MORE OF THE PREACHER'S WORK
JEAN BAPTISTE was thoughtful for a long time after the other had left him. He had heard before he married Orlean that the Reverend was the father of two illegitimate children, but from Speed's story he had met the whole of it. Not only was he the father of two illegitimate children, but he had taken another man's wife to become so—and all this while he was one of the most influential men in the church!
This fact, however, did not cause Baptiste any wonderment. It was something he had become accustomed to. It seemed that the church contained so many of the same kind—from reports,—until it was a common expectation that a preacher was permitted to do the very worst things—things that nobody else would have the conscience to do. He arose presently and going to the bar, ordered another bottle of beer. He looked around the large room while he drank at the usual class who frequented the place. He knew that here and there among them were crooks, thieves, "con" men, gunmen, and gamblers. Many of these men had perhaps even committed murder—and that for money. Yet there was not one he was positive, that would deliberately separate a man and his wife for spite. And that was the crime this preacher father-in-law of his had committed.
Always in the mind of this man of the prairie this played. It followed him everywhere; it slept with him, arose with him, and retired with him. And all through long sleepless nights it flitted about in his dreams like an eternal spectre, it gave him no peace. Gradually it had brought him to a feeling that the only justifiable action would be to follow the beast to his lair and kill him upon sight. Often this occurred to him, and at such times he allowed his mind to recall murder cases of various phases, and wondered if such a feeling as he was experiencing, was the kind men had before committing murder. Then if so, what a relief it must be to the mind to kill. He had a vision of this arch hypocrite writhing at his feet, with death in his sinful eyes, and his tongue protruding from his mouth.
He drank the beer and then ordered liquor. Somehow he wanted to still that mania that was growing within him. He had struggled for happiness in the world, for success and contentment, and he did not wish his mind to dwell on the subject of murder. But he was glad that this man had left the city. A man might be able to accept a great deal of rebuke, and endure much; but sometimes the sight of one who has wronged him might cause him for a moment to forget all his good intentions and manly resolutions. Yes, he was glad that Reverend McCarthy had left the city, and he shuddered a little when he recalled with a grimace that he had traveled these many miles to see and reckon with his wife.
"Well, you are here," he heard then, and turned to greet Glavis.
"Oh, hello, Glavis," he returned with a tired expression about his eyes from the effect of the strain under which he had been laboring. "Have a drink."
"An old-time cocktail," Glavis said to the bartender. He then turned to Baptiste.
"Well, how's everything over home?" said Baptiste, coming directly to the point.
"Your wife's sick," said Glavis a little awkwardly.