anguish, that
he should turn to the woman who had been his mate. To
have her to talk to; her to tell the truth to and share what
little happiness there was to be had in life, he became overly
anxious? Thereupon he wrote her, sending another check
for five dollars.
July 5th, 191—
"My dear wife:
"I am writing and sending you a little more money, and
since you must be well by now, and realize how much
I need you, I am enclosing a signed but not filled-in-amount
check, with the request that you come home right away.
You will start, say the 10th, that will place you in Winner
on the night of the eleventh, on Saturday, where I will
meet you.
"I will expect you, dear; and please don't disappoint me.
I have not seen you for three months now, and that has
not been my preference. The amount will be sufficient for
your fare, and expenses please, and I will write no more;
but should anything happen that you can not start on that
date, then write or wire me that I may know.
"With love to you, I am,
"As ever, your husband,
"Jean."
[Pg 325]
CHAPTER VIII
N. JUSTINE MC CARTHY PREACHES A SERMON
THE text of Reverend N.J. McCarthy's sermon to
be delivered on Mothers' Day, was one of the most
inexhaustible. Most of his sermons he did not prepare.
But because this was one of the greatest days in
the annual of the church, he spent a half a day in the
preparation thereof. The title he selected for it suited
him fully, and he called it: "The Claim of the Wicked."
Into it he put all the emotion that was in him. He drew
a picture in illustrious words, of the wicked, the vicious
man, and the weak, the undefended woman, and made many
in his dark congregation burst into emotional discordance
thereby. He ridiculed the vain; he denounced, scathingly,
the hypocrite; he made scores in his audience turn with perspiration
at the end of their noses with conscious guilt.
Oh, never before in the years since he had mounted to the
pulpit and begun what he chose to call, "an effort for the
salvation of souls," had he preached such a soul stirring
sermon.
"Live right, live right, I say!" he screamed at the top
of his voice. "How many of you are there as you sit here
before me, that have done evil unto thy neighbor; have made
some one unhappy; have cast a soul into grief and eternal
anguish? Think of it! Think of what it means before
God to do evil, spite; vent your rotten deceit upon others!
I stand before you in God's glory to beseech you to desist;
to pray with you to live according to your consciences;[Pg 326]
to dispense with that evil spirit that in the end you may
face your God in peace! Go forth hereafter in this world
of sin; go to those whom you have wronged and made
thereby to suffer, and ask forgiveness; ask there and repent
forthwith! Oh, I'll tell you it is a glorious feeling to
know you have lived right," and he turned his eyes dramatically
heavenward, and affected his audience by the
aspect. "To feel that unto others you have been just; that
you have been kind; that you have not caused them to suffer,
but to feel happy! Think of the thrill, the sensation such
must give you, and then let your conscience be henceforth
your guide in all things!"
When the services were over, and he had shaken hands
with all the sisters, and bowed to the brothers, a boy, the
son of the lady where he stayed, approached and handed
him a letter. He looked at it with his spectacles pinched
upon his nose, and then read it. It was from Ethel, and
we know the contents.
"So," he said easily as he read it. "The evil seeks to
influence my household in subtle matters, eh! Oh, that
man has the brain of a Cesar, but the purpose of Satan!
Drat him, and his infernal scheming! Ever since the day
I first knew him in the country four miles from this town,
he has been wont to annoy, to aggravate me—and after
all my daughter, my poor daughter, and myself have done
for him!"
He began preparation to go to Chicago at the earliest
convenience. As his work was so urgent, he wrote Ethel
in reply that same day:
"My dear daughter:
"I am in receipt of your letter and make haste to reply.
To begin with, I am not surprised to hear what you wrote[Pg 327]
in your letter. I am not surprised to hear anything these
days. Ever since your mother committed the unpardonable
blunder of letting my poor child go straggling off into
the West, that wild West, where only the rough and the uncivilized
live, I have not been surprised with what each
day might bring. It is certainly to be regretted that when
one has sacrificed as much as I have to raise two of the
nicest girls that ever saw the light of day, a fortune hunter
should come along and bring misery into a peaceful home
as that man has done. God be merciful! But it is to be
hoped that we will see fit to adjust rightly the evil that we
are threatened with.
"I cannot come to Chicago until a week from next Thursday
or Friday. I am so behind with God's work, caused
by the trip we made to that land of wilderness last spring,
that I am almost compelled to be at Cairo next Sunday.
But should anything transpire that will necessitate my presence
before that time, wire or write me right quick and I
will be there.
"From yours in Christ,
"N. Justine McCarthy."
In the West Jean Baptiste got ready for the homecoming
of his wife. The small grain crop was gone. While the
drought was now burning the corn to bits, his large crop
of flax, which had been the most hopeful possible a few
days before, was showing the effect of the drought now as
well.
But with Jean Baptiste, he could almost forego anything
and be happy with the prospects. In his mind this became
so much so, until he looked forward to the day he had set
for her coming as if all the world must become righted
when she was once again near him.
Now during these months he had only his grandmother
for company, and her he wanted to send home. But she
would not leave him, always willing to wait until Orlean[Pg 328]
came back. During these long lonesome days he found a
strange solace in talking to his horses. There, for instance,
was John and Humpy, the mules that Orlean had
driven her father out to their home with when he had come
on his first visit. He told them that she was coming back
now, and to him they appeared to answer. They had become
round and plump since work had closed, and having
fully shed their winter's hair, and not yet become sunburned
their dapple gray coating made them very attractive.
He rearranged the house, bought a few pieces of much
needed furniture, and made elaborate preparations for the
homecoming. At last the day arrived.
It was Saturday morning. The wind had died down, and
gave threats of rain for the first time in six long, hot dry
weeks. He hitched John and Humpy to the spring wagon,
and with a touch of his old enthusiasm, left his grandmother
cheerfully—but for reasons of his own, did not tell her
that he was going for Orlean. Perhaps he wished to surprise
her, at least he did not tell her.
He drove to Winner more filled with hope than he had
been for months.
The town was filled that day, and because there was an
appearance of rain in the air, which could yet save much
of the corn, there was an air of hope and cheer abroad.
Jean thought to board a train and ride a few miles, and
return on the evening train on which she would be. Then
he decided he would wait for her and be ready to drive
directly home. As the train was due shortly after nine
p.m., he estimated that he could drive the distance in two
hours; thereby getting to her claim before midnight and
they could spend Sunday together celebrating their happy
reunion.
He had longed to talk with her—and grieve with her[Pg 329]
over their loss in the fine little boy who never knew his
parents. He thought of all this and of the happy days they
had spent together the summer before. He felt the love
and the devotion she had given him then. He wondered
sometimes whether he had ever loved her as he had
dreamed he would love his wife; but this thought had ever
been replaced by his sense of duty. Marriage was sacred;
it was the institution of good; he always disliked to see
people part. He felt then, as he had ever felt before, that
nothing but infidelity could ever make him leave a woman
that he had married. He was still an enemy of divorce.
He recalled how they had gone to the Catholic church once
in Gregory, and had heard a learned priest discourse on
divorce and its attendant evils. Never before had anything
so impressed him. How plain the priest had made his
audience understand why the church did not tolerate divorce.
How decidedly he had shown that divorce could and
would be avoided if the people could be raised to feel that
"until death do us part." And Baptiste and the woman he
had married had discussed it afterward. They had found
books and stories in the magazines to which they subscribed,
and had read deeper into it, and had been united in their
opinion on the subject. Divorce was bad; it was evil; it
was avoidable in almost every case. Then why should
it be?
They had agreed that duty toward each other was the
first essential toward combating it; that selfishness was a
thing that so often precipitated it. In all its phases he had
discussed it with her, and in the end, she had agreed with
him. And down in their hearts they had felt that such
would never be necessitated in the union they had formed.
So he lived again through the life that had been his, he
did not allow his mind to dwell on the evil that had come[Pg 330]
into and made his life unhappy; made his days and nights
and very existence a misery. He did not, as he lingered on
the platform of that little western station, think or dwell
on the things that were best forgotten. For a time he became
Jean Baptiste of old. Return to him then did all that
old buoyancy, all that vigor and great hope, all that was his
when he had longed for the love that should be every man's.
And she had been away on a visit, to recover from the
illness that the delivery had given her. He was sorry for
their loss, and he would talk with her this night as they
drove along the trail. They would talk of that and all they
had lost, and they would talk of that which was to come.
Oh, it would be beautiful! Just to have a wife, the wife
that gives all her love and thought to making her husband
happy. And he would try to give her all that was in him.
And his wife would soon be with him—in his arms, and
they would be happy as they had once been!
There it was! From down the track the train whistled.
It was coming, and his wait was to an end. Near he saw
John and Humpy whom she had been delighted to drive.
They were groomed for the occasion, and were anxious to
go home. Tonight they would haul her and hear her voice.
He rose suddenly to his feet when at last the light fell
upon the rails and he could see the engine. The roar of
the small locomotive was approaching. Around him were
others whose wives had been away. They, too, were come
to meet their loved ones. Some were alone while around
the others were children—all waiting to meet those dear to
their hearts.
The train came to a stop at last, and the people emerged
from the coaches. There was the usual caressing as loved
ones greeted loved ones. Little cries of "mama" and
"papa" were heard, and for a moment there was quite a[Pg 331]
hubbub of exclamations. "Oh, John," and "Jim" with
the attendant kiss. In the meantime he looked expectantly
down the line to where the car doors opened, and not seeing
the one for whom he was looking, he presently jumped
aboard the first car, and passed through it. It was empty
and he estimated that she would be in the rear car. It was
the chair car, and the one in which he naturally would expect
her to ride. He passed into it bravely, with his lips
ready to greet her. The last of the passengers were filing
out. The car was empty, and his wife had not come.
Slowly he passed out of the car as the brakeman rushed
in to change his apparel for the street. Across the street
was the team waiting. They seemed to know him before he
came in sight and they greeted him as though they thought
that she had come, too.
He got slowly into the wagon, and soon they were hurrying
homeward.[Pg 332]
CHAPTER IX
WHAT THE PEOPLE WERE SAYING
N.J. MCCARTHY arrived in the city late on Friday
afternoon and was met by both his daughters.
Ethel had, of course, read the letters Jean Baptiste
had written his wife requesting her to return home, and
so she took Orlean with her to meet her father, instead of
permitting her to go to the station to return to the husband
who had asked for her. The Elder was due in about the
same time the train that would have taken Orlean West was
due out.
"Ah-ha," he cried as he stepped from the car. "And
both my babies have come to meet their father! That is
the way my children act. Always obedient to their father.
Yes, yes. Never have contraried or disobeyed him," a
compliment he meant for Orlean, but Ethel could share it
this once, although the times she had contraried or sauced
him would have been hard to recount.
Upon arriving home, they met Glavis just returning from
work, and he was also greeted in the same effusive manner
by the Reverend.
"And how is everything about the home, my son?"
asked the Elder in a big voice. At the same time he eyed
Glavis critically. He had come to the city with and for a purpose,
and that purpose was to put down early the intimacy
that had been reported as growing up between Glavis and
Baptiste. So he had planned to attend to it diplomatically.
"Why everything is alright, father," glabbed Glavis,[Pg 333]
grinning broadly and showing his teeth. He was ever affected
by the other's lordlyism, and he had never tried
matching his wits with those of the other's in an extraordinary
manner. The Elder was aware of this, and it made
him rather grateful. However, he regarded the other
closely as Glavis stepped about in quick attention to his
possible needs or desires. That was as he had hoped to
have both his sons-in-law, wherefore his team would have
been complete. It made him sigh now regretfully when he
recalled how he had failed in the one case. He gave up
momentarily to a siege of self pity. How different it
would have been had Jean Baptiste chosen to admire
him as Glavis apparently did. But—and he straightened
up perceptibly when it occurred to him, instead of being
as Glavis was, the other had chosen to be independent, to
call him "Judge," "Colonel," "Reverend," and "Elder"
and any other vulgar title he happened to think of on the
moment. Moreover, he had also chosen to ask him a thousand
questions about things he did not understand—that
was the trouble, though the Elder had not seen it that way—asking
him questions about things he did not understand.
The Elder saw it as "impudent." He saw and regarded
that persistency which had been the making of the man
in Jean Baptiste as "hardheadedness." He regarded that
tenacity to stick to anything in the other, sufficient to characterize
"a bulldog."
"M-m, my boy," he said now to Glavis. "You are certainly
a fine young man, just fine, fine, fine!" He paused
briefly while Glavis could swallow the flattery, and then
went on: "Never in the thirty years I have been a minister
of the gospel and been compelled to be away from
home in God's work, has it ever been like it has since you
married Ethel. I simply do not have to worry at all now;[Pg 334]
whereas, I used to have to worry all the time." Whereupon
he paused again, affected a lordly sigh, and permitted Glavis
to become inflated with vanity before going on.
"Now, before you married Ethel, I was a little dubious."
He always said this for a purpose. "I am so well informed
and understand men so well, and the ways of men,
until I was hesitant to risk trusting you with my daughter's
love. You will understand how it is when you have raised
children with the care I have exercised in the training of my
precious darlings. A man cannot be too careful, and for
that reason, I was dubious regarding her marrying you.
Besides, we, I think you understand, are among the best colored
people of the city of Chicago, and the State of Illinois,
so it behooved me to exercise discretion."
"Yes, father," Glavis swallowed. He felt then the dignity
of his position as a member of such a distinguished
family.
"Well," went on the other, "you know how much grief
I must be enduring when I see this poor baby," pointing to
Orlean, "as she is. The finest girl that ever trod the earth,
and my heart always, and then to see her dragged
down to this, and all this attendant gossip, grieves my old
heart," whereupon big tears rolled down his dark face. All
those about sighed in sympathy and were silent.
"Oh, it's a shame, a shame, my father, it is a shame!"
he cried between sobs. "Oh, his immortal soul! Come in
here like a thief in the night, and with his dirty tongue just
deliberately stole her from her good home—her an innocent
child to go out into that wilderness and sacrifice her poor
soul to make him rich!" He ended with the eloquence that
his years of preaching had given him. He shed more tears
of mortification, and resumed:
"And my wife, her own mother, was a party to it!" He[Pg 335]
was killing two birds with one stone now. Nothing was
more gratifying to him than to seize every possible opportunity
to place all his failures, all his shortcomings, all his
blunders, and last, but not least, all the results of his evil
nature, on the shoulders of his little helpless wife. For
years—aye, since he had taken her as wife, had it been
so. Never had she shared even in reflected light the
honors that had come to him. She did as he requested,
and endeavored to please him in every way. The love he
had given her was an affected love. It was not from his
heart. He had given her little that was due her as his
wife.
"I went out there," he went on, "to find this child lying
there in the bed with only his sister and grandmother to
look after her. The doctor was coming twice a day, but
that man asked him, when she could but open her eyes,
whether such was necessary; and that when it wasn't, then
to come but once. I sat there by her bed, I, her poor old
father, and nursed her back to life from the brink of death,
the death that surely would have come had it not been for
me. And when she was well enough, I went to all the expense
of bringing her out of that wilderness back to her
home and health.
"And for that, for all that I have sacrificed, what am I
given? Credit? Well, I guess not! I am being slandered;
I'm being vilified by evil people—and right in my own
church! Think of it! For thirty years I have preached
the law of the gospel and saved so many souls from hell,
and now, now when my poor old head is white and my
soul is grieved with the evil that has come into my home,
I am vilified!
"No longer than last week, I was approached by a
woman, a woman purporting to be a child of God, but who[Pg 336]
ups to me and said: 'Reverend Mac., what is the matter
with your daughter and the man she married? I hear they
are parted?' I was so put out that I did not attempt to
answer, but just regarded her coldly. But did that stop
her mouth? Well, I guess not! She went right on as flip
as she could be: 'Well, you know, Reverend, there is all
kinds of reports about to various effects. One is that you
didn't like him because of his independent ways, and because
he was successful, and he didn't take much stock in
you because he didn't like the way you had lived. And then
there's other reports that he made an enemy of you because
he didn't praise and flatter you, and that you did it
to "get even." They say that you had your daughter to
sign her husband's name to a check for a large sum of money
and used it to slip away from him and so on. But the one
thing that everybody seems to be agreed upon is, that there
was nothing whatever wrong between the couple, and that
they had never quarreled and never had thought of parting.
That all the trouble is between you and your son-in-law.'
"I had stood her gab about as long as I could, I was
so angry. So all I could say was: 'Woman, in the
name of heaven, get you away from me before I forget I
am a minister of the gospel and you a woman!' But before
she had even observed how angry I was, she ups and
says: 'Why, now, Elder, as much as you love the ladies,
and then you'd abuse a poor woman like me,' and right
there, after such a tonguing as she had let out, fell to
crying!
"Those are some of the things I must endure, my son,
in this work. I must endure slander, vilification, misunderstanding,
and all that. It's terrible."[Pg 337]
"People are certainly ungrateful," cried Ethel at this
point. "And they don't try to learn the truth about anything
before they start their rotten gossip. More, they
have nerve with it! A certain woman stopped me on the
street downtown the other day, a woman who claims to
have been my friend and a friend of our family for years.
And what do you think she had the nerve to say to me?
Well, here's what it was, and I hope she said it: 'Why,
Ethel, how is Orlean?' I replied that she was getting better.
She says: 'Is she sick physically, or mentally?' I
said: 'I don't understand you?' She looked at me kind
of funny as she replied, 'Why, don't you know, Ethel Glavis,
that it's the talk around Chicago—everybody is saying it,
that you and your father went out West there, and made
her forge his name to a check for a large sum of money
and for spite and spite only, took poor Orlean away from
her husband and came back here and spread all this gossip
about her being sick and neglected when the doctor had
come to see her every day? I know Jean Baptiste and I
have not lived in this world for thirty-five years and not
able yet to understand people. And Jesus Christ couldn't
make me believe that Jean Baptiste would mistreat Orlean.
Besides, all this talk comes from you and your father.
Orlean has said nothing about it. She is just simple and
easy like her mother and will take anything off you and
your father. Now, it's none of my business; but I am a
friend of humanity, and I want to say this, that anybody
that is doing what you and your father are doing will suffer
and burn in hell some day for it!' And she flies away from
me and about her business."
"It's outrageous," the Reverend cried. "We hardly
dare show our heads on the street; to greet old friends for[Pg 338]
fear we are going to be ridiculed and abused for what we
have done."
"It's certainly an ungrateful world, that's all," agreed
Ethel.[Pg 339]
CHAPTER X
"UNTIL THEN"
IT DID NOT rain the night Jean Baptiste went to Winner
to meet the wife who failed to come, but the protracted
drought continued on into July. For three
weeks into this month it burned everything in its path.
From Canada to Kansas, the crops were almost burned to
a crisp, while in the country of our story proper, only the
winter wheat, and rye, and some of the oats matured.
And this was confined principally to the county where Jean
Baptiste had homesteaded. Here a part of a crop of small
grain was raised, but everything else was a failure.
His flaxseed crop in Tripp County which had given some
promise if rain should come in time, had now fallen along
with all else, and when he saw it next, after his trip to
Winner, it was a scattered mass of sickly stems, with army
worms everywhere cutting the stems off at the ground.
The whole country as a result, was facing a financial panic.
Interest would be hard to raise—and this, in view of the
fact that the year before had seen less than half a crop
produced, was not a cheerful prospect. With Baptiste, and
others who had gone in heavily, disaster became a possibility;
and, unless a radical change intervened, disaster appeared
as an immediate probability.
During these days there was little to do. He had harvested
what little crop he had raised, and having no hauling
or anything, to engage him he found going fishing his
only diversion. And it was at about this time that he re[Pg 340]ceived
a letter. It bore the postmark of the town where
he had met his wife in the beginning, and read:
"My dear Jean:
"I thought I would be bold this once and write you, since
it is a fact that you are on my mind a great deal. You will,
of course, remember me when I mention that it was in my
home that you met your wife. Rather, the woman you
married, whom, I suppose, from what I hear, has not proven
very faithful. I daresay that your trip to my home that
day was the beginning of this episode. But it is of him, the
Reverend, her father, of whom I wish to speak.
"He used to speak of you. You see this town is in his
itinerary, and I therefore, see him quite often. In fact, he
is quite well known to me, and visits my home, and has been
here recently. He was here just a week ago yesterday
before going into Chicago, and I asked about you. He ups
with his head when I did so, and I estimated that the trouble
that is supposed to be between you and Orlean, is possibly
between him and yourself.
"Well, you see, it is like this. After you married Orlean,
we could hear nothing from him but you. You were the
most wonderful, the most vigorous, the wealthiest—in fact
you were everything according to his point of view. He
preached of you in the pulpit; he set you up as the standard
and model for other young men to follow. Therefore,
you must imagine our surprise when almost over night
you had changed so perceptibly. From everything a man
should be—or try to be, as a young man, you became the
embodiment of all a man should not be. Now it is rather
singular. Apparently the Elder must have been possessed
with very poor judgment to begin with, or you must have
become in a few weeks an awfully bad man.
"Well, I don't know what to say; but in as much as I
have known you some little time—before you met Orlean
in the house where I write this, I cannot conceive or realize
how you could change so quickly. But what is more to the
point—I have known the august Elder even longer than
I have you—know him since I have been large enough to[Pg 341]
know anybody, and I have known him always to be as he
is yet. One wonders how such men can have the conscience
to preach and tell people to live right, to do right,
so they may be prepared to die right. But somehow we
take the Elder's subtle conduct down this way as a matter
of course. We think no more—I daresay not as much—of
what he does in that way than we would the most common
man in town. But it is too bad that his daughter must
suffer for his evil. Orlean is a good girl, but she has been
raised to regard that old father as a criterion of righteousness,
regardless of the life he does, and always has lived.
But withal, honestly, I do feel so sorry for you. I am
aware that this letter and the nature of its contents is unsolicited,
but it is and has been in my heart to say it. I
really feel that it is no more than honest to protest against
in some manner, the wrong that man is practicing. But to
the point.
"The last time he was here, and mama asked him about
you, and he was made angry because of it, he remarked
among the discredits he endeavored to pay the country
and you, that there was no church for her to attend. I remarked
that you had said you attended the white churches.
Thereupon he became very demonstrative. He said you
did attend the white churches, and had taken her, but that
you went to the Catholic church where there was, of course,
no religion in the sense to which she had been raised. I
hardly knew how to reply to or counter this, but I thought
that if you had, and she had belonged to the Catholic
church, how easy it would be now for you to lay your
cause before the priest and have it considered. But if you
did such before the ministers of his church—oh, well, I
am saying too much.
"And only now have I arrived at the event I choose to
relate. It is always so when one chooses to gossip, to forget
the things that may be of real interest. Well, word has
come that the Elder was taken violently ill in Chicago the
other day, and grave fears are held of his recovery. I
hear that he is very low, and perhaps the Lord might see
fit to remove a stumbling block....[Pg 342]
"I must close. I am sure I have bored you with such a
long letter and so much gossip; but I have at least satisfied
my own conscience. So hoping that all comes out well with
you in the end, believe me to be,
"Your dear friend,
"Jessie Mansfield."
It so happened that the exhausted Jean Baptiste turned
to the hope that illness might claim his enemy, and he exchanged
letters with Jessie Mansfield, regularly, and after
a time, found her correspondence a great diversion.
And so the summer passed. Near the last days of July
the severe drought was broken, but too late to benefit the
crops which had been so badly burned by the drought. He
managed to get considerable land into winter wheat, and the
fall came on with only a crop of debts and overdue bills
that made him regard the mail box dubiously.
Winter followed, one of the coldest ever known, and
spring was approaching when Jean Baptiste decided to make
his last attempt for a reunion with his wife.
In all the months that had followed his previous trip he
had planned that if he could only see her, could only see her
and be alone with her for a day, they would abridge the
chasm that had been forced because of the Reverend. That
one had not obliged him by dying by any means, but had
regained his health in a measure, so Baptiste read in the
letters he received from Jessie. However, she wrote, it
seemed that something had come over him, for he was not
the same. He had lost much of his great flesh, wore a haggard
expression, and seemed to be weighted down with
some strange burden.
It was April again when at last he took the train for
Chicago, for the last time, he decided, on the same mission
that had taken him there twice before. He planned now, to[Pg 343]
exercise more discretion. Inasmuch as the Reverend was
as a rule, always out of the city, he trusted to fate that he
would be out this time. The bitterness that had grown up
in his heart toward the Elder, he feared, might make him
forget to observe the law of the land if he chanced to encounter
that adversary. So when he arrived in the great
city, he went about the task of seeing his wife under cover.
He first visited a barber shop. He happened into one
near Van Buren on State Street, where lady barbers did the
trimming. He did not find them efficient, and was glad
when he left the chair. He decided that he would act
through Mrs. Pruitt, who he had heard from the fall before,
and who was being charged along with Mrs. McCarthy,
as being the cause of all the trouble.
He had not written her that he was coming, calculating
that it would be best for her not to have too long to think
it over. Upon leaving the barber shop, he ventured up
State Street, through the notorious section of the "old
tenderloin" to Taylor Street, and presently turned and discovered
himself in the Polk and Dearborn Street station.
He found that slipping about the street under cover like a
sneak thief was much against his grain, and he was nervous.
In all the months he had contemplated the trip, he had taken
great care not to let Ethel or any of the family know in
advance of his coming. He wanted his wife. The agony
of living alone, the dreaded suspense, the long journey and
the gradual breaking down of what he had built up, played
havoc with his nerves, and he was trembling perceptibly
when he took a seat in the station. He encountered a man
upon arrival there, whom he had known years before, and
because he had been so intent on keeping out of sight, the
recognition by the other frightened him. He managed to
control himself with an effort, and greeted the other[Pg 344]
casually. However, he was relieved when he recalled that
the other knew nothing of his relations—not even that he
had ever married.
After he felt his nerves sufficiently calm, he ventured to
the telephone booth, and secured Mrs. Pruitt's number. He
paused briefly before calling her to steady his nerves, and
then got her in due time.
"Hello, Mrs. Pruitt," He called.
"Hello," came back, and he caught the surprise in her
voice. "Is it you?" she asked, and he noted that her voice
was trembling.
"Yes," he called back nervously. "Do you recognize
my voice?"
"Yes," he heard, and the uneasiness with which she answered
discouraged him. He had great faith in Mrs.
Pruitt. Notwithstanding the gossip that connected her
name with the Elder's she was regarded as a woman of unusual
ability and mental force. She was speaking again in
a very low tone of voice. Almost in a whisper.
"Listen," said she. "Call this same number in about ten
minutes, understand? Yes. Do that. I'll explain later."
He sat before the clock now, in the station, and watched
the minutes pass. They seemed like hours. He was now
aware that the strain of these months of grief and eternal
mortification, had completely unnerved him. His composure
was like that of an escaped convict with the guards
near. His heart beat so loud until he looked around in cold
fear wondering whether those near heard it. And all the
while he sat in this nervous quandary, he kept repeating
over, and over again: "Mrs. Pruitt, Mrs. Pruitt—surely
even you have not gone back on me, too. Oh, Mrs. Pruitt,
you can't understand what it means to me, what I have suffered,—the
agony, the disgrace—the hell!" He regarded[Pg 345]
the telephone booth before him and his eyes were like
glass. All the busy station was a hubbub. After what
seemed to him an eternal waiting, he was slightly relieved
to see that fifteen minutes had passed, and he got up and
slipped back into the booth and called Mrs. Pruitt.
"Yes, I'm here, Jean", she called, "and the reason I
told you to call later was that your people—your father-in-law
is right here in the house at this moment. He was
sitting right here by the 'phone when you called awhile ago,
so now you understand."
"Oh," he cried, his head swimming, and everything grew
dark around him. After one long year of agony, of eternal
damnation, one long year of waiting and suspense, he had
banked his chances, and encountered his enemy the first
thing. Right under the telephone he had been! Jean Baptiste
who had once been a strong, brave and fearless man,
was now trembling from head to foot.
"Now, Jean," he heard Mrs. Pruitt. "I understand
everything. You are here to see and get Orlean if you
can; but you want to do so without them knowing anything
about it, and I agree with you. You wish me to help
you, and I will. I'll do anything to right this terrible wrong,
but give me time to plan, to think! In the meantime, he
is so near that it is not safe for me to talk with you any
longer. So you go somewhere, and come back, say: in
about an hour. If he is still here, I will say: 'this is the
wrong number,' Get it?"
"Yes, Mrs. Pruitt," he replied, controlling the storm of
weakness that was passing over him. "I get you."
"Very well, until then."
"Until then," he called, and hung up the receiver.[Pg 346]
CHAPTER XI
"IT'S THE WRONG NUMBER"
JEAN BAPTISTE had come eight hundred miles after
one terrible year, to the feet of his father-in-law, and
when he realized that such was the case upon hanging
up the receiver, his composure was gone. Bitter agony beyond
description overwhelmed him when he came from the
booth at the end of his brief conversation with Mrs. Pruitt.
Never in his life had he been as miserable as he now was.
It seemed to him that in the next hour he must surely die
of agony. He found a place in the station where he was
very much alone, and for a time gave up to the grief and
misery that had come over him.
"Unless I find some diversion, I will be unfit for anything
but suicide!" he declared, trying to see before him.
Out in the West all was wrong. He was now loaded down
with debt. His interest was unpaid, also his taxes. His
creditors for smaller amounts he had not even called upon to
say that he was unable to meet his financial obligations. He
had tried being blind to everything but the instance of his
wife. He had just deliberately cast everything aside until
he could have her. That was it. He had made himself
believe that only was it necessary to see her alone, and together
they would fly back to the West. He had not
reckoned that his arch enemy would be lying like a great dog
right at the door he was to enter.
And now, before he was hardly in the city, he was all but
confronted with his hypocritical bulk.
"Oh, I can stand it no longer, no, no, no!" he cried in[Pg 347]
agonizing tones. The world to him was lost. The strong
shall be the weakest when it becomes so, it is said; and
surely Jean Baptiste had come to it in this hour. He had
no courage, he had no hope, he had no plans.
After minutes in which he reached nowhere; minutes
when all the manhood in him crept out, and went away to
hide, he staggered to his feet. He straightened his body,
and also his face; he became an automaton. He had decided
to seek artificial stimulation. Thereupon he made his
way into the main waiting room. He looked about him
as one in a daze, and finally turned his face toward the entrance
of the station. When there he had arrived, he hesitated,
and looked from right to left. As he did so, his mind
went back to some years before when he first saw the city,
and had gone about its streets in search of work. A block
or two away he recalled Clark Street, that part of it which
had been notorious. He recalled where one could go and
see almost anything he wished.
Now, he was a man, was Jean Baptiste, a man who had
loved a wife as men should; a man who had found a wife
and a wife's comfort all he had longed for in life. But that
one he had taken as wife had fled. She had left him to the
world, and all that was worldly. He was breaking down
under the strain, and his manhood was for the time gone.
He became as men are, as men have been, and he was at a
place where he did not care. He was alone in the world,
the prairies had not been good to him, and he felt he must
have rest, oh, rest.
He stepped from the station, and held himself erect with
an effort. He turned to his left, and walked or rather
ambled along. He did not know in particular where he was
going, but going somewhere he was. He kept his face
turned to the west, and after many steps, he came to a[Pg 348]
side street. It was a narrow street, and he recalled it
vaguely. It was called Custom House Place, and its reputation
for the worst, was equalled by none. Even from
where he stood the sound of ragtime music came to his
ears from a gorgeous saloon across its narrow way.
He listened to it without feeling, no thrill or inspiration
did it give him. He turned into this street after some minutes,
and ambled along its narrow walkway. As he went
along, from force of habit, he studied the various forms of
vice about. In and out of its many ways, he saw the
familiar women, the painted faces and the gorgeous eyes.
He came presently to where Negroes stood before a saloon.
They, too, were of the type he understood. Characters with
soft hands, and soft skin, and he knew they never worked.
He turned into it. A bar was before him, and although for
liquor he had never cared especially, he could drink. He
went forward to the bar and ordered a cocktail. He drank
it slowly, as he observed himself, all haggard and worn in
the bar mirror, and as he did so, he could see what was passing
behind him. A man sat in a small ante room near a
door, and he observed that men would pass by this man to
a door opening obviously to a stairway beyond. He wondered
what was beyond. He ordered another cocktail, and
drank it slowly, studying those who passed back and forth
through the door that the man opened with a spring. He
decided to venture thereforth.
When he had drank his cocktail he wandered toward the
door also, as if he had been accustomed to entering it. The
door opened before him and he entered. He found himself
in a hallway, with a flight of stairs before him, and a
closed and locked door on the stairway. He stood regarding
it, and espied a bell presently. This he approached and
touched.[Pg 349]
The door was opened straightway and the flight of stairs
continued to the landing above. He looked up and beheld
a woman standing at the top of the stairs, who had seemingly
opened the door by pressing a button. He entered and
approached her. As he did so, she turned and led him into
a small room, then into a larger room, where sat many other
women. He was directed to a chair, and became seated.
He regarded all the women about wonderingly; for to him,
none had said a word. He might as well have been in a
house of tombstones, for they said naught to him, and did
not even look at him.
He sat where he was for perhaps two minutes. Then he
arose and walked to the door which he had entered, and
turned to look back into the room. It was empty, every
woman had disappeared without a sound in a twinkling, all
except the woman who had admitted him. She stood behind,
regarding him noncommittally.
"What is this place?" he inquired of her. She looked
up at him, and he thought he caught something queer in
her eyes. But she replied in a pleasant tone:
"Why, it is anything."
"Oh," he echoed. She continued to stand, not urging
him to go, nor to stay. He looked at her closely, and saw
that she was a white woman, perhaps under thirty.
"A sort of cabaret?" he suggested.
"Yes," she replied, in the same pleasant tone of voice.
"A sort of cabaret."
"So you serve drinks here, then?"
"Yes, we serve drinks here."
"Where?"
"Well," and she turned and he followed her to another
room apparently the abode of some one. Included in the
furniture there was a table and two chairs, and while he[Pg 350]
became seated in one, she took the other and her eyes asked
what he wished.
"A cocktail," he said.
She went to a tube and called the order.
"And something for yourself," he said.
She did as he directed, and duplicated his order. She
came back to where he sat by the table and sat before him,
without words, but a pleasant demeanor.
"Here's luck," he said, when the drinks had been
brought up.
"Same to you," she responded, and both drank.
He told her then to bring some beer, and when the order
had been given, he bethought himself of his errand. Instantly
he became oblivious of all about him, and the old
agony again returned. He stretched across the table, and
was not aware that he groaned. He did not hear the woman
who stood over him when she returned with the beer. He
was living the life of a few minutes before,—misery.
"Here is your beer," she said, but he made no move.
Presently she touched him lightly upon the shoulder, whereupon
he sat erect, and looked around him bewilderingly.
"Your beer," she said, and he regarded her oddly.
"What is the matter?" she said now, and regarded him
inquiringly.
"I was thinking," he replied.
"Of something unusual," she ventured.
"Yes," he answered, wearily. "Of something unusual."
She observed him more closely. She saw his haggard
face; his tired, worn expression, and beneath it all she
caught that sad distraction that had robbed him of his composure.
In some way she really wished to help him. Here
was an unusual case. She,—this woman who was for sale,
became seated again, and regarding him kindly she said:[Pg 351]
"You are in trouble."
He sighed but said no word.
"In great trouble."
He sighed again, and handed her the money for the beer.
"I wish I could help you," she said thoughtfully and her
eyes fell upon the table. His hat lay there, and she saw
therein the name of the town where it had been purchased.
"You don't live here?" she suggested then.
"No," he mumbled, trying to dispel the heaviness that was
over him. If he could just forget. That was it. If he
could forget and be normal; be as he had been until that
evil genius had come back again into his life. "No," he
repeated, "I don't live here."
"And—you—you—have just come?" she said. Her
voice was kind. "Is it—it—a woman?"
He nodded slowly.
"Oh," she echoed. "Your wife, perhaps?"
He nodded again.
"Oh!"
They were both silent then for some moments; he
struggling to forget, she wondering at the strange circumstances.
"Has some one come between you?" she inquired after
a time.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Oh, that's bad," she uttered sympathetically. "It is
bad to come between a man and his wife. And you—" she
paused briefly then bit her lip in slight vexation, then observed
him with head bent before her. It was rather unusual,
and that was what had vexed her. Could it mean
anything what a woman like her thought of or sympathized.
Yet, she was moved by the condition of the stranger before
her. She felt she had to say something. "And you[Pg 352]—you
don't look like a bad fellow at all." He looked up at
her with expressionless eyes. She returned the look and
then went on:
"You have such honest, frank and truthful eyes. Honestly,
I feel sorry for you."
"Oh, thank you," he said gratefully then. To have some
one—even such a woman look at him so kindly, to say
words of condolence was like water to the thirsty. He
thought then again of that other, and the father that was
hers, who at that moment sat in the company of another
man's wife. He recalled that Mrs. Pruitt said that he had
been in town for several days and every day since he had
been there. Naturally. This man courted another man's
wife openly, yet was ready with all the force in him, the
moment Jean Baptiste sought his God-given mate, to rise
up in pious dignity to oppose him. Wrath became his now,
and his eyes narrowed. In the moment he wanted to go
forth and slay the beast who was making this. He rose
slightly. She saw it, and her eyes widened. She reached
out and touched his hand where it gripped the table.
"Please don't do that," she said, and in her voice there
was a slight appeal.
He regarded her oddly, and then understood. He sank
back listlessly in the seat, and sighed.
"Poor boy," she said. "Some one has done you a terrible
wrong. It is strange how the world is formed, and
the ill fortune it brings to some. I can just see that some
one has done you a terrible wrong, and that when you rose
now you would have gone forth and killed him."
He regarded her with gratitude in his eyes, and the expression
upon his face told her that she had spoken truly.
"But try to refrain from that desire. Oh, it's justifiable
it seems. But then when we stop to think that we will[Pg 353]
never feel the same afterward about it, it's best to try to
forget our grief. You are young, and there are worlds
of nice girls who would love and make for you happiness.
Some day that will be yours in spite of all. So please, just
think and—don't kill the one who has done this."
"You are awfully kind," he whispered. He felt rather
odd. Of all places, this was not where men came to be
consoled, indeed. But herein he had gotten what he could
not get on Vernon Avenue where church members were supposed
to dwell. He arose now.... He reached out his
hand and she took it. "I don't quite understand what has
happened, but you have helped me." He reached into his
pocket and withdrew some coins, and this he handed her.
She drew back her hand, but he insisted.
"Yes, take it. I understand your life here. But you
have helped me more than you can think. I was awfully
discouraged when I came. Almost was I to something
rash. Take it and try to remember that you have helped
some one." He squeezed her hand, and she cast her
eyes down, and as she did so, he saw a tear fall to the floor.
He turned quickly then and left.
He retraced his steps toward the Polk Street station, and
to the booth he had been inside of an hour before. He
called Mrs. Pruitt, and after a time came back over the wire,
in a low, meaning voice:
"It's the wrong number."[Pg 354]
CHAPTER XII
MRS. PRUITT EFFECTS A PLAN
HE had some friends who lived on Federal Street and
to their home he decided to go. He thought of
the day when he had married. The man ran on
the road. His wife he had known long, her name being
Mildred, Mildred Merrill. She had been invited to his
wedding but had not attended. When he had seen her a
year later, and had asked her why she had not attended, she
replied that she had been unable to purchase a suitable
wedding gift.
Her parents had been lifelong friends of his parents, and
he had been provoked because she stayed away. She and
her husband had been quietly married in the court house and
had since lived happily together.
"Oh, Jean," Mildred cried, when the door opened and she
saw his face. "We have just been talking of you," as she
swung the door wide for him to enter.
"Mama," she called, "here is Jean Baptiste!" Her
mother came hurriedly forward, grasped his hand, and exchanged
a meaning look with Mildred.
"And you are back again," she said as all three became
seated.
"Yes," he said, and sighed.
"It's awful," commented her mother.
"Isn't it the truth, oh, my God, how can those people
be so mean?" cried Mildred.[Pg 355]
"He's in Chicago," said her mother.
"Yes," said Mildred, "and I'll bet right over at Mrs.
Pruitt's every day."
"He wouldn't be likely to be home," commented her
mother.
"He returns as a rule along about midnight." The two
laughed then, and regarded the man.
"You ought to give her up, Jean," said Mildred. "A
woman that has no more will power than she has, isn't fit—isn't
worth the grief you are spending."
"Yes, Mildred, it does seem so, but she is my wife, and
somehow I feel that I should give her every chance."
"The case is unusual," commented her mother again.
"The man has a reputation for such actions—rather, he
has been known to persecute, and does persecute the preachers
that are under his dictation in the church. But that
such would extend to the possible happiness of his own
children! Indeed, it hardly seems credible."
"Vanity, mama. Reverend McCarthy is regarded as the
most vain man in the church. Jean here has never flattered
him—tickled his vanity, and this is the price he's
paying."
"Well," said her mother. "Such as this can't keep up.
Some day he's going to be called on to pay—and the debt
will be large."
"Understand that he aspires for the bishopric in the
convention next month," said Mildred.
"Shucks!" exclaimed her mother. "That's all bluff.
He seeks to grab off a little cheap notoriety around Chicago
before he goes to conference. There is as much chance of
his being even entered as a candidate for the office as there
is of me."
"That's what I think," from Mildred.[Pg 356]
"What are your plans, Jean?" her mother now inquired
of Baptiste who sat in a sort of stupor listening to their
talk.
"I am trying to get to see her without the old man's
knowledge." And he told them of his conversation with
Mrs. Pruitt.
"Isn't that a wife, now!" exclaimed Mildred. "Afraid
to meet the man she has married."
"Orlean and old lady McCarthy have no voice in that
house," said her mother. "First it's the Reverend, and
then follows Ethel."
"And it hardly seems credible when one knows how he
has always flirted with other women," said Mildred.
"I asked Orlean the last time I saw her," said Mildred
again, "what was the matter; was Jean mean to her, or
had he neglected her. She said: No, that he was just as
good to her as he could be, but that she could not stay out
in that wild country; that it would impair her health, and
she just couldn't stay out there, and that was all."
"Reverend McCarthy," said her mother.
"Of course. But that is one thing I have observed.
They have never got her to lie as they have done, and say
that he mistreated her." From Mildred.
"It's to be regretted that she has not more will to stand
up for what she knows to be right," said her mother.
"You have taken it up with the right person, Jean,"
said Mildred. "If any one can help you in such a delicate
undertaking, it is Mrs. Pruitt. She has more influence with
that old rascal than his wife. In fact, his wife, from what
I hear, has no influence at all."
"Well, Jean," said Mildred's mother, "you are to be admired
for the patience you have exercised with Orlean.
The average man would have knocked that old white headed[Pg 357]
rascal stiff and let Orlean go, and I don't wonder that if I
was a man that I wouldn't have done so myself."
"If I were that weak, and could see things as I do now, I
would want my husband to shoot me. I'm getting out of
patience with Orlean's weakness," Mildred added.
"Well," said Baptiste at this point, "it is now eleven,
and I will call up Mrs. Pruitt to go ahead with certain
plans that I have in view. Have you a 'phone?"
"Just outside," said Mildred, and opened the door.
He got Mrs. Pruitt directly, and again came back over
the wire:
"It's the wrong number!" But during the recent conversation
he had forgotten for the moment the "counter
sign," and continued calling back. Frantically he heard
again and again, "The wrong number! You have the
wrong number!" Suddenly he caught on, and as suddenly
hung up the receiver with a jerk.
He didn't go to the Keystone that night. He felt as
though he wanted to be near some friends. Accordingly he
went to Miss Rankin's. She was glad to see him, and, like
all his friends, knew his troubles, and welcomed him.
"You will awaken me early tomorrow—say, six
o'clock?" he asked, and upon being assured she would,
he went to bed.
All the night through his sleep was fitful. He saw
gorgeous processions that frightened him, and then again
he was thrilled; but never did he seem to feel just right.
Then he saw his enemy. He dreamed that he came to him
and kissed him; he heard him saying kind words, and saw
his wife by his side. They were back in the West and his
wife was returning from a visit. He was aroused, and
jumped to his feet. He looked at the clock, and the time
was half past five. All the agony of the day before came[Pg 358]
back with a rush, and he was overwhelmed. Thereupon he
got him up, and, dressing quickly, hurried out of the house
and caught a car to where Mrs. Pruitt lived on the west
side, in the basement of an apartment building, of which
her husband was janitor.
He estimated that the other would go home during the
night, and early morning would be the time to form some
plan of action. It seemed a long way to the west side, and
it was after seven when he arrived there.
He was greeted by Mrs. Pruitt, and the expression upon
her face did not disappoint him.
"Now, Jean," she said, "I have prepared you some breakfast,
and you must eat first, for I'll wager that not a bite
have you eaten since you talked with me yesterday."
"It is so, Mrs. Pruitt," said he, recalling then that eating
had not occurred to him for the last eighteen hours or more.
"Well," said she, becoming seated, "he left here at almost
midnight, and I have been planning just what to do,
that you may see Orlean. I certainly should have little
patience with a girl that has no more gumption than Orlean;
but since I know that she gets it from her mother, who
has not as much as a chicken, I have accepted the inevitable.
"Now, to begin with. If I called up and had her come
over here, he would come with her, of course, and also
maybe Ethel. And you know what that would mean. It
is so unusual that such a thing could be, but that is Reverend
McCarthy. He has always been this way, and I could not
change him. You erred when you didn't flatter him. But
that you did not have to do, and I don't blame you. He
has done you dirty, and some day he's going to pay for it.
I wouldn't be surprised if he did not soon, either. He is
a disturbed man, he is. Never has he been happy as he[Pg 359]
was before he brought that girl home. The crime he has
committed is weighing on him, and I wouldn't wonder if he
wouldn't be glad to have Orlean go back with you. The
only thing is, that he has been associated with a hard headed
lot of Negro preachers so long, until his disposition is ingrained.
He actually couldn't be as he should. He would
let Orlean go back to you, but he would determine on a lot
of ceremony, and something else that you are ill fitted to
forego. So the best way, as I can see, is for you to meet
Orlean somewhere, and there reason it out with her."
She paused briefly then, and was thoughtful.
"She loves you as her mother loves, in a simple, weak
way; but what is a love like that worth! In truth, while I
admire your courage, and desire to uphold the sacredness
of the marriage vow, you ought to get a divorce and marry
a girl with some will and force."
"I realize so, Mrs. Pruitt, but I am determined to live
with Orlean and protect her if it is within my power."
"I understand your convictions and sentiments, Jean, and
admire you for it. If the world contained more men like
you, the evil of divorce would lessen; but on the other
hand, as long as it contains men like the Reverend, and
women like Orlean, there will always be ground for
divorce."
"But every man should exhaust all that is in him for
what he feels is right, shouldn't he, Mrs. Pruitt?" spoke
Baptiste.
"Of course," she said somewhat absently. She looked
quickly at him then, and her eyes brightened with an inspiration.
"By the way, Jean," she said. "You remember Mrs.
Merley?"
"Who? Blanche's mother?"[Pg 360]
"The same."
"Most sure. Why?"
"Well," said Mrs. Pruitt. "I have been thinking. She's
a friend of yours, a good friend, although you might not
have known it."
"It is news to me—that is, directly."
"Well, she is, and has been very much wrought up over
the Reverend's treatment of you."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, it is so. You see, moreover, she is a distant relation
of Mrs. McCarthy's, and is fairly well-to-do."
"So I have understood."
"Yes, they are, and McCarthys sort of look up to them."
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Merley is independent, and hasn't much patience
with the Elder."
"So."
"No, and for that reason he admires her."
"Indeed."
"Yes, and she was over there and sort a 'bawled' them
out over what they were doing. Understand that she just
spat it in the Elder's face and he had to take it."
"Well?"
"Yes. You see Blanche got married this last summer,
and didn't quite please her mother."
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yes, Mary Merley is a friend of mine, and frankly she
almost told me that she wished Blanche had married some
one on your order.
"Oh!...."
"Yes, she did. And meant it! She admired your type,
and I know she would have been more fully pleased in such
an event."[Pg 361]
He was silent.
"Anyhow, I have planned that it will be through her that
you and Orlean may be brought together."
He was attentive.
"But before you go into it, my request is that my name
shall be left out."
His eyes asked a question that she answered.
"It is so. While Mary is a friend of mine, she has certain
habits that I don't like."
He regarded her more questioningly.
"I will say no more."
His face blanched, and then his mind went back two
years. Orlean had made just such a remark. He was
sorry.
"So I don't want you to mention me, since it would do
no good."
"I understand."
"I want her to have the credit for whatever success
might come of this."
"Yes."
"And my plans are that you go over there, and see
her?"
"Yes."
"Jolly her a little, and don't let on that you are aware
that she admires you."
"Very well."
"Get her to call Orlean up, and suggest a show."
"I get you."
"And there you are."
"Your plan is simple, but practical," and he smiled upon
her thankfully.
He was standing now. He held out his hand. She
grasped it, and bending forward, kissed him.[Pg 362]
"Be careful, Jean," she said. "And don't do anything
rash."
When he went his way, he understood.[Pg 363]
CHAPTER XIII
MRS. MERLEY
THE APRIL morn shone beautifully over Chicago,
when Jean Baptiste came from the basement of
the apartment where Mrs. Pruitt lived, and had
bade Godspeed to him. It was election day over all the
state, a preferential primary for the purpose of choosing
delegates to the G.O.P. convention to be held two months
later. And when Jean Baptiste thought of it, he understood
what had brought the Reverend to the city.
Baptiste arrived at Mrs. Merley's an hour after he left
Mrs. Pruitt, went directly to the number and pulled the
bell. It was responded to by a young woman he did not
know, but she assured him that the one he sought was in,
and after seating him in the parlor, hurried to tell Mrs.
Merley.
She came at once all joy and gladness, and greeted him
with a shake of both hands, and kissed him into the bargain.
"Sit right down, sit right down," she said profusely.
"And, oh, my, how glad I am to see you!" she smiled upon
him happily, proving how glad she really was, and he was
moved.
"And you came to see me," she continued. "You could
have called on no one who would have been more delighted
to see you!"
"You do me too much honor, Mrs. Merley," said he
gratefully.[Pg 364]
"Indeed," she returned. "I could not do you enough."
"I hadn't hoped for so much kindness, I am sure."
"But, Jean, you don't know how much I have thought
about you in the last two years, and I have longed to talk
with you!"
"Oh, really! But I thought I was forgotten by everybody
in Chicago."
"You have never been forgotten by us. And especially
have we talked of you in this last year...."
He was silent, though he felt he understood her reference.
"Some dirty sinner ought to be in torment!"
And still he did not speak.
"Oh, I know all that has been done to you, Jean," she
went on tenderly.
"Your words give me much relief, Mrs. Merley."
"I wish they could give you more. It is my wish that
an opportunity could be given me to help you."
He straightened. Now was the time to state his mission.
But she was speaking again:
"I spoke my sentiments to his face, the rascal! All his
dirty life has been given to making people miserable, wherever
he could."
Jean said nothing, but was listening nevertheless.
"He has been a rascal for thirty-five years, and has made
that simple cousin of mine he married, the goat." She
paused to get her breath. "I saw Orlean not long ago, and
asked her where her will was, or if she had any."
He was attentive. Always he liked to hear her.
"She, of course, tried to stand up for that arch hypocrite.
But I waived that aside. Said I to her: 'Orlean,
I could never believe you if you said Jean Baptiste
abused, mistreated or neglected you.' She looked down
when I had spoken and then said evenly. 'No, Jean did[Pg 365]
not do any of those things,' 'Then,' said I. 'Why do you
live apart from him, the man you married? Where is your
sense of duty?' 'But, Mrs. Merley,' she tried to protest.
'I just couldn't live out there in that wilderness, it was too
lonesome,' 'Oh, Orlean,' I said disgustingly, 'do you expect
me to believe that? And if even I believed you, how
could I respect you?'
"But that is it, Jean. Here is this family posing as
among the best Negro families in Chicago, but with no more
regard for what is morally right than the worst thief. Indeed,
no thief would do what that man is doing."
He mumbled something inaudible. She was out to talk,
so he heard her on:
"I understand the whole line up, and their vain shielding
of that old rascal, just because you didn't lie to him and
become a hypocrite like he himself is. Everybody near him
must bow to him and tell him he is great, else he will
use what influence is his to 'get even.' So that's the whole
output. He took her away from you because he raised her
as he has willed my cousin, his wife, to subserve to him.
And now he goes around here with all that dirty affected
piety and wants people to sympathize with him in his evil."
She paused again for breath, and then he spoke:
"I am glad to know you have taken the view of this you
have, Mrs. Merley," he said slowly, "And I am wondering
therefore, whether you would be willing to help me in a
certain Christian cause."
"Why, Jean! Why ask me? You must know that I
would help you in any way I could."
He then told her just what he had planned. She interrupted
him at times with little bursts of enthusiasm, and
there was no hesitancy on her part.
"Anything, Jean, anything! You don't know how anx[Pg 366]ious
I am, and how glad I am to have the opportunity!
The only thing I regret is that you ever married such a
weakling. You might have heard that Blanche is
married?"
"I have," he replied. "I trust she is happy."
"Well," said the other slowly, "she appears to be, withal.
And for that reason I suppose I should be thankful. But
she did not quite please me in her selection."
"Oh," he echoed.
"No," she said slowly, and as if she felt the disappointment
keenly. "She did not. Her husband, it is true, is
good to her, but he did not come up to my hope. Yet, and
it is singular," she said thoughtfully, "to think that a man
with all you possess financially, and mentally, should get
'in' as you have." She paused again a little embarrassed,
and then pursued:
"I wish Blanche had a husband of your disposition and
attainments."
"Blanche, I thought, was a sweet girl," he said reflectively.
"And a good girl," said Mrs. Merley. "I would have
given anything to have had her marry a promising young
farmer of your order, and be now living in the West."
"I love the West, and had hoped others would be loving
it too," he said ruefully.
"He came back here after his first visit, and sitting right
where you are now, said that you was one of the race's most
progressive young men. He added to this everywhere he
had half a chance and eulogized you to the highest. It happened
that the minister who married you, was here, and he,
too, very much admired you, and voiced the same to the
Reverend. That old devil just swelled up like a big frog
with vanity. Three months later he comes back here, and,[Pg 367]
to seek to justify his action, he spreads the town with lies
that nobody believes."
The other shifted his position.
"Well, Jean," she said now more soberly, "just what
shall I do?"
"If you would not mind—"
"Oh, don't say that!"
"Very well, Mrs. Merley. I would like you to call her
up and suggest a matinee."
"Why not just go to one?"
"That would please me if you would condescend?"
"I'd be glad to go, and in view of the circumstances, I
think it would be a suggestive idea. Let her get used to
your presence again, without coming directly to the point
at once."
"A capital idea, I agree!"
"Call her up and ask her to come over and go with you
to the matinee."
"That is the plan, and I understand."
"I will appreciate your kindness," said he heartily. She
arose then and advancing toward him, embraced him impulsively.
Thereupon she went to the telephone, and succeeded in
getting his wife on the wire. He heard her answer the
call, and laugh over something humorous Mrs. Merley said.
His heart beat faster, and he was conscious that he was
more hopeful than he had been for a long time.
"Yes...." Mrs. Merley was saying. "I want you to
go with me to a matinee.... Be here at one forty-five....
Yes, I have the tickets.... And you'll not be
late."
She was standing before him again, and her face was
lighted up with the joy of what she had accomplished. He[Pg 368]
was grateful, and rose to thank her, whereupon she embraced
him again. The next moment she went quickly up
the stairs to prepare for the occasion.
"You may come upstairs, too, Jean," she invited, "and
from the front room there, you can watch for yours."
"Oh, Mrs. Merley, you make me happier than I have
been for a long time," he said, and almost was he emotional.
"And I have a nice spare bedroom for you and her, tonight.
And tomorrow, she is yours."
Jean Baptiste waited and watched, and then suddenly he
heard a voice. It was that of the girl who had admitted
him, who was also watching.
"Here she comes," she cried, excitedly. Jean Baptiste
looked quickly out of the window and up the street, and
saw his wife coming leisurely toward the house wherein
he was sitting.[Pg 369]
CHAPTER XIV
OH, MERCIFUL GOD, CLOSE THOU MINE EYES!
REVEREND NEWTON JUSTINE MCCARTHY
had once lived in Peoria, Illinois, and was well acquainted
with the late Robert Ingersoll. Moreover,
he had admired the noted orator, and although he had not the
courage, in truth, he believed as Ingersoll believed. And
because he did, and was forced to keep his true convictions
a secret, while he preached the gospel he did not believe,
he had grown to hate almost all people. But N.J. McCarthy
was not aware of this fact himself.
Ever since he brought his daughter home, and had
thereby parted her from the man she married, he had
never been the same. Always he was troubled with something
he could not understand. His dreams were bad.
The awful sensations he very often experienced while in
slumber, grew so annoying that at times he found that
he was almost afraid to sleep. Then, a persistent illness
continually knocked at his door. The truth of it was, that
he was battling with a conscience he had for years crucified.
But it would persist. So deep had he sowed the habits he
followed, and so intrenched were the roots of these habits,
until it was no easy task to uproot them.
He had left Mrs. Pruitt near midnight of the day when
Jean Baptiste had arrived on his trip in a last effort to
secure his wife. The family had retired before he arrived
home, and having some business in the rear of the
house, he passed through the room which contained the[Pg 370]
bed wherein his daughter, Orlean, lay in peaceful slumber.
When he was returning he paused briefly to observe
the face of the sleeping girl in the moonlight. Peacefully
she slept, and for the first time in his life he saw
therein something he had never seen before. He felt his
flesh and wondered at the feeling that was come over him.
It seemed that he was asleep, but positively he was awake.
He was awake, and looking into the sleeping face of his
daughter. But if he was awake, what was it he saw?
Surely not. But as he stood over her, he thought he
could see her eyes open, and look at him strangely, regard
him in a way she had never done before. And as she looked
at him, he thought she raised her hand that lay under the
cover, and with her forefinger leveled, she pointed at him.
In the trance he imagined he could hear her voice. She
called him:
"Father?" And betimes he answered.
"Yes, daughter."
"Where is my husband?" He gave a start. He thought
he caught at something, and then he heard her again:
"You have sent him away, out of my life, and the day
is coming when you will be called upon to answer for your
sins!"
He thought he was trembling. All about him was turmoil.
He saw the people, the friends of the family, and
all the people he had preached to in thirty years, and all were
pointing an accusing finger at him. And out of the chaos
he heard them crying: "Shame, oh shame! That you
should be so evil, so vile, such a hypocrite, and let your evil
fall upon your own daughter!" He saw then the wife he
had taken from Speed. He saw that one in his misery, he
saw him sink, and renounce from weakness the sentiments
he had started in the world to teach. He saw him struggle[Pg 371]
vainly, and then saw him fall, low, lower, until at last the
flames of hell had swallowed him up. "Merciful God," he
cried, and he was sure he staggered. "Was it I who
brought all this?" But before he could recover, the procession
kept passing.
Behind Speed came the wife he had robbed him of. She
carried in her arms a baby that he had given her. By the
hand she led the other illegitimate offspring. There they
were, the innocents that had no name. He saw the bent
head of the woman, and saw the grief and anguish in her
face. He saw her suddenly stop and fall, and while she
lay upon the earth, her children were taken, and grew up
surrounded with all that was bad and evil. He saw one
suddenly dead, while still a boy, murdered by the companions
he kept. He saw his young body in the morgue. And
before all this had passed, he saw this one's mother again,
the woman he had fooled, in the depth of the "tenderloin."
He saw her a solicitor, and he could hear himself groan in
agony.
The years passed, and while he grew older, other things
came and went; a train of evil deeds he had committed, and
at last came his own daughter. He saw her passing and
when he saw her face, the agony therein frightened him.
Was it so! Had he, done that, too? Was he the cause of
what he saw in this girl's face? Suddenly he saw her
change, and in the distance he saw Jean Baptiste, and all he
had suffered. "Oh, merciful God, close thou mine eyes,"
he thought he could hear himself call. But his eyes would
not close, and the one to whom he appealed appeared to be
deaf, and the procession continued.
He saw Orlean stretch her hands out to Baptiste, and he
came toward her with arms outstretched, and he thought
he heard a voice, the voice of the man Jean Baptiste. And[Pg 372]
the words he cried rang in his ears: "My wife, oh, Orlean,
my wife! Come unto me!"—But lo! When the
two had came close, and the man would have held her to
him, a shadow suddenly rose between them, and shut them
out from each other's sight. He thought he raised his
voice to call out to the one of the shadow. And when he
called to him, and the one of the shadow turned, and behold!
It was himself! He suddenly came out of the
trance, to see Orlean sitting up in bed. He caught his
breath and held his hand over his heart, as he heard her
voice:
"Papa, is that you? My, how you frightened me! I—" and
then she quickly stopped. She had started to say, "I
thought it was Jean," for in truth she had dreamed of him,
and that he had come for her, and she was glad, and when
she arose to go she had awakened to find her father standing
over her.
"Yes, yes, my dear," he said rather awkwardly. "It is
I. I stopped to look at you and seemed to forget myself."
He hurried away then, and up the stairs to his room and
went to bed, but it was near morning when he fell asleep.
It so happened when Jean Baptiste had gone upstairs to
call on Mildred and her mother, he had knocked at the door
below. A man lived there whom he had known in the years
gone by and who had educated himself to be a lawyer. His
name was Towles, Joseph Towles. Always before when he
was in the city, he had called on Towles and his family,
and when their door rose before him, on the impulse he
had forgotten all else but to greet them. He pushed the
bell, and no sooner had he done so than he recalled his
mission, and that he was avoiding his acquaintances. He[Pg 373]
quickly passed upstairs but not before Mrs. Towles had
opened the door and caught a glimpse of him passing.
She was aware of his difficulty, and had pretended to sympathize
with him. But Mrs. Towles was a gossipy, penurious
woman, and did not get along with her neighbors overhead.
So when she saw Jean Baptiste passing up the stairs,
and hurrying from her without speaking, she at once became
angry, and with it apprehensive. She went back to where
she had been working over some sewing. She was thoughtful,
and then regarded the clock.
"I wonder what he is doing here?" she mused to herself.
And then she suddenly brightened with an inspiration.
"His wife, of course," she cried, and fell to thinking
further.
She happened to be a close friend of a certain lady who
lived next door to the McCarthys on Vernon Avenue, and
it was to her that she decided to pay a visit on the morrow.
And, of course she would discuss the fact that she
had gotten a glimpse of Jean Baptiste, and would try to
find out what she could.
It was the following afternoon that she found the time
to visit her friend in Vernon Avenue. She passed by the
house wherein lived the McCarthys, and made up her
mind to call there later in company with her friend to hear
the news.
"Why, Mrs. Towles!" cried her friend when she saw her
face upon opening the door. "How nice it was of you
to call, when I was not expecting you! Such a pleasant surprise,"
whereupon they kissed in womanly fashion. She
took a seat by the window, for she wished to look into the
street. The other took a chair just facing her, and together
they fell to talking. As they sat there, Orlean suddenly[Pg 374]
came out of the house next door, down the steps, and passed
before Mrs. Towles' gaze as she went up the street to Wabash
Avenue to fill the engagement with Mrs. Merley.
"Oh, look," cried Mrs. Towles, pointing to the figure of
the other. "There goes Orlean!"
The other strained her neck, and said:
"M-m."
"And I saw her husband last night."
"You did!" exclaimed the other in great surprise. She
had a grown daughter who was very much accomplished, but
unmarried. So she took a delight in such cases as Jean
Baptiste's....
"I did," replied the other, making herself comfortable
and getting ready to relate his strange actions.
"Well, well, now!" echoed the other, all attention.
"Yes," said Mrs. Towles, and then related all that had
passed which was not anything but catching a glimpse of
Baptiste as he had disappeared up the steps.
"I don't think they know next door, that he is in town,"
suggested the other.
"Don't they?"
"Why, not likely. You know the last time he was here
they wouldn't admit him!" They eyed each other jubilantly,
and then went on.
"Then we ought to go right over and inform them at
once!" said Mrs. Towles.
"Just what we should do," agreed the other.
And so it happened that the Reverend learned that Jean
Baptiste was in the city; but for once he was not excited.
Somehow, he hoped that Jean would meet Orlean, and he
knew then that she had gone out for that purpose. He knew
that she was supposed to go to a matinee, and he realized[Pg 375]
from previous statements, that Mrs. Merley was the "go
between."
So he took no part in the gossip that followed, nor did
he for once sigh in self pity.
Perhaps after all he had decided not to interfere.[Pg 376]
CHAPTER XV
"LOVE YOU—GOD, I HATE YOU!"
THE PLAY they witnessed that afternoon was an
emotional play, and in a degree it sufficed to arouse
the emotion in all three. The meeting between Orlean
and her husband had been without excitement. As if
she had been expecting him, she welcomed him, and they
had proceeded directly to a play at the Studebaker Theater
downtown.
When they were again in the street, they went to another
theater where they purchased tickets to witness Robert
Mantell in Richelieu. And, later, taking a surface car
on State Street, proceeded to a restaurant near Thirty-first
Street where they had supper, after which they retired to
the home of Mrs. Merley.
Of course that one left them to themselves in due time,
and in a few minutes they were engaged in congenial conversation.
After a time Jean caught her hand, and despite
the slight protest she made, he succeeded in drawing her up
on his knee.
"I ought not to sit here," she said.
"Why not, Orlean?" he said kindly, placing his arm
about her waist fondly.
"Because."
"Because what, dear?"
She looked at him quickly. He met her eyes appealingly.
She looked away, and then down at her toes.[Pg 377]
"How you have fleshened," he commented.
"Do you think so?" she returned, inclined to be sociable.
"It is quite noticeable. And you are better looking when
you are so."
"Oh, you flatter me," she chimed.
"I would like to flatter my wife."
She did not reply to this. She appeared to be comfortable,
and he went on.
"Don't you know that I have longed to see you, and that
it has not been just right that I could not?"
And still she made no answer.
"I never want to live so again. I want you always,
Orlean."
"When did you leave home?" she asked now.
"A couple of days ago."
"And how long have you been here?"
"I came yesterday afternoon."
"And when to Mrs. Merley's?"
"This morning."
She was thoughtful then. Indeed they were getting
along better than he had hoped. There remained but one
thing more. If he could persuade her to stay the night at
Mrs. Merley's and not insist on going home. If he could
keep her out of her father's sight until morning, he would
have no more worry. That, indeed, was his one point of
uneasiness. Keeping her out of her father's sight. He recalled
how he had refrained from buying a revolver when
he left home. It would not have been safe after all that
had passed between himself and her father for him to have
anything of the kind about, and he was glad now that he had
been sensible.
He drew his wife's head down, turned her face to his,
and kissed her lips. He caught the sigh that passed her[Pg 378]
lips. He saw her eyebrows begin to contract. What was
passing in her mind? Duty? Then, to whom?
He kissed her again, and caressed her fondly. This
meant much to him. He told her so then, too.
"It has been very hard on me, wife, for you to have
stayed away a whole year. Awfully hard. It was never
my plans or intention for such to be." He was full up now.
He wanted to talk a long time with her. If they could just
retire and talk far into the night as they had done in the
eleven months that had been theirs.
His confidence was growing. All that was expedient now,
he felt sure, was to keep the Reverend out of it until morning.
By that time no further effort on his part would be
necessary.
"Do you love me, Orlean?" he said now, drawing her
face close to his again.
She made no reply audibly, but she seemed to be struggling
with something within herself. In truth she did not
want to say that she did, and she would not tell him she did
not. She let her arm unconsciously encircle his neck. Her
hand found his head and stroked his hair, while she was
mentally meditative.
In the meantime, his head rested against her breast, and
he could hear the beating of her heart.
"Oh, my wife," he cried, intended for himself but she
heard it. It aroused her, her emotion began to assert itself.
How long would it take for her to be his mate again at this
rate?
"How is everything back home?" she asked, as if seeking
a change. He hesitated. She looked down into his face
to see why he did not answer directly. He caught her eyes,
and she could see that he was not wishing to tell her something.[Pg 379]
"What is the matter, Jean?" she asked now, slightly excited
and anxious.
"Oh, nothing," he replied. He wanted to tell her the
truth, all the truth, but it was not yet time he feared. Until
she had given up to him, he decided to withhold anything
serious.
"There is something, Jean, of that I am sure," she insisted,
shifting where she could see his face more clearly.
"If there is anything, wife, I would discuss it later.
Now,—I can think of but one thing, and that is you,"
whereupon he caressed her again fondly. She sighed then
and her emotion was becoming more perceptible.
"You are going back home with me tomorrow, dear?"
he dared to say presently.
For answer she shifted uneasily, and then her eyes espied
the clock on the wall. It was five-thirty.
"I think I should call up home," she said thoughtfully.
He caught his breath, and trembled perceptibly. She regarded
him inquiringly.
And here again we must remark about Jean Baptiste. In
the year of misery, of agony and suffering in general he
had endured, he had settled upon one theory. And that was
that if he and his wife were to ever live together again and
be happy, the family were to be kept out of it. Perhaps
if this could have been forgotten by him in this moment,
we would not have had this story to tell; but when she
mentioned her folks, all that he had wished to avoid—all
that he felt he must avoid, came before him. As he saw it
now, if she called her father, they would never live together
again. He was nervous when he anticipated the fact.
He started, and took on unconsciously a fearsome expression.
"Please don't, Orlean," he said, beseechingly.[Pg 380]
"Don't what?" she asked, apprehensive of something she
did not like.
"Call your father," he said. He wanted to tell her that
if she called her father, it would mean the end of everything
for them, but he withheld this.
"Now, I wish him to know where I am," she said, protestingly,
and arose from his knee. She stood away from
where he sat hesitatingly. In that moment, she was not
aware that she stood between duty and subservience. As
she saw it, she forgot from her training that there was a
duty, she only remembered that she was obedient. Obedient
to the father who had reared her so to be.
It was the psychological moment in their union. Near
her the husband that she had taken, regarded her uneasily.
He had come to her to do the duty that was his to do.
They were estranged because of one thing, and one thing
only, and that was her father, the man her husband would
never yield to. And as she hesitated between obedience to
one and duty toward the other, her life, her love and future
was in the balance.
Which?
"Orlean," she heard now, from the lips of her husband.
"Listen, before you go to the phone." He became suddenly
calm as he said this. "I married you two years gone now,
for better or for worse, and 'until death do us part.' That
was the vow that I took and also you. I've done my best
by you under the circumstances. I gave you a home and
bed that you left. I gave you my love, and am willing to
give you my life if that be necessary. But, Orlean, I didn't
contract to observe the ideas and be subservient to the opinion
of others. To force me to regard this is to do me a
grave injustice. You cannot imagine, appreciate, maybe,
how humiliating it is to be placed in such a position. I can[Pg 381]not
explain it with you standing impatiently before me as
you are. I have come here to try and have you discuss
this matter with me from a practical point of view. Surely,
having taken me as your God-given mate, you owe me that.
You force me to honor and respect certain persons—"
"Don't you," she cried. "Don't you insinuate my
father!" She advanced toward him threateningly in her
excitement, and all sense of duty was gone. Only obedience
to the one who had made it so remained. That she should
rally to the support of his adversary, displaced his composure.
He had hoped to have her reason it out with him,
and he had prayed that he be given a little time, and then
all would be well. He was aware that she was unequal to a
woman's task. Not one woman in a thousand he knew
would place a father before a husband; but his wife was
different. She had been trained to be devoutly subservient
to her father. For that reason he was willing to be
patient—he had been patient. But at the same time he had
suffered much, and her love and obedience to his worst
enemy—even if it was her father, unfitted him for that
with which he was now confronted. He was fast losing his
composure, likewise his patience. Nothing in the world
should stand between him and his wife. He became excited
now, but calmed long enough to say:
"Go ahead, or come to me. There are two things a
woman cannot be at the same time," and he waved his hand
toward her resolutely. "A wife to the man she has
married, and a daughter to her father." With this statement
he sank back into the chair from which he had partly
risen. He had said the last statement with such forceful
logic, that it made her stop, pause uneasily, and then suddenly
she straightened and turning, went to the telephone.
But when she called over the wire to her father, all the[Pg 382]
composure that Jean Baptiste ever had left him. All the
suffering and agony that he had experienced from the hand
of the other asserted itself. He arose from the chair and
came toward her. His eyes were bloodshot, his attitude was
threatening. She called to her father, and the words she
said were:
"Yes, papa.... Is this you.... Yes.... I am at
Mrs. Merley's.... And—ah—papa," she hesitated and
her voice broke from fear. "Ah—papa—a—Jean is
here, papa.... Yes, Jean. He is here." She was
trembling now, and the man standing behind her saw it.
He saw her passing out of his life forever, and desperation
overtook him. In that moment something within him
seemed to snap.
He reached over her shoulder and grasped the receiver
and pushed her roughly aside. The next instant she was
protesting wildly, while Mrs. Merley was brought to the
front by his loud voice screaming over the 'phone.
"Hell, hello, you!" he cried savagely. "Hello, I say!...
How am I! My God, how could I be after what you
have done to me, my life.... Why didn't I come to the
house?... Why should I come to your house, when the
last time I was there I was kicked out, virtually kicked out,
do you hear?"
"You get away from here!" he heard in his ear, and
turned to see his wife gone wild with excitement. Her eyes
were distraught, her attitude was menacing, as she struggled
at his arm to try and wrest the receiver from his hand. He
heard the other saying something in his ear. He did not
understand it, he was too excited. Everything was in a
whirl around him. He became conscious that he had
dropped the receiver after a time. He felt himself in contact
with some one, and saw the face of his wife. In her[Pg 383]
excitement she was striking him; she was trying to do him
injury.
He became alive to what was going on, then. The receiver
hung suspended; he was in a grapple with his excited
wife.
"You—you!" she screamed. "You abuse my father,
my poor father! You have abused him ever since I knew
you. You will not respect him, and then come to ask me to
live with you. You abuser! you devil! Do I love you?
God, I hate you!"
He made no effort to protect himself. He allowed her to
strike him at will and with a strength, born of excitement,
she struck him in his face, in his eyes, she scratched him, she
abused him so furiously until gradually he began to sink.
He reached out and caught her around the waist as he lost
his footing and fell to his knees. As he lingered in this
position his face was upturned. She struck him then with
all the force in her body. He groaned, as he gradually
loosened his hold upon her, and slowly sank to the floor.
And all the while she fought him, she punctuated her blows
with words, some abusing him, others in defense of her
father.
At last he lay upon the floor, while around her, Mrs.
Merley and the other girl begged and beseeched. But she
was as if gone insane. As he lay with eyes closed and a
slight groan escaping from his lips at her feet, she suddenly
raised her foot and kicked him viciously full in the
face. This seemed, then, to make her more vicious, and
thereupon she started to jump upon him with her feet, but
Mrs. Merley suddenly caught her about the waist and drew
her away.
How long he lay there he did not know, but he opened his
eyes when from the outside he heard hurried footsteps. He[Pg 384]
continued to lay as he was, and then somebody pulled the
bell vigorously. Mrs. Merley went to it, opened it, and let
some one in. He looked up through half closed eyes to
see the Reverend standing over him. In that instant he
saw his wife dash past him and fall into the other's arms.
He heard her saying words of love, while he was aware that
the other pacified her with soft words. They took no
notice of the man at their feet.
And then he saw them open the door, while the others
stood about in awe. While the door was open he caught a
glimpse of the street outside—and of Glavis on the sidewalk
below.
The next instant the door closed softly behind them, and
she went out of his life as a wife forever.[Pg 385]
CHAPTER XVI
A STRANGE DREAM
WHEN the others had gone, Jean Baptiste rolled
over again upon the floor, and was conscious that
one eye was closed and swollen, filled with blood
from a wound inflicted by his wife just below it. He rose to
a sitting posture presently, and looked around him. He was
in the hall, and when he looked through the open door into
the parlor, he saw Mrs. Merley stretched on the settee before
him weeping. He staggered to his feet, and went toward
her.
She looked up when he approached, and dried her eyes.
"You spoiled things, Jean," she accused, and he noted the
disappointment in her voice, and also detected a note of impatience.
"Yes, I admit I did, Mrs. Merley, and I'm sorry—for you."
"For me?" she repeated, not understanding his import.
"Yes," he replied wearily. "For you."
"But—but—why—for me?"
"Well," he said, with a sigh, "It had to be as it was. I
wanted her. But it would have been disaster in the end
on his account, because I could never have brought myself
to honor him, and to have lived with her I should have been
forced to—at least pretended to do so, and that would have
been worse still."
She was thoughtfully silent then for some time, then
she regarded him closely, and said as if to herself:
"Well, I fear you are right. Yes, I know you are when
I recall how she abused you a while ago. Gracious! I
did not know that it was in Orlean."[Pg 386]
"Nor did I," he said, his face covered with his hands.
"He made her that way through the influence he has exerted
over her. Evil influence. I have a feeling that there
will come a day when that influence will work the other
way," she said musingly, "he will be the victim, and the
punishment will be severe."
Both were silent for a time, and nothing but the ticking
of the clock on the mantel disturbed the quiet. He presently
raised his head, and in so doing uncovered his face.
It was dark and distorted, swollen a great deal, and one of
his eyes was closed. She saw it then for the first time.
"My God, Jean!" she exclaimed, arising and hurrying
to him. "Your face is swollen almost beyond recognition.
Why, my dear, you are in a dreadful fix!" She stood over
him scarcely knowing just what to do. Then she regained
her composure. She caught at his arm, as she cried:
"Come with me, quick!" He arose and followed her upstairs
and into the bedroom she had prepared for him and
Orlean. In a corner there was a little basin, and to this
she led him. She then had him hold his face over the
basin while she carefully bathed it. This done, she asked
him to go to bed while she went downstairs, returning presently
with liniments and towels, and bathed his wounds
again and bandaged his face carefully.
"Now, Jean," she said kindly, "I will leave you. But
you will do this favor which I ask of you?"
He turned his face toward her.
"Don't advise Mr. Merley about what has occurred here
tonight," she said.
"I understand," he replied quietly. Thereupon she left
him to himself.
At the Vernon Avenue home of the McCarthys, the
house was in an orgy of excitement. When the Reverend[Pg 387]
had been advised regarding his son-in-law's presence in the
city, he recalled the seance he had experienced the night
before. When the women came, he was preparing to go
to the west side for his daily visit with Mrs. Pruitt. But
upon this advice, he desisted, and decided to remain home.
When the mongers had taken their gossip from his presence,
he fell into deep thought. For the first time since he
had precipitated the trouble, he saw the situation clearly.
He was aware that his act by this time, had helped nobody,
had made no one happy or satisfied—not even himself.
Almost he agreed with himself then, that he had miscalculated;
Jean Baptiste was willing apparently, to forego his
wife's loss and the loss of her homestead, before he would
do as the Elder had planned and estimated he would. His
conscience was disturbed. He recalled the unpleasant
nights he had endured in the last few months. He recalled
that while Orlean always pretended to him that she was
satisfied, for the first time in his life, he saw that it was
due to the training, the subservience to his will, and not to
her own convictions.
He arose from his seat and walked the floor in meditation.
Habit, however, had become such a force with him,
that he could hardly resist the impulse to commit some
action; to rush to Mrs. Merley's and make himself conspicuous.
He struggled between impulse and conscience,
and neither won fully. After an hour, however, he reached
this decision: He would not go to or call up Mrs. Merley.
He would just leave it to them to solve, and if they should
finally reach some agreement between themselves, he would
not stand in the way. When he had reached this conclusion,
he went into the street, and was surprised at the
relief he felt. Not for months had he enjoyed a walk as
much as he did that one.[Pg 388]
But while Newton Justine McCarthy had struggled with
his conscience, and at last found solace in admitting at this
late hour to what he should have done two years before, he
had failed to reckon with other features that asserted themselves
later. He had not estimated that if Jean Baptiste
sought his wife secretly, it must have been because he wished
to avoid him. He failed to see that this man had suffered
bitterly through his evil machinations. He failed, moreover,
to appreciate that his training of Orlean to the subservient
attitude, would prevent her from returning to her
husband or reaching any agreement with him until she had
first ascertained that such would be agreeable to her father.
Had he so reckoned the scene just related might not have
occurred.
It was while they were sitting at supper that the
telephone rang. When the conversation ensued, the Reverend
sought not only to promulgate good will by leaving
it to Jean Baptiste, but he thought also to encourage him
by inviting him to the house, and in this he meant well.
But behind him stood Ethel. She caught the gist of excitement
and instantly began to scream.
"Get Orlean, go get my sister! Don't let that man have
her, owee!" at the top of her voice, she yelled, and Glavis
and her mother had to hold her. Some friends were having
dinner with them, and they now stood toward the rear uncertain
whether to leave or remain, and heard all that passed.
The Reverend was laboring frantically to get an answer over
the 'phone, and it was at this moment that Orlean had gone
frantic and was abusing her husband.
In the excitement, Ethel kept up her tirade at the top of
her voice, and in the end, the Reverend, followed by Glavis,
had gone to Mrs. Merley's.[Pg 389]
They had now returned, and Ethel was pacified. The
visitors had departed to spread the gossip, and all but Ethel
was downcast. Orlean, in unspoken remorse, had retired;
while the Reverend, fully conscious at last of what his interposition
had brought, was regretful, but not openly. And
the others, not knowing that he had that day repented, sat
at their distance and tried to form no conclusion.
"It is over—all over," cried Orlean now in the bed.
"And as I have done all my life, I have failed at the most
crucial moment. Oh, merciful God, what can you do with
a weak woman like I! It has been I all along who has
made misery for myself, for him, and for all those near me!
I! I! I! That I could have cultivated the strength of my
conviction; that I could have been the woman he wanted me
to be. Out there he tried to make me one; he sought in
every way he knew how. But a weakling I would remain!
And because I have sought to please others and abuse him
in doing so, I have brought everybody to the ditch of misery
and despair." She cried for a long time, but her mind was
afire. All that her weakness and subservience had caused,
continued, and at last the event of the night.
"And what did I do to him?" she said now, rising in
the bed. "I recall that he came to the telephone. He stood
listening to what I was saying, and I recall that when I
turned slightly and saw his face, it was terrible! Then I
saw him suddenly snatch the receiver from my hand, and I
heard him talking to papa. He was terribly excited, and
I shall never forget the expression on his face. I cannot
clearly remember what followed. I recall, however, that I
struggled with him; that I struck him everywhere I could;
that I scratched his face.... And, oh, my God, I recall
what passed then!" She suddenly sank back upon the pil[Pg 390]low
and gave up to bitter anguish, when she recalled what
had followed. But the excitement was too great for her
to lay inert. She rose again upon her elbow, and looked
before her into the darkness of the room as she slowly repeated
half aloud what had followed.
"Yes, I recall. He made no resistance. He did not defend
himself, but allowed me to strike him at will. And
under the fusillade of blows, I recall that he sank slowly to
his knees—sank there with his arms about me, and I striking
him with all the strength in my body. Upon his knees
then, he lingered, while I rained blow after blow upon his
upturned face. And now I can recall that his eyes closed,
and from his lips I caught a sigh, and then he rolled to the
floor. And, here, oh, Lord, I added what will follow me
throughout my life and never again give me peace.
"While he lay there upon the floor, with his eyes closed
before me, I kicked him viciously full in the face! But
even then he did not resist, but only groaned wearily. Merciful
Jesus! Nor did I stop there! I jumped on his face
with my feet, and then I recall that some one caught me and
saved me from further madness!" She was exhausted
then, and lay without words for a long time. Almost in a
state of coma, she bordered, and while so, she fell into a
strange sleep. The night wore on, and the clock downstairs
was striking the hour of two when she suddenly awakened.
She sat straight up in bed, and jerked her hands to
her head, and screamed long and terribly. The household
was awakened, and came hurrying to where she lay. But
in the meantime she continued to scream loudly, at the top
of her voice. And all the while, perspiration flowed from
her body. It was nigh onto four o'clock before they succeeded
in quieting her, and when they had done so she lay
back again upon the pillow with a groan, and the family[Pg 391]
went back to their beds to wonder what had come over her.
All felt strangely as if something evil had crept into their
lives, and their excitement was great. All but Ethel, who,
in her evil way, was delighted, and laughed gleefully when
she had returned to bed.
"Laugh on, Ethel, you evil woman!" said Glavis at her
side. "Evil has this night come into our lives. It wasn't
right in the beginning; it isn't right now, nor was last night.
Oh, I have never wanted to see this go along as it has. Because
your father has trained Orlean to obey and subserve
to his will, he has done something to her, and she has become
a demon instead of a weakling. Last night I saw
Jean Baptiste lying prone upon the floor, and knew that she
had beaten him down to it, and he had not resisted. She
told me as we came home what she had done, but was not
aware that she was telling me. Nothing good can come of
evil, and it is evil that we have practiced toward that man.
He is through now, and never again will he make effort to
get her to live with him. But just so sure as she has abused
him, just so sure will she do injury to those who have
brought this about." And with this he turned on his side
and feigned sleep.
Alone Orlean lay trying vainly to forget something—something
that stood like a spectre before her eyes. But
she could not forget it, nor did she ever forget it. It had
come, and it was inevitable. She had seen it in her sleep.
It had all been so clear, and when she had awakened and
screamed so long, she knew, then that it must in time be so.
She would never forget it; but realizing its gravity, she decided
thereupon never to tell it—the dream—to anybody.
The sun shone and the birds sang, and the day was beautiful
without when she at last fell asleep again.[Pg 393][Pg 392]
[Pg 395]
EPOCH THE FOURTH
EPOCH THE FOURTH
CHAPTER I
THE DROUGHT
JEAN BAPTISTE jumped from the bed and went
quickly to where his trousers hung on a chair, and
went through the pockets hurriedly. He laid them
down when through, and got his breath slowly when he had
done so, and the perspiration stood out on his forehead as
he concluded that he had been robbed.
After a time he raised his hand to his forehead, and appeared
puzzled. He was positive he had seen some one
enter the room, go to the chair, and take the money from his
pockets. It was rather singular, however, he now thought;
for if such had happened, and he had seen it, then why had
he not stopped the robber? He was deeply puzzled. He
had seen the act committed, he felt sure but had made no
effort whatever to stop the thief. He scratched his head in
vexation, sat down, and as he did so, saw that his coat hung
also upon the chair. Absently his hands wandered through
the pockets, and found his purse and the money in an outside
pocket.
He was awake then, and went to the basin, removed the
bandages, and bathed his face. The swelling had gone
down considerably, but the injured eye was dark. He
realized then, that nobody had entered the room, for the door
was locked with the key inside; but he couldn't recall having
his money in his coat pocket. He was awake at last to
the fact that it had been a dream.[Pg 396]
When he had bathed and dressed, he slipped quietly down
the stairs, and into the street, and found his way to the
Thirty-fifth Street "L." station. He had no plans. He
considered that his relations with his wife were at an end,
and from his mind he dismissed this in so far as it was
possible—and as far as future plans were concerned. But
since he had made no plans, whatever in the event of failure,
and since failure had come, he was undecided where he was
going or what he would do at once.
He decided not to return home directly; he wanted to go
somewhere, but did not care to stay in Chicago. He took the
train that was going down-town, and when he reached the
Twelfth Street station, suddenly decided to go to Southern
Illinois, and visit the girl Jessie, with whom he had been
corresponding.
While walking toward the Illinois Central Station, he
purchased a paper, and was cheered to see that his candidate
had carried the state in the preferential primary by an
overwhelming majority. The train he was to take left at
nine-forty, and he was able to forget his grief in the hour
and a half he waited, by reading all the details of the
election.
The journey three hundred miles south was uneventful,
but when he arrived at Carbondale, the train that would
have taken him to where he was going had left, and he
was compelled to spend the night there. The next morning
he caught an early train and reached the town in which
she lived, his first visit there since he met the one he had
married.
He found Jessie, and her kind sympathy, served to revive
in a measure his usual composure, and when he left
a few days later, he was much stronger emotionally than
he had been for a year, and on his return West, determined[Pg 397]
to try to regain his fortunes that had been gradually slipping
from him in the past two years.
When he had digested the state of his affairs at home he
had a new problem to face. Decidedly he was almost "in
bad." For a time his interest had been paid by his bankers;
but they had left him to the mercy of the insurance companies
who held the first mortgages. And these had been
protesting and had lately threatened foreclosure. Even so,
and if the crops be good, he was confident he could make it.
But before he could even sow that year's crop, he would
have to see a certain banker who lived in Nebraska. This
man was represented by a son who conducted the bank he
controlled at Gregory, and the son had issued an ultimatum,
and if Baptiste would keep his stock that was mortgaged
to the bank as security, he realized that it was best to see
the boy's father, since the son had made plain his stand.
The banker was out of town when he arrived, and to save
time, Baptiste judged that it would be best to go to Sioux
City, where he could meet the banker on his way home,
and on the way from Sioux City to the little town where the
banker made his home, he could consult with him, and get
an extension. In this he was successful, and returned home
with an assurance that he would be given until fall to make
good—but in truth, until fall to get ready.
To work he went with a sort of fleeting hope. The spring
had been good. But he was apprehensive that the summer
would be dry as the last, and it was with misgivings that he
lived through the days and weeks that followed. Seed
wheat and oats had been furnished to the settlers in Tripp
County that spring by the county commissioners, and he had
sowed a portion of his land with it.
Conditions in the new country had gone from bad to
worse, and if the season should experience another drought,[Pg 398]
the worst was come. Already there were a few foreclosures
in process, and excitement ran high. The country was
financially embarrassed. To secure money now was almost
impossible. Any number of farms were for sale, but buyers
there were none.
A local shower fell over part of the country in the last
days of May, wetting the ground perhaps an inch deep,
and then hot winds began with the first day of June. For
thirty days following, not a drop of rain fell on the earth.
The heat became so intense that breathing was made difficult,
and when the fourth of July arrived, not a kernel of
corn that had been planted that spring, had sprouted. The
small grain crops had been burned to a crisp, and disaster
hung over the land. Everywhere there was a panic. From
the West, people who had gone there three and four years
before were returning panic stricken; the stock they were
driving—when they drove—were hollow and gaunt and
thin. Going hither the years before they had presented
the type of aggressive pioneers. But now they were returning
a tired, gaunt, defeated army. All hopes, all courage,
all manhood gone, they presented a discouraging
aspect.
From Canada on the north, to Texas on the south, the
hot winds had laid the land seemingly bare. Everywhere
cattle were being sold for a trifle, as there was no grass
upon which they could feed.
To the north and the south, the east and the west in the
country of our story, ruin was in the wake. Foreclosures
became the order, and suits were minute affairs. From
early morn to early morn again, the hot winds continued,
and the air was surcharged with the smell of burning plants.
And with the hero of our story, he saw his hopes sink
with the disaster that was around him; he saw his holdings[Pg 399]
gradually slipping from him, and after some time became
resigned to the inevitable.
So it came to pass that another change came into his life,
hence another epoch in the unusual life was his.[Pg 400]
CHAPTER II
THE FORECLOSURE
EARLY in July when the drought had burned the
crops to a crisp, and plant life was beyond redemption,
the Banks, Trust and Insurance Companies holding
notes secured by mortgages against the land and stock
of Jean Baptiste began proceedings for a foreclosure. He
read with the cold perspiration upon his forehead the
notices that appeared in the papers. Attachments were
filed against all he personally possessed in Gregory County,
as well as in Tripp County. The fact that he had not had
his sister's homestead transferred to him, and that she had
just made proof that summer, was a relief to him now, and
with a sigh he laid down the newspapers containing the
notices.
It was no surprise since he had been threatened with such
for many months, he regarded it therefore as unavoidable.
But when the grim reality of the situation dawned upon him,
it weakened him. Never had he dreamed that it would come
to this. He took mental inventory of his possessions and
what he could lay claim to, and he happened to think about
his wife's homestead. On this he had made his home since
her departure, and no trouble had been given him. While
the local land office had rendered a decision in her favor;
the contestee had taken an appeal to the general land office
and the commissioner and upon being represented by an
attorney, the local land office's decision had been reversed.
It had been up to him then to go further, which he had[Pg 401]
done, by appealing the case to the highest office in the land
department, the Secretary of the Interior, and here it rested.
To do this, he had agreed to pay the attorney $300 to win,
and one hundred dollars in the event he should not, the
latter amount he had paid, and so the case stood. He had
formulated no plans regarding it beyond this as to how he
would continue to hold it, since now it was a settled fact in
his mind that he and the woman he had married were
parted forever.
But poverty accompanied by crop failures for three years
was a general and accepted thing now. And the fact that
he was being foreclosed, occasioned no comment, and at
least he could continue on without intensely feeling the attendant
disgrace.
It was at this juncture in life that a new thought came
to Jean Baptiste. In all his life he had been a thinker, a
practical thinker—a prolific thinker. Moreover, a great
reader into the bargain. So the thought that struck him
now, was writing. Perhaps he could write. If so then
what would he write? So in the days that followed, gradually
a plot formed in his mind, and when he had decided,
he chose that he could write his own story—his life of hell,
the work of an evil power!
Of writing he knew little and the art of composition
appeared very difficult. But of thought, this he had a
plenty. Well, after all that was the most essential. If one
has thoughts to express, it is possible to learn very soon some
method of construction. So after some weeks of speculation,
he bought himself a tablet, some pencils and took up the
art of writing.
He found no difficulty in saying something. The first day
he wrote ten thousand words. The next day he reversed
the tablet and wrote ten thousand more. In the next two[Pg 402]
days he re-wrote the twenty thousand, and on the fifth day
he tore it into shreds and threw it to the winds.
He had raised a little wheat and when the foreclosures
had been completed and the wheat had been threshed he
sowed a large portion of the seed back into the ground on
three hundred acres of ground upon which the crop that
year had failed. According to the law of the state, when a
foreclosure is completed, the party of the first part may
redeem the land within one year from the date of the foreclosure.
Or, better still, he may pay the interest, and taxes
at the end of one year from the date of the foreclosure, and
have still another year in which to redeem the land. So
it is to be seen that if Jean Baptiste could pay his interest
and taxes one year from this time, he would have two years
in all to redeem his lost fortunes. Hence, in seeding a large
acreage of wheat, he hoped for the best. The years, however,
had been too adverse to now expect any returns when
a crop was sown and it had been merely good fortune that
he happened to secure the means with which to sow another,
for credit there was for few any more.
When this was done, there was nothing to do but listen
to the wind that blew dry still, although the protracted
drought had been broken by light autumn rains. So took
he up his pencil and fell to the task of writing again.
Through the beautiful, windy autumn days, he labored at
his difficult task, the task of telling a story. The greatest
difficulty he encountered was that he thought faster than
he could write. Therefore he often broke off right in
the middle of a sentence to relate an incident that would
occur to him to tell of something else. But at last he had
written something that could be termed a story. He took
what appeared to him to be quite sufficient for a book to a
friend who had voiced an interest in his undertaking. In[Pg 403]
fact, although he had said nothing about it, the news had
spread that he was writing a story of the country and everybody
became curious.
Of course they were not aware of his limited knowledge
of the art of composition. To them, a patriotic, boosting
people—despite the ravages of drought which had swept
the country, this was a new kind of boost,—a subtle method
of advertising the country. So everybody began looking
for the appearance of his story in all the leading magazines.
The fact helped the newsdealers considerably. But to return
to Jean Baptiste and the story he was writing.
The friend was baffled when he saw so many tablets and
such writing. He pretended to be too busy, at the time to
consider it, and sent him to another. But it was a long
time before he found any one who was willing to attempt
to rearrange his scribbled thoughts. But a lawyer who
needed the wherewithal finally condescended to risk the
task, and into it he plunged. He staggered along with much
difficulty and managed to complete half of it by Christmas.
The remainder was corrected by a woman who proved even
more efficient than the lawyer, notwithstanding the fact that
she was not as well trained. Besides, Jean Baptiste was of
quick wit, and he soon saw where he was most largely in
error, so he was very helpful in reconstructing the plot, and
early in the next year, he had some sort of story to send
the rounds of the publishers.
And here was the next great problem. He had, while
writing, and before, read of the difficulties in getting a
manuscript accepted for publication. But, like most writers
in putting forth their first literary efforts, he was of the
opinion that what he had written was so different from the
usual line of literature offered the publishers, that it must
therefore receive preference over all.[Pg 404]
So with its completion, he wrapped it carefully, and sent
it to a Chicago publisher, while he sighed with relief.
It seemed a long time before he heard from it, but in a
few days he received a letter, stating that his manuscript
had been received, and would be carefully examined, and
also thanking him for sending it to them.
Well, that sounded very encouraging, he thought, so he
took hope anew that it would be accepted.
In the meantime he was questioned daily as to when and
where it would appear. He was mentioned in the local
newspapers, and much speculation was the issue. Many inquired
if he had featured them in the story, and were cheered
if he said that he had, while others showed their disappointment
when advised that they had not been mentioned. But
with one and all, there was shown him deep appreciation of
his literary effort.
So anxious did he become to receive their "decision"
that as the days passed and he waited patiently, he finally
went to town to board until he could receive a reply. And
as time passed, he became more and more nervous. At last
his anxiety reached a point where he was positive that if
he received an adverse decision, it would surely kill him.
Therefore he would entertain no possibility of a rejection.
It must be accepted, and that was final. Added to this, he
took note of all the publicity he had been accorded with regard
to the same. How would he be able to face these
friends if they failed to accept the book? Tell them that
it had been rejected as unavailable? This fact worried him
considerably, and made him persist in his own mind that the
company would accept it.
Some of his less practical creditors extended his obligation
anticipating that his work would net him the necessary
funds for settlement—the question of acceptance they did[Pg 405]
not know enough about to consider. So it went, the time
passed, and he could scarcely wait until the stage reached
the little town where he now received his mail. He was
never later than the second at the postoffice window. He
had read in Jack London's Martin Eden that an acceptance
meant a long thin envelope. Well, that was the kind
he watched for—but of course, he estimated, it was possible
for it to come in another form of envelope, so he wouldn't
take that too seriously. Still, if such an envelope should
be handed him, he would breathe easier until it was opened.
And then one day the letter came. The Postmaster,
who knew everybody's business, regarded the publishers'
name in the upper left hand corner, and said:
"There she is! Now read it aloud!"
Baptiste muttered something about that not being the
one, and got out of the office. His heart was pounding like
a trip hammer; for, while he had concluded that a long thin
envelope would not necessarily mean an acceptance, his was
a short one, and he was greatly excited.
He went blindly down the street, turned at the corner
and sought a quiet place, a livery barn. Herein he found
an empty stall that was dark enough not to be seen, and still
afforded sufficient light to read in. He nervously held the
letter for some minutes afraid to open and read the contents,
and tried to stop the violent beating of his heart.
At last, with forced courage, he broke the seal, drew the
letter forth and read:
"Mr. Jean Baptiste,
"Dear Sir:
"As per our statement of some time ago, regarding the
manuscript you were so kind as to send us, beg to advise
that the same has been carefully examined, and we regret
to state has been found unavailable for our needs. We are[Pg 406]
therefore returning the same to you today by express.
"Regretting that we cannot write you more favorably,
but thanking you for bringing this to our attention, believe
us to be,
"Cordially and sincerely yours,
"A.C. McGraw & Co."
He gazed before him at nothing for some minutes. He
was trying to believe he had read awrong. So he read it
again. No, it read just the same as it had before. It was
done; his last opportunity for redemption seemed to be
gone. He turned and staggered from the barn and went
blindly up the street. At the corner he met the deputy sheriff,
who approached him jovially, and then gave him another
shock when he said:
"I've got a writ here, Baptiste, and will be glad to have
you tell me where this stuff of yours is so I can go and
get it."
He raised his hand to his forehead then, and began thinking.
He had to do something, for although all his land had
been foreclosed on, he had two years to redeem the same.
But this writ—well, the man was there to take the stock,
then![Pg 407]
CHAPTER III
IRENE GREY
MEN of the type of Jean Baptiste don't waver and
despair regardless as to how discouraged they
may at times, under adverse circumstances, become.
When he was confronted with the law with the
papers to take from him the stock with which to seed his
crop, his mental faculties became busy, and in the course of
two hours he had been granted an extension on the note
and the deputy sheriff had returned to Winner as he had
come, empty handed.
But what was he to do! He had no money and no credit.
He had the land in Tripp County that was broken into winter
wheat, while that in the next county east was rented.
He could, of course, rent some more land and put it to
crop; but he was for the present through with any more
large crops until the seasons became more normal. So
he was at a loss how to engage himself for the months that
were coming. He still lived on his wife's homestead, and
had no plans and nowhere else to live. In these days he
found reading a great diversion. He simply devoured
books, studying every detail of construction, and learning
a great deal as to style and effect.
Then he tried writing short stories, but like the book
manuscript, they always came back. He concluded after a
time that it was a waste of postage to send them around;
that in truth they were not read—and again, that there
was no fortune in writers' royalties always, anyhow.
He was possessed with a business turn of mind, and one[Pg 408]
day he met a man who told him that it was possible for
him to have his book printed and be his own publisher.
That sounded very good—anything sounded good in these
dark days in the life of Jean Baptiste. This was a splendid
idea. But it was some time before he was able to find the
proper persons with whom to take this up. But, he finally
secured the address of a company who would manufacture
a book to exceed 300 pages for fifty cents per book. Although
this was the most encouraging thing he had encountered
in his literary effort, the price seemed very high in view
of what he had been told. He had planned that it could
be made for much less. However he decided to consider it.
Now Jean Baptiste had less means at hand than he had
ever had in his life. Not a dollar did he possess—not
even did he have a suit of clothes any more, and wore
every day his corduroys. He owed the promoters of the
old townsite of Dallas more than he was likely to pay very
soon, but they still were his friends. But to get to Dallas,
fifty miles away, was still another problem. He went to
a bank in the little town where he had other friends from
whom he had never asked credit. They loaned him what
he asked for, $5.00. With this he went to Dallas. The
senior member of the firm was in town—that is, senior in
age but not in position. Jean Baptiste possessed great personality,
and to be near one was to effect that one with it.
"I believe you could do alright with that book, Baptiste,"
this one said when Baptiste had told him regarding the
company who would put it out for him.
"Yes, I am confident I can, too, Graydon," replied Baptiste.
"But I am clean, dead broke. I can't go down
there."
The other was silent for a moment as he stood wrapped
in thought. Presently he said:[Pg 409]
"How much do you have to have to go down there?"
"Oh, thirty-five or forty dollars."
"I'll let you have fifty."
"I'm ready at any minute," so saying, he went to a store
across the street where he had friends, and there was dressed
from head to foot, charging the clothes to his account. Two
days later he walked into the office of the printing firm with
which he had been in correspondence. They were rather
surprised when they saw that he was an Ethiopian, but he
soon put them at ease.
After several days' of negotiating they finally reached an
agreement whereby they would manufacture one thousand
copies at seventy-five cents per copy. He was to pay one
third of the amount before the book went to press, the
balance he was to pay within a reasonable time. An outrageous
price, he knew—at least felt. But he was to have
all subsequent editions for one half the amount of the
original edition, which was some consolation to look forward
to.
Another fence: who would furnish that two hundred and
fifty dollars and secure him for the remainder? Besides,
what would he do with the books when he had them? Publishing
meant distribution. But what did he know of such?
He thought these things over carefully and finally decided
that he would sell them himself. He communicated this
fact to the firm. It was rather unusual for an author, perhaps,
to sell his own works. Jean Baptiste had never sold
anything by solicitation since he had grown up, but when he
was young he had been a great peddler of garden vegetables.
He would sell his book, and he seemed to convince them
that he could.
They prepared some prospectuses for him, and back home
he returned. He told, in answer to the volumes of inquiries[Pg 410]
that everything was all right, and that the book would
appear soon. He said nothing, however, to the friends he
had in view to put up the money and that necessary security.
He believed in proving a thing, and all else would necessarily
follow. He would go out and secure orders there at
home among his friends and acquaintances. But the day
he planned to start was very cold—the mercury stood
twenty-seven below zero.
Starting in Dallas he received orders for one hundred
forty-two copies the first day. Very good for a starter.
He went to Winner the next day. Despite the fact that the
drought had done no good to the people of that community
and town, they all were acquainted with and admired Jean
Baptiste. Besides, they would not see Dallas beat them.
And one hundred fifty-three copies were ordered by them.
Jean Baptiste could prove anything in a fair fight if given
a chance. He secured orders for fifteen hundred copies
of his book in two weeks. The promoters went his security
and put up the cash into the bargain, and he went back to
the publishing house victorious.
The printers had evidenced their confidence in him, for
they had been so impressed with his personality that they
had begun work upon the copy when he returned. In thirty
days it was ready, and in sixty days from the time he was
penniless, he had deposited twenty-five hundred dollars to
the credit of the book in the banks.
As he was winding up his business preparatory to interviewing
his printers, establishing an office and going into
the book business for a livelihood, he was the recipient of
a telegram from Washington advising that the Honorable
Secretary of the Interior had reversed the commissioner's
decision, which had been adverse to his wife, with regard
to the claim. He had won, but as to how he would ever[Pg 411]
prove up he didn't know, nor did he let it worry him. He
was too flushed with success in his new field. He could
still hold the claim, but it would be his wife who must offer
proof on the same, and his wife he had not heard from for
over a year.
He did not find his new field of endeavor so profitable
when he began to work among strangers. Indeed, while he
did business the money didn't seem to come in as it should.
He conceived an idea of securing agents among the colored
people, and in that way effect a good sale. To begin with,
this was difficult, for the reason the black man's environment
has not been conducive to the art of selling anything
except those things that require little or no wide knowledge.
They deal largely in hair goods to make their curls
grow or hang straighter,—or in complexion creams to clarify
and whiten the skin. Yet he succeeded in getting many
to take the agency and these received orders and sent for
the books. He had learned that it was a custom with subscription
book companies to allow agents to have the books
and give them thirty days in which to remit the money.
This proved agreeable to his agents. However, the greater
number of them took not only thirty days—but life, and
did not send in the money when they died.
He was confronted then with the task of learning how
he could get the books to them and be assured of his
money. To learn this, he went on the road himself appointing
agents and selling to bookstores. And it was upon this
journey that he met one who had played a little part in his
life some years before, at a time when conditions had been
entirely different with him.
In Kansas City she occurred to him. He recalled that it
was only twelve miles from the city where her father owned
and lived upon one of the greatest farms in the country.[Pg 412]
He thought of the last letter he had received from her, the
letter that had come too late. And then he thought of what
had passed since. Girls in her circumstances would not be
likely to waste their sympathies with grasswidowers; but
he wished that he might see her and look just once into the
eyes that might have been his. But his courage failed him.
He still had spirit and pride, so he gave it up for the time.
Late in the afternoon of that day, he was engaged with
some acquaintances in the bar-room of a club. They became
quite jolly as cocktails and red liquor flowed and
tingled their veins. He thought again of Irene Grey, and
the memory was exhilarating. And the cocktails gave him
the necessary courage. He was bold at last and to the telephone
he went and called her over long distance.
"Is this the Greys home?" he called.
"Yes," came back the answer, and he was thrilled at the
mellowness of the voice at the other end.
"Is Miss Irene at home?" he called now.
"Yes," it said. "This is she."
He was sobered. All the effect of the cocktails went out
of him on the instant. He choked blindly, groped for
words, and finally said:
"Why—er—ah—this is a friend of yours. An old
friend. Mayhap you have forgotten me."
"I don't know," she called back. "Who are you?"
He still didn't have the courage to tell her, but sought to
make himself known by explaining. He then mentioned
the state from whence he came, but no further did he get.
It so happened that she had heard all about his troubles
following his marriage, and, womanlike, feeling that she
had been in a way displaced by the other, she had always
been anxious to meet and know him.
"Oh," she cried, and the echo of her voice rang in his[Pg 413]
ears over the wire for some moments. "Is this you?" she
cried now, her voice evidencing the excitement she was
laboring under.
"Yes," he admitted somewhat awkwardly, not knowing
whether the fact had thrilled and joyed her, or, whether he
was in for a rebuke for calling her up. But he was speedily
reassured.
"Then why don't you come on out here?" she cried.
"I—I didn't know whether I would be welcome," he
replied, happy in a new way.
"Oh, pshaw! Why wouldn't you be welcome? But
now," her tone changed. "Where are you?"
"In Kansas City."
"Let me see," she said, and he knew she was thinking.
"It is now four thirty, and a train leaves there that passes
through here in forty minutes. It doesn't stop here; but
you catch it and go to the station above here, do you understand?"
"Yes, yes," he replied eagerly.
"Well, now, listen! The station I refer to is only four
miles above this, and when you get off there, catch another
train that comes in a few minutes back this way, see?"
"Yes, yes."
"Well, that train stops at this station, and there I will
meet you."
"Oh, fine," he cried. "I'll be there."
"Now you will be sure to catch it," she cautioned.
"Most assuredly!"
"I will depend on it."
"Count me there!"
"I want to talk to you, I'm going to talk all night."
"Good-by."[Pg 414]
CHAPTER IV
WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
JEAN BAPTISTE was so elated over being invited to
call early to see Miss Irene Grey, that he went back
to the bar where his acquaintances lingered, ordered
drinks for all, and imbibed so freely that when he reached
the depot, he found the train had left him. His disappointment
was keen, and he was provoked with himself. However,
since it was so, he went to a booth, called her up, and
advised her of the fact.
"Now wasn't that careless of you," she complained. "I
am sure you are very careless."
"I wouldn't have missed it for anything in the world," he
told her. "Indeed, I was so delighted over the prospects
of seeing you, after these many years, and I indulged so
freely that I lost the sense of time."
"How is that—did you say that you drank?"
"Well, yes, I do," he admitted frankly; "but not in a
dangerous sense. I do not recall having been drunk but
once in my life, and trust that I will never have occasion
to recall a second occurrence."
"Oh," she echoed. "I am relieved. I don't trust a
drinker, and the fact that you were left made me suspect
you."
"At least I can reassure you on that score. I am proud
to say that I have the strength of my convictions."
"I am pleased to hear that. A man has a poor chance to
succeed in the world otherwise."[Pg 415]
"I agree with you."
"Well, now, let me see when you can get out here," she
said meditatively. After a time he heard her voice again.
He had never seen her, not even a photograph of her. He
could only estimate her appearance from recalling her
brother, and from what he had been told. But however she
may appear, her voice, to say the least, was the most beautiful
he thought that he had ever heard. He listened to
every word she said, and thought the tone like sweet music.
"You will have to stay in K.C. all night now," she said
regretfully. "And I must repeat that I am so disappointed.
It had been my dream that I would talk with you
all the night through," whereupon she laughed and this was
even more beautiful than her voice when speaking. "But,
now," she began again, admonishingly, "you will arise at
eight—no, seven, do you understand, and catch a train that
leaves the city at eight. I will be at the station to meet you
again."
"I cross my heart that I will catch it."
"And if you do not—so help you God!"
"I hope to die if I miss it."
"Well, if you do, don't die—but catch the train, that's
all. Now good-by, and you are forgiven this once."
"Good-by."
Whatever happened it is irrelevant to relate, but Jean
Baptiste missed the morning train, and so disgusted was
he with himself that he boarded a train for Topeka where
he went and appointed some agents, intending to get the
train back that afternoon. But his "Jonah" still clung to
him, and when he had it estimated that the train went at
five-thirty, it had gone at four fifty-two and he was left
again.[Pg 416]
"I'll catch the morning train if I must sit here all the
night through," he swore, so put out with himself that he
could say no more.
He ascertained the exact minute the morning train left,
and this train found him on time. It was Sunday in early
June, and the day was beautiful. The air was rich, and
the growing crops gave forth a sweet aroma. He reached
the little town near where she lived, and even from
the depot the splendid home in which they lived could be
seen reposing vaingloriously upon a hillside. In the community
her father was the wealthiest man, having made his
fortune in the growing of potatoes and fruit.
She was not at the depot to meet him, and he had not expected
her. It was perhaps two miles to the big residence
on the hill, and to this he set out to walk. When he arrived,
the house seemed to be deserted, and, as it was Sunday, he
surmised that the family were at services. He went up to
the front door and knocked loudly. He was conscious at
once of whisperings from the inside. Presently the door
was opened slowly an inch, and he saw an eye peeping
out at him.
"Who are you?" a voice whispered.
He told the eye.
"Oh, yes," cried the voice and it happened to be a boy,
and the cause of the whispering and quietness from the
inside was due to certain pranks going on inside. "And
you're that fellow from up in the Northwest," said the
youngster, opening the door wide and stepping away to look
at him curiously.
"Yes, I guess that's whom you refer to."
"We are certainly glad to see you around here," said the
other. "Irene's been down to the train to meet you three
times and she's sure fighting mad by this time."[Pg 417]
"Oh, say, I really don't blame her a bit—to be put to so
much trouble and be disappointed in the end. But, on the
square, I had not anticipated being so highly honored."
"Aw, we've been anxious to know you for years. We
boys had sort of planned when you was writing to Irene two
or three years ago to come up there and get in on some of
that land."
"That would have been a capital move."
"Yes, but you quit writing and got married, so we heard,
and had bad luck in the end," whereupon he laughed. Baptiste
looked embarrassed.
"Where is the family and how many are there of you?"
"Aw, say! We are so many around here that you'll have
to get paper and pencil and mark us down to keep track of
how many. My father is in Colorado on business, while
Irene, mama and another sister are at the next town up the
line attending a funeral."
"And the boys—"
"Just gettin' ready to go swimmin'. Wanta go long?"
"Say, there hasn't enough water fallen where I've lived
for the last three years at the right time to fill a pond deep
enough to go swimming in, so I'll just take you up," he
cried, full of the idea.
It was in the early afternoon when they got back, to find
that the folks had returned from the funeral. Following
the boys, Baptiste entered by the kitchen door to encounter
the mother and three daughters preparing the meal. Hereupon
he was caused much embarrassment and discomfiture,
for of the three girls, he knew not which one was Irene.
Quickly seeing his confusion, they laughed long and heartily
among themselves. Finally, his predicament became so
awkward that an expression of distress crept into his face.
At this point the most attractive one of the three girls[Pg 418]
walked forward, extended her hand, and he saw by the
expression she now wore, that she was sorry for him, as
she said:
"I'm Irene, and you are Mr. Jean Baptiste." She paused
then, and looked away to hide the color that had rushed to
her face, while he clutched the outstretched hand just a
bit dubiously. She looked up then again, and seeing that he
was still confused and perhaps in doubt, she reassured him:
"The joke is over now, thanks. I'm the one you called
up and once wrote to. I'm Irene," and with this she led
him to the front and showed him her picture, whereupon he
was at last satisfied.
"And you came at last," she said later, when the two
were seated in the parlor.
"At last," he laughed and observed her keenly. She
noted it, and conjectured that it was from a curiosity that
was some years old. It was true, and he was seeing her and
perhaps thinking of what might have been.
She was beautiful, he could see. A mixed type of the
present day Negro, she was slightly tall, and somewhat
slender, with a figure straight and graceful. Her hair was
of the silken wavy sort not uncommon among the Negro
of this type. Such hair seems to have had its beginning
with the cross between the Negro and the Indian—a result
that has always been striking when it comes to the hair.
Her face, like her figure was straight and slender; while
her eyes were black, quick and small. Her nose was high
bridged, and straight to a point while the mouth below was
small and tempting. But what he observed most of all now,
and admired forthwith was the chin. A wonderful chin,
long and straight. A strong, firm chin, and as he regarded
it he could seem to read the owner. Whatever she was
or may be, he was confident then that she was possessed of[Pg 419]
a strong will and in that moment Orlean recurred to him.
Orlean was regarded as a fairly attractive woman; but her
chin, unlike that of the one before him, was inclined to
retreat. And, of course, he knew only too well, that her
will had been the weakest.
"You are very successful in missing trains," she ventured.
He laughed, and she joined him. He looked up then
and caught her regarding him keenly out of her half closed
eyes, and as she did so, she reminded him of an Indian
princess such as he had seen in pictures and read about.
There was more about her than he had at first observed,
and which was made plain in the look she gave him. For
in it there was passion—love to her meant much!
"Oh, I was so disappointed," she said.
"It was not you?"
"But how could you have missed the train so often?"
"I cannot account for it. I am not in the habit of doing
so. Indeed, I think it was because I was overly anxious."
She laughed then, to herself, elfin like.
"I have been curious to see you for a long time."
He was silent, and his eyes did not return the look she
had given him.
"Ever since I received that letter...."
And still he did not reply. The subject was too suggestive,
not to say embarrassing; but she was bold. He
couldn't know now whether she was serious or merely joking;
but notwithstanding it sounded pleasant to his ears.
He could hear her voice for a long time, he was sure, and
not grow weary.... We should pause at this point to make
known—perhaps explain, that the persons of our story are
the unconventional. And with the unconventional what
was in their minds was most likely to be discussed. The[Pg 420]
woman, therefore, was the most curious. She was a woman,
and in truth she would have married the man beside her
had he have come hither when he had gone to Chicago.
"What did you do with your little wife?"
He raised his eyes then, not to look at her, but because
of something he did not himself understand. Perhaps it
just happened so? She regarded him again; looked him
full in the eyes, and his eyes spoke more than words.
Strangely she understood all, almost in a flash, and was
sorry. She regretted that she had spoken so directly. She
admired him now. When he had looked up, and like that,
she had seemed to see and understand at last the man he was.
"Pardon me, please," she said, and rising quickly, took a
chair nearer his. She reached and touched him on the
arm. "I didn't—I—well, I didn't intend to be bold."
She paused in confusion, and then went on:
"I hope you will pardon me. I am sure I didn't intend
to embarrass you."
"It is all right," he said. "And since you have asked
me, may I explain?"
It was she who was now embarrassed. She looked away
in great confusion. She was bolder than the conventional
girl as a rule; but the subject was delicate. Yet she wanted
to hear the story that she knew he would never tell. If he
did, he was not the type of man she had estimated.
"Of course you would think me a cad, a—well, I have
my opinion of a man that would tell his side of such a story
to a woman."
She looked at him then without any embarrassment in
her eyes. She was able to read the man and all that was
him clearly. She smiled a smile after this that was one of
satisfaction, and at that moment her sisters called that the
meal was ready.[Pg 421]
CHAPTER V
"TELL ME WHY YOU DIDN'T ANSWER THE LAST LETTER I
WROTE YOU"
"NOW I wish you would tell me all about yourself,
that is, all you care to tell," said Irene Grey to the
man who sat beside her on the veranda of their
beautiful home, some time after luncheon had been served.
"I have always been peculiarly interested in you and your
life alone off there in the Northwest," whereupon she made
herself comfortable and prepared to listen.
"Oh," he said hesitatingly, thinking of the series of dry
years and their attendant disaster, and hoping that he could
find some way of avoiding a conversation in which that was
involved. "I really don't consider there is much to relate.
My life has been rather—well, in a measure uneventful."
"Oh, but it hasn't, I know," she protested. "All alone
you were for so many years, and you have been, so I have
been told, an untiring worker." She was anxious, he could
see, but withal sincere, and in the course of the afternoon,
she told him of how her father had came to Kansas a poor
man, bought the land now a part of what they owned on
payments, found that raising potatoes was profitable—especially
when they were ready for the early market, and
later after his marriage to her mother, and with her mother's
assistance, had succeeded. From where they sat, their
property stretched before them in the valley of the Kaw,
and comprised several hundred acres of the richest soil in
the state. Indeed, his success was widely known, and Jean[Pg 422]
Baptiste had been rather curious to know the family intimately.
After some time he walked with her through three hundred
acres of potatoes that lay in the valley before the
house, and he had for the first time in his life, the opportunity
to study potato raising on a large scale.
"From your conversation it seems that you raise potatoes
on the same ground every year. I am curious to know how
this is done, for even on the blackest soil in the country I
live, this is regarded as quite impossible with any success."
"Well, it is generally so; but we have found that to plow
the land after the potatoes have been dug, and then seed the
same in turnips is practical. When the turnips, with their
wealth of green leaves are at their best, then, we plow them
under and the freezing does the rest."
"A wonderful mulch!"
"It is very simple when one looks into it." They were
walking through the fields, and without her knowing it, he
studied her. The kind of girl and the kind of family his
race needed, he could see. In his observation of the clan
to which he had been born, practicability was the greatest
need. Indeed he was sometimes surprised that his race
could be so impracticable. Further west in this State, his
uncles, who, like all Negroes previous to the emancipation,
had been born slaves, had gone West in the latter seventies
and early eighties, and settled on land. With time this land
had mounted to great values and the holders had been made
well-to-do thereby. A case of evolution, on all sides. Over
all the Central West, this had been so. At the price land
now brought it would have been impossible for any to own
land. There happened, then as had recently, a series of
dry years—seemingly about every twenty years. To pull
through such a siege, the old settlers usually did much bet[Pg 423]ter
than the new. To begin with, they were financially better
able; but on the other hand, they did not, as a rule, take
the chances new settlers were inclined to take. Because
two or three years were seasonable, and crops were good,
they did not become overly enthusiastic and plunge deeply
into debt as he had done. He could see his error now, and
the chances new settlers were inclined to take. Because
moreover, he had been so much alone—his wedded life had
been so brief, and even during it, he was confused so much
with disadvantages, that he had never attempted to subsidize
his farming with stock raising. Perhaps this had been
his most serious mistake; to have had a hundred head of
cattle during such a period as had just passed, would have
been to have gone through it without disaster.
He felt rather guilty as he strolled beside this girl whose
father had succeeded. But one thing he would not do, and
that was make excuses. He had ever been opposed to excusing
away his failures. If he had failed, he had failed,
no excuses should be resorted to. But as they strolled
through the fields of potatoes he could not help observe the
contrast between the woman he had married, and the one
now beside him that he might have had for wife. Here
was one, and he did not know her so well as to conclude
what kind of girl in all things she was, but it was a self
evident fact that she was practical. Whereas, he had only
to recall that not only had his wife been impractical, but
that her father before her had been so. He recalled that
awful night before he had taken her away, at Colome, when
that worthy when he chanced to use the word practical, had
exclaimed: "I'm so tired of hearing that word I do not
know what to do!" and it was seconded by his cohort in
evil, Ethel.
His race was filled with such as N.J. McCarthy, he[Pg 424]
knew; but not only were they hypocrites, and in a measure
enemies to success but enemies to society as well. How
many were there in his race who purported to be sacrificing
their very soul for the cause of Ethiopia but when so little
as medical aid was required in their families, called in a
white physician to administer the same. This had been
the case of his august father-in-law all his evil life.
"Would you like to walk down by the river?" she said
now, and looked up into his face. She had been silent
while he was so deeply engrossed in thought, and upon
hearing her voice he started abruptly.
"What—why—what's the matter?" she inquired anxiously.
"Nothing," he said quickly, coloring guiltily. "I was
just thinking."
"Of what?" she asked artfully.
"Of you," he said evasively.
"No, you weren't," she said easily. "On the contrary,
I venture to suggest that you were thinking of yourself,
your life and what it has been."
"You are psychological."
"But I have guessed correctly, haven't I?"
"I'm compelled to agree that you have."
They had reached the river now, and took a seat where
they could look out over its swiftly moving waters.
"Frankly I wish you would tell me of your life," she said
seriously. "My brother who, as you know is now dead,
told me so much of you. Indeed, he was so very much impressed
with you and your ways. He used to tell me of
what an extraordinary character you were, and I was so
anxious to meet you."
He was silent, but she was an unconventionally bold per[Pg 425]son.
She was curious, and the more he was silent on such
topics, the more anxious she became to know the secret that
he held.
"I appreciate your silence," she said, and gave him the
spell of her wonderful eyes. Stretched there under a walnut
she was the picture of enchantment. Almost he wanted
to forget the years and what had passed with them since
she wrote him that letter that he had received too late.
"I want to ask you one question—have wanted to ask
it for years," she pursued. "I want to ask it because,
somehow, I am not able to regard you as a flirt." She
paused then, and regarded him with her quick eyes, expectantly.
But he made no answer, so she went on. "From
what I have heard, I think I may be free to discuss this,"
and she paused again, with her eyes asking that she may.
He nodded.
"Well, of course," she resumed, as if glad that she might
tell what was in her mind. "It is not—should not be
the woman to ask it, either; but won't you tell me why you
didn't answer the last letter I wrote you—tell me why you
didn't come on the visit you suggested?"
He caught his breath sharply, whereat, she looked up and
into his eyes. His lips had parted, but merely to exclaim,
but upon quick thought he had hesitated.
"Yes?"
"I heard you."
"Well?"
"I hardly know how to answer you."
"Please."
"Don't insist on a reply."
"I don't want to, but—"
"I'd rather not tell."[Pg 426]
"Well, I don't know as I ought to have asked you. It
was perhaps unladylike in me so to do; but honestly I
would like to know the truth."
He permitted his eyes to rest on the other bank, and as
a pastime he picked up small pebbles and cast them into
the river, and watched the ripples they made subside. He
thought long and deeply. He had almost forgotten the
circumstances that led up to the unfortunate climax. She,
by his side, he estimated, was merely curious. Should he
confess? Would it be worth while? Of course it would
not; but at this moment he felt her hand on his arm.
"We'll go now."
They arose then, and went between the rows of potatoes
back to the house. When they arrived there was some
excitement, and she was greeted anxiously.
"Papa has returned," said one of the boys, coming to
meet them.
"Oh, he has," whereupon she caught his hand and led
him hurriedly into the presence of the man who was widely
known as Junius N. Grey, the Negro Potato King.[Pg 427]
CHAPTER VI
THE STORY
JUNIUS GREY inquired at length concerning the land
whence he had come, of the prospects, of the climate,
and at last relieved Baptiste by inquiring as to whether
the drought had swept over that section as well as other
westerly parts.
"I have had the same result with twenty-two hundred
acres I own in the western part of the State. But such will
come—have come every once in a while since I have been
here," he assured him. "If you have been caught with
considerable debt to annoy you, and succeed in pulling
through, it will be a lesson to you as it has been to others."
"It has been a lesson, I admit," said Baptiste a little
awkwardly. Irene, who seemed to be her father's favorite,
sat near, and regarded him kindly while he related how the
drought had swept over the land, and the disaster that followed.
He did not tell them all; that he had been foreclosed,
but that, he felt, was not necessary.
Withal, he had met those in his race whom he had longed
to meet. Of business they could discourse with intelligence,
and that was not common. Grey's holdings were
much, and Baptiste was cheered to see that he was possessed
with the sagacity and understanding to manage the same
with profit to himself. Besides, the family about him, while
not as conventional as he had found among the more intelligent
classes of his race, had grown into the business ways
and assisted him.
"Would you like to attend services at the church this[Pg 428]
evening," said Irene after a time, and when they were again
alone.
"Why, I suppose I might as well."
"Then I'll get ready." She disappeared then, to return
shortly, dressed in a striking black dress covered with fine
lace; while on her head she wore a wide, drooping hat that
set off her appearance with much artistic effect.
"What is your denomination," she asked when they went
down the walkway to the road. The church was not far
distant, and, in fact was at the corner of his property, and
was largely kept up by her father he had been told.
"The big church, I guess," he said amusedly.
"Indeed!" she exclaimed, feigning surprise.
"And yours?"
"Oh, Baptist, of course," she replied easily.
When she held his arm like she now did, it made him
feel peculiar. Never, three years before, would he have
thought that he would be company again for another woman—at
least, under such circumstances.
"What do you think of protestantism?"
"Well," he replied thoughtfully, "it has not been until
lately that I have considered it seriously."
"So?"
"And sometimes I am not inclined to think it has been
for the best."
"How so?"
"Well, it appears to me that organization is lacking in
so many of the protestant churches."
"But is that the fault of protestantism?"
"I hardly know how to reply to you. It seems, however,
that inasmuch as catholicism requires more effort, more
concentration of will force on the part of their members
to come up and live up to their standard of religion; and[Pg 429]
that since it is obviously easier to be some kind of a protestant,
then protestantism has afforded a less organized appreciation
of the Christ."
"You make it very plain. And especially is it so in the
church to which I belong. But I am sure, however, if the
standard of requirement was raised within the Negro Baptists,
it would be better for all."
"You mean—"
"If it was compulsory for the ministers to possess a
college education and attendance for at least three years at
a theological seminary, the standard would be raised in the
churches conducted by Negroes."
"I agree with you; and do you know, that since I have
been in the book business only these few short months, it
has been my experience that ours is a race of notoriously
poor readers."
"Isn't it so! Oh, it is dreadful when we come to consider
how much needy knowledge we lose thereby."
"It is staggering."
"Why is it so?"
"Well, to begin with. There is little encouragement to
become a reader among Negroes themselves. Take, for instance,
the preacher. By all circumstances a minister—at
least should be a reader. Is it not so?"
"Certainly."
"Well, are they as a whole?"
"Lord, no!"
"Then, how can you expect their followers to be?"
"We cannot."
"Another disadvantage, is separate schools."
"I don't quite understand?"
"Well, mix the Negro children daily with the whites, and
they are sure to become enamored of their ways."[Pg 430]
"I gather your trend."
"The most helpful thing on earth. Negro children
thereby are able, in a measure, to eradicate the little evils
that come from poor homes; homes wherein the parents,
ignorant often, are compelled to be away at work."
"Evil environment, bad influence!"
"That is it. There is no encouragement to read, therefore
no opportunity to develop thought, and the habit of
observation."
"How plain you make everything."
"And now we have come unto the church, and must
end our conversation."
"I'm sorry."
He was, too, but they filed into the little church.
In and around where they now sat, there was quite a
settlement of Negroes, mostly small farmers. Perhaps it
was due to the inspiration of the successful Grey. She had,
earlier in the evening, pointed out here and there where a
Negro family owned five acres; where somewhere else they
lived on and farmed ten acres and fifteen acres and so on.
After slavery there had been a tendency on the part of the
Negro to continue in the industrious ways he had been left
in by his former master. The cultivation was strong; but
strangely there had come a desire to go into town to see, and
to loaf. Perhaps it was because he had not been given such
a privilege during the days of bondage. But here in this
little valley of the Kaw, he was cheered to see his race on a
practical and sensible basis. Only in the pursuit of agriculture
can the black man not complain that he is discriminated
against on account of his color.
When the service was over, they walked leisurely homeward,
and their conversation became more intimate. The
feeling of a woman by his side thrilled Jean Baptiste. In[Pg 431]
his life on the prairies, this had never been afforded, so to
him it was something new, and something gloriously sweet.
Or was it her presence? At least he was moved. He decided
that he would go his way soon, because it was dangerous
for him to linger in her radiating presence without
regretting what fate had willed.
"Isn't it warm tonight?" she said, when they reached
the porch.
"Dreadfully so down here in your valley."
"Perhaps you will not care to retire, and would rather
sit out where the air is best," she suggested.
"I would be glad to."
"Very well, then," and she found a seat where they were
hidden by vines and the shade of the big house. "I'll return
presently, when I have put my hat away."
When she returned, her curiosity to know why he had
not visited her was, he could see again, her chief anxiety.
She tried to have him divulge why in subtle ways. Late
into the night they lingered on the veranda, and he found
himself on the verge of confessing all to her.
He succeeded in keeping it from her that night, but she
was resourceful. Moreover, her curiosity had reached a
point bordering on desperation. Accordingly, she had the
boys to hitch a team to a buggy and took him driving over
the great estate. For hours during the cool of the morning,
she drove him through orchards, and over wheat-fields
where the wheat now reposed in shocks. She chatted
freely, discoursed on almost every topic, and during it all
he saw what a wonderfully courageous woman she
was.
He loved the study of human nature, and wit. Here, he
could see, was a rare woman, but withal there was about her
something that disturbed him. What was it? He kept[Pg 432]
trying to understand. He never quite succeeded until that
night.
A heavy rain had fallen in the afternoon, and he lingered
in her company at her invitation and encouragement. That
night the sky was overcast, the air was sultry, and the night
was very dark. She took him to their favorite seat within
the vines, and where nothing but the darkness was their
company. And there she resumed her artful efforts to have
him tell her all.
Never in his life had Jean Baptiste the opportunity to be
perfectly free. He had once loved dearly, and he had
sought to forget the one he had so loved because of the
Custom of the Country and its law. Out of his life she had
apparently gone, and we know the fate of the other. There
is nothing in the world so sweet as to love a woman. But,
on the other hand, mayhap all that is considered love is not
so; it may be merely passion, and it was passion he discovered
that was guiding Irene Grey. He saw when this
occurred to him, that in such a respect she was unusual.
Well, his life had been an unhappy life; love free and openly
he had never tasted but once, but a law higher than the law
of the land had willed against that love, and he had subserved
to custom. So he decided to tell her all, and leave
on the morrow.
"Please, Jean," she begged, calling him by his first name.
"Won't you tell it to me?"
He regarded her in the darkness beside him. She was
very close, and he could feel the warmth of her body against
his. He reached him out then, and boldly placed his arm
about her. She yielded to the embrace without objection.
He could feel the soft down of her hair against his face,
and it served to intoxicate him; aroused the passion and
desire in his hungry soul.[Pg 433]
"Yes, Irene," he said then. "I will tell you the story,
and tomorrow I will go away."
"No," she said, and drew closer to him. On the impulse
he embraced her, and in the darkness found her lips, and the
kiss was like a soul touch. He sighed when he turned
away, but she caught his face and drew his lips where she
could hear him closely.
"Tell me," she repeated. "For so long I have wanted
to hear."
"Well, it was like this. You know—rather, perhaps
you recall the circumstances under which we met."
"I remember everything, Jean."
"I was in love with no one, I can say, but I had loved
outside of our race."
"Our race?"
"Yes."
"You mean," she said, straightening curiously, "that you
loved an Indian up there? That, I recall is the home of
the Sioux?"
"No, I have never loved an Indian."
"Then what?"
"A white girl."
"Oh, Jean," she said, and drew slightly away. He drew
her back to him, and she yielded and settled closely in the
curve of his arm, and he told her the story.
"Honestly, that was too bad. You sacrificed much.
And to think that you loved a white girl!"
"It was so."
"So it came that you sacrificed the real love to be loyal
to the race we belong to?"
"I guess you may call it that."
"It was manly, though. I admire your strength."
"It was then I wrote you."[Pg 434]
"Yes. And—"
"Others."
"I understand. You loved none of us, perhaps, and it
was because you had not had the opportunity, maybe?"
"Perhaps it was so."
"And now I will hear how it happened."
"I must first confess something that pains me."
"Oh, that confession! But maybe I am entitled to hear
it?"
"Well, yes, I think so. There were three."
"Oh...."
"And you were the first choice."
"Me?"
"But I waited for your letter. There was a time limit."
"And I was away."
"Therefore never received it in time."
"And you?"
"At Omaha I hesitated, and then decided that you did
not favor it."
"O-oh!"
"So I went to Chicago, to meet the second choice."
"Such an unusual proceeding, but interesting, oh, so
much so. Please go on."
"She lived in New York."
"In New York?"
"Was a maid on the Twentieth Century Limited."
"O-oh!"
"But sickness overtook her. She didn't get into Chicago
when she was due."
"Such fate."
"I wonder at it."
"And then you got the last choice."
"That is it."[Pg 435]
Not knowing what else to do, she was so carried away
with the story, she stared before her into the darkness.
"And when did you receive my letter? I understand
about the claim business."
"When I returned with her to Gregory."
She was silent. He was too. Both were in deep thought
and what was in the mind of both was:
What might have been.[Pg 436]
CHAPTER VII
HER BIRTHRIGHT "FOR A MESS OF POTTAGE"
THE people of Winner and vicinity had no opportunity
to rush to the Farmers' State Bank, of which
Eugene Crook, mentioned earlier in our story was
president, and draw any portion of their money before the
bank examiner's notice greeted them one morning.
The bank was closed by order of the public examiner, so
that was settled. The causes became apparent the day before,
although those directly interested did not understand.
It was in the shape of drafts they had bought and sent
away, which came back to them indirectly, marked by the
bank upon which they were drawn: "No funds."
Not much excitement followed the closing, although in
some manner Crook had worked into the confidence of the
people since moving the bank to Winner, and was leading the
four banks in the town in point of deposits. Of course it
hit many needy ones quite hard, but the people of the country
had become so accustomed to adversities, that even bank
failures included did not excite them.
But there happened a few days after the failure an incident
that has some connection with our story. Crook went
upon a journey. He was gone several days and when he
returned, the unexpected happened. It caused about as
much excitement as had the failure of the bank because of
its cunningness.
When Jean Baptiste had ended his visit with Irene Grey,
he returned to his office at the publishing house to find con[Pg 437]siderable
mail awaiting him. One letter was from his
attorney in Washington, and since he had won the claim for
Baptiste's wife in the contest, Baptiste naturally took it for
granted that it was a request for the balance of his fee. So
he laid the letter aside until he had attended to all other
business, and later opened and read it.
"Washington, D.C., July, 191—
"Mr. Jean Baptiste,
"My Dear Sir: I am informed through your attorney at
Gregory, that your wife has sold her relinquishment on the
homestead I was successful in getting the Secretary of the
Interior to reverse the land commissioners decision on. I
am not informed further; but inasmuch as you are living on
the place, my advice is that you stick right there, and hold
it. You may write and advance me the details concerning
the matter, and I will assist you in a legal way in pressing
your right to hold the same.
"In the meantime, kindly send me a remittance on the
fee that is past due at your earliest convenience, and oblige.
"Very truly,
"Patrick H. Loughran."
He reread the letter to be positive that he had understood
it correctly. He was thoughtful as he allowed the substance
to become clear. His wife had sold her relinquishment on
the claim that he had spent thirty-five hundred dollars cash
for. And in so doing she had sacrificed his confidence; had
sold her birthright for a mess of pottage. And she had
not received, he was sure, perhaps one tenth part of the
amount he had expended for it. He thought a little longer,
and as he did so, a vision of his arch enemy rose before him.
His mind went back to a day when N.J. McCarthy in all
his lordliness had with much vituperation, denounced and
condemned Eugene Crook for having contested his poor
daughter's place, and all the white race with him.[Pg 438]
"And Newton Justine McCarthy," muttered Baptiste,
"this is more of your work."
He was very calm over it, was Jean Baptiste; but the
turning point in his life had come. At last his manhood
had returned, and he was ready to fight.
He wrote his attorney at once at Gregory, and the reply
that came back in due time was:
"Gregory, S.D., July — 191—
"Mr. Jean Baptiste,
"Friend Jean: Replying to yours regarding the claim,
it was Eugene Crook who got it. He went to Chicago and
bought it from your wife, through her father. I understand
that your wife refused to sell, whereupon, Crook sent
for the Reverend who was at Cairo, sending him the railroad
fare to Chicago at the same time. I do not, of course,
know just what followed, but it is the report here, that the
Reverend had his daughter to execute the relinquishment,
and Crook returned and filed on the claim.
"I understand, further, that Crook got the idea from
reading your book, wherein you told of the preacher and
what he had done, although anonymously. It is also reported
that Crook paid the Elder $300 for the claim.
"Very truly yours,
"Wm. McConnell."
Jean Baptiste laughed when he had completed the letter,
picked up one of his books and looking through it, found
the place. "Well, old boy, I guess you lost me more than
I'll make out of you; but you've given me what I ought to
have had three years ago!" He was silent then, but his
face took on a cold, hard expression, whereupon he laughed
again.
"N.J. McCarthy, we vied twenty-five years ago, and we
encountered three years since. On both occasions you had[Pg 439]
me at a disadvantage.... We are going to vie again, now;
but it will be upon an equal basis." So saying, he looked
before him at nothing; his eyes narrowed to mere slits.
An hour later his grip was packed. He went that afternoon
back to Tripp County. His three hundred acres of
wheat had failed, so he was unencumbered. He returned to
Winner, and the next morning he boarded a train for Chicago.
And of the battle that he fought with his august contemporary,
will be the continuance of our story.[Pg 440]
CHAPTER VIII
ACTION
JEAN BAPTISTE went directly to an attorney, a Negro
attorney with offices in the loop district, upon his
arrival in Chicago, and did not lurk around the depots
to keep from being seen this time. He was well acquainted
with the one upon whom he called and they greeted each
other cordially when he walked into the office.
"Well, White," he said. "I think I have a little work
for you."
"That's what I'm here to look after," said the other
aimiably.
"A suit—want to obtain a judgment?"
"We obtain judgments in this old town every day. The
question is—"
"Are they worth anything?" laughed his prospective
client.
After indulging in a bit of humor the which he was at
times given to, his face cleared, his eye-brows contracted
and he related the business upon which he was bent, and
questioned the attorney concerning the law covering such
cases or instances.
"Yes," said the other, after looking it up in the Illinois
Statutes, "it can be done."
"Then we will begin at once," said Baptiste decidedly.
"I'll have the papers drawn up, and have the same ready
for service tomorrow afternoon."
"Very well," said the other, handing him a check for[Pg 441]
twenty-five dollars as a retainer, and straightway left the
office.
He caught the State Street car and went to visit his
friends on Federal Street. They were delighted and surprised
to see him looking so well, and so carefree.
"Why—what has happened to you," said Mildred's
mother, looking him over carefully from head to foot.
"You infer that I have forgotten my troubles?"
"Of course," and she laughed.
"You'll know in a few days," he returned. Soon he
bade them good-by and went over to the Keystone where he
encountered Speed.
"Well, I have everything ready now," said the attorney
when Jean called at his office the following afternoon.
"So the next is to get service on my friend," said Baptiste.
"That's it. Where shall we find him?" inquired the
lawyer.
"I don't know. I suppose you might call up his wife on
Vernon Avenue and find out. Of course, she need not
know what our business is with her old man...."
"Of course not."
In a few minutes he was talking to her over the telephone.
"The Elder is in the southern part of the State,"
Baptiste could hear.
"Yes, madam; but what place.... I see.... He will
be there over Sunday you say?... I understand....
What do I want with him? Why, I have a little personal
matter with him.... Yes ... that is all."
The attorney turned and advised him where the Elder
was, and would be there until after Sunday, and as that
day was Wednesday, Baptiste breathed a sigh of relief.[Pg 442]
"That's the town near where I first knew him. I was
born within four miles of it."
"Indeed! Something of a coincidence."
"Indeed so."
"I'll get these papers off to the sheriff down there on
the evening train. He'll get them tomorrow morning, and
should get service on him tomorrow afternoon."
"Then I'll see you about Saturday."
"All right," and Jean was gone.
The little town near where Jean Baptiste was born, and
where he had met the man who was now his acknowledged
enemy, had not changed much. Perched on the banks of
the Ohio, it still lingered in a state of dull lethargy; loafers
held to the corners, and arguments were the usual daily
routine. When he had left the town, the Odd Fellows' hall,
an old frame building, three stories high, had stood conspicuously
on a corner, and had been the rendezvous for
loafers for years untold. This had been torn down and replaced
since by a more commanding brick structure, at the
front of which a shed spread over the walk and made welcome
shade in the afternoon. And under it on benches the
usual crowd gathered reposing comfortably thereunder
from day to day. Under it the preachers sometimes paused
on their return from the postoffice where they received their
mail every afternoon. And it was the afternoon train that
brought the papers for N. Justine McCarthy. The sheriff
who happened at the postoffice at the same time the Elder
did, received them, and upon his return to his office in the
court house, laid the mail on his desk and went at once to
serve the papers.
He knew that Odd Fellows' hall was where Negroes
might be easily found; at least the information as to the[Pg 443]
whereabouts of any particular one might be obtained. So
to that spot he went directly.
It so happened that a large crowd of Negroes were gathered
there this particular afternoon, and that the Reverend
had paused there on his way from the postoffice to listen
to the heated argument that was a daily diversion. At that
moment the sheriff came up, listened a moment to the usual
harangue, and then inquired aloud for Rev. N.J. McCarthy.
When the crowd saw who he was the argument
desisted forthwith, the crowd became quiet and respectful,
moreover expectant.
"You refer to me?" said the Elder, and wondered what
the sheriff could possibly want with him.
"N.J. McCarthy?" the other repeated.
"That's me," replied the Elder. The crowd looked on
with curious interest.
"Some papers," and handed him the same, turned on his
heel and went his way.
The Reverend went down the street later reading the
papers. He had never had any experience in legal proceedings,
and knew little of such, but he understood the
papers and was thoroughly angry.
"Well," greeted the attorney, "got service right off on
your friend."
"Good!"
"Yes, got my return, and now we may as well draw up
the complaint."
This they did, but in the meantime, while passing downtown,
Glavis had espied Baptiste. Thinking that he was
on another mission of trying to persuade his wife to return,
and having been loyal to the Reverend in his fight on Baptiste,
he went at once to advise her of the fact.[Pg 444]
Orlean had secured a position in a ladies' tailoring establishment
at five dollars and fifty cents a week, and there he
went. She was out so he did not get to tell her that her
husband was in town. Since the selling of her homestead
the entire family had been apprehensive of him. They appreciated
by now that he was not the kind to give up without
a fight, therefore they were on the lookout.
In some way the Negro papers got hold of enough of it
to give the Elder a great deal of free advertising; but since
McCarthys did not get the papers, they knew nothing of it
until the next morning which was Sunday. That morning
they espied a copy of the paper in their mail box. They
never knew how it got there, but thinking it was by mistake,
Glavis took it into the house and spread it out.
Pandemonium reigned when they had read the account,
and in the same hour they received a special from the Elder
announcing that he was leaving for Chicago that night.
That would place him in the city the following morning, and
they were anxious all that day.
It was the talk of Dark Chicago that day, and for days
and weeks following. Moreover, it circulated over all the
state where the Elder was well known, and gave the gossips
great food for delight.
The Elder arrived the next morning, and after being
greeted by the family, with Glavis, went at once to a white
attorney. They laid the case before him.
"And so you are sued for ten thousand dollars," said the
attorney, "and by your son-in-law?"
"It seems that way," replied the Elder. "And to me it
looks like a joke."
"How so?"
"Did you ever know a Negro preacher that was worth
such an amount?"[Pg 445]
The attorney shared the obvious joke with his prospective
client and Glavis, and then took on a rather serious expression.
"And you are not worth ten thousand?"
"Lord, no!"
The other bit the cigar he held between his teeth, got up
and brought a statute from among his many volumes, glanced
through it, and stopped at a page and read it.
He returned the book to its place and came back and sat
down.
"What do you think of it?" inquired the Elder, still
seeming to take it as a joke.
"Have you ever considered the outcome in case he should
get a judgment against you? He accuses you of having
alienated the affections of his wife, your daughter."
"Granting that he secured a judgment?"
"And you could not pay it?"
"Certainly, I could not."
"Then he could remand you to jail for six months by
paying your keep."
When the Elder, accompanied by Glavis, returned home,
both understood Jean Baptiste a little better than they had
ever before....[Pg 446]
CHAPTER IX
GOSSIP
"I'VE BEEN over to the McCarthys today," cried Mildred
Merrill, greeting her mother, as she returned
home the Sunday following the filing of the suit.
"And, oh, mama, they are certainly excited over there!"
"Mm! Guess they'll understand that Jean Baptiste better
now. Because he had wished to settle their difficulties—if
there were any—like a man, they thought he was
afraid of the Reverend."
"That was it—positively!"
"What was the conversation?"
"Of course it was Ethel who was making the most of the
noise."
"Naturally."
"And she made some noise!"
"I'd wager."
"To begin with, they didn't know Jean had sued the
Reverend until they read it in the paper."
"Is that so!"
"Yes! You see, it was like this. Orlean sold her farm."
"Gave it away."
"Quite likely."
"It was so. Why I understand that Baptiste had paid
over thirty-five hundred dollars into it, and that the place
was supposed to be worth about forty dollars an acre, with
one hundred sixty acres bringing the sum of sixty-four hun[Pg 447]dred
dollars. That insurance companies would lend two
thousand five hundred dollars on the place if she had proved
up on the same as other people were doing and had done,
and secured a patent."
"Isn't that a shame!"
"Nigga's!"
"Negroes proper!"
"Well, what did they say?"
"Oh, yes! Orlean sold her farm some time ago."
"For three hundred dollars."
"Is that all she received?"
"Every cent."
"Well, what do you think of that!"
"It was the Reverend's work, of course."
"That dirty old rascal."
"Ignorant into the bargain."
"If I were Baptiste I'd kill him."
"That would do no good."
"No, I guess not."
"Would make him appear a martyr, also."
"Well, ever since Orlean sold her place, you see, they
have been uneasy."
"I guess so."
"So they had been sort of looking to hear from him."
"And they have."
Mildred laughed.
"And they'll hear from him some more!"
Both laughed.
"Now, Orlean heard that Jean was in town before the
rest of the family did, and told me so."
"She's waited a long time to tell other people things she
hasn't told the folks first...."
"Yes," thoughtfully. "Anyhow, Glavis met Baptiste on[Pg 448]
the streets downtown, and, of course, Glavis, not knowing
Baptiste's mission, thought he was here after Orlean again."
"Just like him."
"The truth."
"He was by here awhile ago."
"He was?"
"Yes; but I'll tell you about that later. Go on."
"When he met Jean on the street—rather, after, he goes
around to where Orlean worked to warn her."
"Sneak!"
"But Orlean was out."
"Yes?"
"So when she returned, and was told that a colored man
had called and inquired for her, she—"
"Thought it had been Baptiste."
"Yes."
"I'll try to quit interrupting you."
"Well, Orlean told me that she was provoked. She
wished that Jean would not be calling at where she worked
to bother her."
"She got fooled—excuse me!"
"But she didn't say anything to the folks about it, and
they knew nothing of his presence in town—Glavis didn't
tell it seems, either—until Sunday morning."
"Indeed!"
"No, none of them had gone out Saturday night, so they
hadn't heard any of the talk that was going the rounds."
"Well, Glavis went outside Sunday morning and found
the Defender in the mail box."
"So?"
"You see, they do not subscribe for it, but the people
next door get it—"[Pg 449]
"And knowing they were not subscribers, they take the
paper and place it where they could get it."
Mildred laughed.
"So," resumed Mildred, "when they saw the paper, all
was excitement."
"Goody!"
"So Glavis (he is the Reverend's faithful lieutenant,
you know), went out to look up Baptiste and have a talk
with him."
"Ump!"
"He didn't find him."
"That was how he happened by here."
"But the funny part about it is, that they don't know
what Baptiste is up to. They don't know that if he secures
a judgment, he can remand the Elder to jail for six
months."
"Now won't there be some excitement when they learn!"
Mildred laughed again, her mother joined her.
"But getting back to Ethel."
"Tell me about her."
"Oh, she was on the war path. 'You see,' she cried,
standing over Orlean. 'You see what you've done by your
hard-headedness. I told you all the time not to marry that
man!'"
"Wouldn't that disgust you!"
"'But you would go ahead and marry him! You would
go ahead and marry him, after all papa and I tried to persuade
you not to! And now! You are going to kill your
father; going to kill your poor old father.' Orlean just
hung her head like a silly and took it. 'Yes,' went on
Ethel, turning her little slender body around and twisting
her jaws as if to grind it out. 'You got him all mixed up[Pg 450]
with that nigga', and here he comes in here and sues him.
Think of it! Sues him! And now all the nigga's in Chicago
have the laugh on us—we daren't show our faces in
the street!
"'And what has he done it for?' 'But, Ethel,' Orlean
protested, 'Papa isn't worth anything. He can't do anything
with papa if he gets a judgment.' 'What do you
know about judgments,' Ethel flew up. 'Well,' said Orlean,
'I recall hearing Jean say that if a man was worth
nothing, then a judgment was of little or no good.' 'You
heard Jean say it!' screamed Ethel, looking at Orlean severely.
And then she turned to me. 'Do you know, Mildred,'
she rang out, 'This fool woman loves that man yet.
Yes. Y-e-s! Loves him yet and would go back to him tomorrow
if it wasn't for us!'"
"Doesn't it beat anything you ever saw!"
Mildred laughed again as she paused for breath.
"Well, Ethel went on: 'And don't you think that nigga'
is a fool. No, no! Never! That's a scheming nigga'.
He's the schemingest nigga' in the world! He knows what
he's about. Believe me! He knows papa isn't worth anything.
And, besides, he isn't after money, he's after papa.
He don't want no money. A scheming nigga' like him can
make all the money he wants. Oh, yes! He's up to something
else.'"
"Seems they are willing to admit very readily now that
which they were not as long as he tried to deal with them
like a man."
"I should think so," returned Mildred. "Well, Ethel
was so excited that she walked up and down the floor in a
rage. Every little while she would stop before me, and
glare into my face: 'But what can he do, what can he do!'
'I have nothing to do with it, Ethel,' I replied. 'Yes, you[Pg 451]
have, yes, you have! You know! I know you and I know
Jean Baptiste! He never comes to Chicago without coming
to see you all. He's told you what he's up to, and I
know it! Oh, that nigga'!'
"I looked at Orlean, and she sat by looking like the man
who has murdered his wife and regrets it. When she met
my eyes she sighed, and then said: 'Do you think he can
hurt papa, Mildred? I'm worried. You see, I know Jean
some. He's shrewd, Jean is very shrewd.' I confess that
I was rather uncomfortable, knowing what I did. So hoping
to find some way to get out of it, I suggested that they
walk out. 'No,' exclaimed Ethel. 'I'm afraid I'll run into
that nigga'.'"
"When do they look for the Reverend in?"
"In the morning. They are afraid to go out until he
comes."
"I'd like to be around there when they found out what
Jean is up to."
Mildred laughed again, and then cried: "And oh, yes, I
forgot to tell you that Orlean asked me whether Jean came
direct from the farm here."
"What did you tell her?"
"Why, I said I thought he was visiting down in Kansas
before coming here."
"Hump."
"She said: 'I guess he was calling on Miss Irene
Grey.'"
Her mother giggled.
"I said I thought he remarked something about having
visited there, whereupon Orlean said: 'He ought to have
married her.'"
"Jealousy."
"Yes, that was it."[Pg 452]
"Look! There is Glavis," cried Mildred's mother,
pointing to his figure crossing the street.
"Now for some fun," said Mildred, whereupon, both
feigned sleepiness, and prepared for some good interesting
gossip.
"Oh, Mr. Glavis," exclaimed Mildred, answering the rap
on the door and admitting him.
"And how is everybody?" asked Glavis, coming in with
his head bared, and smiling in his usual way.
"Fine, Mr. Glavis," replied Mildred's mother, arising to
greet him for the second time that day.
"And where is my friend, Baptiste?" said Glavis. "I've
just come from the Keystone, and while he stops there, I can
never catch him in."
"He has not been here today, Glavis," replied Mildred.
"That's funny. I'd certainly like to see him."
"Why would you want to see him?" inquired Mildred's
mother.
"Oh, I want to see him, of course, about all this scandal
that's in the air."
"Hump! This appears to be the first time that you have
wanted to see him since your father-in-law brought Orlean
home."
"Well, of course," said Glavis, a little embarrassed.
"It has always been a bad affair. A bad affair, and I certainly
have wished Orlean would have kept us out of all the
mess."
"Why not say you wished the Reverend had kept you out
of all the mess," ventured Mildred's mother, who was out of
patience with their conduct.
"Well, it's rather awkward. Baptiste is a little in fault
himself."
"How's that?"[Pg 453]
"Oh, he sorter had it in for father before he even married
Orlean. He didn't come into the family like I did."
Mildred and her mother regarded each other as Glavis
went on thoughtfully.
"Yes, Baptiste is a good fellow, and I have always rather
liked him. But he has always had it in for father; has
never treated him as I have.... If he would have, I'm
sure we would not be the bone of this scandal."
"It seems that this enmity between your 'father' and
Baptiste, begun way back in the southern part of this state,
when Baptiste was a small boy...."
"I've heard something concerning that, but of course he
oughtn't hold such things against a man when he has grown
up."
"You seem to hold Baptiste in fault for everything, when
it's common knowledge, from what I can hear, Glavis,"
argued Mildred's mother, "that the Elder went up there
and just broke Orlean and Baptiste up; made her sign his
name to a check for a big sum of money—and a whole lot
of other things. How do you account for or explain that?"
"Well, Baptiste could have settled this without all that.
If he'd come and seen me before starting this suit," Glavis
was evasive, "I would have had him and Orlean meet and
reason their differences out together."
"Why have you waited so long to take such action,
Glavis? You had years almost to have gotten them together—to
have been at least fair to Baptiste. As it is, you
have treated—all of you—Baptiste like a dog, like a dog.
And because he tried to settle an affair like it ought to have
been settled, you just ground him—pride and all—right into
the ditch."
Glavis winced under the fusillade with which the elder
lady of the house bombarded him.[Pg 454]
"And now after you do him all the injury you can, you
cry about him making a scandal! Just because he didn't
come around again a whining like the dog you have tried
to make him, you profess to be shocked at his conduct.
Moreover, you had Orlean to give away the farm he gave
her, and from what I can hear, to the man that tried every
way known to law to beat her out of it and failed. And
at Baptiste's expense!"
Glavis was very uncomfortable. He shifted uneasily,
while his handkerchief was kept busy mopping the perspiration
from his brow.
"I heard that the Reverend just scored the man about
trying to beat poor Orlean out of her place: Preached a
great sermon on the evil and intriguing of the white race,
and just gave that man, a banker, the devil. Then upon top
of that he comes down here to Chicago and sends your
'father' the money to come here from Cairo to sell him the
place that Baptiste was man enough to trust her with for
nothing. I can't figure out where any of you have any cry
coming."
"Well," said Glavis, rising, "I want to see Baptiste anyhow.
If you see him, tell him to come over to the house."
"No, Glavis, I have nothing to do with it, and I oughtn't
to be gossiping as I have been; but I have known Baptiste
since he was a little boy, and I just can't help protesting—as
I have always heretofore protested, about the way you people
have treated him."
"Well, I guess Baptiste hates all of us enough to make
up."
"Baptiste has nothing against any one in that house over
there but your 'father.' But there would be no use in my
telling him to call over there. No use at all, for let me tell
you," she said, following him to the door; "The day of[Pg 455]
Baptiste beholding unto you for his wife is past. I don't
think he wants Orlean any more, and don't blame him after
what she has allowed to happen to him through her lack of
womanhood. Nawsiree, Baptiste didn't come into Chicago
this time crying, he came here like a man, and it's the man
in him with which you'll have to fight now."
"Oh, well, I don't know," said Glavis, taking a little
courage, "I don't think he is so wise after all. Any man
that will sue a man like father for ten thousand dollars,
wouldn't seem so wise."
"Well," returned the elder lady, "Perhaps you had
better wait until you see a lawyer."[Pg 456]
CHAPTER X
A DISCOVERY—AND A SURPRISE
JEAN BAPTISTE called by to see the Merrills before
leaving the city, and took Mildred and her mother one
afternoon to a matinee at the Colonial theatre. It was
a musical repertoire, and a delightful entertainment. Before
one of the numbers was to appear, the director of the
orchestra came upon the stage and announced:
"Ladies and gentlemen: If I may have your kind attention,
I wish to announce that the next number is an
extraordinary specialty. Miss Inez Maryland, the young
prima donna who has made considerable of a reputation by
her beautiful singing in the last year, will this afternoon
sing in an introduction, a song that is destined by the critics
to be one of the most popular of recent production."
Whereat, he stepped to one side, and led upon the stage, a
charming blonde who was greeted profusely.
"I am glad to have you meet Miss Maryland, who will
now sing the discovery of the season, O, My Homesteader,
by Miss Agnes Stewart."
In the moment Jean Baptiste did not quite recall the name,
or rather, he did not connect it with an instance in his life;
but as the sweet mezzo soprano voice, combined with
the strains of the orchestra, floated out over the audience,
the years gone by, to him were recalled. He listened
to it with a peculiar and growing enchantment, and
the night he had lain upon the ground and would have[Pg 457]
frozen, but for the now composer, came fresh again into his
mind.
"Beautiful."
"Wonderful."
"Grand!" came to his ears from over all the theatre and
then followed the storm of applause. Again and again did
the singer have to return to satisfy the audience before her,
and when the crowds poured into the street at the close of
the performance, every one seemed to be humming the tune
that had that afternoon began its initial success.
As it would take nine months or a year for the suit to
come to trial, Jean resumed his efforts in the book business,
and was able by borrowing a little, to meet the interest and
taxes on the foreclosed property, and was given the customary
year's extension.
He traveled now from town to town, from city to city,
and found agents for his book, and was able in a small way
to recuperate his finances. He hired an engine to plow all
his land that was not prepared, besides renting a little more,
and also took a flier in wheat. The war abroad had been
going on a year, and he conceived that if it "happened"
to rain at the right time he might get a crop and redeem his
land. At least, he could lose only what he put into it by
risking the same, so he took the chance. So with all he
could get hold of until the last days of October of that
year, he put it into winter wheat on his land, and succeeded
in getting over 700 acres seeded.
And everywhere he went, the people were playing and
singing O, My Homesteader. Never, whether it was fifty
times a day, or one, could he seem to tire of hearing it.
At the stores he saw hundreds of copies of it, and in every
home it was. And always it took him back to his youthful
days in the land where he had gone with the great hope.[Pg 458]
And then one day he saw a picture of her. It was in a
musical review. It spoke at length of her, and of the simple
life she had lived. That she was a product of the prairies
and a wonderful future was in store for her because of the
fact that her work was original.
So the winter passed and springtime came again with all
its beauty, and he continued in his book business. He made
a trip to Gregory and Winner to see what the prospects were
again in the Northwest. The winter for the wheat, he was
cheered to learn, had been ideal; but the spring was dry,
and that was not to the wheat's advantage. However, he
had the best prospects he had had for years, and he returned
to the book business with renewed hope.
And now we are compelled by the course of events to return
to certain characters who were conspicuous in the
early part of our story.
When Jack Stewart left the farm he had rented near the
property of Jean Baptiste and went West and took a homestead
and had George and Bill and Agnes to do likewise, he
was obsessed with a dream that riches had come to him at
last. Agnes was delighted with the prospects, also, and so
they looked forward to a great future in the new land.
But there was something that troubled Jack Stewart, and
for days when alone he would shake his head and cry:
"Dang it. Dang it! I oughtn't to have let it go that far,
dang it!" But he had kept what was now the cause of his
worry to himself so long that he would not bring himself to
confess it even to Agnes after what had occurred. But
never did he forget Jean Baptiste, and to Agnes he would
mention him quite often.
"By the way, my girl," he said one day when they were
settled on their claims, staying mostly on his, of course, for[Pg 459]
the prospects were hopeful. "Do you know that I never
did learn who saved me from that foreclosure. No, sir, I
never did! I paid the note and was so glad that it was
paid, that I tore it up and forgot the whole matter.
"Now who do you reckon it was that interceded for me?"
She paused and looked up from her sewing, and then bent
over it again, as she said:
"Jean Baptiste."
"Jean Baptiste!" he exclaimed incredibly.
"It was him."
"Why the stinkin' rascal, he never told me!"
She was silent.
"And it was him that came to my assistance," the other
mused reflectively. "Well, now since I come to recall him,
it was just like him to do something like that and keep it to
himself. Well, well, I do say!" He paused then, and
looked down at the toe of his boot. Suddenly he looked up,
and concentrated his gaze on Agnes.
"And you knew it all the time. He told you."
"He didn't tell me."
"Didn't tell you!"
"I knew it when you returned home that morning."
"Well, well...."
"I was positive the administrator hadn't granted you an
extension, nor wouldn't have, so it must have been some
one near. So who else could it have been but Jean Baptiste."
"Of course not, now that I recall it; but did you tell him
about it?"
Her eyes had business in her lap at the moment, very
much business. She saw the sewing and she didn't see it.
What she was seeing again was what had happened one day
when she had gone to carry his and her brother's luncheon....[Pg 460]
It passed before her, as it had done many times since.
Never, she knew, would she be able to forget that day, that
day when the harvest was on, and he had said sweet words
to her.... It was all past now, forever, but it was as fresh
as the day it was done.
She understood why he had gone away, and when he returned
and she had seen his face she understood then his
sacrifice. She knew that the man's honor, his respect for
his race and their struggle had brought him to commit
the sacrifice. And strangely, she loved him the more for
it. It had been an evidence of his great courage, the great
strength with which he was possessed. It was strange that
the only man she, a white girl, had ever loved was a Negro,
and now when that was history, it seemed to relieve her
when she could recall that he had been a man.
"Did you hear me, Aggie?" her father called now again.
She started.
"Why—yes, father—I heard you," she said, straightening
up. "And—of course—I told him about it...."
"Now I'm glad to hear that you did. It seems that you
ought to have told me at the time—at least before we left
there, so that I could have thanked him." He was silent
for a time then and reflective.
"I wonder what sort of woman he married," he mused
after a time.
"I don't know."
"I am sometimes a little afraid that he didn't get the right
kind of woman.
"He was such a prince of a good fellow, that it would
most likely have been his luck to have gotten a woman who
would betray him in some way. It is all rather strange, for
I don't think he loved any woman but you, Aggie."
He darted his eyes quickly in her direction, recalling a[Pg 461]
time before when he had intimated something of the kind.
This time, however, she did not cry out, but continued at
her sewing as though he had not spoken.
As he slowly walked out, what was in his mind was the
thing that had worried him before.
She looked after him and sighed. It was her effort then
to forget the past, and in so doing, the inspiration with regard
to music came again, and developed in her mind. But
her efforts had brought so little encouragement from those
to whom she had submitted her compositions that she for a
long time despaired of making another effort.
So it was not until the great drought swept over the land
and drove almost all the settlers from their claims in a
search for food, that made her again resort to the effort.
The drought was even worse in the part of the country
they now called home than it had been in Tripp County and
other parts farther East. Corn that was planted under the
sod one spring had actually not sprouted for two years, for
the moisture that fell had never wet the earth that deep.
So, after two years in which they came nearer to starvation
than they had ever before, she secured a position in a hotel
in a town farther West, and the money earned thereby, she
gave to her father and brothers to live on.
It was then she had returned to compositions in a desperate
effort and hope to save them from disaster. For a
long time she met with the usual rejections, and it was a
year or more before anything she composed received any
notice.
But O, My Homesteader was an instantaneous success.
While she still worked in the kitchen of the little hotel in the
western village, the royalties came pouring in upon her so
fast until she could hardly believe it. And coincident with
the same, she became the recipient of numerous offers from[Pg 462]
almost everywhere. Most were for compositions; while
many were offers to go on the stage, at which she was compelled
to laugh. The very thought of her, a dishwasher in
a country hotel, going on the stage! But she resigned her
position and went back to her father and brothers on the
farm. She used her money to pay off their debts and
started them to farming, and made herself contented with
staying on as she had done before, and keeping house for
her father and the boys. She refused to submit any more
manuscripts until the success of her first song was growing
old, and then she released others which followed with a
measure of success.
The offers from the East persisted; and with them,
drought in the West continued and they saw that trying to
farm so far west was, for the present time, at least, impractical.
So they returned to Gregory where she purchased
the place they had lived on. Owing to the fact that the
drought had been severe there, also, she secured the place at
a fair bargain, and they returned to farming the summer
following the publication of Baptiste's book.
When she read it, she hardly knew what to think; but it
was rather unusual she thought, because he had told a true
story in every detail; but had chosen to leave his experiences
with her out of it. She heard of him, and the disaster that
had overcome him, and was sorry. She felt that if she
could only help him in some way, it would give her relief.
And so the time passed, and he came again into her life in a
strange and mysterious manner.
She was surprised one day to receive a visit in person
from the publisher of her works. She was, to say the least,
also flattered. He had come direct from Chicago to persuade
her to come to the city, and while she was flattered[Pg 463]
and was really anxious to see the city, she refrained from
going, but promised to write more music.
In the months that followed, he wrote to her, and the experience
was new. Then his letters grew serious, and later
she received the surprise. He came again to see her and
proposed. She hardly knew how to accept it, but he was so
persistent. To be offered the love of a man of such a type,
carried her off her feet, and she made him promise to wait.
He was very patient about it, and at last she concluded
that while she did not feel that she really loved him yet,
she was a woman, and growing no younger, and, besides,
he was a successful publisher and the match seemed logical.
So after some months in which she tried to make herself
appear like the woman she knew he wished her to be, she
accepted, but left the date for their wedding indefinite.[Pg 464]
CHAPTER XI
THE BISHOP'S INQUISITION
THE REVEREND MCCARTHY was commonly regarded
as a good politician in church affairs, meaning,
that he was successful with the Bishop in being
able to hold the office of Presiding Elder over such a long
period. At every conference other aspirants attempted to
oust him. But he had always held with the Bishop and had
succeeded himself annually until the five-year limit had expired.
At the end of this time he had usually succeeded in
manipulating matters in such a manner that he had invariably
been successful in securing the same appointment
over another district in the state. Over this he presided another
five years, and was then automatically transferred
back to the district over which he had formerly presided.
For twenty years he had been successful in keeping this up,
but in the conference that was to convene after he had been
sued by his son-in-law, it became known and talked about
that he would not be re-appointed to the Presiding Eldership,
and would necessarily be sent to a charge for a year or
more.
Accordingly, he began early to seek a charge which he
was in position to know would be lucrative, since there were
few outside the large churches in Chicago that would pay
as well as the Presiding Eldership.
The fact was, however, he regretted going back to a
charge, for his former experience in such work, in gaining[Pg 465]
and retaining the confidence of the members of his church
had not been ideal, to say the least. And again, it was expedient
that he should have his family, especially his wife,
living in the town with him where he held the charge.
Perhaps that made it awkward for him, as he was not accustomed
to having his wife in such close proximity with
him daily. His regard for her was such that he could not
bear the thought of that close association. For his experience
had been that it was impossible for him to be in the
house with her a matter of two days without losing his patience
and speaking harshly to her. To avoid this unpleasant
domestic state of affairs it had been agreed that Orlean
should be his housekeeper, and this was settled on before
conference—and before he had been sued.
This pending suit, however, brought added complications.
Ever since he had brought Orlean home, he had been embarrassed
by gossips. Nowhere had he been able to turn
unless some busy-body must stop him and inquire with regard
to his daughter; what was the matter, etc., and so on.
It kept him explaining and re-explaining, a subject that was
to say the least, delicate. He had, however, succeeded in
explaining and conveying the impression that the man she
married had mistreated and neglected her, and that he had
been compelled to go and get her in order to save her
life. This was not satisfactory to him in view of the fact
that he decided once to let her return, but Jean Baptiste not
knowing that he had reached such a decision, had felt that
his only chance to secure her again was to keep away from
her father—well, we know the result of that effort.
But inasmuch as that Jean Baptiste had refused to argue
with him over her, he had used this as an excuse to become
his old self again, which, after all, was so much easier. So
when 'Gene Crook had approached him with an offer, and[Pg 466]
convinced him that Baptiste was what the Elder knew he
was not (because the Elder was easily to be convinced of
anything toward the detriment of his adversary) he easily
secured the place and the Elder had felt himself ahead.
Three hundred dollars was a great deal of money to him,
and went a long way in taking up the payments in which
they were in arrears on the home they were buying in Chicago.
True, it twitched his conscience, but N.J. McCarthy
had a practice—long in effect—of crucifying conscience.
So when he had closed the deal—and had been reimbursed
for his traveling expenses—he went directly back to his
work, and had not been in the city since until called in on the
suit.
When he left the lawyer's office and returned home, he
discussed the matter with Glavis, who in turn discussed
the matter with white friends who advised him how to
answer to the charge. Returning to the lawyer's office they
engaged counsel. It was very annoying—more than ever—to
the Elder when he was required to put up twenty-five
dollars in cash as a retainer. He had become so accustomed
to posing his way through in so many matters—letting
some one else put up the money, that when he was
forced to part with that amount of money he straightway
appreciated the seriousness of the situation. It was no
pleasant anticipation in looking forward to the trial, for
there he would be compelled to counter the other on equal
terms.
He was very disagreeable about the house when he returned
home, and his wife adroitly kept out of his sight.
He sought the street to walk off his anger and perturbation,
only to run into a Mrs. Jones, teacher in the Sunday
school of one of the large Negro churches, and with whom
he had been long acquainted. It was, in a measure, be[Pg 467]cause
his acquaintances were of long standing that gave
them, they felt, the right to question him regarding such
delicate affairs. So when he met Mrs. Jones, he doffed his
hat in his usual lordly manner, and paused when she came
to a stop.
"Good evening, Reverend Mac.," she exclaimed, and extended
her long, lean hand. He grasped it, and bowing
with accustomed dignity, replied:
"Good evening, Sister Jones. I trust that your health is
the best."
"My health is good, Reverend Mac. But, say, Reverend
Mac., you don't look so well."
"Indeed so, my dear madame, I have not been in the
best of health for some months."
"Well, well, that is too bad, indeed. I hear that you
have not been, Reverend Mac. And say, Brother McCarthy,
what is this I read in the paper about your son-in-law coming
in here and suing you for breaking up Orlean and he?"
His Majesty's head went up, while he colored unseen, and
would have passed on, but Mrs. Jones was standing in such
a manner that he was unable to do so without some difficulty.
"The man is crazy," he retorted shortly, and stiffened.
But it took more than stiffness to satisfy this gossip.
"Well, I thought something was the matter, Reverend.
For you see, I've heard that you went out there and brought
her home to save him from killing her, so you see it is
rather strange. That fellow, as a boy—and even yet,
when he is in Chicago—attends Sunday school and sits in
my class, and I was rather surprised that he should treat
Orlean as it is said you said he did."
Reverend McCarthy would liked very well to have moved
on. But Mrs. Jones was very much interested.[Pg 468]
"There's all kind of talk around town about it. They
say that if he gets a judgment against you, Elder, he will
put you in jail, and all that; but of course that couldn't be.
You stand too well in the church. But you know, Reverend,
the only thing that looks kind a bad for you is, they say that
he wouldn't dare start such a suit unless he had good ground
for action. They say—"
The Elder had extricated himself at last, and now sailed
down the street with high head. "May the God crush that
hard-headed bulldog into the earth," he muttered between
compressed lips, so angry that he could not see clearly.
"How long am I to be aggravated with this rotten gossip!"
He changed his mind about walking far, and at a convenient
corner, he turned back toward home. But when
he arrived there, he was confronted with another, and more
serious problem. It had been his intention before arriving
there, to arraign his wife again for having let Orlean go
West in the beginning. But now he was confronted with
his august honorary, the Bishop.
"And, now, Reverend," said the Bishop, after they had
gone through the usual formalities, "I am forced to come
around to something that embarrasses me very much, in view
of our long and intimate relations," and he paused to look
grave. The Reverend tried to still his thumping heart.
All his life he had been a coward, he had bluffed himself into
believing, and having his family believe, that he was a brave
man, but Orlean had told Baptiste on several occasions that
her father might have risen higher in the church, but for
his lack of confidence.
"It pertains to all this gossip and notoriety that is going
the rounds. I suppose you are aware of what I refer to."
The other swallowed, and nodded.
"You can appreciate that it is very embarrassing to me,[Pg 469]
and to the church, more, because I have struggled to raise
the standard in this church. We have in the years gone by
been subjected to unfair gossip, and some fair because of
the subtle practices of some of our ministers. And now,
with conference convening in two weeks, it is very awkward
that we should be confronted with such a predicament with
regard to you, one of our oldest ministers. The subject is
made more embarrassing because of its—er, rather personal
nature. I would regard it as very enlightening if you
would give me an explanation—but, of course, in the name
of the church."
The Reverend swallowed again, struggled to keep his eyes
dry, for the rush of self pity almost overcame him. It was,
however, no time or place for self pity. The Bishop was
not an emotional man; he was not given to patience with
those who pitied themselves—in short, the Bishop was
very much of a cold hearted business man, notwithstanding
his position. He was waiting in calm austerity for the
other's reply.
"Ah-m ahem!" began the Reverend with a great effort
at self composure. "It is, to say the least, my dear Bishop,
with much regret that I am compelled to explain a matter
that has caused me no end of grief. To begin with: It was
not with my consent that my daughter was allowed to go
off into the West and file on a homestead."
The other's face was like a tomb upon hearing this.
Indeed, the Elder would have to put forth a more logical
excuse. It has been said that the Bishop was a practical
man which in truth he was, and the fact is, he regarded it
as far more timely if a larger number of the members of
his race in the city would have taken up homesteads in the
West, than for them to have been frequenting State Street
and aping the rich. Also, the Bishop had read Baptiste's[Pg 470]
book—although the Reverend was not aware of it,—and
was constrained to feel that a man could not conscientiously
write that which was absolutely false.
"But I came into the city here after a conference to find
that my daughter had been herded off out West in a wild
country to take a homestead."
"Now, just a minute, Reverend," interposed the Bishop
astutely. "Regarding this claim your daughter filed on.
What was the nature of the land? You have been over it, I
dare say."
"Of course, of course, my dear Bishop! It was a piece
of wild, undeveloped land. At the time she took it, it was
fifty miles or such a matter from the railroad. She gave
birth to a child—"
"But," interposed the Bishop again, "you say the land
was a considerable distance from the railroad at the time
your daughter filed on the place? Very well. Now, Reverend,
isn't it a fact that in the history of this country, all
new countries when opened to the settler may have been
some distance from the railroad in the beginning? For instance,
somebody started Chicago, which was certainly not
the convenient place then that it is now in which to live."
"Of course, my dear Bishop, of course."
"So the fact that the railroad was, as you say, fifty
miles away, could not be held as an argument against it.
Besides, is it not a fact that there were other people, men
and women, who were as far from the railroad and therefore
placed at an equal disadvantage?"
"Of course, of course."
"Then, my dear Reverend, it does not appear to me that
that should be a fact to be condemned."
"I have not condemned it, my dear Bishop. No."
"Very well, then, my dear Reverend, please proceed."[Pg 471]
Now the interposition of the Bishop, had rather disconcerted
the Elder. Had he been allowed to proceed in the
manner he had planned and started to, he might have made
the case from his standpoint, and under the circumstances
very clear to the Bishop. But the latter's questions threw
him off his line, and he started again with some embarrassment,
and with the perspiration beginning to appear around
the point of his nose. Appreciating, however that he was
expected to explain, he went resolutely back to the task.
"Well, my wife allowed my daughter to be taken out
there and file on this land that this man had secured on his
representation that he wished to marry her, and when I came
into the city it was all settled."
"Pardon me for interrupting you again, my dear Elder.
But is it not a fact that Mrs. Pruitt, with whom you
are well acquainted, accompanied your daughter on this
trip?"
"It is so, Bishop."
"And is it not a fact that Mrs. Pruitt as well as your
daughter, explained it all at the time with satisfaction to
you?"
"Well, ah—yes, she did."
"You admit to this, then, my dear Reverend?"
"Under the circumstances at the time, I was rather compelled
to, my dear Bishop."
"Meaning that since she had gone and taken the land,
you were morally bound to look into and consider the matter
favorably?"
"Yes, I think that explains it."
"Now, Reverend. Is it not a fact that a considerable
write-up appeared in the Chicago Defender shortly after this
visit, detailing considerable, and with much illustration regarding
the trip; that, in short, your daughter had come into[Pg 472]
considerable land and was regarded as having been very
fortunate?"
"I think so, my dear Bishop."
"Very well, Reverend. Now—a—who solicited that
write-up? Did the editor not have a conversation with you
before the article appeared?"
"I believe he did, yes, sir. I think he did."
"Well, now, Reverend, if I remember correctly, this
young man visited the city the Christmas following, and I
was introduced to him by you in this same room?"
"I think so. Yes, Bishop, I remember having introduced
him to you myself."
"And do I quote correctly when I say that you called me
up the following spring to perform the ceremony that made
your daughter and this Jean Baptiste man and wife?"
"I think you quote correctly, my dear Bishop."
"M-m. Yes, I recall that I was indisposed at the time
and was very sorry I could not perform the ceremony," said
the Bishop thoughtfully, but more to himself than to the
other.
"Well, now. After they had been married some months,
my wife visited your wife, and the latter seemed to be
greatly impressed with the union. I think if I am correctly
informed that you went on a visit to them yourself
that fall."
"I did, my dear Bishop. Yes, I did."
"And at the conference on your return, you, if I am not
mistaken, called on me at my home and discussed the young
man at considerable length."
"Yes, my dear Bishop. I did that."
"Yes," mused the Bishop again thoughtfully and as if to
himself. "And you appeared greatly delighted with their
union. You seemed to regard him as an extraordinary[Pg 473]
young man, and, from what I have heard, I have been inclined
to feel so myself. Now it seems that a few months
after you were speaking in high praise of him, you made a
trip West and on your return brought your girl home with
you, and she has not since returned to her husband. Of
course," he added slowly, "that is your personal affair, but
since it has reached the public, the church is concerned, so I
am ready to listen to further explanation."
"I went out there and found my girl in dire circumstances,"
defended the Elder. "I found her in neglect; I
found her without proper medical attention—no nurse was
there to administer her needs. In short, I was prevailed
upon by my love and regard for my daughter's health, to
expedite the step I took."
"Nobly said, Reverend, nobly said," said the Bishop, and
for the first time during his explanation, the Elder felt encouraged.
"The man did not marry her for love," the Elder went
on now somewhat more confident. "He did not marry her
to make her happy and comfortable. He married her to
secure more land. It is true that I was impressed with him
in a way, because the man was rather—er, inspiring, and I
entertained hopes. Our race does not possess successful
men in such a number that we can be oblivious to apparent
success as on a young man's part. This man seemed to be
such a man—in fact, I grant him that. The man was popular
with those who knew him; he was a pusher; but he was
so ambitious to get rich that he was in the act of killing my
child to accomplish his ends." The Reverend finished this
with a touch of emotion that made the other nod thoughtfully.
And while he paused to gather force and words for
further justification of his interposition, the Bishop said:
"I note by the reports in the newspaper that you are[Pg 474]
accused of having coerced the girl; that you had her write
her husband's name on a check with which you secured
the money to bring her from the West."
"He gave my daughter the privilege of securing money
by such a method for her needs, and it was not I that had
her do any such a thing."
"But it was—er, rather—a little irregular, was it not?
It does not seem reasonable to suppose that he granted her
the privilege to sign his name to checks to secure money
with which to leave him?" The question was put rather
testily and caused the other to shift uncomfortably before
making answer.
"Well, under the circumstances, methods had to be resorted
to—er, rather to fit the occasion." The Elder's
defence was artful.
The Bishop, not pretending to take his question seriously,
pursued:
"I note, further, that he accuses you of disposing of
some property...."
"My daughter sold her place. It was hers, in her name,
and the transaction did not require his consent."
"M-m—I see. It seems that the property, so he claims,
represented an outlay of some thirty-five hundred dollars
in cash, and he purports the same as being worth something
like sixty-four hundred dollars. What is your opinion, having
been on the property, of its actual worth?"
"Well, I have some sense of values, since I am buying
this home, and I do not regard the property as being worth
such a sum."
"I see," said the other, stroking his beard which was thick
and flowing.
"A piece of wild, raw land such as that I could not estimate
it as being so valuable."[Pg 475]
"M-m. Have you any knowledge of what land has
brought in that neighborhood, Reverend. You see, value is
a very delicate thing to estimate. We cannot always be the
judge in such matters. The usual estimate of what anything
is worth is what some one is willing to pay. Do you
recall of having ever heard your daughter or any one say
what deeded land in that section sold for?"
"Well, I have heard my daughter say that a place near
there had brought five thousand dollars."
"Which would not compare with the value you put on the
place your daughter held."
"It would not seem to."
"M-m. You say this was your daughter's place entirely?"
"It was," returned the Reverend promptly.
"And she paid for it out of her own money?"
"Well, no. She did not."
"I see. M-m. Then who purchased it for her, Reverend?"
"I think he did that. Yes, I think he did."
"I see. Do you recall the consideration. I understand
that he purchased what is called a relinquishment. I understand
such transactions slightly. I have read of such deals
in Oklahoma. Seems to be a sort of recognized custom in
securing land in new countries, notwithstanding the subtlety
of the transaction."
"I think he claimed to have paid two thousand dollars
for the relinquishment, which I would consider too much,
considerably too much."
"But, inasmuch as your knowledge of new countries has
been brief, perhaps, you would not set your judgment up as
a standard for values there," suggested the Bishop, pointedly.
"You will grant that the individual in the contro[Pg 476]versy
would likely be able to judge more correctly with
regard to values?"
"It is obvious."
"Yes, yes. Quite likely." The Reverend was very uncomfortable.
If the Bishop would only stop where he was it
wouldn't be so bad, but if he kept on with such questions.
That was what he had disliked about Jean Baptiste....
He had a habit of asking questions—too many questions,
he had thought; but this man before him was the Bishop,
a law unto himself. And he must answer. The Bishop
knew a great deal more about the West than he had thought
he did, however.
"Who bought your daughter's place, my dear Elder? A
white man or a Negro? Which of course, doesn't matter,
but if I understand all the details, it would be more clear,
you understand."
"Of course, my dear Bishop. Naturally. A white man
bought the place."
"I understand now. A white man," he repeated thoughtfully.
During all the questioning, the Bishop had looked
into the Reverend's eyes only occasionally. Most of the
time he had kept his eyes upon the carpet before him, as if
he were studying a spot thereon.
"It seems by the paper that the man, according to the
accusations set forth in the complaint, had once contested
the claim."
"Yes, he had done so, Doctor, he had."
"I see. Why did he contest the place, my dear Reverend?"
"Why, I do not understand clearly, but such methods
appear to be a recognized custom in those parts," countered
the Elder evasively.
"But isn't it a fact that he tried to contest her out of[Pg 477]
the place, and if he had been successful, he would have
had the place for nothing in so far as she was concerned?"
"It is quite likely." The Elder had nothing but evasive
answers now. He tried counters no more.
"But he failed, it seems, to get the place through contest,
regardless of the fact that your daughter was here in
Chicago instead of being on her claim."
"It seems that way."
"And then, forsooth, it must have been your daughter's
husband who was instrumental in saving the place for her?"
"Yes."
"And after this, your daughter sold the place to the man
who had struggled to beat her out of it and failed through
the instrumentalities of her husband, and without consulting
her husband with regard to the bargain."
"I counciled her, my dear Bishop."
"Ah, you counciled her," and for the first time he turned
his sharp, searching eyes on the Elder and seemingly looked
directly through him. The next moment they were back on
the carpet before him, and he resumed his questions. He
was thinking then, thinking of what he had read in the
book by Jean Baptiste, and what had recently appeared in
all the papers. It seemed to him that the Elder's defence
was not quite clear; but he would see it through.
"It was reported that this man, a banker, whose bank
had failed ... sent you the money for your railroad fare
from Cairo to this city, and also reimbursed for the return.
Is that quite true?"
"That was—the railroad fare—a part of the transaction."
"Ah-ha. A part of the transaction. You never, I suppose,
informed her husband regarding the transaction after
the deal was closed?"[Pg 478]
"No."
"What was the consideration, Reverend, for this piece
of land that your daughter's husband bought, for which he
paid $2000, placing a house and barn thereon, digging a
well, and making other improvements, fighting off a three
years' contest—placed there by the man who tried to beat
her out of it? What did he pay for the place?"
"Three hundred dollars." Such an awful moment! The
Elder's head dropped as he said this. But the Bishop's eyes
were still upon the spot in the carpet.
"And so this young man comes hither and accuses and
sues you, accusing you of breaking up he and his wife.
He published all that you have told me and if he should
secure a judgment it is known that he can remand you to
jail for six months."
He paused again, regarded the spot in the carpet before
him very keenly and then arose. The Elder arose also, but
he was unable to find his voice. In the meantime the
Bishop was moving toward the door, his hand was upon the
knob, and when the door was open, he turned, and looking
at the one behind him, said:
"Well, see you at the conference, Newt," and was gone.
The other stood regarding the closed door. His brain
was in a whirl and he could not quite understand what
had happened. But something in that hour had transpired,
and while he could not seem to realize what it was
just then, he knew he would learn it in due time.[Pg 479]
CHAPTER XII
THE BISHOP ACTS
THE conference that followed was one of grave apprehensions
for the Reverend McCarthy. Before,
he had always looked forward to this occasion with
considerable anxiety. He had usually prepared himself for
the battle that was a rule on such occasions. For thirty-five
years he had not missed a conference; he had never come
away in defeat. True, he had not risen very high, but he
had, at least, always been able to hold his own.
But, for the first time in his long experience, he went to
meet this conference with a feeling in his heart that he
would come away defeated. That he was not to be reappointed
Presiding Elder, was a foregone conclusion, but
he entertained doubts about getting the appointment he had
hoped to secure. Ever since the Bishop had paid him the
visit, he had been uncomfortable. When the prelate bade
him good-by that day, he had never been able to get out of
his mind the idea that the other had convicted him in his
own heart, and had purposely avoided his company. It
worried him, and he had been losing flesh for two years,
therefore he did not present now the same robust, striking
figure as when he had met the conference heretofore year
after year.
And then, moreover, he had been hounded almost to
insanity by gossips. From over all his circuit it was the
talk, they brought it to conference and discussed it freely[Pg 480]
and did not take the trouble to get out of his hearing to do
so. Nowhere was there, as he well knew, a body that would
have delighted more in his downfall than those brother
preachers who met the conference that year. Always had
they been ready to oppose him, but always before the Bishop
had been with him. He had been able by subtle methods to
place himself in the Bishop's favor, but this time that august
individual artfully kept from meeting him directly. Besides,
he had not the conscience to seek him, and he had not been
able to meet the Bishop in the free atmosphere as before.
The charge that he had picked out was very good, and it
was convenient for his needs for many reasons. Of course
there were scores of others after the same charge, but with
his old influence he need not have worried. However, he
had not and could not see the Bishop privately long enough
to secure from him a promise. And so he met the conference
for the first time, unsettled as to where he was to
preach the ensuing year.
Never had a conference seemed so long as that session.
The week wore slowly away, and he was forced to be aware
of the fact that on all sides they were discussing him, and the
fact that he had been sued, and was likely to be remanded
to jail as a result, since no one credited him with so large a
sum as ten thousand dollars. He could see the unconcealed
delight, and the malice that had always been, but
which before he had been able to ignore. Affairs reached
such a point until it was almost a conclusion that it mattered
little as to where he was sent, for he would be unable
to fill the pulpit because of the fact that he would have to go
to jail shortly. It nettled him; it broke down his habitual
composure, and it was a relief to him when the conference
came to a close.
And not until the secretary arose to call the various[Pg 481]
charges and who had been sent thither, did he know where
he was to go. So it was with a sinking of the heart when
his name was reached:
"Reverend McCarthy to Mitchfield!"
"Reverend McCarthy to Mitchfield!" was the echo all
through the audience. Impossible! Reverend McCarthy,
one of the oldest, and regarded as one of the strongest, one
of the ablest ministers to such a forsaken charge. Indeed
they could hardly have sent him to a poorer charge, to a
less dignified place. It seemed incredible, and the rest of
the calls were almost drowned out in the consternation that
followed.
Well, it was done. He had been all but silenced, and
lowered as much as the Bishop dared to lower him. That
was settled, and he returned to Chicago without telegraphing
the fact to his family.
With resignation he made the necessary preparations for
the trip, and taking Orlean with him, went to the small
town. They rented a house, for the place didn't afford a
parsonage, and began the long dreary year that was to
follow. It was his good fortune, however, when the school
board met and decided to separate the Negro children from
the whites in the public schools, that they employed his
daughter to teach the colored pupils for the year. In this
way they were able to get along in very good comfort in the
months that followed. So the autumn passed, and also the
winter. Spring came and went, and summer had set in
when his attorney wrote him that the case had been called,
to come into Chicago, and prepare to stand trial in the case
of Jean Baptiste, plaintiff, versus Newton Justine McCarthy,
defendant.[Pg 482]
CHAPTER XIII
WHERE THE WEAK MUST BE STRONG
THE TRIAL was called for early June, and Baptiste
reached the city a week or ten days before the
time set. He had become very friendly with the
Negro lawyer who was conducting his case. He also secured
a Gregory lawyer, the one who had conducted the
contest case. When he arrived in the city, the lawyer advised
that, inasmuch as they had a spare bedroom at his
home, and that it would be imperative for them to be close
to discuss various phases of the prosecution, he could have
the room if he liked. So he accepted it.
It so happened that the lawyer's home was located in the
same block on Vernon Avenue as was the McCarthys, and
on the same side of the street. Moreover, it had been built
at the same time as had that of the McCarthys, and was
very much like in appearance the one in which they were
living.
One afternoon a few days before the trial, while lingering
at the bar of the Keystone Hotel, Baptiste was approached
by Glavis, who invited him to a table nearby, where they
were very much alone. He ordered the drinks, and when
they were served he began:
"Now, Baptiste, it seems we ought to be able to get
together on this case without going into court."
"Yes?" replied Baptiste, regarding the other noncommittally.
"Yes, I think we could, and should. I think you and[Pg 483]
Orlean ought to be able to console your differences without
such an extreme."
"You think so?"
"Why, I do. Orlean has always—ah—rather loved
you, Baptiste, and I think you two could make up."
"But this is not between Orlean and me, Glavis. You
seem to misunderstand. It is between N. Justine McCarthy
and me."
"Of course, but it is over Orlean. You have sued father
for this sum, a sum you know he cannot pay in the event
you should secure judgment. So there would be nothing
left for you but to remand him to jail, which seems to be
your desire."
"Possibly so." The other was still noncommittal.
"Then why not you and I get together on this proposition
before the trial is called?"
"I don't see as I can oblige you, Glavis. There comes a
time when compromise is impossible, only vindication can
suffice. And it's vindication that I want now and, regret
to advise, am determined to have."
"That seems rather severe, Baptiste."
"Why so?"
"Well, you see, I understand that the old man kinda—er,
gave you the worst of it, but you ought to forget some
things. Look at it from a broad viewpoint. See how expensive
it is going to be, and all that."
"I considered all that before I went into it, Glavis," replied
Baptiste calmly.
"Well, now, Baptiste, I want to stop this thing before it
goes to court. If you had of kinda flattered the old man
a little in the beginning as I did, all would have been well."
"Why should I have done so when I didn't feel to?"
"Oh, Baptiste, you are so severe!"[Pg 484]
"When a man has suffered as I have, it is time to be severe,
my friend. For your own benefit, I will say that I do
not trust your father-in-law. I do not love him and never
have. If it wasn't because I wish to observe and subserve to
the law of the land, I would have killed him long ago. Even
when I think of it now, my bitterness is so great at times
that I must repel the inclination to strike him down for
the coward he is. So if that's all, we will call the meeting
to an end," so saying he arose, strode toward the bar and
ordered drinks for both. He drank his with a gulp when
served, and turned and left the saloon.
Glavis proceeded to his lawyer, and advised him of his
inability to dissuade the plaintiff.
"Couldn't dissuade him, eh?"
"Couldn't do a thing!"
"That's too bad. It might be to your advantage if you
could settle this case out of court. When will your father-in-law
be in?"
"I'm looking for him here in a day or so, now."
"M-m." The attorney was thoughtful. "This is rather
an unusual case," he resumed, "and I have been studying the
complaint of the plaintiff. The old man, it seems to me,
committed some very grave blunders."
"You think so?"
"Quite obvious. And while it will be difficult for the
plaintiff to secure a judgment in such a case; it is, however,
apparent that the sympathy of the court will be against your
father-in-law in the proceedings."
Glavis was uncomfortable.
"Now I take notice here that the plaintiff states that his
wife drew a check for two hundred dollars unknown to her
husband, and that the Reverend had it cashed. That may
be regular, but it will not help her father's case. Again,[Pg 485]
he complains that her father influenced the girl to sell a
quarter section of land for less than one-tenth what it cost
the plaintiff. Of course these are technicalities that while
they cannot justify a judgment will win the sympathy of
the jury. What the plaintiff must show, however, is that
his father-in-law actually was the direct cause of and did
alienate the affections of his wife. Such a case is not without
parallel, but it is uncommon. A father alienating the
affections of his daughter.
"Now where is your sister-in-law?"
"At home."
"Wish you'd bring her down. This is a complicated
case, and we've got to conduct it with directness. She can
be of great assistance in extricating her father from this
predicament."
"All right, sir. When shall I bring her?"
"Oh, any time that is convenient. Tomorrow morning at
nine will perhaps be the best. And, now, say! Have you
any idea who the plaintiff is going to use as witnesses?"
"Why, I think he plans to bring his grandmother from
what I can hear, for one."
"His grandmother? What does she know about it?"
"Well, she was in the house when my father-in-law went
on the visit and the girl came away with him."
"I see. I'd like to know just what passed and what she
heard and will testify to. I wonder whether she will testify
that she overheard your father-in-law abusing this Baptiste
to his wife?"
"I really don't know."
"Who else?"
"I heard something about him going to bring a doctor
down, and also a lawyer."
"The doctor, eh?" He shook his head then a little[Pg 486]
dubiously. "This physician attended the girl while she was
confined?"
"I think so."
"M-m. I see here where we have recorded that your
father-in-law claims that the girl was neglected; didn't have
proper medical attention. What about this? Have you
any knowledge as to how many visits this doctor made to
the bedside of this girl when she was sick? Any knowledge
of what kind of bill was rendered by him?"
"I hear that his bill amounted to something like two
hundred dollars."
"Two hundred! Great Scott! And for a dead baby!
Gee! We'll have to keep away from neglect as an excuse.
That's a fact. No jury will believe such a statement if that
fellow shows where he's paid such a bill as that!"
Glavis shifted uneasily. He was seeing another side of
the controversy. Before he had only seen one side of it,
and that side was as the Reverend had had him see it.
"You send or bring the girl down here tomorrow. It
will be up to her to keep her father out of jail, that's all.
It will be up to her to convince the court that she never
loved this man, that all he did for her was by persuasion,
and that her father only followed her instructions. In
short, it's almost directly up to her; for the plaintiff has
certainly got the goods on her dad if he can prove that she
ever loved him."
Glavis was much disturbed when he went home. For the
first time he was able to appreciate the full circumstances.
It would be up to Orlean to save her father, and that he
could see. He would take her to the lawyer, and have her
carefully drilled. The success for them depended on her;
on her falsifying to the court, for it could not be otherwise.
For her to testify that she did not love—and had never[Pg 487]
loved Jean Baptiste, he knew would be a deliberate falsehood.
It worried him, but he had to go through with it.
He accompanied her to the lawyer's office as agreed, and
there she was made to understand the gravity of the situation,
that everything depended on her statements, and her
statements only.
Her father arrived the following day, and at the attorney's
office in company with Orlean and Glavis, he was
impressed with the nature of the defense. All were finally
drilled in their course of action.
That night Orlean faced the most serious period in her
life. She was a weak woman and her weakness had been
the cause of it all. The trial was approaching—and the
result was up to her. Her father's freedom, his continuance
in the pulpit, his vindication of the action he had taken
depended upon her, and her strength.
And that strength—for on that day she would have to be
strong,—depended upon a lie.[Pg 488]
CHAPTER XIV
THE TRIAL—THE LIE—"AS GUILTY AS HELL!"
"N OT guilty, your honor!"
The court room was silent for a time before
any one stirred. It had been apparent that the
decision would be so; because there were several reasons
why the jury was constrained to render such a verdict.
Among the reasons, chiefly, was the fact that the plaintiff
had failed to produce sufficient evidence to justify a verdict
in his favor. His grandmother, his corroborating witness,
had answered her last call just before she was to start for
Chicago to give hers, the most incriminating testimony.
The doctor who had attended his wife during her confinement
was indisposed, and was represented only by an affidavit.
But what had gone harder than anything against
the plaintiff was his wife's testimony. Under the most
severe examination, and cross examinations, she had stood
on her statements. She had never loved her husband, and
had not been, therefore, actuated by her father's influence
into leaving him. She had instructed her father in all he
had done, and that he was in no wise guilty as accused.
No jury could have rendered a verdict to the contrary
under such circumstances, and no one—not even the plaintiff,
had expected or even hoped that they would.
But in the minds of every man and woman in the crowded
court room, N.J. McCarthy stood a guilty man. Not even
the faintest semblance of doubt as to this lingered in their[Pg 489]
minds. It was merely a case of insufficient evidence to convict.
And while the people filed out into the air at the conclusion,
every one had a vision of that arch hypocrite in his
evil perpetuation. In their ears would always ring the story
Jean Baptiste had told. Told without a tremor, he had recited
the evils from the day he had married her up until
the day she had sold her birthright for a mess of pottage.
So vivid did he make it all that the court was held in a
thraldom. For an hour and a half he detailed the evil of
his enemy, his sinister purpose and action, his lordly deceit,
and his artful cunningness, and brought women to tears by
the sorrow in his face, his apparent grief and external mortification.
Never had the black population of the city listened to or
witnessed a more eloquent appeal. But justice had been
unable to interfere. The trial was over, and Newton Justine
McCarthy left the court room a free man, with head
held high, and walking with sure step.
Jean Baptiste left it calmly in company with his lawyers.
They had anticipated losing the case before going into court,
for it had been apparent to them that the outcome rested
entirely with Baptiste's wife. If they failed to shake her
testimony; that she had never loved him, then they knew
it was hopeless. It had all depended on her—and she had
stood by her father.
"Well, I'm satisfied," said Baptiste as they went through
the street.
"I suppose so, in a way."
"I wanted vindication. I wanted the people to know the
truth."
"And they know it now. He goes free, but the people
know he is a guilty man, and that your wife lied to save
him."[Pg 490]
"Yes," said Baptiste a little wearily.
Somehow he felt relieved. It seemed that a great burden
had been lifted from his mind, and he closed his eyes as if
shutting out the past now forever. He was free. Never
would the instance that had brought turmoil and strife into
his life trouble him again. Always before there had seemed
to be a peculiar bond between him and the woman he had
taken as wife. Always he seemed to have a claim upon
her in spite of all and she upon him. But, by the decision
of the court, all this had been swept away, and he sighed
as if in peace.
They found their way to the "L" station that was nearest,
and there took a train for the south side. At Thirty-first
Street Baptiste left his lawyer and slowly betook himself
toward the familiar scenes on State Street.
While he lost himself in the traffic of State Street, the
Reverend, in company with Glavis, Ethel, and Orlean,
boarded an Indiana Avenue surface car. The Reverend
was cheery for a great fear had passed. A coward by
nature, he had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown
before the trial, thinking of what might happen. But now
that was over. He was free. That meant everything.
The fact that he was guilty in the minds of everybody who
heard the trial, did not worry him now. He was free and
could claim by the verdict that he was vindicated in the
action he had taken. That was the great question. Always
before he had been sensitive of the fingers of accusation
that were upon him, and the worry had greatly impaired
his usual appearance.
And while he was relieved, Glavis, sitting proudly by him,
was also. He talked cheerfully of the trial, of the decision,
and of the future that was before them. He smiled at all
times, and the Reverend's large face was also lighted up[Pg 491]
with a peculiar delight. But there was another who, in
spite of the fact that the testimony from her lips had saved
the day for the Reverend, was not happy, not cheerful, not
in a mood to discuss the case.
This one was Orlean. Few knew—in fact maybe only
one other, and that was her husband—or appreciated how
much that false testimony had cost her. She had lied; lied
freely; lied stoutly; lied at every point of the case—and
this for the man who had brought her to it. And now when
it was over she felt not at ease. While Jean Baptiste was
conscious that a burden had been lifted from his mind, and
Glavis and her father chatted freely, she sat silently by
without even a clear thought. She was only conscious that
she had lied, that after a life of weakness, a life that had
made no one happy or cheerful or gay, she had for the first
time in her life, deliberately lied. And as she became more
conscious of what had passed, she felt a burden upon her.
Never since the day she had abused her husband; never
since the suffering her actions had brought him; never since
as a climax to all this, when he lay upon the floor and she
had kicked him viciously in the face, had she experienced a
happy or a cheerful day.
But today—after that terrible ordeal, she felt as if life
held little for her, that she was now unfit to perform any
womanly duty. She found no consolation in the fact that
she had been encouraged to do as she had done by those
who claimed to love her. That seemed to annoy her if
anything. She could now, for the first time in her life,
realize clearly what duty meant. Duty could not be side-tracked,
regardless of what might have passed. Her husband
had been good to her. He had given her the love that
was his. Never had he abused her in any way, never had
he used a cross word in her presence. But she had done[Pg 492]
everything to him. And as a climax to it all, she had lied.
Oh, that lie would haunt her forever!
They arrived at the street where they must leave the car
for home. She arose along with the rest. When they
stood upon the walkway and had started toward home, her
father paused.
"By the way, children," he said cheerfully. "I think I
should call at the lawyer's office and thank him." He
turned his eyes to Glavis, his worthy counsellor at all times,
and read agreement in his face before the other opened his
lips to give sanction.
"I think that you should, too, father," he said, whereupon
he turned to accompany him.
"Well, I'll drop by his office. You may go on home with
the girls, Glavis," he said. So saying he turned toward the
attorney's office to settle his account and talk over the case.
As he walked along his way, he became reflective. He
allowed his mind to wander back into the past—back many
years to the time when he had gone into the country to
take a meal. He recalled that day at the dinner table where
he had sat near a certain school teacher. She had been an
attractive teacher, a rare woman in those days. And he
admired her. It was a privilege to sit so close to her at the
table, to wait on her, and be the recipient of her charming
smiles. He saw himself now more clearly in retrospection.
He saw a little boy standing hungrily at a distance. He saw
again now, that same small boy approach the teacher; saw
the teacher's motherly face and her arms reached out and
caught that youth and then smother his face with kisses.
He felt again the anger that little boy's action had aroused
in him. He heard again the cries from the summer kitchen
as the mother administered punishment for the same. He
recalled briefly the years that followed. He recounted the[Pg 493]
testimony at the trial. For many, many months he had
endeavored to make Baptiste suffer, and this day he had
succeeded. But still he was not satisfied. The joy that
had come of being freed of the accusation after his unhappy
and nervous state of fear, had shut all else out of his mind
for a time. After all freedom is so much. But was freedom
all? He could not account for the feeling that was
suddenly come over him. He recalled then again the severe
chastisement he had caused Jean Baptiste to receive when
he was a mere child. He recalled also how he had been
instrumental in separating him from his daughter. He recalled
now the lies, oh, the lies she had resorted to that
had kept him out of jail, the tears he had shed from self
pity, while Baptiste stood stoically by.
And thinking thusly, he reached his destination.
He found the attorney alone, busy over some papers. He
approached him courteously, bowed, and thrusting his hand
in his pocket, said:
"Yes, sir. I thought I would drop in and pay you the
balance of the fee that is now due, and thank you for your
services." He smiled pleasantly as he spoke, and never
appeared more impressive. The other regarded him a moment,
held out his hand, accepted his fee, and said:
"Well, it's over, and you are free."
"Yes," said the Elder, but now found it rather hard to
smile. "I am glad it is over for it was a very awkward
affair, I must confess." He paused then, perforce. The
lawyer was regarding him, and the Elder wondered at his
expression. He had never seen that look in his face before.
What did it mean? He was not kept long in suspense, for
soon the other spoke.
"Yes, you are free and fortunate."
"Fortunate," the Reverend repeated, thoughtfully, and[Pg 494]
looking up found the lawyer's eyes upon him. They were
looking straight into his with the same expression of a
moment before.
"Yes," said the lawyer then coldly, "you are free and
fortunate, because you were as guilty as hell!"[Pg 495]
CHAPTER XV
GRIM JUSTICE
AGNES decided to visit Chicago and planned to be
married there. Besides, since she was now engaged,
the legacy in the bank at Rensselaer must be secured,
and, according to her mother's will, consulted before she was
married. She was curious to know what it was all about.
Indeed, she was almost as anxious, if not more so to learn
the contents of the legacy than she was to become the wife
of the man she had consented to marry.
Accordingly, before the train reached Chicago, she became
very anxious. It gave her a peculiar and new thrill
to recline in the luxurious Pullman, to have her needs answered
and attended to by servants, and to be pointed out
by curious people as the writer and composer of a song that
had delighted the whole country. She was experiencing
how very convenient life is when one has sufficient means
to satisfy one's needs. This had been her privilege only a
short time. A newsboy boarded the train and passed
hurriedly through the cars with the morning papers. She
purchased one, and glanced through the headlines. In the
index she saw an account of the suit of Jean Baptiste, versus
his father-in-law. Curiously and anxiously she turned to
the account and read the proceedings of the trial. She laid
the paper aside when through and reviewed her acquaintance
with him in retrospection. How strange it all seemed at
this late date. Beside her, a long, narrow mirror fit between[Pg 496]
the double windows. In this she studied her face a moment.
Some years had passed since that day—and the
other day, too, at the sod house. She thought of the man
that was to be her mate and of what he would think should
he ever know that the only man who had ever touched her
lips before him, was a Negro. She found herself comparing
the two men, and she was rather surprised at the
difference she could distinguish. She tried to estimate what
true love was. The life she had so recently entered was
the life she had aspired to. She had hopes for it. The
life that could now be hers was the goal of her ambition—and
she had attained it! She should be satisfied. But was
she?
As the train with its luxurious appointments sped along,
she felt after all that she was going out of the life that she
really loved. Was it because she had always been so poor
and unable to have the things she could now partake of at
will, that such had become a habit, and indispensable to
her happiness? For indeed she had a longing for the old
life, the dash and open it afforded. She had a vision of
Jean Baptiste and his honor. He had sacrificed her to be
loyal to the race in which he belonged. Had it not been for
this, she knew she would not be journeying to the great city
to become the wife of another. But amid all these thoughts
and introspectives and otherwise, there constantly recurred
to her mind the man she was to marry and what he would
think if he knew that she had once loved and would have
married—and even kissed a Negro.
She was glad when at last the train drew into the outskirts
of the city, and the excitement about drove such reminiscences
out of her mind. She had wired him, and of
course, she expected him to meet her.
"Oh, here you are," he cried as she stood upon the plat[Pg 497]form
a half hour later. On hearing him her eyes wandered
toward where he stood, and regarded him keenly for
a moment. A really handsome man, immaculately attired
in the finest tailored clothes and in the fashion of the day.
He caught her in his arms and she did not resist the hot
kisses he planted upon her cheeks. Still, she was greatly
confused, and feared that she would create a scene before
she had become accustomed to the ways and dash of the
city.
He had her arm—held it close, as they passed through
the station and crossed the walkway to where an inclosed
auto stood. Into this he ushered her, attended to her luggage,
and a moment later followed her inside. Through the
city with all its bustle and excitement they sped.
"I'm going to take you to my aunt's," he said, when they
had gotten started.
"Oh," she chimed. At that moment she could think of
nothing to say. It was all so confusing to her. She was
so unaccustomed to any kind of a city that she was actually
in a fear. She did not realize because of the distinction to
which she had attained, that any awkwardness on her part
would be looked upon as the eccentricity of a genius. She
decided, however, to say as little as possible, to speak only
when spoken to. In that way she would try not to cause
him any embarrassment or mortification.
"You have certainly been a hard one to pull off the farm,
dear," she heard now.
"Oh, do you think so?" she said coyly.
"Do I think so?" he laughed. "Well, say, now, there
isn't one person in a thousand who, after writing the hit
you have composed, wouldn't have been over all this old
land by this time, letting people see them."
"Oh, I could never wish that," she said quickly.[Pg 498]
"Oh, come, now! Get into the limelight." He eyed her
artfully, winked playfully, and continued: "You'll like it
when you get the modesty out of yourself."
"I don't think so."
He regarded her quickly out of the corner of his eye, and
then looked ahead.
"Ever heard of State Street?" he inquired.
"Oh, yes. Is this it?"
"This is State Street," he said, and she looked out and
started. She didn't know just what she had expected to see,
but what met her gaze and made her start was the sight
of so many Negroes.
"What's the matter, dear?" he said, glancing at her
quickly.
"Why—ah—oh, nothing."
"I wondered why you started," and he again looked
ahead. They were across it now, and approaching Wabash
Avenue. He turned into this, to where his aunt lived some
distance out in the most exclusive part of its residence section.
Agnes, sitting by his side, despite the excitement, the
great buildings and fine streets, was thinking of the past,
and of what she had just seen. Negroes, Negroes, and that
would have been her life had she married Jean Baptiste.
All such was foreign to her, but she could estimate what it
would have meant. She was sure she could never have
become accustomed to such an association, it wouldn't have
seemed natural. And then she thought of Jean Baptiste,
the man. Oh, of him, it was always so different. In her
mind he was like no other person in the world. How
strange, and singularly sweet had been her acquaintance
with him. Never had she understood any one as she understood
him. She tried to shut him out of her life, for the[Pg 499]
time had come, and she must. But could she? When she
dared close her eyes she seemed to see him more clearly.
The car had stopped now, and he was lifting her out
before a large house that stood back from the street some
distance in sumptuous splendor. As they went up the walkway,
the large front doors parted, and a handsome elderly
woman came forth. Upon her face was written refinement
and culture.
"Oh, aunt, here we are."
"I saw you coming because I was watching," said his
aunt, coming forward, the personification of dignity. She
held out her arms, and Agnes felt herself being embraced and
kissed. Her head was in a whirl. How could she readily
become accustomed to such without displaying awkwardness.
Arm in arm they mounted the steps, were met by the
butler, who took her bags, and a moment later she found
herself in a large, richly furnished room.
"Come now, dear," he said, and led her to a couch. She
heard his aunt going upstairs to prepare her room, and the
next moment she felt him draw her to him, and whatever
difference there was in this convenient life, all men loved
alike.
Jean Baptiste lingered late at the Keystone bar. He was
alone in the world, he felt, so company of the kind about
seemed the best, and was, at least, diverting. It was twelve
o'clock and after when he left. He still retained his room
at the attorney's residence, and to this he strolled slowly.
He attempted to formulate some plans in his mind, and after
a time it occurred to him that he should go back West to
Gregory. He had hired more than seven hundred fifty
acres put into wheat. He hadn't heard how it was, or[Pg 500]
whether there was any wheat there or not. But he had
seen in the papers that a drought had affected much of the
crop in Kansas and Nebraska. He half heartedly assumed
that it would naturally hit his country also. If so, there
was nothing left for him to do but leave that section. But
he would depart from the city on the morrow and see what
there was up there, and with this settled in his mind, he
quickened his step, and hurried to his room.
He turned into the right number, as he thought, but upon
trying to insert the key in the lock he found that he had
made a mistake. He glanced up in confusion and almost
uttered a cry. It was not the attorney's home, but that of
the Reverend McCarthy.
"Chump!" he said to himself as he turned and started
back down the steps. "I'll never sleep inside that house
again," and laughed.
Upon the walk he heard steps, and when he had reached
the street, looked up to meet Glavis and a strange Negro
just turning in. Glavis glared at him as if to say, "Well,
what business have you here, now?" But Baptiste mumbled
some word of apology about having turned in at the wrong
number, went directly to his room, retired and forgot the
incident.
He had no idea how long he had been asleep or what
time it was when he was awakened suddenly by a drumming
on his door, and the attorney's voice, saying:
"Heh! Heh! Baptiste, wake up, wake up, you're
wanted!"
He turned on his side and drew his hand to his forehead
to assure himself that he was awake. Then, realizing
that he was, he jumped from the bed and going forward,
opened the door.
Two officers, the attorney in a bath robe, and Glavis[Pg 501]
stood at the door. He regarded them curiously. "What
is this?" he managed to say, as they came into the room.
"Seems that they want you," said the attorney.
"Me?" he chimed.
"Yep," said one of the officers. "Will you go along
peacefully or shall we have to put the bracelets on. You're
arrested for murder."
"For murder! Me, for murder?"
"Just go with the officers, Baptiste. If you'd been a
little earlier you might have gotten away; but it so happened
that I met you coming out just as I was going in."
"But I don't understand what you're talking about—all
of you," persisted Baptiste. "Who has been murdered,
and why am I accused?"
The lawyer had been observing him keenly, and now he
interposed.
"Why, your wife and her father have just been found
murdered, and Glavis here and another assert they met you
coming out of the house at midnight or a little after."
The incident of the night came back to him then, "Well,"
he muttered, and began to get into his clothes. When he
was fully dressed he turned to the attorney and said:
"Glavis is right in part, White." He was very calm.
"I'll call you up when I need you." And then he turned
to the officers and said. "I'm ready. The cuffs will not
be necessary."[Pg 502]
CHAPTER XVI
A FRIEND
BECAUSE she feared that rising as early as she had
been accustomed to might serve to embarrass her
fiance and his aunt, Agnes took a magazine from her
bag, returned to bed and tried to interest herself in a story
the morning following her arrival in the city. About seven,
some one knocked lightly at her door, and, upon opening it,
she found the maid with the morning paper.
"Would you care for it?" she asked courteously.
"I would be glad to have it," she said as she took it,
returned to the bed, and once again therein, turned to read
the news. It was but a moment before she started up
quickly as she read:
STRANGE MURDER CASE ON VERNON AVENUE
Negro Minister and His Daughter Found Murdered
about Midnight
JEAN BAPTISTE, WHO HAD LOST SUIT AGAINST PREACHER,
ARRESTED AND HELD WITHOUT BAIL AS SUSPECT. WAS
MET LEAVING THE HOUSE JUST BEFORE DISCOVERY OF
THE MURDER.
Jean Baptiste, Negro author and rancher is under arrest
at the county jail this morning, accused of the murder of
his wife and father-in-law, the Reverend N.J. McCarthy,
at 3—— Vernon Avenue. The dead bodies of the preacher
and his daughter were discovered shortly after midnight[Pg 503]
last night by his daughter Ethel and her husband, upon
his return from State Street where he had seen Baptiste
leave the Keystone saloon a few minutes after twelve.
The murder appears to be the sequence of a long enmity
between the preacher and his son-in-law, Baptiste. Some
years ago Baptiste had the preacher's daughter take a homestead
in the West, on which he had purchased a relinquishment
for her. Some months later they were married and
went to live on the claim he had secured. It seems that
bad blood existed between the preacher and Baptiste, and
some time after the marriage the preacher went on a trip
West and when he returned brought his daughter back with
him. It is said that the rancher visited Chicago several
times following in an effort to persuade her to return.
About a year ago, the daughter sold a relinquishment on
the homestead and Baptiste accused the preacher of having
influenced her to do so. He also accused him of other
things that contributed to the separation, and finally sued
the minister in the circuit court of Cook County for ten
thousand dollars for alienating his wife's affections. The
case was brought up, tried, and, yesterday, the minister was
adjudged not guilty by the jury. The rancher and author
made a strong case against the minister, and it was the
consensus of opinion in the court room that the minister
was guilty. But it was his daughter's alibi that saved
him: she testified that she did not and never had loved her
husband, and because the plaintiff was unable to prove conclusively
that she had, the jury's verdict was "not guilty."
E.M. Glavis, also a son-in-law of the dead man, testified
and was corroborated by another, a minister, that just as he
turned into his yard last night, he met Jean Baptiste coming
out. He moreover claims, that a few days before the trial,
he tried to dissuade Baptiste from going through with the[Pg 504]
case, and to settle it out of court. But that Baptiste refused
to consider it; that he showed his bitterness toward
the now dead man, by declaring that if he hadn't wished to
observe and subserve to the law, he would have killed the
preacher long ago.
It is therefore the consensus of opinion that Baptiste,
disappointed by losing the suit, entered the house and murdered
his wife and father-in-law while they slept. The circumstantial
evidence is strong, and it looks rather bad for
the author. Only one phase of the case seems to puzzle the
police, however, and that is that the preacher and his daughter
were found dead in the same room, the room which the
minister occupied. Both had been stabbed with a knife that
had long been in that same room. The minister's body lay
in bed as if he had been murdered while he was sleeping,
while that of the daughter lay near the door. It is the
opinion also of those who feel Baptiste guilty, that he entered
the house and went to the preacher's room, and there
killed him while he lay sleeping; and that the daughter, who
was sleeping downstairs near her mother, was possibly
aroused by the noise, went up to the room, and was murdered
as the intruder was about to leave.
Baptiste refused to make any comment further than that
he was innocent.
"Accused of murder!" Agnes echoed, staring before her
in much excitement. "Jean Baptiste accused of murder!"
She read the account again. She arose and stood on the
floor. "He is innocent, he is innocent!" she cried to herself.
"Jean Baptiste would not commit murder, no, no, no!
No, not even if he was justified in doing so." Suddenly
she seized her clothes, and in the next instant was getting
hurriedly into them.[Pg 505]
She completed her toilet quickly, opened the door and
slipped down the stairs. The maid was at work in the hall,
and she approached her, and said:
"Will you kindly advise the lady of the house that I
have gone downtown on some very urgent business. That
I shall return later in the day?"
She stepped outside, crossed to State Street, inquired of
an officer the way to the county jail, and a few minutes later
boarded a car for the north side.
She had no plans as to what she would or could do, but
she was going to him. All that he had been to her in the
past had arisen the instant she saw that he was in trouble.
Especially did she recall his having saved them from foreclosure
and disgrace years before. She was determined.
She was going to him, he was innocent, she was positive,
and she would do all in her power to save him.
It was rather awkward, going to a place she had never
dreamed of going to, the county jail, but she shook this
resolutely from her mind, and a few minutes following her
arrival, there she stood before the bailiff.
"I am a friend of a man who was arrested in connection
with a murder last night," she explained to the officer.
"And—ah, would it be possible for me to see and consult
with him?"
"You refer to that case on Vernon Avenue, madam?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you would like to see this Jean Baptiste?"
"That is the one."
They regarded her closely, and was finally asked to follow
the bailiff.
They stopped presently before a cell, and when the light
had been turned on, she saw Baptiste sitting on a cot. He
looked up, and upon recognizing her, came forward.[Pg 506]
"Why, Agnes—Miss Stewart, you!" he cried in great
surprise. He regarded her as if afraid to try to understand
her presence there.
"Yes, Jean," she answered quickly. "It is I." She hesitated
in her excitement, and as she did so, he caught that
same mystery in her eyes. They were blue, and again he
could swear that they were brown. Despite his precarious
position and predicament, he could not help regarding her,
and marking the changes that had come in the years since
he had seen her. She seemed to have grown a trifle stouter,
while her hair appeared there in the light more beautiful.
Her face was stronger, while her lips were as red as ever.
Withal, she had grown more serious looking. She reminded
him as she stood there then, of a serious young literary
woman, and he was made hopeful by her visit.
"Now, Jean, I've read all about it in the papers. I happened
to be in the city, and so came right over. I know
nothing about anything like this, and don't suppose you do
either. But, Jean," she spoke excitedly, anxiously, and
hurriedly, "I am willing to do anything you ask me to, just
anything, Jean." And she regarded him tenderly. He was
affected by it, he choked confusedly. It was all so sudden.
She noted his confusion, and cried in a strained little voice,
"You must just tell me, Jean."
"Why, Agnes—I. Well, I don't know what to say. I
don't feel that I ought to involve you in such a mess as this.
I—"
"Oh, you must not speak that way, Jean. No, no, no!
I'm here to help you. You didn't kill him, you didn't kill
her—you didn't kill anybody, did you, Jean?"
"Of course I didn't kill anybody, Agnes."
"Of course you didn't, Jean!" she cried with relief. "I[Pg 507]
knew you were innocent. I said so, and I got out of bed
and came at once, I did."
"How brave, how noble, how kind," he murmured as if
to himself, but she reached and placed her hand over his
where it rested upon the bar.
"Shall I hire a lawyer, Jean? A great lawyer—the best
in the city. That would be the first thing to do, wouldn't
it, Jean?"
He looked at her, and could not believe it was so, but
finally he murmured:
"I have a lawyer—a friend of mine. You may call on
him, Agnes. His number is 3—— Vernon Avenue. He
will tell me what to do."
"And me," she said quickly.
"Yes—you," he repeated, and lowered his eyes.
"Well, I'm going now, Jean," and she reached for his
hand.
He was almost overcome, and could not look at her directly.
"Be strong, Jean. It will come out all right—it must
come out all right—"
"Oh, Agnes, this is too much. Forget it. You should
not—"
"Please hush, Jean," she said imploringly, and he glanced
up to see tears in her eyes. She looked away to hide them.
As she did so, she cried: "Oh, Jean, I know what they
have been doing to you—how you have been made to
suffer. And—and—I—could never stand to see it after
all—" she broke away then, and rushed from him and out
of the building. He watched her and when she was gone,
he went back to the cot and sat him down, and murmured.
"Agnes, oh, Agnes,—and after all that has passed!"[Pg 508]
CHAPTER XVII
THE MYSTERY
AFTER AGNES had consulted with the lawyer, who
was glad to go into the case, and agreed to engage a
worthy assistant, she returned to Baptiste and said:
"Now, Jean. Don't you think that if I secured a good
detective to look into it—this case, it would be the proper
thing?"
"Why—yes, Agnes," he said. He could hardly accustom
himself to her in such a situation.
"I think that would be best," she resumed. "As I was
coming downtown on the car I observed the Pinkerton
Office on 5th Avenue and now, Jean, if you think that
would be a practical move, I will go there at once and have
them send a man to you. I'll bring him."
"That would be practical, Agnes. Yes," he said thoughtfully,
"since you insist—"
"No more, please," and she affected a little smile. "Just
let me work until we arrive somewhere," and she was gone,
returning in due time with a man.
"I represent the Pinkerton agency, Mr. Baptiste," he
said, after greeting the prisoner, "and now if you will state
just where you were; what time, as near as you can recall,
that you reached home; also what time you turned into this
place where the murder was committed, I shall be glad to
get down to work on the case."
Since Baptiste had observed the time by the clock in the
Keystone before leaving there, he was quite accurate in fix[Pg 509]ing
the time he reached his room. Since we have followed
him to his room, we know this phase of the case.
"Well, I'll hike over there and squint around a little.
Hope I'll get there before the inquest is held." And so saying,
he was gone.
"I will go back to where I am staying, now, Jean," said
Agnes, after the detective had departed, "and you may expect
me at any time. I want to see you out of here as soon
as possible, and I will do all in my power to get you out,"
and she dashed away.
The detective went to the McCarthy home forthwith.
The bodies had been removed and were then at the morgue.
He looked into the room where the tragedy had been committed,
and then sought Glavis.
"Who discovered the murder, Mr. Glavis?" he inquired
when they stood in the death room.
"Why myself and another fellow returned home just
after it had been committed."
"How did you know it had just been committed?"
"Well—why, my wife was in the hall-way, and when we
entered she had just discovered the bodies."
"But that doesn't prove that they had just been murdered."
"But my wife says she was awakened by her sister's
scream."
"I see. So it was your wife who first discovered the
bodies, or that they had just been murdered."
"Yes."
"Where had you been, and what time did you return
home?"
"I had been around town, to the Keystone where Baptiste
was until shortly after midnight."
"You saw this Baptiste leave the hotel?"[Pg 510]
"I did."
"How long after Baptiste left was it, before you followed?"
"Perhaps fifteen minutes."
"Perhaps fifteen minutes; but you are not positive?"
"No, but I am quite certain."
"When you left the hotel, where did you go?"
"I came here."
"You came directly here. Didn't stop on the way anywhere?"
"I did not."
"And when you arrived, what happened? Did you meet
anybody on the way?"
"I passed people of whom I took no notice on the way
here, of course. The only person I took notice of was Jean
Baptiste."
"Where did you meet him?"
"Coming out of the house upon my arrival."
"You met him coming out of the house upon your arrival?"
"Well, out of the yard. I saw him come down the steps
that leads up to the house."
"But you didn't see him come out of the house?"
"Well, no, I didn't see that."
"Did you exchange any words with him when you met
him? Did you stop and talk?"
"No. But I heard him mutter something."
"Did you understand the words or any words he muttered?"
"I thought he said something about having turned in
at the wrong place."
"How do you account for him having done so—if so?"[Pg 511]
"Well, the house where he stops is just a few doors—about
a half dozen—up the street—"
"On the same side or the opposite?"
"The same side. And he was stopping there."
"Did you have any conversation with Baptiste after the
trial in which he sued your father-in-law?"
"No; but I tried to have him settle the case before going
to court."
"What did he say to it?"
"Refused to consider it."
"Did he give reasons?"
"Yes. He said he wanted vindication."
"Anything else?"
"That he would have killed the Elder if it had not been
that he was an observer of the law."
"Where were they murdered?"
"She lay near the door, while he lay in bed."
"Any evidence of a struggle?"
"No, not as I could see."
"With what were they murdered?"
"With a knife that has been in the room here for two or
three years."
"Was Baptiste aware that such a knife was in the room?"
"Not that I know of."
"When, to your knowledge, was Baptiste last in the
house?"
"He has not been in the house for more than three years."
"Then he couldn't have known the knife was there."
"Well, unless he discovered it when he entered the
room."
"Providing he entered the room. Was he aware also
that the preacher occupied this particular room? Is it not[Pg 512]
reasonable to suppose that he would not know where the
preacher slept if he had not been in the house for three
years?"
"But he could have looked around."
"Possibly. But how do you account for the girl's body
being here in the room also. Where did she sleep?"
"Downstairs near her mother. It is my theory that
she was disturbed by the sound of some one walking, went
upstairs, and was in time to see the tragedy of her father,
and was in turn murdered by her husband."
"That is your theory. But why was there no evidence of
a struggle? It hardly seems reasonable that she would have
allowed herself to be stabbed without some effort to save
herself."
"Well, that is beyond me. Jean Baptiste acted suspicious
in my opinion, and it is certainly strange that he should
have been in the position he was at such a crucial time."
"May I consult with your wife?"
Glavis looked around, uneasily. "She is very much torn
up by the incident," he suggested.
"But this is a very grave matter."
"Well," and he turned and entered the room wherein
Ethel had enclosed herself.
"Ethel, an officer has called and wishes to consult with
you."
"No, no, no!" she yelled. "Send him away. Didn't I
tell you I didn't want to see no police," and she fell to crying.
The detective had entered the room in the meantime,
and when she looked up, she saw him.
"What are you doing in here?" she fairly screamed.
He did not flinch under the glare she turned upon him. Indeed,
the day was at last come when she could frighten no
one. The one she had been able to drive to any lengths with[Pg 513]
such a propaganda, lay stiff at the morgue. The detective
regarded her searchingly, and upon realizing he was not
going to jump and run, she ceased that unseemly noise making
and began crying, woefully.
"You discovered this tragedy, madam?" he inquired
calmly, but with a note of firmness in his tone.
"Yes, yes!—oh, my poor sister! My poor father—and
that low down man!"
"When did you discover this, madam?"
"Just as soon as it was done, oh me!"
"How did you come to discover it, lady?"
"By my sister's scream. She screamed so loud it seemed
everybody must have heard it. Screamed when he stuck
that knife into her breast!"
"How long after you heard her scream was it before you
came out of the room—your room?"
"I came at once," she said sulkily, and tried to cry louder.
The detective was thoughtful.
"So you came at once! And what did you see when you
came out?"
At this she seemed overcome, and it was some moments
before he could get her answer, and that was after he had
repeated.
"My sister and father lying murdered in the room there."
"Is that all you saw?"
She was sulky again. After a time she muttered. She
wrinkled her face but the tears would not come. Presently
she said, and the detective caught an effort on her part to
say it.
"Yes. But I think I heard a door slam downstairs."
"You think you heard a door slam? What happened
next?"
"My husband came."[Pg 514]
"How long after the door slammed was it before your
husband came?"
"Not long."
"Is it not possible that when you heard the door slam,
that it was your husband coming in?"
"No. I heard the door slam behind him, too." Again
he thought he detected something singular in her manner, as
if she were not telling all she knew....
The detective went downstairs and talked with Mrs. McCarthy
a few minutes, and then took his leave. He called
up Agnes, and made an appointment and met her some hours
later.
"What have you discovered?" she inquired anxiously,
her eyes searching his face.
"Well," said he, slowly, "a few things, I think."
"And Jean—Mr. Baptiste?" He looked up sharply and
searched her face.
"He is innocent."
"Thank God!" And she clasped her hands and looked
down in great relief. Quickly, she looked up, however, and
cried: "But the proof. Will you—can you prove it?"
He toyed idly with a pencil he held in his hands, and after
a time, drawled: "I think so. When the proper time comes."
"The proper time? And—when will that be?" Her
voice was controlled, but the anxiety was apparent.
"Well, we'll say at the preliminary hearing tomorrow
morning."
"And—and—you have no more to report?"
"Not today. I shall attend the inquest, of course. And
where may I see you—say, tomorrow?"
"At the hearing."
"Very well, then. Good day."
"Good day."[Pg 515]
CHAPTER XVIII
VENGEANCE IS MINE. I WILL REPAY
"JEAN," she cried joyfully. "The detective says that
you are innocent; and that he feels he will be able to
place the crime where it belongs!"
"I'm glad," he said solemnly. She bestowed upon him a
kind smile as she said:
"So I thought I would just come over and cheer you up.
There is something mysterious about it all, and the newspapers
are devoting much space to it. Oh, I'm so glad to
hope that it will be all over tomorrow, and you will be let
out of this place, so you can go back home and cut your
wheat."
"My wheat?"
"Yes, of course, Jean. You have a fine crop of wheat
on all your land."
"I have?"
"Yes, it is so," she reassured him. And then she paused,
as something seemed to occur to her. "Because of the fact
that you have had several failures you cannot realize that
you have actually raised a crop, a big crop, better than any
crop since—since." She stopped short, and he understood
and suppressed a sigh. When he looked up, she was
moving down the hallway, her mind filled with something she
had almost forgotten during the past two days.
He knew of it. She had been given quite a write-up in
the social columns of a Chicago paper and many lovers of
her musical hit, were, unknown to her, curious with regard
to her coming marriage.[Pg 516]
The detective Agnes had retained, called on Baptiste's
lawyers and held a lengthy consultation. When he left
them, an understanding had been reached with regard to
the hearing, and silence was agreed upon.
At the magistrate's office the following morning, the court
room was crowded. Scores were turned away, and all the
family had been subpœnaed.
Glavis was first called, and related what he knew, which
has already been related. Next came Mrs. McCarthy who
knew even less. She was followed by Ethel, and the detective
and two lawyers questioned her closely.
"Now, you say you heard your sister scream," said the
lawyer after the usual formalities had passed. "Will you
kindly state to the court just what you overheard and know
regarding this affair?"
She glared at him, and then her eyes met those of Baptiste,
and she glared again. She told a varied story of the
case, and made it very brief.
"You say, madame, that after you heard your sister
scream you rushed from your room and to where she was?"
"Yes," she answered, and those near noticed the sulkiness.
"And when you arrived you found her dead near the
door, while your father lay murdered in the bed?"
"Yes."
"Do you recall, Mrs. Glavis, whether she screamed long,
or whether it was brief?"
She hesitated, somewhat confused. Presently, she stiffened
and said: "It was long."
"Did it last until after you had left your bed?"
"It did."
"Until you had left the room you were in?"
"Yes."
"In fact she was screaming still when you arrived at the[Pg 517]
door of the room, no doubt?" the lawyer's tone was very
careless, just as though he were not in the least serious.
Her reply was prompt.
"Yes."
"Now Mrs. Glavis, do you recall having ever heard your
sister scream before in a like manner?"
She started perceptibly. Her eyes widened, as if she were
recalling an incident. Suddenly she became oblivious of her
present surroundings, and conscious of a night two years
before.... When she resumed her testimony, she was seen
to be weaker.
"No," she said bravely.
Now it so happened that the attorneys for the defense had
consulted with a chemist, who was in the court room by request.
At this juncture he was called to the stand. He
was asked a number of questions, and then Ethel was again
placed on the stand.
"Now, madame, the court has decided to investigate this
matter thoroughly. You are positive Jean Baptiste, here,
killed your sister, also your father? You remember, of
course, in giving your testimony, that we are going to investigate
the case and prosecute for perjury!" She had
been seen to raise her handkerchief to her eyes with the first
announcement regarding the investigation. Now she uttered
a loud cry as the tears flowed unchecked. Suddenly
she dropped her handkerchief, and with her arms stretched
forward, she screamed:
"No, no! Orlean, Orlean! Oh, my God, Orlean!"
And in the next instant she would have fallen in a dead
faint had those near not caught her. For this is how it
happened.
When the family returned from the court house, Orlean[Pg 518]
had retired at once, complaining of a headache. Since
she had very often since her father brought her home
complained of such, no particular attention had been paid it.
She stayed in bed until late in the afternoon. In the meantime
her father went over to the west side, presumably to call
on Mrs. Pruitt. It was late when he returned, about eleven
o'clock, that night.
Orlean retired again about ten, and had fallen into a
troubled sleep. She felt the same as she did the night she
had returned from Mrs. Merley's, and she could not account
for the strange nausea that lingered over her.
When N.J. McCarthy returned, he went to the kitchen
for a drink of water, after which, he must return through
the room in which his daughter, Orlean, lay sleeping.
As he had done on that occasion two years before, he
had paused at the foot of the bed to observe his sleeping
daughter. How long he stood thus, he never knew, but after
a time he became conscious of that strange sensation that
had come over him on the memorable night before. He
tried to throw off the uncanny feeling, but it seemed to
hang on like grim death. And as he stood enmeshed in its
sinister thraldom, he thought he again saw her rise and
point an accusing finger at him. Out of it all he was sure he
heard again her voice in all its agony as it had spoken that
other night. But tonight the accusation was more severe.
From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
HE TRIED TO THROW OFF THE UNCANNY FEELING, BUT IT SEEMED TO HANG ON
LIKE GRIM DEATH. AND AS HE STOOD ENMESHED IN ITS SINISTER THRALDOM,
HE THOUGHT HE SAW HER RISE AND POINT AN ACCUSING FINGER AT HIM.
"There you are again, my betrayer," she said coldly.
"Today you completed your nefarious task; you completed
the evil that began more than thirty years ago, oh, debaser of
women! Where is Speed, and the wife of his you ruined?
Where? In hell and its tortures did you say? Yes, and
where are my brothers? Oh, don't tremble, for you should
know! No, you made me pretend to feel that you had not
committed that sin, and other sins, also. But I knew[Pg 519]—yes,
I knew! You never told me I had brothers. You said
foolish things to deceive me and the mother of mine. You
called me by a boy's name, Jim, and pretended, because you
did not recognize your illegitimate off-spring, that there were
none. And then came Jean. Oh, you had him at a disadvantage
always! When he was a little boy, you started
your evil, and twenty years later you renewed it. Why,
oh, you vain sinner, you know! He married me—perhaps
he didn't love me then as he might have—as he would have
had I tried to be the woman he wished me to be. But you
took advantage of the weakness that was in me by the heritage
of my mother, and you made me subservient unto your
evil will!
"Well, it's all over now, and from this day henceforth
you will never see peace. The evil and misery you have
brought unto others, shall now be cast upon you. You are
my father, and the creator of my weakness, but you have
taken my husband and soul mate, and made a new generation
impossible for me to lead. And now I say unto you, go
forth and repent. Begone from me. For from this day
evermore though in weak flesh I may pretend to love you,
know that I must hate you!"
He shook himself, and succeeded in casting off the depression.
When he looked again, Orlean was sitting up in bed,
regarding him sleepily. He started, and wondered whether
what had passed was real, but in the next moment he was
relieved.
"Papa," she said in her usual, but sleepy-like voice, "Is
that you?"
"Yes, daughter," he replied quickly, and as if to still the
excitement in his heart, he passed quickly around to where
she reposed, and planted a kiss upon her lips, and turning,
hurried upstairs.[Pg 520]
She sat upright for some minutes after he had gone, and
became conscious of that singular feeling that she had felt
all the day, still lingering over her. As she sat there, she
heard the little clock on the table beside her mother strike
11:30. She lay down again, and a few minutes later she
was asleep.
The Reverend retired quickly and wished he could sleep
and forget what he thought he had seen and heard. He
was successful, and soon he was snoring. He could not
understand upon being awakened slowly how long he had
slept, but he became conscious that the light was burning
brightly. He turned on his back, and when he could see
clearly, his eyes fell upon Orlean.
She stood between him and the door, and he regarded
her with a puzzled expression. Presently his eyes met hers,
and he started up. What was the matter with her? Her
eyes were like coals of burning fire; her stiff, bushy hair, was
unbraided and stood away from her head giving her the appearance
of a savage. But it was the expression of her eyes
that disturbed him. He was held in a thraldom of fear as
she slowly advanced toward the bed.
"Orlean," he at last managed to say. "What is the—"
"I have come at last to right a wrong," she began in an
uncanny voice. Never had he seen her appear like that before,
nor heard her speak in such a voice. She paused
when she was beside the bed, and stood looking down upon
him in that demented fashion. The cold perspiration broke
out all over him, and he trembled.
"Oh, you told me my husband did not love me. While
he worked to make us comfortable and happy out there on
the claim you sat beside my sick bed and told me lies.
While he grieved over the loss of our little one, you conceived
a vile plot to 'get even,' Oh, you—liar! You sunk[Pg 521]
his soul into hell for spite. And then today—yesterday
you reached your climax by having me go on the stand and
testify to a greater lie! To save your wretched soul from
disgrace, I swore to the most miserable lie a woman could
tell! And now that you have made him suffer unjustly,
and spoiled all life held for me, the judgment of God is
upon you. The God that you have lied to and made a
laughing idol of seeks restitution! So you sinner of all the
sins, vengeance is mine, I will repay!"
So saying, she reached quickly and grasped the knife he
had found years before, a desperate looking instrument with
a six-inch blade and bone handle. She raised it high, and
for the first time he was fully awakened. He attempted to
struggle upward, but with a strength borne of excitement,
she pushed him and he felled backward upon the bed.
"Orlean, my child, Orlean! My God—oh, my heaven,
what do you—" he got no further. Quickly her poised arm
descended, and the knife she held sank deeply into his heart.
"Oh, God—my beloved God—ah—oh—Christ!
Christo...." he struggled upward while she stood over
him with that same white expression upon her face. As
the blood clogged in the cut the knife had made, and all
the pulsations concentrated, struggled before ceasing their
functions for all time, he turned his dying eyes toward her.
Regarded her blindly for a moment, and then, dropped limply
back from where he had risen, dead. In that moment she
regained her sanity.
She regarded him a moment wildly, and then she closed
her eyes to try to shut out the awful thing she had done and
screamed long and wildly—just as she had done that night
when she returned from Mrs. Merley's. Then, as the echo
died away, the door was pushed open, and before her stood
Ethel. One terrible look and the mad girl went quickly for[Pg 522]ward,
halted, swayed, and then with a moan, raised the knife
and sank it into her own breast. Drawing it forth she regarded
Ethel wildly, and then, throwing the knife against
the wall of the room, dropped dead at Ethel's feet, just as
Glavis' steps were heard in the hall below.
When he heard his wife scream, and had rushed upstairs,
saw the dead father-in-law and her sister, he cried:
"Jean Baptiste did this! I just met him coming out of
the house as I entered," and catching his wife he quickly
took her back to the room, and proceeded to spread the
alarm.
Even with the grief she was cast into, Ethel had quickly
seen a chance to spite the man she hated, and instead of
telling the truth, she had chosen to keep silent and let Jean
Baptiste be convicted if possible for the crime he knew
nothing of.
The people were filing out of the court room. Ethel's
confession, born out of the excitement when the lawyer had
mentioned investigating the crime deeply, had cleared
everything, and Jean Baptiste was free.
In the court room during the hearing he had observed
Agnes, but when the trial was over, she was nowhere to be
seen. He looked around, but failed to find any trace of her.
At last, with a sigh, he went with the lawyers and a few
days later was home, to harvest the wheat she had told him
was the best, and so he found it.
He was saved thereby, and went into the harvest with
Bill and George again shocking as they had done years before.
But there was no Agnes to bring the luncheon now,
and Jean Baptiste lived in the memory of what had once
been.[Pg 523]
CHAPTER XIX
WHEN THE TRUTH BECAME KNOWN
"I HAVE hardly seen you for two days, my dear," he
complained when Agnes had returned from the
hearing.
"I have been consumed with some very delicate business,"
she said, and notwithstanding the excitement she was laboring
under, allowed him to caress her. At the same time
he was regarding her strangely. For the first time he
seemed to be aware of the fact that she was a rather strange
person. He was trying to understand her eyes as everybody
else had done, even herself.
"Will Agnes tell me what has kept her so busy and away,
I know not where?" he asked tenderly. "Or would she
rather not—now."
"She'd rather not—now," and she tried to be jolly,
although she knew she must have failed miserably.
"Very well, my dear. But, sweet one, when are you
going to become my own?"
She started. In the excitement she had so recently been
through, the fact that she was engaged and expected to
marry soon, had gone entirely out of her mind.
"Why, really—when?" She paused in her confusion,
and he said quickly:
"Let's just get married—today!"
"Oh, no, please don't ask me to so soon."
He frowned. Then he was pleasant again. "Then,
when, Agnes?"[Pg 524]
She was still confused, and in that moment thought of the
legacy. She was more confused. He caught her hand then,
and touched her cheek with his lips.
After an hour she had told him of the legacy.
"That place is less than a hundred miles from Chicago
and we can just run down there today and back this evening!"
he exclaimed, shifting in anxious excitement. "We
can go there and back today, and be married tomorrow."
"No," she said slowly. "I'll suggest that we have the
legacy brought here, and attended to according to the will
and all that has for a lifetime to me been a mystery, be
cleared here in your and your aunt's presence. And the day
after—I will marry you." She dropped her eyes then in
peculiar solemnity. He didn't understand her but the thrill
of what was to come overwhelmed him, and in the next
instant he held her in his arms.
They explained their plans to his aunt, who, because she
disliked notoriety, readily agreed, and by special messenger
the papers were brought to the city the following day and
opened according to her mother's will.
The night before, as they were returning from the theatre,
he said to her:
"Agnes, do you know—and I trust you will pardon me
if it seems singular, but there is something about you I can
never—somehow feel I never will, understand." He
paused then and she could see he was embarrassed.
"It is in your eyes. I see them in this hour and they
are blue, but in the next they are brown. Has any one
ever observed the fact before?" he ended.
She nodded, affirmatively.
"Why is it, dear?"
"I don't know."
"And you—you have noticed it yourself?"[Pg 525]
"Yes."
"And—can't you understand it, either?"
She acknowledged the fact with her eyes.
"It is strange. I'll be glad when we understand this
legacy."
"I will, too."
"It makes me feel that something's going to happen.
Perhaps we—you are going to prove to be an heiress."
She laughed cheerfully.
"And then you will not want to marry me, maybe."
She laughed again.
"But nothing would keep me from loving you always,
Agnes," he said with deep feeling.
"Even if the papers would show me to be descended from
some horrible pirate or worse."
"Nothing in the world could make a difference. Indeed,
should the papers connect you with something out of the
ordinary, I think I would like you better—that is, it would
add even more mystery to your already mysterious self."
"Wonderful!"
He kissed her impulsively, and in the next hour she went
off to bed.
"What is this?" said her fiance's aunt, as the lawyer
lifted a small package from the box of documents, and as
he did so, an old photograph slipped and fell to the floor.
It was yellow with age; but the reflection of the person was
clearly discernible. All three looked at it in wonderment.
Then her fiance and his aunt regarded her with apprehension.
The package was untied, and all the papers gone
through and much history was therein contained. But one
fact stood above all others.
"Is this a fact?" said the aunt coldly. Never had she[Pg 526]
appeared more dignified. Her nephew stood away, regarding
Agnes out of eyes in which she could see a growing
fear.
"Well, I hope everything is clear," said the lawyer astutely.
"It seems that you have come into something,
madam, and I trust it will prove of value." She mumbled
something in reply, and stood gazing at the two pictures she
now held. All that had been so strange to her in life was
at last clear. She understood the changing color of her
eyes, and her father's statements that he had never quite
explained. At last she knew who she was.
She turned to find herself alone. She opened her lips
and started to call the others, and then hesitated. Why had
they left her? She looked at the photographs she held—and
understood.
She gathered the documents and placed them in the box,
went upstairs, slowly packed her belongings, and called a
cab.
Jean Baptiste came into the granary on the old claim, and
looked out over the place. And as he did so, he regarded
the spot where the sod house had once stood and wherein
he had spent many happy days. As he thought of it, the
past rose before him, and he lived through the sweetness
again that a harvest had once brought him. That was
years before, and in that moment he wished he could bring
it back again. The Custom of the Country and its law had
forbid, and he had paid the penalty. He wondered whether
he would do the same again and sacrifice all that had been
dear and risk the misery that had followed.
He shifted, and in so doing his back was toward the road.
"Withal, it would have been awkward to have married a
white woman," he muttered, and reached for the cold lunch[Pg 527]
he had brought for his meal. Bill and George were eating
in the field where they worked.
"Baching is hell," he muttered aloud, and picked up a
sandwich.
"How very bad you are, Jean," he heard, and almost
strained his neck in turning so quickly.
"Agnes!"
"Well, why not?"
"But—but—oh, tell me," and then he became silent
and looked away, raising the sandwich to his mouth mechanically.
"Don't eat the cold lunch, Jean. I have brought some
that is warm," so saying she uncovered the basket she
carried, and he regarded it eagerly.
"But, Agnes, how came you here? I—I—thought you—were
getting married. Are you here on—on your wedding
trip?"
"Oh, Lord, no! No, Jean, I am not going to marry."
"Not going to marry!"
She shook her head and affected to be sad, but a little
smile played around her lips that he saw but didn't understand.
"But—Agnes, why?"
"Because the one to whom I was engaged—well, he
wouldn't marry me," and she laughed.
"I wish you would make it all clear. At least tell me
what it means—that it is so."
"It is so!" she said stoutly, and he believed her when
he saw her eyes.
"Well, I guess I'll understand by and by."
"You will understand, soon, Jean," she said kindly.
"Papa will explain—everything." She turned her eyes
away then, and in the moment he reached and grasped her[Pg 528]
hand. In the next instant he had dropped it, as a far away
expression came into his eyes as if he had suddenly recalled
something he would forget.
"Jean," she cried, and came close to him. She looked
up into his eyes and saw what was troubling him. She got
beside him closely then. She placed an arm around him,
and with her free hand she lifted his left hand over her
shoulder and held his fingers as she looked away across the
harvest fields, and sighed lightly as she said:
"Something happened and I was strangely glad and came
here because—because I—just had to see you, Jean."
"Please, Jean. You—will—forget that now." She
paused and was not aware that her arm was around him,
and that his hand rested over her shoulder. Her eyes were
as they had been that day near this selfsame spot years
before, kind and endearing. She did not resist as she saw
his manly love and felt his body quiver.
And almost were his lips touching hers when suddenly,
she saw him hesitate, and despite the darkness of his face,
she could see that in that moment the blood seemed to
leave it. He dropped the arms that had embraced her,
and almost groaned aloud. As she stood regarding him he
turned and walked away with his eyes upon the earth.
She turned then and retraced her steps, but as she went
along the roadway she was thinking of him and herself and
who she was at last. She sighed, strangely contented, and
was positive—knew that in due time he too must come to
understand.[Pg 529]
CHAPTER XX
AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING
IT WAS in the autumn time, after the wheat and the oats,
the rye, the barley and the flaxseed had all been gathered,
and threshed, and also after the corn had been
husked. Wheat, he had raised, thousands and thousands of
bushels. And because there was war over all the old world,
and the great powers of the land were in the grim struggle
of trying to crush each other from the face of the earth, the
power under which he lived was struggling with the task of
feeding a portion of those engaged in the struggle. And
because Black Rust had impaired the spring wheat yield
those thousands of bushels he raised, he had sold at a price
so high that he had sufficient to redeem at last the land he
was about to lose and money left for future development
into the bargain.
He sat alone at this moment in a stateroom aboard a
great continental limited, just out of Omaha and speeding
westward to the Pacific coast. As was his customary wont,
his thoughts were prolific. But for once—and maybe for
the first time, on the whole, he was satisfied,—he was contented—and
last, but not least, he was happy.
Being happy, however, is not quite possible alone. No,
and Jean Baptiste was not alone. And here is what had
happened.
Jack Stewart had told him the story. And in the story
told, one great mystery was solved. He now understood
why Agnes' eyes had been so baffling. Simple, too, in a[Pg 530]
measure. To begin with, her mother had possessed rare
brown eyes, he had seen by her picture, because Agnes'
mother had not been a white woman at all, but in truth
was of Ethiopian extraction. This was a part of the story
Jack Stewart had told him. He had met and married her
mother on a trip from the West Indies where she had lived,
to Glasgow; the marriage being decided upon quickly,
for in truth the woman was fleeing. In London some years
before, she had been the pupil of a learned minister, who
had become an infidel, and also unscrupulous. But we
know the story—at least a part of it—of Augustus M.
Barr, alias, Isaac M. Barr; alias—but it does not matter.
We are concerned with Agnes' mother. Her mother had
inherited a small fortune from Agnes' grandma and this
Barr had sought to secure. To do so, he had followed
Jack Stewart and his wife, Agnes' mother to Jerusalem.
There he had met Isaac Syfe, the Jew, whom he later
brought to America. He did not find the woman he had
followed there, but on his return to England he did find
Peter Kaden who was married to Christine. Kaden was
involved in a murder case, was accused, and had been sentenced
to Australia for the rest of his natural life. It was
Barr who saved him, and the fee Kaden paid was Christine.
Barr accommodated him by bringing him to America where
he placed all three, including himself, on homesteads. Syfe
settled with him in cash by taking a large loan on his homestead
and giving Barr the proceeds.
But Kaden was in the way. He had never been comfortable
in the new country with Christine the wife of another
and living so near, so Barr sent Christine away and drove
Kaden to suicide. Later at Lincoln, Nebraska she left him
and went out of his life forever. Barr had secured Kaden's
homestead, and all this Jack Stewart knew, but had never[Pg 531]
disclosed. Barr lost track of Agnes' mother, but knew that
somewhere in the world there was a treasure but not as great
as he had thought it was—about ten thousand dollars in all.
While Jean Baptiste was absorbed in these thoughts, the
door was opened quietly, and closed. Some one had entered
the stateroom and his ears caught the light rustle of a skirt.
His eyes were upon the landscape, but suddenly they saw
nothing, for his eyes had been covered by a pair of soft
hands.
"I knew it was you," he said, happily, as he drew her
into the seat beside him, between himself and the window.
"What are you thinking of, my Jean," she said then.
"Of what I have been thinking ever since the day when
we understood that you and I after all are of the same
blood."
"Oh, you have," she chimed, and drawing his face close
with her hands, she kissed him ardently.
"Isn't it beautiful, Agnes? Just grand!"
"Oh, Jean, you make me so happy."
"You are honestly happy, dear?" he inquired for the
hundredth time.
"I couldn't be happier," and she reposed in his arms.
"Have truly forgotten that you are an Ethiopian, and
must share what is Ethiopia's?"
"Will share what is yours, my Jean."
"Always so beautifully have you said that."
"Have I, now, really?"
"Do you recall the day when I forgot, dear, The Custom
of the Country—and its law?"
"How could I forget it?"
"And what followed?"
"I cannot forget that, either. But Jean, do you want
me to?"[Pg 532]
"Agnes, we must both forget what followed. Still, when
we think how kind fate has been to us, after all, we must
feel grateful."
"Oh, how much I do. But, Jean—it was such a sacrifice...."
He was thoughtful for a time, and from the expression on
his face, the present was far away.
"Please, dear," she said, taking his hand and fondling it.
"When you happen to think of it; will you try never to
allow yourself to resume that expression—that expression
again?"
He looked down at her.
"Expression?"
"Like you wore just then."
"Oh."
"You see, it seems to bring back events in your life that
we want to forget."
"You mean, I—"
"Yes," she said slowly, "you—we understand each other
and everything that has concerned each other, don't we,
Jean?"
"Of course we do, Agnes. We have always—but there,
now!" and he smothered the rest of it in a fond caress.
"Wasn't it strange," she mused after a time. "I could
never understand it. I saw it in my eyes before we left
Indiana. And then I had that strange dream and saw you."
She paused and played with his fingers. "But I never felt
the same afterwards. Somehow I felt that something
strange, something unusual was going to happen in my life,
and now when I look back upon it and am so happy," whereupon
she grasped tightly the fingers she held—"I feel it
just had to be."[Pg 533]
"Do you reckon your father understood the love that
was between us?"
"I think he did. And he started more than once about
that time to tell me something. He went so far once as to
say that if you liked me, and I cut him off. Afterwards
I could see that it worried you and my heart went out to
you more than ever. And then you reached your decision.
I saw it, and it seems that I liked you more for the man
you were."
"Did you love the man you were engaged to?"
"Jean!"
He laughed sheepishly, and patted her shoulder. He
was sorry, that he had asked her such a question, and he
resolved thereupon never to do so again. Something dark
passed before him—terrible years when he had suffered
much. She was speaking again.
"You know I never loved any one in the world but you."
THE END
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Obvious typos and printer errors have been corrected
without comment.
With the exception of obvious printer errors,
the following changes have been made in this text:
1. Page 321: "truck" changed to "struck" in the phrase, "hope it hasn't struck...."
2. Page 442: "We'll" changed to "He'll" in the phrase, "He'll get them tomorrow morning...."
Inconsistencies in the author's spelling, punctuation, and use of
hyphens have been retained as in the original book.
Unconventional spelling has been retained in words such as
(but not limited to) the following:
weazened
uproarously
flustrated
glabbed
aimiably
counciled
In the original publication of The Homesteader, letters between various
characters are sometimes printed in smaller font, and sometimes are
printed in normal-sized font. In this html version, changes in font size
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