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 hadbought 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,whywas 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 liveshad 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 atecoal 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 taskworried 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 wasbroughthome," he corrected.
"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 havingEthel 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....
"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;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?"
"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.
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."
"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 isnotOrlean 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."
"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 Ihadthis 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 foundit 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. "Itisn'tall 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?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.
THE GAMBLER'S STORY
THE KEYSTONE was the oldest and most élite 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 menwho 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 howIcome 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,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.
"'Why, they are two young ladies who came here not long ago,' I said, and waited.
"'Isthatall?' he asked then, and I looked at him. He grinned, and said:
"'Aw, come on, Speed! Be a good fellow. Now,are those girlsstraight?' 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 agoodsport 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 itrightwith 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 apreviousengagement 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 predicament. 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 aliving 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 thedistrict, 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 whatIam. A gambler, and with an old score to settle with that man if I ever get the chance."
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.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.
"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 hiswas 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."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.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.
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 sleepless 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.
"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 mywife, 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!"
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, andin 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.
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 thewind 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.
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 pricesto 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—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."
"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."
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."
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.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."
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."