Part 65 (1/2)
”Nothing surprises me that man can do,” said the Colonel; ”or I should be surprised. When, acting on Darrell's general instructions for your outfit, I bought that horse, I flattered myself that I had chosen well.
But rare are good horses--rarer still a good judge of them; I suppose I was cheated, and the brute proved a screw.”
”The finest cab-horse in London, my dear Colonel, and every one knows how proud I was of him. But I wanted money, and had nothing else that would bring the sum I required. Oh, Colonel Morley, do hear me?”
”Certainly, I am not deaf, nor is St. James's Street. When a man says, 'I have parted with my horse because I wanted money,' I advise him to say it in a whisper.”
”I have been imprudent, at least unlucky, and I must pay the penalty. A friend of mine--that is, not exactly a friend, but an acquaintance--whom I see every day--one of my own set-asked me to sign my name at Paris to a bill at three months' date, as his security. He gave me his honour that I should hear no more of it--he would be sure to take up the bill when due--a man whom I supposed to be as well off as myself! You will allow that I could scarcely refuse--at all events, I did not. The bill became due two days ago; my friend does not pay it, and indeed says he cannot, and the holder of the bill calls on me. He was very civil-offered to renew it--pressed me to take my time, &c.; but I did not like his manner: and as to my friend, I find that, instead of being well off, as I supposed, he is hard up, and that I am not the first he has got into the same sc.r.a.pe--not intending it, I am sure. He's really a very good fellow, and, if I wanted security, would be it to-morrow to any amount.”
”I've no doubt of it--to any amount!” said the Colonel.
”So I thought it best to conclude the matter at once. I had saved nothing from my allowance, munificent as it is. I could not have the face to ask Mr. Darrell to remunerate me for my own imprudence. I should not like to borrow from my mother--I know it would be inconvenient to her.
”I sold both horse and cabriolet this morning. I had just been getting the cheque cashed when I met you. I intend to take the money myself to the bill-holder. I have just the sum--L200.”
”The horse alone was worth that,” said the Colonel, with a faint sigh-- ”not to be replaced. France and Russia have the pick of our stables.
However, if it is sold, it is sold--talk no more of it. I hate painful subjects. You did right not to renew the bill--it is opening an account with Ruin; and though I avoid preaching on money matters, or, indeed, any other (preaching is my nephew's vocation, not mine), yet allow me to extract from you a solemn promise never again to sign bills, nor to draw them. Be to your friend what you please except security for him. Orestes never asked Pylades to help him to borrow at fifty per cent. Promise me--your word of honour as a gentleman! Do you hesitate?”
”My dear Colonel,” said Lionel frankly, ”I do hesitate. I might promise not to sign a money-lender's bill on my own account, though really I think you take rather an exaggerated view of what is, after all, a common occurrence--”
”Do I?” said the Colonel meekly. ”I'm sorry to hear it. I detest exaggeration. Go on. You might promise not to ruin yourself--but you object to promise not to help in the ruin of your friend.”
”That is exquisite irony, Colonel,” said Lionel, piqued; ”but it does not deal with the difficulty, which is simply this: When a man whom you call friend--whom you walk with, ride with, dine with almost every day, says to you 'I am in immediate want of a few hundreds--I don't ask you to lend them to me, perhaps you can't--but a.s.sist me to borrow--trust to my honour that the debt shall not fall on you,--why, then, it seems as if to refuse the favour was to tell the man you call friend that you doubt his honour; and though I have been caught once in that way, I feel that I must be caught very often before I should have the moral courage to say 'No!' Don't ask me, then to promise--be satisfied with my a.s.surance that, in future at least, I will be more cautious, and if the loss fall on me, why, the worst that can happen is to do again what I do now.”
”Nay, you would not perhaps have another horse and cab to sell. In that case, you would do the reverse of what you do now--you would renew the bill--the debt would run on like a s...o...b..ll--in a year or two you would owe, not hundreds, but thousands. But come in--here we are at my door.”
The Colonel entered his drawing-room. A miracle of exquisite neatness the room was--rather effeminate, perhaps, in its attributes; but that was no sign of the Colonel's tastes, but of his popularity with the ladies. All those pretty things were their gifts. The tapestry on the chairs their work--the Sevres on the consoles--the clock on the mantel-shelf--the inkstand, paper-cutter, taper-stand on the writing-table--their birthday presents. Even the white woolly Maltese dog that sprang from the rug to welcome him--even the flowers in the jardiniere--even the tasteful cottage-piano, and the very music-stand beside it--and the card-trays, piled high with invitations,--were contributions from the forgiving s.e.x to the unrequiting bachelor.
Surveying his apartment with a complacent air, the Colonel sank into his easy _fauteuil_, and drawing off his gloves leisurely said--
”No man has more friends than I have--never did I lose one--never did I sign a bill. Your father pursued a different policy--he signed many bills--and lost many friends.” Lionel, much distressed, looked down, and evidently desired to have done with the subject. Not so the Colonel.
That shrewd man, though he did not preach, had a way all his own, which was perhaps quite as effective as any sermon by a fas.h.i.+onable layman can be to an impatient youth.
”Yes,” resumed the Colonel, ”it is the old story. One always begins by being security to a friend. The discredit of the thing is familiarised to one's mind by the false show of generous confidence in another. Their what you have done for a friend, a friend should do for you;--a hundred or two would be useful now--you are sure to repay it in three months. To Youth the Future seems safe as the Bank of England, and distant as the peaks of Himalaya. You pledge your honour that in three months you will release your friend. The three months expire. To release the one friend, you catch hold of another--the bill is renewed, premium and interest thrown into the next pay-day--soon the account multiplies, and with it the honour dwindles--your NAME circulates from hand to hand on the back of doubtful paper--your name, which, in all money transactions, should grow higher and higher each year you live, falling down every month like the shares in a swindling speculation. You begin by what you call trusting a friend, that is, aiding him to self-destruction--buying him a.r.s.enic to clear his complexion--you end by dragging all near you into your own abyss, as a drowning man would clutch at his own brother.
Lionel Haughton, the saddest expression I ever saw in your father's face was when--when--but you shall hear the story--”
”No, sir; spare me. Since you so insist on it, I will give the promise--it is enough; and my father--”
”Was as honourable as you when he first signed his name to a friend's bill; and, perhaps, promised to do so no more as reluctantly as you do.
You had better let me say on; if I stop now, you will forget all about it by this day twelve-month; if I go on, you will never forget. There are other examples besides your father; I am about to name one.”
Lionel resigned himself to the operation, throwing his handkerchief over his face as if he had taken chloroform. ”When I was young,” resumed the Colonel, ”I chanced to make acquaintance with a man of infinite whim and humour; fascinating as Darrell himself, though in a very different way.
We called him w.i.l.l.y--you know the kind of man one calls by his Christian name, cordially abbreviated--that kind of man seems never to be quite grown up; and, therefore, never rises in life. I never knew a man called w.i.l.l.y after the age of thirty, who did not come to a melancholy end!
w.i.l.l.y was the natural son of a rich, helter-skelter, cleverish, maddish, stylish, raffish, four-in-hand Baronet, by a celebrated French actress.
The t.i.tle is extinct now, and so, I believe, is that genus of stylish, raffish, four-in-hand Baronet--Sir Julian Losely--”
”Losely!” echoed Lionel. ”Yes; do you know the name?”
”I never heard it till yesterday. I want to tell you what I did hear then--but after your story--go on.”
”Sir Julian Losely (w.i.l.l.y's father) lived with the French lady as his wife, and reared w.i.l.l.y in his house, with as much pride and fondness as if he intended him for his heir. The poor boy, I suspect, got but little regular education; though of course, he spoke his French mother's tongue like a native; and, thanks also perhaps to his mother, he had an extraordinary talent for mimicry and acting. His father was pa.s.sionately fond of private theatricals, and w.i.l.l.y had early practice in that line.
I once saw him act Falstaff in a country house, and I doubt if Quin could have acted it better. Well, when w.i.l.l.y was still a mere boy, he lost his mother, the actress. Sir Julian married--had a legitimate daughter--died intestate--and the daughter, of course, had the personal property, which was not much; the heir-at-law got the land, and poor w.i.l.l.y nothing. But w.i.l.l.y was an universal favourite with his father's old friends--wild fellows like Sir Julian himself amongst them there were two cousins, with large country-houses, sporting-men, and bachelors. They shared w.i.l.l.y between them, and quarrelled which should have the most of him. So he grew up to be man, with no settled provision, but always welcome, not only to the two cousins, but at every house in which, like Milton's lark, 'he came to startle the dull night'--the most amusing companion!--a famous shot--a capital horseman--knew the ways of all animals, fishes, and birds; I verily believe he could have coaxed a pug-dog to point, and an owl to sing.