MARRIED

"WHY—why—why, what does this mean!" exclaimed "Little Mother Mary" coming upon them at this minute. Notwithstanding the fact that she was surprised, it was obviously a glad surprise. She admired Jean Baptiste, and had been much upset over their little controversy. She understood the root of the trouble, and knew that it had been on account of what Baptiste had written and intimated in the letter regarding the Elder. Her husband did not admire real men, although of course, he was not aware of it. In truth, he admired no man, other than himself. And when others did not do likewise, he usually found excuses to disagree with them in some manner.

Jean Baptiste was not the type of man to make friends with her husband. He was too frank, too forward, too progressive in every way ever to become very intimate with N. Justine McCarthy. To begin with, Jean had never flattered his vanity as it was not his wont to give undue praise. And as yet he had no reason especially to admire the Reverend. That it had not been Orlean who had objected to coming West to marry him he was aware. Nor had it been her mother. It had been N. Justine who had a way of making his faults and shortcomings appear to be those of others—especially within his family, and in this instance his elder daughter bore the blame.

"What would you expect us to do, Little Mother," he said, turning a beaming face upon her.

"But—Orlean, I thought—I thought—"

"Oh, Mother," cried Jean Baptiste, "don't think. It will hurt you. Besides, it will not be necessary for you to think any more with regards to us now. We are as we were, and that is all. There is nothing wrong between us—never has been, nor between you and I now either, is there?" Whereupon he drew her down and upon the davenport and placed himself between her and her daughter.

"Now let's reason this thing out together," he began. "There is no need for quarreling. We'll leave that to idle, disagreeable people. The first thing in life is to know what you want—and then go get it. That's the way I do. When I proposed to Orlean I did so after due consideration. There has been some little disagreement with regards to my coming to get her, which was due to the fact that I have been so overrun with work until I really felt I had not the time to spare. However, here I am and ready to marry her. So let's get those who are concerned together and have it over with. What do you say to it?" he said, looking from one to the other. In the meantime, Ethel had crept down from upstairs to see what was going on, and saw the three on the davenport together, with Jean Baptiste in the middle. Whereupon, she turned and hurried back upstairs to where her husband was, with these words: "Glavis, Glav—is," she cried all out of breath with exasperation. "I just wish you'd look! Just step down there and look!"

"Why, why—what is the matter, Ethel!" he cried, rising from his chair in some excitement.

"Why, that Jean Baptiste is sitting down there on the davenport with mama on one side of him and my sister on the other!"

"Oh, is that all!" he breathed with relief.

"Is that all!" she echoed in derision, her narrow little face screwed up.

"Well?"

"Will you 'well' me when that man just comes in here and takes the house and all that's in it!"

"Oh, Ethel." he argued. "Will you use some sense!"

"Will I use some sense! After what Orlean said? You remember well enough what she said, no longer than last night when she received that telegram. That she was through with that man; that she was not going to marry him, and had sent his old papers back to him to prove it!"

"Well, now, get all excited over the most natural thing in the world! Have you never seen a woman who never changed her mind—especially when there was a man in the case?"

"Of course I have," she shouted. "I am one who has never changed their mind!"

"I agree, and that is what's the matter with you," so saying, he made his get-away to avoid what would have followed.

"Now, you will have to deal with my husband in regard to this matter, Mr. Baptiste," admonished Mother Mary. She had given into him along with Orlean. It was useless to try to pit their weak wits against the commanding and domineering reason, the quick logic and searching intuition of Jean Baptiste. So they had quickly resigned to the inevitable, and left him to the rock of unreason, the Reverend N. J. McCarthy.

"All settled. I'll bounce right out and get him on the wire. Best words to send are: 'Please come to Chicago today. Important!' Will that be alright?"

"Jean Baptiste, you are a wonder!" cried Orlean, and, encircling his neck with her arms, kissed him impulsively.

In answer they received by special delivery a letter that night, stating that his honor, N.J., was on the way, and would arrive the following morning. Preparations were entered into at once therefore for a simple wedding, only Ethel holding aloft from the proceedings. It was while at the supper table that evening that Orlean took upon herself to try to set Baptiste right with what was before him in dealing with regards to her father.

"Now, my dear," she said lovingly, "if you would get along with papa, then praise him—you understand, flatter him a little. Make him think he's a king."

"Oh-ho!" he laughed, whereat she was embarrassed. "That's the 'bug,' eh!"

"Well," she hesitated, awkwardly, "he is rather vain."

Baptiste was thoughtful. Rev. McCarthy was vain.... He must be praised if one was to get along with him.... Make him think he was a king. His Majesty, Newton Justine, sounded very well as a title. All he needed now, then, was a crown. If necessary for peace in the family he would praise him, although it was not to his liking.

Jean Baptiste had little patience with people who must be praised. In his association he had chosen men, men who were too busy to look for or care for praise. But he failed to reckon then that he was facing another kind of person, one whom he was soon to learn.

His Majesty, Newton Justine, arrived on schedule the next morning, very serious of expression, and apparently tired into the bargain. Baptiste recalled when he saw him what he had been advised with regards to making him think he was a king. "Well," sighed Baptiste, "providing 'His Majesty' is not a despot, we may be able to get along for a day or two."

Later, when convenient, Baptiste attempted and was apparently successful in making the matter so plain that despite his reputed dislike for fair reasoning, the Elder was compelled to call his daughter and say:

"Now, Orlean, you have heard. Are you in love with this man?" The melting smile she bestowed him with was quite sufficient, so seeing, he continued:

"And do you wish to become his wife?" She looked down into her lap then, turned her hands in childish fashion, and replied in a very small voice:

"Yes."

"Then, that settles it," said the Elder, and thereafter made himself very amiable. By the morrow arrangements had been completed for a simple little home wedding, and at two o'clock, the ceremony was performed.

And when the bride and groom had been kissed according to custom, a storm without broke of a sudden, and the wind blew and the rain fell in torrents. So terrible became the storm that the piano, which some one played loudly, as if to shut out the roar of the storm outside, could hardly be heard. And in the meantime, so dark did it become that at two thirty the lights had to be turned on, the people could hardly distinguish each other in the rooms. Nor did the storm abate as the afternoon wore on, but continued in mad fury far into the night and the guests were compelled to leave in the downpour and wind.

And there were among those who departed, many who thought and did not speak. They were, for the most part, the new Negro, hence loathe to admit of superstitions—besides, they had great respect for the two who were about to start upon matrimony's uncertain journey. But regardless of what they might have said openly, it was a long time before they forgot.