BORROWER TURNED LENDER.

It was only a day or two later that the Richlings, one afternoon, having been out for a sunset walk, were just reaching Mrs. Riley’s door-step again, when they were aware of a young man approaching from the opposite direction with the intention of accosting them. They brought their conversation to a murmurous close.

For it was not what a mere acquaintance could have joined them in, albeit its subject was the old one of meat and raiment. Their talk had been light enough on their starting out, notwithstanding John had earned nothing that day. But it had toned down, or, we might say up, to a sober, though not a sombre, quality. John had in some way evolved the assertion that even the life of the body alone is much more than food and clothing and shelter; so much more, that only a divine provision can sustain it; so much more, that the fact is, when it fails, it generally fails with meat and raiment within easy reach.

Mary devoured his words. His spiritual vision had been a little clouded of late, and now, to see it clear—She closed her eyes for bliss.

“Why, John,” she said, “you make it plainer than any preacher I ever heard.”

This, very naturally, silenced John. And Mary, hoping to start him again, said:—

“Heaven provides. And yet I’m sure you’re right in seeking our food and raiment?” She looked up inquiringly.

“Yes; like the fowls, the provision is made for us through us. The mistake is in making those things the end of our search.”

“Why, certainly!” exclaimed Mary, softly. She took fresh hold in her husband’s arm; the young man was drawing near.

“It’s Narcisse!” murmured John. The Creole pressed suddenly forward with a joyous smile, seized Richling’s hand, and, lifting his hat to Mary as John presented him, brought his heels together and bowed from the hips.

“I wuz juz coming at yo’ ’ouse, Mistoo Itchlin. Yesseh. I wuz juz sitting in my ’oom afteh dinneh, envelop’ in my ’obe de chambre, when all at once I says to myseff, ’Faw distwaction I will go and see Mistoo Itchlin!’”

“Will you walk in?” said the pair.

Mrs. Riley, standing in the door of her parlor, made way by descending to the sidewalk. Her calico was white, with a small purple figure, and was highly starched and beautifully ironed. Purple ribbons were at her waist and throat. As she reached the ground Mary introduced Narcisse. She smiled winningly, and when she said, with a courtesy: “Proud to know ye, sur,” Narcisse was struck with the sweetness of her tone. But she swept away with a dramatic tread.

“Will you walk in?” Mary repeated; and Narcisse responded:—

“If you will pummit me yo’ attention a few moment’.” He bowed again and made way for Mary to precede him.

“Mistoo Itchlin,” he continued, going in, “in fact you don’t give Misses Witchlin my last name with absolute co’ectness.” “Did I not? Why, I hope you’ll pardon”—

“Oh, I’m glad of it. I don’ feel lak a pusson is my fwen’ whilst they don’t call me Nahcisse.” He directed his remark particularly to Mary.

“Indeed?” responded she. “But, at the same time, Mr. Richling would have”—She had turned to John, who sat waiting to catch her eye with such intense amusement betrayed in his own that she saved herself from laughter and disgrace only by instant silence.

“Yesseh,” said Narcisse to Richling, “’tis the tooth.”

He cast his eye around upon the prevailing hair-cloth and varnish.

“Misses Witchlin, I muz tell you I like yo’ tas’e in that pawlah.”

“It’s Mrs. Riley’s taste,” said Mary.

“’Tis a beaucheouz tas’e,” insisted the Creole, contemplatively, gazing at the Pope’s vestments tricked out with blue, scarlet, and gilt spangles. “Well, Mistoo Itchlin, since some time I’ve been stipulating me to do myseff that honoh, seh, to come at yo’ ’ouse; well, ad the end I am yeh. I think you fine yoseff not ve’y well those days. Is that nod the case, Mistoo Itchlin?”

“Oh, I’m well enough!” Richling ended with a laugh, somewhat explosively. Mary looked at him with forced gravity as he suppressed it. He had to draw his nose slowly through his thumb and two fingers before he could quite command himself. Mary relieved him by responding:—

“No, Mr. Richling hasn’t been well for some time.”

Narcisse responded triumphantly:—

“It stwuck me—so soon I pe’ceive you—that you ’ave the ai’ of a valedictudina’y. Thass a ve’y fawtunate that you ah ’esiding in a ’ealthsome pawt of the city, in fact.” Both John and Mary laughed and demurred.

“You don’t think?” asked the smiling visitor. “Me, I dunno,—I fine one thing. If a man don’t die fum one thing, yet, still, he’ll die fum something. I ’ave study that out, Mistoo Itchlin. ‘To be, aw to not be, thaz the queztion,’ in fact. I don’t ca’e if you live one place aw if you live anotheh place, ’tis all the same,—you’ve got to pay to live!”

The Richlings laughed again, and would have been glad to laugh more; but each, without knowing it of the other, was reflecting with some mortification upon the fact that, had they been talking French, Narcisse would have bitten his tongue off before any of his laughter should have been at their expense.

“Indeed you have got to pay to live,” said John, stepping to the window and drawing up its painted paper shade. “Yes, and”—

“Ah!” exclaimed Mary, with gentle disapprobation. She met her husband’s eye with a smile of protest. “John,” she said, “Mr.——” she couldn’t think of the name.

“Nahcisse,” said the Creole.

“Will think,” she continued, her amusement climbing into her eyes in spite of her, “you’re in earnest.”

“Well, I am, partly. Narcisse knows, as well as we do that there are two sides to the question.” He resumed his seat. “I reckon”—

“Yes,” said Narcisse, “and what you muz look out faw, ’tis to git on the soff side.”

They all laughed.

“I was going to say,” said Richling, “the world takes us as we come, ‘sight-unseen.’ Some of us pay expenses, some don’t.”

“Ah!” rejoined Narcisse, looking up at the whitewashed ceiling, “those egspenze’!” He raised his hand and dropped it. “I fine it so diffycul’ to defeat those egspenze’! In fact, Mistoo Itchlin, such ah the state of my financial emba’assment that I do not go out at all. I stay in, in fact. I stay at my ’ouse—to light’ those egspenze’!”

They were all agreed that expenses could be lightened thus.

“And by making believe you don’t want things,” said Mary.

“Ah!” exclaimed Narcisse, “I nevvah kin do that!” and Richling gave a laugh that was not without sympathy. “But I muz tell you, Mistoo Itchlin, I am aztonizh at you.”

An instant apprehension seized John and Mary. They knew their ill-concealed amusement would betray them, and now they were to be called to account. But no.

“Yesseh,” continued Narcisse, “you ’ave the gweatez o’casion to be the subjec’ of congwatulation, Mistoo Itchlin, to ’ave the poweh to accum’late money in those hawd time’ like the pwesen’!”

The Richlings cried out with relief and amused surprise.

“Why, you couldn’t make a greater mistake!”

“Mistaken! Hah! W’en I ged that memo’andum f’om Dr. Seveeah to paz that fifty dollah at yo’ cwedit, it burz f’om me, that egsclamation! ’Acchilly! ’ow that Mistoo Itchlin deserve the ’espect to save a lill quantity of money like that!”

The laughter of John and Mary did not impede his rhapsody, nor their protestations shake his convictions.

“Why,” said Richling, lolling back, “the Doctor has simply omitted to have you make the entry of”— But he had no right to interfere with the Doctor’s accounts. However, Narcisse was not listening.

“You’ compel’ to be witch some day, Mistoo Itchlin, ad that wate of p’ogwess; I am convince of that. I can deteg that indisputably in yo’ physio’nomie. Me—I can’t save a cent! Mistoo Itchlin, you would be aztonizh to know ’ow bad I want some money, in fact; exceb that I am too pwoud to dizclose you that state of my condition!”

He paused and looked from John to Mary, and from Mary to John again.

“Why, I’ll declare,” said Richling, sincerely, dropping forward with his chin on his hand, “I’m sorry to hear”—

But Narcisse interrupted.

“Diffyculty with me—I am not willing to baw’.”

Mary drew a long breath and glanced at her husband. He changed his attitude and, looking upon the floor, said, “Yes, yes.” He slowly marked the bare floor with the edge of his shoe-sole. “And yet there are times when duty actually”—

“I believe you, Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, quickly forestalling Mary’s attempt to speak. “Ah, Mistoo Itchlin! if I had baw’d money ligue the huncle of my hant!” He waved his hand to the ceiling and looked up through that obstruction, as it were, to the witnessing sky. “But I hade that—to baw’! I tell you ’ow ’tis with me, Mistoo Itchlin; I nevvah would consen’ to baw’ money on’y if I pay a big inte’es’ on it. An’ I’m compel’ to tell you one thing, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact: I nevvah would leave money with Doctah Seveeah to invez faw me—no!”

Richling gave a little start, and cast his eyes an instant toward his wife. She spoke.

“We’d rather you wouldn’t say that to us, Mister——” There was a commanding smile at one corner of her lips. “You don’t know what a friend”—

Narcisse had already apologized by two or three gestures to each of his hearers.

“Misses Itchlin—Mistoo Itchlin,”—he shook his head and smiled skeptically,—“you think you kin admiah Doctah Seveeah mo’ than me? ’Tis uzeless to attempt. ‘With all ’is fault I love ’im still.’”

Richling and his wife both spoke at once.

“But John and I,” exclaimed Mary, electrically, “love him, faults and all!”

She looked from husband to visitor, and from visitor to husband, and laughed and laughed, pushing her small feet back and forth alternately and softly clapping her hands. Narcisse felt her in the centre of his heart. He laughed. John laughed.

“What I mean, Mistoo Itchlin,” resumed Narcisse, preferring to avoid Mary’s aroused eye,—“what I mean—Doctah Seveeah don’t un’stan’ that kine of business co’ectly. Still, ad the same time, if I was you I know I would ’ate faw my money not to be makin’ me some inte’es’. I tell you what I would do with you, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact: I kin baw’ that fifty dollah f’om you myseff.”

Richling repressed a smile. “Thank you! But I don’t care to invest it.”

“Pay you ten pe’ cent. a month.”

“But we can’t spare it,” said Richling, smiling toward Mary. “We may need part of it ourselves.”

“I tell you, ’eally, Mistoo Itchlin, I nevveh baw’ money; but it juz ’appen I kin use that juz at the pwesent.”

“Why, John,” said Mary, “I think you might as well say plainly that the money is borrowed money.” “That’s what it is,” responded Richling, and rose to spread the street-door wider open, for the daylight was fading.

“Well, I ’ope you’ll egscuse that libbetty,” said Narcisse, rising a little more tardily, and slower. “I muz baw’ fawty dollah—some place. Give you good secu’ty—give you my note, Mistoo Itchlin, in fact; muz baw fawty—aw thutty-five.”

“Why, I’m very sorry,” responded Richling, really ashamed that he could not hold his face straight. “I hope you understand”—

“Mistoo Itchlin, ’tis baw’d money. If you had a necessity faw it you would use it. If a fwend ’ave a necessity—’tis anotheh thing—you don’t feel that libbetty—you ah ’ight—I honoh you”—

“I don’t feel the same liberty.”

“Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, with noble generosity, throwing himself a half step forward, “if it was yoze you’d baw’ it to me in a minnit!” He smiled with benign delight. “Well, madame,—I bid you good evening, Misses Itchlin. The bes’ of fwen’s muz pawt, you know.” He turned again to Richling with a face all beauty and a form all grace. “I was juz sitting—mistfully—all at once I says to myseff, ‘Faw distwaction I’ll go an’ see Mistoo Itchlin.’ I don’t know ’ow I juz ’appen’!—Well, au ’evoi’, Mistoo Itchlin.”

Richling followed him out upon the door-step. There Narcisse intimated that even twenty dollars for a few days would supply a stern want. And when Richling was compelled again to refuse, Narcisse solicited his company as far as the next corner. There the Creole covered him with shame by forcing him to refuse the loan of ten dollars, and then of five.

It was a full hour before Richling rejoined his wife. Mrs. Riley had stepped off to some neighbor’s door with Mike on her arm. Mary was on the sidewalk.

“John,” she said, in a low voice, and with a long anxious look.

“What?”

“He didn’t take the only dollar of your own in the world?”

“Mary, what could I do? It seemed a crime to give, and a crime not to give. He cried like a child; said it was all a sham about his dinner and his robe de chambre. An aunt, two little cousins, an aged uncle at home—and not a cent in the house! What could I do? He says he’ll return it in three days.”

“And”—Mary laughed distressfully—“you believed him?” She looked at him with an air of tender, painful admiration, half way between a laugh and a cry.

“Come, sit down,” he said, sinking upon the little wooden buttress at one side of the door-step.

Tears sprang into her eyes. She shook her head.

“Let’s go inside.” And in there she told him sincerely, “No, no, no; she didn’t think he had done wrong”—when he knew he had.