“Why, yes, in a manner. For a while he managed very well; indeed, he was a model of moderation and prudence—something too much so for the tastes of our wild community; but, somehow, Lowborough had not the gift of moderation: if he stumbled a little to one side, he must go down before he could right himself: if he overshot the mark one night, the effects of it rendered him so miserable the next day that he must repeat the offence to mend it; and so on from day to day, till his clamorous conscience brought him to a stand. And then, in his sober moments, he so bothered his friends with his remorse, and his terrors and woes, that they were obliged, in self-defence, to get him to drown his sorrows in wine, or any more potent beverage that came to hand; and when his first scruples of conscience were overcome, he would need no more persuading, he would often grow desperate, and be as great a blackguard as any of them could desire—but only to lament his own unutterable wickedness and degradation the more when the fit was over.
“At last, one day when he and I were alone together, after pondering awhile in one of his gloomy, abstracted moods, with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, he suddenly woke up, and vehemently grasping my arm, said,—
“‘Huntingdon, this won’t do! I’m resolved to have done with it.’
“‘What, are you going to shoot yourself?’ said I.
“‘No; I’m going to reform.’
“‘Oh, that’s nothing new! You’ve been going to reform these twelve months and more.’
“‘Yes, but you wouldn’t let me; and I was such a fool I couldn’t live without you. But now I see what it is that keeps me back, and what’s wanted to save me; and I’d compass sea and land to get it—only I’m afraid there’s no chance.’ And he sighed as if his heart would break.
“‘What is it, Lowborough?’ said I, thinking he was fairly cracked at last.
“‘A wife,’ he answered; ‘for I can’t live alone, because my own mind distracts me, and I can’t live with you, because you take the devil’s part against me.’
“‘Who—I?’