Struck with the man's apparent wistfulness for
company, and moved by a fellow feeling of forlornness, Philip
accepted; and Cornelius, always acquiescent, had not the ill grace to
refuse. So the four of us sat down together at a table.
"I wish I might offer you madeira, gentlemen; or punch, at least,"
said Ned regretfully, "but you know how it is. I'm reaping what I
sowed. Things might be worse. I knew 'em worse in London--before I
turned over a new leaf."
The mugs being emptied, and the rest of us playing host in turn, they
were several times replenished. Ned had been drinking before he met
us; but this was not apparent until he began to show the effect of his
potations while the heads of us his companions were still perfectly
clear. It was evident that he had not allowed his conversion to wean
him from this kind of indulgence. The conversation reverted to his
time of destitution in London.
"Such experiences," observed Cornelius, "have their good fruits. They
incline men to repentance who might else continue in their evil ways
all their lives."
"Yes, sir; that's the truth!" cried Ned. "If I'd had some people's
luck--but it's better to be saved than to make a fortune--although, to
be sure, there are fellows, rascals, too, that the Lord seems to take
far better care of than he does of his own!"
Mr. Cornelius looked a little startled at this. But the truth was, I
make no doubt, that the pretence of virtue, adopted for the purpose of
regaining the comforts of his father's house, wore heavily upon Ned;
that he chafed terribly under it sometimes; and that this was one of
the hours when, his wits and tongue loosened by drink, he became
reckless and allowed himself relief.
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