Page images
PDF
EPUB

Doubtless, the twain were uncle and nephew. And it was the junior, unquestionably, that was reported to be a candidate for matrimony. My ears dropped; my hopes

likewise.

"I mean the young man," said I; is married?"

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors][merged small]

'They are both young men," he answered. "But the question of marriage settles the identity. Paul Venner, of New Orleans, was married last summer. Do you know him?"

"I have heard him spoken of," I answered, dryly, thrusting down by the strong hand an inclination to "speak of" him myself, nippingly as frost.

Mr. Watling looked at me sharply. "You have heard nothing to his disadvantage, I am sure; at least you ought not to have done. He is a fine young man, as young men go,—which, after all, is saying too little for him,most young men go to the bad in these days. But his cousin, Paul Venner, of New York, is a finer young man still, as young men do not go, brave as a lion, gentle as a lamb, pure as a vestal, wise as a sage,-another Bayard, 'without fear and without reproach.' I should feel considerably easier about our country's future than I do, if I were sure that Uncle Sam could put his finger on fifty more like him, at need. To be candid, I love him like my own son. And it cuts me to the heart that he should be going out of business just now, when the commercial world needs men like him so much, firm, calm, candid, upright men,— with stamina and conscience enough to resist the speculating, defaulting, stock-gambling, gold-worshipping tendencies of the times."

I pricked up my ears again. This sounded like Winnie's first mention of her Paul! She, too, had quoted the French knight, sans peur et sans reproche. Was there some miserable mistake, after all? If so, it was my duty to ferret it out.

"And why," said I, "does he quit business, then?" Mr. Watling sighed and shook his head. "I suspect it is the old story-a woman who would, and would not.' Paul owned as much to me when I saw him last. 'His old future was slain to him,' he said. 'He must build a new one out of other and better material.' In short, he had determined to study for the ministry. It had been the dream and desire of his youth, but he had given it up at his father's request; he wanted his son beside him in his counting house. He was not sorry that he had yielded; his commercial training would not come altogether amiss in the ministry; and it was an inexpressible gladness to remember that he had been by his father's side in dark days of commercial quake and distress, and had been a stay and a comfort to him. But it had pleased God, now, to remove every obstruction from his onward path; his father needed his help and companionship no more; he had left him a fortune ampler than his wishes or his needs; he saw his way quite clear before him, stripped of everything to hinder his progress or divide his strength.' I grumbled out that he would only spoil a good business-man to make a poor minister. I think not,' he answered, quietly; 'I have lived in and of the world, and I know what it is like. I have been down to the gates of death, and I know how it looks from thence. I know what it is to 'lose all, yet find all,' and I can teach men so.' And you would be the last man on earth, Mr. Watling, to counsel me to resist my convictions of duty.' So I could only wring his hand and let him go. But I have not done mourning about it yet."

He must mourn alone, then! My call was, clearly, to rejoice. For them who knew not yet what cause of rejoicing was coming to them. Coming-ever since the world came out of the murk of chaos. "Prepared" before chaos 66 was." The thought took my breath away. It pitched me down, headlong, from the mount of joy into the valley of humiliation. For, all this time. I had been

rying out against God's ways, in my heart! You know I never distrusted Him, for myself. But, for my friend, I could have done better, I thought!

So it was not a "miserable mistake." A wholesome one, instead, of the Father's own making. His machinery for cutting and polishing a pair of human souls into fitness for His day of making up His jewels. His veil drawn between, while He was beautifying them-each for the other, and both for Himself. His sign and seal upon His “elect,”—elected, first, to the purification by fire; next to the sweetness and the hardships of His service; finally, to the fulness of the glory to be revealed!

This was what I felt. What I said--when I could say anything was too far away of kin for kinship to be

traceable.

"How strange that two cousins-german should bear exactly the same name! It must give rise to endless confusion and mistake."

"It happened naturally enough," said Mr. Watling. “Twenty-five or thirty years ago, Amos Venner was a cotton planter in Texas, and Hugh the American Consul at Naples. Sons were born to them, within a fortnight, or thereabouts, of each other. Letters traveled slowly in those days. Both the children were christened Paul, in honor of their paternal grandfather, before either brother knew of the other's good fortune. But I don't think it ever caused any trouble. They have lived too far apart; one at the South, the other in Europe or New York."

I denied myself the pleasure of dispelling the illusion. I was in a white heat of impatience to get home and write to Winnie," Paul is not married. He has never so much as dreamed of the thing. He is going to be a minister. He has buried you in his heart, and mourns the living dead. Over that grave, God writes 'Resurgam.' For He is gracious, and His mercy endureth." This would I

write.

But there must be something more, of where and when and why.

"Do you know where Paul Venner is now?" I asked. "In New Orleans; or, it may be, on his way home. Most likely the latter."

"Has he been in New Orleans all summer?

[ocr errors]

Now, Mr. Watling looked at me suspiciously. This persistent questioning about a stranger began to strike him as odd, to say the least of it. I answered his look. “I ask from a deeper motive than curiosity. I take an interest in Paul Venner, which shall have a future explanation. Meantime, it will do no harm, and may do good, for me to know what have been his outward movements since last spring."

66

First," replied Mr. Watling, "his father despatched him to New Orleans, on important business for the firm. There, it was decided that he must proceed forthwith to California. He returned in August, to find his father looking ill and worn; waiting,' he said, 'for Paul to come back and take his place, so that he might give up, and be sick a little while.' The giving up was final; he died a month afterward. For a time, Paul seemed quite stunned by the blow. Then he came to the decision I told you He is closing up the business. The two houses having always been connected, he was obliged to visit New Orleans again, two or three weeks ago, for consultation with his uncle. It is about time for him to return."

of.

Now, I had got all I wanted. I bade Mr. Watling goodbye, hurriedly. I set out for home at a great pace.

On the way, it slackened. Thoughts came to me; thoughts and a question. I could write to Winnie, but she would she write to Paul Venner?

I tried to tell myself, Yes; and could only get out an unwilling, No! Womanly pride, womanly delicacy,-finespun as cobwebs, yet strong as steel,-these would hold her back.

I sputtered furiously against the folly, the sin, of sacrificing the happiness of two lives to a figment, a scruple, a mere conventionalism. It would be setting up an image of straw, and not daring to knock it down. Blenching at a moment's pain, and going out deliberately into a long agony of years. Sickening at a little drop of bittersweet, and drinking slowly a great, bottomless cup of gall. In vain. Over all my resentful metaphors strode that relentless, "No." It set its foot on my neck, and held me at its mercy.

With clearest soul-sight, I saw what she would write back. "Providence, having brought me so much, will surely bring me the rest, in His good time. I can wait."

And what then? A dull pain of suspense, a slow fever of expectation, a growing weight of patience. Across that peace whereof she had told me, "flowing as a river," I should have thrown a long, wavering shadow of unrest, a haunting "if," a slow-dripping "when." A joy with an ache in it. A gift with a sting in it. No, a thousand times, no! whatever I did, I would not do that!

I walked slowly enough now, and pondered. Clearly, here was a case where Providence needed an instrument. None more ready and glad than I. That, sans dire. Therefore this clue had been put into What was I hands. my

I did not

to do with it? The answer flashed back, as along an electric wire. Give it to Paul Venner. But how? know him. Write. An anonymous letter

I stopped short. Anonymous letters are instruments of Satan. Slimy, as with the trail of a serpent on them. Smutched, as by pitchy hands. Of evil reputation, because found in bad company.

Besides, Paul Venner might suspect Winnie of having written it. I flushed all over at the bare thought. Nor did it help me much to pronounce that such suspicion would prove him unworthy ever to have stood at the white portal of her heart.

« PreviousContinue »