fellow mean by asking me to such a dinner?" "True," says the other, "it was an
abominable dinner, Jones, as you justly say; but it was very profuse in him to
give it. Don't you see?" and so both our good friends are agreed.
Ere many days were over the great yellow chariot and its powdered attendants
again made their appearance before Mrs. Brandon's modest door in Thornhaugh
Street, and Lady Ringwood and two daughters descended from the carriage and made
their way to Mr. Philip's apartments in the second floor, just as that worthy
gentleman was sitting down to dinner with his wife. Lady Ringwood, bent upon
being gracious, was in ecstasies with everythings he saw??a clean house??a nice
little maid??pretty picturesque rooms??odd rooms ??and what charming pictures!
Several of these were the work of the fond pencil of poor J. J., who, as has
been told, had painted Philip's beard and Charlotte's eyebrow, and Charlotte's
baby a thousand and a thousand times. "May we come in? Are we disturbing you?
What dear little bits of china! What a beautiful mug, Mr. Firmin!" This was poor
J. J.'s present to his goddaughter. "How nice the luncheon looks! Dinner is it?
How pleasant to dine at this hour!" The ladies were determined to be charmed
with everything round about them.
"We are dining on your poultry. May we offer some to you and Miss Ringwood,"
says the master of the house.
"Why don't you dine in the dining-room? Why do you dine in a bedroom?" asks
Franklin Ringwood, the interesting young son of the Baron of Ringwood.
"Somebody else lives in the parlour," says Mrs. Philip. On which the boy
remarks, "We have two dining-rooms in Berkeley Square. I mean for us, besides
papa's study, which I mustn't go into. And the servants have two dining-rooms
and??"
"Hush!" here cries mamma, with the usual remark regarding the beauty of silence
in little boys.
But Franklin persists, in spite of the "Hushes:" "And so we have at Ringwood;
and at Whipham there's ever so many dining-rooms??ever so many??and I like
Whipham a great deal better than Ringwood, because my pony is at Whipham. You
have not got a pony. You are too poor."
"Franklin!"
"You said he was too poor; and you would not have had chickens if we had not
given them to you. Mamma, you know you said they were very poor, and would like
them."
And here mamma looked red, and I daresay Philip's cheeks and ears tingled, and
for once Mrs. Philip was thankful at hearing her baby cry, for it gave her a
pretext for leaving the room and flying to the nursery, whither the other two
ladies accompanied her.
Meanwhile Master Franklin went on with his artless conversation. "Mr. Philip,
why do they say you are wicked? You do not look wicked; and I am sure Mrs.
Philip does not look wicked??she looks very good."
"Who says I am wicked?" asks Mr. Firmin of his candid young relative.
"Oh, ever so many! Cousin Ringwood says so; and Blanche says so; and Woolcomb
says so; only I don't like him, he's so very brown. And when they heard you had
been to dinner, 'Has that beast been here?' Ringwood says. And I don't like him
a bit. But I like you, at least I think I do. You only have oranges for dessert.
We always have lots of things for dessert at home. You don't, I suppose, because
you've got no money??only a very little."
"Well: I have got only a very little," says Philip.
"I have some??ever so much. And I'll buy something for your wife; and I shall
like to have you better at home than Blanche, and Ringwood, and that Woolcomb;
and they never give me anything. You can't, you know; because you are so very
poor??you are; but we'll often send you things, I daresay. And I'll have an
orange, please, thank you. And there's a chap at our school, and his name is
Suckling, and he ate eighteen oranges, and wouldn't give one away to anybody.
Wasn't he a greedy pig? And I have wine with my oranges??I do: a glass of
wine??thank you. That's jolly. But you don't have it often, I suppose, because
you're so very poor."
I am glad Philip's infant could not understand, being yet of too tender age, the
compliments which Lady Ringwood and her daughter passed upon her. As it was, the
compliments charmed the mother, for whom indeed they were intended, and did not
inflame the unconscious baby's vanity.
"What would the polite mamma and sister have said, if they had heard that
unlucky Franklin's prattle?" The boy's simplicity amused his tall cousin. "Yes,"
says Philip, "we are very poor, but we are very happy, and don't mind??that's
the truth."
"Mademoiselle, that's the German governess, said she wondered how you could live
at all; and I don't think you could if you ate as much as she did. You should
see her eat; she is such a oner at eating. Fred, my brother, that's the one who
is at college, one day tried to see how Mademoiselle Wallfisch could eat, and
she had twice of soup, and then she said sivoplay; and then twice of fish, and
she said sivoplay for more: and then she had roast mutton??no, I think, roast
beef it was; and she eats the pease with her knife: and then she had raspberry
jam pudding, and ever so much beer, and then??" But what came then we never
shall know; because while young Franklin was choking with laughter (accompanied
with a large piece of orange) at the ridiculous recollection of Miss Wallfisch's
appetite, his mamma and sister came downstairs from Charlotte's nursery, and
brought the dear boy's conversation to an end. The ladies chose to go home,
delighted with Philip, baby, Charlotte. Everything was so proper. Everything was
so nice. Mrs. Firmin was so ladylike. The fine ladies watched her, and her
behaviour, with that curiosity which the Brobdingnag ladies displayed when they
held up little Gulliver on their palms, and saw him bow, smile, dance, draw his
sword, and take off his hat, just like a man.
CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH THE DRAWING ROOMS ARE NOT FURNISHED AFTER ALL.
We cannot expect to be loved by a relative whom we have knocked into an
illuminated pond, and whose coattails, pantaloons, nether limbs, and best
feelings, we have lacerated with ill-treatment and broken glass. A man whom you
have so treated behind his back will not be sparing of his punishment behind
yours. Of course all the Twysdens, male and female, and Woolcomb, the dusky
husband of Philip's former love, hated and feared, and maligned him; and were in
the habit of speaking of him as a truculent and reckless savage and monster,
coarse and brutal in his language and behaviour, ragged, dirty and reckless in
his personal appearance; reeking with smoke, perpetually reeling in drink,
indulging in oaths, actions, laughter which rendered him intolerable in
civilized society. The Twysdens, during Philip's absence abroad, had been very
respectful and assiduous in courting the new head of the Ringwood family. They
had flattered Sir John, and paid court to my lady. They had been welcomed at Sir
John's houses in town and country. They had adopted his politics in a great
measure, as they had adopted the politics of the deceased peer.
They had never
lost an opportunity of abusing poor Philip and of ingratiating themselves. They
had never refused any invitation from Sir John in town or country, and had ended
by utterly boring him and Lady Ringwood and the Ringwood family in general. Lady
Ringwood learned somewhere how pitilessly Mrs. Woolcomb had jilted her cousin
when a richer suitor appeared in the person of the West Indian. Then news came
how Philip had administered a beating to Woolcomb, to young Twysden, to a dozen
who set on him. The early prejudices began to pass away. A friend or two of
Philip's told Ringwood how he was mistaken in the young man, and painted a
portrait of him in colours much more favourable than those which his kinsfolk
employed. Indeed, dear relations, if the public wants to know our little faults
and errors, I think I know who will not grudge the requisite information. Dear
Aunt Candour, are you not still alive, and don't you know what we had for dinner
yesterday, and the amount (monstrous extravagance!) of the washerwoman's bill?
Well, the Twysden family so bespattered poor Philip with abuse, and represented
him as a monster of such hideous mien, that no wonder the Ringwoods avoided him.
They then began to grow utterly sick and tired of his detractors. And then Sir
John, happening to talk with his brother Member of Parliament, Tregarvan, in the
House of Commons, heard quite a different story regarding our friend to that
with which the Twysdens had regaled him, and, with no little surprise on Sir
John's part, was told by Tregarvan how honest, rough, worthy, affectionate and
gentle this poor maligned fellow was; how he had been sinned against by his
wretch of a father, whom he had forgiven and actually helped out of his wretched
means; and how he was making a brave battle against poverty, and had a sweet
little loving wife and child, whom every kind heart would willingly strive to
help. Because people are rich they are not of necessity ogres. Because they are
born gentlemen and ladies of good degree, are in easy circumstances, and have a
generous education, it does not follow that they are heartless and will turn
their back on a friend. Moi qui vous parle??I have been in a great strait of
sickness near to death, and the friends who came to help me with every comfort,
succour, sympathy, were actually gentlemen, who lived in good houses, and had a
good education. They didn't turn away because I was sick, or fly from me because
they thought I was poor; on the contrary, hand, purse, succour, sympathy were
ready, and praise be to heaven. And so too did Philip find help when he needed
it, and succour when he was in poverty. Tregarvan, we will own, was a pompous
little man, his House of Commons speeches were dull, and his written documents
awfully slow; but he had a kind heart: he was touched by that picture which
Laura drew of the young man's poverty, and honesty, and simple hopefulness in
the midst of hard times: and we have seen how the European Review was thus
entrusted to Mr. Philip's management. Then some artful friends of Philip's
determined that he should be reconciled to his relations, who were well to do in
the world, and might serve him. And I wish, dear reader, that your respectable
relatives and mine would bear this little paragraph in mind and leave us both
handsome legacies. Then Tregarvan spoke to Sir John Ringwood, and that meeting
was brought about, where, for once at least, Mr. Philip quarrelled with nobody.
And now came another little piece of good luck, which, I suppose, must be
attributed to the same kind friend who had been scheming for Philip's benefit,
and who is never so happy as when her little plots for her friend's benefit can
be made to succeed. Yes: when that arch jobber??don't tell me;??I never knew a
woman worth a pin who wasn't??when that archjobber, I say, has achieved a job by
which some friend is made happy, her eyes and cheeks brighten with triumph.
Whether she has put a sick man into a hospital, or got a poor woman a family's
washing, or made a sinner repent and return to wife, husband, or what not, that
woman goes off and pays her thanks, where thanks are due, with such fervour,
with such lightsomeness, with such happiness, that I assure you she is a sight
to behold. Hush! When one sinner is saved, who are glad? Some of us know a woman
or two pure as angels??know, and are thankful.
When the person about whom I have been prattling has one of her benevolent jobs
in hand, or has completed it, there is a sort of triumph and mischief in her
manner, which I don't know otherwise how to describe. She does not understand my
best jokes at this period, or answers them at random, or laughs very absurdly
and vacantly. She embraces her children wildly, and, at the most absurd moments,
is utterly unmindful when they are saying their lessons, prattling their little
questions, and so forth. I recal all these symptoms (and put this and that
together, as the saying is) as happening on one especial day, at the
commencement of Easter Term, eighteen hundred and never mind what??as happening
on one especial morning when this lady had been astoundingly distraite and
curiously excited. I now remember, how during her children's dinner-time, she
sat looking into the square out of her window, and scarcely attending to the
little innocent cries for mutton which the children were offering up.
At last there was a rapid clank over the pavement, a tall figure passed the
parlour windows, which, our kind friends know, look into Queen Square, and then
came a loud ring at the bell, and I thought the mistress of the house gave an
ah??a sigh??as though her heart was relieved.
The street door was presently opened, and then the dining-room door, and Philip
walks in with his hat on, his blue eyes staring before him, his hair flaming
about, and "La, uncle Philip!" cry the children. "What have you done to
yourself? You have shaved off your moustache." And so he had, I declare!
"I say, Pen, look here! This has been left at chambers; and Cassidy has sent it
on by his clerk," our friend said. I forget whether it has been stated that
Philip's name still remained on the door of those chambers in Parchment
Buildings, where we once heard his song of "Doctor Luther," and were present at
his call-supper.
The document which Philip produced was actually a brief. The papers were
superscribed, "In Parliament, Polwheedle and Tredyddlum Railway. To support
bill, Mr. Firmin; retainer, five guineas; brief, fifty guineas; consultation,
five guineas. With you Mr. Armstrong, Sir J. Whitworth, Mr. Pinkerton." Here was
a wonder of wonders! A shower of gold was poured out on my friend. A light
dawned upon me. The proposed bill was for a Cornish line. Our friend Tregarvan
was concerned in it, the line passing through his property, and my wife had
canvassed him privately, and by her wheedling and blandishments had persuaded
Tregarvan to use his interest with the agents and get Philip this welcome aid.
Philip eyed the paper with a queer expression. He handled it as some men handle
a baby. He looked as if he did not know what to do with it, and as
if he should
like to drop it. I believe I made some satirical remark to this effect as I
looked at our friend with his paper.
"He holds a child beautifully," said my wife with much enthusiasm; "much better
than some people who laugh at him."
"And he will hold this no doubt much to his credit. May this be the father of
many briefs. May you have bags full of them!" Philip had all our good wishes.
They did not cost much, or avail much, but they were sincere. I know men who
can't for the lives of them give even that cheap coin of good will, but hate
their neighbours' prosperity, and are angry with them when they cease to be
dependent and poor.
We have said how Cassidy's astonished clerk had brought the brief from chambers
to Firmin at his lodgings at Mrs. Brandon's in Thornhaugh Street. Had a bailiff
served him with a writ, Philip could not have been more surprised, or in a
greater tremor. A brief? Grands Dieux! What was he to do with a brief? He
thought of going to bed, and being ill, of flying from home, country, family.
Brief? Charlotte, of course, seeing her husband alarmed, began to quake too.
Indeed, if his worship's finger aches, does not her whole body suffer? But
Charlotte's and Philip's constant friend, the Little Sister, felt no such fear.
"Now there's this opening, you must take it, my dear," she said. "Suppose you
don't know much about law??" "Much! nothing," interposed Philip. "You might ask
me to play the piano; but as I never happened to have learned??"
"La??don't tell me! You mustn't show a faint heart. Take the business, and do it
best you can. You'll do it better next time, and next. The Bar's a gentleman's
business. Don't I attend a judge's lady, which I remember her with her first in
a little bit of a house in Bernard Street, Russell Square; and now haven't I
been to her in Eaton Square, with a butler, and two footmen, and carriages ever
so many? You may work on at your newspapers, and get a crust, and when you're
old, and if you quarrel??and you have a knack of quarrelling??he has, Mrs.
Firmin. I knew him before you did. Quarrelsome he is, and he will be, though you
think him an angel, to be sure.??Suppose you quarrel with your newspaper
masters, and your reviews, and that, you lose your place? A gentleman like Mr.
Philip oughtn't to have a master. I couldn't bear to think of your going down of
a Saturday to the publishing office to get your wages like a workman."
"But I am a workman," interposes Philip.
"La! But do you mean to remain one for ever? I would rise, if I was a man!" said
the intrepid little woman; "I would rise, or I'd know the reason why. Who knows
how many in family you're going to be? I'd have more spirit than to live in a
second floor??I would!"
And the Little Sister said this, though she clung round Philip's child with a
rapture of fondness which she tried in vain to conceal; though she felt that to
part from it would be to part from her life's chief happiness; though she loved
Philip as her own son: and Charlotte ??well, Charlotte for Philip's sake??as
women love other women.
Charlotte came to her friends in Queen Square, and told us of the resolute
Little Sister's advice and conversation. She knew that Mrs. Brandon only loved
her as something belonging to Philip. She admired this Little Sister; and
trusted her; and could afford to bear that little somewhat scornful domination
which Brandon exercised. "She does not love me, because Philip does," Charlotte
said. "Do you think I could like her, or any woman, if I thought Philip loved
them? I could kill them, Laura, that I could!" And at this sentiment I imagine
daggers shooting out of a pair of eyes that were ordinarily very gentle and
bright.
Not having been engaged in the case in which Philip had the honour of first
appearing, I cannot enter into particulars regarding it, but am sure that case