“Worse? Oh, no! It’s better. This is slow death, but that’s quick and short—and sure. If it don’t git ye in five year’, ye’re an allygatur. This place? It’s heaven to ud!”
CHAPTER XLIII.
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.”