WEAR AND TEAR.
The arrangement for Dr. Sevier to place the loan of fifty dollars on his
own books at Richling's credit naturally brought Narcisse into relation
with it.
It was a case of love at first sight. From the moment the record of
Richling's "little quantity" slid from the pen to the page, Narcisse had
felt himself betrothed to it by destiny, and hourly supplicated the
awful fates to frown not upon the amorous hopes of him unaugmented.
Richling descended upon him once or twice and tore away from his embrace
small fractions of the coveted treasure, choosing, through a diffidence
which he mistook for a sort of virtue, the time of day when he would not
see Dr. Sevier; and at the third visitation took the entire golden
fleece away with him rather than encounter again the always more or less
successful courtship of the scorner of loans.
A faithful suitor, however, was not thus easily shaken off. Narcisse
became a frequent visitor at the Richlings', where he never mentioned
money; that part was left to moments of accidental meeting with Richling
in the street, which suddenly began to occur at singularly short
intervals.
Mary labored honestly and arduously to dislike him--to hold a repellent
attitude toward him. But he was too much for her. It was easy enough
when he was absent; but one look at his handsome face, so rife with
animal innocence, and despite herself she was ready to reward his
displays of sentiment and erudition with laughter that, mean what it
might, always pleased and flattered him.
"Can you help liking him?" she would ask John. "I can't, to save my
life!"
Had the treasure been earnings, Richling said--and believed--he could
firmly have repelled Narcisse's importunities. But coldly to withhold an
occasional modest heave-offering of that which was the free bounty of
another to him was more than he could do.
"But," said Mary, straightening his cravat, "you intend to pay up, and
he--you don't think I'm uncharitable, do you?"
"I'd rather give my last cent than think you so," replied John.
"Still,"--laying the matter before her with both open hands,--"if you
say plainly not to give him another cent I'll do as you say. The money's
no more mine than yours."
"Well, you can have all my share," said Mary, pleasantly.
So the weeks passed and the hoard dwindled.
"What has it got down to, now?" asked John, frowningly, on more than one
morning as he was preparing to go out. And Mary, who had been made
treasurer, could count it at a glance without taking it out of her
purse.
One evening, when Narcisse called, he found no one at home but Mrs.
Riley. The infant Mike had been stuffed with rice and milk and laid away
to slumber. The Richlings would hardly be back in less than an hour.
"I'm so'y," said Narcisse, with a baffled frown, as he sat down and Mrs.
Riley took her seat opposite. "I came to 'epay 'em some moneys which he
made me the loan--juz in a fwenly way. And I came to 'epay 'im. The
sum-total, in fact--I suppose he nevva mentioned you about that, eh?"
"No, sir; but, still, if"--
"No, and so I can't pay it to you. I'm so'y. Because I know he woon like
it, I know, if he fine that you know he's been bawing money to me. Well,
Misses Wiley, in fact, thass a _ve'y_ fine gen'leman and lady--that
Mistoo and Misses Itchlin, in fact?"
"Well, now, Mr. Narcisse, ye'r about right? She's just too good to
live--and he's not much better--ha! ha!" She checked her jesting mood.
"Yes, sur, they're very peaceable, quiet people. They're just simply
ferst tlass."
"'Tis t'ue," rejoined the Creole, fanning himself with his straw hat and
looking at the Pope. "And they handsome and genial, as the lite'ati say
on the noozpapeh. Seem like they almoze wedded to each otheh."
"Well, now, sir, that's the trooth!" She threw her open hand down with
emphasis.
"And isn't that as man and wife should be?"
"Yo' mighty co'ect, Misses Wiley!" Narcisse gave his pretty head a
little shake from side to side as he spoke.
"Ah! Mr. Narcisse,"--she pointed at herself,--"haven't I been a wife?
The husband and wife--they'd aht to jist be each other's guairdjian
angels! Hairt to hairt sur; sperit to sperit. All the rist is nawthing,
Mister Narcisse." She waved her hands. "Min is different from women,
sur." She looked about on the ceiling. Her foot noiselessly patted the
floor.
"Yes," said Narcisse, "and thass the cause that they dwess them dif'ent.
To show the dif'ence, you know."
"Ah! no. It's not the mortial frame, sur; it's the sperit. The sperit of
man is not the sperit of woman. The sperit of woman is not the sperit of
man. Each one needs the other, sur. They needs each other, sur, to
purify and strinthen and enlairge each other's speritu'l life. Ah, sur!
Doo not I feel those things, sur?" She touched her heart with one
backward-pointed finger, "_I_ doo. It isn't good for min to be
alone--much liss for women. Do not misunderstand me, sur; I speak as a
widder, sur--and who always will be--ah! yes, I will--ha! ha! ha!" She
hushed her laugh as if this were going too far, tossed her head, and
continued smiling.
So they talked on. Narcisse did not stay an hour, but there was
little of the hour left when he rose to go. They had passed a pleasant
time. The Creole, it is true, tried and failed to take the helm of
conversation. Mrs. Riley held it. But she steered well. She was still
expatiating on the "strinthenin'" spiritual value of the marriage
relation when she, too, stood up.
"And that's what Mr. and Madam Richlin's a-doin' all the time. And they
do ut to perfiction, sur--jist to perfiction!"
"I doubt it not, Misses Wiley. Well, Misses Wiley, I bid you _au
'evoi'_. I dunno if you'll pummit me, but I am compel to tell you,
Misses Wiley, I nevva yeh anybody in my life with such a educated and
talented conve'sation like yo'seff. Misses Wiley, at what univussity did
you gwaduate?"
"Well, reely, Mister--eh"--she fanned herself with broad sweeps of her
purple bordered palm-leaf--"reely, sur, if I don't furgit the name
I--I--I'll be switched! Ha! ha! ha!"
Narcisse joined in the laugh.
"Thaz the way, sometime," he said, and then with sudden gravity: "And,
by-the-by, Misses Wiley, speakin' of Mistoo Itchlin,--if you could baw'
me two dollahs an' a 'alf juz till tomaw mawnin--till I kin sen' it you
fum the office-- Because that money I've got faw Mistoo Itchlin is
in the shape of a check, and anyhow I'm c'owding me a little to pay that
whole sum-total to Mistoo Itchlin. I kin sen' it you firs' thing my bank
open tomaw mawnin."
Do you think he didn't get it?
* * *
"What has it got down to now?" John asked again, a few mornings after
Narcisse's last visit. Mary told him. He stepped a little way aside,
averting his face, dropped his forehead into his hand, and returned.
"I don't see--I don't see, Mary--I"--
"Darling," she replied, reaching and capturing both his hands, "who does
see? The rich _think_ they see; but do they, John? Now, _do_ they?"
The frown did not go quite off his face, but he took her head between
his hands and kissed her temple.
"You're always trying to lift me," he said.
"Don't you lift me?" she replied, looking up between his hands and
smiling.
"Do I?"
"You know you do. Don't you remember the day we took that walk, and you
said that after all it never is we who provide?" She looked at the
button of his coat, which she twirled in her fingers. "That word lifted
me."
"But suppose I can't practice the trust I preach?" he said.
"You do trust, though. You have trusted."
"Past tense," said John. He lifted her hands slowly away from him, and
moved toward the door of their chamber. He could not help looking back
at the eyes that followed him, and then he could not bear their look.
"I--I suppose a man mustn't trust too much," he said.
"Can he?" asked Mary, leaning against a table.
"Oh, yes, he can," replied John; but his tone lacked conviction.
"If it's the right kind?"
Her eyes were full of tears.
"I'm afraid mine's not the right kind, then," said John, and passed out
into and down the street.
But what a mind he took with him--what torture of questions! Was he
being lifted or pulled down? His tastes,--were they rising or sinking?
Were little negligences of dress and bearing and in-door attitude
creeping into his habits? Was he losing his discriminative sense of
quantity, time, distance? Did he talk of small achievements, small
gains, and small truths, as though they were great? Had he learned to
carp at the rich, and to make honesty the excuse for all penury? Had he
these various poverty-marks? He looked at himself outside and inside,
and feared to answer. One thing he knew,--that he was having great
wrestlings.
He turned his thoughts to Ristofalo. This was a common habit with him.
Not only in thought, but in person, he hovered with a positive
infatuation about this man of perpetual success.
Lately the Italian had gone out of town, into the country of La
Fourche, to buy standing crops of oranges. Richling fed his hope on the
possibilities that might follow Ristofalo's return. His friend would
want him to superintend the gathering and shipment of those crops--when
they should be ripe--away yonder in November. Frantic thought! A man and
his wife could starve to death twenty times before then.
Mrs. Riley's high esteem for John and Mary had risen from the date of
the Doctor's visit, and the good woman thought it but right somewhat to
increase the figures of their room-rent to others more in keeping with
such high gentility. How fast the little hoard melted away!
And the summer continued on,--the long, beautiful, glaring, implacable
summer; its heat quaking on the low roofs; its fig-trees dropping their
shrivelled and blackened leaves and writhing their weird, bare branches
under the scorching sun; the long-drawn, frying note of its cicada
throbbing through the mid-day heat from the depths of the becalmed oak;
its universal pall of dust on the myriad red, sleep-heavy blossoms of
the oleander and the white tulips of the lofty magnolia; its twinkling
pomegranates hanging their apples of scarlet and gold over the garden
wall; its little chameleons darting along the hot fence-tops; its
far-stretching, empty streets; its wide hush of idleness; its solitary
vultures sailing in the upper blue; its grateful clouds; its hot north
winds, its cool south winds; its gasping twilight calms; its gorgeous
nights,--the long, long summer lingered on into September.
One evening, as the sun was sinking below the broad, flat land, its
burning disk reddened by a low golden haze of suspended dust, Richling
passed slowly toward his home, coming from a lower part of the town by
way of the quadroon quarter. He was paying little notice, or none, to
his whereabouts, wending his way mechanically, in the dejected reverie
of weary disappointment, and with voiceless inward screamings and
groanings under the weight of those thoughts which had lately taken up
their stay in his dismayed mind. But all at once his attention was
challenged by a strange, offensive odor. He looked up and around, saw
nothing, turned a corner, and found himself at the intersection of Treme
and St. Anne streets, just behind the great central prison of New
Orleans.
The "Parish Prison" was then only about twenty-five years old; but it
had made haste to become offensive to every sense and sentiment of
reasonable man. It had been built in the Spanish style,--a massive,
dark, grim, huge, four-sided block, the fissure-like windows of its
cells looking down into the four public streets which ran immediately
under its walls. Dilapidation had followed hard behind ill-building
contractors. Down its frowning masonry ran grimy streaks of leakage over
peeling stucco and mould-covered brick. Weeds bloomed high aloft in the
broken gutters under the scant and ragged eaves. Here and there the
pale, debauched face of a prisoner peered shamelessly down through
shattered glass or rusted grating; and everywhere in the still
atmosphere floated the stifling smell of the unseen loathsomeness
within.
Richling paused. As he looked up he noticed a bat dart out from a long
crevice under the eaves. Two others followed. Then three--a dozen--a
hundred--a thousand--millions. All along the two sides of the prison in
view they poured forth in a horrid black torrent,--myriads upon myriads.
They filled the air. They came and came. Richling stood and gazed; and
still they streamed out in gibbering waves, until the wonder was that
anything but a witch's dream could contain them.
The approach of another passer roused him, and he started on. The step
gained upon him--closed up with him; and at the moment when he expected
to see the person go by, a hand was laid gently on his shoulder.
"Mistoo Itchlin, I 'ope you well, seh!"