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.
Butwhat 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 oneday 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:
"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 inquiriesthat 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 everprove 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.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 hisears 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! Whywouldn'tyou 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."
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 areverycareless."
"I wouldn't have missed it for anything in theworld," 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 youdrank?"
"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."
"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.
"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."
"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 girlswalked 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 ofa 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 receivedthatletter...."
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. Thewoman, 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 tellhisside of such a story to awoman."
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.
"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 youcareto 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 JeanBaptiste 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 better 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, heknew; 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 person. 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 whatIhave 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 youdidn'tcome 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."
"Well, I don't know as I ought to have asked you. It was perhaps unladylike in me so to do; but honestly Iwouldlike 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.
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."
"Ithasbeen 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 themall; 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 thisevening," 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.
"Thebigchurch, 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; andthat 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."
"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. Inhis 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 kepttrying 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 theCustom of the Countryand 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 tome?"
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.
"Yes, Irene," he said then. "I will tellyouthe 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 remembereverything, Jean."
"I was in love with no one, I can say, but Ihadloved 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 haveneverloved an Indian."
"Thenwhat?"
"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 youloveda 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."
"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 atimelimit."
"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,somuch so. Please go on."
"Shelived 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 thelastchoice."
"That is it."
Not knowing what else to do, she was so carried away with the story, she stared before her into the darkness.
"And whendidyou 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.
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 considerable 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."
"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.
"And Newton Justine McCarthy," muttered Baptiste, "this ismoreof your work."
He was very calm over it, was Jean Baptiste; but theturning pointin 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."
"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 hadme at a disadvantage.... We aregoingtovieagain, 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.
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 fortwenty-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 littlepersonalmatter 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.
"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 thewhereabouts 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.
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?"
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....