Far back through the “past” his thoughts were straying, to the Christmas Eve when penniless, friendless and alone he had come to the city, asking employment from one whose hair was not as white then as it was now, and whose eyes were not quenched in darkness, but looked kindly down upon him, as the wealthy merchant said:
“I will give you work as long as you do well.”
Hugo Warren was older than William Huntington, and his station in life had always been different, but over the mountain side the same Sunday bell had once called them both to the house of God—the same tall tree on the river bank bore on its bark their names—the same blue sky had bent above their childhood’s home, and for this reason he had given the poor young man a helping hand, aiding him step by step, until now, he was the confidential clerk—the one trusted above all others—for when the blindness first came upon him the helpless man had put his hand on William’s head, saying, as he did so:
“I trust you, with my all, and as you hope for Heaven, do not be false to the trust.”
How those words, spoken years before, rang in William Huntington’s ears, as he sat thinking of the past, until the great drops of perspiration gathered thickly around his lips and dropped upon the floor. He had betrayed his trust—nay, more, he had ruined the man who had been so kind to him, and before three days were passed his sin would find him out. Heavy bank notes must be paid, and there was nothing with which to pay them. The gambling table had been his ruin. Gradually he had gone down, meaning always to replace what he had taken, and oftentimes doing so; but fortune had deserted him at last, and rather than meet the glance of those sightless eyes, when the truth should be known, he had resolved to go away. The next day would be a holiday, and before the Christmas sun set, he would be an outcast—a wanderer on the earth. Of all this he was thinking when Adelaide came to his side.
The sound of her voice aroused him at last, and starting up, he exclaimed:
“It is time we were at home. The atmosphere of these rooms is stifling. Get your things at once.”
Rather unwillingly Adelaide obeyed, and ten minutes later she was saying good night to Alice and her mother, both of whom expressed their surprise that she should go so soon, as did Mr. Warren also.
“I meant to have talked with you more,” he said, as he stood in the hall with Mr. Huntington, who, grasping his hand, looked earnestly into the face which for all time to come would haunt him as the face of one whom he had greatly wronged.
A few hours later, and all was still in the house where mirth and revelry had so lately reigned. Flushed with excitement and the flattery her youthful beauty had called forth, Alice Warren had sought her pillow, and in the world of dreamland was living over again the incidents of the evening. The blind man, too, was sleeping, and in his dreams he saw again the forms of those he loved, but he did not see the cloud hovering near, nor the crouching figure which, across the way, was looking toward his window and bidding him farewell.