The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

the substance of this story. He described his father's long acquiescence in

  Hunt's demands, and sudden resistance to them, and was at a loss to account for

  the change. I did not tell my friend in express terms, but I fancied I could

  account for the change of behaviour. Dr. Firmin, in his interviews with

  Caroline, had had his mind set at rest about one part of his danger. The doctor

  need no longer fear the charge of a double marriage. The Little Sister resigned

  her claims past, present, future.

  If a gentleman is sentenced to be hung, I wonder is it a matter of comfort to

  him or not to know beforehand the day of the operation? Hunt would take his

  revenge. When and how? Dr. Firmin asked himself. Nay, possibly, you will have to

  learn that this eminent practitioner walked about with more than one danger

  hanging imminent over him. Perhaps it was a rope: perhaps it was a sword: some

  weapon of execution, at any rate, as we presently may see. A day passes: no

  assassin darts at the doctor as he threads the dim opera-colonnade passage on

  his way to his club. A week goes by: no stiletto is plunged into his well-wadded

  breast as he steps from his carriage at some noble patient's door. Philip says

  he never knew his father more pleasant, easy, good-humoured, and affable than

  during this period, when he must have felt that a danger was hanging over him of

  which his son at this time had no idea. I dined in Old Parr Street once in this

  memorable period (memorable it seemed to me from immediately subsequent events).

  Never was the dinner better served: the wine more excellent: the guests and

  conversation more gravely respectable than at this entertainment: and my

  neighbour remarked with pleasure how the father and son seemed to be on much

  better terms than ordinary. The doctor addressed Philip pointedly once or twice;

  alluded to his foreign travels; spoke of his mother's family��it was most

  gratifying to see the pair together. Day after day passes so. The enemy has

  disappeared. At least, the lining of his dirty hat is no longer visible on the

  broad marble table of Dr. Firmin's hall.

  But one day��it may be ten days after the quarrel�� a little messenger comes to

  Philip, and says, "Philip dear, I am sure there is something wrong; that

  horrible Hunt has been here with a very quiet, soft-spoken old gentleman, and

  they have been going on with my poor Pa about my wrongs and his��his,

  indeed!��and they have worked him up to believe that somebody has cheated his

  daughter out of great fortune; and who can that somebody be but your father? And

  whenever they see me coming, papa and that horrid Hunt go off to the 'Admiral

  Byng:' and one night when Pa came home he said, 'Bless you, bless you, my poor,

  innocent, injured child; and blessed you will be, mark a fond father's words!'

  They are scheming something against Philip and Philip's father. Mr. Bond the

  soft-spoken old gentleman's name is: and twice there has been a Mr. Walls to

  inquire if Mr. Hunt was at our house."

  "Mr. Bond?��Mr. Walls?��A gentleman of the name of Bond was uncle Twysden's

  attorney. An old gentleman, with a bald head, and one eye bigger than the

  other?"

  "Well, this old man has one smaller than the other, I do think," says Caroline.

  "First man who came was Mr. Walls��a rattling young fashionable chap, always

  laughing, talking about theatres, operas, everything�� came home from the 'Byng'

  along with Pa and his new friend��oh! I do hate him, that man, that Hunt!��then

  he brought the old man, this Mr. Bond. What are they scheming against you,

  Philip? I tell you this matter is all about you and your father."

  Years and years ago, in the poor mother's lifetime, Philip remembred an outbreak

  of wrath on his father's part, who called uncle Twysden a swindling miser, and

  this very Mr. Bond a scoundrel who deserved to be hung, for interfering in some

  way in the management of a part of the property which Mrs. Twysden and her

  sister inherited from their own mother. That quarrel had been made up, as such

  quarrels are. The brothers-in-law had continued to mistrust each other; but

  there was no reason why the feud should descend to the children; and Philip and

  his aunt, and one of her daughters at least, were on good terms together.

  Philip's uncle's lawyers engaged with his father's debtor and enemy against Dr.

  Firmin: the alliance boded no good.

  "I won't tell you what I think, Philip," said the father. "You are fond of your

  cousin?"

  "Oh! for ev��"

  "For ever, of course! At least until we change our mind, or one of us grows

  tired, or finds a better mate."

  "Ah, sir!" cries Philip, but suddenly stops in his remonstrance.

  "What were you going to say, Philip, and why do you pause?"

  "I was going to say, father, if I might without offending, that I think you

  judge hardly of women. I know two who have been very faithful to you."

  "And I traitor to both of them. Yes; and my remorse, Philip, my remorse!" says

  his father in his deepest tragedy voice, clutching his hand over a heart that I

  believe beat very coolly. But, psha! why am I, Philip's biographer, going out of

  the way to abuse Philip's papa? Is not the threat of bigamy and exposure enough

  to disturb any man's equanimity? I say again, suppose there is another sword��a

  rope, if you will so call it��hanging over the head of our Damocles of Old Parr

  Street? ... Howbeit, the father and the son met and parted in these days with

  unusual gentleness and cordiality. And these were the last days in which they

  were to meet together. Nor could kindness and cordiality.

  Why were these the last days son and father were to pass together? Dr. Firmin is

  still alive. Philip is a very tolerably prosperous gentleman. He and his father

  parted good friends, and it is the biographer's business to narrate how and

  wherefore. When Philip told his father that Messrs. Bond and Selby, his uncle

  Twysden's attorneys, were suddenly interested about Mr. Brandon and his affairs,

  the father instantly guessed, though the son was too simple as yet to understand

  how it was that these gentlemen interfered. If Mr. Brandon-Firmin's marriage

  with Miss Ringwood was null, her son was illegitimate, and her fortune went to

  her sister. Painful as such a duty might be to such tender-hearted people as our

  Twysden acquaintances to deprive a dear nephew of his fortune, yet, after all,

  duty is duty, and a parent must sacrifice everything for justice and his own

  children. "Had I been in such a case," Talbot Twysden subsequently and

  repeatedly declared, "I should never have been easy a moment if I thought I

  possessed wrongfully a beloved nephew's property. I could not have slept in

  peace; I could not have shown my face at my own club, or to my own conscience,

  had I the weight of such an injustice on my mind." In a word, when he found that

  there was a chance of annexing Philip's share of the property to his own,

  Twysden saw clearly that his duty was to stand by his own wife and children.

  The information upon which Talbot Twysden, Esq., acted, was brought to him at

  his office by a gentleman in dingy black, who, after a long interview wit
h him,

  accompanied him to his lawyer, Mr. Bond, before mentioned. Here, in South

  Square, Gray's Inn, the three gentlemen held a consultation, of which the

  results began quickly to show themselves. Messrs. Bond and Selby had an

  exceedingly lively, cheerful, jovial, and intelligent confidential clerk, who

  combined business and pleasure with the utmost affability, and was acquainted

  with a thousand queer things, and queer histories about queer people in this

  town; who lent money; who wanted money; who was in debt; and who was outrunning

  the constable; whose diamonds were in pawn; whose estates were over-mortgaged;

  who was over-building himself; who was casting eyes of longing at what pretty

  opera dancer��about races, fights, bill brokers, quicquid agunt homines. This

  Tom Walls had a deal of information, and imparted it so as to make you die of

  laughing.

  The Reverend Tufton Hunt brought this jolly fellow first to the "Admiral Byng,"

  where his amiability won all hearts at the club. At the "Byng" it was not very

  difficult to gain Captain Gann's easy confidence. And this old man was, in the

  course of a very trifling consumption of rum-and-water, brought to see that his

  daughter had been the object of a wicked conspiracy, and was the rightful and

  most injured wife of a man who ought to declare her fair fame before the world

  and put her in possession of a portion of his great fortune.

  A great fortune? How great a fortune? Was it three hundred thousand, say? Those

  doctors, many of them, had fifteen thousand a year. Mr. Walls (who perhaps knew

  better) was not at liberty to say what the fortune was: but it was a shame that

  Mrs. Brandon was kept out of her rights, that was clear.

  Old Gann's excitement, when this matter was first broached to him (under vows of

  profound secrecy), was so intense, that his old reason tottered on its rickety

  old throne. He well nigh burst with longing to speak upon this mystery. Mr. and

  Mrs. Oves, the esteemed landlord and lady of the "Byng," never saw him so

  excited. He had a great opinion of the judgment of his friend, Mr. Ridley; in

  fact, he must have gone to Bedlam, unless he had talked to somebody on this most

  nefarious transaction, which might make the blood of every Briton curdle with

  horror��as he was free to say.

  Old Mr. Ridley was of a much cooler temperament, and altogether a more cautious

  person. The doctor rich? He wished to tell no secrets, nor to meddle in no

  gentleman's affairs: but he have heard very different statements regarding Dr.

  Firmin's affairs.

  When dark hints about treason, wicked desertion, rights denied, "and a great

  fortune which you are kept out of, my poor Caroline, by a rascally wolf in

  sheep's clothing, you are; and I always mistrusted him, from the moment I saw

  him, and said to your mother, 'Emily, that Brandon is a bad fellow, Brandon is;'

  and bitterly, bitterly I've rued ever receiving him under my roof:"��when

  speeches of this nature were made to Mrs. Caroline, strange to say, the little

  lady made light of them. "Oh, nonsense, Pa! Don't be bringing that sad old story

  up again. I have suffered enough from it already. If Mr. F. left me, he wasn't

  the only one who flung me away; and I have been able to live, thank mercy,

  through it all."

  This was a hard hit, and not to be parried. The truth is, that when poor

  Caroline, deserted by her husband, had come back, in wretchedness, to her

  father's door, the man, and the wife who then ruled him, had thought fit to

  thrust her away. And she had forgiven them: and had been enabled to heap a rare

  quantity of coals on that old gentleman's head.

  When the captain remarked his daughter's indifference and unwillingness to

  reopen this painful question of her sham marriage with Firmin, his wrath was

  moved and his suspicion excited. "Ha!" says he, "have this man been a tampering

  with you again?"

  "Nonsense, Pa!" once more says Caroline. "I tell you, it is this fine-talking

  lawyer's clerk has been tampering with you. You're made a tool of, Pa! and

  you've been made a tool of all your life!"

  "Well, now, upon my honour, my honour, my good madam!" interposes Mr. Walls.

  "Don't talk to me, sir! I don't want any lawyers' clerks to meddle in my

  business!" cries Mrs. Brandon, very briskly. "I don't know what you're come

  about. I don't want to know, and I'm most certain it is for no good."

  I suppose it was the ill success of his ambassador that brought Mr. Bond himself

  to Thornhaugh Street; and a more kind, fatherly little man never looked than Mr.

  Bond, although he may have had one eye smaller than the other. "What is this, my

  dear madam, I hear from my confidential clerk, Mr. Walls?" he asked of the

  Little Sister. "You refuse to give him your confidence because he is only a

  clerk? I wonder whether you will accord it to me, as a principal?"

  "She may, sir, she may��every confidence!" says the captain, laying his hand on

  that snuffy satin waistcoat which all his friends so long admired on him. "She

  might have spoken to Mr. Walls."

  "Mr. Walls is not a family man. I am. I have children at home, Mrs. Brandon, as

  old as you are," says the benevolent Bond. "I would have justice done them, and

  for you too."

  "You're very good to take so much trouble about me all of a sudden, to be sure,"

  says Mrs. Brandon demurely. "I suppose you don't do it for nothing."

  "I should not require much fee to help a good woman to her rights; and a lady I

  don't think needs much persuasion to be helped to her advantage," remarks Mr.

  Bond.

  "That depends who the helper is."

  "Well, if I can do you no harm, and help you possibly to a name, to a fortune,

  to a high place in the world, I don't think you need be frightened. I don't look

  very wicked or very artful, do I?"

  "Many is that don't look so. I've learned as much as that about you gentlemen,"

  remarks Mrs. Brandon.

  "You have been wronged by one man, and doubt all."

  "Not all. Some, sir!"

  "Doubt about me if I can by any possibility injure you. But how and why should

  I? Your good father knows what has brought me here. I have no secret from him.

  Have I, Mr. Gann, or Captain Gann, as I have heard you addressed?"

  "Mr., sir,��plain Mr.��No, sir; your conduct have been most open, honourable,

  and like a gentleman. Neither would you, sir, do aught to disparage Mrs.

  Brandon; neither would I, her father. No ways, I think, would a parent do harm

  to his own child. May I offer you any refreshment, sir?" and a shaky, a dingy,

  but a hospitable hand, is laid upon the glossy cupboard, in which Mrs. Brandon

  keeps her modest little store of strong waters.

  "Not one drop, thank you! You trust me, I think, more than Mrs. Firm��I beg your

  pardon��Mrs. Brandon, is disposed to do."

  At the utterance of that monosyllable Firm, Caroline became so white, and

  trembled so, that her interlocutor stopped, rather alarmed at the effect of his

  word��his word!��his syllable of a word.

  The old lawyer recovered himself with much grace.

  "Pardon me, madam," he said; "I know your wrongs
; I know your most melancholy

  history; I know your name, and was going to use it, but it seemed to renew

  painful recollections to you, which I would not needlessly recal."

  Captain Gann took out a snuffy pocket-handkerchief, wiped two red eyes and a

  shirt-front, and winked at the attorney, and gasped in a pathetic manner.

  "You know my story and name, sir, who are a stranger to me. Have you told this

  old gentleman all about me and my affairs, Pa?" asks Caroline, with some

  asperity. "Have you told him that my Ma never gave me a word of kindness��that I

  toiled for you and her like a servant��and when I came back to you, after being

  deceived and deserted, that you and Ma shut the door in my face? You did! you

  did! I forgive you; but a hundred thousand billion years can't mend that injury,

  father, while you broke a poor child's heart with it that day! My Pa has told

  you all this, Mr. What's-your-name? I'm s'prized he didn't find something

  pleasanter to talk about, I'm sure!"

  "My love!" interposed the captain.

  "Pretty love! to go and tell a stranger in a public-house, and ever so many

  there beside, I suppose, your daughter's misfortunes, Pa. Pretty love! That's

  what I've had from you!"

  "Not a soul, on the honour of a gentleman, except me and Mr. Walls."

  "Then what do you come to talk about me at all for? and what scheme on hearth

  are you driving at? and what brings this old man here?" cries the landlady of

  Thornhaugh Street, stamping her foot.

  "Shall I tell you frankly, my good lady? I called you Mrs. Firmin now because,

  on my honour and word, I believe such to be your rightful name��because you are

  the lawful wife of George Brand Firmin. If such be your lawful name, others bear

  it who have no right to bear it��and inherit property to which they can lay no

  just claim. In the year 1827, you, Caroline Gann, a child of sixteen, were

  married by a clergyman whom you know, to George Brand Firmin, calling himself

  George Brandon. He was guilty of deceiving you; but you were guilty of no

  deceit. He was a hardened and wily man; but you were an innocent child out of a

  school-room. And though he thought the marriage was not binding upon him,

  binding it is by Act of Parliament and judges' decision; and you are as

  assuredly George Firmin's wife, madam, as Mrs. Bond is mine!"

  "You have been cruelly injured, Caroline," says the captain, wagging his old

  nose ever his handkerchief.

  Caroline seemed to be very well versed in the law of the transaction. "You mean,

  sir," she said slowly, "that if me and Mr. Brandon was married to each other, he

  knwoing that he was only playing at marriage, and me believing that it was all

  for good, we are really married."

  "Undoubtedly you are, madam��my client has�� that is, I have had advice on the

  point."

  "But if we both knew that it was��was only a sort of a marriage��an irregular

  marriage, you know?"

  "Then the Act says that to all intents and purposes the marriage is null and

  void."

  "But you didn't know, my poor innocent child!" cries Mr. Gann. "How should you?

  How old was you? She was a child in the nursery, Mr. Bond, when the villain

  inveigled her away from her poor old father. She knew nothing of irregular

  marriages."

  "Of course she didn't the poor creature," cries the old gentleman, rubbing his

  hands together with perfect good-humour. "Poor young thing, poor young thing!"

  As he was speaking, Caroline, very pale and still, sate looking at Ridley's

  sketch of Philip, which hung in her little room. Presently she turned round on

  the attorney, folding her little hands over her work.

  "Mr. Bond," she said, "girls, though they may be ever so young, know more than

  some folks fancy. I was more than sixteen when that��that business happened. I

  wasn't happy at home, and was eager to get away. I knew that a gentleman of rank

  wouldn't be likely really to marry a poor Cinderella out of a lodging-house,

  like me. If the truth must be told, I��I knew it was no marriage��never thought