CHAPTER XI.

CHELTENHAM—­MATRIMONIAL ADVENTURE—­SHOWING HOW TO MAKE LOVE FOR A FRIEND.

It was a cold raw evening in February as I sat in the coffee-room of the Old Plough in Cheltenham, “Lucullus c.  Lucullo”—­no companion save my half-finished decanter of port.  I had drawn my chair to the corner of the ample fire-place, and in a half dreamy state was reviewing the incidents of my early life, and like most men who, however young, have still to lament talents misapplied, opportunities neglected, profitless labour, and disastrous idleness.  The dreary aspect of the large and ill-lighted room—­the close-curtained boxes—­the unsocial look of every thing and body about suited the habit of my soul, and I was on the verge of becoming excessively sentimental—­the unbroken silence, where several people were present, had also its effect upon me, and I felt oppressed and dejected.  So sat I for an hour; the clock over the mantel ticked sharply on—­the old man in the brown surtout had turned in his chair, and now snored louder—­the gentleman who read the Times had got the Chronicle, and I thought I saw him nodding over the advertisements.  The father who, with a raw son of about nineteen, had dined at six, sat still and motionless opposite his offspring, and only breaking the silence around by the grating of the decanter as he posted it across the table.  The only thing denoting active existence was a little, shrivelled man, who, with spectacles on his forehead, and hotel slippers on his feet, rapidly walked up and down, occasionally stopping at his table to sip a little weak-looking negus, which was his moderate potation for two hours.  I have been particular in chronicling these few and apparently trivial circumstances, for by what mere trifles are our greatest and most important movements induced—­had the near wheeler of the Umpire been only safe on his fore legs, and while I write this I might—­but let me continue.  The gloom and melancholy which beset me, momentarily increased.  But three months before, and my prospects presented every thing that was fairest and brightest—­now all the future was dark and dismal.  Then my best friends could scarcely avoid envy at my fortune —­now my reverses might almost excite compassion even in an enemy.  It was singular enough, and I should not like to acknowledge it, were not these Confessions in their very nature intended to disclose the very penetralia of my heart; but singular it certainly was—­and so I have always felt it since, when reflecting on it—­that although much and warmly attached to Lady Jane Callonby, and feeling most acutely what I must call her abandonment of me, yet, the most constantly recurring idea of my mind on the subject was, what will the mess say—­what will they think at head-quarters?—­the raillery, the jesting, the half-concealed allusion, the tone of assumed compassion, which all awaited me, as each of my comrades took