GOSSIP
"I'VE BEEN over to the McCarthys today," cried Mildred Merrill, greeting her mother, as she returned home the Sunday following the filing of the suit. "And, oh, mama, they are certainly excited over there!"
"Mm! Guess they'll understand that Jean Baptiste better now. Because he had wished to settle their difficulties—if there were any—like a man, they thought he was afraid of the Reverend."
"That was it—positively!"
"What was the conversation?"
"Of course it was Ethel who was making the most of the noise."
"Naturally."
"And shemade somenoise!"
"I'd wager."
"To begin with, they didn't know Jean had sued the Reverend until they read it in the paper."
"Is that so!"
"Yes! You see, it was like this. Orlean sold her farm."
"Gave it away."
"Quite likely."
"It was so. Why I understand that Baptiste had paid over thirty-five hundred dollars into it, and that the place was supposed to be worth about forty dollars an acre, with one hundred sixty acres bringing the sum of sixty-four hundred dollars. That insurance companies would lend two thousand five hundred dollars on the place if she had proved up on the same as other people were doing and had done, and secured a patent."
"Isn't that a shame!"
"Nigga's!"
"Negroes proper!"
"Well, what did they say?"
"Oh, yes! Orlean sold her farm some time ago."
"For three hundred dollars."
"Is that all she received?"
"Every cent."
"Well, what do you think of that!"
"It was the Reverend's work, of course."
"That dirty old rascal."
"Ignorant into the bargain."
"If I were Baptiste I'd kill him."
"That would do no good."
"No, I guess not."
"Would make him appear a martyr, also."
"Well, ever since Orlean sold her place, you see, they have been uneasy."
"I guess so."
"So they had been sort of looking to hear from him."
"And they have."
Mildred laughed.
"And they'll hear from him some more!"
Both laughed.
"Now, Orlean heard that Jean was in town before the rest of the family did, and told me so."
"She's waited a long time to tell other people things she hasn't told the folks first...."
"Yes," thoughtfully. "Anyhow, Glavis met Baptiste onthe streets downtown, and, of course, Glavis, not knowing Baptiste's mission, thought he was here after Orlean again."
"Just like him."
"The truth."
"He was by here awhile ago."
"He was?"
"Yes; but I'll tell you about that later. Go on."
"When he met Jean on the street—rather, after, he goes around to where Orlean worked to warn her."
"Sneak!"
"But Orlean was out."
"Yes?"
"So when she returned, and was told that a colored man had called and inquired for her, she—"
"Thought it had been Baptiste."
"Yes."
"I'll try to quit interrupting you."
"Well, Orlean told me that she was provoked. She wished that Jean would not be calling at where she worked to bother her."
"She got fooled—excuse me!"
"But she didn't say anything to the folks about it, and they knew nothing of his presence in town—Glavis didn't tell it seems, either—until Sunday morning."
"Indeed!"
"No, none of them had gone out Saturday night, so they hadn't heard any of the talk that was going the rounds."
"Well, Glavis went outside Sunday morning and found theDefenderin the mail box."
"So?"
"You see, they do not subscribe for it, but the people next door get it—"
"And knowing they were not subscribers, they take the paper and place it where they could get it."
Mildred laughed.
"So," resumed Mildred, "when they saw the paper, all was excitement."
"Goody!"
"So Glavis (he is the Reverend's faithful lieutenant, you know), went out to look up Baptiste and have a talk with him."
"Ump!"
"He didn't find him."
"That was how he happened by here."
"But the funny part about it is, that they don't know what Baptiste is up to. They don't know that if he secures a judgment, he can remand the Elder to jail for six months."
"Now won't there be some excitement when they learn!"
Mildred laughed again, her mother joined her.
"But getting back to Ethel."
"Tell me about her."
"Oh, she was on the war path. 'You see,' she cried, standing over Orlean. 'You see what you've done by your hard-headedness. I told you all the time not to marry that man!'"
"Wouldn't that disgust you!"
"'But youwouldgo ahead and marry him! Youwouldgo ahead and marry him, after all papa andItried to persuade you not to! And now! You are going tokillyour father; going tokill your poor old father.' Orlean just hung her head like a silly and took it. 'Yes,' went on Ethel, turning her little slender body around and twisting her jaws as if to grind it out. 'You got him all mixed upwith that nigga', and here he comes in here and sues him. Think of it!Sues him!And now all the nigga's in Chicago have the laugh on us—we daren't show our faces in the street!
"'And what has he done it for?' 'But, Ethel,' Orlean protested, 'Papa isn't worth anything. Hecan'tdo anything with papa if he gets a judgment.' 'What do you know about judgments,' Ethel flew up. 'Well,' said Orlean, 'I recall hearing Jean say that if a man was worth nothing, then a judgment was of little or no good.' 'You heardJeansay it!' screamed Ethel, looking at Orlean severely. And then she turned to me. 'Do you know, Mildred,' she rang out, 'Thisfool woman loves that man yet. Yes. Y-e-s!Loveshim yet and would go back to him tomorrow if it wasn't for us!'"
"Doesn't it beat anything you ever saw!"
Mildred laughed again as she paused for breath.
"Well, Ethel went on: 'And don't you think that nigga' is a fool. No, no!Never!That's a scheming nigga'. He's the schemingest nigga' in the world!Heknows what he's about. Believe me! He knows papa isn't worth anything. And, besides, he isn'taftermoney, he's after papa. He don'twantno money. A scheming nigga' like him can make all the money he wants. Oh, yes! He's up tosomethingelse.'"
"Seems they are willing to admit very readily now that which they were not as long as he tried to deal with them like a man."
"I should think so," returned Mildred. "Well, Ethel was so excited that she walked up and down the floor in a rage. Every little while she would stop before me, and glare into my face: 'But what can he do, what can he do!' 'I have nothing to do with it, Ethel,' I replied. 'Yes, youhave, yes,youhave! You know! I know you and I know Jean Baptiste! He never comes to Chicago without coming to see you all. He's told you what he'supto, and I know it!Oh, that nigga'!'
"I looked at Orlean, and she sat by looking like the man who has murdered his wife and regrets it. When she met my eyes she sighed, and then said: 'Do you think he can hurt papa, Mildred? I'm worried. You see, I know Jean some. He's shrewd, Jean is very shrewd.' I confess that I was rather uncomfortable, knowing what I did. So hoping to find some way to get out of it, I suggested that they walk out. 'No,' exclaimed Ethel. 'I'm afraid I'll run into that nigga'.'"
"When do they look for the Reverend in?"
"In the morning. They are afraid to go out until he comes."
"I'd like to be around there when they found out what Jean is up to."
Mildred laughed again, and then cried: "And oh, yes, I forgot to tell you that Orlean asked me whether Jean came direct from the farm here."
"What did you tell her?"
"Why, I said I thought he was visiting down in Kansas before coming here."
"Hump."
"She said: 'I guess he was calling on Miss Irene Grey.'"
Her mother giggled.
"I said I thought he remarked something about having visited there, whereupon Orlean said: 'He ought to have married her.'"
"Jealousy."
"Yes, that was it."
"Look! There is Glavis," cried Mildred's mother, pointing to his figure crossing the street.
"Now for some fun," said Mildred, whereupon, both feigned sleepiness, and prepared for some good interesting gossip.
"Oh, Mr. Glavis," exclaimed Mildred, answering the rap on the door and admitting him.
"And how is everybody?" asked Glavis, coming in with his head bared, and smiling in his usual way.
"Fine, Mr. Glavis," replied Mildred's mother, arising to greet him for the second time that day.
"And where is my friend, Baptiste?" said Glavis. "I've just come from the Keystone, and while he stops there, I can never catch him in."
"He has not been here today, Glavis," replied Mildred.
"That's funny. I'd certainly like to see him."
"Why wouldyouwant to see him?" inquired Mildred's mother.
"Oh, I want to see him, of course, about all this scandal that's in the air."
"Hump! This appears to be the first time that you have wanted to see him since your father-in-law brought Orlean home."
"Well, of course," said Glavis, a little embarrassed. "It has always been a bad affair. A bad affair, and I certainly have wished Orlean would have kept us out of all the mess."
"Why not say youwished the Reverendhad kept you out of all the mess," ventured Mildred's mother, who was out of patience with their conduct.
"Well, it's rather awkward. Baptiste is a little in fault himself."
"How's that?"
"Oh, he sorter had it in for father before he even married Orlean. He didn't come into the family likeIdid."
Mildred and her mother regarded each other as Glavis went on thoughtfully.
"Yes, Baptiste is a good fellow, and I have always rather liked him. But he has always had it in for father; has never treated him as I have.... If he would have, I'm sure we would not be the bone of this scandal."
"It seems that this enmity between your 'father' and Baptiste, begun way back in the southern part of this state, when Baptiste was a small boy...."
"I've heard something concerning that, but of course he oughtn't hold such things against a man when he has grown up."
"You seem to hold Baptiste in fault for everything, when it's common knowledge, from what I can hear, Glavis," argued Mildred's mother, "that the Elder went up there and just broke Orlean and Baptiste up; made her sign his name to a check for a big sum of money—and a whole lot of other things. How do you account for or explain that?"
"Well, Baptiste could have settled this without all that. If he'd come and seen me before starting this suit," Glavis was evasive, "I would have had him and Orlean meet and reason their differences out together."
"Why haveyouwaited so long to take such action, Glavis? You had years almost to have gotten them together—to have been at least fair to Baptiste. As it is, you have treated—all of you—Baptiste like a dog, like a dog. And because he tried to settle an affair like it ought to have been settled, you just ground him—pride and all—right into the ditch."
Glavis winced under the fusillade with which the elder lady of the house bombarded him.
"And now after you do him all the injury you can, you cry about him making a scandal! Just because he didn't come around again a whining like the dog you have tried to make him, you profess to be shocked at his conduct. Moreover, you had Orlean to give away the farm he gave her, and from what I can hear, to the man that tried every way known to law to beat her out of it and failed. And at Baptiste's expense!"
Glavis was very uncomfortable. He shifted uneasily, while his handkerchief was kept busy mopping the perspiration from his brow.
"I heard that the Reverend just scored the man about trying to beat poor Orlean out of her place: Preached a great sermon on the evil and intriguing of the white race, and just gave that man, a banker, the devil. Then upon top of that he comes down here to Chicago and sends your 'father' the money to come here from Cairo to sell him the place that Baptiste was man enough to trust her with for nothing. I can't figure out where any of you have any cry coming."
"Well," said Glavis, rising, "I want to see Baptiste anyhow. If you see him, tell him to come over to the house."
"No, Glavis, I have nothing to do with it, and I oughtn't to be gossiping as I have been; but I have known Baptiste since he was a little boy, and I just can't help protesting—as I have always heretofore protested, about the way you people have treated him."
"Well, I guess Baptiste hates all of us enough to make up."
"Baptiste has nothing against any one in that house over there but your 'father.' But there would be no use in my telling him to call over there. No use at all, for let me tell you," she said, following him to the door; "The day ofBaptiste beholding unto you for his wife is past. I don't think he wants Orlean any more, and don't blame him after what she has allowed to happen to him through her lack of womanhood. Nawsiree, Baptiste didn't come into Chicago this time crying, he came here likea man, and it's themanin him with which you'll have to fight now."
"Oh, well, I don't know," said Glavis, taking a little courage, "I don't think he is so wise after all. Any man that will sue a man like father for ten thousand dollars, wouldn't seem so wise."
"Well," returned the elder lady, "Perhaps you hadbetterwait until you see a lawyer."
A DISCOVERY—AND A SURPRISE
JEAN BAPTISTE called by to see the Merrills before leaving the city, and took Mildred and her mother one afternoon to a matinée at the Colonial theatre. It was a musical repertoire, and a delightful entertainment. Before one of the numbers was to appear, the director of the orchestra came upon the stage and announced:
"Ladies and gentlemen: If I may have your kind attention, I wish to announce that the next number is an extraordinary specialty. Miss Inez Maryland, the young prima donna who has made considerable of a reputation by her beautiful singing in the last year, will this afternoon sing in an introduction, a song that is destined by the critics to be one of the most popular of recent production." Whereat, he stepped to one side, and led upon the stage, a charming blonde who was greeted profusely.
"I am glad to have you meet Miss Maryland, who will now sing the discovery of the season,O, My Homesteader, by Miss Agnes Stewart."
In the moment Jean Baptiste did not quite recall the name, or rather, he did not connect it with an instance in his life; but as the sweet mezzo soprano voice, combined with the strains of the orchestra, floated out over the audience, the years gone by, to him were recalled. He listened to it with a peculiar and growing enchantment, and the night he had lain upon the ground and would havefrozen, but for the now composer, came fresh again into his mind.
"Beautiful."
"Wonderful."
"Grand!" came to his ears from over all the theatre and then followed the storm of applause. Again and again did the singer have to return to satisfy the audience before her, and when the crowds poured into the street at the close of the performance, every one seemed to be humming the tune that had that afternoon began its initial success.
As it would take nine months or a year for the suit to come to trial, Jean resumed his efforts in the book business, and was able by borrowing a little, to meet the interest and taxes on the foreclosed property, and was given the customary year's extension.
He traveled now from town to town, from city to city, and found agents for his book, and was able in a small way to recuperate his finances. He hired an engine to plow all his land that was not prepared, besides renting a little more, and also took a flier in wheat. The war abroad had been going on a year, and he conceived that if it "happened" to rain at the right time hemightget a crop and redeem his land. At least, he could lose only what he put into it by risking the same, so he took the chance. So with all he could get hold of until the last days of October of that year, he put it into winter wheat on his land, and succeeded in getting over 700 acres seeded.
And everywhere he went, the people were playing and singingO, My Homesteader. Never, whether it was fifty times a day, or one, could he seem to tire of hearing it. At the stores he saw hundreds of copies of it, and in every home it was. And always it took him back to his youthful days in the land where he had gone with the great hope.And then one day he saw a picture of her. It was in a musical review. It spoke at length of her, and of the simple life she had lived. That she was a product of the prairies and a wonderful future was in store for her because of the fact that her work was original.
So the winter passed and springtime came again with all its beauty, and he continued in his book business. He made a trip to Gregory and Winner to see what the prospects were again in the Northwest. The winter for the wheat, he was cheered to learn, had been ideal; but the spring was dry, and that was not to the wheat's advantage. However, he had the best prospects he had had for years, and he returned to the book business with renewed hope.
And now we are compelled by the course of events to return to certain characters who were conspicuous in the early part of our story.
When Jack Stewart left the farm he had rented near the property of Jean Baptiste and went West and took a homestead and had George and Bill and Agnes to do likewise, he was obsessed with a dream that riches had come to him at last. Agnes was delighted with the prospects, also, and so they looked forward to a great future in the new land.
But there was something that troubled Jack Stewart, and for days when alone he would shake his head and cry: "Dang it. Dang it! I oughtn't to have let it go that far, dang it!" But he had kept what was now the cause of his worry to himself so long that he would not bring himself to confess it even to Agnes after what had occurred. But never did he forget Jean Baptiste, and to Agnes he would mention him quite often.
"By the way, my girl," he said one day when they were settled on their claims, staying mostly on his, of course, forthe prospects were hopeful. "Do you know that I never did learn who saved me from that foreclosure. No, sir, I never did! I paid the note and was so glad that it was paid, that I tore it up and forgot the whole matter.
"Nowwhodo you reckon it was that interceded for me?"
She paused and looked up from her sewing, and then bent over it again, as she said:
"Jean Baptiste."
"Jean Baptiste!" he exclaimed incredibly.
"It was him."
"Why the stinkin' rascal, he never told me!"
She was silent.
"And it was him that came to my assistance," the other mused reflectively. "Well, now since I come to recall him, it was just like him to do something like that and keep it to himself. Well, well, I do say!" He paused then, and looked down at the toe of his boot. Suddenly he looked up, and concentrated his gaze on Agnes.
"Andyou knewit all the time. He told you."
"He didn't tell me."
"Didn't tell you!"
"I knew it when you returned home that morning."
"Well, well...."
"I was positive the administrator hadn't granted you an extension, nor wouldn't have, so it must have been some one near. So who else could it have been but Jean Baptiste."
"Of course not, now that I recall it; but did you tell him about it?"
Her eyes had business in her lap at the moment,verymuch business. She saw the sewing and she didn't see it. What she was seeing again waswhat had happened one day when she had gone to carry his and her brother's luncheon....It passed before her, as it had done many times since.Never, she knew, would she be able to forgetthat day, that daywhen the harvest was on, and he had said sweet words to her.... It was all past now, forever, but it was as fresh as the day it was done.
She understood why he had gone away, and when he returned and she had seen his face she understood then his sacrifice. She knew that the man's honor, his respect for his race and their struggle had brought him to commit the sacrifice. And strangely, she loved him the more for it. It had been an evidence of his great courage, the great strength with which he was possessed. It was strange that the only man she, a white girl, had ever loved was a Negro, and now when that was history, it seemed to relieve her when she could recall that he had been aman.
"Did you hear me, Aggie?" her father called now again. She started.
"Why—yes, father—I heard you," she said, straightening up. "And—of course—I told him about it...."
"Now I'm glad to hear that you did. It seems that you ought to have told me at the time—at least before we left there, so that I could have thanked him." He was silent for a time then and reflective.
"I wonder what sort of woman he married," he mused after a time.
"I don't know."
"I am sometimes a little afraid that he didn't get the right kind of woman.
"He was such a prince of a good fellow, that it would most likely have been his luck to have gotten a woman who would betray him in some way. It is all rather strange, for I don't think he loved any woman butyou, Aggie."
He darted his eyes quickly in her direction, recalling atime before when he had intimated something of the kind. This time, however, she did not cry out, but continued at her sewing as though he had not spoken.
As he slowly walked out, what was in his mind was the thing that had worried him before.
She looked after him and sighed. It was her effort then to forget the past, and in so doing, the inspiration with regard to music came again, and developed in her mind. But her efforts had brought so little encouragement from those to whom she had submitted her compositions that she for a long time despaired of making another effort.
So it was not until the great drought swept over the land and drove almost all the settlers from their claims in a search for food, that made her again resort to the effort.
The drought was even worse in the part of the country they now called home than it had been in Tripp County and other parts farther East. Corn that was planted under the sod one spring had actually not sprouted for two years, for the moisture that fell had never wet the earth that deep. So, after two years in which they came nearer to starvation than they had ever before, she secured a position in a hotel in a town farther West, and the money earned thereby, she gave to her father and brothers to live on.
It was then she had returned to compositions in a desperate effort and hope to save them from disaster. For a long time she met with the usual rejections, and it was a year or more before anything she composed received any notice.
ButO, My Homesteaderwas an instantaneous success. While she still worked in the kitchen of the little hotel in the western village, the royalties came pouring in upon her so fast until she could hardly believe it. And coincident with the same, she became the recipient of numerous offers fromalmost everywhere. Most were for compositions; while many were offers to go on the stage, at which she was compelled to laugh. The very thought of her, a dishwasher in a country hotel, going on the stage! But she resigned her position and went back to her father and brothers on the farm. She used her money to pay off their debts and started them to farming, and made herself contented with staying on as she had done before, and keeping house for her father and the boys. She refused to submit any more manuscripts until the success of her first song was growing old, and then she released others which followed with a measure of success.
The offers from the East persisted; and with them, drought in the West continued and they saw that trying to farm so far west was, for the present time, at least, impractical. So they returned to Gregory where she purchased the place they had lived on. Owing to the fact that the drought had been severe there, also, she secured the place at a fair bargain, and they returned to farming the summer following the publication of Baptiste's book.
When she read it, she hardly knew what to think; but it was rather unusual she thought, because he had told a true story in every detail; but had chosen to leave his experiences with her out of it. She heard of him, and the disaster that had overcome him, and was sorry. She felt that if she could only help him in some way, it would give her relief. And so the time passed, and he came again into her life in a strange and mysterious manner.
She was surprised one day to receive a visit in person from the publisher of her works. She was, to say the least, also flattered. He had come direct from Chicago to persuade her to come to the city, and while she was flatteredand was really anxious to see the city, she refrained from going, but promised to write more music.
In the months that followed, he wrote to her, and the experience was new. Then his letters grew serious, and later she received the surprise. He came again to see her and proposed. She hardly knew how to accept it, but he was so persistent. To be offered the love of a man of such a type, carried her off her feet, and she made him promise to wait.
He was very patient about it, and at last she concluded that while she did not feel that she really loved him yet, she was a woman, and growing no younger, and, besides, he was a successful publisher and the match seemed logical. So after some months in which she tried to make herself appear like the woman she knew he wished her to be, she accepted, but left the date for their wedding indefinite.
THE BISHOP'S INQUISITION
THE REVEREND MCCARTHY was commonly regarded as a good politician in church affairs, meaning, that he was successful with the Bishop in being able to hold the office of Presiding Elder over such a long period. At every conference other aspirants attempted to oust him. But he had always held with the Bishop and had succeeded himself annually until the five-year limit had expired. At the end of this time he had usually succeeded in manipulating matters in such a manner that he had invariably been successful in securing the same appointment over another district in the state. Over this he presided another five years, and was then automatically transferred back to the district over which he had formerly presided. For twenty years he had been successful in keeping this up, but in the conference that was to convene after he had been sued by his son-in-law, it became known and talked about that he would not be re-appointed to the Presiding Eldership, and would necessarily be sent to a charge for a year or more.
Accordingly, he began early to seek a charge which he was in position to know would be lucrative, since there were few outside the large churches in Chicago that would pay as well as the Presiding Eldership.
The fact was, however, he regretted going back to a charge, for his former experience in such work, in gainingand retaining the confidence of the members of his church had not been ideal, to say the least. And again, it was expedient that he should have his family, especially his wife, living in the town with him where he held the charge. Perhaps that made it awkward for him, as he was not accustomed to having his wife in such close proximity with him daily. His regard for her was such that he could not bear the thought of that close association. For his experience had been that it was impossible for him to be in the house with her a matter of two days without losing his patience and speaking harshly to her. To avoid this unpleasant domestic state of affairs it had been agreed that Orlean should be his housekeeper, and this was settled on before conference—and before he had been sued.
This pending suit, however, brought added complications. Ever since he had brought Orlean home, he had been embarrassed by gossips. Nowhere had he been able to turn unless some busy-body must stop him and inquire with regard to his daughter; what was the matter, etc., and so on. It kept him explaining and re-explaining, a subject that was to say the least, delicate. He had, however, succeeded in explaining and conveying the impression that the man she married had mistreated and neglected her, and that he had been compelled to go and get her in order to save her life. This was not satisfactory to him in view of the fact that he decided once to let her return, but Jean Baptiste not knowing that he had reached such a decision, had felt that his only chance to secure her again was to keep away from her father—well, we know the result of that effort.
But inasmuch as that Jean Baptiste had refused to argue with him over her, he had used this as an excuse to become his old self again, which, after all, was so much easier. So when 'Gene Crook had approached him with an offer, andconvinced him that Baptiste was what the Elder knew he was not (because the Elder was easily to be convinced of anything toward the detriment of his adversary) he easily secured the place and the Elder had felt himself ahead. Three hundred dollars was a great deal of money to him, and went a long way in taking up the payments in which they were in arrears on the home they were buying in Chicago. True, it twitched his conscience, but N.J. McCarthy had a practice—long in effect—of crucifying conscience. So when he had closed the deal—and had been reimbursed for his traveling expenses—he went directly back to his work, and had not been in the city since until called in on the suit.
When he left the lawyer's office and returned home, he discussed the matter with Glavis, who in turn discussed the matter with white friends who advised him how to answer to the charge. Returning to the lawyer's office they engaged counsel. It was very annoying—more than ever—to the Elder when he was required to put up twenty-five dollars in cash as a retainer. He had become so accustomed to posing his way through in so many matters—letting some one else put up the money, that when he was forced to part with that amount of money he straightway appreciated the seriousness of the situation. It was no pleasant anticipation in looking forward to the trial, for there he would be compelled to counter the other on equal terms.
He was very disagreeable about the house when he returned home, and his wife adroitly kept out of his sight. He sought the street to walk off his anger and perturbation, only to run into a Mrs. Jones, teacher in the Sunday school of one of the large Negro churches, and with whom he had been long acquainted. It was, in a measure, because his acquaintances were of long standing that gave them, they felt, the right to question him regarding such delicate affairs. So when he met Mrs. Jones, he doffed his hat in his usual lordly manner, and paused when she came to a stop.
"Good evening, Reverend Mac.," she exclaimed, and extended her long, lean hand. He grasped it, and bowing with accustomed dignity, replied:
"Good evening, Sister Jones. I trust that your health is the best."
"My health is good, Reverend Mac. But, say, Reverend Mac., you don't look so well."
"Indeed so, my dear madame, I have not been in the best of health for some months."
"Well, well, that is too bad, indeed. I hear that you have not been, Reverend Mac. And say, Brother McCarthy, what is this I read in the paper about your son-in-law coming in here and suing you for breaking up Orlean and he?"
His Majesty's head went up, while he colored unseen, and would have passed on, but Mrs. Jones was standing in such a manner that he was unable to do so without some difficulty.
"The man is crazy," he retorted shortly, and stiffened. But it took more than stiffness to satisfy this gossip.
"Well, I thought something was the matter, Reverend. For you see, I've heard that you went out there and brought her home to save him from killing her, so you see it is rather strange. That fellow, as a boy—and even yet, when he is in Chicago—attends Sunday school and sits in my class, and I was rather surprised that he should treat Orlean as it is said you said he did."
Reverend McCarthy would liked very well to have moved on. But Mrs. Jones was very much interested.
"There's all kind of talk around town about it. They say that if he gets a judgment against you, Elder, he will put you in jail, and all that; but of course that couldn't be. You stand too well in the church. But you know, Reverend, the only thing that looks kind a bad for you is, they say that he wouldn't dare start such a suit unless he had good ground for action. They say—"
The Elder had extricated himself at last, and now sailed down the street with high head. "May the God crush that hard-headed bulldog into the earth," he muttered between compressed lips, so angry that he could not see clearly. "How long am I to be aggravated with this rotten gossip!"
He changed his mind about walking far, and at a convenient corner, he turned back toward home. But when he arrived there, he was confronted with another, and more serious problem. It had been his intention before arriving there, to arraign his wife again for having let Orlean go West in the beginning. But now he was confronted with his august honorary, the Bishop.
"And, now, Reverend," said the Bishop, after they had gone through the usual formalities, "I am forced to come around to something that embarrasses me very much, in view of our long and intimate relations," and he paused to look grave. The Reverend tried to still his thumping heart. All his life he had been a coward, he had bluffed himself into believing, and having his family believe, that he was a brave man, but Orlean had told Baptiste on several occasions that her father might have risen higher in the church, but for his lack of confidence.
"It pertains to all this gossip and notoriety that is going the rounds. I suppose you are aware of what I refer to." The other swallowed, and nodded.
"You can appreciate that it is very embarrassing to me,and to the church, more, because I have struggled to raise the standard in this church. We have in the years gone by been subjected to unfair gossip, and some fair because of the subtle practices of some of our ministers. And now, with conference convening in two weeks, it is very awkward that we should be confronted with such a predicament with regard to you, one of our oldest ministers. The subject is made more embarrassing because of its—er, rather personal nature. I would regard it as very enlightening if you would give me an explanation—but, of course, in the name of the church."
The Reverend swallowed again, struggled to keep his eyes dry, for the rush of self pity almost overcame him. It was, however, no time or place for self pity. The Bishop wasnotan emotional man; he wasnotgiven to patience with those who pitied themselves—in short, the Bishop wasvery muchof a cold hearted business man, notwithstanding his position. He was waiting in calm austerity for the other's reply.
"Ah-m ahem!" began the Reverend with a great effort at self composure. "It is, to say the least, my dear Bishop, with much regret that I am compelled to explain a matter that has caused me no end of grief. To begin with: It was not with my consent that my daughter was allowed to go off into the West and file on a homestead."
The other's face was like a tomb upon hearing this. Indeed, the Elder would have to put forth a more logical excuse. It has been said that the Bishop was a practical man which in truth he was, and the fact is, he regarded it as far more timely if a larger number of the members of his race in the city would have taken up homesteads in the West, than for them to have been frequenting State Street and aping the rich. Also, the Bishop had read Baptiste'sbook—although the Reverend was not aware of it,—and was constrained to feel that a man could not conscientiously write that which was absolutely false.
"But I came into the city here after a conference to find that my daughter had been herded off out West in a wild country to take a homestead."
"Now, just a minute, Reverend," interposed the Bishop astutely. "Regarding this claim your daughter filed on. What was the nature of the land? You have been over it, I dare say."
"Of course, of course, my dear Bishop! It was a piece of wild, undeveloped land. At the time she took it, it was fifty miles or such a matter from the railroad. She gave birth to a child—"
"But," interposed the Bishop again, "you say the land was a considerable distance from the railroad at the time your daughter filed on the place? Very well. Now, Reverend, isn't it a fact that in the history of this country, all new countries when opened to the settler may have been some distance from the railroad in the beginning? For instance, somebody started Chicago, which was certainly not the convenient place then that it is now in which to live."
"Of course, my dear Bishop, of course."
"So the fact that the railroad was, as you say, fifty miles away, could not be held as an argument against it. Besides, is it not a fact that there were other people, men and women, who were as far from the railroad and therefore placed at an equal disadvantage?"
"Of course, of course."
"Then, my dear Reverend, it does not appear to me that that should be a fact to be condemned."
"I have not condemned it, my dear Bishop. No."
"Very well, then, my dear Reverend, please proceed."
Now the interposition of the Bishop, had rather disconcerted the Elder. Had he been allowed to proceed in the manner he had planned and started to, he might have made the case from his standpoint, and under the circumstances very clear to the Bishop. But the latter's questions threw him off his line, and he started again with some embarrassment, and with the perspiration beginning to appear around the point of his nose. Appreciating, however that he was expected to explain, he went resolutely back to the task.
"Well, my wife allowed my daughter to be taken out there and file on this land that this man had secured on his representation that he wished to marry her, and when I came into the city it was all settled."
"Pardon me for interrupting you again, my dear Elder. But is it not a fact that Mrs. Pruitt, with whom you are well acquainted, accompanied your daughter on this trip?"
"It is so, Bishop."
"And is it not a fact that Mrs. Pruitt as well as your daughter, explained it all at the time with satisfaction to you?"
"Well, ah—yes, she did."
"You admit to this, then, my dear Reverend?"
"Under the circumstances at the time, I was rather compelled to, my dear Bishop."
"Meaning that since she had gone and taken the land, you were morally bound to look into and consider the matter favorably?"
"Yes, I think that explains it."
"Now, Reverend. Is it not a fact that a considerable write-up appeared in the ChicagoDefendershortly after this visit, detailing considerable, and with much illustration regarding the trip; that, in short, your daughter had come intoconsiderable land and was regarded as having been very fortunate?"
"I think so, my dear Bishop."
"Very well, Reverend. Now—a—who solicited that write-up? Did the editor not have a conversation with you before the article appeared?"
"I believe he did, yes, sir. I think he did."
"Well, now, Reverend, if I remember correctly, this young man visited the city the Christmas following, and I was introduced to him by you in this same room?"
"I think so. Yes, Bishop, I remember having introduced him to you myself."
"And do I quote correctly when I say that you called me up the following spring to perform the ceremony that made your daughter and this Jean Baptiste man and wife?"
"I think you quote correctly, my dear Bishop."
"M-m. Yes, I recall that I was indisposed at the time and was very sorry I could not perform the ceremony," said the Bishop thoughtfully, but more to himself than to the other.
"Well, now. After they had been married some months, my wife visited your wife, and the latter seemed to be greatly impressed with the union. I think if I am correctly informed that you went on a visit to them yourself that fall."
"I did, my dear Bishop. Yes, I did."
"And at the conference on your return, you, if I am not mistaken, called on me at my home and discussed the young man at considerable length."
"Yes, my dear Bishop. I did that."
"Yes," mused the Bishop again thoughtfully and as if to himself. "And you appeared greatly delighted with their union. You seemed to regard him as an extraordinaryyoung man, and, from what I have heard, I have been inclined to feel so myself. Now it seems that a few months after you were speaking in high praise of him, you made a trip West and on your return brought your girl home with you, and she has not since returned to her husband. Of course," he added slowly, "that is your personal affair, but since it has reached the public, the church is concerned, so I am ready to listen to further explanation."
"I went out there and found my girl in dire circumstances," defended the Elder. "I found her in neglect; I found her without proper medical attention—no nurse was there to administer her needs. In short, I was prevailed upon by my love and regard for my daughter's health, to expedite the step I took."
"Nobly said, Reverend, nobly said," said the Bishop, and for the first time during his explanation, the Elder felt encouraged.
"The man did not marry her for love," the Elder went on now somewhat more confident. "He did not marry her to make her happy and comfortable. He married her to secure more land. It is true that I was impressed with him in a way, because the man was rather—er, inspiring, and I entertained hopes. Our race does not possess successful men in such a number that we can be oblivious to apparent success as on a young man's part. This man seemed to be such a man—in fact, I grant him that. The man was popular with those who knew him; he was a pusher; but hewas so ambitious to get richthat he was in the act of killing my child to accomplish his ends." The Reverend finished this with a touch of emotion that made the other nod thoughtfully. And while he paused to gather force and words for further justification of his interposition, the Bishop said:
"I note by the reports in the newspaper that you areaccused of having coerced the girl; that you had her write her husband's name on a check with which you secured the money to bring her from the West."
"He gave my daughter the privilege of securing money by such a method for her needs, and it was not I that had her do any such a thing."
"But it was—er, rather—a little irregular, was it not? It does not seem reasonable to suppose that he granted her the privilege to sign his name to checks to secure money with which to leave him?" The question was put rather testily and caused the other to shift uncomfortably before making answer.
"Well, under the circumstances, methodshadto be resorted to—er, rather to fit the occasion." The Elder's defence was artful.
The Bishop, not pretending to take his question seriously, pursued:
"I note, further, that he accuses you of disposing of some property...."
"My daughter sold her place. It was hers, in her name, and the transaction did not require his consent."
"M-m—I see. It seems that the property, so he claims, represented an outlay of some thirty-five hundred dollars in cash, and he purports the same as being worth something like sixty-four hundred dollars. What is your opinion, having been on the property, of its actual worth?"
"Well, I have some sense of values, since I am buying this home, and I do not regard the property as being worth such a sum."
"I see," said the other, stroking his beard which was thick and flowing.
"A piece of wild, raw land such as that I could not estimate it as being so valuable."
"M-m. Have you any knowledge of what land has brought in that neighborhood, Reverend. You see, value is a very delicate thing to estimate. We cannot always be the judge in such matters. The usual estimate of what anything is worth is what some one is willing to pay. Do you recall of having ever heard your daughter or any one say what deeded land in that section sold for?"
"Well, I have heard my daughter say that a place near there had brought five thousand dollars."
"Which would not compare with the value you put on the place your daughter held."
"It would not seem to."
"M-m. You say this was your daughter's place entirely?"
"It was," returned the Reverend promptly.
"And she paid for it out of her own money?"
"Well, no. She did not."
"I see. M-m. Then who purchased it for her, Reverend?"
"I think he did that. Yes, I think he did."
"I see. Do you recall the consideration. I understand that he purchased what is called a relinquishment. I understand such transactions slightly. I have read of such deals in Oklahoma. Seems to be a sort of recognized custom in securing land in new countries, notwithstanding the subtlety of the transaction."
"I think he claimed to have paid two thousand dollars for the relinquishment, which I would consider too much, considerably too much."
"But, inasmuch as your knowledge of new countries has been brief, perhaps, you would not set your judgment up as a standard for values there," suggested the Bishop, pointedly. "You will grant that the individual in the controversy would likely be able to judge more correctly with regard to values?"
"It is obvious."
"Yes, yes. Quite likely." The Reverend was very uncomfortable. If the Bishop would only stop where he was it wouldn't be so bad, but if he kept on with such questions. That was what he had disliked about Jean Baptiste.... He had a habit of asking questions—too many questions, he had thought; but this man before him was the Bishop, a law unto himself. And he must answer. The Bishop knew a great deal more about the West than he had thought he did, however.
"Who bought your daughter's place, my dear Elder? A white man or a Negro? Which of course, doesn't matter, but if I understand all the details, it would be more clear, you understand."
"Of course, my dear Bishop. Naturally. A white man bought the place."
"I understand now. Awhiteman," he repeated thoughtfully. During all the questioning, the Bishop had looked into the Reverend's eyes only occasionally. Most of the time he had kept his eyes upon the carpet before him, as if he were studying a spot thereon.
"It seems by the paper that the man, according to the accusations set forth in the complaint, had once contested the claim."
"Yes, he had done so, Doctor, he had."
"I see. Why did he contest the place, my dear Reverend?"
"Why, I do not understand clearly, but such methods appear to be a recognized custom in those parts," countered the Elder evasively.
"But isn't it a fact that he tried to contest her out ofthe place, and if he had been successful, he would have had the place for nothing in so far as she was concerned?"
"It is quite likely." The Elder had nothing but evasive answers now. He tried counters no more.
"But he failed, it seems, to get the place through contest, regardless of the fact that your daughter was here in Chicago instead of being on her claim."
"It seems that way."
"And then, forsooth, it must have been your daughter's husband who was instrumental in saving the place for her?"
"Yes."
"And after this, your daughter sold the place to the man who had struggled to beat her out of it and failed through the instrumentalities of her husband, and without consulting her husband with regard to the bargain."
"I counciled her, my dear Bishop."
"Ah,youcounciled her," and for the first time he turned his sharp, searching eyes on the Elder and seemingly looked directly through him. The next moment they were back on the carpet before him, and he resumed his questions. He was thinking then, thinking of what he had read in the book by Jean Baptiste, and what had recently appeared in all the papers. It seemed to him that the Elder's defence was not quite clear; but he would see it through.
"It was reported that this man, a banker, whose bank had failed ... sent you the money for your railroad fare from Cairo to this city, and also reimbursed for the return. Is that quite true?"
"That was—the railroad fare—a part of the transaction."
"Ah-ha. Apartof the transaction. You never, I suppose, informed her husband regarding thetransactionafter the deal was closed?"
"No."
"What was the consideration, Reverend, for this piece of land that your daughter's husband bought, for which he paid $2000, placing a house and barn thereon, digging a well, and making other improvements, fighting off a three years' contest—placed there by the man who tried to beat her out of it? What did he pay for the place?"
"Three hundred dollars." Such an awful moment! The Elder's head dropped as he said this. But the Bishop's eyes were still upon the spot in the carpet.
"And so this young man comes hither and accuses and sues you, accusing you of breaking up he and his wife. He published all that you have told me and if he should secure a judgment it is known that he can remand you to jail for six months."
He paused again, regarded the spot in the carpet before him very keenly and then arose. The Elder arose also, but he was unable to find his voice. In the meantime the Bishop was moving toward the door, his hand was upon the knob, and when the door was open, he turned, and looking at the one behind him, said:
"Well, see you at the conference, Newt," and was gone.
The other stood regarding the closed door. His brain was in a whirl and he could not quite understand what had happened. Butsomethingin that hour had transpired, and while he could not seem to realize what it was just then, he knew he would learn it in due time.
THE BISHOP ACTS
THE conference that followed was one of grave apprehensions for the Reverend McCarthy. Before, he had always looked forward to this occasion with considerable anxiety. He had usually prepared himself for the battle that was a rule on such occasions. For thirty-five years he had not missed a conference; he had never come away in defeat. True, he had not risen very high, but he had, at least, always been able to hold his own.
But, for the first time in his long experience, he went to meet this conference with a feeling in his heart that he would come away defeated. That he was not to be reappointed Presiding Elder, was a foregone conclusion, but he entertained doubts about getting the appointment he had hoped to secure. Ever since the Bishop had paid him the visit, he had been uncomfortable. When the prelate bade him good-by that day, he had never been able to get out of his mind the idea that the other had convicted him in his own heart, and had purposely avoided his company. It worried him, and he had been losing flesh for two years, therefore he did not present now the same robust, striking figure as when he had met the conference heretofore year after year.
And then, moreover, he had been hounded almost to insanity by gossips. From over all his circuit it was the talk, they brought it to conference and discussed it freelyand did not take the trouble to get out of his hearing to do so. Nowhere was there, as he well knew, a body that would have delighted more in his downfall than those brother preachers who met the conference that year. Always had they been ready to oppose him, but always before the Bishop had been with him. He had been able by subtle methods to place himself in the Bishop's favor, but this time that august individual artfully kept from meeting him directly. Besides, he had not the conscience to seek him, and he had not been able to meet the Bishop in the free atmosphere as before.
The charge that he had picked out was very good, and it was convenient for his needs for many reasons. Of course there were scores of others after the same charge, but with his old influence he need not have worried. However, he had not and could not see the Bishop privately long enough to secure from him a promise. And so he met the conference for the first time, unsettled as to where he was to preach the ensuing year.
Never had a conference seemed so long as that session. The week wore slowly away, and he was forced to be aware of the fact that on all sides they were discussing him, and the fact that he had been sued, and was likely to be remanded to jail as a result, since no one credited him with so large a sum as ten thousand dollars. He could see the unconcealed delight, and the malice that had always been, but which before he had been able to ignore. Affairs reached such a point until it was almost a conclusion that it mattered little as to where he was sent, for he would be unable to fill the pulpit because of the fact that he would have to go to jail shortly. It nettled him; it broke down his habitual composure, and it was a relief to him when the conference came to a close.
And not until the secretary arose to call the variouscharges and who had been sent thither, did he know where he was to go. So it was with a sinking of the heart when his name was reached:
"Reverend McCarthy to Mitchfield!"
"Reverend McCarthy to Mitchfield!" was the echo all through the audience. Impossible!Reverend McCarthy, one of the oldest, and regarded as one of the strongest, one of the ablest ministers to such a forsaken charge. Indeed they could hardly have sent him to a poorer charge, to a less dignified place. It seemed incredible, and the rest of the calls were almost drowned out in the consternation that followed.
Well, it was done. He had been all but silenced, and lowered as much as the Bishop dared to lower him. That was settled, and he returned to Chicago without telegraphing the fact to his family.
With resignation he made the necessary preparations for the trip, and taking Orlean with him, went to the small town. They rented a house, for the place didn't afford a parsonage, and began the long dreary year that was to follow. It was his good fortune, however, when the school board met and decided to separate the Negro children from the whites in the public schools, that they employed his daughter to teach the colored pupils for the year. In this way they were able to get along in very good comfort in the months that followed. So the autumn passed, and also the winter. Spring came and went, and summer had set in when his attorney wrote him that the case had been called, to come into Chicago, and prepare to stand trial in the case of Jean Baptiste, plaintiff, versus Newton Justine McCarthy, defendant.