Chapter IX: Frank in Reduced Circumstances

Little Rose Blanche throve apace; but Cecil's painting proceeded slowly, and his mind was still more busy with those imaginary games in which his success was greater and greater every day.

Rose and Julius were in that feverish condition which is common to lovers, whirled amidst the bustle of marriage preparations.

Fevers are not usually enviable things; but that is a kind of fever which we all envy. The Present how crowded, how occupied, how intense! the Future, how radiant, how dream-peopled! The pulse beats, the brain is over-excited, the step is light (and the head also), the face wears an aspect of everlasting beatitude, the hand is generous, the whole man is in a dream.

Some people, indeed, "wondered" at the match; some very ill-favoured men couldn't, for the life of them, imagine what she could see in that ugly fellow: while others, less charitable (they were females), would be sorry to hint at anything illiberal, but they really did think that Rose Vyner, though a lively girl enough, and all that sort of thing, was scarcely the girl to make a good wife. But none of these opinions reached the ears of the parties concerned; and the circle of the Vyners, and the St. Johns was, with few exceptions, sincerely rejoiced at the approaching marriage.

One afternoon, while Cecil was laboriously painting, Frank Forrester knocked at his door.

"Not at home, sir," said the girl, resolutely.

"Bah!" said Frank, introducing his person into the passage.

"Indeed he is not, sir; and he's very particularly engaged."

"You see, my lily of Westminster .... for you are a lily, damn my whiskers!" said Frank, passing his arm round her waist, and kissing her smutty and reluctant cheek; "you see I understand perfectly well, that it is your business to say your master's not at home...."

"Yes, sir; he told me so strictly."

"But it is my business not to believe you ... so announce me, you peony of Pimlico! announce me .... No; I'll announce myself."

So saying, Frank marched up stairs, and without ceremony walked into the _atélier_.

Cecil was embarrassed at seeing him.

"What's this? cut so old a chum as Frank Forrester! Not at home to Frank! Damn my whiskers! it is enough to make one give the lie to those prime histories of ancient friendship; the Damons and Pythiases didn't say not at home to each other, I presume.... What's the start, Cis, my boy? How is it we never see you? How is it I am denied whenever I present my agreeable person at your inhospitable door?"

Cecil briefly explained to him the change which had taken place in his finances and his habits.

"Quite right too, Cis. Damn it! there's nothing to be done at _rouge et noir_. I have quite given it up! Unfortunately, not before it cleaned me out. You see," he added, looking down upon his costume, "I am not magnificent .... I don't flourish."

To judge by his appearance, indeed, he did not flourish; and Cecil could not help being painfully struck with the contrast between his costume now, and when last he saw him. Rings, chains, studs, shirt pin, and cane were gone. The hat was greasy, and glossy from being carefully brushed after repeated wettings; the cut-away coat was so threadbare, and its collar so greasy, that it seemed as if it had been worn for ten years, and was hourly in danger of falling to pieces. The double-breasted waistcoat, the brilliant shawl-pattern of which was now greatly faded, was buttoned up to the throat. The sky-blue trousers, worn at the seams, and bagged at the knees, were tightly strapped over a pair of decent boots. Altogether, there was such unmistakeable poverty, coupled with such an attempt at style, that his appearance was singularly painful. It was not humble poverty; it was faded splendour. It was the wreck of a man about town.

His face also showed the effects of the change. Poverty had brought with it a forced abstinence from that excitement which hitherto had sustained him; and every one knows the effects which follow any cessation of accustomed stimulus. Frank having been used to live freely, sometimes intemperately, now drank water. Accustomed to the excitement of the gaming-table, he now could rarely indulge in it. Some men, forced to abstain from wine, would have taken to spirits, or even beer; but Frank damned his whiskers, and declared he was a gentleman, and had never learned to "guzzle": if he could not get wine, and good wine, he would not defile his palate with vulgar drinks.

"What are you doing?" asked Cecil.

"Living the life of a beast, damn my whiskers! dining off a solitary chop, lounging about to be cut by former associates, making vain attempts to induce my friends to go through the matter of form of putting their names to a bill, and moralizing on the fragility of human friendship, and the limits of human credit."

"Well, but have you no means of getting a livelihood?'

"What means? You don't expect me to turn painter, and be moral like yourself, do you?"

"No, indeed; but still, my dear Frank, you must do something."

"Something will turn up, perhaps."

"But if nothing should turn up, what can the end be?"

"Oh! a new broom and a crossing! That's a _dernière ressource_;--not a bad one, either. A man 'sees life' at a crossing;--besides, the occupation's healthy--all in the open air. I should make a fortune at it. Damme! a gentleman with a broom--that would produce an effect, I think!"

Cecil shook his head, though he could not refrain from smiling at Frank's coolness.

"You haven't such a thing as a sovereign about you, eh?" said Frank, combing the long thin hair over the top of his head, so as to hide his daily increasing baldness.

"Yes, Frank, I have, and very much at your service."

"You're a trump!" said Frank, jumping up, and shaking him by the hand. "I have asked that question of eight of my friends within the last two days, and--it was very unfortunate--but at that moment not one of them could lay his hand upon such a thing, damn my whiskers!"

Cecil passed the sovereign to him.

"At any rate, I shall dine to-day," Frank exclaimed.

"Is that anything new, then?"

"So completely novel, that it has not occurred this whole week. In fact, I haven't what I call _dined_ for a month; I have only stifled the baser cravings of hunger, but not satisfied those higher and, perhaps, more imperious cravings of the man who knows how to dine. For, as you know, it is one thing to eat, another thing to eat as an intellectual being should eat. It breaks my heart to pass the club windows, and know how many facilities there are within of dining as a man with an immortal soul should dine,--and to reflect how few among the diners know how to accomplish that solemnity."

"Well, but do you mean to say that, in your present state of finances, you intend spending that sovereign on your dinner?"

"That, or the greater part of it," replied Frank, with considerable seriousness. "I have a strong desire to _dine_. I can support hunger, I can live upon a crust (if forced), but, damn my whiskers! from time to time I must satisfy the higher cravings of my nature, and dine."

"Frank, you shall dine to-day, and at my invitation; save that sovereign for next week. I warn you, that you will seldom get one from me after this; for I myself am poor. So make the most of it; but to-day we'll dine together."

"We will; the suggestion does credit to your head and heart, Cis."