Chapter VII: Cecil's First False Step

No man can be a great enemy, but under the name of a friend; if you are a cuckold, it is your friend only that makes you so, for your enemy is not admitted to your house; if you are cheated in your fortune, 'tis your friend that does it, for your enemy is not made your trustee; if your honour or good name is injured, 'tis your friend that does it still, for your enemy is not believed against you.

WYCHERLEY.--_Plain Dealer._

"Well, Frank, and how goes the world with _you_?" said Cecil, after having made him acquainted with the present state of his affairs.

"Tollollish!" replied Frank. "I have an ingenious youth in training, who, I am sorry to say, is nearly trained or drained. Picked him up abroad--genus snob, very distinct! But snob's money I find quite as available as any other. I was going from Verviers to Cologne this summer, when in the deserted first-class carriage into which I ensconced myself, there stepped a flaxen-haired youth, of the unmistakeable "gent" style--the only real substitute for a "gentleman." He was soon after followed by a lathy boy, all skin and bone, with trousers either shrunk by washing, or considerably outgrown, and fastened with _immeasureable straps_. The swagger of this boy was worth money to see. He entered into familiar conversation at once, and favoured me with some biographical particulars, which were eminently trivial. At last he took out his cigar-case, and offering it to me, with an air of exquisite assumption said,--

"Do you do anything in this way?"

"Not so early in the day."

"Lord, it doesn't matter to me what's the time o' day, I'm always ready to blow a cloud, I can tell you."

"Indeed," said I, with perfect gravity.

"Oh, yes. Do try one. I dare say it won't disagree with you. It's all fancy."

"You seem to be a fast fellow."

"I believe you."

"Do you come from London?"

"No; I'm a Southampton boy. We do it in prime style there, I can tell you."

"Oh, you do?"

"Don't we, that's all!"

"Were those trousers built in Southampton?--they're devilish stylish--so uncommon, too!"

"Yes," replied the innocent youth, in all the verdure of his nature. "Yes, they were built at Southampton--but I don't call _them_ anything--merely put on to travel in--you should see my fawn kerseys and my plaids!"

"What, better cut?"

"Oh, no comparison."

"I should like very much to have your Schneider's address. I am going to Southampton on my return to England. I suppose if I were to mention your name----"

"Lord, yes, that would be sure to do it. But he isn't a cheap tailor, mind you."

The "gent" was leaning his head out of window, nearly suffocated with suppressed laughter, and from time to time encouraging me with fierce winks to proceed.

"There," said my lathy patron, "I have written his address on one of my cards--just show him my name, and you'll find it all right."

"Pray, sir," I asked, as if suddenly eager in poultry, "when you left Southampton, what was the price of a young goose?"

This was too much for the "gent," who burst out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. The viridity of the Southampton youth was great, but this laughter opened his eyes. He coloured, and exclaimed,--

"Oh, you want to chaff, do you? But it won't do. I sha'n't bite. I'm not such a fool as I look."

"That's _very_ possible--Heaven forbid you should be!" said I; whereupon a fresh burst of laughter from snob primus, who vowed that the youth was "sold."

At the next station, _lath_ left our carriage; and "gent" instantly began expressing to me his delight at the way I had "sold the snob;" which led to his becoming in turn communicative, and informing me that he had just "sacked a little tin," which it was his intention "to spend like a brick." From that moment I took him into my confidence. I have trained him. I have taught him how to dine--which he had once imagined consisted in eating what money could procure. I have taught him to live. He is no longer a snob; at least, he doesn't betray himself. But--and, damn my whiskers! this is the sad part of the business--it is the way with so many of them--now, just as he is becoming companionable, his purse is running low."

Frank sighed as he thus finished his tale, but quickly changing the subject, he said,--

"Come, let's take a turn, and look in at the club."

"No, Frank, I must work."

"Nonsense! What's the use of puddling all day over your work--you only stupify yourself. Come."

"There's some truth in what you say, I believe; the brain gets muddled by long application. Yet my picture isn't half finished yet--half!--not a quarter."

"Never mind; leave it for to-day. Damn my whiskers! I must have you to-day."

Cecil's irresolution was soon conquered; he took his hat, and went out with his chum. They strolled down to the club, where Cecil had not shown himself since his marriage. The heartiness of his welcome greatly flattered him; he felt that he was a favourite; success cheered him; his spirits rose; he became unusually brilliant.

"You must dine with us to-day, Cis," said Frank.

"Impossible, my dear fellow."

"Don't know the word, Cis. I have said you dine with us--four--jolly party; and you dine: damn my whiskers!"

"But my wife----."

"Well? Inestimable Benedict, you are not tied to her apron-string, are you? You have not submitted to the tyranny of the weaker sex? You are master?"

"I am; certainly I am; but----."

"You have never dined from home before. You shake your head. Very well, now is the time to begin."

"My dear Frank, you must know me well enough to know that I should have no scruple in following my own wishes; and although I have not yet dined from home, I have no sort of fear that when I choose to do it, my wife will make a remark. But in the present case she will be alarmed--she has no idea of my coming down here. My hours have been very regular, and if I were not to present myself at five o'clock, she would be seriously concerned about me."

"Yes, yes, it's always by that unnecessary 'concern' that women begin. What the devil is there to be concerned about? The sooner you accustom her to the accidents of life--to the impromptu parties and unexpected absences--the smoother will your life be."

"When you are married, Frank, you can manage as you please, but for me your system won't do. I love my wife, and my constant care is to make her happy."

Frank looked at him with an indescribable mixture of astonishment, incredulity, and pity; then, as a thought seemed to occur to him said,--

"But look here, Cis, the thing is easy. Just scribble a line to tell her not to expect you, that you are dining at the club, and one of the men shall take it. Will that satisfy you?"

"Perfectly."

"Then do it."

Cecil wrote thus:--

"MY OWN SWEET PET!

"Do not wait dinner for me to-day, as I am forced to dine with some influential people at the club. But I shall hurry away as soon as possible, and be with you before ten. A hundred kisses.

"CECIL."

The dinner was excellent, and the guests in high spirits. The "influential people" of whom Cecil spoke, were the great Frank himself, young Hudson (the youth in training and the amphytrion), and Tom Chetsom, jolly Tom Chetsom. The wines were not spared; and by the time the smoking-room was sought for a quiet cigar and cup of coffee, to assist the slow elaborate digestion of those who had dined well, Cecil was in that peculiar state which I would christen moral drunkenness. He was not tipsy: nor near it. His walk was as steady, his eye as free in its movements, his vision as undisturbed as before dinner. But although neither in his gait nor conversation he betrayed the least influence of wine, yet within he felt a sort of torpor--the strong desire for a sensation which makes men reckless how they procure it, and which makes them passively adopt any plan likely to arouse them from the heavy deadening lethargy in which their faculties are enveloped.

The smoking-room soon became intolerable to him. He wanted movement--excitement. The theatre was proposed. They went. But the heat, the glare of the lights, the dazzle, and confusion of the whole place, made Cecil worse. They left the house.

"What shall we do?" said jolly Tom Chetsom, as they stood under the portico of Drury-lane.

Hudson proposed the Coal-Hole; but Frank reminding him that it was too early, he was distinctly of opinion that he should not go home till morning, till daylight did appear.

"I tell you what, Tom," said Frank, "isn't it one of Hester's soirées to-night? Suppose we go there: she'll be charmed to know Cis--he's half a literary man, and wholly a painter."

"Good idea!" said Tom. "Will you go, Chamberlayne?"

"Anywhere. Let's start."

"Come along, then."

And they drove to Cadogan-place.