AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING

IT WAS in the autumn time, after the wheat and the oats, the rye, the barley and the flaxseed had all been gathered, and threshed, and also after the corn had been husked. Wheat, he had raised, thousands and thousands of bushels. And because there was war over all the old world, and the great powers of the land were in the grim struggle of trying to crush each other from the face of the earth, the power under which he lived was struggling with the task of feeding a portion of those engaged in the struggle. And because Black Rust had impaired the spring wheat yield those thousands of bushels he raised, he had sold at a price so high that he had sufficient to redeem at last the land he was about to lose and money left for future development into the bargain.

He sat alone at this moment in a stateroom aboard a great continental limited, just out of Omaha and speeding westward to the Pacific coast. As was his customary wont, his thoughts were prolific. But for once—and maybe for the first time, on the whole, he was satisfied,—he was contented—and last, but not least, he was happy.

Being happy, however, is not quite possible alone. No, and Jean Baptiste was not alone. And here is what had happened.

Jack Stewart had told him the story. And in the story told, one great mystery was solved. He now understood why Agnes' eyes had been so baffling. Simple, too, in a measure. To begin with, her mother had possessed rare brown eyes, he had seen by her picture, because Agnes' mother had not been a white woman at all, but in truth was of Ethiopian extraction. This was a part of the story Jack Stewart had told him. He had met and married her mother on a trip from the West Indies where she had lived, to Glasgow; the marriage being decided upon quickly, for in truth the woman was fleeing. In London some years before, she had been the pupil of a learned minister, who had become an infidel, and also unscrupulous. But we know the story—at least a part of it—of Augustus M. Barr, alias, Isaac M. Barr; alias—but it does not matter. We are concerned with Agnes' mother. Her mother had inherited a small fortune from Agnes' grandma and this Barr had sought to secure. To do so, he had followed Jack Stewart and his wife, Agnes' mother to Jerusalem. There he had met Isaac Syfe, the Jew, whom he later brought to America. He did not find the woman he had followed there, but on his return to England he did find Peter Kaden who was married to Christine. Kaden was involved in a murder case, was accused, and had been sentenced to Australia for the rest of his natural life. It was Barr who saved him, and the fee Kaden paid was Christine. Barr accommodated him by bringing him to America where he placed all three, including himself, on homesteads. Syfe settled with him in cash by taking a large loan on his homestead and giving Barr the proceeds.

But Kaden was in the way. He had never been comfortable in the new country with Christine the wife of another and living so near, so Barr sent Christine away and drove Kaden to suicide. Later at Lincoln, Nebraska she left him and went out of his life forever. Barr had secured Kaden's homestead, and all this Jack Stewart knew, but had never disclosed. Barr lost track of Agnes' mother, but knew that somewhere in the world there was a treasure but not as great as he had thought it was—about ten thousand dollars in all.

While Jean Baptiste was absorbed in these thoughts, the door was opened quietly, and closed. Some one had entered the stateroom and his ears caught the light rustle of a skirt. His eyes were upon the landscape, but suddenly they saw nothing, for his eyes had been covered by a pair of soft hands.

"I knew it was you," he said, happily, as he drew her into the seat beside him, between himself and the window.

"What are you thinking of, my Jean," she said then.

"Of what I have been thinking ever since the day when we understood that you and I after all are of the same blood."

"Oh, you have," she chimed, and drawing his face close with her hands, she kissed him ardently.

"Isn't it beautiful, Agnes? Just grand!"

"Oh, Jean, you make me so happy."

"You are honestly happy, dear?" he inquired for the hundredth time.

"I couldn't be happier," and she reposed in his arms.

"Have truly forgotten that you are an Ethiopian, and must share what is Ethiopia's?"

"Will share what is yours, my Jean."

"Always so beautifully have you said that."

"Have I, now, really?"

"Do you recall the day when I forgot, dear, The Custom of the Country—and its law?"

"How could I forget it?"

"And what followed?"

"I cannot forget that, either. But Jean, do you want me to?"

"Agnes, we must both forget what followed. Still, when we think how kind fate has been to us, after all, we must feel grateful."

"Oh, how much I do. But, Jean—it was such a sacrifice...."

He was thoughtful for a time, and from the expression on his face, the present was far away.

"Please, dear," she said, taking his hand and fondling it. "When you happen to think of it; will you try never to allow yourself to resume that expression—that expression again?"

He looked down at her.

"Expression?"

"Like you wore just then."

"Oh."

"You see, it seems to bring back events in your life that we want to forget."

"You mean, I—"

"Yes," she said slowly, "you—we understand each other and everything that has concerned each other, don't we, Jean?"

"Of course we do, Agnes. We have always—but there, now!" and he smothered the rest of it in a fond caress.

"Wasn't it strange," she mused after a time. "I could never understand it. I saw it in my eyes before we left Indiana. And then I had that strange dream and saw you." She paused and played with his fingers. "But I never felt the same afterwards. Somehow I felt that something strange, something unusual was going to happen in my life, and now when I look back upon it and am so happy," whereupon she grasped tightly the fingers she held—"I feel it just had to be."

"Do you reckon your father understood the love that was between us?"

"I think he did. And he started more than once about that time to tell me something. He went so far once as to say that if you liked me, and I cut him off. Afterwards I could see that it worried you and my heart went out to you more than ever. And then you reached your decision. I saw it, and it seems that I liked you more for the man you were."

"Did you love the man you were engaged to?"

"Jean!"

He laughed sheepishly, and patted her shoulder. He was sorry, that he had asked her such a question, and he resolved thereupon never to do so again. Something dark passed before him—terrible years when he had suffered much. She was speaking again.

"You know I never loved any one in the world but you."

THE END

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Obvious typos and printer errors have been corrected without comment.

With the exception of obvious printer errors, the following changes have been made in this text:

1. Page 321: "truck" changed to "struck" in the phrase, "hope it hasn't struck...."

2. Page 442: "We'll" changed to "He'll" in the phrase, "He'll get them tomorrow morning...."

Inconsistencies in the author's spelling, punctuation, and use of hyphens have been retained as in the original book.

Unconventional spelling has been retained in words such as (but not limited to) the following:

weazened
uproarously
flustrated
glabbed
aimiably
counciled

In the original publication of The Homesteader, letters between various characters are sometimes printed in smaller font, and sometimes are printed in normal-sized font. In this html version, changes in font size reflect the font sizes in the original text.