“O no, not a bit! You see my affairs at home took up my time, and I neglected to attend to the matter on Saturday. Be at the reading-room at three, and I shall have the money for you, without fail.”
“I will be there, Paley. But what makes you look so pale?” he inquired.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been very well, and my difficulty at home has worn upon me. But I’m all right now,” I replied, assuming a very cheerful face, as I left the bank.
At the appointed time Tom was at the reading-room, and I gave him the four hundred dollars. The bills passed out of my hands, and it was forever too late to undo what I had done. I had leaped over the precipice beneath which lie dishonor, shame and disgrace. I was sorely troubled. My irregularity vexed me, and I felt as one tormented by a legion of devils.
The fact that Tom had noticed my altered appearance put me upon my guard. I tried to be gay and even jovial. I laughed, cracked jokes, rallied Tom on being in love with Bertha—any thing to banish from my mind the corroding feeling that I was a defaulter. I tore up my note which Tom handed to me. I invited him to come to my house in the evening. I invited him to come every evening. I know that I must have talked strangely. There seemed to be a twenty-four pound cannon shot in the centre of my brain. I wanted something to elevate my spirits. I went into a bar-room, and drank a glass of whiskey—a thing I had never before done, though I had taken a glass of wine occasionally.
The liquor inspired me. I drank a second glass, at another bar-room, and found myself capable of rising above my troubles. I went home. Buckleton was there, waiting to see me.