Paul Rundel: A Novel

by Will N. Harben

He turned and looked steadily into her great, shadowy eyes.

“The scene was the roadside down there, Ethel. The picture was that of a refined, gentle little girl, her eyes full of sympathy. The voice was hers, telling me that she was going to pray for—for me.”

“Oh, oh, why do you say that now?” Ethel cried. “Now, now, after I have told you that I no longer—”

“Because the little girl ought to know,” he answered. “She should be told of the clinging effect her promise—her prayers—had on a storm-tossed human soul. The scene, the voice, the picture, never left the wanderer. They grew like pure flowers in the mire of his deepest sin. In many cases it is the memory of prayers at a mother's knee in childhood that haunts the worldly minded in after-life; but my childhood had no prayers, and that little girl became my guardian angel.”

“Oh, Paul, Paul, don't, don't!” Ethel cried, and for a moment she seemed to have forgotten her grief.

“But I must go on,” Paul answered. “I finally reached Portland and settled down. I was tired of roaming, and under a small printer I began to learn type-setting. I made rapid progress. I had access to a good public library, and I passed most of my evenings in study. Later I began reporting on a big newspaper, and from that I gradually drifted into the writing of editorials. I don't take any credit for the success I met, for the articles I wrote were readable only because they were without heart or soul, and appealed only to individuals like myself. I ridiculed everything, tore down everything. A thing only had to be praised by others for me to hurl my vitriol upon it. The arrant hypocrisy of the church-members, the mental weakness of the preachers, and the gullibility of the public were my choice themes. Birds of my own particular feather flocked about me and congratulated me. I became vain of my powers. I was sure that I was a great intellectual force in the world. My salary was raised, and I found myself in comfortable circumstances. I belonged to a small society of advanced thinkers, as we styled ourselves. We held meetings once a week and prepared and read essays. The great materialistic scientists and writers were our guides and gods. We pitied all the rest of the world for its inability to reach our height. That went on for several years, then an odd thing happened.”

“What was that?” Ethel was now almost eagerly leaning forward, her pale lips parted.

The color in Paul's cheeks had deepened. “I must tell that, too,” he said. “And I shall not shirk the humiliation of it. There was a young poet in Boston whose parents lived in Portland. His books had been widely circulated, and when he came out on a visit the papers had a great deal to say about him. I don't think I ever sank lower than I did then.” Paul's voice faltered. “I was jealous. I read his books out of curiosity, and found them wholly spiritual, full of dreams, ideality, and mysticism. Then I sat up all of one night and wrote the most caustic and virulent attack on his work that I had ever written. It was published at once, and created a local sensation. My friends gave me a dinner in honor of it, and we drank a good deal of beer and filled the air with smoke. Selections from the poet's books were read and laughed at. That seemed all right; but an unexpected thing happened. The next day the young man called at the office and sent in his card, asking particularly for me. It made me furious; my associates on the paper thought he had come to demand personal satisfaction, and so did I. I kept him waiting in the reception-room for some time, and then I went in to him, fully expecting trouble. So you can imagine my surprise to have him rise and extend his hand in a timid and yet cordial manner. I had never seen him before, and I was struck by the wonderful, almost suffering delicacy of his face and a certain expression in his big, dreamy eyes that I had never seen before. He seemed greatly embarrassed, so much so that at first he seemed unable to talk. Presently he managed to tell me, in the frankest, most gentle manner, that he had come to see me because, after reading my article, he was afraid he or his work had offended me personally in some way. I was completely taken aback. I simply couldn't make him out. I was tempted to speak roughly, but couldn't. We sat down, and he started to explain more fully why he had come. He said it was his aim in life to live in harmony with God's law, and that, as he saw it, the feeling between him and me was spiritual discord which ought not to exist. He said he was sure, when I understood him fully, that I could have no personal animus against him for conscientiously writing the poems I had attacked. He said it was the highest law of life for all men to love one another, and until they did there would be human discord. I can't tell you half he said. I know, somehow, that for the first time in my experience I found myself facing a human being who was more spirit than matter, and who possessed a power against which I had no weapon. He seemed to feel my embarrassment, and rose to go. At the door he gave me his hand again and pressed mine warmly. 'I am sure,' he said, 'that nothing but good can result from this visit. Something within me always tells me when I ought to do a thing like this. It is always hard to do; but if I refuse to obey I invariably suffer for it.'”

“How very strange!” Ethel exclaimed. “And what came of it?”

“Much, much,” Paul answered. “When he had gone I remained for some time in the room with the door closed. I was hot from head to foot with shame. I felt worse than if I had been thrashed in public. I did not know what to do, and I was sure something had to be done. I returned to the office, and the reporters and printers gathered about me, full of jokes and eager for information. I could say nothing. A mechanical jest rose to my lips, but I didn't utter it. I could no longer make sport of him behind his back. I put on my hat and went for a walk. I felt sure that I owed him a public apology, and I knew that I would not be able to make it, and that fairly confounded me. I admired him more than any man I had ever met. During that walk a maddening mental picture rose before me.” Here the speaker's voice quivered. “I fancied, Ethel—I fancied that I saw you as I last saw you. Some one was presenting that young man to you. I saw you both walking off together across the meadows in the sunshine among the flowers. He was gathering them for you. You were receiving them, and it seemed to me that you and he were mated as man and woman never had been mated before.”