But the night seemed to have
grown chilly; and Mahony gave an involuntary shiver. "Some one walking
over my . . . now what would that specimen have called it? Over the four
by eight my remains will one day manure!"
"An odd, abusive, wrong-headed fellow," he mused, as he made his way
home. "Who would ever have thought, though, that the queer little
chemist had so much in him? A failure? . . . yes, he was right there;
and as unlovely as failures always are--at close quarters." But as he
laid his hands on the gate, he jerked up his head and exclaimed half
aloud: "God bless my soul! What he wanted was not argument or reason but
a little human sympathy." As usual, however, the flash of intuition came
too late. "For such a touchy nature I'm certainly extraordinarily obtuse
where the feelings of others are concerned," he told himself as he
hooked in the latch.
"Why, Richard, where HAVE you been?" came Mary's clear voice--muted so
as not to disturb John and Jinny, who had retired to rest. Purdy and she
sat waiting on the verandah. "Were you called out? We've had time to
clear everything away. Here, dear, I saved you some sandwiches and a
glass of claret. I'm sure you didn't get any supper yourself, with
looking after other people."
Long after Mary had fallen asleep he lay wakeful. His foolish blunder in
response to Tangye's appeal rankled in his mind. He could not get over
his insensitiveness. How he had boasted of his prosperity, his moral
nicety, his saving pursuits--he to boast!--when all that was asked of
him was a kindly: "My poor fellow soul, you have indeed fought a hard
fight; but there IS a God above us who will recompense you at His own
time, take the word for it of one who has also been through the Slough
of Despond.
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