and renew them, and end by ruin. When he have paid this bill, that old villain
will forge another, and that precious wife of his will tell him to pay that, I
suppose; and those little darlings will be begging for bread, unless they come
and eat mine, to which??God bless them!??they are always welcome." She
calculated??it was a sum not difficult to reckon??the amount of her own little
store of saved ready money. To pay four hundred pounds out of such an income as
Philip's, she felt, was an attempt vain and impossible. "And he mustn't have my
poor little stocking now," she argued; "they will want that presently when their
pride is broken down?? as it will be??and my darlings are hungering for their
dinner!" Revolving this dismal matter in her mind, and scarce knowing where to
go for comfort and counsel, she made her way to her good friend, Dr. Goodenough,
and found that worthy man, who had always a welcome for his Little Sister.
She found Goodenough alone in his great dining-room, taking a very slender meal,
after visiting his hospital and his fifty patients, among whom I think there
were more poor than rich: and the good sleepy doctor woke up with a vengeance,
when he heard his little nurse's news, and fired off a volley of angry language
against Philip and his scoundrel of a father; "which it was a comfort to hear
him," little Brandon told us afterwards. Then Goodenough trotted out of the
dining-room into the adjoining library and consulting-room, whither his old
friend followed him. Then he pulled out a bunch of keys and opened a secretaire,
from which he took a parchment-covered volume, on which J. Goodenough, Esq.,
M.D., was written in a fine legible hand,??and which, in fact, was a banker's
book. The inspection of the MS. volume in question must have pleased the worthy
physician: for a grin came over his venerable features, and he straightway drew
out of the desk a slim volume of grey paper, on each page of which were
inscribed the highly respectable names of Messrs. Stumpy, Rowdy and Co., of
Lombard Street, Bankers. On a slip of grey paper the doctor wrote a prescription
for a draught, statim sumendus??(a draught??mark my pleasantry)??which he handed
over to his little friend.
"There, you little fool!" said he. "The father is a rascal, but the boy is a
fine fellow; and you, you little silly thing, I must help in this business
myself, or you will go and ruin yourself; I know you will! Offer this to the
fellow for his bill. Or, stay! How much money is there in the house? Perhaps the
sight of notes and gold will tempt him more than a cheque." And the doctor
emptied his pockets of all the fees which happened to be therein??I don't know
how many fees of shining shillings and sovereigns, neatly wrapped up in paper;
and he emptied a drawer in which there was more silver and gold: and he trotted
up to his bedroom, and came panting, presently, downstairs with a fat little
pocket-book, containing a bundle of notes, and, with one thing or another, he
made up a sum of??I won't mention what; but this sum of money, I say, he thrust
into the Little Sister's hand, and said, "Try the fellow with this, Little
Sister; and see if you can get the bill from him. Don't say it's my money, or
the scoundrel will be for having twenty shillings in the pound. Say it's yours,
and there's no more where that came from; and coax him, and wheedle him, and
tell him plenty of lies, my dear. It won't break your heart to do that. What an
immortal scoundrel Brummell Firmin is, to be sure! Though, by the way, in two
more cases at the hospital I have tried that??" And here the doctor went off
into a professional conversation with his favourite nurse, which I could not
presume to repeat to any non-medical man.
The Little Sister bade God bless Doctor Goodenough, and wiped her glistening
eyes with her handkerchief, and put away the notes and gold with a trembling
little hand, and trudged off with a lightsome step and a happy heart. Arrived at
Tottenham Court Road, she though, shall I go home, or shall I go to poor Mrs.
Philip and take her this money? No. Their talk that day had not been very
pleasant: words, very like high words, had passed between them, and our Little
Sister had to own to herself that she had been rather rude in her late colloquy
with Charlotte. And she was a proud Little Sister: at least she did not care for
to own that she had been hasty or disrespectful in her conduct to that young
woman. She had too much spirit for that. Have we ever said that our little
friend was exempt from the prejudices and vanities of this wicked world? Well,
to rescue Philip, to secure the fatal bill, to go with it to Charlotte, and say,
"There, Mrs. Philip, there's your husband's liberty." It would be a rare
triumph, that it would! And Philip would promise, on his honour, that this
should be the last and only bill he would pay for that wretched old father. With
these happy thoughts swelling in her little heart, Mrs. Brandon made her way to
the familiar house in Thornhaugh Street, and would have a little bit of supper,
so she would. And laid her own little cloth; and set forth her little forks and
spoons, which were as bright as rubbing could make them; and I am authorized to
state that her repast consisted of two nice little lamb chops, which she
purchased from her neighbour Mr. Chump, in Tottenham Court Road, after a
pleasant little conversation with that gentleman and his good lady. And, with
her bit of supper, after a day's work, our little friend would sometimes indulge
in a glass??a little glass??of something comfortable. The case-bottle was in the
cupboard, out of which her poor Pa had been wont to mix his tumblers for many a
long day. So, having prepared it with her own hands, down she sat to her little
meal, tired and happy; and as she thought of the occurrences of the day, and of
the rescue which had come so opportunely to her beloved Philip and his children,
I am sure she said a grace before her meat.
Her candles being lighted and her blind up, any one in the street could see that
her chamber was occupied; and at about ten o'clock at night there came a heavy
step clinking along the pavement, the sound of which, I have no doubt, made the
Little Sister start a little. The heavy foot paused before her window, and
presently clattered up the steps of her door. Then, as her bell rang??I consider
it is most probable that her cheek flushed a little. She went to her hall door
and opened it herself. "Lor, is it you, Mr. Hunt? Well, I never! that is, I
thought you might come. Really, now"?? and with the moonlight behind him, the
dingy Hunt swaggered in.
"How comfortable you looked at your little table," says Hunt, with his hat over
his eye.
"Won't you step in and set down to it, and take something?" asks the smiling
hostess.
Of course, Hunt would take something. And the greasy hat is taken off his head
with a flourish, and he struts into the poor Little Sister's little room,
pulling a wisp of grizzling hair and endeavouring to assume a careless,
fashionable look. The dingy hand had seized the case-bottle in a moment. "What!
/>
you do a little in this way, do you?" he says, and winks amiably at Mrs. Brandon
and the bottle. She takes ever so little, she owns; and reminds him of days
which he must remember, when she had a wine-glass out of poor Pa's tumbler. A
bright little kettle is singing on the fire,?? will not Mr. Hunt mix a glass for
himself? She takes a bright beaker from the corner-cupboard, which is near her,
with her keys hanging from it.
"Oh, ho! that's where we keep the ginnums, is it?" says the graceful Hunt, with
a laugh.
"My papa always kep it there," says Caroline, meekly. And whilst her back is
turned to fetch a canister from the cupboard, she knows that the astute Mr. Hunt
has taken the opportunity to fill a good large measure from the square bottle.
"Make yourself welcome," says the Little Sister, in her gay, artless way;
"there's more where that came from!" And Hunt drinks his hostess's health: and
she bows to him, and smiles, and sips a little from her own glass; and the
little lady looks quite pretty, and rosy, and bright. Her cheeks are like
apples, her figure is trim and graceful, and always attired in the
neatest-fitting gown. By the comfortable light of the candles on her sparkling
tables, you scarce see the silver lines in her light hair, or the marks which
time has made round her eyes. Hunt's gaze on her with admiration.
"Why," says he, "I vow you look younger and prettier than when??when I saw you
first."
"Ah, Mr. Hunt?" cries Mrs. Brandon, with a flush on her cheek, which becomes it,
"don't recal that time, or that??that wretch who served me so cruel!"
"He was a scoundrel, Caroline, to treat as he did such a woman as you! The
fellow has no principle; he was a bad one from the beginning. Why, he ruined me
as well as you: got me to play; run me into debt by introducing me to his fine
companions. I was a simple young fellow then, and thought it was a fine thing to
live with fellow commoners and noblemen who drove their tandems and gave their
grand dinners. It was he that led me astray, I tell you. I might have been
Fellow of my college??had a living??married a good wife??risen to be a bishop,
by George!??for I had great talents, Caroline; only I was so confounded idle,
and fond of the cards and the bones."
"The bones?" cries Caroline, with a bewildered look.
"The dice, my dear! 'Seven's the main' was my ruin. 'Seven's the main' and
eleven's the nick to seven. That used to be the little game!" And he made a
graceful gesture with his empty wine-glass, as though he was tossing a pair of
dice on the table. "The man next to me in lecture is a bishop now, and I could
knock his head off in Greek iambics and Latin hexameters, too. In my second year
I got the Latin declamation prize, I tell you??"
"Brandon always said you were one of the cleverest men at the college. He always
said that, I remember," remarks the lady, very respectfully.
"Did he? He did say a good word for me, then? Brummell Firmin wasn't a clever
man; he wasn't a reading man. Whereas I would back myself for a sapphic ode
against any man in my college??against any man! Thank you. You do mix it so
uncommon hot and well, there's no saying no; indeed, there ain't! Though I have
had enough??upon my honour, I have."
"Lor! I thought you men could drink anything! And Mr. Brandon??Mr. Firmin you
said?"
"Well, I said Brummell Firmin was a swell somehow. He had a sort of grand manner
with him??"
"Yes, he had," sighed Caroline. And I daresay her thoughts wandered back to a
time long, long ago, when this grand gentleman had captivated her.
"And it was trying to keep up with him that ruined me! I quarrelled with my poor
old governor about money, of course; grew idle, and lost my Fellowship. Then the
bills came down upon me. I tell you, there are some of my college ticks ain't
paid now."
"College ticks? Law!" ejaculates the lady. "And??"
"Tailor's ticks, tavern ticks, livery-stable ticks??for there were famous hacks
in our days, and I used to hunt with the tip-top men. I wasn't bad across
country, I wasn't. But we can't keep the pace with those rich fellows. We try,
and they go ahead??they ride us down. Do you think, if I hadn't been very hard
up, I would have done what I did to you, Caroline? You poor little innocent
suffering thing. It was a shame. It was a shame!"
"Yes, a shame it was," cries Caroline. "And that I never gainsay." You did deal
hard with a poor girl, both of you.
"It was rascally. But Firmin was the worst. He had me in his power. It was he
led me wrong. It was he drove me into debt, and then abroad, and then into
qu??into gaol, perhaps: and then into this kind of thing." ("This kind of thing"
has before been explained elegantly to signify a tumbler of hot grog). "And my
father wouldn't see me on his death-bed; and my brothers and sisters broke with
me; and I owe it all to Brummell Firmin??all. Do you think, after ruining me, he
oughtn't to pay me?" and again he thumps a dusky hand upon the table. It made
dingy marks on the poor Little Sister's spotless table-cloth. It rubbed its
owner's forehead and lank, grizzling hair.
"And me, Mr. Hunt? What do he owe me?" asks Hunt's hostess.
"Caroline!" cries Hunt, "I have made Brummell Firmin pay me a good bit back
already, but I'll have more;" and he thumped his breast, and thrust his hand
into his breast-pocket as he spoke, and clutched at something within.
"It is there!" thought Caroline. She might turn pale; but he did not remark her
pallor. He was all intent on drink, on vanity, on revenge.
"I have him," I say. "He owes me a good bit; and he has paid me a good bit; and
he shall pay me a good bit more. Do you think I am a fellow who will be ruined
and insulted, and won't revenge myself? You should have seen his face when I
turned up at New York at the Astor House, and said, 'Brummell, old fellow, here
I am,' I said: and he turned as white?? as white as this table-cloth. 'I'll
never leave you, my boy,' I said. 'Other fellows may go from you, but old Tom
Hunt will stick to you. Let's go into the bar and have a drink!' and he was
obliged to come. And I have him now in my power, I tell you. And when I say to
him, 'Brummell, have a drink,' drink he must. His bald old head must go into the
pail!" And Mr. Hunt laughed a laugh which I daresay was not agreeable.
After a pause he went on: "Caroline! Do you hate him, I say? or do you like a
fellow who deserted you and treated you like a scoundrel? Some women do. I could
tell of women who do. I could tell you of other fellows, perhaps, but I won't.
Do you hate Brummell Firmin, that bald-headed Brum??hypocrite, and that??that
insolent rascal who laid his hand on a clergyman, and an old man, by George! and
hit me?? and hit me in that street. Do you hate him, I say? Hoo! hoo! hick! I've
got 'em both!??here, in my pocket??both!"
"You have got??what?" gasped Caroline.
"I have got their??hallo! stop, what's that to you what I've got?" And he sinks
back in his chair, and winks, and leers, and triumphantly tosses his glass.
"Well, it ain't much to me; I??I never got any good out of either of 'em yet,"
says poor Caroline, with a sinking heart. "Let's talk about somebody else than
them two plagues. Because you were a little merry one night??and I don't mind
what a gentleman says when he has had a glass??for a great big strong man to hit
an old one??"
"To strike a clergyman!" yells Hunt.
"It was a shame??a cowardly shame! And I gave it him for it, I promise you!"
cries Mrs. Brandon.
"On your honour, now, do you hate 'em?" cries Hunt, starting up, and clenching
his fist, and dropping again into his chair.
"Have I any reason to love 'em, Mr. Hunt? Do sit down and have a little??"
"No: you have no reason to like 'em. You hate 'em ??I hate 'em. Look here.
Promise??'pon your honour, now, Caroline??I've got 'em both, I tell you. Strike
a clergyman, will he? What do you say to that?"
And starting from his chair once more, and supporting himself against the wall
(where hung one of J. J.'s pictures of Philip), Hunt pulls out the greasy
pocket-book once more, and fumbles amongst the greasy contents; and as the
papers flutter on to the floor and the table, he pounces down on one with a
dingy hand, and yells a laugh, and says, "I've cotched you! That's it. What do
you say to that???London, July 4th.?? Five months after date, I promise to pay
to??No, you don't."
"La! Mr. Hunt, won't you let me look at it?" cries the hostess. "Whatever is it?
A bill? My Pa had plenty of'em."
"What? with candles in the room? No, you don't, I say."
"What is it? Won't you tell me?"
"It's the young one's acceptance of the old man's draft," says Hunt, hissing and
laughing.
"For how much?"
"Three hundred and eighty-six four three??that's all; and I guess I can get more
where that came from!" says Hunt, laughing more and more cheerfully.
"What will you take for it? I'll buy it of you," cries the Little Sister.
"I??I've seen plenty of my Pa's bills; and I'll??I'll discount this, if you
like."
"What! are you a little discounter? Is that the way you make your money, and the
silver spoons, and the nice supper, and everything delightful about you? A
little discountess, are you??you little rogue? Little discountess, by George!
How much will you give, little discountess?" And the reverend gentleman laughs,
and winks, and drinks, and laughs, and tears twinkle out of his tipsy old eyes,
as he wipes them with one hand, and again says, "How much will you give, little
discountess?"
When poor Caroline went to her cupboard, and from it took the notes and the gold
which she had had we know from whom, and added to these, out of a cunning box, a
little heap of her own private savings, and with trembling hands poured the
notes, and the sovereigns, and the shillings into a dish on the table, I never
heard accurately how much she laid down. But she must have spread out everything
she had in the world; for she felt her pockets and emptied them; and, tapping
her head, she again applied to the cupboard, and took from thence a little store
of spoons and forks, and then a brooch, and then a watch; and she piled these
all up in a dish, and she said, "Now, Mr. Hunt, I will give you all these for
that bill;" and looked up at Philip's picture, which hung over the parson's
blood-shot, satyr face. "Take these," she said, "and give me that! There's two
hundred pound, I know; and there's thirty-four, and two eighteen, thirty-six
eighteen, and there's the plate and watch, and I want that bill."
"What? have you got all this, you little dear?" cried Hunt, dropping back into
his chair again. "Why, you're a little fortune, by Jove!??a pretty little
fortune, a little discountess, a little wife, a little fortune. I say, I'm a
university man; I could write alcaics once as well as any man. I'm a gentleman.
I say, how much have you got? Count it over again, my dear."
And again she told him the amount of the gold, and the notes, and the silver,