Evening star., 1886-11-06

it must be TO be able to give any one any thing,
you would not wonder that am so lavish in
giving you better fellows SO many opportunities
He had graduated as he said he would, de-
Gently, and then had sought the light work
with ridiculously small pay which all his
strength was equal to. Two years later his
! mother died, and Van Austen was alone in the
world, except for the hosts and hosts of friends
| tnat ne mad always made for himself every
| where
As we sat there now In his little parlor, talk
| rang.
Excuse me moment" he said as he rose
slowly 81 am my own butler to-day. Emily
| sends me round hers on great occasions; but,
| though L am perfectly willing to borrow him
when l need him, 1 am not willing to borrow
him when she needs him. draw the line there.
SO am my own butler to-day"
Good evening"" L heard from a strange
| voice as Van Austen opened the outer door,
| There was a severity in the tone which
| marked the voice of one who hardly expected
to he admitted without difficulty but who was
| determined To be admitted, whateveD the diff
| hculty.
Good evening Will you come in?" Van
Austen said, with evidently unexpected civil
Thank you, thank YOU said the stranger,
| in a tone of evident relief. 81 called to see
| you about little subscription for The Chill
dren's Aid Society," know your interest in it,
| and"
Excuse me-" interrupted Van Austen with a
| smile which felt through the thick 1oortiere,
"but think you mistake me for my cousin,
! ticul6rly interested in your society and will no
doubt befriend it, He is In 34th Street.
AND you are questioned the inter-
thrown off the scent.
Il am, unfortunately, Mr.. Robert Van Aus
ten. The two Rs often confuse my identity to
| that OF my cousin"
"Ah, excuse me; see," answered the dis
comhted agent, with a tone which uncon-
| seiousiy Implied that he had been a little sur
| prised at the surroundings of the supposed
| wealthy Mr.. Van Austen.
| "Odd, isn't it," said Van Austen, as he saunt-
|
| again upon the cushions, "that he never tried
he found was not the millionaire off he went
| in search OF the richer man, without waiting to
| see II couldn't perhaps swell his fund by a
| WldoW 5 mite. III had been an ordinary poor
| man he would have tried to squeeze at least a
dollar out OF me, en- pdssdnt; but it is one of my
rich, To nave the Subscription agents drop me
as II were an agent myself, when they see a
| wealthier Van Austen behind me.''
| "Do you know Dobbs?' l asked happening
| 10 recall the name on the opposite doorplate.
| "Do know Dobbs? or course do. What is
| the eleven little Dobbses Mrs Dobbs is a very
clever little woman who sends me in a bit of
dinner now and then OF a rainy Sunday when
| she knows hate to go out 1 can't return in
| kind, of course, as my dining-rOOm is a farce:
but once in while hunt her up bit OF my
| Old china, and she is delighted. She gives me
| bread. and give her stone; but, then, you
| see, she likes the stone."
"Well, will you drive with me to-morrow?n
asked, as the clock struck nine
Very sorry; but tomorrow drive with Nor
| ton. Really, Inorndlke, think spend more
iime IN the park In other peoples carriages
than any one person does in his own. Every.
| body remembers that / am the man who
hasn't any horses, and somebody comes for
me very nearly every afternoon"
| All the way home pondered dreamily on the
silent and dim fate of my college friend, which
| was in many ways SO full OF pleasantness and
yet which left sense, if not of pity-for 1t was
| part OF Van Austen's marvellous dignity that it
was quite impossible to pity him,-at least of
/ lneffable regret. He was not contented: anyone
could feel that unstirred aspirations lett con-
slant sense of want in his hungry soul: but he
was not unhappy. He had the rare grace OF ac-
ceptlng the inevitable without a nurmur s.I
don't make the best OF it," he had said once
| with a wave OF the hand in depreciation of a
friend S comment on mis- cheerfulness. "ButI let
other people make the best of it for me. Any
one VINO can give me anything to alleviate The
situation is a welcome being. am saved from
unhapPiness by not having any proper pride"
| saw a great deal of him that winter. All of
US saw great deal of him, and it was odd how
! many jolly fellows went, not out OF pure SYM
| pathy, but because they wanted to go. to those
street.
Il can't make it out" said Van Austen one
| evening from his sofa, "why you fellows like
TO come here. L don't entertain, not having
| amy larder, and I'm not we'll enough to 90
about and pick up interesting matters for
not a IMAM with interesting news; l have no
Iad TO worry you with, and I'm an excellent
| yourselves"
Those evenings in the little parlor took on a
sort Oh patnoS as the spring Came, and Van Aus
/ IN.
course, as the pathos made itself felt, the out
| ward merriment waxed stronger. Stronger
| ness, merriinent could not be tolerated in what
seemed hardly sick.roOm and yet was never
'neIess .T,ss tne room OF dying man.
| II because am poor, DOCTOR" he explained
one day, when his room seemed particularly
| overnowing with flowers and Black HAMBURG
| grapes, that have many luXuries Every.
any
| We We're careful not to tell him of the mis-
4 - la bod
| nearest friends But with one wasted hand he
drew from under his pillow one day the news
| paper which had the particulars and said to us
| IN his faint voice, "Tell me about it,"
III was the same old, old story of unwise
| TTeckless speculation, ending in utter ruin.
van Austen made no comment as he listened
10 the pltliui story; but after awhile said earn
"Im only man Of negative virtues. as Won
Know. Sometimes alnuse myself as lie here
with wondering how am possibly to get into
heaven. But have made up my mind that
SAINT feter Is going to accept one of my neg.
atlVe virtues, and let me in, out OF curiosity as
the man who didn't speculate. Mind you-'
ana his eyes lit with feverish earnestness as he
looked at US all in turn-"as the man who didn't
Specullte not as u man who DIDN'T speculate
~ ~ IttIe WIZ Hardness on whose face his gaze
fingered longest, did not go to the wall in Wall
street afterwards, believe, upon my soul, it is
Que TO that dying gaze of Van Austen's.
| Il nave been trying to compose my epitaph"
he said again one afternoon, when he seemed
more than ordinarily weak, and when Bob
Carter and L were both with him, while his
Iousih Emily moved softly about in the next
| room. You Will all try TO say something fine
oi me; but, for the lite of me, cannot imagine
What IL Will be. You can't say was a good
husband or father, or a generous citizen or a
great poet, or even a pa.ron OF poets. But l
@ hno% you VIII say something, and should
greatly Ike To Know what it will be-"
am anu ~ was IN the twilight of the same after
noon, that turning his head with an effort on
the Gus ushlons, he smiled again his sunny smile
OF the old college days, and said quietly:
I've thought it out, Thorndike. You can
put on my tombstone that was the man who
| was not
quick gasp-a fiutter of the pulse-a sudden
! deeper palior-our friend-was not.
None will Miss Thee.
| Few will miss thee. friend, when thou
| For month in dust hast lain;
SklllIui hand and anxious brow,