OH, MERCIFUL GOD, CLOSE THOU MINE EYES!

REVEREND NEWTON JUSTINE MCCARTHY had once lived in Peoria, Illinois, and was well acquainted with the late Robert Ingersoll. Moreover, he had admired the noted orator, and although he had not the courage, in truth, he believed as Ingersoll believed. And because he did, and was forced to keep his true convictions a secret, while he preached the gospel he did not believe, he had grown to hate almost all people. But N.J. McCarthy was not aware of this fact himself.

Ever since he brought his daughter home, and had thereby parted her from the man she married, he had never been the same. Always he was troubled with something he could not understand. His dreams were bad. The awful sensations he very often experienced while in slumber, grew so annoying that at times he found that he was almost afraid to sleep. Then, a persistent illness continually knocked at his door. The truth of it was, that he was battling with a conscience he had for years crucified. But it would persist. So deep had he sowed the habits he followed, and so intrenched were the roots of these habits, until it was no easy task to uproot them.

He had left Mrs. Pruitt near midnight of the day when Jean Baptiste had arrived on his trip in a last effort to secure his wife. The family had retired before he arrived home, and having some business in the rear of the house, he passed through the room which contained the bed wherein his daughter, Orlean, lay in peaceful slumber. When he was returning he paused briefly to observe the face of the sleeping girl in the moonlight. Peacefully she slept, and for the first time in his life he saw therein something he had never seen before. He felt his flesh and wondered at the feeling that was come over him. It seemed that he was asleep, but positively he was awake. He was awake, and looking into the sleeping face of his daughter. But if he was awake, what was it he saw?

Surely not. But as he stood over her, he thought he could see her eyes open, and look at him strangely, regard him in a way she had never done before. And as she looked at him, he thought she raised her hand that lay under the cover, and with her forefinger leveled, she pointed at him. In the trance he imagined he could hear her voice. She called him:

"Father?" And betimes he answered.

"Yes, daughter."

"Where is my husband?" He gave a start. He thought he caught at something, and then he heard her again:

"You have sent him away, out of my life, and the day is coming when you will be called upon to answer for your sins!"

He thought he was trembling. All about him was turmoil. He saw the people, the friends of the family, and all the people he had preached to in thirty years, and all were pointing an accusing finger at him. And out of the chaos he heard them crying: "Shame, oh shame! That you should be so evil, so vile, such a hypocrite, and let your evil fall upon your own daughter!" He saw then the wife he had taken from Speed. He saw that one in his misery, he saw him sink, and renounce from weakness the sentiments he had started in the world to teach. He saw him struggle vainly, and then saw him fall, low, lower, until at last the flames of hell had swallowed him up. "Merciful God," he cried, and he was sure he staggered. "Was it I who brought all this?" But before he could recover, the procession kept passing.

Behind Speed came the wife he had robbed him of. She carried in her arms a baby that he had given her. By the hand she led the other illegitimate offspring. There they were, the innocents that had no name. He saw the bent head of the woman, and saw the grief and anguish in her face. He saw her suddenly stop and fall, and while she lay upon the earth, her children were taken, and grew up surrounded with all that was bad and evil. He saw one suddenly dead, while still a boy, murdered by the companions he kept. He saw his young body in the morgue. And before all this had passed, he saw this one's mother again, the woman he had fooled, in the depth of the "tenderloin." He saw her a solicitor, and he could hear himself groan in agony.

The years passed, and while he grew older, other things came and went; a train of evil deeds he had committed, and at last came his own daughter. He saw her passing and when he saw her face, the agony therein frightened him. Was it so! Had he, done that, too? Was he the cause of what he saw in this girl's face? Suddenly he saw her change, and in the distance he saw Jean Baptiste, and all he had suffered. "Oh, merciful God, close thou mine eyes," he thought he could hear himself call. But his eyes would not close, and the one to whom he appealed appeared to be deaf, and the procession continued.

He saw Orlean stretch her hands out to Baptiste, and he came toward her with arms outstretched, and he thought he heard a voice, the voice of the man Jean Baptiste. And the words he cried rang in his ears: "My wife, oh, Orlean, my wife! Come unto me!"—But lo! When the two had came close, and the man would have held her to him, a shadow suddenly rose between them, and shut them out from each other's sight. He thought he raised his voice to call out to the one of the shadow. And when he called to him, and the one of the shadow turned, and behold! It was himself! He suddenly came out of the trance, to see Orlean sitting up in bed. He caught his breath and held his hand over his heart, as he heard her voice:

"Papa, is that you? My, how you frightened me! I—" and then she quickly stopped. She had started to say, "I thought it was Jean," for in truth she had dreamed of him, and that he had come for her, and she was glad, and when she arose to go she had awakened to find her father standing over her.

"Yes, yes, my dear," he said rather awkwardly. "It is I. I stopped to look at you and seemed to forget myself." He hurried away then, and up the stairs to his room and went to bed, but it was near morning when he fell asleep.

It so happened when Jean Baptiste had gone upstairs to call on Mildred and her mother, he had knocked at the door below. A man lived there whom he had known in the years gone by and who had educated himself to be a lawyer. His name was Towles, Joseph Towles. Always before when he was in the city, he had called on Towles and his family, and when their door rose before him, on the impulse he had forgotten all else but to greet them. He pushed the bell, and no sooner had he done so than he recalled his mission, and that he was avoiding his acquaintances. He quickly passed upstairs but not before Mrs. Towles had opened the door and caught a glimpse of him passing.

She was aware of his difficulty, and had pretended to sympathize with him. But Mrs. Towles was a gossipy, penurious woman, and did not get along with her neighbors overhead. So when she saw Jean Baptiste passing up the stairs, and hurrying from her without speaking, she at once became angry, and with it apprehensive. She went back to where she had been working over some sewing. She was thoughtful, and then regarded the clock.

"I wonder what he is doing here?" she mused to herself. And then she suddenly brightened with an inspiration. "His wife, of course," she cried, and fell to thinking further.

She happened to be a close friend of a certain lady who lived next door to the McCarthys on Vernon Avenue, and it was to her that she decided to pay a visit on the morrow. And, of course she would discuss the fact that she had gotten a glimpse of Jean Baptiste, and would try to find out what she could.

It was the following afternoon that she found the time to visit her friend in Vernon Avenue. She passed by the house wherein lived the McCarthys, and made up her mind to call there later in company with her friend to hear the news.

"Why, Mrs. Towles!" cried her friend when she saw her face upon opening the door. "How nice it was of you to call, when I was not expecting you! Such a pleasant surprise," whereupon they kissed in womanly fashion. She took a seat by the window, for she wished to look into the street. The other took a chair just facing her, and together they fell to talking. As they sat there, Orlean suddenly came out of the house next door, down the steps, and passed before Mrs. Towles' gaze as she went up the street to Wabash Avenue to fill the engagement with Mrs. Merley.

"Oh, look," cried Mrs. Towles, pointing to the figure of the other. "There goes Orlean!"

The other strained her neck, and said:

"M-m."

"And I saw her husband last night."

"You did!" exclaimed the other in great surprise. She had a grown daughter who was very much accomplished, but unmarried. So she took a delight in such cases as Jean Baptiste's....

"I did," replied the other, making herself comfortable and getting ready to relate his strange actions.

"Well, well, now!" echoed the other, all attention.

"Yes," said Mrs. Towles, and then related all that had passed which was not anything but catching a glimpse of Baptiste as he had disappeared up the steps.

"I don't think they know next door, that he is in town," suggested the other.

"Don't they?"

"Why, not likely. You know the last time he was here they wouldn't admit him!" They eyed each other jubilantly, and then went on.

"Then we ought to go right over and inform them at once!" said Mrs. Towles.

"Just what we should do," agreed the other.

And so it happened that the Reverend learned that Jean Baptiste was in the city; but for once he was not excited. Somehow, he hoped that Jean would meet Orlean, and he knew then that she had gone out for that purpose. He knew that she was supposed to go to a matinÉe, and he realized from previous statements, that Mrs. Merley was the "go between."

So he took no part in the gossip that followed, nor did he for once sigh in self pity.

Perhaps after all he had decided not to interfere.