“Nothing in the world but that Mary was a Northern girl. Simple sectional prejudice. I didn’t tell Mary. I didn’t think they would do it; but I knew Mary would refuse to put me to the risk. We married, and they carried out their threat.”
The Doctor uttered a low exclamation, and both were silent.
“Doctor,” began the sick man once more.
“Yes, Richling.”
“I suppose you never looked into the case of a man who needed help, but you were sure to find that some one thing was the key to all his troubles; did you?”
The Doctor was silent again.
“I’ll give you the key to mine, Doctor: I took up the gage thrown down by my family as though it were thrown down by society at large. I said I would match pride with pride. I said I would go among strangers, take a new name, and make it as honorable as the old. I saw Mary didn’t think it wise; but she believed whatever I did was best, and”—he smiled and whispered—“I thought so too. I suppose my troubles have more than one key; but that’s the outside one. Let me rest a little.
“Doctor, I die nameless. I had a name, a good name, and only too proud a one. It’s mine still. I’ve never tarnished it—not even in prison. I will not stain it now by disclosing it. I carry it with me to God’s throne.”
The whisperer ceased, exhausted. The Doctor rested an elbow on a knee and laid his face in his hand. Presently Richling moved, and he raised a look of sad inquiry.
“Bury me here in New Orleans, Doctor, will you?”