There was a crowd around Horace in an instant. His head was whirling, but in a dull way he said what he had to say. An officious passenger, who would have explained it all to the conductor if the conductor had waited, took the deliverer in his arms—for the boy was near fainting—and enlightened the passengers who flocked around.
Horace hung in his embrace, too deadly weak even to accept the offer of one of the dozen flasks that were thrust at him. Nothing was very clear in his mind; as far as he could make out, his most distinct impression was of a broad, flat beach, a blue sea and a blue sky, a black steamer making a black trail of smoke across them, and a voice soft as an angel’s reading Latin close by him. Then he opened his eyes and saw the woman of the voice standing in front of him.
“Oh, Richard,” he heard her say,“it’s Mr. Walpole!”
Horace struggled to his feet. She took his hand in both of hers and drew closer to him; the crowd falling back a little, seeing that they were friends.
“What can I ever say to thank you?” she said. “You have saved our lives. It’s not so much for myself, but”—she blushed faintly, and Horace felt her hands tremble on his; “Richard—my husband—we were married to-day, you know—and”—
Something heavy and black came between Horace and life for a few minutes. When it passed away he straightened himself up out of the arms of the officious passenger and stared about him, mind and memory coming back to him. The people around looked at him oddly. A brakeman brought him his overcoat, and he stood unresistingly while it was slipped on him. Then he turned away and started down the embankment.
“Hold on!” cried the officious passenger excitedly; “we’re getting up a testimonial”—
Horace never heard it. How he found his way he never cared to recall; but the gas was dim in the city streets, and the fire was out in his little lodging-house room when he came home; and his narrow white bed knows all that I cannot tell of his tears and his broken dreams.
“Walpole,” said Judge Weeden, as he stood between the yawning doors of the office safe, one morning in June, “I observe that you have a private package here. Why do you not use the drawer of our—our late associate, Mr. Haskins? It is yours now, you know. I’ll put your package in it.” He poised the heavily sealed envelope in his hand. “Very odd feeling package, Walpole. Remarkably soft!” he said. “Well, bless me, it’s none of my business, of course. Horace, how much you look like your father!”