MRS. MERLEY
THE APRIL morn shone beautifully over Chicago, when Jean Baptiste came from the basement of the apartment where Mrs. Pruitt lived, and had bade Godspeed to him. It was election day over all the state, a preferential primary for the purpose of choosing delegates to the G.O.P. convention to be held two months later. And when Jean Baptiste thought of it, he understood what had brought the Reverend to the city.
Baptiste arrived at Mrs. Merley's an hour after he left Mrs. Pruitt, went directly to the number and pulled the bell. It was responded to by a young woman he did not know, but she assured him that the one he sought was in, and after seating him in the parlor, hurried to tell Mrs. Merley.
She came at once all joy and gladness, and greeted him with a shake of both hands, and kissed him into the bargain.
"Sit right down, sit right down," she said profusely. "And, oh, my, how glad I am to see you!" she smiled upon him happily, proving how glad she really was, and he was moved.
"And you came to see me," she continued. "You could have called on no one who would have been more delighted to see you!"
"You do me too much honor, Mrs. Merley," said he gratefully.
"Indeed," she returned. "I could not do you enough."
"I hadn't hoped for so much kindness, I am sure."
"But, Jean, you don't know how much I have thought about you in the last two years, and I have longed to talk with you!"
"Oh, really! But I thought I was forgotten by everybody in Chicago."
"You have never been forgotten by us. And especially have we talked of you in this last year...."
He was silent, though he felt he understood her reference.
"Some dirty sinner ought to be in torment!"
And still he did not speak.
"Oh, I know all that has been done to you, Jean," she went on tenderly.
"Your words give me much relief, Mrs. Merley."
"I wish they could give you more. It is my wish that an opportunity could be given me to help you."
He straightened. Now was the time to state his mission. But she was speaking again:
"I spoke my sentiments to his face, the rascal! All his dirty life has been given to making people miserable, wherever he could."
Jean said nothing, but was listening nevertheless.
"He has been a rascal for thirty-five years, and has made that simple cousin of mine he married, the goat." She paused to get her breath. "I saw Orlean not long ago, and asked her where her will was, or if she had any."
He was attentive. Always he liked to hear her.
"She, of course, tried to stand up for that arch hypocrite. But I waived that aside. Said I to her: 'Orlean, I could never believe you if you said Jean Baptiste abused, mistreated or neglected you.' She looked down when I had spoken and then said evenly. 'No, Jean didnot do any of those things,' 'Then,' said I. 'Why do you live apart from him, the man you married? Where is your sense of duty?' 'But, Mrs. Merley,' she tried to protest. 'I just couldn't live out there in that wilderness, it was too lonesome,' 'Oh, Orlean,' I said disgustingly, 'do you expect me to believe that? And if even I believed you, how could I respect you?'
"But that is it, Jean. Here is this family posing as among the best Negro families in Chicago, but with no more regard for what is morally right than the worst thief. Indeed, no thief would do what that man is doing."
He mumbled something inaudible. She was out to talk, so he heard her on:
"I understand the whole line up, and their vain shielding of that old rascal, just because you didn't lie to him and become a hypocrite like he himself is. Everybody near him must bow to him and tell him he is great, else he will use what influence is his to 'get even.' So that's the whole output. He took her away from you because he raised her as he has willed my cousin, his wife, to subserve to him. And now he goes around here with all that dirty affected piety and wants people to sympathize with him in his evil." She paused again for breath, and then he spoke:
"I am glad to know you have taken the view of this you have, Mrs. Merley," he said slowly, "And I am wondering therefore, whether you would be willing to help me in a certain Christian cause."
"Why, Jean! Why ask me? You must know that I would help you in any way I could."
He then told her just what he had planned. She interrupted him at times with little bursts of enthusiasm, and there was no hesitancy on her part.
"Anything, Jean, anything! You don't know how anxious I am, and how glad I am to have the opportunity! The only thing I regret is that you ever married such a weakling. You might have heard that Blanche is married?"
"I have," he replied. "I trust she is happy."
"Well," said the other slowly, "she appears to be, withal. And for that reason I suppose I should be thankful. But she did not quite please me in her selection."
"Oh," he echoed.
"No," she said slowly, and as if she felt the disappointment keenly. "She did not. Her husband, it is true, is good to her, but he did not come up to my hope. Yet, and it is singular," she said thoughtfully, "to think that a man with all you possess financially, and mentally, should get 'in' as you have." She paused again a little embarrassed, and then pursued:
"I wish Blanche had a husband of your disposition and attainments."
"Blanche, I thought, was a sweet girl," he said reflectively.
"And a good girl," said Mrs. Merley. "I would have given anything to have had her marry a promising young farmer of your order, and be now living in the West."
"I love the West, and had hoped others would be loving it too," he said ruefully.
"He came back here after his first visit, and sitting right where you are now, said that you was one of the race's most progressive young men. He added to this everywhere he had half a chance and eulogized you to the highest. It happened that the minister who married you, was here, and he, too, very much admired you, and voiced the same to the Reverend. That old devil just swelled up like a big frog with vanity. Three months later he comes back here, and,to seek to justify his action, he spreads the town with lies that nobody believes."
The other shifted his position.
"Well, Jean," she said now more soberly, "just what shall I do?"
"If you would not mind—"
"Oh, don't say that!"
"Very well, Mrs. Merley. I would like you to call her up and suggest a matinée."
"Why not just go to one?"
"That would please me if you would condescend?"
"I'd be glad to go, and in view of the circumstances, I think it would be a suggestive idea. Let her get used to your presence again, without coming directly to the point at once."
"A capital idea, I agree!"
"Call her up and ask her to come over and go with you to the matinée."
"That is the plan, and I understand."
"I will appreciate your kindness," said he heartily. She arose then and advancing toward him, embraced him impulsively.
Thereupon she went to the telephone, and succeeded in getting his wife on the wire. He heard her answer the call, and laugh over something humorous Mrs. Merley said. His heart beat faster, and he was conscious that he was more hopeful than he had been for a long time.
"Yes...." Mrs. Merley was saying. "I want you to go with me to a matinée.... Be here at one forty-five.... Yes, I have the tickets.... And you'll not be late."
She was standing before him again, and her face was lighted up with the joy of what she had accomplished. Hewas grateful, and rose to thank her, whereupon she embraced him again. The next moment she went quickly up the stairs to prepare for the occasion.
"You may come upstairs, too, Jean," she invited, "and from the front room there, you can watch for yours."
"Oh, Mrs. Merley, you make me happier than I have been for a long time," he said, and almost was he emotional.
"And I have a nice spare bedroom for you andher, tonight. And tomorrow, she isyours."
Jean Baptiste waited and watched, and then suddenly he heard a voice. It was that of the girl who had admitted him, who was also watching.
"Here she comes," she cried, excitedly. Jean Baptiste looked quickly out of the window and up the street, and saw his wife coming leisurely toward the house wherein he was sitting.
OH, MERCIFUL GOD, CLOSE THOU MINE EYES!
REVEREND NEWTON JUSTINE MCCARTHY had once lived in Peoria, Illinois, and was well acquainted with the late Robert Ingersoll. Moreover, he had admired the noted orator, and although he had not the courage, in truth, he believed as Ingersoll believed. And because he did, and was forced to keep his true convictions a secret, while he preached the gospel he did not believe, he had grown to hate almost all people. But N.J. McCarthy was not aware of this fact himself.
Ever since he brought his daughter home, and had thereby parted her from the man she married, he had never been the same. Always he was troubled with something he could not understand. His dreams were bad. The awful sensations he very often experienced while in slumber, grew so annoying that at times he found that he was almost afraid to sleep. Then, a persistent illness continually knocked at his door. The truth of it was, that he was battling with a conscience he had for years crucified. But it would persist. So deep had he sowed the habits he followed, and so intrenched were the roots of these habits, until it was no easy task to uproot them.
He had left Mrs. Pruitt near midnight of the day when Jean Baptiste had arrived on his trip in a last effort to secure his wife. The family had retired before he arrived home, and having some business in the rear of the house, he passed through the room which contained thebed wherein his daughter, Orlean, lay in peaceful slumber. When he was returning he paused briefly to observe the face of the sleeping girl in the moonlight. Peacefully she slept, and for the first time in his life he saw therein something he had never seen before. He felt his flesh and wondered at the feeling that was come over him. It seemed that he was asleep, but positively he was awake. Hewasawake, and looking into the sleeping face of his daughter. But if hewas awake, what was it he saw?
Surely not. But as he stood over her, he thought he could see her eyes open, and look at him strangely, regard him in a way she had never done before. And as she looked at him, he thought she raised her hand that lay under the cover, and with her forefinger leveled, she pointed at him. In the trance he imagined he could hear her voice. She called him:
"Father?" And betimes he answered.
"Yes, daughter."
"Where is my husband?" He gave a start. He thought he caught at something, and then he heard her again:
"You have sent him away, out of my life, and the day is coming when you will be called upon to answer for your sins!"
He thought he was trembling. All about him was turmoil. He saw the people, the friends of the family, and all the people he had preached to in thirty years, and all were pointing an accusing finger at him. And out of the chaos he heard them crying: "Shame, oh shame! That you should be so evil, so vile, such a hypocrite, and let your evil fall upon your own daughter!" He saw then the wife he had taken from Speed. He saw that one in his misery, he saw him sink, and renounce from weakness the sentiments he had started in the world to teach. He saw him strugglevainly, and then saw him fall, low, lower, until at last the flames of hell had swallowed him up. "Merciful God," he cried, and he was sure he staggered. "Was itIwho brought all this?" But before he could recover, the procession kept passing.
Behind Speed came the wife he had robbed him of. She carried in her arms a baby that he had given her. By the hand she led the other illegitimate offspring. There they were, the innocents that had no name. He saw the bent head of the woman, and saw the grief and anguish in her face. He saw her suddenly stop and fall, and while she lay upon the earth, her children were taken, and grew up surrounded with all that was bad and evil. He saw one suddenly dead, while still a boy, murdered by the companions he kept. He saw his young body in the morgue. And before all this had passed, he saw this one's mother again, the woman he had fooled, in the depth of the "tenderloin." He saw her a solicitor, and he could hear himself groan in agony.
The years passed, and while he grew older, other things came and went; a train of evil deeds he had committed, and at last came his own daughter. He saw her passing and when he saw her face, the agony therein frightened him. Was it so! Hadhe, done that, too? Washethe cause of what he saw in this girl's face? Suddenly he saw her change, and in the distance he saw Jean Baptiste, and all he had suffered. "Oh, merciful God, close thou mine eyes," he thought he could hear himself call. But his eyes would not close, and the one to whom he appealed appeared to be deaf, and the procession continued.
He saw Orlean stretch her hands out to Baptiste, and he came toward her with arms outstretched, and he thought he heard a voice, the voice of the man Jean Baptiste. Andthe words he cried rang in his ears: "My wife, oh, Orlean, my wife! Come unto me!"—But lo! When the two had came close, and the man would have held her to him, a shadow suddenly rose between them, and shut them out from each other's sight. He thought he raised his voice to call out to the one of the shadow. And when he called to him, and the one of the shadow turned, and behold! It was himself! He suddenly came out of the trance, to see Orlean sitting up in bed. He caught his breath and held his hand over his heart, as he heard her voice:
"Papa, is that you? My, how you frightened me! I—" and then she quickly stopped. She had started to say, "I thought it was Jean," for in truth she had dreamed of him, and that he had come for her, and she was glad, and when she arose to go she had awakened to find her father standing over her.
"Yes, yes, my dear," he said rather awkwardly. "It is I. I stopped to look at you and seemed to forget myself." He hurried away then, and up the stairs to his room and went to bed, but it was near morning when he fell asleep.
It so happened when Jean Baptiste had gone upstairs to call on Mildred and her mother, he had knocked at the door below. A man lived there whom he had known in the years gone by and who had educated himself to be a lawyer. His name was Towles, Joseph Towles. Always before when he was in the city, he had called on Towles and his family, and when their door rose before him, on the impulse he had forgotten all else but to greet them. He pushed the bell, and no sooner had he done so than he recalled his mission, and that he was avoiding his acquaintances. Hequickly passed upstairs but not before Mrs. Towles had opened the door and caught a glimpse of him passing.
She was aware of his difficulty, and had pretended to sympathize with him. But Mrs. Towles was a gossipy, penurious woman, and did not get along with her neighbors overhead. So when she saw Jean Baptiste passing up the stairs, and hurrying from her without speaking, she at once became angry, and with it apprehensive. She went back to where she had been working over some sewing. She was thoughtful, and then regarded the clock.
"I wonder what he is doing here?" she mused to herself. And then she suddenly brightened with an inspiration. "His wife, of course," she cried, and fell to thinking further.
She happened to be a close friend of a certain lady who lived next door to the McCarthys on Vernon Avenue, and it was to her that she decided to pay a visit on the morrow. And, of course she would discuss the fact that she had gotten a glimpse of Jean Baptiste, and would try to find out what she could.
It was the following afternoon that she found the time to visit her friend in Vernon Avenue. She passed by the house wherein lived the McCarthys, and made up her mind to call there later in company with her friend to hear the news.
"Why, Mrs. Towles!" cried her friend when she saw her face upon opening the door. "How nice it was of you to call, when I was not expecting you! Such a pleasant surprise," whereupon they kissed in womanly fashion. She took a seat by the window, for she wished to look into the street. The other took a chair just facing her, and together they fell to talking. As they sat there, Orlean suddenlycame out of the house next door, down the steps, and passed before Mrs. Towles' gaze as she went up the street to Wabash Avenue to fill the engagement with Mrs. Merley.
"Oh, look," cried Mrs. Towles, pointing to the figure of the other. "There goes Orlean!"
The other strained her neck, and said:
"M-m."
"And I saw her husband last night."
"You did!" exclaimed the other in great surprise. She had a grown daughter who was very much accomplished, but unmarried. So she took a delight in such cases as Jean Baptiste's....
"I did," replied the other, making herself comfortable and getting ready to relate his strange actions.
"Well, well, now!" echoed the other, all attention.
"Yes," said Mrs. Towles, and then related all that had passed which was not anything but catching a glimpse of Baptiste as he had disappeared up the steps.
"I don't think they know next door, that he is in town," suggested the other.
"Don't they?"
"Why, not likely. You know the last time he was here they wouldn't admit him!" They eyed each other jubilantly, and then went on.
"Then we ought to go right over and inform them at once!" said Mrs. Towles.
"Just what we should do," agreed the other.
And so it happened that the Reverend learned that Jean Baptiste was in the city; but for once he was not excited. Somehow, he hoped that Jean would meet Orlean, and he knew then that she had gone out for that purpose. He knew that she was supposed to go to a matinée, and he realizedfrom previous statements, that Mrs. Merley was the "go between."
So he took no part in the gossip that followed, nor did he for once sigh in self pity.
Perhaps after all he had decided not to interfere.
"LOVE YOU—GOD, I HATE YOU!"
THE PLAY they witnessed that afternoon was an emotional play, and in a degree it sufficed to arouse the emotion in all three. The meeting between Orlean and her husband had been without excitement. As if she had been expecting him, she welcomed him, and they had proceeded directly to a play at the Studebaker Theater downtown.
When they were again in the street, they went to another theater where they purchased tickets to witness Robert Mantell in Richelieu. And, later, taking a surface car on State Street, proceeded to a restaurant near Thirty-first Street where they had supper, after which they retired to the home of Mrs. Merley.
Of course that one left them to themselves in due time, and in a few minutes they were engaged in congenial conversation. After a time Jean caught her hand, and despite the slight protest she made, he succeeded in drawing her up on his knee.
"I ought not to sit here," she said.
"Why not, Orlean?" he said kindly, placing his arm about her waist fondly.
"Because."
"Because what, dear?"
She looked at him quickly. He met her eyes appealingly. She looked away, and then down at her toes.
"How you have fleshened," he commented.
"Do you think so?" she returned, inclined to be sociable.
"It is quite noticeable. And you are better looking when you are so."
"Oh, you flatter me," she chimed.
"I would like to flatter my wife."
She did not reply to this. She appeared to be comfortable, and he went on.
"Don't you know that I have longed to see you, and that it has not been just right that I could not?"
And still she made no answer.
"I never want to live so again. I want you always, Orlean."
"When did you leave home?" she asked now.
"A couple of days ago."
"And how long have you been here?"
"I came yesterday afternoon."
"And when to Mrs. Merley's?"
"This morning."
She was thoughtful then. Indeed they were getting along better than he had hoped. There remained but one thing more. If he could persuade her to stay the night at Mrs. Merley's and not insist on going home. If he could keep her out of her father's sight until morning, he would have no more worry. That, indeed, was his one point of uneasiness. Keeping her out of her father's sight. He recalled how he had refrained from buying a revolver when he left home. It would not have been safe after all that had passed between himself and her father for him to have anything of the kind about, and he was glad now that he had been sensible.
He drew his wife's head down, turned her face to his, and kissed her lips. He caught the sigh that passed herlips. He saw her eyebrows begin to contract. What was passing in her mind? Duty? Then, to whom?
He kissed her again, and caressed her fondly. This meant much to him. He told her so then, too.
"It has been very hard on me, wife, for you to have stayed away a whole year. Awfully hard. It was never my plans or intention for such to be." He was full up now. He wanted to talk a long time with her. If they could just retire and talk far into the night as they had done in the eleven months that had been theirs.
His confidence was growing. All that was expedient now, he felt sure, was to keep the Reverend out of it until morning. By that time no further effort on his part would be necessary.
"Do you love me, Orlean?" he said now, drawing her face close to his again.
She made no reply audibly, but she seemed to be struggling with something within herself. In truth she did not want to say that she did, and shewould nottell him she did not. She let her arm unconsciously encircle his neck. Her hand found his head and stroked his hair, while she was mentally meditative.
In the meantime, his head rested against her breast, and he could hear the beating of her heart.
"Oh, my wife," he cried, intended for himself but she heard it. It aroused her, her emotion began to assert itself. How long would it take for her to be his mate again at this rate?
"How is everything back home?" she asked, as if seeking a change. He hesitated. She looked down into his face to see why he did not answer directly. He caught her eyes, and she could see that he was not wishing to tell her something.
"What is the matter, Jean?" she asked now, slightly excited and anxious.
"Oh, nothing," he replied. He wanted to tell her the truth, all the truth, but it was not yet time he feared. Until she had given up to him, he decided to withhold anything serious.
"There issomething, Jean, of that I am sure," she insisted, shifting where she could see his face more clearly.
"If there is anything, wife, I would discuss it later. Now,—I can think of but one thing, and that is you," whereupon he caressed her again fondly. She sighed then and her emotion was becoming more perceptible.
"You are going back home with me tomorrow, dear?" he dared to say presently.
For answer she shifted uneasily, and then her eyes espied the clock on the wall. It was five-thirty.
"I think I should call up home," she said thoughtfully. He caught his breath, and trembled perceptibly. She regarded him inquiringly.
And here again we must remark about Jean Baptiste. In the year of misery, of agony and suffering in general he had endured, he had settled upon one theory. And that was that if he and his wife were to ever live together again and be happy, the family were to be kept out of it. Perhaps if this could have been forgotten by him in this moment, we would not have had this story to tell; but when she mentioned her folks, all that he had wished to avoid—all that he felt hemustavoid, came before him. As he saw it now, if she called her father, they wouldneverlive together again. He was nervous when he anticipated the fact. He started, and took on unconsciously a fearsome expression.
"Please don't, Orlean," he said, beseechingly.
"Don't what?" she asked, apprehensive of something she did not like.
"Call your father," he said. He wanted to tell her that if she called her father, it would mean the end of everything for them, but he withheld this.
"Now, I wish him to know where I am," she said, protestingly, and arose from his knee. She stood away from where he sat hesitatingly. In that moment, she was not aware that she stood between duty and subservience. As she saw it, she forgot from her training that therewasa duty, she only remembered that she was obedient. Obedient to the father who had reared her so to be.
It was the psychological moment in their union. Near her the husband that she had taken, regarded her uneasily. He had come to her to do the duty that was his to do. They were estranged because of one thing, and one thing only, and that was her father, the man her husband would never yield to. And as she hesitated between obedience to one and duty toward the other, her life, her love and future was in the balance.
Which?
"Orlean," she heard now, from the lips of her husband. "Listen,before you go to the phone." He became suddenly calm as he said this. "I married you two years gone now, for better or for worse, and 'until death do us part.' That was the vow that I took and also you. I've done my best by you under the circumstances. I gave you a home and bed that you left. I gave you my love, and am willing to give you my life if that be necessary. But, Orlean, I didn't contract to observe the ideas and be subservient to the opinion of others. To force me to regard this is to do me a grave injustice. You cannot imagine, appreciate, maybe, how humiliating it is to be placed in such a position. I cannot explain it with you standing impatiently before me as you are. I have come here to try and have you discuss this matter with me from a practical point of view. Surely, having taken me as your God-given mate, you owe me that. You force me to honor and respect certain persons—"
"Don't you," she cried. "Don't you insinuate my father!" She advanced toward him threateningly in her excitement, and all sense of duty was gone. Only obedience to the one who had made it so remained. That she should rally to the support of his adversary, displaced his composure. He had hoped to have her reason it out with him, and he had prayed that he be given a little time, and then all would be well. He was aware that she was unequal to a woman's task. Not one woman in a thousand he knew would place a father before a husband; but his wife was different. She had been trained to be devoutly subservient to her father. For that reason he was willing to be patient—he had been patient. But at the same time he had suffered much, and her love and obedience to his worst enemy—even if it was her father, unfitted him for that with which he was now confronted. He was fast losing his composure, likewise his patience. Nothing in the world should stand between him and his wife. He became excited now, but calmed long enough to say:
"Go ahead, or come to me. There are two things a woman cannot be at the same time," and he waved his hand toward her resolutely. "A wife to the man she has married, and a daughter to her father." With this statement he sank back into the chair from which he had partly risen. He had said the last statement with such forceful logic, that it made her stop, pause uneasily, and then suddenly she straightened and turning, went to the telephone. But when she called over the wire to her father, all thecomposure that Jean Baptiste ever had left him. All the suffering and agony that he had experienced from the hand of the other asserted itself. He arose from the chair and came toward her. His eyes were bloodshot, his attitude was threatening. She called to her father, and the words she said were:
"Yes, papa.... Is this you.... Yes.... I am at Mrs. Merley's.... And—ah—papa," she hesitated and her voice broke from fear. "Ah—papa—a—Jean is here, papa.... Yes, Jean. He is here." She was trembling now, and the man standing behind her saw it. He saw her passing out of his life forever, and desperation overtook him. In that moment something within him seemed to snap.
He reached over her shoulder and grasped the receiver and pushed her roughly aside. The next instant she was protesting wildly, while Mrs. Merley was brought to the front by his loud voice screaming over the 'phone.
"Hell, hello, you!" he cried savagely. "Hello, I say!... How am I! My God, how could I be after what you have done to me, my life.... Why didn't I come to the house?... Why should I come to your house, when the last time I was there I was kicked out, virtually kicked out, do you hear?"
"You get away from here!" he heard in his ear, and turned to see his wife gone wild with excitement. Her eyes were distraught, her attitude was menacing, as she struggled at his arm to try and wrest the receiver from his hand. He heard the other saying something in his ear. He did not understand it, he was too excited. Everything was in a whirl around him. He became conscious that he had dropped the receiver after a time. He felt himself in contact with some one, and saw the face of his wife. In herexcitement she was striking him; she was trying to do him injury.
He became alive to what was going on, then. The receiver hung suspended; he was in a grapple with his excited wife.
"You—you!" she screamed. "You abuse my father, my poor father! You have abused him ever since I knew you. You will not respect him, and then come to ask me to live with you. You abuser! you devil! Do I love you? God,I hate you!"
He made no effort to protect himself. He allowed her to strike him at will and with a strength, born of excitement, she struck him in his face, in his eyes, she scratched him, she abused him so furiously until gradually he began to sink. He reached out and caught her around the waist as he lost his footing and fell to his knees. As he lingered in this position his face was upturned. She struck him then with all the force in her body. He groaned, as he gradually loosened his hold upon her, and slowly sank to the floor. And all the while she fought him, she punctuated her blows with words, some abusing him, others in defense of her father.
At last he lay upon the floor, while around her, Mrs. Merley and the other girl begged and beseeched. But she was as if gone insane. As he lay with eyes closed and a slight groan escaping from his lips at her feet, she suddenly raised her foot and kicked him viciously full in the face. This seemed, then, to make her more vicious, and thereupon she started to jump upon him with her feet, but Mrs. Merley suddenly caught her about the waist and drew her away.
How long he lay there he did not know, but he opened his eyes when from the outside he heard hurried footsteps. Hecontinued to lay as he was, and then somebody pulled the bell vigorously. Mrs. Merley went to it, opened it, and let some one in. He looked up through half closed eyes to see the Reverend standing over him. In that instant he saw his wife dash past him and fall into the other's arms. He heard her saying words of love, while he was aware that the other pacified her with soft words. They took no notice of the man at their feet.
And then he saw them open the door, while the others stood about in awe. While the door was open he caught a glimpse of the street outside—and of Glavis on the sidewalk below.
The next instant the door closed softly behind them, and she went out of his life as a wife forever.
A STRANGE DREAM
WHEN the others had gone, Jean Baptiste rolled over again upon the floor, and was conscious that one eye was closed and swollen, filled with blood from a wound inflicted by his wife just below it. He rose to a sitting posture presently, and looked around him. He was in the hall, and when he looked through the open door into the parlor, he saw Mrs. Merley stretched on the settee before him weeping. He staggered to his feet, and went toward her.
She looked up when he approached, and dried her eyes. "You spoiled things, Jean," she accused, and he noted the disappointment in her voice, and also detected a note of impatience.
"Yes, I admit I did, Mrs. Merley, and I'm sorry—for you."
"For me?" she repeated, not understanding his import.
"Yes," he replied wearily. "Foryou."
"But—but—why—forme?"
"Well," he said, with a sigh, "Ithadto be as it was. I wanted her. But it would have been disaster in the end on his account, because I could never have brought myself to honor him, and to have lived with her I should have been forced to—at least pretended to do so, and that would have been worse still."
She was thoughtfully silent then for some time, then she regarded him closely, and said as if to herself:
"Well, I fear you are right. Yes, Iknowyou are when I recall how she abused you a while ago. Gracious! I did not know that it was in Orlean."
"Nor did I," he said, his face covered with his hands.
"Hemade her that way through the influence he has exerted over her. Evil influence. I have a feeling that there will come a day when that influence will work the other way," she said musingly, "hewill be the victim, and the punishment will be severe."
Both were silent for a time, and nothing but the ticking of the clock on the mantel disturbed the quiet. He presently raised his head, and in so doing uncovered his face. It was dark and distorted, swollen a great deal, and one of his eyes was closed. She saw it then for the first time.
"My God, Jean!" she exclaimed, arising and hurrying to him. "Your face is swollen almost beyond recognition. Why, my dear, you are in a dreadful fix!" She stood over him scarcely knowing just what to do. Then she regained her composure. She caught at his arm, as she cried:
"Come with me, quick!" He arose and followed her upstairs and into the bedroom she had prepared for him and Orlean. In a corner there was a little basin, and to this she led him. She then had him hold his face over the basin while she carefully bathed it. This done, she asked him to go to bed while she went downstairs, returning presently with liniments and towels, and bathed his wounds again and bandaged his face carefully.
"Now, Jean," she said kindly, "I will leave you. But you will do this favor which I ask of you?"
He turned his face toward her.
"Don't advise Mr. Merley about what has occurred here tonight," she said.
"I understand," he replied quietly. Thereupon she left him to himself.
At the Vernon Avenue home of the McCarthys, the house was in an orgy of excitement. When the Reverendhad been advised regarding his son-in-law's presence in the city, he recalled the séance he had experienced the night before. When the women came, he was preparing to go to the west side for his daily visit with Mrs. Pruitt. But upon this advice, he desisted, and decided to remain home.
When the mongers had taken their gossip from his presence, he fell into deep thought. For the first time since he had precipitated the trouble, he saw the situation clearly. He was aware that his act by this time, had helped nobody, had made no one happy or satisfied—not even himself. Almost he agreed with himself then, that he had miscalculated; Jean Baptiste was willing apparently, to forego his wife's loss and the loss of her homestead, before he would do as the Elder had planned and estimated he would. His conscience was disturbed. He recalled the unpleasant nights he had endured in the last few months. He recalled that while Orlean always pretended to him that she was satisfied, for the first time in his life, he saw that it was due to the training, the subservience to his will, and not to her own convictions.
He arose from his seat and walked the floor in meditation. Habit, however, had become such a force with him, that he could hardly resist the impulse to commit some action; to rush to Mrs. Merley's and make himself conspicuous. He struggled between impulse and conscience, and neither won fully. After an hour, however, he reached this decision: He would not go to or call up Mrs. Merley. He would just leave it to them to solve, and if they should finally reach some agreement between themselves, he would not stand in the way. When he had reached this conclusion, he went into the street, and was surprised at the relief he felt. Not for months had he enjoyed a walk as much as he did that one.
But while Newton Justine McCarthy had struggled with his conscience, and at last found solace in admitting at this late hour to what he should have done two years before, he had failed to reckon with other features that asserted themselves later. He had not estimated that if Jean Baptiste sought his wife secretly, it must have been because he wished to avoid him. He failed to see that this man had suffered bitterly through his evil machinations. He failed, moreover, to appreciate that his training of Orlean to the subservient attitude, would prevent her from returning to her husband or reaching any agreement with him until she had first ascertained that such would be agreeable to her father. Had he so reckoned the scene just related might not have occurred.
It was while they were sitting at supper that the telephone rang. When the conversation ensued, the Reverend sought not only to promulgate good will by leaving it to Jean Baptiste, but he thought also to encourage him by inviting him to the house, and in this he meant well. But behind him stood Ethel. She caught the gist of excitement and instantly began to scream.
"Get Orlean, go get my sister! Don't let that man have her, owee!" at the top of her voice, she yelled, and Glavis and her mother had to hold her. Some friends were having dinner with them, and they now stood toward the rear uncertain whether to leave or remain, and heard all that passed. The Reverend was laboring frantically to get an answer over the 'phone, and it was at this moment that Orlean had gone frantic and was abusing her husband.
In the excitement, Ethel kept up her tirade at the top of her voice, and in the end, the Reverend, followed by Glavis, had gone to Mrs. Merley's.
They had now returned, and Ethel was pacified. The visitors had departed to spread the gossip, and all but Ethel was downcast. Orlean, in unspoken remorse, had retired; while the Reverend, fully conscious at last of what his interposition had brought, was regretful, but not openly. And the others, not knowing that he had that day repented, sat at their distance and tried to form no conclusion.
"It is over—all over," cried Orlean now in the bed. "And as I have done all my life, I have failed at the most crucial moment. Oh, merciful God, what can you do with a weak woman like I! It has been I all along who has made misery for myself, forhim, and for all those near me! I! I!I!That I could have cultivated the strength of my conviction; that I could have been the woman he wanted me to be. Out there hetriedto make me one; he sought in every way he knew how. But a weakling I would remain! And because I have sought to please others and abuse him in doing so, I have brought everybody to the ditch of misery and despair." She cried for a long time, but her mind was afire. All that her weakness and subservience had caused, continued, and at last the event of the night.
"And what did I do to him?" she said now, rising in the bed. "I recall that he came to the telephone. He stood listening to what I was saying, and I recall that when I turned slightly and saw his face, it was terrible! Then I saw him suddenly snatch the receiver from my hand, and I heard him talking to papa. He was terribly excited, and I shall never forget the expression on his face. I cannot clearly remember what followed. I recall, however, that I struggled with him; that I struck him everywhere I could; that I scratched his face.... And, oh, my God, I recall what passed then!" She suddenly sank back upon the pillow and gave up to bitter anguish, when she recalled what had followed. But the excitement was too great for her to lay inert. She rose again upon her elbow, and looked before her into the darkness of the room as she slowly repeated half aloud what had followed.
"Yes, Irecall.He made no resistance. He did not defend himself, but allowed me to strike him at will. And under the fusillade of blows, I recall that he sank slowly to his knees—sank there with his arms about me, and I striking him with all the strength in my body. Upon his knees then, he lingered, while I rained blow after blow upon his upturned face. And now I can recall that his eyes closed, and from his lips I caught a sigh, and then he rolled to the floor. And, here, oh, Lord, I added what will follow me throughout my life and never again give me peace.
"While he lay there upon the floor, with his eyes closed before me, I kicked him viciously full in the face! But even then he did not resist, but only groaned wearily. Merciful Jesus! Nor did I stop there! I jumped on his face with my feet, and then I recall that some one caught me and saved me from further madness!" She was exhausted then, and lay without words for a long time. Almost in a state of coma, she bordered, and while so, she fell into a strange sleep. The night wore on, and the clock downstairs was striking the hour of two when she suddenly awakened. She sat straight up in bed, and jerked her hands to her head, and screamed long and terribly. The household was awakened, and came hurrying to where she lay. But in the meantime she continued to scream loudly, at the top of her voice. And all the while, perspiration flowed from her body. It was nigh onto four o'clock before they succeeded in quieting her, and when they had done so she lay back again upon the pillow with a groan, and the familywent back to their beds to wonder what had come over her. All felt strangely as if something evil had crept into their lives, and their excitement was great. All but Ethel, who, in her evil way, was delighted, and laughed gleefully when she had returned to bed.
"Laugh on, Ethel, you evil woman!" said Glavis at her side. "Evil has this night come into our lives. Itwasn'tright in the beginning; itisn'tright now, nor was last night. Oh, I have never wanted to see this go along as it has. Because your father has trained Orlean to obey and subserve to his will, he has done something to her, and she has become a demon instead of a weakling. Last night I saw Jean Baptiste lying prone upon the floor, and knew that she had beaten him down to it, and he had not resisted. She told me as we came home what she had done, but was not aware that she was telling me. Nothing good can come of evil, and it is evil that we have practiced toward that man. He is through now, and never again will he make effort to get her to live with him. But just so sure as she has abused him, just so sure willshedo injury to those who have brought this about." And with this he turned on his side and feigned sleep.
Alone Orlean lay trying vainly to forget something—something that stood like a spectre before her eyes. But she could not forget it, nor did sheeverforget it. It had come, and it was inevitable. She had seenitin her sleep.Ithad all been so clear, and when she had awakened and screamed so long, she knew, then that it must in time be so. She would never forget it; but realizing its gravity, she decided thereupon never to tell it—the dream—to anybody.
The sun shone and the birds sang, and the day was beautiful without when she at last fell asleep again.
EPOCH THE FOURTH
THE DROUGHT
JEAN BAPTISTE jumped from the bed and went quickly to where his trousers hung on a chair, and went through the pockets hurriedly. He laid them down when through, and got his breath slowly when he had done so, and the perspiration stood out on his forehead as he concluded that he had been robbed.
After a time he raised his hand to his forehead, and appeared puzzled. He was positive he had seen some one enter the room, go to the chair, and take the money from his pockets. It was rather singular, however, he now thought; for if such had happened, and he had seen it, then why had he not stopped the robber? He was deeply puzzled. He had seen the act committed, he felt sure but had made no effort whatever to stop the thief. He scratched his head in vexation, sat down, and as he did so, saw that his coat hung also upon the chair. Absently his hands wandered through the pockets, and found his purse and the money in an outside pocket.
He was awake then, and went to the basin, removed the bandages, and bathed his face. The swelling had gone down considerably, but the injured eye was dark. He realized then, that nobody had entered the room, for the door was locked with the key inside; but he couldn't recall having his money in his coat pocket. He was awake at last to the fact that it had been a dream.
When he had bathed and dressed, he slipped quietly down the stairs, and into the street, and found his way to the Thirty-fifth Street "L." station. He had no plans. He considered that his relations with his wife were at an end, and from his mind he dismissed this in so far as it was possible—and as far as future plans were concerned. But since he had made no plans, whatever in the event of failure, and since failure had come, he was undecided where he was going or what he would do at once.
He decided not to return home directly; he wanted to go somewhere, but did not care to stay in Chicago. He took the train that was going down-town, and when he reached the Twelfth Street station, suddenly decided to go to Southern Illinois, and visit the girl Jessie, with whom he had been corresponding.
While walking toward the Illinois Central Station, he purchased a paper, and was cheered to see that his candidate had carried the state in the preferential primary by an overwhelming majority. The train he was to take left at nine-forty, and he was able to forget his grief in the hour and a half he waited, by reading all the details of the election.
The journey three hundred miles south was uneventful, but when he arrived at Carbondale, the train that would have taken him to where he was going had left, and he was compelled to spend the night there. The next morning he caught an early train and reached the town in which she lived, his first visit there since he met the one he had married.
He found Jessie, and her kind sympathy, served to revive in a measure his usual composure, and when he left a few days later, he was much stronger emotionally than he had been for a year, and on his return West, determinedto try to regain his fortunes that had been gradually slipping from him in the past two years.
When he had digested the state of his affairs at home he had a new problem to face. Decidedly he was almost "in bad." For a time his interest had been paid by his bankers; but they had left him to the mercy of the insurance companies who held the first mortgages. And these had been protesting and had lately threatened foreclosure. Even so, and if the crops be good, he was confident he could make it. But before he could even sow that year's crop, he would have to see a certain banker who lived in Nebraska. This man was represented by a son who conducted the bank he controlled at Gregory, and the son had issued an ultimatum, and if Baptiste would keep his stock that was mortgaged to the bank as security, he realized that it was best to see the boy's father, since the son had made plain his stand.
The banker was out of town when he arrived, and to save time, Baptiste judged that it would be best to go to Sioux City, where he could meet the banker on his way home, and on the way from Sioux City to the little town where the banker made his home, he could consult with him, and get an extension. In this he was successful, and returned home with an assurance that he would be given until fall to make good—but in truth, until fall to get ready.
To work he went with a sort of fleeting hope. The spring had been good. But he was apprehensive that the summer would be dry as the last, and it was with misgivings that he lived through the days and weeks that followed. Seed wheat and oats had been furnished to the settlers in Tripp County that spring by the county commissioners, and he had sowed a portion of his land with it.
Conditions in the new country had gone from bad to worse, and if the season should experience another drought,the worst was come. Already there were a few foreclosures in process, and excitement ran high. The country was financially embarrassed. To secure money now was almost impossible. Any number of farms were for sale, but buyers there were none.
A local shower fell over part of the country in the last days of May, wetting the ground perhaps an inch deep, and then hot winds began with the first day of June. For thirty days following, not a drop of rain fell on the earth. The heat became so intense that breathing was made difficult, and when the fourth of July arrived, not a kernel of corn that had been planted that spring, had sprouted. The small grain crops had been burned to a crisp, and disaster hung over the land. Everywhere there was a panic. From the West, people who had gone there three and four years before were returning panic stricken; the stock they were driving—when they drove—were hollow and gaunt and thin. Going hither the years before they had presented the type of aggressive pioneers. But now they were returning a tired, gaunt, defeated army. All hopes, all courage, all manhood gone, they presented a discouraging aspect.
From Canada on the north, to Texas on the south, the hot winds had laid the land seemingly bare. Everywhere cattle were being sold for a trifle, as there was no grass upon which they could feed.
To the north and the south, the east and the west in the country of our story, ruin was in the wake. Foreclosures became the order, and suits were minute affairs. From early morn to early morn again, the hot winds continued, and the air was surcharged with the smell of burning plants.
And with the hero of our story, he saw his hopes sink with the disaster that was around him; he saw his holdingsgradually slipping from him, and after some time became resigned to the inevitable.
So it came to pass that another change came into his life, hence another epoch in the unusual life was his.
THE FORECLOSURE
EARLY in July when the drought had burned the crops to a crisp, and plant life was beyond redemption, the Banks, Trust and Insurance Companies holding notes secured by mortgages against the land and stock of Jean Baptiste began proceedings for a foreclosure. He read with the cold perspiration upon his forehead the notices that appeared in the papers. Attachments were filed against all he personally possessed in Gregory County, as well as in Tripp County. The fact that he had not had his sister's homestead transferred to him, and that she had just made proof that summer, was a relief to him now, and with a sigh he laid down the newspapers containing the notices.
It was no surprise since he had been threatened with such for many months, he regarded it therefore as unavoidable. But when the grim reality of the situation dawned upon him, it weakened him. Never had he dreamed that it would come to this. He took mental inventory of his possessions and what he could lay claim to, and he happened to think about his wife's homestead. On this he had made his home since her departure, and no trouble had been given him. While the local land office had rendered a decision in her favor; the contestee had taken an appeal to the general land office and the commissioner and upon being represented by an attorney, the local land office's decision had been reversed. It had been up to him then to go further, which he haddone, by appealing the case to the highest office in the land department, the Secretary of the Interior, and here it rested. To do this, he had agreed to pay the attorney $300 to win, and one hundred dollars in the event he should not, the latter amount he had paid, and so the case stood. He had formulated no plans regarding it beyond this as to how he would continue to hold it, since now it was a settled fact in his mind that he and the woman he had married were parted forever.
But poverty accompanied by crop failures for three years was a general and accepted thing now. And the fact that he was being foreclosed, occasioned no comment, and at least he could continue on without intensely feeling the attendant disgrace.
It was at this juncture in life that a new thought came to Jean Baptiste. In all his life he had been a thinker, a practical thinker—a prolific thinker. Moreover, a great reader into the bargain. So the thought that struck him now, was writing. Perhaps he could write. If so then what would he write? So in the days that followed, gradually a plot formed in his mind, and when he had decided, he chose that he could write his own story—his life of hell, the work of an evil power!
Of writing he knew little and the art of composition appeared very difficult. But of thought, this he had a plenty. Well, after all that was the most essential. If one has thoughts to express, it is possible to learn very soon some method of construction. So after some weeks of speculation, he bought himself a tablet, some pencils and took up the art of writing.
He found no difficulty in saying something. The first day he wrote ten thousand words. The next day he reversed the tablet and wrote ten thousand more. In the next twodays he re-wrote the twenty thousand, and on the fifth day he tore it into shreds and threw it to the winds.
He had raised a little wheat and when the foreclosures had been completed and the wheat had been threshed he sowed a large portion of the seed back into the ground on three hundred acres of ground upon which the crop that year had failed. According to the law of the state, when a foreclosure is completed, the party of the first part may redeem the land within one year from the date of the foreclosure. Or, better still, he may pay the interest, and taxes at the end of one year from the date of the foreclosure, and have still another year in which to redeem the land. So it is to be seen that if Jean Baptiste could pay his interest and taxes one year from this time, he would have two years in all to redeem his lost fortunes. Hence, in seeding a large acreage of wheat, he hoped for the best. The years, however, had been too adverse to now expect any returns when a crop was sown and it had been merely good fortune that he happened to secure the means with which to sow another, for credit there was for few any more.
When this was done, there was nothing to do but listen to the wind that blew dry still, although the protracted drought had been broken by light autumn rains. So took he up his pencil and fell to the task of writing again. Through the beautiful, windy autumn days, he labored at his difficult task, the task of telling a story. The greatest difficulty he encountered was that he thought faster than he could write. Therefore he often broke off right in the middle of a sentence to relate an incident that would occur to him to tell of something else. But at last he had written something that could be termed a story. He took what appeared to him to be quite sufficient for a book to a friend who had voiced an interest in his undertaking. Infact, although he had said nothing about it, the news had spread that he was writing a story of the country and everybody became curious.
Of course they were not aware of his limited knowledge of the art of composition. To them, a patriotic, boosting people—despite the ravages of drought which had swept the country, this was a new kind of boost,—a subtle method of advertising the country. So everybody began looking for the appearance of his story in all the leading magazines. The fact helped the newsdealers considerably. But to return to Jean Baptiste and the story he was writing.
The friend was baffled when he saw so many tablets and such writing. He pretended to be too busy, at the time to consider it, and sent him to another. But it was a long time before he found any one who was willing to attempt to rearrange his scribbled thoughts. But a lawyer who needed the wherewithal finally condescended to risk the task, and into it he plunged. He staggered along with much difficulty and managed to complete half of it by Christmas. The remainder was corrected by a woman who proved even more efficient than the lawyer, notwithstanding the fact that she was not as well trained. Besides, Jean Baptiste was of quick wit, and he soon saw where he was most largely in error, so he was very helpful in reconstructing the plot, and early in the next year, he had some sort of story to send the rounds of the publishers.
And here was the next great problem. He had, while writing, and before, read of the difficulties in getting a manuscript accepted for publication. But, like most writers in putting forth their first literary efforts, he was of the opinion that what he had written was so different from the usual line of literature offered the publishers, that it must therefore receive preference over all.
So with its completion, he wrapped it carefully, and sent it to a Chicago publisher, while he sighed with relief.
It seemed a long time before he heard from it, but in a few days he received a letter, stating that his manuscript had been received, and would be carefully examined, and also thanking him for sending it to them.
Well, that sounded very encouraging, he thought, so he took hope anew that it would be accepted.
In the meantime he was questioned daily as to when and where it would appear. He was mentioned in the local newspapers, and much speculation was the issue. Many inquired if he had featured them in the story, and were cheered if he said that he had, while others showed their disappointment when advised that they had not been mentioned. But with one and all, there was shown him deep appreciation of his literary effort.
So anxious did he become to receive their "decision" that as the days passed and he waited patiently, he finally went to town to board until he could receive a reply. And as time passed, he became more and more nervous. At last his anxiety reached a point where he was positive that if he received an adverse decision, it would surely kill him. Therefore he would entertain no possibility of a rejection. Itmustbe accepted, and that was final. Added to this, he took note of all the publicity he had been accorded with regard to the same. How would he be able to face these friends if they failed to accept the book? Tell them that it had been rejected as unavailable? This fact worried him considerably, and made him persist in his own mind that the company would accept it.
Some of his less practical creditors extended his obligation anticipating that his work would net him the necessary funds for settlement—the question of acceptance they didnot know enough about to consider. So it went, the time passed, and he could scarcely wait until the stage reached the little town where he now received his mail. He was never later than the second at the postoffice window. He had read in Jack London'sMartin Edenthat an acceptance meant a long thin envelope. Well, that was the kind he watched for—but of course, he estimated, it was possible for it to come in another form of envelope, so he wouldn't take that too seriously. Still, if such an envelope should be handed him, he would breathe easier until it was opened.
And then one day the letter came. The Postmaster, who knew everybody's business, regarded the publishers' name in the upper left hand corner, and said:
"There she is! Now read it aloud!"
Baptiste muttered something about that not being the one, and got out of the office. His heart was pounding like a trip hammer; for, while he had concluded that a long thin envelope would not necessarily mean an acceptance, his was a short one, and he was greatly excited.
He went blindly down the street, turned at the corner and sought a quiet place, a livery barn. Herein he found an empty stall that was dark enough not to be seen, and still afforded sufficient light to read in. He nervously held the letter for some minutes afraid to open and read the contents, and tried to stop the violent beating of his heart. At last, with forced courage, he broke the seal, drew the letter forth and read:
"Mr. Jean Baptiste,"Dear Sir:"As per our statement of some time ago, regarding the manuscript you were so kind as to send us, beg to advise that the same has been carefully examined, and we regret to state has been found unavailable for our needs. We are[Pg 406]therefore returning the same to you today by express."Regretting that we cannot write you more favorably, but thanking you for bringing this to our attention, believe us to be,"Cordially and sincerely yours,"A.C. McGraw & Co."
"Mr. Jean Baptiste,
"Dear Sir:
"As per our statement of some time ago, regarding the manuscript you were so kind as to send us, beg to advise that the same has been carefully examined, and we regret to state has been found unavailable for our needs. We are[Pg 406]therefore returning the same to you today by express.
"Regretting that we cannot write you more favorably, but thanking you for bringing this to our attention, believe us to be,
"Cordially and sincerely yours,
"A.C. McGraw & Co."
He gazed before him at nothing for some minutes. He was trying to believe he had read awrong. So he read it again. No, it read just the same as it had before. It was done; his last opportunity for redemption seemed to be gone. He turned and staggered from the barn and went blindly up the street. At the corner he met the deputy sheriff, who approached him jovially, and then gave him another shock when he said:
"I've got a writ here, Baptiste, and will be glad to have you tell me where this stuff of yours is so I can go and get it."
He raised his hand to his forehead then, and began thinking. Hehadto do something, for although all his land had been foreclosed on, he had two years to redeem the same. But this writ—well, the man was there to take the stock, then!