The Adventures of Philip

from having seen the picture of the other one??poor lady!"

  "I have told you, Caroline, that I was so wild and desperate at that unhappy

  time, I was scarcely accountable for my actions. If I left you, it was because I

  had no other resource but flight. I was a ruined penniless man, but for my

  marriage with Louisa Ringwood. You don't suppose the marriage was happy? Happy!

  when have I ever been happy? My lot is to be wretched, and bring wretchedness

  down on those I love! ??on you, on my father, on my wife, on my boy??I am a

  doomed man. Ah, that the innocent should suffer for me!" And our friend looks

  askance in the glass, at the blue chin and hollow eyes which make his guilt look

  the more haggard.

  "I never had my lines," the little sister continued, "I never knew there were

  papers, or writings, or anything but a ring and a clergyman, when you married

  me. But I've heard tell that people in Scotland don't want a clergyman at all;

  and if they call themselves man and wife, they are man and wife. Now, sir, Mr.

  and Mrs. Brandon certainly did travel together in Scotland??witness that man

  whom you were going to throw into the lake for being rude to your wife??and ...

  La! Don't fly out so! It wasn't me, a poor girl of sixteen, who did wrong. It

  was you, a man of the world, who was years and years older."

  When Brandon carried off his poor little victim and wife, there had been a

  journey to Scotland, where Lord Cinqbars, then alive, had sporting quarters. His

  lordship's chaplain, Mr. Hunt, had been of the party, which fate very soon

  afterwards separated. Death seized on Cinqbars at Naples. Debt caused Firmin??

  Brandon, as he called himself then??to fly the country. The chaplain wandered

  from gaol to gaol. And as for poor little Caroline Brandon, I suppose the

  husband who had married her under a false name thought that to escape her, leave

  her, and disown her altogether was an easier and less dangerous plan than to

  continue relations with her. So one day, four months after their marriage, the

  young couple being then at Dover, Caroline's husband happened to go out for a

  walk. But he sent away a portmanteau by the back door when he went out for the

  walk, and as Caroline was waiting for her little dinner some hours after, the

  porter who carried the luggage came with a little note from her dearest G. B.;

  and it was full of little fond expressions of regard and affection, such as

  gentlemen put into little notes; but dearest G. B. said the bailiffs were upon

  him, and one of them had arrived that morning, and he must fly: and he took half

  the money he had, and left half for his little Carry. And he would be back soon,

  and arrange matters; or tell her where to write and follow him. And she was to

  take care of her little health, and to write a great deal to her Georgy. And she

  did not know how to write very well then; but she did her best, and improved a

  great deal; for, indeed, she wrote a great deal, poor thing. Sheets and sheets

  of paper she blotted with ink and tears. And then the money was spent; and the

  next money; and no more came, and no more letters. And she was alone at sea,

  sinking, sinking, when it pleased heaven to send that friend who rescued her. It

  is such a sad, sad little story, that in fact I don't like dwelling on it; not

  caring to look upon poor innocent, trusting creatures in pain.

  ... Well, then, when Caroline exclaimed, "La! don't fly out so, Dr. Firmin!" I

  suppose the doctor had been crying out, and swearing fiercely, at the

  recollections of his friend Mr. Brandon, and at the danger which possibly hung

  over that gentleman. Marriage ceremonies are dangerous risks in jest or in

  earnest. You can't pretend to marry even a poor old bankrupt

  lodging-house-keeper's daughter without some risk of being brought subsequently

  to book. If you have a vulgar wife alive, and afterwards choose to leave her and

  marry an earl's niece, you will come to trouble, however well connected you are

  and highly placed in society. If you have had thirty thousand pounds with wife

  No. 2, and have to pay it back on a sudden, the payment may be inconvenient. You

  may be tried for bigamy, and sentenced, goodness knows to what punishment. At

  any rate, if the matter is made public, and you are a most respectable man,

  moving in the highest scientific and social circles, those circles may be

  disposed to request you to walk out of their circumference. A novelist, I know,

  ought to have no likes, dislikes, pity, partiality for his characters; but I

  declare I cannot help feeling a respectful compassion for a gentleman, who, in

  consequence of a youthful, and, I am sure, sincerely regretted folly, may be

  liable to lose his fortune, his place in society, and his considerable practice.

  Punishment hasn't a right to come with such a pede claudo. There ought to be

  limitations; and it is shabby and revengeful of Justice to present her little

  bill when it has been more than twenty years owing ... Having had his talk out

  with the Little Sister, having a long past crime suddenly taken down from the

  shelf; having a remorse, long since supposed to be dead and buried, suddenly

  starting up in the most blustering, boisterous, inconvenient manner; having a

  rage and terror tearing him within; I can fancy this most respectable physician

  going about his day's work, and most sincerely sympathize with him. Who is to

  heal the physician? Is he not more sick at heart than most of his patients that

  day? He has to listen to Lady Megrim cackling for half an hour at least, and

  describing her little ailments. He has to listen, and never once to dare to say,

  "Confound you, old chatterbox! What are you prating about your ailments to me,

  who am suffering real torture whilst I am smirking in your face?" He has to wear

  the inspiriting smile, to breathe the gentle joke, to console, to whisper hope,

  to administer remedy; and all day, perhaps, he sees no one so utterly sick, so

  sad, so despairing, as himself.

  The first person on whom he had to practise hypocrisy that day was his own son,

  who chose to come to breakfast ??a meal of which son and father seldom now

  partook in company. "What does he know, and what does he suspect?" are the

  father's thoughts; but a louring gloom is on Philip's face, and the father's

  eyes look into the son's, but cannot penetrate their darkness.

  "Did you stay late last night, Philip?" says papa.

  "Yes, sir, rather late," answers the son.

  "Pleasant party?"

  "No, sir, stupid. Your friend Mr. Hunt wanted to come in. He was drunk, and rude

  to Mrs. Brandon, and I was obliged to put him out of the door. He was dreadfully

  violent and abusive."

  "Swore a good deal, I suppose?"

  "Fiercely, sir, and called names."

  I daresay Philip's heart beat so when he said these last words, that they were

  inaudible: at all events, Philip's father did not appear to pay much attention

  to the words, for he was busy reading the Morning Post, and behind that sheet of

  fashionable news hid whatever expression of agony there might be on his face.

  Philip afterwards told his present biographer of this breakfast meeting and

  dreary t?te-?-
t?te. "I burned to ask what was the meaning of that scoundrel's

  words of the past night," Philip said to his biographer; "but I did not dare,

  somehow. You see, Pendennis, it is not pleasant to say point-blank to your

  father, 'Sir, are you a confirmed scoundrel, or are you not? Is it possible that

  you have made a double marriage, as yonder other rascal hinted; and that my own

  legitimacy and my mother's fair fame, as well as poor, harmless Caroline's

  honour and happiness, have been destroyed by your crime?' But I had lain awake

  all night thinking about that scoundrel Hunt's words, and whether there was any

  meaning beyond drunken malice in what he said." So we find that three people had

  passed a bad night in consequence of Mr. Firmin's evil behaviour of

  five-and-twenty years back, which surely was a most unreasonable punishment for

  a sin of such old date. I wish, dearly beloved brother sinners, we could take

  all the punishment for our individual crimes on our individual shoulders: but we

  drag others down with us??that is the fact; and when Macheath is condemned to

  hang, it is Polly and Lucy who have to weep and suffer and wear piteous mourning

  in their hearts long after the dare-devil rogue has jumped off the Tyburn

  ladder.

  "Well, sir, he did not say a word," said Philip, recounting the meeting to his

  friend; "not a word, at least, regarding the matter both of us had on our heart.

  But about fashion, parties, politics, he discoursed much more freely than was

  usual with him. He said I might have had Lord Ringwood's seat for Whipham but

  for my unfortunate politics. What made a radical of me, he asked, who was

  naturally one of the most haughty men? (and that, I think, perhaps I am," says

  Phil, "and a good many liberal fellows are"). I should calm down, he was sure??I

  should calm down, and be of the politics des hommes du monde."

  Philip could not say to his father, "Sir, it is seeing you cringe before great

  ones that has set my own back up." There were countless points about which

  father and son could not speak; and an invisible, unexpressed, perfectly

  unintelligible mistrust, always was present when those two were t?te-?-t?te.

  Their meal was scarce ended when entered to them Mr. Hunt, with his hat on. I

  was not present at the time, and cannot speak as a certainty; but I should think

  at his ominous appearance Philip may have turned red and his father pale. "Now

  is the time," both, I daresay, thought; and the doctor remembered his stormy

  young days of foreign gambling, intrigue, and duel, when he was put on his

  ground before his adversary, and bidden, at a given signal, to fire. One, two,

  three! Each man's hand was armed with malice and murder. Philip had plenty of

  pluck for his part, but I should think on such an occasion might be a little

  nervous and fluttered, whereas his father's eye was keen, and his aim rapid and

  steady.

  "You and Philip had a difference last night, Philip tells me," said the doctor.

  "Yes, and I promised he should pay me," said the clergyman.

  "And I said I should desire no better," says Mr. Phil.

  "He struck his senior, his father's friend??a sick man, a clergyman," gasped

  Hunt.

  "Were you to repeat what you did last night, I should repeat what I did," said

  Phil. "You insulted a good woman."

  "It's a lie, sir!" cries the other.

  "You insulted a good woman, a lady in her own house, and I turned you out of

  it," said Phil.

  "I say, again, it is a lie, sir!" screams Hunt, with a stamp on the table.

  "That you should give me the lie, or otherwise, is perfectly immaterial to me.

  But whenever you insult Mrs. Brandon, or any harmless woman in my presence, I

  shall do my best to chastise you," cries Philip of the red moustaches, curling

  them with much dignity.

  "You hear him, Firmin?" says the parson.

  "Faith, I do, Hunt!" says the physician; "and I think he means what he says,

  too."

  "Oh! you take that line, do you?" cries Hunt of the dirty hands, the dirty

  teeth, the dirty neckcloth.

  "I take what you call that line; and whenever a rudeness is offered to that

  admirable woman in my son's hearing, I shall be astonished if he does not resent

  it," says the doctor. "Thank you, Philip!"

  The father's resolute speech and behaviour gave Philip great momentary comfort.

  Hunt's words of the night before had been occupying the young man's thoughts.

  Had Firmin been criminal, he could not be so bold.

  "You talk this way in presence of your son? You have been talking over the

  matter together before?" asks Hunt.

  "We have been talking over the matter before??yes. We were engaged on it when

  you came into breakfast," said the doctor. "Shall we go on with the conversation

  where we left it off?"

  "Well, do??that is, if you dare," said the clergyman, somewhat astonished.

  "Philip, my dear, it is ill for a man to hide his head before his own son; but

  if I am to speak??and speak I must one day or the other??why not now?"

  "Why at all, Firmin?" asks the clergyman, astonished at the other's rather

  sudden resolve.

  "Why? Because I am sick and tired of you, Mr. Tufton Hunt," cries the physician,

  in his most lofty manner, "of you and your presence in my house; your blackguard

  behaviour and your rascal extortions ??because you will force me to speak one

  day or the other??and now, Philip, if you like, shall be the day."

  "Hang it, I say! Stop a bit!" cries the clergyman.

  "I understand you want some more money from me."

  "I did promise Jacobs I would pay him to-day, and that was what made me so sulky

  last night; and, perhaps, I took a little too much. You see my mind was out of

  order; and what's the use of telling a story that is no good to any one,

  Firmin??least of all to you," cries the parson, darkly.

  "Because, you ruffian, I'll bear with you no more," cries the doctor, the veins

  of his forehead swelling as he looks fiercely at his dirty adversary. "In the

  last nine months, Philip, this man has had nine hundred pounds from me."

  "The luck has been so very bad, so bad, upon my honour, now," grumbles the

  parson.

  "To-morrow he will want more; and the next day more; and the next day more; and,

  in fine, I won't live with this accursed man of the sea round my neck. You shall

  have the story; and Mr. Hunt shall sit by and witness against his own crime and

  mine. I had been very wild at Cambridge, when I was a young man. I had

  quarrelled with my father, lived with a dissipated set, and beyond my means; and

  had had my debts paid so often by your grandfather, that I was afraid to ask for

  more. He was stern to me; I was not dutiful to him. I own my fault. Mr. Hunt can

  bear witness to what I say.

  "I was in hiding at Margate, under a false name. You know the name."

  "Yes, sir, I think I know the name," Philip said, thinking he liked his father

  better now than he had ever liked him in his life, and sighing, "Ah, if he had

  always been frank and true with me!"

  "I took humble lodgings with an obscure family." (If Dr. Firmin had a prodigious

  idea of his own grandeur and i
mportance, you see I cannot help it??and he was

  long held to be such a respectable man.) "And there I found a young girl??one of

  the most innocent beings that ever a man played with and betrayed. Betrayed, I

  own it, heaven forgive me! The crime has been the shame of my life, and darkened

  my whole career with misery. I got a man worse than myself, if that could be. I

  got Hunt for a few pounds, which he owed me, to make a sham marriage between me

  and poor Caroline. My money was soon gone. My creditors were after me. I fled

  the country, and I left her."

  "A sham marriage! a sham marriage!" cries the clergyman. "Didn't you make me

  perform it by holding a pistol to my throat? A fellow won't risk transportation

  for nothing. But I owed him money for cards, and he had my bill, and he said he

  would let me off, and that's why I helped him. Never mind. I am out of the

  business now, Mr. Brummell Firmin, and you are in it. I have read the Act, sir.

  The clergyman who performs the marriage is liable to punishment, if informed

  against within three years, and it's twenty years or more. But you, Mr. Brummell

  Firmin?? your case is different; and you, my young gentleman, with the fiery

  whiskers, who strike down old men of a night??you may find some of us know how

  to revenge ourselves, though we are down." And with this, Hunt rushed to his

  greasy hat, and quitted the house, discharging imprecations at his hosts as he

  passed through the hall.

  Son and father sate awhile silent, after the departure of their common enemy. At

  last the father spoke.

  "This is the sword that has always been hanging over my head, and it is now

  falling, Philip."

  "What can the man do? Is the first marriage a good marriage?" asked Philip, with

  alarmed face.

  "It's is no marriage. It is void to all intents and purposes. You may suppose I

  have taken care to learn the law about that. Your legitimacy is safe, sure

  enough. But that man can ruin me, or nearly so. He will try to-morrow, if not

  to-day. As long as you or I can give him a guinea, he will take it to the

  gambling-house. I had the mania on me myself once. My poor father quarrelled

  with me in consequence, and died without seeing me. I married your

  mother??Heaven help her, poor soul! and forgive me for being but a harsh husband

  to her??with a view of mending my shattered fortunes. I wished she had been more

  happy, poor thing. But do not blame me utterly, Philip. I was desperate, and she

  wished for the marriage so much! I had good looks and high spirits in those

  days. People said so." (And here he glances obliquely at his own handsome

  portrait.) "Now I am a wreck, a wreck!"

  "I conceive, sir, that this will annoy you; but how can it ruin you?" asked

  Philip.

  "What becomes of my practice as a family physician? The practice is not now what

  it was, between ourselves, Philip, and the expenses greater than you imagine. I

  have made unlucky speculations. If you count upon much increase of wealth from

  me, my boy, you will be disappointed; though you were never mercenary, no,

  never. But the story bruited about by this rascal, of a physician of eminence

  engaged in two marriages, do you suppose my rivals won't hear it, and take

  advantage of it??my patients hear it, and avoid me?"

  "Make terms with the man at once, then, sir, and silence him."

  "To make terms with a gambler is impossible. My purse is always there open for

  him to thrust his hand into when he loses. No man can withstand such a

  temptation. I am glad you have never fallen into it. I have quarrelled with you

  sometimes for living with people below your rank: perhaps you were right, and I

  was wrong. I have liked, always did, I don't disguise it, to live with persons

  of station. And these, when I was at the university, taught me play and

  extravagance; and in the world haven't helped me much. Who would? Who would?"

  and the doctor relapsed into meditation.

  A little catastrophe presently occurred, after which Mr. Philip Firmin told me