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'd _rather_ not--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
never _will_, 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 fiance'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 fiance 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.
"Is _this_ a fact?" said the aunt coldly. Never had she appeared 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 law_ had forbid, and he had _paid 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 lunch he 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, _why_ not?"
"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--were _getting
married_. Are you here on--on your _wedding 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."
"It _is_ so!" she said stoutly, and he believed her when he saw her
eyes.
"Well, I guess I'll understand by and by."
"You _will_ understand, soon, Jean," she said kindly. "Papa will
explain--_everything_." She turned her eyes away then, and in the moment
he reached and grasped her hand. 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--just _had_ to see you, Jean."
"Please, Jean. You--will--forget that _now_." 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 and _who she was at last_.
She sighed, strangely contented, and was positive--knew that in due time
_he too_ must come to understand.