“Well, Art,” said Harte, “there's one man you can't blame for this, and that is Syl Harte.”
“No, Syl, never—but now, boys, I am ready.”
“Frank Maguire's health! hip, hip, hurra!”
Thus was a fine, generous-minded, and affectionate young man—who possessed all the candor and absence of suspicion which characterize truth—tempted and triumphed over, partly through the very warmth of his own affections, by a set of low, cunning profligates, who felt only anxious to drag him down from the moral superiority which they felt he possessed. That he was vain, and fond of praise, they knew, and our readers may also perceive that it was that unfortunate vanity which gave them the first advantage over him, by bringing him, through its influence, among them. Late that night he was carried home on a door, in a state of unconscious intoxication.
It is utterly beyond our power to describe the harrowing state of his sensations on awakening the next morning. Abasement, repentance, remorse, all combined as they were within him, fall far short of what he felt; he was degraded in his own eyes, deprived of self-respect, and stripped of every claim to the confidence of his brother, as he was to the well-known character for integrity which had been until then inseparable from the name. That, however, which pressed upon him with the most intense bitterness was the appalling reflection that he could no longer depend upon himself, nor put any trust in his own resolutions. Of what use was he in the world without a will of his own, and the power of abiding by its decisions? None; yet what was to be done? He could not live out of the world, and wherever he went, its temptations would beset him. Then there was his beloved Margaret Murray! was he to make her the wife of a common drunkard? or did she suspect, when she pledged herself to him, that she was giving away her heart and affections to a poor unmanly sot, who had not sense or firmness to keep himself sober? He felt in a state between distraction and despair, and putting his hands over his face, he wept bitterly. To complete the picture, his veins still throbbed with the dry fever that follows intoxication, his stomach was in a state of deadly sickness and loathing, and his head felt exactly as if it would burst or fly asunder.
Alas! had his natural character been properly understood and judiciously managed; had he been early taught to understand and to control his own obvious errors; had the necessity of self-reliance, firmness, and independence been taught him; had his principles not been enfeebled by the foolish praise of his family, nor his vanity inflated by their senseless appeals to it—it is possible, nay, almost certain, that he would, even at this stage of his life, have been completely free from the failings which are beginning even now to undermine the whole strength of his moral constitution.
Frank's interview with him on this occasion was short but significant—
“Art,” said he, “you know I never was a man of many words; and I'm not goin' to turn over a new lafe now. To scould you is not my intention—nor to listen to your promises. All I have to say is, that you have broken your word, and disgraced your name. As for me, I can put neither confidence nor trust in you any longer; neither will I.”
A single tear was visible on his cheek as he passed out of the room; and when he did, Art's violent sobs were quite audible. Indeed, if truth must be told, Frank's distress was nearly equal to his brother's. What, however, was to be done? He was too ill to attend his business, a circumstance which only heightened his distress; for he knew that difficult as was the task of encountering his master, and those who would only enjoy his remorse, still even that was less difficult to be borne than the scourge of his own reflections. At length a thought occurred, which appeared to give him some relief; that thought he felt was all that now remained to him, for as it was clear that he could no longer depend on himself, it was necessary that he should find something else on which to depend. He accordingly sent an intimation to his master that he wished to have a few minutes' conversation with him, if he could spare time; M'Carroll accordingly came, and found him in a state which excited the worthy man's compassion.
“Well, Art,” said he, “what is it you wish to speak to me about? I hear you were drunk last night. Now I thought you had more sense than to let these fellows put you into such a pickle. I have a fine, well-conducted set of men in general; but there is among them a hardened, hackneyed crew, who, because they are good workmen, don't care a curse about either you or me, or anybody else. They're always sure of employment, if not here, at least elsewhere, or, indeed, anywhere.”