Dr. Sevier. George Washington Cable
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you think you should?” she asked, leaning forward from the back of the great chair and letting her wrists drop over the front of its broad arms.
“I do,” said the Doctor, kindly. “Why shouldn’t I? This present attack was by your own fault.” While he spoke he was looking into her eyes, contracted at their corners by her slight smile. The face was one of those that show not merely that the world is all unknown to them, but that it always will be so. It beamed with inquisitive intelligence, and yet had the innocence almost of infancy. The Doctor made a discovery; that it was this that made her beautiful. “She is beautiful,” he insisted to himself when his critical faculty dissented.
“You needn’t doubt me, Doctor. I’ll try my best to take care. Why, of course I will—for John’s sake.” She looked up into his face from the tassel she was twisting around her finger, touching the floor with her slippers’ toe and faintly rocking.
“Yes, there’s a chance there,” replied the grave man, seemingly not overmuch pleased; “I dare say everything you do or leave undone is for his sake.”
The little wife betrayed for a moment a pained perplexity, and then exclaimed:—
“Well, of course!” and waited his answer with bright eyes.
“I have known women to think of their own sakes,” was the response.
She laughed, and with unprecedented sparkle replied:—
“Why, whatever’s his sake is my sake. I don’t see the difference. Yes, I see, of course, how there might be a difference; but I don’t see how a woman”—She ceased, still smiling, and, dropping her eyes to her hands, slowly stroked one wrist and palm with the tassel of her husband’s robe.
The Doctor rose, turned his back to the mantel-piece, and looked down upon her. He thought of the great, wide world: its thorny ways, its deserts, its bitter waters, its unrighteousness, its self-seeking greeds, its weaknesses, its under and over reaching, its unfaithfulness; and then again of this—child, thrust all at once a thousand miles into it, with never—so far as he could see—an implement, a weapon, a sense of danger, or a refuge; well pleased with herself, as it seemed, lifted up into the bliss of self-obliterating wifehood, and resting in her husband with such an assurance of safety and happiness as a saint might pray for grace to show to Heaven itself. He stood silent, feeling too grim to speak, and presently Mrs. Richling looked up with a sudden liveliness of eye and a smile that was half apology and half persistence.
“Yes, Doctor, I’m going to take care of myself.”
“Mrs. Richling, is your father a man of fortune?”
“My father is not living,” said she, gravely. “He died two years ago. He was the pastor of a small church. No, sir; he had nothing but his small salary, except that for some years he taught a few scholars. He taught me.” She brightened up again. “I never had any other teacher.”
The Doctor folded his hands behind him and gazed abstractedly through the upper sash of the large French windows. The street-door was heard to open.
“There’s John,” said the convalescent, quickly, and the next moment her husband entered. A tired look vanished from his face as he saw the Doctor. He hurried to grasp his hand, then turned and kissed his wife. The physician took up his hat.
“Doctor,” said the wife, holding the hand he gave her, and looking up playfully, with her cheek against the chair-back, “you surely didn’t suspect me of being a rich girl, did you?”
“Not at all, madam.” His emphasis was so pronounced that the husband laughed.
“There’s one comfort in the opposite condition, Doctor,” said the young man.
“Yes?”
“Why, yes; you see, it requires no explanation.”
“Yes, it does,” said the physician; “it is just as binding on people to show good cause why they are poor as it is to show good cause why they’re rich. Good-day, madam.” The two men went out together. His word would have been good-by, but for the fear of fresh acknowledgments.
CHAPTER V.
HARD QUESTIONS.
Dr. Sevier had a simple abhorrence of the expression of personal sentiment in words. Nothing else seemed to him so utterly hollow as the attempt to indicate by speech a regard or affection which was not already demonstrated in behavior. So far did he keep himself aloof from insincerity that he had barely room enough left to be candid.
“I need not see your wife any more,” he said, as he went down the stairs with the young husband at his elbow; and the young man had learned him well enough not to oppress him with formal thanks, whatever might have been said or omitted upstairs.
Madame Zénobie contrived to be near enough, as they reached the lower floor, to come in for a share of the meagre adieu. She gave her hand with a dainty grace and a bow that might have been imported from Paris.
Dr. Sevier paused on the front step, half turned toward the open door where the husband still tarried. That was not speech; it was scarcely action; but the young man understood it and was silent. In truth, the Doctor himself felt a pang in this sort of farewell. A physician’s way through the world is paved, I have heard one say, with these broken bits of other’s lives, of all colors and all degrees of beauty. In his reminiscences, when he can do no better, he gathers them up, and, turning them over and over in the darkened chamber of his retrospection, sees patterns of delight lit up by the softened rays of bygone time. But even this renews the pain of separation, and Dr. Sevier felt, right here at this door-step, that, if this was to be the last of the Richlings, he would feel the twinge of parting every time they came up again in his memory.
He looked at the house opposite—where there was really nothing to look at—and at a woman who happened to be passing, and who was only like a thousand others with whom he had nothing to do.
“Richling,” he said, “what brings you to New Orleans, any way?”
Richling leaned his cheek against the door-post.
“Simply seeking my fortune, Doctor.”
“Do you think it is here?”
“I’m pretty sure it is; the world owes me a living.”
The Doctor looked up.
“When did you get the world in your debt?”
Richling lifted his head pleasantly, and let one foot down a step.
“It owes me a chance to earn a living, doesn’t it?”
“I dare say,” replied the other; “that’s what it generally owes.”
“That’s all I ask of it,” said Richling; “if it will let us alone we’ll let it alone.”
“You’ve no right to allow either,” said the physician. “No, sir; no,” he insisted, as the young man looked incredulous. There was a pause. “Have you any capital?” asked the Doctor.
“Capital! No,”—with a low laugh.
“But surely you have something to”—
“Oh, yes—a little!”
The Doctor marked the southern “Oh.” There is no “O” in Milwaukee.
“You don’t find as many vacancies as you expected to see, I suppose—h-m-m?”
There was an under-glow of feeling in the young man’s tone as he replied:—
“I was misinformed.”
“Well,”