A RISING STAR.
It had been many a day since Dr. Sevier had felt such pleasure as
thrilled him when Richling, half beside himself with delight, ran in
upon him with the news that he had found employment. Narcisse, too, was
glad. He slipped down from his stool and came near enough to contribute
his congratulatory smiles, though he did not venture to speak. Richling
nodded him a happy how-d'ye-do, and the Creole replied by a wave of the
hand.
In the Doctor's manner, on the other hand, there was a decided lack of
response that made Richling check his spirits and resume more slowly,--
"Do you know a man named Reisen?"
"No," said the Doctor.
"Why, he says he knows you."
"That may be."
"He says you treated his wife one night when she was very ill"--
"What name?"
"Reisen."
The Doctor reflected a moment.
"I believe I recollect him. Is he away up on Benjamin street, close to
the river, among the cotton-presses?"
"Yes. Thalia street they call it now. He says"--
"Does he keep a large bakery?" interrupted the Doctor.
"The 'Star Bakery,'" said Richling, brightening again. "He says
he knows you, and that, if you will give me just one line of
recommendation, he will put me in charge of his accounts and give me a
trial. And a trial's all I want, Doctor. I'm not the least fearful of
the result."
"Richling," said Dr. Sevier, slowly picking up his paper-folder and
shaking it argumentatively, "where are the letters I advised you to send
for?"
Richling sat perfectly still, taking a long, slow breath through his
nostrils, his eyes fixed emptily on his questioner. He was thinking,
away down at the bottom of his heart,--and the Doctor knew it,--that
this was the unkindest question, and the most cold-blooded, that he had
ever heard. The Doctor shook his paper-folder again.
"You see, now, as to the bare fact, I don't know you."
Richling's jaw dropped with astonishment. His eye lighted up
resentfully. But the speaker went on:--
"I esteem you highly. I believe in you. I would trust you,
Richling,"--his listener remembered how the speaker _had_ trusted him,
and was melted,--"but as to recommending you, why, that is like going
upon the witness-stand, as it were, and I cannot say that I know
anything."
Richling's face suddenly flashed full of light. He touched the Doctor's
hand.
"That's it! That's the very thing, sir! Write that!"
The Doctor hesitated. Richling sat gazing at him, afraid to move an eye
lest he should lose an advantage. The Doctor turned to his desk and
wrote.
* * *
On the next morning Richling did not come for his breakfast; and, not
many days after, Dr. Sevier received through the mail the following
letter:--
NEW ORLEANS, December 2, 1857.
DEAR DOCTOR,--I've got the place. I'm Reisen's book-keeper. I'm
earning my living. And I like the work. Bread, the word bread,
that has so long been terrible to me, is now the sweetest word
in the language. For eighteen months it was a prayer; now it's
a proclamation.
I've not only got the place, but I'm going to keep it. I find I
have new powers; and the first and best of them is the power to
throw myself into my work and make it _me_. It's not a task;
it's a mission. Its being bread, I suppose, makes it easier to
seem so; but it should be so if it was pork and garlic, or rags
and raw-hides.
My maxim a year ago, though I didn't know it then, was to do
what I liked. Now it's to like what I do. I understand it now.
And I understand now, too, that a man who expects to retain
employment must yield a profit. He must be worth more than he
costs. I thank God for the discipline of the last year and a
half. I thank him that I did not fall where, in my cowardice, I
so often prayed to fall, into the hands of foolish benefactors.
You wouldn't believe this of me, I know; but it's true. I have
been taught what life is; I never would have learned it any
other way.
And still another thing: I have been taught to know what the
poor suffer. I know their feelings, their temptations, their
hardships, their sad mistakes, and the frightful mistakes and
oversights the rich make concerning them, and the ways to give
them true and helpful help. And now, if God ever gives me
competency, whether he gives me abundance or not, I know what
he intends me to do. I was once, in fact and in sentiment, a
brother to the rich; but I know that now he has trained me to
be a brother to the poor. Don't think I am going to be foolish.
I remember that I'm brother to the rich too; but I'll be the
other as well. How wisely has God--what am I saying? Poor fools
that we humans are! We can hardly venture to praise God's
wisdom to-day when we think we see it, lest it turn out to be
only our own folly to-morrow.
But I find I'm only writing to myself, Doctor, not to you; so I
stop. Mary is well, and sends you much love.
Yours faithfully,
JOHN RICHLING.
"Very little about Mary," murmured Dr. Sevier. Yet he was rather pleased
than otherwise with the letter. He thrust it into his breast-pocket. In
the evening, at his fireside, he drew it out again and re-read it.
"Talks as if he had got into an impregnable castle," thought the Doctor,
as he gazed into the fire. "Book-keeper to a baker," he muttered, slowly
folding the sheet again. It somehow vexed him to see Richling so happy
in so low a station. But--"It's the joy of what he has escaped _from_,
not _to_," he presently remembered.
A fortnight or more elapsed. A distant relative of Dr. Sevier, a man of
his own years and profession, was his guest for two nights and a day as
he passed through the city, eastward, from an all-summer's study of
fevers in Mexico. They were sitting at evening on opposite sides of the
library fire, conversing in the leisurely ease of those to whom life is
not a novelty.
"And so you think of having Laura and Bess come out from Charleston, and
keep house for you this winter? Their mother wrote me to that effect."
"Yes," said Dr. Sevier. "Society here will be a great delight to them.
They will shine. And time will be less monotonous for me. It may suit
me, or it may not."
"I dare say it may," responded the kinsman, whereas in truth he was very
doubtful about it.
He added something, a moment later, about retiring for the night,
and his host had just said, "Eh?" when a slave, in a five-year-old
dress-coat, brought in the card of a person whose name was as well known
in New Orleans in those days as St. Patrick's steeple or the statue of
Jackson in the old Place d'Armes. Dr. Sevier turned it over and looked
for a moment ponderingly upon the domestic.
The relative rose.
"You needn't go," said Dr. Sevier; but he said "he had intended," etc.,
and went to his chamber.
The visitor entered. He was a dark, slender, iron gray man, of finely
cut, regular features, and seeming to be much more deeply wrinkled than
on scrutiny he proved to be. One quickly saw that he was full of
reposing energy. He gave the feeling of your being very near some
weapon, of dreadful efficiency, ready for instant use whenever needed.
His clothing fitted him neatly; his long, gray mustache was the only
thing that hung loosely about him; his boots were fine. If he had told a
child that all his muscles and sinews were wrapped with fine steel wire
the child would have believed him, and continued to sit on his knee all
the same. It is said, by those who still survive him, that in dreadful
places and moments the flash of his fist was as quick, as irresistible,
and as all-sufficient, as lightning, yet that years would sometimes pass
without its ever being lifted.
Dr. Sevier lifted his slender length out of his easy-chair, and bowed
with severe gravity.
"Good-evening, sir," he said, and silently thought, "Now, what can Smith
Izard possibly want with me?"
It may have been perfectly natural that this man's presence shed off all
idea of medical consultation; but why should it instantly bring to the
Doctor's mind, as an answer to his question, another man as different
from this one as water from fire?
The detective returned the Doctor's salutation, and they became seated.
Then the visitor craved permission to ask a confidential question or two
for information which he was seeking in his official capacity. His
manners were a little old-fashioned, but perfect of their kind. The
Doctor consented. The man put his hand into his breast-pocket, and drew
out a daguerreotype case, touched its spring, and as it opened in
his palm extended it to the Doctor. The Doctor took it with evident
reluctance. It contained the picture of a youth who was just reaching
manhood. The detective spoke:--
"They say he ought to look older than that now."
"He does," said Dr. Sevier.
"Do you know his name?" inquired the detective.
"No."
"What name do you know him by?"
"John Richling."
"Wasn't he sent down by Recorder Munroe, last summer, for assault,
etc.?"
"Yes. I got him out the next day. He never should have been put in."
To the Doctor's surprise the detective rose to go.
"I'm much obliged to you, Doctor."
"Is that all you wanted to ask me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Izard, who is this young man? What has he done?"
"I don't know, sir. I have a letter from a lawyer in Kentucky who says
he represents this young man's two sisters living there,--half-sisters,
rather,--stating that his father and mother are both dead,--died within
three days of each other."
"What name?"
"He didn't give the name. He sent this daguerreotype, with instructions
to trace up the young man, if possible. He said there was reason to
believe he was in New Orleans. He said, if I found him, just to see him
privately, tell him the news, and invite him to come back home. But he
said if the young fellow had got into any kind of trouble that might
somehow reflect on the family, you know, like getting arrested for
something or other, you know, or some such thing, then I was just to
drop the thing quietly, and say nothing about it to him or anybody
else."
"And doesn't that seem a strange way to manage a matter like that,--to
put it into the hands of a detective?"
"Well, I don't know," said Mr. Izard. "We're used to strange things, and
this isn't so very strange. No, it's very common. I suppose he knew that
if he gave it to me it would be attended to in a quiet and innocent sort
o' way. Some people hate mighty bad to get talked about. Nobody's seen
that picture but you and one 'aid,' and just as soon as he saw it he
said, 'Why, that's the chap that Dr. Sevier took out of the Parish
Prison last September.' And there won't anybody else see it."
"Don't you intend to see Richling?" asked the Doctor, following the
detective toward the door.
"I don't see as it would be any use," said the detective, "seeing he's
been sent down, and so on. I'll write to the lawyer and state the facts,
and wait for orders."
"But do you know how slight the blame was that got him into trouble
here?"
"Yes. The 'aid' who saw the picture told me all about that. It was a
shame. I'll say so. I'll give all the particulars. But I tell you, I
just guess--they'll drop him."
"I dare say," said Dr. Sevier.
"Well, Doctor," said Mr. Izard, "hope I haven't annoyed you."
"No," replied the Doctor.
But he had; and the annoyance had not ceased to be felt when, a few
mornings afterward, Narcisse suddenly doubled--trebled it by saying:--
"Doctah Seveeah,"--it was a cold day and the young Creole stood a
moment with his back to the office fire, to which he had just given an
energetic and prolonged poking,--"a man was yeh, to see you, name'
Bison. 'F want' to see you about Mistoo Itchlin."
The Doctor looked up with a start, and Narcisse continued:--
"Mistoo Itchlin is wuckin' in 'is employment. I think 'e's please' with
'im."
"Then why does he come to see me about him?" asked the Doctor, so
sharply that Narcisse shrugged as he replied:--
"Reely, I cann' tell you; but thass one thing, Doctah, I dunno if you
'ave notiz: the worl' halways take a gweat deal of welfa'e in a man w'en
'e's 'ising. I do that myseff. Some'ow I cann' 'e'p it." This bold
speech was too much for him. He looked down at his symmetrical legs and
went back to his desk.
The Doctor was far from reassured. After a silence he called out:--
"Did he say he would come back?" A knock at the door arrested the
answer, and a huge, wide, broad-faced German entered diffidently. The
Doctor recognized Reisen. The visitor took off his flour-dusted hat and
bowed with great deference.
"Toc-tor," he softly drawled, "I yoost taught I trop in on you to say a
verte to you apowt teh chung yentleman vot you hef rickomendet to me."
"I didn't recommend him to you, sir. I wrote you distinctly that I did
not feel at liberty to recommend him."
"Tat iss teh troot, Toctor Tseweer; tat iss teh ectsectly troot.
Shtill I taught I'll yoost trop in on you to say a verte to
you,--Toctor,--apowt Mister"-- He hung his large head at one side
to remember.
"Richling," said the Doctor, impatiently.
"Yes, sir. Apowt Mister Richlun. I heff a tifficuldy to rigolict naymps.
I yoost taught I voot trop in und trop a verte to you apowt Mr. Richlun,
vot maypy you titn't herr udt before, yet."
"Yes," said the Doctor, with ill-concealed contempt. "Well, speak it
out, Mr. Reisen; time is precious."
The German smiled and made a silly gesture of assent.
"Yes, udt is brecious. Shtill I taught I voot take enough time to
yoost trop in undt say to you tat I heffent het Mr. Richlun in my
etsteplitchmendt a veek undtil I finte owdt someting apowt him, tot, uf
you het a-knowdt ud, voot hef mate your letter maypy a little tifferendt
written, yet."
Now, at length, Dr. Sevier's annoyance was turned to dismay. He waited
in silence for Reisen to unfold his enigma, but already his resentment
against Richling was gathering itself for a spring. To the baker,
however, he betrayed only a cold hostility.
"I kept a copy of my letter to you, Mr. Reisen, and there isn't a word
in it which need have misled you, sir."
The baker waved his hand amicably.
"Sure, Tocter Tseweer, I toandt hef nutting to gomblain akinst teh
vertes of tat letter. You voss mighty puttickly. Ovver, shtill, I hef
sumpting to tell you vot ef you het a-knowdt udt pefore you writed tose
vertes, alreatty, t'ey voot a little tifferendt pin."
"Well, sir, why don't you tell it?"
Reisen smiled. "Tat iss teh ectsectly vot I am coing to too. I yoost
taught I'll trop in undt tell you, Toctor, tat I heffent het Mr. Richlun
in my etsteplitchmendt a veek undtil I findte owdt tat he's
a--berfect--tressure."
Doctor Sevier started half up from his chair, dropped into it again,
wheeled half away, and back again with the blood surging into his face
and exclaimed:--
"Why, what do you mean by such drivelling nonsense, sir? You've given me
a positive fright!" He frowned the blacker as the baker smiled from ear
to ear.
"Vy, Toctor, I hope you ugscooce me! I yoost taught you voot like to
herr udt. Undt Missis Reisen sayce, 'Reisen, you yoost co undt tell um.'
I taught udt voot pe blessant to you to know tatt you hett sendt me teh
fynust pissness mayn I effer het apowdt me. Undt uff he iss onnust he
iss a berfect tressure, undt uff he aint a berfect tressure,"--he smiled
anew and tendered his capacious hat to his listener,--"you yoost kin
take tiss, Toctor, undt kip udt undt vare udt! Toctor, I vish you a
merrah Chris'mus!"