The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

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