From a painting by W.M. Farrow.HE TRIED TO THROW OFF THE UNCANNY FEELING, BUT IT SEEMED TO HANG ON LIKE GRIM DEATH. AND AS HE STOOD ENMESHED IN ITS SINISTER THRALDOM, HE THOUGHT HE SAW HER RISE AND POINT AN ACCUSING FINGER AT HIM.
From a painting by W.M. Farrow.
HE TRIED TO THROW OFF THE UNCANNY FEELING, BUT IT SEEMED TO HANG ON LIKE GRIM DEATH. AND AS HE STOOD ENMESHED IN ITS SINISTER THRALDOM, HE THOUGHT HE SAW HER RISE AND POINT AN ACCUSING FINGER AT HIM.
"There you are again, my betrayer," she said coldly. "Today you completed your nefarious task; you completed the evil that began more than thirty years ago, oh, debaser of women! Where is Speed, and the wife of his you ruined? Where? In hell and its tortures did you say? Yes, and where are my brothers? Oh, don't tremble, for you should know! No, you made me pretend to feel that you had not committed that sin, and other sins, also. But I knew—yes, I knew! You never told me I had brothers. You said foolish things to deceive me and the mother of mine. You called me by a boy's name, Jim, and pretended, because you did not recognize your illegitimate off-spring, that there were none. And then came Jean. Oh, you had him at a disadvantage always! When he was a little boy, you started your evil, and twenty years later you renewed it. Why, oh, you vain sinner, you know! He married me—perhaps he didn't love me then as he might have—as he would have had I tried to be the woman he wished me to be. But you took advantage of the weakness that was in me by the heritage of my mother, and you made me subservient unto your evil will!
"Well, it's all over now, and from this day henceforth you will never see peace. The evil and misery you have brought unto others, shall now be cast upon you. You are my father, and the creator of my weakness, but you have taken my husband and soul mate, and made a new generation impossible for me to lead. And now I say unto you, go forth and repent. Begone from me. For from this day evermore though in weak flesh I may pretend to love you, know that I must hate you!"
He shook himself, and succeeded in casting off the depression. When he looked again, Orlean was sitting up in bed, regarding him sleepily. He started, and wondered whether what had passed was real, but in the next moment he was relieved.
"Papa," she said in her usual, but sleepy-like voice, "Is that you?"
"Yes, daughter," he replied quickly, and as if to still the excitement in his heart, he passed quickly around to where she reposed, and planted a kiss upon her lips, and turning, hurried upstairs.
She sat upright for some minutes after he had gone, and became conscious of that singular feeling that she had felt all the day, still lingering over her. As she sat there, she heard the little clock on the table beside her mother strike 11:30. She lay down again, and a few minutes later she was asleep.
The Reverend retired quickly and wished he could sleep and forget what he thought he had seen and heard. He was successful, and soon he was snoring. He could not understand upon being awakened slowly how long he had slept, but he became conscious that the light was burning brightly. He turned on his back, and when he could see clearly, his eyes fell upon Orlean.
She stood between him and the door, and he regarded her with a puzzled expression. Presently his eyes met hers, and he started up.What was the matter with her?Her eyes were like coals of burning fire; her stiff, bushy hair, was unbraided and stoodaway from her head giving her the appearance of a savage. But it was the expression of her eyes that disturbed him.He was held in a thraldom of fear as she slowly advanced toward the bed.
"Orlean," he at last managed to say. "What is the—"
"I have come at last to right a wrong," she began in an uncanny voice. Never had he seen her appear like that before, nor heard her speak in such a voice. She paused when she was beside the bed, and stood looking down upon him in that demented fashion. The cold perspiration broke out all over him, and he trembled.
"Oh, you told me my husband did not love me. While he worked to make us comfortable and happy out there on the claim you sat beside my sick bed and told me lies. While he grieved over the loss of our little one, you conceived a vile plot to 'get even,' Oh, you—liar! You sunkhis soul into hell for spite. And then today—yesterday you reached your climax by having me go on the stand and testify to a greater lie! To save your wretched soul from disgrace, I swore to the most miserable lie a woman could tell! And now that you have made him suffer unjustly, and spoiled all life held for me, the judgment of God is upon you. The God that you have lied to and made a laughing idol of seeks restitution! So you sinner of all the sins, vengeance is mine, I will repay!"
So saying, she reached quickly and grasped the knife he had found years before, a desperate looking instrument with a six-inch blade and bone handle. She raised it high, and for the first time he was fully awakened. He attempted to struggle upward, but with a strength borne of excitement, she pushed him and he felled backward upon the bed.
"Orlean, my child, Orlean! My God—oh, my heaven, what do you—" he got no further. Quickly her poised arm descended, and the knife she held sank deeply into his heart.
"Oh, God—my beloved God—ah—oh—Christ! Christo...." he struggled upward while she stood over him with that same white expression upon her face. As the blood clogged in the cut the knife had made, and all the pulsations concentrated, struggled before ceasing their functions for all time, he turned his dying eyes toward her. Regarded her blindly for a moment, and then, dropped limply back from where he had risen, dead. In that moment she regained her sanity.
She regarded him a moment wildly, and then she closed her eyes to try to shut out the awful thing she had done and screamed long and wildly—just as she had done that night when she returned from Mrs. Merley's. Then, as the echo died away, the door was pushed open, and before her stood Ethel. One terrible look and the mad girl went quickly forward, halted, swayed, and then with a moan, raised the knife and sank it into her own breast. Drawing it forth she regarded Ethel wildly, and then, throwing the knife against the wall of the room, dropped dead at Ethel's feet, just as Glavis' steps were heard in the hall below.
When he heard his wife scream, and had rushed upstairs, saw the dead father-in-law and her sister, he cried:
"Jean Baptiste did this! I just met him coming out of the house as I entered," and catching his wife he quickly took her back to the room, and proceeded to spread the alarm.
Even with the grief she was cast into, Ethel had quickly seen a chance to spite the man she hated, and instead of telling the truth, she had chosen to keep silent and let Jean Baptiste be convicted if possible for the crime he knew nothing of.
The people were filing out of the court room. Ethel's confession, born out of the excitement when the lawyer had mentioned investigating the crime deeply, had cleared everything, and Jean Baptiste was free.
In the court room during the hearing he had observed Agnes, but when the trial was over, she was nowhere to be seen. He looked around, but failed to find any trace of her. At last, with a sigh, he went with the lawyers and a few days later was home, to harvest the wheat she had told him was the best, and so he found it.
He was saved thereby, and went into the harvest with Bill and George again shocking as they had done years before. But there was no Agnes to bring the luncheon now, and Jean Baptiste lived in the memory of what had once been.
WHEN THE TRUTH BECAME KNOWN
"I HAVE hardly seen you for two days, my dear," he complained when Agnes had returned from the hearing.
"I have been consumed with some very delicate business," she said, and notwithstanding the excitement she was laboring under, allowed him to caress her. At the same time he was regarding her strangely. For the first time he seemed to be aware of the fact that she was a rather strange person. He was trying to understand her eyes as everybody else had done, even herself.
"Will Agnes tell me what has kept her so busy and away, I know not where?" he asked tenderly. "Or would she rather not—now."
"She'drathernot—now," and she tried to be jolly, although she knew she must have failed miserably.
"Very well, my dear. But, sweet one, when are you going to become my own?"
She started. In the excitement she had so recently been through, the fact that she was engaged and expected to marry soon, had gone entirely out of her mind.
"Why, really—when?" She paused in her confusion, and he said quickly:
"Let's just get married—today!"
"Oh, no, please don't ask me to so soon."
He frowned. Then he was pleasant again. "Then, when, Agnes?"
She was still confused, and in that moment thought of the legacy. She was more confused. He caught her hand then, and touched her cheek with his lips.
After an hour she had told him of the legacy.
"That place is less than a hundred miles from Chicago and we can just run down there today and back this evening!" he exclaimed, shifting in anxious excitement. "We can go there and back today, and be married tomorrow."
"No," she said slowly. "I'll suggest that we have the legacy brought here, and attended to according to the will and all that has for a lifetime to me been a mystery, be cleared here in your and your aunt's presence. And the day after—I will marry you." She dropped her eyes then in peculiar solemnity. He didn't understand her but the thrill of what was to come overwhelmed him, and in the next instant he held her in his arms.
They explained their plans to his aunt, who, because she disliked notoriety, readily agreed, and by special messenger the papers were brought to the city the following day and opened according to her mother's will.
The night before, as they were returning from the theatre, he said to her:
"Agnes, do you know—and I trust you will pardon me if it seems singular, but there is something about you I can never—somehow feel I neverwill, understand." He paused then and she could see he was embarrassed.
"It is in your eyes. I see them in this hour and they are blue, but in the next they are brown. Has any one ever observed the fact before?" he ended.
She nodded, affirmatively.
"Why is it, dear?"
"I don't know."
"And you—you have noticed it yourself?"
"Yes."
"And—can't you understand it, either?"
She acknowledged the fact with her eyes.
"It is strange. I'll be glad when we understand this legacy."
"I will, too."
"It makes me feel that something's going to happen. Perhaps we—you are going to prove to be an heiress."
She laughed cheerfully.
"And then you will not want to marry me, maybe."
She laughed again.
"But nothing would keep me from loving you always, Agnes," he said with deep feeling.
"Even if the papers would show me to be descended from some horrible pirate or worse."
"Nothing in the world could make a difference. Indeed, should the papers connect you with something out of the ordinary, I think I would like you better—that is, it would add even more mystery to your already mysterious self."
"Wonderful!"
He kissed her impulsively, and in the next hour she went off to bed.
"What is this?" said her fiancé's aunt, as the lawyer lifted a small package from the box of documents, and as he did so, an old photograph slipped and fell to the floor. It was yellow with age; but the reflection of the person was clearly discernible. All three looked at it in wonderment. Then her fiancé and his aunt regarded her with apprehension. The package was untied, and all the papers gone through and much history was therein contained. But one fact stood above all others.
"Isthisa fact?" said the aunt coldly. Never had sheappeared more dignified. Her nephew stood away, regarding Agnes out of eyes in which she could see a growing fear.
"Well, I hope everything is clear," said the lawyer astutely. "It seems that you have come into something, madam, and I trust it will prove of value." She mumbled something in reply, and stood gazing at the two pictures she now held. All that had been so strange to her in life was at last clear. She understood the changing color of her eyes, and her father's statements that he had never quite explained.At last she knew who she was.
She turned to find herself alone. She opened her lips and started to call the others, and then hesitated.Why had they left her?She looked at the photographs she held—and understood.
She gathered the documents and placed them in the box, went upstairs, slowly packed her belongings, and called a cab.
Jean Baptiste came into the granary on the old claim, and looked out over the place. And as he did so, he regarded the spot where the sod house had once stood and wherein he had spent many happy days. As he thought of it, the past rose before him, and he lived through the sweetness again that a harvest had once brought him. That was years before, and in that moment he wished he could bring it back again.The Custom of the Country and its lawhad forbid, and he hadpaid the penalty. He wondered whether he would do the same again and sacrifice all that had been dear and risk the misery that had followed.
He shifted, and in so doing his back was toward the road. "Withal, it would have been awkward to have married a white woman," he muttered, and reached for the cold lunchhe had brought for his meal. Bill and George were eating in the field where they worked.
"Baching is hell," he muttered aloud, and picked up a sandwich.
"How very bad you are, Jean," he heard, and almost strained his neck in turning so quickly.
"Agnes!"
"Well,whynot?"
"But—but—oh, tell me," and then he became silent and looked away, raising the sandwich to his mouth mechanically.
"Don't eat the cold lunch, Jean. I have brought some that is warm," so saying she uncovered the basket she carried, and he regarded it eagerly.
"But, Agnes, how came you here? I—I—thought you—weregetting married. Are you here on—on yourwedding trip?"
"Oh, Lord, no! No, Jean, I am not going to marry."
"Not going to marry!"
She shook her head and affected to be sad, but a little smile played around her lips that he saw but didn't understand.
"But—Agnes,why?"
"Because the one to whom I was engaged—well, he wouldn't marry me," and she laughed.
"I wish you would make it all clear. At least tell me what it means—that it is so."
"Itisso!" she said stoutly, and he believed her when he saw her eyes.
"Well, I guess I'll understand by and by."
"Youwillunderstand, soon, Jean," she said kindly. "Papa will explain—everything." She turned her eyes away then, and in the moment he reached and grasped herhand. In the next instant he had dropped it, as a far away expression came into his eyes as if he had suddenly recalled something he would forget.
"Jean," she cried, and came close to him. She looked up into his eyes and saw what was troubling him. She got beside him closely then. She placed an arm around him, and with her free hand she lifted his left hand over her shoulder and held his fingers as she looked away across the harvest fields, and sighed lightly as she said:
"Something happened and I was strangely glad and came here because—because I—justhadto see you, Jean."
"Please, Jean. You—will—forget thatnow." She paused and was not aware that her arm was around him, and that his hand rested over her shoulder. Her eyes were as they had been that day near this selfsame spot years before, kind and endearing. She did not resist as she saw his manly love and felt his body quiver.
And almost were his lips touching hers when suddenly, she saw him hesitate, and despite the darkness of his face, she could see that in that moment the blood seemed to leave it. He dropped the arms that had embraced her, and almost groaned aloud. As she stood regarding him he turned and walked away with his eyes upon the earth.
She turned then and retraced her steps, but as she went along the roadway she was thinking of him and herself andwho she was at last. She sighed, strangely contented, and was positive—knew that in due timehe toomust come to understand.
AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING
IT WAS in the autumn time, after the wheat and the oats, the rye, the barley and the flaxseed had all been gathered, and threshed, and also after the corn had been husked. Wheat, he had raised, thousands and thousands of bushels. And because there was war over all the old world, and the great powers of the land were in the grim struggle of trying to crush each other from the face of the earth, the power under which he lived was struggling with the task of feeding a portion of those engaged in the struggle. And because Black Rust had impaired the spring wheat yield those thousands of bushels he raised, he had sold at a price so high that he had sufficient to redeem at last the land he was about to lose and money left for future development into the bargain.
He sat alone at this moment in a stateroom aboard a great continental limited, just out of Omaha and speeding westward to the Pacific coast. As was his customary wont, his thoughts were prolific. But for once—and maybe for the first time, on the whole, he was satisfied,—he was contented—and last, but not least, he was happy.
Being happy, however, is not quite possible alone. No, and Jean Baptiste wasnotalone. And here is what had happened.
Jack Stewart had told him the story. And in the story told, one great mystery was solved. He now understood why Agnes' eyes had been so baffling. Simple, too, in ameasure. To begin with, her mother had possessed rare brown eyes, he had seen by her picture, because Agnes' mother had not been a white woman at all, but in truth was of Ethiopian extraction. This was a part of the story Jack Stewart had told him. He had met and married her mother on a trip from the West Indies where she had lived, to Glasgow; the marriage being decided upon quickly, for in truth the woman was fleeing. In London some years before, she had been the pupil of a learned minister, who had become an infidel, and also unscrupulous. But we know the story—at least a part of it—of Augustus M. Barr, alias, Isaac M. Barr; alias—but it does not matter. We are concerned with Agnes' mother. Her mother had inherited a small fortune from Agnes' grandma and this Barr had sought to secure. To do so, he had followed Jack Stewart and his wife, Agnes' mother to Jerusalem. There he had met Isaac Syfe, the Jew, whom he later brought to America. He did not find the woman he had followed there, but on his return to England hedidfind Peter Kaden who was married to Christine. Kaden was involved in a murder case, was accused, and had been sentenced to Australia for the rest of his natural life. It was Barr who saved him, and the fee Kaden paid was Christine. Barr accommodated him by bringing him to America where he placed all three, including himself, on homesteads. Syfe settled with him in cash by taking a large loan on his homestead and giving Barr the proceeds.
But Kaden was in the way. He had never been comfortable in the new country with Christine the wife of another and living so near, so Barr sent Christine away and drove Kaden to suicide. Later at Lincoln, Nebraska she left him and went out of his life forever. Barr had secured Kaden's homestead, and all this Jack Stewart knew, but had neverdisclosed. Barr lost track of Agnes' mother, but knew that somewhere in the world there was a treasure but not as great as he had thought it was—about ten thousand dollars in all.
While Jean Baptiste was absorbed in these thoughts, the door was opened quietly, and closed. Some one had entered the stateroom and his ears caught the light rustle of a skirt. His eyes were upon the landscape, but suddenly they saw nothing, for his eyes had been covered by a pair of soft hands.
"I knew it was you," he said, happily, as he drew her into the seat beside him, between himself and the window.
"What are you thinking of, my Jean," she said then.
"Of what I have been thinking ever since the day when we understood that you and I after all are of the same blood."
"Oh, you have," she chimed, and drawing his face close with her hands, she kissed him ardently.
"Isn't it beautiful, Agnes? Just grand!"
"Oh, Jean, you make me so happy."
"You arehonestlyhappy, dear?" he inquired for the hundredth time.
"Icouldn'tbe happier," and she reposed in his arms.
"Have truly forgotten that you arean Ethiopian, andmust sharewhat is Ethiopia's?"
"Will share what isyours, my Jean."
"Always so beautifully have you said that."
"Have I, now, really?"
"Do you recall the day when I forgot, dear,The Custom of the Country—and its law?"
"How could I forget it?"
"And what followed?"
"I cannot forget that, either. But Jean, do you want me to?"
"Agnes, we must both forget what followed. Still, when we think how kind fate has been to us, after all, we must feel grateful."
"Oh, how much I do. But, Jean—it wassucha sacrifice...."
He was thoughtful for a time, and from the expression on his face, the present was far away.
"Please, dear," she said, taking his hand and fondling it. "When you happen to think of it; will you try never to allow yourself to resume that expression—thatexpression again?"
He looked down at her.
"Expression?"
"Like you wore just then."
"Oh."
"You see, it seems to bring back events in your life that we want to forget."
"You mean, I—"
"Yes," she said slowly, "you—we understand each other and everything that has concerned each other, don't we, Jean?"
"Of course we do, Agnes. We have always—but there, now!" and he smothered the rest of it in a fond caress.
"Wasn't it strange," she mused after a time. "I could never understand it. I saw it in my eyes before we left Indiana. And then I had that strange dream and saw you." She paused and played with his fingers. "But I never felt the same afterwards. Somehow I felt that something strange, something unusual was going to happen in my life, and now when I look back upon it and am so happy," whereupon she grasped tightly the fingers she held—"I feel it just had to be."
"Do you reckon your father understood the love that was between us?"
"I think he did. And he started more than once about that time to tell me something. He went so far once as to say that if you liked me, and I cut him off. Afterwards I could see that it worried you and my heart went out to you more than ever. And then you reached your decision. I saw it, and it seems that I liked you more for the man you were."
"Did you love the man you were engaged to?"
"Jean!"
He laughed sheepishly, and patted her shoulder. He was sorry, that he had asked her such a question, and he resolved thereupon never to do so again. Something dark passed before him—terrible years when he had suffered much. She was speaking again.
"You know I never loved any one in the world but you."
THE END
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:Obvious typos and printer errors have been corrected without comment.With the exception of obvious printer errors, the following changes have been made in this text:1. Page 321: "truck" changed to "struck" in the phrase, "hope it hasn't struck...."2. Page 442: "We'll" changed to "He'll" in the phrase, "He'll get them tomorrow morning...."Inconsistencies in the author's spelling, punctuation, and use of hyphens have been retained as in the original book.Unconventional spelling has been retained in words such as (but not limited to) the following:weazeneduproarouslyflustratedglabbedaimiablycounciledIn the original publication of The Homesteader, letters between various characters are sometimes printed in smaller font, and sometimes are printed in normal-sized font. In this html version, changes in font size reflect the font sizes in the original text.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Obvious typos and printer errors have been corrected without comment.
With the exception of obvious printer errors, the following changes have been made in this text:
1. Page 321: "truck" changed to "struck" in the phrase, "hope it hasn't struck...."2. Page 442: "We'll" changed to "He'll" in the phrase, "He'll get them tomorrow morning...."
1. Page 321: "truck" changed to "struck" in the phrase, "hope it hasn't struck...."
2. Page 442: "We'll" changed to "He'll" in the phrase, "He'll get them tomorrow morning...."
Inconsistencies in the author's spelling, punctuation, and use of hyphens have been retained as in the original book.
Unconventional spelling has been retained in words such as (but not limited to) the following:
weazeneduproarouslyflustratedglabbedaimiablycounciled
weazeneduproarouslyflustratedglabbedaimiablycounciled