Cecil was rattling away on his piano one afternoon, fancying he was composing, when the door opened, and in walked a gentleman enveloped in a pea-coat, whom Cecil saluted warmly as Frank Forrester; and after endless questions and vociferous laughter on both sides, they both sat down to indulge in rapid biographical reminiscences from the time of their last meeting.
Frank Forrester was, in every sense of the word, a man about town. He was tall and well-made, and when young must have been handsome. Although not yet forty, he looked much older, from the effects of constant debauchery. You could not look at him without misgivings. His well-shaped head was bald from the forehead to the crown, and this baldness he vainly endeavoured to conceal by carefully combing the thin long hair over it which grew at the sides, and which he allowed to grow very long for that purpose. I don't know why, but there is always something particularly unpleasant in this endeavour to conceal baldness: it is a subterfuge which deceives no one, but which is resented as an attempt to deceive. In Forrester's case, perhaps, there was mingled a disagreeable conviction that he was too young to be bald in the ordinary course of things; and those thin straggling hairs were all that had withstood the midnight fevers and the morning headaches of his reckless life. His deep-lined brow and finely arched eyebrows surmounted two light greenish-grey eyes, not unlike those of a fox in expression. A dark rim, encircling those eyes, spoke plainly in confirmation of the bald head, and was further strengthened by the sallow complexion, stained by a hundred orgies. His mouth was large, (the upper lip adorned with a manly moustache carefully trimmed and combed,) and displayed teeth which a shark might not have disowned. His nose was high and haughty—curved like those of the race of Israel—a nose that commanded the other features, and which sounded like a trumpet when he blew it.
He was dressed in a style, which, though heterogeneous in its details, had a certain homogeneity of effect. A black-satin stock, the falls of which were united by two enormous turquoise pins chained together; a blue pea-jacket, such as only sailors formerly permitted themselves, covered his frock-coat. Very staring plaid trousers, cut gaiter-wise, to fit tight over the instep of his bottes vernies, completed his attire, if we add yellow kid gloves, and a resplendent gold and crystal mounted cane made out of the sword of a sword-fish. This somewhat slang costume was worn in such a manner that it did not seem slang. Forrester had the "air of a gentleman," which carried off more perilous things than his costume. He looked, indeed, something of a blackleg; but it was the nobleman turned blackleg.
Frank Forrester was not exactly a leg, he was rather a sponge. Not over scrupulous in borrowing money, he never directly cheated. To ask for a cool hundred which he was certain of never repaying, which, indeed, he never intended to repay, was not in his eyes dishonourable; but to cheat at cards or dice was a crime with which he had never even sullied his imagination. The son of an undertaker, well to do in the world, he had been brought up as most boys are brought up, with a slight infusion of religion administered in weekly doses, and a wavering code of ethics enunciated and illustrated in a random and somewhat contradictory manner. When his father died he found himself at the head of a thriving business which he detested, and in possession of a good round sum of money, which he did not class in the same category as the business. Gifted with a jovial and genial humour, great animal spirits, and the audacity of a parvenu, he very quickly "realized," i.e. disposed of the business, and began his merry career. While he was spending his money he made some acquaintances, and learned some experience, which enabled him, when all was spent, to turn his acquisitions to advantage, and make them support him. Like the noble spendthrift turned blackleg, he lost a fortune in acquiring the dexterity to gain one; or, rather, learned from those who sponged upon him how he could sponge on others.
Never was there a more agreeable sponge, and no wonder that affluent greenhorns, desirous of "seeing life," should be glad to see it under his auspices and in his company. It could not be too highly paid. It was well worth the champagne and cool hundred. If a young booby must squander away the hard-won earnings of a careful father, it was right, Frank said, that he should have some pleasure for his money, and how was that pleasure to be obtained? By money? Not a bit of it! By science; and he, Frank, understood the science of spending, and "flattered himself that he did know how to make the hours roll swiftly and smoothly, provided any one were ready to grease the wheels."
Frank knew everything, and could do everything, that a man about town is expected to know or do. He was unequalled at billiards, strong at whist and écarté, adroit at hazard, great in culinary and cellar knowledge, knew London as well as his alphabet, and, as he expressed it, could give the most knowing "a wrinkle or two on some point or other."
One of his "wrinkles" is worth specifying. He was the first who ever got into parliament by the simple and ingenious procedure which has since had several imitators. He stood for a borough (which, for weighty reasons, shall be nameless), where he was an utter stranger. It was one of those admirable boroughs where the workings of our electioneering system are shown to perfection, since almost every voter had his price. So notoriously corrupt was it, that one of the candidates unblushingly announced on his placards:—
"Electors! Remember this: those who vote for
* * * will not go unrewarded!"
It was a compact little borough, purchaseable at a price not difficult to calculate. The astonishment of Frank Forrester's friends, when they heard of his standing for * * * may be conceived. He replied that he was sure patriotism, pure unmixed British independence, was the thing voters wished for now-a-days. His placards were flaming with splendid sentences. His speeches were worthy of Cato of Utica. Not a man did he bribe; not a drop of beer did he allow.
"Lor, sir!" said an independent voter to him, "it's no use your standing if so be you're not good for a drop o' drink. We always expects a little, 'lectioneering time."