GRIM JUSTICE
Agnes decided to visit Chicago and planned to be married there. Besides,
since she was now engaged, the legacy in the bank at Rensselaer must be
secured, and, according to her mother's will, consulted before she was
married. She was curious to know what it was all about. Indeed, she was
almost as anxious, if not more so to learn the contents of the legacy
than she was to become the wife of the man she had consented to marry.
Accordingly, before the train reached Chicago, she became very anxious.
It gave her a peculiar and new thrill to recline in the luxurious
Pullman, to have her needs answered and attended to by servants, and to
be pointed out by curious people as the writer and composer of a song
that had delighted the whole country. She was experiencing how very
convenient life is when one has sufficient means to satisfy one's needs.
This had been her privilege only a short time. A newsboy boarded the
train and passed hurriedly through the cars with the morning papers. She
purchased one, and glanced through the headlines. In the index she saw
an account of the suit of Jean Baptiste, versus his father-in-law.
Curiously and anxiously she turned to the account and read the
proceedings of the trial. She laid the paper aside when through and
reviewed her acquaintance with him in retrospection. How strange it all
seemed at this late date. Beside her, a long, narrow mirror fit between
the double windows. In this she studied her face a moment. Some years
had passed since that day--and the other day, too, at the sod house. She
thought of the man that was to be her mate and of what he would think
should he ever know that the only man who had ever touched her lips
before him, was a Negro. She found herself comparing the two men, and
she was rather surprised at the difference she could distinguish. She
tried to estimate what true love was. The life she had so recently
entered was the life she had aspired to. She had hopes for it. The life
that could now be hers was the goal of her ambition--and she had
attained it! She should be satisfied. But was she?
As the train with its luxurious appointments sped along, she felt after
all that she was going out of the life that she really loved. Was it
because she had always been so poor and unable to have the things she
could now partake of at will, that such had become a habit, and
indispensable to her happiness? For indeed she had a longing for the old
life, the dash and open it afforded. She had a vision of Jean Baptiste
and his honor. He had sacrificed her to be loyal to the race in which he
belonged. Had it not been for this, she knew she would not be journeying
to the great city to become the wife of another. But amid all these
thoughts and introspectives and otherwise, there constantly recurred to
her mind the man she was to marry and what he would think if he knew
that she had once loved and would have married--_and even kissed a
Negro_.
She was glad when at last the train drew into the outskirts of the city,
and the excitement about drove such reminiscences out of her mind. She
had wired him, and of course, she expected him to meet her.
"Oh, here you are," he cried as she stood upon the platform a half hour
later. On hearing him her eyes wandered toward where he stood, and
regarded him keenly for a moment. A really handsome man, immaculately
attired in the finest tailored clothes and in the fashion of the day. He
caught her in his arms and she did not resist the hot kisses he planted
upon her cheeks. Still, she was greatly confused, and feared that she
would create a scene before she had become accustomed to the ways and
dash of the city.
He had her arm--held it close, as they passed through the station and
crossed the walkway to where an inclosed auto stood. Into this he
ushered her, attended to her luggage, and a moment later followed her
inside. Through the city with all its bustle and excitement they sped.
"I'm going to take you to my aunt's," he said, when they had gotten
started.
"Oh," she chimed. At that moment she could think of nothing to say. It
was all so confusing to her. She was so unaccustomed to any kind of a
city that she was actually in a fear. She did not realize because of the
distinction to which she had attained, that any awkwardness on her part
would be looked upon as the eccentricity of a genius. She decided,
however, to say as little as possible, to speak only when spoken to. In
that way she would try not to cause him any embarrassment or
mortification.
"You have certainly been a hard one to pull off the farm, dear," she
heard now.
"Oh, do you think so?" she said coyly.
"Do I think so?" he laughed. "Well, say, now, there isn't one person in
a thousand who, after writing the hit you have composed, wouldn't have
been over all this old land by this time, letting people see them."
"Oh, I could never wish that," she said quickly.
"Oh, come, now! Get into the limelight." He eyed her artfully, winked
playfully, and continued: "You'll like it when you get the modesty out
of yourself."
"I don't think so."
He regarded her quickly out of the corner of his eye, and then looked
ahead.
"Ever heard of State Street?" he inquired.
"Oh, yes. Is this it?"
"This is State Street," he said, and she looked out and started. She
didn't know just what she had expected to see, but what met her gaze and
made her start was the sight of so many Negroes.
"What's the matter, dear?" he said, glancing at her quickly.
"Why--ah--oh, nothing."
"I wondered why you started," and he again looked ahead. They were
across it now, and approaching Wabash Avenue. He turned into this, to
where his aunt lived some distance out in the most exclusive part of its
residence section.
Agnes, sitting by his side, despite the excitement, the great buildings
and fine streets, was thinking of the past, and of what she had just
seen. Negroes, Negroes, and _that_ would have been her life had she
married Jean Baptiste. All such was foreign to her, but she could
estimate what it would have meant. She was sure she could never have
become accustomed to such an association, it wouldn't have seemed
natural. And then she thought of Jean Baptiste, the man. Oh, of him, it
was always so different. In her mind he was like no other person in the
world. How strange, and singularly sweet had been her acquaintance with
him. Never had she understood any one as she understood him. She tried
to shut him out of her life, for the time had come, and she must. But
_could_ she? When she dared close her eyes she seemed to see him more
clearly.
The car had stopped now, and he was lifting her out before a large house
that stood back from the street some distance in sumptuous splendor. As
they went up the walkway, the large front doors parted, and a handsome
elderly woman came forth. Upon her face was written refinement and
culture.
"Oh, aunt, here we are."
"I saw you coming because I was watching," said his aunt, coming
forward, the personification of dignity. She held out her arms, and
Agnes felt herself being embraced and kissed. Her head was in a whirl.
How could _she_ readily become accustomed to such without displaying
awkwardness.
Arm in arm they mounted the steps, were met by the butler, who took her
bags, and a moment later she found herself in a large, richly furnished
room.
"Come now, dear," he said, and led her to a couch. She heard his aunt
going upstairs to prepare her room, and the next moment she felt him
draw her to him, and whatever difference there was in this convenient
life, all men loved alike.
* * * * *
Jean Baptiste lingered late at the Keystone bar. He was alone in the
world, he felt, so company of the kind about seemed the best, and was,
at least, diverting. It was twelve o'clock and after when he left. He
still retained his room at the attorney's residence, and to this he
strolled slowly. He attempted to formulate some plans in his mind, and
after a time it occurred to him that he should go back West to Gregory.
He had hired more than seven hundred fifty acres put into wheat. He
hadn't heard how it was, or whether there was any wheat there or not.
But he had seen in the papers that a drought had affected much of the
crop in Kansas and Nebraska. He half heartedly assumed that it would
naturally hit his country also. If so, there was nothing left for him to
do but leave that section. But he would depart from the city on the
morrow and see what there was up there, and with this settled in his
mind, he quickened his step, and hurried to his room.
He turned into the right number, as he thought, but upon trying to
insert the key in the lock he found that he had made a mistake. He
glanced up in confusion and almost uttered a cry. It was not the
attorney's home, but that of the Reverend McCarthy.
"Chump!" he said to himself as he turned and started back down the
steps. "I'll never sleep inside that house again," and laughed.
Upon the walk he heard steps, and when he had reached the street, looked
up to meet Glavis and a strange Negro just turning in. Glavis glared at
him as if to say, "Well, what business have you here, now?" But Baptiste
mumbled some word of apology about having turned in at the wrong number,
went directly to his room, retired and forgot the incident.
He had no idea how long he had been asleep or what time it was when he
was awakened suddenly by a drumming on his door, and the attorney's
voice, saying:
"Heh! Heh! Baptiste, wake up, wake up, you're wanted!"
He turned on his side and drew his hand to his forehead to assure
himself that he was awake. Then, realizing that he was, he jumped from
the bed and going forward, opened the door.
Two officers, the attorney in a bath robe, and Glavis stood at the
door. He regarded them curiously. "What is this?" he managed to say, as
they came into the room.
"Seems that they want you," said the attorney.
"Me?" he chimed.
"Yep," said one of the officers. "Will you go along peacefully or shall
we have to put the bracelets on. You're arrested for murder."
"For murder! _Me_, for murder?"
"Just go with the officers, Baptiste. If you'd been a little earlier you
might have gotten away; but it so happened that I met you coming out
just as I was going in."
"But I don't understand what you're talking about--all of you,"
persisted Baptiste. "Who has been murdered, and why am I accused?"
The lawyer had been observing him keenly, and now he interposed.
"Why, your wife and her father have just been found murdered, and Glavis
here and another assert they met you coming out of the house at midnight
or a little after."
The incident of the night came back to him then, "Well," he muttered,
and began to get into his clothes. When he was fully dressed he turned
to the attorney and said:
"Glavis is right in part, White." He was very calm. "I'll call you up
when I need you." And then he turned to the officers and said. "I'm
ready. The cuffs will not be necessary."