“My health, Colonel, is not affected, beyond a drunken head-ache; but on my conduct I cannot look back without self-reproach and shame.”
The brother of Adelaide shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and then delivered himself of a speech, which seemed intended rather to be exculpatory of himself, than consolatory to me. According to his account, I would play madly on, Adelaide in despair quitted the room, he remonstrated—all to no purpose; for the demon of play had entered into me, and play I would. I lost the contents of my pocket-book, and “the leetle note of hand to the Baron.”
“Note of hand to the Baron!” I exclaimed, springing bolt upright in the bed.
It was absolutely true; for a billet was brought me at the moment by the waiter, in which the nice old gentleman affectionately requested “to know how I had rested the preceding night, with a casual inquiry at what bank my note for £120 should be presented?”
‘For a time I could not believe the evidence of my eyes, but read the Baron’s billet again and again. At last, I began to fancy I had been duped. In a moment, a flood of light poured upon my mind, a thousand trifles were recollected, and my worst suspicions were confirmed.
The Colonel remarked a change of countenance that threatened an explosion, and, pleading a forgotten engagement, he took a hurried leave.
I rose, dressed, wrote twenty letters, and tore them; then ordered my gig, drove down two streets, and returned. I passed a miserable day—ate no dinner—drank brandy and water extensively; and retired to a private room, in a frame of mind which a demon might find pity for, to write letters. Write letters! Pshaw! merely blot paper.
Twilight fell—my brain was half on fire—I rejected candles—the gloom of evening was best suited for the bitter musings of a mind like mine. I gazed from the window, objects passed, but I saw none of them. I heard the door open—a figure stood beside me. I looked carelessly up—it was Adelaide. In thought I was connecting her agency with the villany of her brother and the Baron—proofs against her appeared strong, and I had set her down a guilty thing. No wonder that I received her coldly; and my frigid civility semed to wound her more than actual rudeness.
“You are changed,” said the Colonel’s sister: “had I visited you once, my reception would have been very different.”
“It might,” I said, coldly. “I did not then believe that the Colonel was a scoundrel, the Baron a rogue, and yourself—”