TEDDY.


I was so weak and nervous after Bob Darbishire's death that I did not go
much to The Chequers; I hid myself most in my own rooms. The funeral was
attended by all the well-to-do folks in the district; but I was not
there, because I did not care to pass by The Chequers in the procession.
Most people had a good word for poor Bob, and many kind fellows could
not mention him without the tears coming into their eyes. Only the
spongers were indifferent; but they had, of course, to look around for
another liberal spendthrift. Bob was so young, and bright, and brave; I
never knew a straighter or a kinder man, and I have seen few who had so
much ability. He drifted into drunkenness by accident, and the vice had
him hard by the throat before he found out that he was really a
prisoner. He struggled for awhile, and repented again and again; but
his will was captured, and when once a man's will is enslaved, vices
seem to come easy to him. I am not fit to moralise about his relations
with women; I only know that he was a sinner, and I think of his
temptations. Like so many splendid young Englishmen, he was conquered by
drink. The vice seizes on some of the best in all classes, and the
finest flowers soon become as worthless as weeds when the blight has
caught them. It is nearly always the bright lad of a family, the most
promising, the mother's darling, that goes wrong; it is the brilliant
students, the men of whom one says, "Ah, what could he not do if he
would only try!" is those who trip, and quench their brilliance in the
mud. A little rift in the fabric of the will, a little instability of
temper, an unlucky week of idleness--these are the things that start a
man towards the very gulf of doom. Bob Darbishire, the athlete, the
delightful and exhilarating companion, was set gliding on the slope, and