LIGHTING SHIP.
Yes, the tide was coming in. The Richlings' bark was still on the sands,
but every now and then a wave of promise glided under her. She might
float, now, any day. Meantime, as has no doubt been guessed, she was
held on an even keel by loans from the Doctor.
"Why you don't advertise in papers?" asked Ristofalo.
"Advertise? Oh, I didn't think it would be of any use. I advertised a
whole week, last summer."
"You put advertisement in wrong time and keep it out wrong time," said
the Italian.
"I have a place in prospect, now, without advertising," said Richling,
with an elated look.
It was just here that a new mistake of Richling's emerged. He had come
into contact with two or three men of that wretched sort that indulge
the strange vanity of keeping others waiting upon them by promises of
employment. He believed them, liked them heartily because they said
nothing about references, and gratefully distended himself with their
husks, until Ristofalo opened his eyes by saying, when one of these men
had disappointed Richling the third time:--
"Business man don't promise but once."
"You lookin' for book-keeper's place?" asked the Italian at another
time. "Why don't dress like a book-keeper?"
"On borrowed money?" asked Richling, evidently looking upon that
question as a poser.
"Yes."
"Oh, no," said Richling, with a smile of superiority; but the other one
smiled too, and shook his head.
"Borrow mo', if you don't."
Richling's heart flinched at the word. He had thought he was giving his
true reason; but he was not. A foolish notion had floated, like a grain
of dust, into the over-delicate wheels of his thought,--that men would
employ him the more readily if he looked needy. His hat was unbrushed,
his shoes unpolished; he had let his beard come out, thin and untrimmed;
his necktie was faded. He looked battered. When the Italian's gentle
warning showed him this additional mistake on top of all his others he
was dismayed at himself; and when he sat down in his room and counted
the cost of an accountant's uniform, so to speak, the remains of Dr.
Sevier's last loan to him was too small for it. Thereupon he committed
one error more,--but it was the last. He sunk his standard, and began
again to look for service among industries that could offer employment
only to manual labor. He crossed the river and stirred about among the
dry-docks and ship-carpenters' yards of the suburb Algiers. But he could
neither hew spars, nor paint, nor splice ropes. He watched a man half a
day calking a boat; then he offered himself for the same work, did it
fairly, and earned half a day's wages. But then the boat was done, and
there was no other calking at the moment along the whole harbor front,
except some that was being done on a ship by her own sailors.
"John," said Mary, dropping into her lap the sewing that hardly paid for
her candle, "isn't it hard to realize that it isn't twelve months since
your hardships commenced? They _can't_ last much longer, darling."
"I know that," said John. "And I know I'll find a place presently, and
then we'll wake up to the fact that this was actually less than a year
of trouble in a lifetime of love."
"Yes," rejoined Mary, "I know your patience will be rewarded."
"But what I want is work now, Mary. The bread of idleness is getting
_too_ bitter. But never mind; I'm going to work to-morrow;--never mind
where. It's all right. You'll see."
She smiled, and looked into his eyes again with a confession of
unreserved trust. The next day he reached the--what shall we say?--big
end of his last mistake. What it was came out a few mornings after, when
he called at Number 5 Carondelet street.
"The Doctah is not in pwesently," said Narcisse. "He ve'y hawdly comes
in so soon as that. He's living home again, once mo', now. He's ve'y
un'estless. I tole 'im yistiddy, 'Doctah, I know juz 'ow you feel, seh;
'tis the same way with myseff. You ought to git ma'ied!'"
"Did he say he would?" asked Richling.
"Well, you know, Mistoo Itchlin, so the povvub says, 'Silent give
consense.' He juz look at me--nevvah said a word--ha! he couldn'! You
not lookin' ve'y well, Mistoo Itchlin. I suppose 'tis that waum
weatheh."
"I suppose it is; at least, partly," said Richling, and added nothing
more, but looked along and across the ceiling, and down at a skeleton in
a corner, that was offering to shake hands with him. He was at a loss
how to talk to Narcisse. Both Mary and he had grown a little ashamed of
their covert sarcasms, and yet to leave them out was bread without
yeast, meat without salt, as far as their own powers of speech were
concerned.
"I thought, the other day," he began again, with an effort, "when it
blew up cool, that the warm weather was over."
"It seem to be finishin' ad the end, I think," responded the Creole. "I
think, like you, that we 'ave 'ad too waum weatheh. Me, I like that
weatheh to be cole, me. I halways weigh the mose in cole weatheh. I gain
flesh, in fact. But so soon 'tis summeh somethin' become of it. I dunno
if 'tis the fault of my close, but I reduct in summeh. Speakin' of
close, Mistoo Itchlin,--egscuse me if 'tis a fair question,--w'at was
yo' objec' in buyin' that tawpaulin hat an' jacket lass week ad that
sto' on the levee? You din know I saw you, but I juz 'appen to see you,
in fact." (The color rose in Richling's face, and Narcisse pressed on
without allowing an answer.) "Well, thass none o' my biziness, of
co'se, but I think you lookin' ve'y bad, Mistoo Itchlin"-- He stopped
very short and stepped with dignified alacrity to his desk, for Dr.
Sevier's step was on the stair.
The Doctor shook hands with Richling and sank into the chair at his
desk. "Anything turned up yet, Richling?"
"Doctor," began Richling, drawing his chair near and speaking low.
"Good-mawnin', Doctah," said Narcisse, showing himself with a graceful
flourish.
The Doctor nodded, then turned again to Richling. "You were saying"--
"I 'ope you well, seh," insisted the Creole, and as the Doctor glanced
toward him impatiently, repeated the sentiment, "'Ope you well, seh."
The Doctor said he was, and turned once more to Richling. Narcisse
bowed away backward and went to his desk, filled to the eyes with fierce
satisfaction. He had made himself felt. Richling drew his chair nearer
and spoke low:--
"If I don't get work within a day or two I shall have to come to you for
money."
"That's all right, Richling." The Doctor spoke aloud; Richling answered
low.
"Oh, no, Doctor, it's all wrong! Indeed, I can't do it any more unless
you will let me earn the money."
"My dear sir, I would most gladly do it; but I have nothing that you
can do."
"Yes, you have, Doctor."
"What is it?"
"Why, it's this: you have a slave boy driving your carriage."
"Well?"
"Give him some other work, and let me do that."
Dr. Sevier started in his seat. "Richling, I can't do that. I should
ruin you. If you drive my carriage"--
"Just for a time, Doctor, till I find something else."
"No! no! If you drive my carriage in New Orleans you'll never do
anything else."
"Why, Doctor, there are men standing in the front ranks to-day, who"--
"Yes, yes," replied the Doctor, impatiently, "I know,--who began with
menial labor; but--I can't explain it to you, Richling, but you're not
of the same sort; that's all. I say it without praise or blame; you must
have work adapted to your abilities."
"My abilities!" softly echoed Richling. Tears sprang to his eyes. He
held out his open palms,--"Doctor, look there." They were lacerated. He
started to rise, but the Doctor prevented him.
"Let me go," said Richling, pleadingly, and with averted face. "Let me
go. I'm sorry I showed them. It was mean and foolish and weak. Let me
go."
But Dr. Sevier kept a hand on him, and he did not resist. The Doctor
took one of the hands and examined it. "Why, Richling, you've been
handling freight!"
"There was nothing else."
"Oh, bah!"
"Let me go," whispered Richling. But the Doctor held him.
"You didn't do this on the steam-boat landing, did you, Richling?"
The young man nodded. The Doctor dropped the hand and looked upon its
owner with set lips and steady severity. When he spoke he said:--
"Among the negro and green Irish deck-hands, and under the oaths and
blows of steam-boat mates! Why, Richling!" He turned half away in his
rotary chair with an air of patience worn out.
"You thought I had more sense," said Richling.
The Doctor put his elbows upon his desk and slowly drew his face upward
through his hands. "Mr. Richling, what is the matter with you?" They
gazed at each other a long moment, and then Dr. Sevier continued: "Your
trouble isn't want of sense. I know that very well, Richling." His voice
was low and became kind. "But you don't get the use of the sense you
have. It isn't available." He bent forward: "Some men, Richling, carry
their folly on the surface and their good sense at the bottom,"--he
jerked his thumb backward toward the distant Narcisse, and added, with a
stealthy frown,--"like that little fool in yonder. He's got plenty of
sense, but he doesn't load any of it on deck. Some men carry their sense
on top and their folly down below"--
Richling smiled broadly through his dejection, and touched his own
chest. "Like this big fool here," he said.
"Exactly," said Dr. Sevier. "Now you've developed a defect of the
memory. Your few merchantable qualities have been so long out of the
market, and you've suffered such humiliation under the pressure of
adversity, that you've--you've done a very bad thing."
"Say a dozen," responded Richling, with bitter humor. But the Doctor
swung his head in resentment of the levity.
"One's enough. You've allowed yourself to forget your true value."
"I'm worth whatever I'll bring."
The Doctor tossed his head in impatient disdain.
"Pshaw! You'll never bring what you're worth any more than some men are
worth what they bring. You don't know how. You never will know."
"Well, Doctor, I do know that I'm worth more than I ever was before.
I've learned a thousand things in the last twelvemonth. If I can only
get a chance to prove it!" Richling turned red and struck his knee with
his fist.
"Oh, yes," said Dr. Sevier; "that's your sense, on top. And then you
go--in a fit of the merest impatience, as I do suspect--and offer
yourself as a deck-hand and as a carriage-driver. That's your folly, at
the bottom. What ought to be done to such a man?" He gave a low, harsh
laugh. Richling dropped his eyes. A silence followed.
"You say all you want is a chance," resumed the Doctor.
"Yes," quickly answered Richling, looking up.
"I'm going to give it to you." They looked into each other's eyes. The
Doctor nodded. "Yes, sir." He nodded again.
"Where did you come from, Richling,--when you came to New Orleans,--you
and your wife? Milwaukee?"
"Yes."
"Do your relatives know of your present condition?"
"No."
"Is your wife's mother comfortably situated?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll tell you what you must do."
"The only thing I can't do," said Richling.
"Yes, you can. You must. You must send Mrs. Richling back to her
mother."
Richling shook his head.
"Well," said the Doctor, warmly, "I say you must. I will lend you the
passage-money."
Richling's eye kindled an instant at the Doctor's compulsory tone, but
he said, gently:--
"Why, Doctor, Mary will never consent to leave me."
"Of course she will not. But you must make her do it! That's what
you must do. And when that's done then you must start out and go
systematically from door to door,--of business houses, I mean,--offering
yourself for work befitting your station--ahem!--station, I say--and
qualifications. I will lend you money to live on until you find
permanent employment. Now, now, don't get alarmed! I'm not going to help
you any more than I absolutely must!"
"But, Doctor, how can you expect"-- But the Doctor interrupted.
"Come, now, none of that! You and your wife are brave; I must say that
for you. She has the courage of a gladiator. You can do this if you
will."
"Doctor," said Richling, "you are the best of friends; but, you know,
the fact is, Mary and I--well, we're still lovers."
"Oh!" The Doctor turned away his head with fresh impatience. Richling
bit his lip, but went on:--
"We can bear anything on earth together; but we have sworn to stay
together through better and worse"--
"Oh, pf-f-f-f!" said the doctor, closing his eyes and swinging his head
away again.
"--And we're going to do it," concluded Richling.
"But you can't do it!" cried the Doctor, so loudly that Narcisse stood
up on the rungs of his stool and peered.
"We can't separate."
Dr. Sevier smote the desk and sprang to his feet:--
"Sir, you've got to do it! If you continue in this way, you'll die.
You'll die, Mr. Richling--both of you! You'll die! Are you going to let
Mary die just because she's brave enough to do it?" He sat down again
and busied himself, nervously placing pens on the pen-rack, the stopper
in the inkstand, and the like.
Many thoughts ran through Richling's mind in the ensuing silence.
His eyes were on the floor. Visions of parting; of the great
emptiness that would be left behind; the pangs and yearnings that
must follow,--crowded one upon another. One torturing realization
kept ever in the front,--that the Doctor had a well-earned right to
advise, and that, if his advice was to be rejected, one must show good
and sufficient cause for rejecting it, both in present resources and
in expectations. The truth leaped upon him and bore him down as it never
had done before,--the truth which he had heard this very Dr. Sevier
proclaim,--that debt is bondage. For a moment he rebelled against it;
but shame soon displaced mutiny, and he accepted this part, also, of
his lot. At length he rose.
"Well?" said Dr. Sevier.
"May I ask Mary?"
"You will do what you please, Mr. Richling." And then, in a kinder
voice, the Doctor added, "Yes; ask her."
They moved together to the office door. The Doctor opened it, and they
said good-by, Richling trying to drop a word of gratitude, and the
Doctor hurriedly ignoring it.
The next half hour or more was spent by the physician in receiving,
hearing, and dismissing patients and their messengers. By and by no
others came. The only audible sound was that of the Doctor's paper-knife
as it parted the leaves of a pamphlet. He was thinking over the late
interview with Richling, and knew that, if this silence were not soon
interrupted from without, he would have to encounter his book-keeper,
who had not spoken since Richling had left. Presently the issue came.
"Dr. Seveeah,"--Narcisse came forward, hat in hand,--"I dunno 'ow 'tis,
but Mistoo Itchlin always wemine me of that povvub, 'Ully to bed, ully
to 'ise, make a pusson to be 'ealthy an' wealthy an' wise.'"
"I don't know how it is, either," grumbled the Doctor.
"I believe thass not the povvub I was thinking. I am acquainting myseff
with those povvubs; but I'm somewhat gween in that light, in fact. Well,
Doctah, I'm goin' ad the--shoemakeh. I burs' my shoe yistiddy. I was
juz"--
"Very well, go."
"Yesseh; and from the shoemakeh I'll go"--
The Doctor glanced darkly over the top of the pamphlet.
"--Ad the bank; yesseh," said Narcisse, and went.