"Wash up," cried Baptiste, pointing to the horse tub.
"Jean!" called his wife remonstratingly. "You forget yourself. Asking papa to wash where the horses have drank! You must be more thoughtful!"
Baptiste laughed. "Beg pardon, Colonel. You see this open life has made me—er—rather informal. But you'll get used to and like it with time. Wash up and let's eat!"
"He's wild, just wild!" muttered the Reverend, as he followed them into the house.
THE WOLF
"NOW, ELDER," said Baptiste, getting up from the table without going through the usual formalities of resting a few minutes after the meal. "I've bought a building in town that I'm going to move onto Orlean's place. I'm preparing to jack it up and load it, so if you would like to come along, very well, we'll be glad to have you. But it's rather a rough, hard task, I'll admit."
"Now, now, son," started the Reverend, holding back his exasperation with difficulty. His son-in-law had never addressed him more than once by the same name. It was either Colonel, Judge, Reverend, Elder, or some other burlesque title in the sense used. He wanted to tell him that he should call him father, but before he had a chance to do so, that worthy had bounced out of the room and was heard from the barn. The Reverend looked after him with a glare.
"Dreadful!" he exclaimed when the other was out of hearing distance.
"What, papa?" inquired his daughter, regarding him questioningly. She had become accustomed to Jean's ways and did not understand her father's exclamation.
"Why, the man! Your husband!"
"Jean?"
"Such rough ways!"
"Oh," she exclaimed. "That's his way. He has always lived alone, you know. And is so ambitious. Is really compelled to hurry a little because he has so much to do."
"Well, I never saw the like. I'm afraid he and Ethel would never get along very well. No, he—is rather unusual."
"Oh, father. You must pay no attention to that! Jean is a fine fellow, a likeable man, and is loved by every one who knows him," she argued, trying to discourage her father's mood to complain. She had never been able to bring her father and husband very close. Perhaps it was because of their being so far apart in all that made them; but she was aware that Jean had never flattered her father, and that was very grave! No relation had ever risked that. Her father was accustomed to being flattered by everybody who was an intimate of the family, and Jean Baptiste had come into the family, married her, and apparently forgot to tell the Reverend that he was a great man. Moreover, from what she knew of her husband, he was not likely to do so. Her mother had tried to have Baptiste see it, she recalled, her little mother of whom Baptiste was very fond of. As has been stated it was generally known that her father was not very kind and patient, with her mother, and never had been.
It was, moreover, no secret that her father was unusually friendly with Mrs. Pruitt. But she was not supposed to let on that she was aware of such. If she was—and she certainly was—she did not mention the fact. Jean Baptiste knew of the Reverend's subtle practices, and in his mind condemned rather than admired him therefor. He knew that the Elder expected to be praised in spite of all these things. Now what would it all come to?
This thought was passing through Orlean's mind when she heard her father again:
"Now, he said something about a contest." She caught her breath quickly, swallowed, changed color, and then managed, hardly above a whisper, to say:
"Oh!"
"I don't understand. And he never takes the time to explain anything. Seems to take for granted that everybody should know, and tries to know it all himself, and it makes it very awkward," he said complainingly.
"It's all my fault, papa," Orlean admitted falteringly.
"Your fault!" the other exclaimed, not understanding.
"Yes," she breathed with eyes downcast.
"And what do you mean? How can it be your fault when you have sacrificed the nice home in Chicago for this wilderness?"
"But, papa," she faltered. "You have never been West before. You—you don't understand!"
"Don't understand!" cried the Reverend, anger and impatience evident. "What is there to understand about this wilderness?"
"Oh, papa," she cried, now beseechingly. "You—" she halted and swallowed what she had started to say. And what she had started to say was, that if he kept on like he had started, he would make it very difficult for her to be loyal to her husband and obedient to him as she had always been; as she was trying to be. Perhaps it was becoming difficult for her already. Subservience to her father, who insisted upon it, and obedience and loyalty to her husband who had a right and naturally expected it. It was difficult, and she was a weak willed person. Already her courage was failing her and she was beginning to sigh.
"It is very hard on my daughter, I fear," said the Elder, his face now full of emotion and self pity. "I worked all my life to raise my two darlings, and it grieves me to see one of them being ground down by a man."
"Oh, father, my husband is not cruel to me. He has never said an unkind word. He is just as good to me as a man can be—and I love him." This would have been sufficient to have satisfied and pacified any man, even one so unscrupulous. But it happens that in our story we have met one who is considerably different from the ordinary man. The substance of N. Justine McCarthy's vanity had never been fully estimated—not even by himself. Orlean did not recall then, that since she had been married she had not written her father and repeated what a great man he was. She had, on the other hand, written and told him what a great man her husband was. In her simplicity, she felt it was expected of her to tell that one or the other was great. But here she had encountered discouragement. Her husband apparently was considerably opposed to flattery. And she had difficulty to have him see that it was an evidence of faith on her part. But her husband had not seen it that way. He had dismissed it as a waste of time and had gradually used his influence with her to other ends; to the road they were following; the road to ultimate success, which could only be achieved by grim, practical methods. And that was one of his words, practical. But her father was speaking again.
"Now I wish you would explain how you could be at fault for this contest upon your place, and why your husband accuses you of such?"
"But Jean does not accuse me of being at fault, father," she defended weakly. "I accuse myself. And if you will be just a little patient," she begged almost in tears, "I'llexplain." He frowned in his usual way, while she sighed unheard, and then fell to the task before her.
"It is like this," she began with an effort at self control. "Jean has not wished to ask me to stay on my claim alone as his sister and grandmother have done, you see."
"Oh, so he has them living out there alone like cattle, helping him to get rich!"
"They do not live like cattle, father," she defended in the patient manner she had been trained to. "They have a horse and buggy that he has furnished them, and get all their needs at the stores which is charged to him. They have good neighbors, awfully nice white people—women, too, who live alone on their claims as his sister and grandmother are doing."
"But they are not like you, daughter. Those are all rough people. You cannot live like them. You have been accustomed to something."
She sighed unheard again and did not try to explain to his Majesty that most of the people—women included—were in a majority from the best homes in the East, as well as families; that many had wealth where she had none; and that Jean's sister had been graduated from high school and was very intelligent. It was difficult, and she knew it, to explain anything to her father; but she would endeavor to tell him of the contest.
"Well, father, since I was not on my place as I should have been, a man contested it, and now we must fight it out, Jean says, so that is it."
"M-m-m," sighed that one. "He's going to kill you out here to make him rich. And then when you are dead and—"
"Please, don't, father," she almost screamed. She knew he was going to say: "and in your grave, he will marryanother woman and bring her in to enjoy what you have died for." But she could not quite listen to that. It was not fair. It was not fair to her and it was not fair to Jean. She was surprised at the way she felt. She forgot also, and for his benefit, that they had never been very happy at home when he was in Chicago. They had only pretended to be. It had been because of him being away all the time and their relation having been confined to letters that they had been contented. But Orlean had made herself believe for this occasion that when he came to visit, they were going to have a really pleasant time. And now so soon she was simply worn out. She had become more sensitive of her tasks in life than it had occurred to her she could ever be. For the first time she was getting the idea that, after all they were burdensome.
From a painting by W.M. Farrow."HE'S GOING TO KILL YOU OUT HERE TO MAKE HIM RICH, AND THEN WHEN YOU ARE DEAD AND"—"PLEASE DON'T, FATHER!" SHE ALMOST SCREAMED. SHE KNEW HE WAS GOING TO SAY: "IN YOUR GRAVE, HE WILL MARRY ANOTHER WOMAN TO ENJOY WHAT YOU HAVE DIED FOR," BUT SHE COULD NOT QUITE LISTEN TO THAT.
From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
"HE'S GOING TO KILL YOU OUT HERE TO MAKE HIM RICH, AND THEN WHEN YOU ARE DEAD AND"—"PLEASE DON'T, FATHER!" SHE ALMOST SCREAMED. SHE KNEW HE WAS GOING TO SAY: "IN YOUR GRAVE, HE WILL MARRY ANOTHER WOMAN TO ENJOY WHAT YOU HAVE DIED FOR," BUT SHE COULD NOT QUITE LISTEN TO THAT.
"Wouldn't you like to go to town, papa?" she cried, trying to be jolly. "Jean is ready now, and please come along and see the nice little house he has bought and is going to move on my claim." She was so cheerful, so anxious to have him enjoy his visit that his vanity for once took a back seat, and a few minutes later they were driving into Gregory.
As they drove along Baptiste told of what he was doing; discussing at length the West and what was being done toward its development. When they arrived in the town they approached the small but well made little building that he had purchased for $300, and went inside.
"Awfully small, my boy," said the Reverend, as they looked around.
"Of course," admitted Baptiste. "But it is not practical to invest in big houses in the beginning, you know. We must first build a good big barn, and that, I cannot even as yet afford."
"Places his horses before his wife, of course," muttered the Reverend, but obligingly unheard.
"And you say you intend to move it. Where? Not away down on that farm southeast?" he said, standing outside and looking up at the building.
"Oh, no," Baptiste returned shortly. "Onto Orlean's place, west of here."
"Oh. How far is that?"
"Not so far. About fifty miles."
"Good lord!" And the Reverend could say no more.
THE CONTEST
MOVING a building fifty miles across even a prairie is not an easy task, and before Jean Baptiste reached his wife's homestead with the building he had purchased, he had suffered much grief. And with the Reverend along, ever ready to keep their minds alive to the fact, it was made no easier. But because he was so chronic, he was left to grumble while his son-in-law labored almost to distraction into getting the building to the place before he would be compelled to turn back and face the contest which was scheduled for an early hearing. They succeeded in getting it within twenty miles of the claim when they were compelled to abandon the task for the time and return to Gregory to fight the contest.
This developed at times into a rather heated argument, and a prolonged one that tried the patience of all, dragging over a period of three days. It became obvious during the proceedings that the contestant and his cohorts desired as much as possible to keep away from Baptiste and on the other hand to concentrate their cross-fire upon his wife. But, expecting this, they found him on his guard, countering them at every angle, and, assisted by an able land attorney, he was successful in upsetting in a large way, their many, subtle and well laid plans, causing them to fail in making the showing they had expected to.
To begin with their corroborating witness, James J. Spaight, developed before the close to more definitely corroborate for the defense. He had come to the trial with false testimony prepared, and had, under a fusillade of cross-examinations, broken down and impaired and weakened the prosecution. In all such cases the one contesting is placed at a moral disadvantage, and the fact that Crook was a banker, fully able to have purchased relinquishment as others over all the county had done, was ever in the witness' mind, and did not help his case. Baptiste's wife proved much stronger after the first day. This was due largely to the fact that her father had been present on the first day, and had kept her so much alive to what she was sacrificing in struggling to assist her husband in his ambition to be rich, until she was perceptibly weak. The time limit on his ticket having about expired he had been compelled to return to Chicago the morning of the second day of the trial.
It was the consensus of opinion that she would retain her claim, though with so many cases to consider, it was obvious that it would take many months, and possibly a year to get a hearing—that is, before the officers of the local land offices could settle the case.
This done, Jean Baptiste returned and completed moving the house on the claim, fixed it up, dug a well, fenced in a small pasture and returned to gather his corn which amounted to about half a crop.
So time passed and the holidays approached and another phase in their relations took shape when the Reverend insisted that they come to Chicago to spend the holidays. It was very annoying. Orlean was expecting to become a mother in the early spring, and because they had never informed him of the fact, it brought considerable embarrassment to all.
It was difficult to explain to his Majesty that they wouldnot come into the city for the holidays. The Elder had insisted that he would send them tickets, and because Jean Baptiste had scoffed at the idea, trouble was brewing as a result. It was then he lost his patience.
"Can your father not understand, Orlean," he complained, with a deep frown, "that I cannot accept his charity? Because I have made up my mind not to go to Chicago, does not mean that I am not able to purchase our transportations there and back. It's the expense of the trip and what goes with it that has caused me to decide to dispense with it. But it's almost useless to try to reason anything with him, and I'll not waste the effort." Whereupon he would say no more.
He was having troubles of his own. He owed ten thousand dollars, and upon this, interest accrued every few months, and the rate was high. Besides, he had other pressing bills, and the grain he had raised was bringing very low prices. Therefore, he was in no mood to dally with a poverty poor preacher whose offer was more to show himself off and place Baptiste in a compromising position, than his desire for them to be home. He made no effort to appreciate the sentiments or to understand Jean Baptiste. And the fact that his daughter loved her husband and was willing to help him seemed to be lost sight of by N. Justine McCarthy. Being accustomed to having people flatter him as a rule, was so engraved in his shallow nature, that he was unable to see matters from a liberal point of view.
Their relations reached a climax when Orlean was with his sister on the claim a few days before the Yuletide. Baptiste received a letter addressed to her from the Elder. Thinking that, since she was on the claim, it might be something urgent, he opened it. Itwasurgent. It contained a money order covering the price of a ticket to Chicago witha trite note that he expected her soon, and that he, her husband, could come on later.
We shall not attempt to describe the anger that came over Jean Baptiste then. And, as is most likely the case when a man is angry, he does the thing he most likely would not do when his feelings are under control. With hands that trembled with anger, he turned the note over, wrote in a few words that he had defined his position with regards to coming to Chicago; that he would be obliged if the other would mind his own business; that he had married his wife and was trying to be a husband in every way to her; but that he was running his house, and was therefore returning the money therewith.
It served as a declaration of the war between the two that had been impending for months. We are too well acquainted with their regard for each other, so upon this we will not dwell; but upon receipt of Baptiste's letter, the Reverend sang his anger in a letter that fairly scorched the envelope in which it was enclosed. He threatened to turn the world over, and set it right again if the other did not do thus and so. To the threats, Baptiste made no reply. In a measure he was relieved; he had at last made his position clear to the other, and his wife, of course, was with him in the controversy. In view therefore, of the manner in which she had been trained, this made matters rather awkward. The yield of crops had not been one half the average, and it took almost all he had made to pay the interest, taxes and expenses. Baptiste was not cheerful; but Orlean was to become a mother, and he was a practical man. So together they passed a happy Xmas after all. In fact the only cloud upon their horizon of happiness was her father.
Evidently he voiced what he had done to near friends,and they had not endorsed his action. Orlean was the wife of Jean Baptiste and if he expected her to stay with him, it was their affair, even if the Reverend had only intended to help. Attempting to force charity on others is not always sensible, so the Elder wrote later that it was "up to them," and if they had agreed to stay in the West Xmas, it was alright with him.
This was very considerate of him—apparently, after all the noise he had made, and Orlean was much relieved, and loved her father still. Her husband was also relieved, and forgot the matter for the time. But did the Reverend?
Well, that was not his nature. He never forgot things he should forget. Oh, no! He had not been a hypocrite forty years for nothing! In the meantime, the Xmas passed as it has for more than nineteen hundred years, winter set in, and the spring was approaching when the catastrophe occurred.
COMPROMISED
"PLEASE don't go, Jean," she begged. "I don't want you to go. Stay with me."
"Now, Orlean," he said gently. "I have such a lot of work to do. I will go, tear down some of the old buildings on the homestead and be back before many days."
She cried for a time while he held her in his arms. Crying was nothing new with her. As the time for her delivery drew near, she was given to such spells. He was patient. After a few moments she dried her eyes and said:
"Well, dear, you can go. But hurry back. I want you to be home then, you understand."
"Of course I want to be home then, wifey, and sure want it to be a boy."
"Itwillbe a boy, Jean," she said with a strange confidence. "I believe it. I am sure it will."
"I shall love you always then, my wife. All our cares and burdens will vanish into the air, and we shall be as happy as the angels."
"Oh, Jean, you can make life seem so light."
"Life should be made to appear light, sweetheart," he said, caressing her. "Grandmother will be here with you and if you need for anything, draw a check and have the neighbors below bring it out. It is only three miles over the hill to Carter, you understand."
"By the way, dear," she said suddenly, going into the bedroom, and returning presently with a letter. "This isfrom mama. She writes that they have never told papa yet, and hopes that nothing serious will happen for then she would never—we would never be forgiven by him."
"Dear Little Mother Mary," he said fondly. "I hope nothing will happen, Orlean, for our sakes." And then he paused. He had started to say that he was not worried about her father's forgiveness. He had lost what little patience he had ever had with that one, and did not propose to be annoyed with his love, the love that he had to be continually making excuses and apologies to entertain. But before he had spoken he thought better of it, and decided to say nothing about it. His wife had been trained to regard her father as a king, and because he had succeeded in letting her see that after all he was just a Negro preacher with the most that went with Negro preachers in him, she had at last ceased to bore him with telling him how great her father was.
They were at her claim, and he was about to depart for his original homestead to clean up work preparatory to moving onto her claim permanently as he had intended to do. Already his wagons with horses hitched thereto stood near, and he was only lingering for a few parting words with her.
"I am kind of sorry we placed mother in this position," he heard her say as if talking more to herself than he.
"In what position, Orlean?"
"In keeping this a secret."
"From your father, you mean?" said he, frowning.
"Yes."
"Well, Orlean, I have tried to be a husband to you."
"And you have been, Jean."
"Then it is our business if I chose to keep such a secret."
"Yes, Jean," she said, lowering her eyes and thinking.
"But the one burden of our married life has been your father. I never anticipated that his love would be such a burden. Ever since we have been married we have had to waste our substance on fear over what he will think. He seems to lose sight of a husband's sentiment or right. I can fancy him in my position with regard to your mother before they had been married long. My God, if any father or mother would have ventured any suggestion as to how they should live or what they should do I can see him!"
His wife laughed.
"Have I spoken rightly?"
"Yes," she agreed and was momentarily amused.
"Yes. But he just makes our life a burden with his kind of love. Now take this matter for instance. Why should we be keeping this a secret from him—rather, why should I? It's just simply because I have too much other cares to be annoyed with a whole lot of to-do on his part. If he knew you were going to become a mother, he would just make our life unbearable with his insistences and love. Your mother knows it, and Ethel. Ethel who would have had you dispose of that innocent, knows it and keeps it from him, with fear all the while of what will come of it, should anything happen.
"Now, I'll say this much. I don't propose to make any excuses to him about anything I do or have you do hereafter. I'm going to be husband and master, and have nothing to do with what he does with regard to your mother. As long as I am good and kind to you, and don't neglect you, then I have a right, and positively will not be annoyed even by your father!"
"Please hush, Jean," she begged, her arms about him. But he was aroused. He had made himself forget as heshould have forgotten the punishment he had been given twenty-two years before. But he did not like the man's conduct. Everywhere and with everybody back in Illinois who knew N. Justine McCarthy, he was regarded as an acknowledged rascal.
"Just look how he treats your mother!" She pulled at him and tried to still his voice; but speak he would. "If I was ever guilty of treating you as your father has treated your mother ever since he married her, I hope the Christ will sink my soul into the bottom-most pit of hell!"
"Jean, my God, please hush!"
"But I speak the truth and you know it. Would you like to look forward and feel that you had to go through all your life what your mother has endured?"
"Oh, no, no, no! But you must hush, Jean, in heaven's name, hush." He did then. The storm that had come over him had spent its force and he kissed her, turned then, went to where his teams stood, got into the front wagon, and looking back, drove upon his way.
"Poor Jean," murmured Orlean. "Father and he will never be friends and it makes it so hard for me." She continued to stand where he left her, looking after him until he had disappeared over the hills to the east.
Arriving at Gregory late that afternoon, Jean found a Lyceum concert, the number consisting of Negroes, one of whom, a girl, he had known some years before, for she had lived next door to where he then roomed.
He attended and afterward renewed their acquaintance. It so happened that a lumber company was going out of business in the next town east from Gregory, and some coal sheds there were for sale. Desiring something of the kind to use as a granary on his wife's claim, Baptiste journeyed hither the following day to look the same over.Now it also happened that the same concerters were billed for the same town for an evening performance of that day. The day after being Sunday, and the company laying over until Monday, the days were passed together, with Baptiste scheduled to go out to his old place Sunday night.
It was a cheer to revive old acquaintances; to talk of Chicago and olden days with those who still lived there. It was a cheer to all, but Jean Baptiste had cause to regret it as we shall later see. In the meantime, he went to his old place as per schedule, returning to the little town the following morning, where he purchased a hundred foot shed and prepared to move it to his wife's claim forthwith.
A few miles only had been traversed before an intermittent thaw set in, the soft uncertain surface of the earth making it hazardous to pull a heavy load over. So when he reached his old place, he decided to leave it there, tear down his old granary and haul the lumber instead.
While in this act, his sister, who had been on a visit to Kansas, returned, and worried with regards to his wife, alone with his grandma out on the homestead, he hurried her therewith at once. The next day he was relieved to receive a letter from Orlean, advising that she was well, but to come home as soon as possible.
A week had passed and Saturday was upon him again before he was ready to make a start. Now there often comes in the springtime in the West, severe winds that may blow unchecked for days. And one came up just as Jean Baptiste had set out, and blew a terrific gale. It almost upset his wagons, and made driving very difficult. This was augmented further, because the wind was right in his face, and there was no way to avoid it. However, he finally reached a town about eleven miles west of Dallas, by the name of Colome that day. The next morning the wind had gonedown and the day was beautiful, and he was cheered to think he could reach home that day, by getting started early. But bad luck was with Jean Baptiste that day, which was Sunday, and when he was going down a hill, the wagon struck a rocky place, bounced, and the right front wheel rolled out ahead of him. The axle had broken, and his load went down with a crash.
He went to a house he saw near, secured a wagon, and there met a man who had known his father, and had lived and run a newspaper in the same town near where he was born twenty-six years before. He wasted hours getting his load transferred to another wagon, and finally got started again. But not two miles had been covered before the coupling pole snapped, and his loads almost went down again. What trick of fate was playing him, he wondered, and swore viciously. Hours it took before the break was repaired, and he pulled into Winner, eighteen miles from home, late that night.
Early morning found him, however, resolutely on the way. He had covered about half the distance when he met a man who lived neighbor to him on his wife's claim, who told him he had tried to get him on the 'phone Saturday, at Gregory and again at Dallas; that his wife had given birth to a baby which had come into the world dead, on a Saturday.
He almost tumbled from the wagon when he heard this. "Dead!" he repeated. Finally he heard himself speaking, and in a voice that seemed to come from far away:
"Ah—well—did my wife have—attention?"
"Oh, yes," said the other. "Your sister, and two doctors. Yes, she had all the attention necessary. But I'm sorry for you, old man. It was sure a big, fine kid. Shecouldn't give it birth, so they had to kill it in order to save her life."
He started to resume his journey East, while Baptiste, now with unstrung nerves, started to resume his way West. But before his horses had gone many steps he suddenly drew them down to a halt, and, turning, heard the other call out: "I went to Carter and sent her father a telegram as per a request of hers. I suppose it was all right," and continued on his way.
"To him!" cried Baptiste inaudibly. "Tohim!" he repeated. "To him no doubt, that the baby—which he had not known was to be, had come and—dead!"
Mechanically he drove upon his way. He did not think, he did not speak. He said nothing for a long, long time; but down in his heartJean Baptiste knew that he was coming nearer to the parting of the ways.
Back in old Illinois N. Justine McCarthy, upon receiving the telegram, he realized would in all probability depart at the earliest convenience for the West. And when he arrived, would learn still more than the message had told; would learn that he had been absent when his wife had given birth to the dead baby. Oh, his child, why could it not have lived.... Yes, she had had all the attention that was possible; but such would not be credited by N. Justine McCarthy. The fact that not every man had found it possible to be present at the bedside of their wives when children came, would not be considered by N. Justine McCarthy.The fact that he himself had been absent when his own Orlean came into the worldwould be no counter here. Jean Baptiste's absence at the critical time would serve as an excuse for the Reverend to vent his spite, and he would demand a toll. Jean Baptiste was compromised, and would have to make a sacrifice....
THE EVIL GENIUS
"OH, JEAN," breathed Orlean, from the bed, "where have you been?"
He had come unto the house then, and the man in him was much downcast. He was, and had cause to feel discouraged, sorrowful and sad. So he explained to the one who lay upon the bed where he had been, and what had happened to him, and why he had been delayed.
She sighed when he was through and was sorry. For a long time he was on his knees at the bedside, and when an hour had passed, she reached and placed her arm about his neck, and was thankful that he was spared to her, and they would live on hopeful; but both felt their loss deeply.
"I sent papa a telegram," she said presently. Because he knew he made no answer. He knew the other would come, and he was resigned as to what would follow. She sighed again. Perhaps it was because she knew and also feared what was to follow.... She had not known her father her lifetime without knowing what must happen. But she loved her husband, and now in the weak state the delivery had left her she was struggling to withstand the subtle attack her father was sure to make.
Two days passed, and she was progressing toward health as well as could be expected. Since her marriage her health on the whole had improved wonderfully. The petty aches and pains of which she complained formerly hadgradually disappeared, and the western air had brought health and vigor to her.
And then on the third day he arrived. Moreover, he brought Ethel with him. They rode over the hill that led to the claim in a hired rig, and Baptiste espied them as soon as they were in sight.
Our pen cannot describe what Jean Baptiste read in the eyes of N.J. McCarthy when he alighted from the buggy and went into the house. But suffice to say, that what had passed twenty-two years before had come back. There was to be war between them and as it had been then Baptiste was at a disadvantage, and must necessarily accept the inevitable.
Ethel was crying, and her tears meant more than words. She had never cried for love. It had always been something to the contrary. But we must turn to the one in bed—and helpless!
She saw her father when he stepped from the buggy, and understood what he carried behind his masklike face. He did not allow his eyes to rest on Jean Baptiste, and she noted this. She settled back upon the pillow, and tried to compose herself for the event that was to be. Her husband was compromised, and could not defend himself.... Therefore it fell upon her and from the sick bed to defend him.
He was inside the house now, and came toward her, and she was frightened when he was near and saw his face and what it held. Hatred within was there and she shuddered audibly. She closed her eyes to shut it out. Oh, the agony that came over her. She opened her eyes when his lips touched hers, and then began the struggle that was to be hers.
"Papa," she whispered, and in her voice there was a great appeal. "Don't blame Jean. Jean has burdens, he has responsibilities—he's all tied up! He's good to me, he loves me, he gives me all he has." But before she had finished, she knew that her appeal had fallen upon deaf ears. Her father had come—and he had brought a purpose to be fulfilled.
He caressed her; he said many foolish things, and she pretended to believe him; she made as if his coming had meant the saving of her life; but she knew behind all he pretended was the evil, the evil that was his nature, and the fear that filled her breast made her weaker; made her sick.
The doctor had said that she would be able to leave the bed in ten days, probably a week; but now with grim realization of what was before her she became weak, weaker, weakest. And all the time she saw that it was being charged to Jean Baptiste, and to his neglect.
We should perhaps try to make clear at this point in this story that Jean Baptiste could have settled matters in a very simple manner.... True, the manner in which he could have settled it, would be the manner in which wars could be avoided—by sacrificing principle. He could have gone to his Majesty and played a traitor to his nature by pretending to believe the Elder had been right and justified in everything; whereas, he, Jean Baptiste, had been as duly wrong. He could have acted in such a manner as to have his Majesty feel that he was a great man, that he had been honored by even knowing him, much less in being privileged to marry his daughter. This, in view of the fact that having been absent from her bedside at that crucial time, he was compromised, would have satisfied the Elder, and Baptiste would not have been compelled to forego all that later came to pass in their relations.But Jean Baptiste had a principle, and was not a liar, nor a coward, nor a thief.And, although, he had been so unfortunate as not to have been by the bedside of his wife during that hour, he could have sentimentally appeased his father-in-law, but Jean Baptiste had not nor will he ever in the development of this story, sink so low. Of what was to come—and the most is—in this story, Jean Baptiste at no time sacrificed his manhood for any cause.
N. Justine McCarthy, and this is true of too many of his race and to this cause may be attributed many of their failures, was not a reader. He never read anything but the newspapers briefly and the Bible a little. He was, therefore, not an informed man. As a result he took little interest in, and appreciated less, what the world is thinking and doing. He had never understood because he had not tried, what the people around where Jean Baptiste had come were doing for posterity. Yet he claimed very loudly to be an apostle of the race—to be willing—and was—sacrificing his very soul for the cause of Ethiopia. He took great pride in telling and retelling how he had sacrificed for his family—wife included. As he was heard by others, he had no faults; could do no wrong, and would surely reach heaven in the end!
So while they lingered at the bedside of Orlean, he and Ethel, as a pastime argued with each other, and involved everybody but themselves with wrongs. For instance, the Reverend, affecting much piety, would in discussing his wife, whom he ever did in terms regarding her faults, find occasion to remark in a burst of self pity—and of self pity he had an abundant supply:
"After all I have done for that woman; after all I have sacrificed for her; after all the patience I have endured while she has held me down—kept me from being what I would have been and should, she is ever bursting out with:'You're the meanest man in the world! You're the meanest man in the world!'" Whereupon he would affect a look of deep self pity and eternal mortification.
Unless we lengthen the story unnecessarily, we would not have the space to relate all he said in reference to his son-in-law in subtle ways during these days. But Jean Baptiste was too busy building a barn and other buildings to listen to these compliments the Elder was bestowing upon his wife with regard to him. "Yes, my dear," he said time and again, "If Jean was like your father, you would not be here now with your child lying dead in the grave. No, no. You would be in the best hospital in Chicago, with nurses and attendants all about you and your darling baby at your side," and, so saying, he would affect another sigh of self pity.
At first she had struggled to protest, but after a few days she gave up entirely and became resigned to the inevitable. She received an occasional diversion, however, when the Elder and Ethel entered into a controversy. Unlike Orlean, Ethel was not afraid of her father, especially when he had something to say about Glavis. The truth was, that while he so pretended, N.J. McCarthy had no more love for Glavis than he had for Baptiste; but he could tolerate Glavis because Glavis endeavored to satisfy his vanity. Baptiste, on the other hand, while he now accepted all his father-in-law chose to pour upon him in the way of rebuke for what he had done and should not have, and what he had not done and should have, he never told the Elder that he was a great man.
The first few days the Elder had held the usual prayer; but after some days he dispensed with this, and turned all his energy to rebuking Jean Baptiste, when he was out of sight.
"Now, don't you talk about Glavis," cried Ethel one daywhen his Majesty had tired of abusing Baptiste and sought a diversion by remarking that Glavis had come from a stumpy farm in the woodlands of Tennessee. "No, you don't! Glavis is my husband and you can't abuse him to his back like you are doing Baptiste!"
"Just listen how she treats her father, Orlean," cried the Elder, overcome with self pity. Orlean then rebuked Ethel and chided her father. But the part which escaped her, was that Ethel defended her mate, while Orlean suffered to have hers rebuked at will. The greatest reason why Ethel and her father could not agree, as was well known, was that they were too much alike.
When Jean Baptiste had completed his barn, and his wife was out of danger, according to the doctor—but would never be according to the Elder—who insisted that the only cure would be for her to return to Chicago with them,—he was ready to go to work. His wife wanted to go to Chicago, for what the Reverend had done to her in the days he had sat by her and professed his great love, would have made her wish to go anywhere to appease him for even a day.
"Now, after the expense we have been to," said Baptiste, "I hardly know whether I can let you go to Chicago or not."
The Elder sighed, and said to her low enough for her husband's ears not to hear: "Just listen to that. After all I have done! Then I will have to pay your way to Chicago where I shall endeavor to save your life, your dear life which this man is trying to grind out of you to get rich."
"But I'll think it over," said Baptiste. "We have lots of work this summer, and will try to get caught up," and the next moment he was gone.
"Did you hear that, daughter?" said the Reverend, nowaloud, when the other's back was turned. "Oh, it's awful, the man you have married! Just crazy, crazy to get rich! And puts you after his work; after his horses; after his everything! And after all your poor old father has done for you," whereupon he let escape another sigh, and fell into tears of self pity.
Orlean stroked his head and swallowed what she would have offered in defense of the man she had married. It was useless to offer defense, he had broken this down long since.
"Yes, he is wanting to kill, to kill my poor daughter after all she has sacrificed," he sobbed, "and when you are dead and in your grave like your baby is out in this wild country," his voice was breaking now with sobs, "he will up and marry another woman to enjoy the fruits of your sacrifice!" He was lost in his own tears then, and could say no more.
"Now, dear," she suddenly heard her husband, and looked up to find that he had returned. He stooped and kissed her fondly, and then went on: "I am going up to my sister's homestead to start the men to work with the engine breaking the land and I must haul them the coal, which I will get at Colome. Now I will not be back for several days, but will make up my mind in the meantime as to whether I can let you go to Chicago or not."
"All right, dear," she said, raising from the bed and caressing him long and lingeringly. She could not understand how much she wanted him then, it seemed that she could hold him so forever. She kissed him again and again, and as he passed out of the room she looked after him long and lingeringly, and upon her face was a heavenly smile as he passed out of sight and disappeared over the hill. As he did so, the Elder got from his position at the other side of thebed, went to the door, and also watched him out sight. As he turned away, Baptiste's grandmother who had fed many a preacher back there in old Illinois, the Reverend included, started. She had seen his face, and what she had seen therein had frightened her. When he went back into the room and to the bed where Orlean lay, she dropped by the table and buried her face in her old arms and sobbed, long and silently. And a close observer could have heard these shaken words:
"Poor Jean, poor Jean, poor Orlean, oh, poor Orlean! You made all the fight you could but you were weak. You were doomed before you started, for he knew you and knew you were weak. But would to God that the world could end today, for it will end tomorrow for you two. Poor Orlean, poor Jean!"
THE COWARD
"HELLO, JEAN," cried a friend of his at Colome some days later, as he was leading his horses into the livery barn, after loading the coal he was hauling to the men who were breaking prairie on his sister's claim with a steam tractor. "Were those your folks I seen driving into town a while ago?"
"My folks?"
"Yeh. Three of them. A man and two women. One of the ladies appears to be sick."
"Oh," he echoed, and before he could or would have answered in his sudden surprise, the other passed on. It was some moments before he recovered from the shock the other's words had given him. He knew without stopping to think that the ones referred to were the Reverend, Ethel and his wife. He had written his wife a few days before that he would be home the following Sunday, and when he would be caught up in his hauling sufficiently and could spend a few days there.
"So he moves without my consent or bid," he breathed, and for a time he was listless from the feeling that overcame him. He attended to his horses, mechanically, had supper and went to verify what he had heard.
He had little difficulty in doing so, for the town was small, but that night, happened to be full of people, and the Reverend had found some difficulty in securing lodging. The day had not been a beautiful one by any means. It was inearly April and the month had borrowed one of the dreary days of the previous month. Light snow had fallen, which, along toward evening had turned into a dismal sleet. A bad day to say the least, to be out, and a sick person of all things!
He went directly to the preacher when he saw him. He was aroused, and the insults he had suffered did not make him pleasant.
"Now, look here, Reverend McCarthy," he said and his tone revealed his feelings, "what kind of a 'stunt' are you pulling off with my wife?" And he blocked his way where they stood upon the sidewalk.
"Now, now, my son—"
"Oh, don't 'son' me," said the other impatiently. "You and I might as well come to an understanding right here tonight as any other time. We are not friends and you know it. We have never since we have known each other been in accord—not since we met—yes, twenty-two years ago. Oh, you remember it." The other started guiltily when Jean referred to his youth.
"You remember how my mother licked me for letting Miss Self help me upon her lap and fed me, thereby disturbing your illegitimate flirtation...." The other's pious face darkened. But it was not his nature to meet and argue openly as men should and do. Always his counter was subtle. So while Jean Baptiste was in the mood to come to an understanding, to admit frankly to the other, that enemies they were, the Elder permitted a womanish smile to spread over his face and patted the other on the back, saying:
"Now, now, Jean. You are my daughter's husband, and it is no time or place to carry on like this. The girl lays sick over here and if you would be a husband you would go to her. Now let's dispense with such things as you refer to and go forth to the indisposed." He appeared moregodly now than he had ever. Distrust was in the face of Baptiste. He knew the preacher was not sincere, but his wife, the girl he had married, lay ill. He suspicioned that the Elder had intended stealing her away without his knowledge; he knew, moreover, that all his affected tenderness was subtle; but he hushed the harsh words that were on his tongue to say and followed the other.
"Yes, my children," his pious face almost unable to veil the evil behind the mask, "here we are together," he said when he entered the room followed by Baptiste. Orlean was in bed and made no effort to greet her husband; while Ethel sat sulkily in a chair nearby and kept her mouth closed. Jean went to the bed and sat by his wife and regarded her meditatively. She did not seem to recognize him, and he made no effort to arouse her to express her thoughts which seemed to come and go. He was lost in thoughts, strange and sinister. Verily his life was in a turmoil. The life he had come into through his marriage had revived so many old and unpleasant memories that he had forgotten, until he was in a sort of daze. He had virtually run away from those parts wherein he had first seen the light of day, to escape the effect of dull indolence; the penurious evil that seemed to have gripped the populace, especially a great portion of his race. In the years Jean Baptiste had spent in the West, he had been able to follow, unhampered, his convictions. But now, the Reverend's presence seemed to have brought all this back.
In a conversation one day with that other he had occasion to mention the late James J. Hill, in his eulogy of the northwest and was surprised to find—and have the Reverend admit—that he had never even heard of him. Indeed, what the Elder knew about the big things in life would have filled a very small book. But when it came to thevirtues of the women in the churches over which he presided, he knew everything. And whenever they had become agreeable in any way, it was sure to end with the Reverend relating incidents regarding the social and moral conduct of the women in the churches over which he presided. Moreover, the Elder sought in his subtle manner, to dig into the past life of members of Baptiste's family, of what any had committed that could be used as a measure for gossip. And this night, as they sat over Jean's wife whose sentiment and convictions had been crushed, the Elder attempted to dwell on the subject again.
"Yes, when your older sister taught in Murphysboro, and got herself talked about because she drew a revolver on Professor Alexander, that was certainly too bad."
"Looks as if she was able to take care of herself," suggested Baptiste, deciding to counter the old rascal at his own game.
"But that's what I'm trying to show you, and you could see it if you wasn't inclined to be so hard headed," argued the Elder.
"We'll leave personalities out of it, if you please," said Baptiste, coloring.
"Oh, but if your sister had had protection, such a deplorable incident would not have happened. Now, for instance," argued the Elder, "my girls have never had their good names embarrassed with such incidents."
"Oh, they haven't," cried Baptiste, all patience gone.
"Then what about their half brother in East St. Louis, eh? And the other one who died—was stabbed to death. Those were yours, and you were never married to their mother!"
The other's face became terrible. The expression upon his face was dreadful to behold. He started to rise, butBaptiste was not through. He was thoroughly aroused now, and all he had stood from this arch sinner had come back to him. Therefore, before the other could deny or do anything, said he:
"Oh, you needn't try to become so upset over it. Your morals are common knowledge to all the people of Illinois, and elsewhere. And let me tell you, you can—as you have—in your family, force those who know it and condemn it to keep quiet by making yourself so disagreeable that they will honey you up to get along with you. But it is not because they, or all those who know you, are not aware of it! That's your reputation, and some day you are going to suffer for it. You deliberately make people miserable to satisfy your infernal vanity; your desire to be looked upon and called great. Now right here you are bent upon crucifying your own daughter's happiness just because I haven't tickled your rotten vanity, and lied." He arose now, and pointed a threatening finger at the other.
"You are out to injure me, and you are taking advantage of your own child's position as my wife to do so. I'm going to let you go ahead. Orlean's a good girl, but she's weak like the mother that you have abused for thirty years! But remember this, N.J. McCarthy, and I've called you Reverend for the last time. The evil that you do unto others will some day be done unto you and will drag your ornery heart in its own blood. Mark my words!" And the next instant he was gone.
The other looked after him uneasily. The truth had come so forcibly, so impulsively, so abruptly, that it had for the time overcome his cunningness; but only for a moment after the other had disappeared was he so. He regained his usual composure soon enough, and he turnedto the sick woman for succor—to her whom he was dragging down to the gutter of misery for his own self aggrandizement.
"Did you hear how he abused your father?" he cried, the tears from his piggish eyes falling on her cheeks. She reached and stroked his white hair, and mumbled weak words.
"Oh, I never thought I would come to this—be brought to this through the daughter that I have loved so much. Oh, poor me, your poor old father," whereupon he wept bitterly.
"You see, you see," cried Ethel, who had risen and stood over her, pointing her finger to Orlean as she lay upon the bed. "This is what comes of marrying that man! I tried, oh, I tried so hard to have you see that no good could come of it, no good at all!" The other sighed. She was too weak from mortification to reply in the affirmative, or the negative.
"I tried, and I tried to have you desist, but you would! When I had at last gotten you to quit him, and you swore you had, no sooner did he come and place his arm about you and whisper fool things in your ear, than did you but up and consent to this. This, this, do you hear? This that has brought your poor father to that!" and she stopped to point to where that one lay stretched across the bed, sobbing.
The night was one long, miserable, quarrelsome night. Ethel and the Elder wore themselves out abusing Baptiste, and along toward morning all fell into a troubled sleep.
Baptiste met them the next morning as they came from the rooms, and helped his wife across the street to a restaurant. When they had finished the meal, he said to her as they came from the restaurant,
"Now, dear, I'll step into the bank here and get you some money—"
"No, no, no, Jean," she said quickly, cutting him off before he completed what he had started to say.
"Well," and he started toward the bank again as if he had not understood her.
"No, no, no, Jean," she repeated, and caught his arm nervously. "No, don't!"
"But you are going away, dear, and will surely need money?" he insisted.
"Yes, but—Jean—Jean—I have money."
"You have money?" repeated the other uncomprehendingly. "But how came you with money? That much money?"
"I—I had—a—check cashed. That is—papa had one cashed for me."
"Oh, so that was it. M-m.Your fatherhad it cashed for you?" he understood then, and his suspicion that the Elder had intended taking her to Chicago without letting him know it was confirmed. They walked down the street toward the depot, and while she held nervously to his arm, his mind was concerned with his thoughts. It occurred to him that he should take his wife back to the claim right then. He felt that if she went to Chicago there would be trouble. He began slowly to appreciate that in dealing with Reverend McCarthy he was not dealing with a man; nor a near man. He was not dealing with a mere liar, or a thief, even—he was dealing with the lowest of all reptiles, a snake! Then why did not he, Jean Baptiste, act?
Perhaps if he had, we should never have had this story to tell. Jean Baptiste did not act. He decided to let her go. Beyond that he had no decision. It seemed that his mind would not work beyond the immediate present. Soon she heard him, as she clung to his arm, allowing her body to rest against his shoulder:
"How much for, Orlean?"
"Two—two—hundred dollars."
"Why—two hundred dollars!" he cried. "Why, Orlean, what has come over you?" She burst into tears then, and clung appealingly to him. And in that moment she was again his God-given mate.
"Besides," he went on, "I haven't such an amount in the bank, even." He looked up. A half a block in their lead walked Reverend McCarthy, carrying the luggage.
"Papa, p-a-pa!" called Orlean at the top of her voice. "Pa-p-a," she called again and again until she fell into a fit of coughing. He halted, and was uneasy, Baptiste could see. They came up to him. Orlean was running despite her husband's effort to hold her back.
"Papa, papa! My God, give Jean back that money. Give it back, I say! Oh, I didn't want to do this, oh, I didn't want to! It was you who had me sign that check, you, you, you!" She was overcome then, and fell into a swoon in her husband's arms. He stood firmly, bravely, then like the Rock of Gibraltar. His face was very hard, it was very firm. His eyes spoke. It told the one before him the truth, the truth that was.
And as the other ran his hand to his inside vest pocket and drew forth the money, he kept saying in a low, cowardly voice:
"It was her, it was her. She did it, she did it!"
Baptiste took the money. He looked at it. He took fifty dollars from it and handed the amount to the other. He spoke then, in a voice that was singularly dry:
"I will not keep her from going. She can go; but you know I ought not let her."
They carried her to where the cars stood, and made her comfortable when once inside. She opened her eyes whenhe was about to leave upon hearing the conductor's call. She looked up into his eyes. He bent and kissed her. She looked after him as he turned, and called: "Jean!"
"Yes, Orlean!"
"Goodby!"
He stood on the platform of the small western station as the train pulled down the track. A few moments later it disappeared from view, and she was gone.
EPOCH THE THIRD
CHICAGO—THE BOOMERANG
THE REVEREND MCCARTHY had scored. He had succeeded in separating his daughter from the man she married. The fact that there was positively no misunderstanding between the two, was not seen or considered by him. Jean Baptiste had opposed him, and that was enough. He hated any member of his household, or any one related to the one of his household who dared disagree with him. Of course his "Majesty" did not see it that way. He saw himself as the most saintly man in the world and sympathized with himself accordingly. No man thought himself more unjustly abused than did N. Justine McCarthy.
But there were other things to complete. He had not wilfully participated in what had just passed—in fact, he had not meant to part the couple at all. He prided himself with having some judgment. He was merely undertaking that which in a way had grown common to him—the task of getting even.
Now he had estimated that he knew Jean Baptiste, although studying characters and their natural tendencies had not been a part of his theme in life. He felt albeit, that he had this one's tender spot clearly before him. To begin with: he put himself right with his own conscience by believing that Baptiste was a vain, selfish character, bent on one purpose—getting rich! He concluded—because hewished to—that Baptiste did not, and had never, loved Orlean. The fact that Orlean had not said anything to the contrary did not matter. He was her father, and therefore predicated and privileged to think and act for her. That was why he had always been of so much service, such fatherly help. He was protecting his daughter from the cruelty of men. But how he had planned it all!
"Now that hard-headed rascal," meaning of course his son-in-law, "is not going to lay down. Oh, no! My poor girl has that claim. He does not want her, but he does want the claim. To hold the claim, he must have her, and have her back on the claim. He's all war now; but when he realizes that to lose her is to lose the claim into the bargain—oh, well, I'll just set right down at home here and wait. Yes, I'll wait. He'll be coming along. And when he appears here, then I'll bend his ornery will into the right way of seeing things." So thereupon he took up his vigil, waiting for Jean Baptiste to put in his appearance.
But for some reason the other had not hastened to Chicago as soon as the Elder had anticipated he would. Three weeks had been consumed in the trip West, so he was somewhat behind in his church work. While it was true that ministers in some of the towns in his itinerary collected from the members at the quarterly conference and sent the money to him; on the other hand if he expected to get what was due him in any great measure, it was highly necessary that he be there in person. Accordingly, the time he spent in Chicago, waiting for the coming of his son-in-law that he might have the satisfaction of bending the other to his will began to grow long and irksome.
Moreover, if he sat at home, he was obliged to meet and greet the many visitors who called to see his sick daughter. More largely of course for the purpose of securing information for gossip, but compelling him therefore to make or offer some explanation. And here arose another phase of the case that was not pleasant. Following Jean Baptiste's marriage to Orlean, and after the Reverend had paid them his first visit, he had said a great deal in praise of his "rich" son-in-law. That he was so extremely vain, was why he had done this. It had tickled his vanity to have the people see his daughter marry so well, since it was well known about Chicago that Jean Baptiste was very successful. When the Elder had boasted to the people he met of the "rich" man his daughter had married, he wrote telling the young couple of it. To be referred to as "rich" he conjectured, should have flattered any man's vanity—it would have his—and he estimated that he was doing Baptiste a great favor when he let him know that he, the Elder, was advertising him as rich.
But the same had brought no response from that one. He had been too busy to take any interest in being praised. And even after the Elder had made his first visit, and returned and told of the wonders his daughter had married into, he still hoped this would soften Baptiste's disposition into praising and fawning upon him. It was not until Baptiste had returned the money he had sent his daughter for railway fare the Xmas before that the Reverend had thrown down the gauntlet and declared war. So the very thing he had played up a few months before, came back now to annoy him. Because he had never lived as he should have it was proving a boomerang. He had made a practice of pretending not to hear what was being said about him by others. But he could not seal his ears to the fact that the people were asking themselves and everybody else what had happened to his daughter, or between his daughter and the "rich" son-in-law. This was very uncomfortable, it was very annoying.It was reported that he was compelled to go out West and get her, and it was exasperating to explain all without making it seem that what he had said a few months before was boast, pure and simple.
"Yeh. All you could hear a few months ago, was the 'rich' man Orlean had married. Yeh. Mr. Mc. would make it his business to get around so you had to ask 'im about them. Then he'd swell up lak a big frog and tell all about it. Then of a sudden he jumps up and goes out there and brings her back. Ump! Now I wonder what is the mattah."
During these times, those of the household had little peace. With impatience over Baptiste's not showing up so he could read him the riot act, and his work being neglected; with having to listen to no end of gossip that his meddling had brought about, he became the most obstinate problem imaginable about the house. All the love he had pretended for Orlean while on the claim, was now changed to severe chastisement. He no longer fondled and wasted hours over her. She had no longer the convenient check book. The fact that she had to have a little medicine, and that she also had to have other necessities; that she had to eat—and the most of this he was forced to provide, made him so irritable, that those near prayed for the day when he would leave. But if Jean Baptiste would only come so that he could say to him what he had planned to say. Just to have the opportunity to bend that stubborn will—that would be sufficient to repay him for all he was now actually sacrificing.
As for "Little Mother Mary" these were the darkest days of her never happy married life. Of all the men she had met or known, she had truly admired and loved Jean Baptiste more than any other. In truth it was her disposition to be frank, kind and truthful. She dearly loved her son-in-law for his manly frank and kind disposition. She trusted him, and, knowing that Orlean was of her disposition, weak and subservient to the will of those near, she had been relieved to feel that she had married the kind of man that would be patient and love a person with such a disposition.
She had been sincere in her praise of him to her many friends. She had told of him to everybody she knew or met. So much so indeed, that the Reverend on his last trip West in his daily rebuke, then had said: "And Mary has just sickened me with telling everybody she meets about Jean." Ethel had joined with him in this. The truth was that when her mother had sung her praise to the people regarding Jean Baptiste, there was nothing left to say about Glavis, but more especially about the Elder.
What the Reverend was forced to endure at this time, he promptly of course charged to the indiscretions of Jean Baptiste. If he had not done this, or if he had done that, the Elder would not have been forced to endure such annoyance. If he would only show up with his practical ideas in Chicago! Every morning when the door bell rang, he listened eagerly for the voice of his son-in-law. He watched the mail, and in assorting the letters, looked anxiously for the Western postmark. But a week passed, and no letter and no Jean Baptiste. Then at the end of two weeks, the same prevailed. And at the end of three weeks, he knew he would have to go to work or reckon with the bishop.
So on Tuesday of the following week, the Elder left for his work, and that same afternoon, Jean Baptiste arrived in Chicago.