SHALL SHE COME OR STAY?

Richling read Mary’s letter through three times without a smile. The feeling that he had prompted the missive—that it was partly his—stood between him and a tumult of gladness. And yet when he closed his eyes he could see Mary, all buoyancy and laughter, spurning his claim to each and every stroke of the pen. It was all hers, all!

As he was slowly folding the sheet Mrs. Reisen came in upon him. It was one of those excessively warm spring evenings that sometimes make New Orleans fear it will have no May. The baker’s wife stood with her immense red hands thrust into the pockets of an expansive pinafore, and her three double chins glistening with perspiration. She bade her manager a pleasant good-evening.

Richling inquired how she had left her husband.

“Kviet, Mr. Richlin’, kviet. Mr. Richlin’, I pelief Reisen kittin petter. If he don’t gittin’ better, how come he’ss every day a little more kvieter, and sit’ still and don’t say nutting to nobody?”

“Mrs. Reisen, my wife is asking me to send for her”—Richling gave the folded letter a little shake as he held it by one corner—“to come down here and live again.”

“Now, Mr. Richlin’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I will shwear!” She dropped into a seat. “Right in de bekinning o’ summer time! Vell, vell, vell! And you told me Mrs. Richling is a sentsible voman! Vell, I don’t belief dat I efer see a young voman w’at aint de pickest kind o’ fool apowt her hussbandt. Vell, vell!—And she comin’ down heah ’n’ choost kittin’ all your money shpent, ’n’ den her mudter kittin’ vorse ’n’ she got ’o go pack akin!”

“Why, Mrs. Reisen,” exclaimed Richling, warmly. “you speak as if you didn’t want her to come.” He contrived to smile as he finished.

“Vell,—of—course! You don’t vant her to come, do you?”

Richling forced a laugh.

“Seems to me ’twould be natural if I did, Mrs. Reisen. Didn’t the preacher say, when we were married, ‘Let no man put asunder’?”

“Oh, now, Mr. Richlin’, dere aindt nopotty a-koin’ to put you under!—’less-n it’s your vife. Vot she want to come down for? Don’t I takin’ koot care you?” There was a tear in her eye as she went out.

An hour or so later the little rector dropped in.

“Richling, I came to see if I did any damage the last time I was here. My own words worried me.”

“You were afraid,” responded Richling, “that I would understand you to recommend me to send for my wife.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t understand you so.”

“Well, my mind’s relieved.”

“Mine isn’t,” said Richling. He laid down his pen and gathered his fingers around one knee. “Why shouldn’t I send for her?”

“You will, some day.”

“But I mean now.”

The clergyman shook his head pleasantly. “I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

“Well, let that pass. I know what I do mean. I mean to get out of this business. I’ve lived long enough with these savages.” A wave of his hand indicated the whole personnel of the bread business.

“I would try not to mind their savageness, Richling,” said the little preacher, slowly. “The best of us are only savages hid under a harness. If we’re not, we’ve somehow made a loss.” Richling looked at him with amused astonishment, but he persisted. “I’m in earnest! We’ve had something refined out of us that we shouldn’t have parted with. Now, there’s Mrs. Reisen. I like her. She’s a good woman. If the savage can stand you, why can’t you stand the savage?”

“Yes, true enough. Yet—well, I must get out of this, anyway.”

The little man clapped him on the shoulder.

“Climb out. See here, you Milwaukee man,”—he pushed Richling playfully,—“what are you doing with these Southern notions of ours about the ‘yoke of menial service,’ anyhow?”

“I was not born in Milwaukee,” said Richling.

“And you’ll not die with these notions, either,” retorted the other. “Look here, I am going. Good-by. You’ve got to get rid of them, you know, before your wife comes. I’m glad you are not going to send for her now.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, you don’t know what you’d do,” said Richling.

The little preacher eyed him steadily for a moment, and then slowly returned to where he still sat holding his knee.

They had a long talk in very quiet tones. At the end the rector asked:— “Didn’t you once meet Dr. Sevier’s two nieces—at his house?”

“Yes,” said Richling.

“Do you remember the one named Laura?—the dark, flashing one?”

“Yes.”

“Well,—oh, pshaw! I could tell you something funny, but I don’t care to do it.”

What he did not care to tell was, that she had promised him five years before to be his wife any day when he should say the word. In all that time, and this very night, one letter, one line almost, and he could have ended his waiting; but he was not seeking his own happiness.

They smiled together. “Well, good-by again. Don’t think I’m always going to persecute you with my solicitude.”

“I’m not worth it,” said Richling, slipping slowly down from his high stool and letting the little man out into the street.

A little way down the street some one coming out of a dark alley just in time to confront the clergyman extended a hand in salutation.

“Good-evenin’, Mr. Blank.”

He took the hand. It belonged to a girl of eighteen, bareheaded and barefooted, holding in the other hand a small oil-can. Her eyes looked steadily into his.

“You don’t know me,” she said, pleasantly.

“Why, yes, now I remember you. You’re Maggie.”

“Yes,” replied the girl. “Don’t you recollect—in the mission-school? Don’t you recollect you married me and Larry? That’s two years ago.” She almost laughed out with pleasure.

“And where’s Larry?”

“Why, don’t you recollect? He’s on the sloop-o’-war Preble.” Then she added more gravely: “I aint seen him in twenty months. But I know he’s all right. I aint a-scared about that—only if he’s alive and well; yes, sir. Well, good-evenin’, sir. Yes, sir; I think I’ll come to the mission nex’ Sunday—and I’ll bring the baby, will I? All right, sir. Well, so long, sir. Take care of yourself, sir.”

What a word that was! It echoed in his ear all the way home: “Take care of yourself.” What boast is there for the civilization that refines away the unconscious heroism of the unfriended poor?

He was glad he had not told Richling all his little secret. But Richling found it out later from Dr. Sevier.