plied him with brandy-and-water till he began to look rather brighter—rather more alive, at least.
‘“Huntingdon, I’m ruined!” said he, taking the third glass from my hand—he had drunk the others in dead silence.
‘“Not you,” said I. “You’ll find a man can live without his money as merrily as a tortoise without its head, or a wasp without its body.”
‘“But I’m in debt,” said he—“deep in debt. And I can never, never get out of it.”
‘“Well, what of that? Many a better man than you has lived and died in debt; and they can’t put you in prison, you know, because you’re a peer.” And I handed him his fourth tumbler.
‘“But I hate to be in debt!” he shouted. “I wasn’t born for it, and I cannot bear it.”
‘“What can’t be cured must be endured,” said I, beginning to mix the fifth.
‘“And then, I’ve lost my Caroline.” And he began to snivel then, for the brandy had softened his heart.
‘“No matter,” I answered, “there are more Carolines in the world than one.”
‘“There’s only one for me,” he replied, with a dolorous sigh. “And if there were fifty more, who’s to get them, I wonder, without money?”
‘“Oh, somebody will take you for your title; and then you’ve your family estate yet; that’s entailed, you know.”
‘“I wish to God I could sell it to pay my debts,” he muttered.
‘“And then,” said Grimsby, who had just come in, “you can try again, you know. I would have more than one chance, if I were you. I’d never stop here.”
‘“I won’t, I tell you!” shouted he. And he started up, and left the room—walking rather unsteadily, for the liquor had got into his head. He was not so much used to it then, but after that he took to it kindly to solace his cares.
‘He kept his oath about gambling (not a little to the surprise of us all), though Grimsby did his utmost to tempt him to break it, but now he had got hold of another habit that bothered him nearly as much, for he soon discovered that the demon of drink was as black as the demon of play, and nearly as hard to get rid of—especially as his kind friends did all they could to second the promptings of his own insatiable cravings.’
‘Then, they were demons themselves,’ cried I, unable to contain my indignation. ‘And you, Mr. Huntingdon, it seems, were the first to tempt him.’
‘Well, what could we do?’ replied he, deprecatingly.—‘We meant it in kindness—we couldn’t bear to see the poor fellow so miserable:—and besides, he was such a damper upon us, sitting there silent and glum, when he was under the threefold influence—of the loss of his sweetheart, the loss of his fortune, and the reaction of the lost night’s debauch; whereas, when he had something in him, if he was not merry himself, he was an unfailing source of merriment to us. Even Grimsby could chuckle over his odd sayings: they delighted him far more than my merry jests, or Hattersley’s riotous mirth. But one evening, when we were sitting over our wine, after one of our club dinners, and all had been hearty together,—Lowborough giving us mad toasts, and hearing our wild songs, and bearing a hand in the applause, if he did not help us to sing them himself,—he suddenly relapsed into silence, sinking his head on his hand, and never lifting his glass to his lips;—but this was nothing new; so we let him alone, and went on with our jollification, till, suddenly raising his head, he interrupted us in the middle of a roar of laughter by exclaiming,—‘Gentlemen, where is all this to end?—Will you just tell me that now?—Where is it all to end?’ He rose.
‘“A speech, a speech!” shouted we. “Hear, hear! Lowborough’s going to give us a speech!”
‘He waited calmly till the thunders of applause and jingling of glasses had ceased, and then proceeded,—“It’s only this, gentlemen,—that I think we’d better go no further. We’d better stop while we can.”
‘“Just so!” cried Hattersley—
“Stop, poor sinner, stop and think
Before you further go,
No longer sport upon the brink
Of everlasting woe.”
‘“Exactly!” replied his lordship, with the utmost gravity. “And if you choose to visit the bottomless pit, I won’t go with you—we must part company, for I swear I’ll not move another step towards it!—What’s this?” he said, taking up his glass of wine.
‘“Taste it,” suggested I.
‘“This is hell broth!” he exclaimed. “I renounce it for ever!” And he threw it out into the middle of the table.
‘“Fill again!” said I, handing him the bottle—“and let us drink to your renunciation.”
‘“It’s rank poison,” said he, grasping the bottle by the neck, “and I forswear it! I’ve given up gambling, and I’ll give up this too.” He was on the point of deliberately pouring the whole contents of the bottle on to the table, but Hargrave wrested it from him. “On you be the curse, then!” said he. And, backing from the room, he shouted, “Farewell, ye tempters!” and vanished amid shouts of laughter and applause.
‘We expected him back among us the next day; but, to our surprise, the place remained vacant: we saw nothing of him for a whole week; and we really began to think he was going to keep his word. At last, one evening, when we were most of us assembled together again, he entered, silent and grim as a ghost, and would have quietly slipped into his usual seat at my elbow, but we all rose to welcome him, and several voices were raised to ask what he would have, and several hands were busy with bottle and glass to serve him; but I knew a smoking tumbler of brandy-and-water would comfort him best, and had nearly prepared it, when he peevishly pushed it away, saying,—
‘“Do let me alone, Huntingdon! Do be quiet, all of you! I’m not come to join you: I’m only come to be with you awhile, because I can’t bear my own thoughts.” And he folded his arms, and leant back in his chair; so we let him be. But I left the glass by him; and, after awhile, Grimsby directed my attention towards it, by a significant wink; and, on turning my head, I saw it was drained to the bottom. He made me a sign to replenish, and quietly pushed up the bottle. I willingly complied; but Lowborough detected the pantomime, and, nettled at the intelligent grins that were passing between us, snatched the glass from my hand, dashed the contents of it in Grimsby’s face, threw the empty tumbler at me, and then bolted from the room.’
‘I hope he broke your head,’ said I.
‘No, love,’ replied he, laughing immoderately at the recollection of the whole affair; ‘he would have done so,—and perhaps, spoilt my face, too, but, providentially, this forest of curls’ (taking off his hat, and showing his luxuriant chestnut locks) ‘saved my skull, and prevented the glass from breaking, till it reached the table.’
‘After that,’ he continued, ‘Lowborough kept aloof from us a week or two longer. I used to meet him occasionally in the town; and then, as I was too good-natured to resent his unmannerly conduct, and he bore no malice against me,—he was never unwilling to talk to me; on the contrary, he would cling to me, and follow me anywhere but to the club, and the gaming-houses, and such-like dangerous places of resort—he was so weary of his own moping, melancholy mind. At last, I got him to come in with me to the club, on condition that I would not tempt him to drink; and, for some time, he continued to look in upon us pretty regularly of an evening,—still abstaining, with wonderful perseverance, from the “rank poison” he had so bravely forsworn. But some of our members protested against this conduct. They did not like to have him sitting there like a skeleton at a feast, instead of contributing his quota to the general amusement, casting a cloud over all, and watching, with greedy eyes, every drop they carried to their lips—they vowed it was not fair; and