A BUNDLE OF HOPES.

Richling insisted, in the face of much scepticism on the part of the baker’s widow, that he felt better, was better, and would go on getting better, now that the weather was cool once more.

“Well, I hope you vill, Mr. Richlin’, dtat’s a fect. ’Specially ven yo’ vife comin’. Dough I could a-tooken care ye choost tso koot as vot she couldt.”

“But maybe you couldn’t take care of her as well as I can,” said the happy Richling.

“Oh, tdat’s a tdifferendt. A voman kin tek care herself.”

Visiting the French market on one of these glad mornings, as his business often required him to do, he fell in with Narcisse, just withdrawing from the celebrated coffee-stand of Rose Nicaud. Richling stopped in the moving crowd and exchanged salutations very willingly; for here was one more chance to hear himself tell the fact of Mary’s expected coming.

“So’y, Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, whipping away the pastry crumbs from his lap with a handkerchief and wiping his mouth, “not to encounteh you a lill biffo’, to join in pahtaking the cup what cheeahs at the same time whilce it invigo’ates; to-wit, the coffee-cup—as the maxim say. I dunno by what fawmule she makes that coffee, but ’tis astonishin’ how ’tis good, in fact. I dunno if you’ll billieve me, but I feel almost I could pahtake anotheh cup—? ’Tis the tooth.” He gave Richling time to make any handsome offer that might spontaneously suggest itself, but seeing that the response was only an over-gay expression of face, he added, “But I conclude no. In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, thass a thing I have discovud,—that too much coffee millytates ag’inst the chi’og’aphy; and thus I abstain. Well, seh, ole Abe is elected.”

“Yes,” rejoined Richling, “and there’s no telling what the result will be.”

“You co’ect, Mistoo Itchlin.” Narcisse tried to look troubled.

“I’ve got a bit of private news that I don’t think you’ve heard,” said Richling. And the Creole rejoined promptly:—

“Well, I thought I saw something on yo’ thoughts—if you’ll excuse my tautology. Thass a ve’y diffycult to p’event sometime’. But, Mistoo Itchlin, I trus’ ’tis not you ’ave allowed somebody to swin’le you?—confiding them too indiscweetly, in fact?” He took a pretty attitude, his eyes reposing in Richling’s.

Richling laughed outright.

“No, nothing of that kind. No, I”—

“Well, I’m ve’y glad,” interrupted Narcisse.

“Oh, no, ’tisn’t trouble at all! I’ve sent for Mrs. Richling. We’re going to resume housekeeping.”

Narcisse gave a glad start, took his hat off, passed it to his left hand, extended his right, bowed from the middle with princely grace, and, with joy breaking all over his face, said:—

“Mistoo Itchlin, in fact,—shake!”

They shook.

“Yesseh—an’ many ’appy ’eturn! I dunno if you kin billieve that, Mistoo Itchlin; but I was juz about to ’ead that in yo’ physio’nomie! Yesseh. But, Mistoo Itchlin, when shall the happy o’casion take effect?”

“Pretty soon. Not as soon as I thought, for I got a despatch yesterday, saying her mother is very ill, and of course I telegraphed her to stay till her mother is at least convalescent. But I think that will be soon. Her mother has had these attacks before. I have good hopes that before long Mrs. Richling will actually be here.”

Richling began to move away down the crowded market-house, but Narcisse said:—

“Thass yo’ di’ection? ’Tis the same, mine. We may accompany togetheh—if you’ll allow yo’ ’umble suvvant?”

“Come along! You do me honor!” Richling laid his hand on Narcisse’s shoulder and they went at a gait quickened by the happy husband’s elation. Narcisse was very proud of the touch, and, as they began to traverse the vegetable market, took the most populous arcade.

“Mistoo Itchlin,” he began again, “I muz congwatulate you! You know I always admiah yo’ lady to excess. But appopo of that news, I might infawm you some intelligens consunning myseff.”

“Good!” exclaimed Richling. “For it’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Yesseh,—as you may say,—yes. Faw in fact, Mistoo Itchlin, I ’ave ass Dr. Seveeah to haugment me.”

“Hurrah!” cried Richling. He coughed and laughed and moved aside to a pillar and coughed, until people looked at him, and lifted his eyes, tired but smiling, and, paying his compliments to the paroxysm in one or two ill-wishes, wiped his eyes at last, and said:—

“And the Doctor augmented you?”

“Well, no, I can’t say that—not p’ecisely.”

“Why, what did he do?” “Well, he ’efuse’ me, in fact.”

“Why—but that isn’t good news, then.”

Narcisse gave his head a bright, argumentative twitch.

“Yesseh. ’Tis t’ue he ’efuse’; but ad the same time—I dunno—I thing he wasn’ so mad about it as he make out. An’ you know thass one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, whilce they got life they got hope; and hence I ente’tain the same.”

They had reached that flagged area without covering or inclosure, before the third of the three old market-houses, where those dealers in the entire miscellanies of a housewife’s equipment, excepting only stoves and furniture, spread their wares and fabrics in the open weather before the Bazar market rose to give them refuge. He grew suddenly fierce.

“But any’ow I don’t care! I had the spunk to ass ’im, an’ he din ’ave the spunk to dischawge me! All he can do; ’tis to shake the fis’ of impatience.” He was looking into his companion’s face, as they walked, with an eye distended with defiance.

“Look out!” exclaimed Richling, reaching a hurried hand to draw him aside. Narcisse swerved just in time to avoid stepping into a pile of crockery, but in so doing went full into the arms of a stately female figure dressed in the crispest French calico and embarrassed with numerous small packages of dry goods. The bundles flew hither and yon. Narcisse tried to catch the largest as he saw it going, but only sent it farther than it would have gone, and as it struck the ground it burst like a pomegranate. But the contents were white: little thin, square-folded fractions of barred jaconet and white flannel; rolls of slender white lutestring ribbon; very narrow papers of tiny white pearl buttons, minute white worsted socks, spools of white floss, cards of safety-pins, pieces of white castile soap, etc.

“Mille pardons, madame!” exclaimed Narcisse; “I make you a thousan’ poddons, madam!”

He was ill-prepared for the majestic wrath that flashed from the eyes and radiated from the whole dilating, and subsiding, and reËxpanding, and rising, and stiffening form of Kate Ristofalo!

“Officerr,” she panted,—for instantly there was a crowd, and a man with the silver-crescent badge was switching the assemblage on the legs with his cane to make room,—“Officerr,” she gasped, levelling her tremulous finger at Narcisse, “arrist that man!”

“Mrs. Ristofalo!” exclaimed Richling, “don’t do that! It was all an accident! Why, don’t you see it’s Narcisse,—my friend?”

“Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, sur, he did! Yer frind rised his hand to sthrike me, he did!” And up she went and down she went, shortening and lengthening, swelling and decreasing. “Yes, yes, I know yer frind; indeed I do! I paid two dollars and a half fur his acquaintans nigh upon three years agone, sur. Yer frind!” And still she went up and down, enlarging, diminishing, heaving her breath and waving her chin around, and saying, in broken utterances,—while a hackman on her right held his whip in her auditor’s face, crying, “Carriage, sir? Carriage, sir?”—

“Why didn’—he rin agin—a man, sur! I—I—oh! I wish Mr. Ristofalah war heer!—to teach um how—to walk!—Yer frind, sur—ixposing me!” She pointed to Narcisse and the policeman gathering up the scattered lot of tiny things. Her eyes filled with tears, but still shot lightning. “If he’s hurrted me, he’s got ’o suffer fur ud, Mr. Richlin’!” And she expanded again. “Carriage, sir, carriage?” continued the man with the whip.

“Yes!” said Richling and Mrs. Ristofalo in a breath. She took his arm, the hackman seized the bundles from the policeman, threw open his hack door, laid the bundles on the front seat, and let down the folding steps. The crowd dwindled away to a few urchins.

“Officerr,” said Mrs. Ristofalo, her foot on the step and composure once more in her voice, “ye needn’t arrist um. I could of done ud, sur,” she added to Narcisse himself, “but I’m too much of a laydy, sur!” And she sank together and stretched herself up once more, entered the vehicle, and sat with a perpendicular back, her arms folded on her still heaving bosom, and her head high.

As to her ability to have that arrest made, Kate Ristofalo was in error. Narcisse smiled to himself; for he was conscious of one advantage that overtopped all the sacredness of female helplessness, public right, or any other thing whatsoever. It lay in the simple fact that he was acquainted with the policeman. He bowed blandly to the officer, stepped backward, touching his hat, and walked away, the policeman imitating each movement with the promptness and faithfulness of a mirror.

“Aren’t ye goin’ to get in, Mr. Richlin’?” asked Mrs. Ristofalo. She smiled first and then looked alarmed.

“I—I can’t very well—if you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

“Ah, Mr. Richlin’!”—she pouted girlishly. “Gettin’ proud!” She gave her head a series of movements, as to say she might be angry if she would, but she wouldn’t. “Ye won’t know uz when Mrs. Richlin’ comes.”

Richling laughed, but she gave a smiling toss to indicate that it was a serious matter.

“Come,” she insisted, patting the seat beside her with honeyed persuasiveness, “come and tell me all about ud. Mr. Ristofalah nivver goes into peticklers, an’ so I har’ly know anny more than jist she’s a-comin’. Come, git in an’ tell me about Mrs. Richlin’—that is, if ye like the subject—and I don’t believe ye do.” She lifted her finger, shook it roguishly close to her own face, and looked at him sidewise. “Ah, nivver mind, sur! that’s rright! Furgit yer old frinds—maybe ye wudden’t do ud if ye knewn everythin’. But that’s rright; that’s the way with min.” She suddenly changed to subdued earnestness, turned the catch of the door, and, as the door swung open, said: “Come, if ud’s only fur a bit o’ the way—if ud’s only fur a ming-ute. I’ve got somethin’ to tell ye.”

“I must get out at Washington Market,” said Richling, as he got in. The hack hurried down Old Levee street.

“And now,” said she, merriment dancing in her eyes, her folded arms tightening upon her bosom, and her lips struggling against their own smile, “I’m just a good mind not to tell ye at ahll!”

Her humor was contagious and Richling was ready to catch it. His own eye twinkled.

“Well, Mrs. Ristofalo, of course, if you feel any embarrassment”—

“Ye villain!” she cried, with delighted indignation, “I didn’t mean nawthing about that, an’ ye knew ud! Here, git out o’ this carridge!” But she made no effort to eject him.

“Mary and I are interested in all your hopes,” said Richling, smiling softly upon the damaged bundle which he was making into a tight package again on his knee. “You’ll tell me your good news if it’s only that I may tell her, will you not?”

“I will. And it’s joost this,—Mr. Richlin’,—that if there be’s a war Mr. Ristofalah’s to be lit out o’ prison.”

“I’m very glad!” cried Richling, but stopped short, for Mrs. Ristofalo’s growing dignity indicated that there was more to be told.

“I’m sure ye air, Mr. Richlin’; and I’m sure ye’ll be glad—a heap gladder nor I am—that in that case he’s to be Captain Ristofalah.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, sur.” The wife laid her palm against her floating ribs and breathed a sigh. “I don’t like ud, Mr. Richlin’. No, sur. I don’t like tytles.” She got her fan from under her handkerchief and set it a-going. “I nivver liked the idee of bein’ a tytled man’s wife. No, sur.” She shook her head, elevating it as she shook it. “It creates too much invy, Mr. Richlin’. Well, good-by.” The carriage was stopping at the Washington Market. “Now, don’t ye mintion it to a livin’ soul, Mr. Richlin’!”

Richling said “No.”

“No, sur; fur there be’s manny a slip ’tuxt the cup an’ the lip, ye know; an’ there may be no war, after all, and we may all be disapp’inted. But he’s bound to be tleared if he’s tried, and don’t ye see—I—I don’t want um to be a captain, anyhow, don’t ye see?”

Richling saw, and they parted.

Thus everybody hoped. Dr. Sevier, wifeless, childless, had his hopes too, nevertheless. Hopes for the hospital and his many patients in it and out of it; hopes for his town and his State; hopes for Richling and Mary; and hopes with fears, and fears with hopes, for the great sisterhood of States. Richling had one hope more. After some weeks had passed Dr. Sevier ventured once more to say:—

“Richling, go home. Go to your wife. I must tell you you’re no ordinary sick man. Your life is in danger.” “Will I be out of danger if I go home?” asked Richling.

Dr. Sevier made no answer.

“Do you still think we may have war?” asked Richling again.

“I know we shall.”

“And will the soldiers come back,” asked the young man, smilingly, “when they find their lives in danger?”

“Now, Richling, that’s another thing entirely; that’s the battle-field.”

“Isn’t it all the same thing, Doctor? Isn’t it all a battle-field?”

The Doctor turned impatiently, disdaining to reply. But in a moment he retorted:—

“We take wounded men off the field.”

“They don’t take themselves off,” said Richling, smiling.

“Well,” rejoined the Doctor, rising and striding toward a window, “a good general may order a retreat.”

“Yes, but—maybe I oughtn’t to say what I was thinking”—

“Oh, say it.”

“Well, then, he don’t let his surgeon order it. Doctor,” continued Richling, smiling apologetically as his friend confronted him, “you know, as you say, better than any one else, all that Mary and I have gone through—nearly all—and how we’ve gone through it. Now, if my life should end here shortly, what would the whole thing mean? It would mean nothing. Doctor; it would be meaningless. No, sir; this isn’t the end. Mary and I”—his voice trembled an instant and then was firm again—“are designed for a long life. I argue from the simple fitness of things,—this is not the end.”

Dr. Sevier turned his face quickly toward the window, and so remained.