CHAPTER VIII
N. JUSTINE MC CARTHY PREACHES A SERMON
The text of Reverend N.J. McCarthy's sermon to be delivered on Mothers'Day, was one of the most inexhaustible. Most of his sermons he did notprepare. But because this was one of the greatest days in the annual ofthe church, he spent a half a day in the preparation thereof. The titlehe selected for it suited him fully, and he called it: "The Claim of theWicked."
Into it he put all the emotion that was in him. He drew a picture inillustrious words, of the wicked, the vicious man, and the weak, theundefended woman, and made many in his dark congregation burst intoemotional discordance thereby. He ridiculed the vain; he denounced,scathingly, the hypocrite; he made scores in his audience turn withperspiration at the end of their noses with conscious guilt. Oh, neverbefore in the years since he had mounted to the pulpit and begun what hechose to call, "an effort for the salvation of souls," had he preachedsuch a soul stirring sermon.
"Live right, live right, I say!" he screamed at the top of his voice."How many of you are there as you sit here before me, that have doneevil unto thy neighbor; have made some one unhappy; have cast a soulinto grief and eternal anguish? Think of it! Think of what it meansbefore God to do evil, spite; vent your rotten deceit upon others! Istand before you in God's glory to beseech you to desist; to pray withyou to live according to your consciences; to dispense with that evilspirit that in the end you may face your God in peace! Go forthhereafter in this world of sin; go to those whom you have wronged andmade thereby to suffer, and ask forgiveness; ask there and repentforthwith! Oh, I'll tell you it is a glorious feeling to know you havelived right," and he turned his eyes dramatically heavenward, andaffected his audience by the aspect. "To feel that unto others you havebeen just; that you have been kind; that you have not caused them tosuffer, but to feel happy! Think of the thrill, the sensation such mustgive you, and then let your conscience be henceforth your guide in allthings!"
When the services were over, and he had shaken hands with all thesisters, and bowed to the brothers, a boy, the son of the lady where hestayed, approached and handed him a letter. He looked at it with hisspectacles pinched upon his nose, and then read it. It was from Ethel,and we know the contents.
"So," he said easily as he read it. "The evil seeks to influence myhousehold in subtle matters, eh! Oh, that man has the brain of a Caesar,but the purpose of Satan! Drat him, and his infernal scheming! Eversince the day I first knew him in the country four miles from this town,he has been wont to annoy, to aggravate me--and after all my daughter,my poor daughter, and myself have done for him!"
He began preparation to go to Chicago at the earliest convenience. Ashis work was so urgent, he wrote Ethel in reply that same day:
"_My dear daughter_:
"I am in receipt of your letter and make haste to reply. To begin with, I am not surprised to hear what you wrote in your letter. I am not surprised to hear anything these days. Ever since your mother committed the unpardonable blunder of letting my poor child go straggling off into the West, that wild West, where only the rough and the uncivilized live, I have not been surprised with what each day might bring. It is certainly to be regretted that when one has sacrificed as much as I have to raise two of the nicest girls that ever saw the light of day, a fortune hunter should come along and bring misery into a peaceful home as that man has done. God be merciful! But it is to be hoped that we will see fit to adjust rightly the evil that we are threatened with.
"I cannot come to Chicago until a week from next Thursday or Friday. I am so behind with God's work, caused by the trip we made to that land of wilderness last spring, that I am almost compelled to be at Cairo next Sunday. But should anything transpire that will necessitate my presence before that time, wire or write me right quick and I will be there.
"From yours in Christ,
"N. JUSTINE MCCARTHY."
In the West Jean Baptiste got ready for the homecoming of his wife. Thesmall grain crop was gone. While the drought was now burning the corn tobits, his large crop of flax, which had been the most hopeful possible afew days before, was showing the effect of the drought now as well.
But with Jean Baptiste, he could almost forego anything and be happywith the prospects. In his mind this became so much so, until he lookedforward to the day he had set for her coming as if all the world mustbecome righted when she was once again near him.
Now during these months he had only his grandmother for company, and herhe wanted to send home. But she would not leave him, always willing towait until Orlean came back. During these long lonesome days he found astrange solace in talking to his horses. There, for instance, was Johnand Humpy, the mules that Orlean had driven her father out to their homewith when he had come on his first visit. He told them that she wascoming back now, and to him they appeared to answer. They had becomeround and plump since work had closed, and having fully shed theirwinter's hair, and not yet become sunburned their dapple gray coatingmade them very attractive.
He rearranged the house, bought a few pieces of much needed furniture,and made elaborate preparations for the homecoming. At last the dayarrived.
It was Saturday morning. The wind had died down, and gave threats ofrain for the first time in six long, hot dry weeks. He hitched John andHumpy to the spring wagon, and with a touch of his old enthusiasm, lefthis grandmother cheerfully--but for reasons of his own, did not tell herthat he was going for Orlean. Perhaps he wished to surprise her, atleast he did not tell her.
He drove to Winner more filled with hope than he had been for months.
The town was filled that day, and because there was an appearance ofrain in the air, which could yet save much of the corn, there was an airof hope and cheer abroad. Jean thought to board a train and ride a fewmiles, and return on the evening train on which she would be. Then hedecided he would wait for her and be ready to drive directly home. Asthe train was due shortly after nine p.m., he estimated that he coulddrive the distance in two hours; thereby getting to her claim beforemidnight and they could spend Sunday together celebrating their happyreunion.
He had longed to talk with her--and grieve with her over their loss inthe fine little boy who never knew his parents. He thought of all thisand of the happy days they had spent together the summer before. He feltthe love and the devotion she had given him then. He wondered sometimeswhether he had ever loved her as he had dreamed he would love his wife;but this thought had ever been replaced by his sense of duty. Marriagewas sacred; it was the institution of good; he always disliked to seepeople part. He felt then, as he had ever felt before, that nothing butinfidelity could ever make him leave a woman that he had married. He wasstill an enemy of divorce. He recalled how they had gone to the Catholicchurch once in Gregory, and had heard a learned priest discourse ondivorce and its attendant evils. Never before had anything so impressedhim. How plain the priest had made his audience understand why thechurch did not tolerate divorce. How decidedly he had shown that divorcecould and would be avoided if the people could be raised to feel that"until death do us part." And Baptiste and the woman he had married haddiscussed it afterward. They had found books and stories in themagazines to which they subscribed, and had read deeper into it, and hadbeen united in their opinion on the subject. Divorce was bad; it wasevil; it was avoidable in almost every case. Then why should it be?
They had agreed that duty toward each other was the first essentialtoward combating it; that selfishness was a thing that so oftenprecipitated it. In all its phases he had discussed it with her, and inthe end, she had agreed with him. And down in their hearts they had feltthat such would never be necessitated in the union they had formed.
So he lived again through the life that had been his, he did not allowhis mind to dwell on the evil that had come into and made his lifeunhappy; made his days and nights and very existence a misery. He didnot, as he lingered on the platform of that little western station,thi
nk or dwell on the things that were best forgotten. For a time hebecame Jean Baptiste of old. Return to him then did all that oldbuoyancy, all that vigor and great hope, all that was his when he hadlonged for the love that should be every man's.
And she had been away on a visit, to recover from the illness that thedelivery had given her. He was sorry for their loss, and he would talkwith her this night as they drove along the trail. They would talk ofthat and all they had lost, and they would talk of that which was tocome. Oh, it would be beautiful! Just to have a wife, the wife thatgives all her love and thought to making her husband happy. And he wouldtry to give her all that was in him. And his wife would soon be withhim--in his arms, and they would be happy as they had once been!
There it was! From down the track the train whistled. It was coming, andhis wait was to an end. Near he saw John and Humpy whom she had beendelighted to drive. They were groomed for the occasion, and were anxiousto go home. Tonight they would haul her and hear her voice. He rosesuddenly to his feet when at last the light fell upon the rails and hecould see the engine. The roar of the small locomotive was approaching.Around him were others whose wives had been away. They, too, were cometo meet their loved ones. Some were alone while around the others werechildren--all waiting to meet those dear to their hearts.
The train came to a stop at last, and the people emerged from thecoaches. There was the usual caressing as loved ones greeted loved ones.Little cries of "mama" and "papa" were heard, and for a moment there wasquite a hubbub of exclamations. "Oh, John," and "Jim" with theattendant kiss. In the meantime he looked expectantly down the line towhere the car doors opened, and not seeing the one for whom he waslooking, he presently jumped aboard the first car, and passed throughit. It was empty and he estimated that she would be in the rear car. Itwas the chair car, and the one in which he naturally would expect her toride. He passed into it bravely, with his lips ready to greet her. Thelast of the passengers were filing out. The car was empty, and his wifehad not come.
Slowly he passed out of the car as the brakeman rushed in to change hisapparel for the street. Across the street was the team waiting. Theyseemed to know him before he came in sight and they greeted him asthough they thought that she had come, too.
He got slowly into the wagon, and soon they were hurrying homeward.
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