WHAT NAME?
Richling in Dr. Sevier's library, one evening in early May, gave him
great amusement by an account of the Ristofalo-Riley wedding. He had
attended it only the night before. The Doctor had received an
invitation, but had pleaded previous engagements.
"But I am glad you went," he said to Richling; "however, go on with your
account."
"Oh! I was glad to go. And I'm certainly glad I went."
Richling proceeded with the recital. The Doctor smiled. It was very
droll,--the description of persons and costumes. Richling was quite
another than his usual restrained self this evening. Oddly enough, too,
for this was but his second visit; the confinement of his work was
almost like an imprisonment, it was so constant. The Doctor had never
seen him in just such a glow. He even mimicked the brogue of two or
three Irish gentlemen, and the soft, outlandish swing in the English of
one or two Sicilians. He did it all so well that, when he gave an
instance of some of the broad Hibernian repartee he had heard, the
Doctor actually laughed audibly. One of his young-lady cousins on some
pretext opened a door, and stole a glance within to see what could have
produced a thing so extraordinary.
"Come in, Laura; come in! Tell Bess to come in."
The Doctor introduced Richling with due ceremony Richling could not, of
course, after this accession of numbers, go on being funny. The mistake
was trivial, but all saw it. Still the meeting was pleasant. The girls
were very intelligent and vivacious. Richling found a certain
refreshment in their graceful manners, like what we sometimes feel in
catching the scent of some long-forgotten perfume. They had not been
told all his history, but had heard enough to make them curious to see
and speak to him. They were evidently pleased with him, and Dr. Sevier,
observing this, betrayed an air that was much like triumph. But after a
while they went as they had come.
"Doctor," said Richling, smiling until Dr. Sevier wondered silently what
possessed the fellow, "excuse me for bringing this here. But I find it
so impossible to get to your office"-- He moved nearer the Doctor's table
and put his hand into his bosom.
"What's that?" asked the Doctor, frowning heavily. Richling smiled still
broader than before.
"This is a statement," he said.
"Of what?"
"Of the various loans you have made me, with interest to date."
"Yes?" said the Doctor, frigidly.
"And here," persisted the happy man, straightening out a leg as he had
done the first time they ever met, and drawing a roll of notes from his
pocket, "is the total amount."
"Yes?" The Doctor regarded them with cold contempt. "That's all very
pleasant for you, I suppose, Richling,--shows you're the right kind of
man, I suppose, and so on. I know that already, however. Now just put
all that back into your pocket; the sight of it isn't pleasant. You
certainly don't imagine I'm going to take it, do you?"
"You promised to take it when you lent it."
"Humph! Well, I didn't say when."
"As soon as I could pay it," said Richling.
"I don't remember," replied the Doctor, picking up a newspaper. "I
release myself from that promise."
"I don't release you," persisted Richling; "neither does Mary."
The Doctor was quiet awhile before he answered. He crossed his knees, a
moment after folded his arms, and presently said:--
"Foolish pride, Richling."
"We know that," replied Richling; "we don't deny that that feeling
creeps in. But we'd never do anything that's right if we waited for an
unmixed motive, would we?"
"Then you think my motive--in refusing it--is mixed, probably."
"Ho-o-oh!" laughed Richling. The gladness within him would break
through. "Why, Doctor, nothing could be more different. It doesn't seem
to me as though you ever had a mixed motive."
The Doctor did not answer. He seemed to think the same thing.
"We know very well, Doctor, that if we should accept this kindness we
might do it in a spirit of proper and commendable--a--humble-mindedness.
But it isn't mere pride that makes us insist."
"No?" asked the Doctor, cruelly. "What is it else?"
"Why, I hardly know what to call it, except that it's a conviction
that--well, that to pay is best; that it's the nearest to justice we can
get, and that"--he spoke faster--"that it's simply duty to choose
justice when we can and mercy when we must. There, I've hit it out!" He
laughed again. "Don't you see, Doctor? Justice when we may--mercy when
we must! It's your own principles!"
The Doctor looked straight at the mantel-piece as he asked:--
"Where did you get that idea?"
"I don't know; partly from nowhere, and"--
"Partly from Mary," interrupted the Doctor. He put out his long white
palm. "It's all right. Give me the money." Richling counted it into his
hand. He rolled it up and stuffed it into his portemonnaie.
"You like to part with your hard earnings, do you, Richling?"
"Earnings can't be hard," was the reply; "it's borrowings that are
hard."
The Doctor assented.
"And, of course," said Richling, "I enjoy paying old debts." He stood
and leaned his head in his hand with his elbow on the mantel. "But, even
aside from that, I'm happy."
"I see you are!" remarked the physician, emphatically, catching the arms
of his chair and drawing his feet closer in. "You've been smiling worse
than a boy with a love-letter."
"I've been hoping you'd ask me what's the matter."
"Well, then, Richling, what is the matter?"
"Mary has a daughter."
"What!" cried the Doctor, springing up with a radiant face, and grasping
Richling's hand in both his own.
Richling laughed aloud, nodded, laughed again, and gave either eye a
quick, energetic wipe with all his fingers.
"Doctor," he said, as the physician sank back into his chair, "we want
to name"--he hesitated, stood on one foot and leaned again against the
shelf--"we want to call her by the name of--if we may"--
The Doctor looked up as if with alarm, and John said, timidly,--"Alice!"
Dr. Sevier's eyes--what was the matter? His mouth quivered. He nodded
and whispered huskily:--
"All right."
After a long pause Richling expressed the opinion that he had better be
going, and the Doctor did not indicate any difference of conviction. At
the door the Doctor asked:--
"If the fever should break out this summer, Richling, will you go away?"
"No."