"I can lend you a thousand pounds—a couple of thousands. I'm a very saving man, Sidney—I'm as certain that you would pay me back again as that I'm standing here."
"You're very kind," murmured Sidney, taken aback by this liberal offer; "but—but, it can't be done."
"Borrow it from my father and me—as your bankers, if you will. My father will not say no to it, I fancy—and if he does, why, there's the other resource just alluded to."
Sidney was still bewildered, and at a loss to account for the offer. For an instant he was even tempted; there rose before him the one chance of his life, the happiness of his life with Harriet, forestalled by years—and then he put his hands out, as though to push all dangerous thoughts away.
"Thank you—thank you—" he said; "but when I speculate, it must be with my own money. I will not start in life burdened by a heavy debt. You're very kind—far too kind to me, sir."
"A Hinchford—I never forget that. You don't know how proud I am of my family, and all its belongings. And, joking apart, Sidney, we really are a fine family, every one of us! And you'll not—well, subject postponed, sine die; the bank isn't such a bad place, and we shall give a lift to your salary when you deserve it. Not before, mind," he added, with a seriousness that made Sidney smile, who remembered the anecdote related by the senior partner.
Sidney Hinchford was touched by his rich cousin's efforts to promote his interests, by his frankness, his bonhomie. Though he held himself aloof from him, yet he respected, even admired him. There was not a man in the banking-office who did not admire Mr. Maurice Hinchford; he had a good word for even the porter; he treated his servants liberally; he was always ready to promote their interests; the cares of money-making, and taking care of other people's money, had never soured his temper, or brought a dark look to his face.
This was the father's anxiety, that Maurice was too easy—that nothing put him out of temper, or chased away the smiles from his good-looking countenance; the banker was glad to see his son happy, but he did wish now and then that Maurice had looked at life less frivolously, and been more staid and sober in his ways. The banker was glad to see him generous—although, if the fit seized him, Maurice was a trifle too liberal with his cheques, for natural wants, bequests, and monuments; but he was not a spendthrift, and even put money by, from the princely share of the profits which he received twice a year.
Certainly it would have been difficult for a single man to run through it without sheer gambling at green tables, or on green turfs; and Maurice Hinchford never betted on the red and black, and hated horsy people. He spent all the money a man could honestly get through; he fared sumptuously every day, and dressed figuratively in purple and fine linen; it was his boast that he had the best of everything around him, and anything second-rate had been his abomination from a child; he was a Sybarite, to whom luck had been wafted, and he enjoyed life, and cared not for the morrow, on the true Sybarite principle. But he was not a proud man; he was fastidious in a few things—young ladies of his circle generally, and the mothers of those young ladies especially, thought him much too fastidious—but he was a man whom men and women of all classes liked, and whom his servants idolized.
It was no wonder that his pleasant manners had their effect upon Sidney, who had found few of his own sex to admire in the world, and who knew that the man of whose energy everyone spoke well was of his own kith and kin. He held himself aloof, knowing that his ways were not Maurice's ways. When the rich cousin once asked why he so rigidly refused every offer to join him at his club, to make one of a little party at the opera, sharing his box with him, and put to no expense save a dress-coat and white choker, he confessed the reason in his old straightforward manner.