“I wouldn’t feel so done up,” he said, “if it weren’t for that woman. She begged me to save her, and she had a little child in her arms,” and his voice broke.
“You mustn’t think of her,” I said, “you did all you could.”
“Yes, I did my best to reach her, but before I could get there, she went down. I can never forget her face. Oh, at such a time a fellow can’t help wishing he were just a little quicker, and just a little stronger.”
He had risen from the beach where he had flung himself or fallen, on leaving the boat, but he fell again. I could plainly see that the exhaustion from which he suffered was due as much to mental distress as to physical effort, and I thought no less of him for that.
He was finally prevailed upon to get into the wagon which had brought the life-saving crew, and which was now loaded down with the other boatmen, and many of the passengers from the wreck, and so he was taken home. And I walked back alone, with a queer little feeling somewhere in the region of my heart.
Man, after all, is a harp, I said to myself; a good player—the right woman can draw forth wonderful music, but the wrong woman will call out nothing but discords.
Materials don’t count for everything; there’s a deal in the cooking.
I was on my way home, when I met two of my neighbors hurrying toward the scene—Mr. and Mrs. Daemon.
“You’re too late,” I said, “it’s all over.”
“I only heard of it a little while ago;” said Mrs. Daemon; “I was in the city, and I met Mr. Daemon who had just been told there was a wreck off this shore, and was coming out to see it, so we both took the first train.”