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    The Adventures of Philip

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    if you marry her privately and irregularly yourself, and then throw her off, and

      then marry somebody else, you are brought to book in all sorts of unpleasant

      ways. I am writing of quite an old story, be pleased to remember. The first part

      of the history, I myself printed some twenty years ago; and if you fancy I

      allude to any more modern period, madam, you are entirely out in your

      conjecture.

      It must have been a most unpleasant duty for a man of fashion, honour, and good

      family, to lie to a poor tipsy, disreputable bankrupt merchant's daughter, such

      as Caroline Gann; but George Brand Firmin, Esq., M.D., had no other choice, and

      when he lied,??as in severe cases, when he administered calomel??he thought it

      best to give the drug freely. Thus he lied to Hunt, saying that Mrs. Brandon was

      long since dead in Canada; and he lied to Caroline, prescribing for her the very

      same pill, as it were, and saying that Hunt was long since dead in Canada too.

      And I can fancy few more painful and humiliating positions for a man of rank and

      fashion and reputation, than to have to demean himself so far as to tell lies to

      a little low-bred person, who gets her bread as nurse of the sick, and has not

      the proper use of her h's.

      "Oh, yes, Hunt!" Firmin had said to the Little Sister, in one of those sad

      little colloquies which sometimes took place between him and his victim, his

      wife of old days. "A wild, bad man, Hunt was??in days when I own I was little

      better! I have deeply repented since, Caroline; of nothing more than of my

      conduct to you; for you were worthy of a better fate, and you loved me

      truly??madly."

      "Yes," says Caroline.

      "I was wild, then! I was desperate! I had ruined my fortunes, estranged my

      father from me, was hiding from my creditors under an assumed name??that under

      which I saw you. Ah, why did I ever come to your house, my poor child? The mark

      of the demon was upon me. I did not dare to speak of marriage before my father.

      You have yours, and tend him with your ever constant goodness. Do you know that

      my father would not see me when he died? Oh, it's a cruel thing to think of!"

      And the suffering creature slaps his tall forehead with his trembling hand; and

      some of his grief about his own father, I dare say, is sincere, for he feels the

      shame and remorse of being alienated from his own son.

      As for the marriage??that it was a most wicked and unjustifiable deceit, he

      owned; but he was wild when it took place, wild with debt and with despair at

      his father's estrangement from him??but the fact was, it was no marriage.

      "I am glad of that!" sighed the poor Little Sister.

      "Why?" asked the other eagerly. His love was dead, but his vanity was still hale

      and well. "Did you care for somebody else, Caroline? Did you forget your George,

      whom you used to??"

      "No!" said the little woman, bravely. "But I couldn't live with a man who

      behaved to any woman so dishonest as you behaved to me. I liked you because I

      thought you was a gentleman. My poor painter was, whom you used to despise and

      trample to hearth??and my dear, dear Philip is, Mr. Firmin. But gentlemen tell

      the truth! Gentlemen don't deceive poor innocent girls, and desert 'em without a

      penny!"

      "Caroline! I was driven by my creditors. I??"

      "Never mind. It's over now. I bear you no malice, Mr. Firmin, but I wouldn't

      marry you, no, not to be doctor's wife to the queen!"

      This had been the Little Sister's language when there was no thought of the

      existence of Hunt, the clergyman who had celebrated their marriage; and I don't

      know whether Firmin was most piqued or pleased at the divorce which the little

      woman pronounced of her own decree. But when the ill-omened Hunt made his

      appearance, doubts and terrors filled the physician's mind. Hunt was needy,

      greedy, treacherous, unscrupulous, desperate. He could hold this marriage over

      the doctor. He could threaten, extort, expose, perhaps invalidate Philip's

      legitimacy. The first marriage, almost certainly, was null, but the scandal

      would be fatal to Firmin's reputation and practice. And the quarrel with his son

      entailed consequences not pleasant to think of. You see George Firmin, Esq.,

      M.D., was a man with a great development of the back head; when he willed a

      thing, he willed it so fiercely that he must have it, never mind the

      consequences. And so he had willed to make himself master of poor little

      Caroline: and so he had willed, as a young man, to have horses, splendid

      entertainments, roulette and ?cart?, and so forth; and the bill came at its

      natural season, and George Firmin, Esq., did not always like to pay. But for a

      grand, prosperous, highly-bred gentleman in the best society??with a polished

      forehead and manners, and universally looked up to??to have to tell lies to a

      poor little timid, un-complaining, sick-room nurse, it was humiliating, wasn't

      it? And I can feel for Firmin.

      To have to lie to Hunt was disgusting: but somehow not so exquisitely mean and

      degrading as to have to cheat a little trusting, humble, houseless creature,

      over the bloom of whose gentle young life his accursed foot had already

      trampled. But then this Hunt was such a cad and ruffian that there need be no

      scruple about humbugging him; and if Firmin had had any humour he might have had

      a grim sort of pleasure in leading the dirty clergyman a dance thoro' bush

      thoro' briar. So, perhaps (of course I have no means of ascertaining the fact),

      the doctor did not altogether dislike the duty which now devolved on him of

      hoodwinking his old acquaintance and accomplice. I don't like to use such a

      vulgar phrase regarding a man in Doctor Firmin's high social position, as to say

      of him and the gaol-chaplain that it was "thief catch thief;" but at any rate

      Hunt is such a low, graceless, friendless vagabond, that if he comes in for a

      few kicks, or is mystified, we need not be very sorry. When Mr. Thurtell is hung

      we don't put on mourning. His is a painful position for the moment; but, after

      all, he has murdered Mr. William Weare.

      Firmin was a bold and courageous man, hot in pursuit, fierce in desire, but cool

      in danger, and rapid in action. Some of his great successes as a physician arose

      from his daring and successful practice in sudden emergency. While Hunt was only

      lurching about the town an aimless miscreant, living from dirty hand to dirty

      mouth, and as long as he could get drink, cards, and shelter, tolerably content,

      or at least pretty easily appeased by a guinea-dose or two??Firmin could adopt

      the palliative system; soothe his patient with an occasional bounty; set him to

      sleep with a composing draught of claret or brandy; and let the day take care of

      itself. He might die; he might have a fancy to go abroad again; he might be

      transported for forgery or some other rascaldom, Dr. Firmin would console

      himself; and he trusted to the chapter of accidents to get rid of his friend.

      But Hunt, aware that the woman was alive whom he had actually, though

      unlawfully, married to Firmin, became an enemy whom it was necessary to subdue,

      to cajole, or to bribe, and the sooner the doctor put himself
    on his defence the

      better. What should the defence be? Perhaps the most effectual was a fierce

      attack on the enemy; perhaps it would be better to bribe him. The course to be

      taken would be best ascertained after a little previous reconnoitring.

      "He will try and inflame Caroline," the doctor thought, "by representing her

      wrongs and her rights to her. He will show her that, as my wife, she has a right

      to my name and a share of my income. A less mercenary woman never lived than

      this poor little creature. She disdains money, and, except for her father's

      sake, would have taken none of mine. But to punish me for certainly rather

      shabby behaviour; to claim and take her own right and position in the world as

      an honest woman, may she not be induced to declare war against me, and stand by

      her marriage? After she left home, her two Irish half-sisters deserted her and

      spat upon her; and when she would have returned, the heartless women drove her

      from the door. Oh, the vixens! And now to drive by them in her carriage, to

      claim a maintenance from me, and to have a right to my honourable name, would

      she not have her dearest revenge over her sisters by so declaring her marriage?"

      Firmin's noble mind misgave him very considerably on this point. He knew women,

      and how those had treated their little sister. Was it in human nature not to be

      revenged? These thoughts rose straightway in Firmin's mind, when he heard that

      the much dreaded meeting between Caroline and the chaplain had come to pass.

      As he ate his dinner with his guest, his enemy, opposite to him, he was

      determining on his plan of action. The screen was up, and he was laying his guns

      behind it, so to speak. Of course he was as civil to Hunt as the tenant to his

      landlord when he comes with no rent. So the doctor laughed, joked, bragged,

      talked his best, and was thinking the while what was to be done against the

      danger.

      He had a plan which might succeed. He must see Caroline immediately. He knew the

      weak point of her heart, and where she was most likely to be vulnerable. And he

      would act against her as barbarians of old acted against their enemies, when

      they brought the captive wives and children in front of the battle, and bade the

      foe strike through them. He knew how Caroline loved his boy. It was through that

      love he would work upon her. As he washes his pretty hands for dinner, and

      bathes his noble brow, he arranges his little plan. He orders himself to be sent

      for soon after the second bottle of claret??and it appears the doctor's servants

      were accustomed to the delivery of these messages from their master to himself.

      The plan arranged, now let us take our dinner and our wine, and make ourselves

      comfortable until the moment of action. In his wild-oats days, when travelling

      abroad with wild and noble companions, Firmin had fought a duel or two, and was

      always remarkable for his gaiety of conversation and the fine appetite which he

      showed at breakfast before going on to the field. So, perhaps, Hunt, had he not

      been stupefied by previous drink, might have taken the alarm by remarking

      Firmin's extra courtesy and gaiety, as they dined together. It was nunc vinum,

      cras ?quor.

      When the second bottle of claret was engaged, Dr. Firmin starts. He has an

      advance of half-an-hour at least on his adversary, or on the man who may be his

      adversary. If the Little Sister is at home, he will see her??he will lay bare

      his candid heart to her, and make a clean breast of it. The Little Sister was at

      home.

      "I want to speak to you very particularly about that case of poor Lady

      Humandhaw," says he, dropping his voice.

      "I will step out, my dear, and take a little fresh air," says Captain Gann;

      meaning that he will be off to the "Admiral Byng;" and the two are together.

      "I have had something on my conscience. I have deceived you, Caroline," says the

      doctor, with the beautiful shining forehead and hat.

      "Ah, Mr. Firmin," says she, bending over her work; "you've used me to that."

      "A man whom you knew once, and who tempted me for his own selfish ends to do a

      very wrong thing by you??a man whom I thought dead is alive:??Tufton Hunt, who

      performed that??that illegal ceremony at Margate, of which so often and often on

      my knees I have repented, Caroline!"

      The beautiful hands are clasped, the beautiful deep voice thrills lowly through

      the room; and if a tear or two can be squeezed out of the beautiful eyes, I

      daresay the doctor will not be sorry.

      "He has been here to-day. Him and Mr. Philip was here and quarrelled. Philip has

      told you, I suppose, sir?"

      "Before heaven, on the word of a gentleman, when I said he was dead, Caroline, I

      thought he was dead! Yes, I declare, at our college, Maxwell??Dr. Maxwell?? who

      had been at Cambridge with us, told me that our old friend Hunt had died in

      Canada." (This, my beloved friends and readers, may not have been the precise

      long bow which George Firmin, Esq., M.D., pulled; but that he twanged a famous

      lie out, whenever there was occasion for the weapon, I assure you is an

      undoubted fact.) "Yes, Dr. Maxwell told me our old friend was dead. Our old

      friend? My worst enemy and yours! But let that pass. It was he, Caroline, who

      led me into crimes which I have never ceased to deplore."

      "Ah, Mr. Firmin," sighs the Little Sister, "since I've known you, you was big

      enough to take care of yourself in that way."

      "I have not come to excuse myself, Caroline," says the deep sweet voice. "I have

      done you enough wrong, and I feel it here??at this heart. I have not come to

      speak about myself, but of some one I love the best of all the world??the only

      being I do love??some one you love, you good and generous soul??about Philip."

      "What is it about Philip?" asks Mrs. Brandon, very quickly.

      "Do you want harm to happen to him?"

      "Oh, my darling boy, no!" cries the Little Sister, clasping her little hands.

      "Would you keep him from harm?"

      "Ah, sir, you know I would. When he had the scarlet fever, didn't I pour the

      drink down his poor throat, and nurse him, and tend him, as if, as if??as a

      mother would her own child?"

      "You did, you did, you noble, noble woman; and heaven bless you for it! A father

      does. I am not all heartless, Caroline, as you deem me, perhaps."

      "I don't think it's much merit, your loving him," says Caroline, resuming her

      sewing. And, perhaps, she thinks within herself, "What is he a coming to?" You

      see she was a shrewd little person, when her passions and partialities did not

      overcome her reason; and she had come to the conclusion that this elegant Dr.

      Firmin whom she had admired so once was a??not altogether veracious gentleman.

      In fact, I heard her myself say afterwards, "La! he used to talk so fine, and

      slap his hand on his heart, you know; but I usedn't to believe him, no more than

      a man in a play." "It's not much merit your loving that boy," says Caroline,

      then. "But what about him, sir?"

      Then Firmin explained. This man Hunt was capable of any crime for money or

      revenge. Seeing Caroline was alive??

      "I 'spose you told him I was dead too, sir," s
    ays she, looking up from the work.

      "Spare me, spare me! Years ago, perhaps, when I had lost sight of you, I may,

      perhaps, have thought??"

      "And it's not to you, George Brandon??it's not to you," cries Caroline, starting

      up, and speaking with her sweet, innocent, ringing voice; "it's to kind, dear

      friends,??it's to my good God that I owe my life, which you had flung it away.

      And I paid you back by guarding your boy's dear life, I did, under??under Him

      who giveth and taketh. And bless His name!"

      "You are a good woman, and I am a bad, sinful man, Caroline," says the other.

      "You saved my Philip's??our Philip's life, at the risk of your own. Now I tell

      you that another immense danger menaces him, and may come upon him any day as

      long as yonder scoundrel is alive. Suppose his character is assailed; suppose,

      thinking you dead, I married another??"

      "Ah, George, you never thought me dead; though, perhaps, you wished it, sir. And

      many would have died," added the poor Little Sister.

      "Look, Caroline! If I was married to you, my wife??Philip's mother??was not my

      wife, and he is her natural son. The property he inherits does not belong to

      him. The children of his grandfather's other daughter claim it, and Philip is a

      beggar. Philip, bred as he has been??Philip, the heir to a mother's large

      fortune."

      "And??and his father's, too?" asks Caroline, anxiously.

      "I daren't tell you??though, no, by heavens! I can trust you with everything. My

      own great gains have been swallowed up in speculations which have been almost

      all fatal. There has been a fate hanging over me, Caroline??a righteous

      punishment for having deserted you. I sleep with a sword over my head, which may

      fall and destroy me. I walk with a volcano under my feet, which may burst any

      day and annihilate me. And people speak of the famous Dr. Firmin, the rich Dr.

      Firmin, the prosperous Dr. Firmin! I shall have a title soon, I believe. I am

      believed to be happy, and I am alone, and the wretchedest man alive."

      "Alone, are you?" said Caroline. "There was a woman once would have kept by you,

      only you??you flung her away. Look here, George Brandon. It's over with us.

      Years and years ago it lies where a little cherub was buried. But I love my

      Philip; and I won't hurt him, no, never, never, never."

      And as the doctor turned to go away, Caroline followed him wistfully into the

      hall, and it was there that Philip found them.

      Caroline's tender "never, never," rang in Philip's memory as he sat at Ridley's

      party, amidst the artists and authors there assembled. Phil was thoughtful and

      silent. He did not laugh very loud. He did not praise or abuse anybody

      outrageously, as was the wont of that most emphatic young gentleman. He scarcely

      contradicted a single person; and perhaps, when Larkins said Scumble's last

      picture was beautiful, or Bogle, the critic of the Connoisseur, praised Bowman's

      last novel, contented himself with a scornful "Ho!" and a pull at his whiskers

      by way of protest and denial. Had he been in his usual fine spirits, and

      enjoying his ordinary flow of talk, he would have informed Larkins and the

      assembled company not only that Scumble was an impostor, but that he, Larkins,

      was an idiot for admiring him. He would have informed Bogle that he was

      infatuated about that jackass Bowman, that cockney, that wretched ignoramus, who

      didn't know his own or any other language. He would have taken down one of

      Bowman's stories from the shelf, and proved the folly, imbecility, and crass

      ignorance of that author. (Ridley has a simple little stock of novels and poems

      in an old cabinet in his studio, and reads them still with much artless wonder

      and respect.) Or, to be sure, Phil would have asserted propositions the exact

      contrary of those here maintained, and declared that Bowman was a genius, and

      Scumble a most accomplished artist. But then, you know, somebody else must have

     
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