Dr. Sevier

Richling raised his thin hand, and said pleasantly: —

“It’s no use. You can’t understand; it wouldn’t be possible to explain; for you simply don’t know Mary.”

“But there are some things I do know. Just think; she’s with her mother where she is. Imagine her falling ill here, – as you’ve told me she used to do, – and you with that bakery on your hands.”

Richling looked grave.

“Oh no,” continued the little man. “You’ve been so brave and patient, you and your wife, both, – do be so a little bit longer! Live close; save your money; go on rising in value in your business; and after a little you’ll rise clear out of the sphere you’re now in. You’ll command your own time; you’ll build your own little home; and life and happiness and usefulness will be fairly and broadly open before you.” Richling gave heed with a troubled face, and let his companion draw him into the shadow of that “St. Charles” from the foot of whose stair-way he had once been dragged away as a vagrant.

“See, Richling! Every few weeks you may read in some paper of how a man on some ferry-boat jumps for the wharf before the boat has touched it, falls into the water, and – Make sure! Be brave a little longer – only a little longer! Wait till you’re sure!”

“I’m sure enough!”

“Oh, no, you’re not! Wait till this political broil is over. They say Lincoln is elected. If so, the South is not going to submit to it. Nobody can tell what the consequences are to be. Suppose we should have war? I don’t think we shall, but suppose we should? There would be a general upheaval, commercial stagnation, industrial collapse, shrinkage everywhere! Wait till it’s over. It may not be two weeks hence; it can hardly be more than ninety days at the outside. If it should the North would be ruined, and you may be sure they are not going to allow that. Then, when all starts fair again, bring your wife and baby. I’ll tell you what to do, Richling!”

“Will you?” responded the listener, with an amiable laugh that the little man tried to echo.

“Yes. Ask Dr. Sevier! He’s right here in the next street. He was on your side last time; maybe he’ll be so now.”

“Done!” said Richling. They went. The rector said he would do an errand in Canal street, while Richling should go up and see the physician.

Dr. Sevier was in.

“Why, Richling!” He rose to receive him. “How are you?” He cast his eye over his visitor with professional scrutiny. “What brings you here?”

“To tell you that I’ve written for Mary,” said Richling, sinking wearily into a chair.

“Have you mailed the letter?”

“I’m taking it to the post-office now.”

The Doctor threw one leg energetically over the other, and picked up the same paper-knife that he had handled when, two years and a half before, he had sat thus, talking to Mary and John on the eve of their separation.

“Richling, I’ll tell you. I’ve been thinking about this thing for some time, and I’ve decided to make you a proposal. I look at you and at Mary and at the times – the condition of the country – the probable future – everything. I know you, physically and mentally, better than anybody else does. I can say the same of Mary. So, of course, I don’t make this proposal impulsively, and I don’t want it rejected.

“Richling, I’ll lend you two thousand to twenty-five hundred dollars, payable at your convenience, if you will just go to your room, pack up, go home, and take from six to twelve months’ holiday with your wife and child.”

The listener opened his mouth in blank astonishment.

“Why, Doctor, you’re jesting! You can’t suppose” —

“I don’t suppose anything. I simply want you to do it.”

“Well, I simply can’t!”

“Did you ever regret taking my advice, Richling?”

“No, never. But this – why, it’s utterly impossible! Me leave the results of four years’ struggle to go holidaying? I can’t understand you, Doctor.”

“’Twould take weeks to explain.”

“It’s idle to think of it,” said Richling, half to himself.

“Go home and think of it twenty-four hours,” said the Doctor.

“It is useless, Doctor.”

“Very good, then; send for Mary. Mail your letter.”

“You don’t mean it!” said Richling.

“Yes, I do. Send for Mary; and tell her I advised it.” He turned quickly away to his desk, for Richling’s eyes had filled with tears; but turned again and rose as Richling rose. They joined hands.

“Yes, Richling, send for her. It’s the right thing to do – if you will not do the other. You know I want you to be happy.”

“Doctor, one word. In your opinion is there going to be war?”

“I don’t know. But if there is it’s time for husband and wife and child to draw close together. Good-day.”

And so the letter went.

CHAPTER XLIX.

A BUNDLE OF HOPES

Richling insisted, in the face of much scepticism on the part of the baker’s widow, that he felt better, was better, and would go on getting better, now that the weather was cool once more.

“Well, I hope you vill, Mr. Richlin’, dtat’s a fect. ’Specially ven yo’ vife comin’. Dough I could a-tooken care ye choost tso koot as vot she couldt.”

“But maybe you couldn’t take care of her as well as I can,” said the happy Richling.

“Oh, tdat’s a tdifferendt. A voman kin tek care herself.”

Visiting the French market on one of these glad mornings, as his business often required him to do, he fell in with Narcisse, just withdrawing from the celebrated coffee-stand of Rose Nicaud. Richling stopped in the moving crowd and exchanged salutations very willingly; for here was one more chance to hear himself tell the fact of Mary’s expected coming.

“So’y, Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, whipping away the pastry crumbs from his lap with a handkerchief and wiping his mouth, “not to encounteh you a lill biffo’, to join in pahtaking the cup what cheeahs at the same time whilce it invigo’ates; to-wit, the coffee-cup – as the maxim say. I dunno by what fawmule she makes that coffee, but ’tis astonishin’ how ’tis good, in fact. I dunno if you’ll billieve me, but I feel almost I could pahtake anotheh cup – ? ’Tis the tooth.” He gave Richling time to make any handsome offer that might spontaneously suggest itself, but seeing that the response was only an over-gay expression of face, he added, “But I conclude no. In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, thass a thing I have discovud, – that too much coffee millytates ag’inst the chi’og’aphy; and thus I abstain. Well, seh, ole Abe is elected.”

“Yes,” rejoined Richling, “and there’s no telling what the result will be.”

“You co’ect, Mistoo Itchlin.” Narcisse tried to look troubled.

“I’ve got a bit of private news that I don’t think you’ve heard,” said Richling. And the Creole rejoined promptly: —

“Well, I thought I saw something on yo’ thoughts – if you’ll excuse my tautology. Thass a ve’y diffycult to p’event sometime’. But, Mistoo Itchlin, I trus’ ’tis not you ’ave allowed somebody to swin’le you? – confiding them too indiscweetly, in fact?” He took a pretty attitude, his eyes reposing in Richling’s.

Richling laughed outright.

“No, nothing of that kind. No, I” —

“Well, I’m ve’y glad,” interrupted Narcisse.

“Oh, no, ’tisn’t trouble at all! I’ve sent for Mrs. Richling. We’re going to resume housekeeping.”

Narcisse gave a glad start, took his hat off, passed it to his left hand, extended his right, bowed from the middle with princely grace, and, with joy breaking all over his face, said: —

“Mistoo Itchlin, in fact, – shake!”

They shook.

“Yesseh – an’ many ’appy ’eturn! I dunno if you kin billieve that, Mistoo Itchlin; but I was juz about to ’ead that in yo’ physio’nomie! Yesseh. But, Mistoo Itchlin, when shall the happy o’casion take effect?”

“Pretty soon. Not as soon as I thought, for I got a despatch yesterday, saying her mother is very ill, and of course I telegraphed her to stay till her mother is at least convalescent. But I think that will be soon. Her mother has had these attacks before. I have good hopes that before long Mrs. Richling will actually be here.”

Richling began to move away down the crowded market-house, but Narcisse said: —

“Thass yo’ di’ection? ’Tis the same, mine. We may accompany togetheh – if you’ll allow yo’ ’umble suvvant?”

“Come along! You do me honor!” Richling laid his hand on Narcisse’s shoulder and they went at a gait quickened by the happy husband’s elation. Narcisse was very proud of the touch, and, as they began to traverse the vegetable market, took the most populous arcade.

“Mistoo Itchlin,” he began again, “I muz congwatulate you! You know I always admiah yo’ lady to excess. But appopo of that news, I might infawm you some intelligens consunning myseff.”

“Good!” exclaimed Richling. “For it’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Yesseh, – as you may say, – yes. Faw in fact, Mistoo Itchlin, I ’ave ass Dr. Seveeah to haugment me.”

“Hurrah!” cried Richling. He coughed and laughed and moved aside to a pillar and coughed, until people looked at him, and lifted his eyes, tired but smiling, and, paying his compliments to the paroxysm in one or two ill-wishes, wiped his eyes at last, and said: —

“And the Doctor augmented you?”

“Well, no, I can’t say that – not p’ecisely.”

“Why, what did he do?”

“Well, he ’efuse’ me, in fact.”

“Why – but that isn’t good news, then.”

Narcisse gave his head a bright, argumentative twitch.

“Yesseh. ’Tis t’ue he ’efuse’; but ad the same time – I dunno – I thing he wasn’ so mad about it as he make out. An’ you know thass one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, whilce they got life they got hope; and hence I ente’tain the same.”

They had reached that flagged area without covering or inclosure, before the third of the three old market-houses, where those dealers in the entire miscellanies of a housewife’s equipment, excepting only stoves and furniture, spread their wares and fabrics in the open weather before the Bazar market rose to give them refuge. He grew suddenly fierce.

“But any’ow I don’t care! I had the spunk to ass ’im, an’ he din ’ave the spunk to dischawge me! All he can do; ’tis to shake the fis’ of impatience.” He was looking into his companion’s face, as they walked, with an eye distended with defiance.

“Look out!” exclaimed Richling, reaching a hurried hand to draw him aside. Narcisse swerved just in time to avoid stepping into a pile of crockery, but in so doing went full into the arms of a stately female figure dressed in the crispest French calico and embarrassed with numerous small packages of dry goods. The bundles flew hither and yon. Narcisse tried to catch the largest as he saw it going, but only sent it farther than it would have gone, and as it struck the ground it burst like a pomegranate. But the contents were white: little thin, square-folded fractions of barred jaconet and white flannel; rolls of slender white lutestring ribbon; very narrow papers of tiny white pearl buttons, minute white worsted socks, spools of white floss, cards of safety-pins, pieces of white castile soap, etc.

“Mille pardons, madame!” exclaimed Narcisse; “I make you a thousan’ poddons, madam!”

He was ill-prepared for the majestic wrath that flashed from the eyes and radiated from the whole dilating, and subsiding, and reëxpanding, and rising, and stiffening form of Kate Ristofalo!

“Officerr,” she panted, – for instantly there was a crowd, and a man with the silver-crescent badge was switching the assemblage on the legs with his cane to make room, – “Officerr,” she gasped, levelling her tremulous finger at Narcisse, “arrist that man!”

“Mrs. Ristofalo!” exclaimed Richling, “don’t do that! It was all an accident! Why, don’t you see it’s Narcisse, – my friend?”

“Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, sur, he did! Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, he did!” And up she went and down she went, shortening and lengthening, swelling and decreasing. “Yes, yes, I know yer frind; indeed I do! I paid two dollars and a half fur his acquaintans nigh upon three years agone, sur. Yer frind!” And still she went up and down, enlarging, diminishing, heaving her breath and waving her chin around, and saying, in broken utterances, – while a hackman on her right held his whip in her auditor’s face, crying, “Carriage, sir? Carriage, sir?” —

“Why didn’ – he rin agin – a man, sur! I – I – oh! I wish Mr. Ristofalah war heer! – to teach um how – to walk! – Yer frind, sur – ixposing me!” She pointed to Narcisse and the policeman gathering up the scattered lot of tiny things. Her eyes filled with tears, but still shot lightning. “If he’s hurrted me, he’s got ’o suffer fur ud, Mr. Richlin’!” And she expanded again.

“Carriage, sir, carriage?” continued the man with the whip.

“Yes!” said Richling and Mrs. Ristofalo in a breath. She took his arm, the hackman seized the bundles from the policeman, threw open his hack door, laid the bundles on the front seat, and let down the folding steps. The crowd dwindled away to a few urchins.

“Officerr,” said Mrs. Ristofalo, her foot on the step and composure once more in her voice, “ye needn’t arrist um. I could of done ud, sur,” she added to Narcisse himself, “but I’m too much of a laydy, sur!” And she sank together and stretched herself up once more, entered the vehicle, and sat with a perpendicular back, her arms folded on her still heaving bosom, and her head high.

As to her ability to have that arrest made, Kate Ristofalo was in error. Narcisse smiled to himself; for he was conscious of one advantage that overtopped all the sacredness of female helplessness, public right, or any other thing whatsoever. It lay in the simple fact that he was acquainted with the policeman. He bowed blandly to the officer, stepped backward, touching his hat, and walked away, the policeman imitating each movement with the promptness and faithfulness of a mirror.

“Aren’t ye goin’ to get in, Mr. Richlin’?” asked Mrs. Ristofalo. She smiled first and then looked alarmed.

“I – I can’t very well – if you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

“Ah, Mr. Richlin’!” – she pouted girlishly. “Gettin’ proud!” She gave her head a series of movements, as to say she might be angry if she would, but she wouldn’t. “Ye won’t know uz when Mrs. Richlin’ comes.”

Richling laughed, but she gave a smiling toss to indicate that it was a serious matter.

“Come,” she insisted, patting the seat beside her with honeyed persuasiveness, “come and tell me all about ud. Mr. Ristofalah nivver goes into peticklers, an’ so I har’ly know anny more than jist she’s a-comin’. Come, git in an’ tell me about Mrs. Richlin’ – that is, if ye like the subject – and I don’t believe ye do.” She lifted her finger, shook it roguishly close to her own face, and looked at him sidewise. “Ah, nivver mind, sur! that’s rright! Furgit yer old frinds – maybe ye wudden’t do ud if ye knewn everythin’. But that’s rright; that’s the way with min.” She suddenly changed to subdued earnestness, turned the catch of the door, and, as the door swung open, said: “Come, if ud’s only fur a bit o’ the way – if ud’s only fur a ming-ute. I’ve got somethin’ to tell ye.”

“I must get out at Washington Market,” said Richling, as he got in. The hack hurried down Old Levee street.

“And now,” said she, merriment dancing in her eyes, her folded arms tightening upon her bosom, and her lips struggling against their own smile, “I’m just a good mind not to tell ye at ahll!”

Her humor was contagious and Richling was ready to catch it. His own eye twinkled.

“Well, Mrs. Ristofalo, of course, if you feel any embarrassment” —

“Ye villain!” she cried, with delighted indignation, “I didn’t mean nawthing about that, an’ ye knew ud! Here, git out o’ this carridge!” But she made no effort to eject him.

“Mary and I are interested in all your hopes,” said Richling, smiling softly upon the damaged bundle which he was making into a tight package again on his knee. “You’ll tell me your good news if it’s only that I may tell her, will you not?”

“I will. And it’s joost this, – Mr. Richlin’, – that if there be’s a war Mr. Ristofalah’s to be lit out o’ prison.”

“I’m very glad!” cried Richling, but stopped short, for Mrs. Ristofalo’s growing dignity indicated that there was more to be told.

“I’m sure ye air, Mr. Richlin’; and I’m sure ye’ll be glad – a heap gladder nor I am – that in that case he’s to be Captain Ristofalah.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, sur.” The wife laid her palm against her floating ribs and breathed a sigh. “I don’t like ud, Mr. Richlin’. No, sur. I don’t like tytles.” She got her fan from under her handkerchief and set it a-going. “I nivver liked the idee of bein’ a tytled man’s wife. No, sur.” She shook her head, elevating it as she shook it. “It creates too much invy, Mr. Richlin’. Well, good-by.” The carriage was stopping at the Washington Market. “Now, don’t ye mintion it to a livin’ soul, Mr. Richlin’!”

Richling said “No.”

“No, sur; fur there be’s manny a slip ’tuxt the cup an’ the lip, ye know; an’ there may be no war, after all, and we may all be disapp’inted. But he’s bound to be tleared if he’s tried, and don’t ye see – I – I don’t want um to be a captain, anyhow, don’t ye see?”

Richling saw, and they parted.

Thus everybody hoped. Dr. Sevier, wifeless, childless, had his hopes too, nevertheless. Hopes for the hospital and his many patients in it and out of it; hopes for his town and his State; hopes for Richling and Mary; and hopes with fears, and fears with hopes, for the great sisterhood of States. Richling had one hope more. After some weeks had passed Dr. Sevier ventured once more to say: —

“Richling, go home. Go to your wife. I must tell you you’re no ordinary sick man. Your life is in danger.”

“Will I be out of danger if I go home?” asked Richling.

Dr. Sevier made no answer.

“Do you still think we may have war?” asked Richling again.

“I know we shall.”

“And will the soldiers come back,” asked the young man, smilingly, “when they find their lives in danger?”

“Now, Richling, that’s another thing entirely; that’s the battle-field.”

“Isn’t it all the same thing, Doctor? Isn’t it all a battle-field?”

The Doctor turned impatiently, disdaining to reply. But in a moment he retorted: —

“We take wounded men off the field.”

“They don’t take themselves off,” said Richling, smiling.

“Well,” rejoined the Doctor, rising and striding toward a window, “a good general may order a retreat.”

“Yes, but – maybe I oughtn’t to say what I was thinking” —

“Oh, say it.”

“Well, then, he don’t let his surgeon order it. Doctor,” continued Richling, smiling apologetically as his friend confronted him, “you know, as you say, better than any one else, all that Mary and I have gone through – nearly all – and how we’ve gone through it. Now, if my life should end here shortly, what would the whole thing mean? It would mean nothing. Doctor; it would be meaningless. No, sir; this isn’t the end. Mary and I” – his voice trembled an instant and then was firm again – “are designed for a long life. I argue from the simple fitness of things, – this is not the end.”

Dr. Sevier turned his face quickly toward the window, and so remained.

CHAPTER L.

FALL IN!

There came a sound of drums. Twice on such a day, once the day before, thrice the next day, till by and by it was the common thing. High-stepping childhood, with laths and broom-handles at shoulder, was not fated, as in the insipid days of peace, to find, on running to the corner, its high hopes mocked by a wagon of empty barrels rumbling over the cobble-stones. No; it was the Washington Artillery, or the Crescent Rifles, or the Orleans Battalion, or, best of all, the blue-jacketed, white-leggined, red-breeched, and red-fezzed Zouaves; or, better than the best, it was all of them together, their captains stepping backward, sword in both hands, calling “Gauche! gauche!” (“Left! left!”) “Guide right!” – “Portez armes!” and facing around again, throwing their shining blades stiffly to belt and epaulette, and glancing askance from under their abundant plumes to the crowded balconies above. Yea, and the drum-majors before, and the brilliant-petticoated vivandières behind!

What pomp! what giddy rounds! Pennons, cock-feathers, clattering steeds, pealing salvos, banners, columns, ladies’ favors, balls, concerts, toasts, the Free Gift Lottery – don’t you recollect? – and this uniform and that uniform, brother a captain, father a colonel, uncle a major, the little rector a chaplain, Captain Ristofalo of the Tiger Rifles; the levee covered with munitions of war, steam-boats unloading troops, troops, troops, from Opelousas, Attakapas, Texas; and a supper to this company, a flag to that battalion, farewell sermon to the Washington Artillery, tears and a kiss to a spurred and sashed lover, hurried weddings, – no end of them, – a sword to such a one, addresses by such and such, serenades to Miss and to Mademoiselle.

Soon it will have been a quarter of a century ago!

And yet – do you not hear them now, coming down the broad, granite-paved, moonlit street, the light that was made for lovers glancing on bayonet and sword soon to be red with brothers’ blood, their brave young hearts already lifted up with the triumph of battles to come, and the trumpets waking the midnight stillness with the gay notes of the Cracovienne? —

“Again, again, the pealing drum,The clashing horn, they come, they come,And lofty deeds and daring highBlend with their notes of victory.”

Ah! the laughter; the music; the bravado; the dancing; the songs! “Voilà l’Zouzou!” “Dixie!” “Aux armes, vos citoyens!” “The Bonnie Blue Flag!” – it wasn’t bonnie very long. Later the maidens at home learned to sing a little song, – it is among the missing now, – a part of it ran: —

“Sleeping on grassy couches;Pillowed on hillocks damp;Of martial fame how little we knowTill brothers are in the camp.”

By and by they began to depart. How many they were! How many, many! We had too lightly let them go. And when all were gone, and they of Carondelet street and its tributaries, massed in that old gray, brittle-shanked regiment, the Confederate Guards, were having their daily dress parade in Coliseum place, and only they and the Foreign Legion remained; when sister Jane made lint, and flour was high, and the sounds of commerce were quite hushed, and in the custom-house gun-carriages were a-making, and in the foundries big guns were being cast, and the cotton gun-boats and the rams were building, and at the rotting wharves the masts of a few empty ships stood like dead trees in a blasted wilderness, and poor soldiers’ wives crowded around the “Free Market,” and grass began to spring up in the streets, – they were many still, while far away; but some marched no more, and others marched on bleeding feet, in rags; and it was very, very hard for some of us to hold the voice steady and sing on through the chorus of the little song: —

“Brave boys are they!Gone at their country’s call.And yet – and yet – we cannot forgetThat many brave boys must fall.”

Oh! Shiloh, Shiloh!

But before the gloom had settled down upon us it was a gay dream.

“Mistoo Itchlin, in fact ’ow you ligue my uniefawm? You think it suit my style? They got about two poun’ of gole lace on that uniefawm. Yesseh. Me, the h-only thing – I don’ ligue those epaulette’. So soon ev’ybody see that on me, ’tis ‘Lieut’nan’!’ in thiz place, an’ ‘Lieut’nan’!’ in that place. My de’seh, you’d thing I’m a majo’-gen’l, in fact. Well, of co’se, I don’ ligue that.”

“And so you’re a lieutenant?”

“Third! Of the Chasseurs-á-Pied! Coon he’p ’t, in fact; the fellehs elected me. Goin’ at Pensacola tomaw. Dr. Seveeah continue my sala’y whilce I’m gone. no matteh the len’th. Me, I don’ care, so long the sala’y continue, if that waugh las’ ten yeah! You ah pe’haps goin’ ad the ball to-nighd, Mistoo Itchlin? I dunno ’ow ’tis – I suppose you’ll be aztonizh’ w’en I infawm you – that ball wemine me of that battle of Wattaloo! Did you evva yeh those line’ of Lawd By’on, —

‘Theh was a soun’ of wibalwy by night,W’en – ’Ush-’ark! – A deep saun’ stwike’ – ?

Thaz by Lawd By’on. Yesseh. Well” —

The Creole lifted his right hand energetically, laid its inner edge against the brass buttons of his képi, and then waved it gracefully abroad: —

“Au ’evoi’, Mistoo Itchlin. I leave you to defen’ the city.”

“To-morrow,” in those days of unreadiness and disconnection, glided just beyond reach continually. When at times its realization was at length grasped, it was away over on the far side of a fortnight or farther. However, the to-morrow for Narcisse came at last.