CHAPTER X
"UNTIL THEN"
It did not rain the night Jean Baptiste went to Winner to meet the wifewho failed to come, but the protracted drought continued on into July.For three weeks into this month it burned everything in its path. FromCanada to Kansas, the crops were almost burned to a crisp, while in thecountry of our story proper, only the winter wheat, and rye, and some ofthe oats matured. And this was confined principally to the county whereJean Baptiste had homesteaded. Here a part of a crop of small grain wasraised, but everything else was a failure.
His flaxseed crop in Tripp County which had given some promise if rainshould come in time, had now fallen along with all else, and when he sawit next, after his trip to Winner, it was a scattered mass of sicklystems, with army worms everywhere cutting the stems off at the ground.The whole country as a result, was facing a financial panic. Interestwould be hard to raise--and this, in view of the fact that the yearbefore had seen less than half a crop produced, was not a cheerfulprospect. With Baptiste, and others who had gone in heavily, disasterbecame a possibility; and, unless a radical change intervened, disasterappeared as an immediate probability.
During these days there was little to do. He had harvested what littlecrop he had raised, and having no hauling or anything, to engage him hefound going fishing his only diversion. And it was at about this timethat he received a letter. It bore the postmark of the town where hehad met his wife in the beginning, and read:
"_My dear Jean_:
"I thought I would be bold this once and write you, since it is a fact that you are on my mind a great deal. You will, of course, remember me when I mention that it was in my home that you met your wife. Rather, the woman you married, whom, I suppose, from what I hear, has not proven very faithful. I daresay that your trip to my home that day was the beginning of this episode. But it is of him, the Reverend, her father, of whom I wish to speak.
"He used to speak of you. You see this town is in his itinerary, and I therefore, see him quite often. In fact, he is quite well known to me, and visits my home, and has been here recently. He was here just a week ago yesterday before going into Chicago, and I asked about you. He ups with his head when I did so, and I estimated that the trouble that is supposed to be between you and Orlean, is possibly between him and yourself.
"Well, you see, it is like this. After you married Orlean, we could hear nothing from him but you. You were the most wonderful, the most vigorous, the wealthiest--in fact you were everything according to his point of view. He preached of you in the pulpit; he set you up as the standard and model for other young men to follow. Therefore, you must imagine our surprise when almost over night you had changed so perceptibly. From everything a man should be--or try to be, as a young man, you became the embodiment of all a man should not be. Now it is rather singular. Apparently the Elder must have been possessed with very poor judgment to begin with, or you must have become in a few weeks an awfully bad man.
"Well, I don't know what to say; but in as much as I have known you some little time--before you met Orlean in the house where I write this, I cannot conceive or realize how you could change so quickly. But what is more to the point--I have known the august Elder even longer than I have you--know him since I have been large enough to know anybody, and I have known him always to be as he is yet. One wonders how such men can have the conscience to preach and tell people to live right, to do right, so they may be prepared to die right. But somehow we take the Elder's subtle conduct down this way as a matter of course. We think no more--I daresay not as much--of what he does in that way than we would the most common man in town. But it is too bad that his daughter must suffer for his evil. Orlean is a good girl, but she has been raised to regard that old father as a criterion of righteousness, regardless of the life he does, and always has lived. But withal, honestly, I do feel so sorry for you. I am aware that this letter and the nature of its contents is unsolicited, but it is and has been in my heart to say it. I really feel that it is no more than honest to protest against in some manner, the wrong that man is practicing. But to the point.
"The last time he was here, and mama asked him about you, and he was made angry because of it, he remarked among the discredits he endeavored to pay the country and you, that there was no church for her to attend. I remarked that you had said you attended the white churches. Thereupon he became very demonstrative. He said you did attend the white churches, and had taken her, but that you went to the Catholic church where there was, of course, no religion in the sense to which she had been raised. I hardly knew how to reply to or counter this, but I thought that if you had, and she had belonged to the Catholic church, how easy it would be now for you to lay your cause before the priest and have it considered. But if you did such before the ministers of his church--oh, well, I am saying too much.
"And only now have I arrived at the event I choose to relate. It is always so when one chooses to gossip, to forget the things that may be of real interest. Well, word has come that the Elder was taken violently ill in Chicago the other day, and grave fears are held of his recovery. I hear that he is very low, and perhaps the Lord might see fit to remove a stumbling block....
"I must close. I am sure I have bored you with such a long letter and so much gossip; but I have at least satisfied my own conscience. So hoping that all comes out well with you in the end, believe me to be,
"Your dear friend,
"JESSIE MANSFIELD."
It so happened that the exhausted Jean Baptiste turned to the hope thatillness might claim his enemy, and he exchanged letters with JessieMansfield, regularly, and after a time, found her correspondence a greatdiversion.
And so the summer passed. Near the last days of July the severe droughtwas broken, but too late to benefit the crops which had been so badlyburned by the drought. He managed to get considerable land into winterwheat, and the fall came on with only a crop of debts and overdue billsthat made him regard the mail box dubiously.
Winter followed, one of the coldest ever known, and spring wasapproaching when Jean Baptiste decided to make his last attempt for areunion with his wife.
In all the months that had followed his previous trip he had plannedthat if he could only see her, could only see her and be alone with herfor a day, they would abridge the chasm that had been forced because ofthe Reverend. That one had not obliged him by dying by any means, buthad regained his health in a measure, so Baptiste read in the letters hereceived from Jessie. However, she wrote, it seemed that something hadcome over him, for he was not the same. He had lost much of his greatflesh, wore a haggard expression, and seemed to be weighted down withsome strange burden.
It was April again when at last he took the train for Chicago, for thelast time, he decided, on the same mission that had taken him theretwice before. He planned now, to exercise more discretion. Inasmuch asthe Reverend was as a rule, always out of the city, he trusted to fatethat he would be out this time. The bitterness that had grown up in hisheart toward the Elder, he feared, might make him forget to observe thelaw of the land if he chanced to encounter that adversary. So when hearrived in the great city, he went about the task of seeing his wifeunder cover.
He first visited a barber shop. He happened into one near Van Buren onState Street, where lady barbers did the trimming. He did not find themefficient, and was glad when he left the chair. He decided that he wouldact through Mrs. Pruitt, who he had heard from the fall before, and whowas being charged along with Mrs. McCarthy, as being the cause of allthe trouble.
He had not written her that he was coming, calculating that it would bebest for her not to have too long to think it over. Upon leaving thebarber shop, he ventured up State Street, through the notorious sectionof the "old tender
loin" to Taylor Street, and presently turned anddiscovered himself in the Polk and Dearborn Street station. He foundthat slipping about the street under cover like a sneak thief was muchagainst his grain, and he was nervous. In all the months he hadcontemplated the trip, he had taken great care not to let Ethel or anyof the family know in advance of his coming. He wanted his wife. Theagony of living alone, the dreaded suspense, the long journey and thegradual breaking down of what he had built up, played havoc with hisnerves, and he was trembling perceptibly when he took a seat in thestation. He encountered a man upon arrival there, whom he had knownyears before, and because he had been so intent on keeping out of sight,the recognition by the other frightened him. He managed to controlhimself with an effort, and greeted the other casually. However, he wasrelieved when he recalled that the other knew nothing of hisrelations--not even that he had ever married.
After he felt his nerves sufficiently calm, he ventured to the telephonebooth, and secured Mrs. Pruitt's number. He paused briefly beforecalling her to steady his nerves, and then got her in due time.
"Hello, Mrs. Pruitt," He called.
"Hello," came back, and he caught the surprise in her voice. "Is it_you_?" she asked, and he noted that her voice was trembling.
"Yes," he called back nervously. "Do you recognize my voice?"
"Yes," he heard, and the uneasiness with which she answered discouragedhim. He had great faith in Mrs. Pruitt. Notwithstanding the gossip thatconnected her name with the Elder's she was regarded as a woman ofunusual ability and mental force. She was speaking again in a very lowtone of voice. Almost in a whisper.
"Listen," said she. "_Call this same number in about ten minutes,understand?_ Yes. Do that. I'll explain later."
He sat before the clock now, in the station, and watched the minutespass. They seemed like hours. He was now aware that the strain of thesemonths of grief and eternal mortification, had completely unnerved him.His composure was like that of an escaped convict with the guards near.His heart beat so loud until he looked around in cold fear wonderingwhether those near heard it. And all the while he sat in this nervousquandary, he kept repeating over, and over again: "_Mrs. Pruitt, Mrs.Pruitt--surely even you have not gone back on me, too. Oh, Mrs. Pruitt,you can't understand what it means to me, what I have suffered,--theagony, the disgrace--the hell!_" He regarded the telephone booth beforehim and his eyes were like glass. All the busy station was a hubbub.After what seemed to him an eternal waiting, he was slightly relieved tosee that fifteen minutes had passed, and he got up and slipped back intothe booth and called Mrs. Pruitt.
"Yes, I'm here, Jean", she called, "and the reason I told you to calllater was that _your_ people--_your father-in-law is right here in thehouse at this moment_. He was sitting right here by the 'phone when youcalled awhile ago, so now you understand."
"Oh," he cried, his head swimming, and everything grew dark around him.After one long year of agony, of eternal damnation, one long year ofwaiting and suspense, he had banked his chances, and encountered hisenemy the first thing. Right under the telephone he had been! JeanBaptiste who had once been a strong, brave and fearless man, was nowtrembling from head to foot.
"Now, Jean," he heard Mrs. Pruitt. "I understand _everything_. You arehere to see and get Orlean if you can; but you want to do so withoutthem knowing anything about it, and I agree with you. You wish me tohelp you, and I will. I'll do anything to right this terrible wrong, butgive me time to plan, to think! In the meantime, he is so near that itis not safe for me to talk with you any longer. So you go somewhere, andcome back, say: in about an hour. If he is still here, I will say: 'thisis the wrong number,' Get it?"
"Yes, Mrs. Pruitt," he replied, controlling the storm of weakness thatwas passing over him. "I _get_ you."
"Very well, until then."
"Until then," he called, and hung up the receiver.
The Homesteader: A Novel Page 47