He
remembered Kerbstone's appeals, also, and now cursed his own stupidity
in refusing to aid him. There he had overreached himself; it was his own
stocks which he had thrown down to the "bears." And now, heaviest stroke
of all, Fletcher, his intrepid and chivalrous agent, who had stepped
into the breach for him, had paid for his indiscretion with his life.
The thought gave him a pang he had never felt, not even when he followed
his wife to the grave. Homeward he went, but slowly and almost without
volition. He recognized no acquaintances that he met, but walked on
abstractedly, fixing his eyes on vacancy with a look as mournful as his
iron features could wear. In his ears still rang those thrilling cries.
His hand, that had groped over that motionless heart, still felt a
creeping chill; it would not warm. And constantly an accusing voice
asked, "Why didn't you come down?"--and conscience repeated the question
in tones like those of a judge arraigning a criminal. He reached his
house and gave orders that no one should be admitted. In his room he
passed the day alone, drifting on an ocean of remorse, full of vague
purposes of repentance and restitution.
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