THE STORY
Junius Grey inquired at length concerning the land whence he had come,
of the prospects, of the climate, and at last relieved Baptiste by
inquiring as to whether the drought had swept over that section as well
as other westerly parts.
"I have had the same result with twenty-two hundred acres I own in the
western part of the State. But such will come--have come every once in a
while since I have been here," he assured him. "If you have been caught
with considerable debt to annoy you, and succeed in pulling through, it
will be a lesson to you as it has been to others."
"It _has_ been a lesson, I admit," said Baptiste a little awkwardly.
Irene, who seemed to be her father's favorite, sat near, and regarded
him kindly while he related how the drought had swept over the land, and
the disaster that followed. He did not tell them _all_; that he had been
foreclosed, but that, he felt, was not necessary.
Withal, he had met those in his race whom he had longed to meet. Of
business they could discourse with intelligence, and that was not
common. Grey's holdings were much, and Baptiste was cheered to see that
he was possessed with the sagacity and understanding to manage the same
with profit to himself. Besides, the family about him, while not as
conventional as he had found among the more intelligent classes of his
race, had grown into the business ways and assisted him.
"Would you like to attend services at the church this evening," said
Irene after a time, and when they were again alone.
"Why, I suppose I might as well."
"Then I'll get ready." She disappeared then, to return shortly, dressed
in a striking black dress covered with fine lace; while on her head she
wore a wide, drooping hat that set off her appearance with much artistic
effect.
"What is your denomination," she asked when they went down the walkway
to the road. The church was not far distant, and, in fact was at the
corner of his property, and was largely kept up by her father he had
been told.
"The _big_ church, I guess," he said amusedly.
"Indeed!" she exclaimed, feigning surprise.
"And yours?"
"Oh, Baptist, of course," she replied easily.
When she held his arm like she now did, it made him feel peculiar.
Never, three years before, would he have thought that he would be
company again for another woman--at least, under such circumstances.
"What do you think of protestantism?"
"Well," he replied thoughtfully, "it has not been until lately that I
have considered it seriously."
"So?"
"And sometimes I am not inclined to think it has been for the best."
"How so?"
"Well, it appears to me that organization is lacking in so many of the
protestant churches."
"But is that the fault of protestantism?"
"I hardly know how to reply to you. It seems, however, that inasmuch as
catholicism requires more effort, more concentration of will force on
the part of their members to come up and live up to their standard of
religion; and that since it is obviously easier to be some kind of a
protestant, then protestantism has afforded a less organized
appreciation of the Christ."
"You make it very plain. And especially is it so in the church to which
I belong. But I am sure, however, if the standard of requirement was
raised within the Negro Baptists, it would be better for all."
"You mean--"
"If it was compulsory for the ministers to possess a college education
and attendance for at least three years at a theological seminary, the
standard would be raised in the churches conducted by Negroes."
"I agree with you; and do you know, that since I have been in the book
business only these few short months, it has been my experience that
ours is a race of notoriously poor readers."
"Isn't it so! Oh, it is dreadful when we come to consider how much needy
knowledge we lose thereby."
"It is staggering."
"Why is it so?"
"Well, to begin with. There is little encouragement to become a reader
among Negroes themselves. Take, for instance, the preacher. By all
circumstances a minister--at least should be a reader. Is it not so?"
"Certainly."
"Well, are they as a whole?"
"Lord, no!"
"Then, how can you expect their followers to be?"
"We cannot."
"Another disadvantage, is separate schools."
"I don't quite understand?"
"Well, mix the Negro children daily with the whites, and they are sure
to become enamored of their ways."
"I gather your trend."
"The most helpful thing on earth. Negro children thereby are able, in a
measure, to eradicate the little evils that come from poor homes; homes
wherein the parents, ignorant often, are compelled to be away at work."
"Evil environment, bad influence!"
"That is it. There is no encouragement to read, therefore no opportunity
to develop thought, and the habit of observation."
"How plain you make everything."
"And now we have come unto the church, and must end our conversation."
"I'm sorry."
He was, too, but they filed into the little church.
In and around where they now sat, there was quite a settlement of
Negroes, mostly small farmers. Perhaps it was due to the inspiration of
the successful Grey. She had, earlier in the evening, pointed out here
and there where a Negro family owned five acres; where somewhere else
they lived on and farmed ten acres and fifteen acres and so on. After
slavery there had been a tendency on the part of the Negro to continue
in the industrious ways he had been left in by his former master. The
cultivation was strong; but strangely there had come a desire to go into
town to see, and to loaf. Perhaps it was because he had not been given
such a privilege during the days of bondage. But here in this little
valley of the Kaw, he was cheered to see his race on a practical and
sensible basis. Only in the pursuit of agriculture can the black man not
complain that he is discriminated against on account of his color.
When the service was over, they walked leisurely homeward, and their
conversation became more intimate. The feeling of a woman by his side
thrilled Jean Baptiste. In his life on the prairies, this had never
been afforded, so to him it was something new, and something gloriously
sweet. Or was it her presence? At least he was moved. He decided that he
would go his way soon, because it was dangerous for him to linger in her
radiating presence without regretting what fate had willed.
"Isn't it warm tonight?" she said, when they reached the porch.
"Dreadfully so down here in your valley."
"Perhaps you will not care to retire, and would rather sit out where the
air is best," she suggested.
"I would be glad to."
"Very well, then," and she found a seat where they were hidden by vines
and the shade of the big house. "I'll return presently, when I have put
my hat away."
When she returned, her curiosity to know why he had not visited her was,
he could see again, her chief anxiety. She tried to have him divulge why
in subtle ways. Late into the night they lingered on the veranda, and he
found himself on the verge of confessing all to her.
He succeeded in keeping it from her that night, but she was resourceful.
Moreover, her curiosity had reached a point bordering on desperation.
Accordingly, she had the boys to hitch a team to a buggy and took him
driving over the great estate. For hours during the cool of the morning,
she drove him through orchards, and over wheat-fields where the wheat
now reposed in shocks. She chatted freely, discoursed on almost every
topic, and during it all he saw what a wonderfully courageous woman she
was.
He loved the study of human nature, and wit. Here, he could see, was a
rare woman, but withal there was about her something that disturbed him.
What was it? He kept trying to understand. He never quite succeeded
until that night.
A heavy rain had fallen in the afternoon, and he lingered in her company
at her invitation and encouragement. That night the sky was overcast,
the air was sultry, and the night was very dark. She took him to their
favorite seat within the vines, and where nothing but the darkness was
their company. And there she resumed her artful efforts to have him tell
her all.
Never in his life had Jean Baptiste the opportunity to be perfectly
free. He had once loved dearly, and he had sought to forget the one he
had so loved because of the _Custom of the Country_ and its law. Out of
his life she had apparently gone, and we know the fate of the other.
There is nothing in the world so sweet as to love a woman. But, on the
other hand, mayhap all that is considered love is not so; it may be
merely passion, and it was passion he discovered that was guiding Irene
Grey. He saw when this occurred to him, that in such a respect she was
unusual. Well, his life had been an unhappy life; love free and openly
he had never tasted but once, but a law higher than the law of the land
had willed against that love, and he had subserved to custom. So he
decided to tell her all, and leave on the morrow.
"Please, Jean," she begged, calling him by his first name. "Won't you
tell it to _me_?"
He regarded her in the darkness beside him. She was very close, and he
could feel the warmth of her body against his. He reached him out then,
and boldly placed his arm about her. She yielded to the embrace without
objection. He could feel the soft down of her hair against his face, and
it served to intoxicate him; aroused the passion and desire in his
hungry soul.
"_Yes_, Irene," he said then. "I will tell _you_ the story, and tomorrow
I will go away."
"No," she said, and drew closer to him. On the impulse he embraced her,
and in the darkness found her lips, and the kiss was like a soul touch.
He sighed when he turned away, but she caught his face and drew his lips
where she could hear him closely.
"Tell me," she repeated. "For so long I have wanted to hear."
"Well, it was like this. You know--rather, perhaps you recall the
circumstances under which we met."
"I remember _everything_, Jean."
"I was in love with no one, I can say, but I _had_ loved outside of our
race."
"Our race?"
"Yes."
"You mean," she said, straightening curiously, "that you loved an Indian
up there? That, I recall is the home of the Sioux?"
"No, I have _never_ loved an Indian."
"Then _what_?"
"A white girl."
"_Oh, Jean_," she said, and drew slightly away. He drew her back to him,
and she yielded and settled closely in the curve of his arm, and he told
her the story.
"Honestly, that was too bad. You sacrificed much. And to think that you
_loved_ a white girl!"
"It was so."
"So it came that you sacrificed the real love to be loyal to the race we
belong to?"
"I guess you may call it that."
"It was manly, though. I admire your strength."
"It was then I wrote you."
"Yes. And--"
"Others."
"I understand. You loved none of us, perhaps, and it was because you had
not had the opportunity, maybe?"
"Perhaps it was so."
"And now I will hear how it happened."
"I must first confess something that pains me."
"Oh, that confession! But maybe I am entitled to hear it?"
"Well, yes, I think so. There were three."
"Oh...."
"And you were the first choice."
"_Me?_"
"But I waited for your letter. There was a _time_ limit."
"And I was away."
"Therefore never received it in time."
"And you?"
"At Omaha I hesitated, and then decided that you did not favor it."
"O-oh!"
"So I went to Chicago, to meet the second choice."
"Such an unusual proceeding, but interesting, oh, _so_ much so. Please
go on."
"_She_ lived in New York."
"In New York?"
"Was a maid on the Twentieth Century Limited."
"O-oh!"
"But sickness overtook her. She didn't get into Chicago when she was
due."
"Such fate."
"I wonder at it."
"And then you got the _last_ choice."
"That is it."
Not knowing what else to do, she was so carried away with the story, she
stared before her into the darkness.
"And when _did_ you receive my letter? I understand about the claim
business."
"When I returned with her to Gregory."
She was silent. He was too. Both were in deep thought and what was in
the mind of both was:
_What might have been._