wristbands, and you carry your lantern dark. It is not right to 'put your oar
in,' as you say in your jargon (and even your slang is a sort of cowardice, sir,
for you are afraid to speak the feelings of your heart:��) it is not right to
meddle and speak the truth, not right to rescue a poor soul who is drowning��of
course not. What call have you fine gentlemen of the world to put your oar in?
Let him perish! What did he in that galley? That is the language of the world,
baby darling. And, my poor, poor child, when you are sinking, nobody is to
stretch out a hand to save you!" As for that wife of mine, when she sets forth
the maternal plea, and appeals to the exuberant school of philosophers, I know
there is no reasoning with her. I retire to my books, and leave her to kiss out
the rest of the argument over the children.
Philip did not know the extent of the obligation which he owed to his little
friend and guardian, Caroline; but he was aware that he had no better friend
than herself in the world; and, I daresay, returned to her, as the wont is in
such bargains between man and woman��woman and man, at least��a sixpence for
that pure gold treasure, her sovereign affection. I suppose Caroline thought her
sacrifice gave her a little authority to counsel Philip; for she it was who, I
believe, first bid him to inquire whether that engagement which he had virtually
contracted with his cousin was likely to lead to good, and was to be binding
upon him but not on her? She brought Ridley to add his doubts to her
remonstrances. She showed Philip that not only his uncle's conduct, but his
cousin's, was interested, and set him to inquire into it further.
That peculiar form of bronchitis under which poor dear Agnes was suffering was
relieved by absence from London. The smoke, the crowded parties and assemblies,
the late hours, and, perhaps, the gloom of the house in Beaunash Street,
distressed the poor dear child; and her cough was very much soothed by that
fine, cutting east wind, which blows so liberally along the Brighton cliffs, and
which is so good for coughs, as we all know. But there was one fault in Brighton
which could not be helped in her bad case; it is too near London. The air, that
chartered libertine, can blow down from London quite easily; or people can come
from London to Brighton, bringing, I dare say, the insidious London fog along
with them. At any rate, Agnes, if she wished for quiet, poor thing, might have
gone farther and fared better. Why, if you owe a tailor a bill, he can run down
and present it in a few hours. Vulgar, inconvenient acquaintances thrust
themselves upon you at every moment and corner. Was ever such a tohubohu of
people as there assembles? You can't be tranquil, if you will. Organs pipe and
scream without cease at your windows. Your name is put down in the papers when
you arrive; and everybody meets everybody ever so many times a day.
On finding that his uncle had set lawyers to work, with the charitable purpose
of ascertaining whether Philip's property was legitimately his own, Philip was a
good deal disturbed in mind. He could not appreciate that high sense of moral
obligation by which Mr. Twysden was actuated. At least, he thought that these
inquiries should not have been secretly set a-foot; and as he himself was
perfectly open��a great deal too open, perhaps��in his words and his actions, he
was hard with those who attempted to hoodwink or deceive him.
It could not be; ah! no, it never could be, that Agnes the pure and gentle was
privy to this conspiracy. But then, how very��very often of late she had been
from home; how very, very cold aunt Twysden's shoulder had somehow become. Once,
when he reached the door, a fishmonger's boy was leaving a fine salmon at the
kitchen,��a salmon and a tub of ice. Once, twice, at five o'clock, when he
called, a smell of cooking pervaded the hall,��that hall which culinary odours
very seldom visited. Some of those noble Twysden dinners were on the tapis, and
Philip was not asked. Not to be asked. was no great deprivation; but who were
the guests? To be sure, these were trifles light as air; but Philip smelt
mischief in the steam of those Twysden dinners. He chewed that salmon with a
bitter sauce as he saw it sink down the area steps and disappear (with its
attendant lobster) in the dark kitchen regions.
Yes; eyes were somehow averted that used to look into his very frankly; a glove
somehow had grown over a little hand which once used to lie very comfortably in
his broad palm. Was anybody else going to seize it, and was it going to paddle
in that blackamoor's unblest fingers? Ah! fiends and tortures! a gentleman may
cease to love, but does he like a woman to cease to love him? People carry on
ever so long for fear of that declaration that all is over. No confession is
more dismal to make. The sun of love has set. We sit in the dark��I mena you,
dear madam, and Corydon, or I and Amaryllis��uncomfortabley, with nothing more
to say to one another; with the night dew falling, and a risk of catching cold,
drearily contemplating the fading west, with "the cold remains of lustre gone,
of fire long past away." Sink, fire of love! Rise, gentle moon, and mists of
chilly evening. And, my good Madam Amaryllis, let us go home to some tea and a
fire.
So Philip determined to go and seek his cousin. Arrived at his hotel (and if it
were the�� I can't conceive Philip in much better quarters), he had the
opportunity of inspecting those delightful newspaper arrivals, a perusal of
which has so often edified us at Brighton. Mr. and Mrs. Penfold, he was
informed, continued their residence, No. 96, Horizontal Place; and it was with
those guardians he knew his Agnes was staying. He speeds to Horizontal Place.
Miss Twysden is out. He heaves a sigh, and leaves a card. Has it ever happened
to you to leave a card at that house��that house which was once THE
house��almost your own; where you were ever welcome; where the kindest hand was
ready to grasp yours, the brightest eye to greet you? And now your friendship
has dwindled away to a little bit of pasteboard, shed once a year, and poor dear
Mrs. Jones (it is with J. you have quarrelled) still calls on the ladies of your
family and slips her husband's ticket upon the hall table. O life and time, that
it should have come to this! O gracious powers! Do you recal the time when
Arabella Briggs was Arabella Thompson? You call and talk fadaises to her (at
first she is rather nervous, and has the children in); you talk rain and fine
weather; the last novel; the next party. Thompson in the City? Yes, Mr. Thompson
is in the City. He's pretty well, thank you. Ah! Daggers, ropes, and poisons,
has it come to this? You are talking about the weather, and another man's
health, and another man's children, of which she is mother, to her? Time was the
weather, was all a burning sunshine, in which you and she basked; or if clouds
gathered, and a storm fell, such a glorious rainbow haloed round you, such
delicious tears fell and refreshed you, that the storm was more ravishing than
the calm. And now another man's children are sitting on her
knee��their mother's
knee; and once a year Mr. and Mrs. John Thompson request the honour of Mr.
Brown's company at dinner; and once a year you read in The Times, "In Nursery
Street, the wife of J. Thompson, Esq., of a Son." To come to the once-beloved
one's door, and find the knocker tied up with a white kid glove, is
humiliating��say what you will, it is humiliating.
Philip leaves his card, and walks on to the Cliff, and of course, in three
minutes, meets Clinker. Indeed, who ever went to Brighton for half an hour
without meeting Clinker?
"Father pretty well? His old patient, Lady Geminy, is down here with the
children; what a number of them there are, to be sure! Come to make any stay?
See your cousin, Miss Twysden, is here with the Penfolds. Little party at the
Grigsons' last night; she looked uncommonly well; danced ever so many times with
the Black Prince, Woolcomb of the Greens. Suppose I may congratulate you. Six
thousand five hundred a year now, and thirteen thousand when his grandmother
dies; but those negresses live for ever. I suppose the thing is settled. I saw
them on the pier just now, and Mrs. Penfold was reading a book in the arbour.
Book of sermons it was��pious woman, Mrs. Penfold. I dare say they are on the
pier still." Striding with hurried steps Philip Firmin makes for the pier. The
breathless Clinker cannot keep alongside of his face. I should like to have seen
it when Clinker said that "the thing" was settled between Miss Twysden and the
cavalry gentleman.
There were a few nursery governesses, maids, and children, paddling about at the
end of the pier; and there was a fat woman reading a book in one of the
arbours��but no Agnes, no Woolcomb. Where can they be? Can they be weighing each
other? or buying those mad pebbles, which people are known to purchase? or
having their silhouettes done in black? Ha! ha! Woolcomb would hardly have his
face done in black. The idea would provoke odious comparisons. I see Philip is
in a dreadfully bad sarcastic humour.
Up there comes from one of those trap-doors which lead down from the pier-head
to the green sea-waves ever restlessly jumping below��up there comes a little
Skye-terrier dog with a red collar, who, as soon as she sees Philip, sings,
squeaks, whines, runs, jumps, flumps up on him, if I may use the expression,
kisses his hands, and with eyes, tongue, paws, and tail shows him a thousand
marks of welcome and affection. What, Brownie, Brownie! Philip is glad to see
the dog, an old friend who has many a time licked his hand and bounced upon his
knee.
The greeting over, Brownie, wagging her tail with prodigious activity, trots
before Philip��trots down an opening, down the steps under which the waves
shimmer greenly, and into quite a quiet remote corner just over the water,
whence you may command a most beautiful view of the sea, the shore, the Marine
Parade, and the Albion Hotel, and where, were I five-and-twenty say, with
nothing else to do, I would gladly pass a quarter of an hour talking about
Glaucus or the Wonders of the Deep with the object of my affections.
Here, amongst the labyrinth of piles, Brownie goes flouncing along till she
comes to a young couple who are looking at the view just described. In order to
view it better, the young man has laid his hand, a pretty little hand most
delicately gloved, on the lady's hand; and Brownie comes up and nuzzles against
her, and whines and talks, as much as to say, "Here's somebody," and the lady
says, "Down, Brownie, miss."
"It's no good, Agnes, that dog," says the gentleman (he has very curly, not to
say woolly hair, under his natty little hat). "I'll give you a pug with a nose
you can hang your hat on. I do know of one now. My man Rummins knows of one. Do
you like pugs?"
"I adore them," says the lady.
"I'll give you one, if I have to pay fifty pounds for it. And they fetch a good
figure, the real pugs do, I can tell you. Once in London there was an exhibition
of 'em, and��"
"Brownie, Brownie, down!" cries Agnes. The dog was jumping at a gentleman, a
tall gentleman with red mustachios and beard, who advances through the chequered
shade, under the ponderous beams, over the translucent sea.
"Pray don't mind, Brownie won't hurt me," says a perfectly well-known voice, the
sound of which sends all the colours shuddering out of Miss Agnes' pink cheeks.
"You see I gave my cousin this dog, Captain Woolcomb," says the gentleman; "and
the little slut remembers me. Perhaps Miss Twysden likes the pug better."
"Sir!"
"If it has a nose you can hang your hat on, it must be a very pretty dog, and I
suppose you intend to hang your hat on it a good deal."
"Oh, Philip!" says the lady; but an attack of that dreadful coughing stops
further utterance.
CHAPTER XIV. CONTAINS TWO OF PHILIP'S MISHAPS.
You know that, in some parts of India, infanticide is the common custom. It is
part of the religion of the land, as, in other districts, widow-burning used to
be. I can't imagine that ladies like to destroy either themselves or their
children, though they submit with bravery, and even cheerfulness, to the decrees
of that religion which orders them to make away with their own or their young
ones' lives. Now, suppose you and I, as Europeans, happened to drive up where a
young creature was just about to roast herself, under the advice of her family
and the highest dignitaries of her church; what could we do? Rescue her? No such
thing. We know better than to interfere with her, and the laws and usages of her
country. We turn away with a sigh from the mournful scene; we pull out our
pocket-handkerchiefs, tell coachman to drive on, and leave her to her sad fate.
Now about poor Agnes Twysden: how, in the name of goodness, can we help her? You
see she is a well brought up and religious young woman of the Brahminical sect.
If she is to be sacrificed, that old Brahmin her father, that good and devout
mother, that most special Brahmin her brother, and that admirable girl her
strait-laced sister, all insist upon her undergoing the ceremony, and deck her
with flowers ere they lead her to that dismal altar flame. Suppose, I say, she
has made up her mind to throw over poor Philip, and take on with some one else?
What sentiment ought our virtuous bosoms to entertain towards her? Anger? I have
just been holding a conversation with a young fellow in rags and without shoes,
whose bed is commonly a dry arch, who has been repeatedly in prison, whose
father and mother were thieves, and whose grandfathers were thieves;��are we to
be angry with him for following the paternal profession? With one eye brimming
with pity, the other steadily keeping watch over the family spoons, I listen to
his artless tale. I have no anger against that child; nor towards thee, Agnes,
daughter of Talbot the Brahmin.
For though duty is duty, when it comes to the pinch, it is often hard to do.
Though dear papa and mamma say that here is a gentleman with ever so many
thousands a year, an undoubted part in So-and-So-shire, and whole islands in the <
br />
western main, who is wildly in love with your fair skin and blue eyes, and is
ready to fling all his treasures at your feet; yet, after all, when you consider
that he is very ignorant though very cunning; very stingy though very rich; very
ill-tempered, probably, if faces and eyes and mouths can tell truth: and as for
Philip Firmin��though actually his legitimacy is dubious, as we have lately
heard, in which case his maternal fortune is ours��and as for his paternal
inheritance, we don't know whether the doctor is worth thirty thousand pounds or
a shilling;��yet, after all��as for Philip��he is a man; he is a gentleman; he
has brains in his head, and a great honest heart of which he has offered to give
the best feelings to his cousin;��I say, when a poor girl has to be off with
that old love, that honest and fair love, and be on with the new one, the dark
one, I feel for her; and though the Brahmins are, as we know, the most genteel
sect in Hindostan, I rather wish the poor child could have belonged to some
lower and less rigid sect. Poor Agnes! to think that he has sat for hours, with
mamma and Blanche or the governess, of course, in the room (for, you know, when
she and Philip were quite wee wee things dear mamma had little amiable plans in
view); has sat for hours by Miss Twysden's side pouring out his heart to her;
has had, mayhap, little precious moments of confidential talk�� little hasty
whispers in corridors, on stairs, behind window curtains, and��and so forth in
fact. She must remember all this past; and can't, without some pang, listen on
the same sofa, behind the same window-curtains, to her dark suitor pouring out
his artless tales of barracks, boxing, horseflesh, and the tender passion. He is
dull, he is mean, he is ill-tempered, he is ignorant, and the other was ...; but
she will do her duty: oh, yes! she will do her duty! Poor Agnes! C'est � fendre
le coeur. I declare I quite feel for her.
When Philip's temper was roused, I have been compelled, as his biographer, to
own how very rude and disagreeable he could be; and you must acknowledge that a
young man has some reason to be displeased, when he finds the girl of his heart
hand in hand with another young gentleman in an occult and shady recess of the
woodwork of Brighton Pier. The green waves are softly murmuring: so is the
officer of the Life Guards Green. The waves are kissing the beach. Ah, agonizing
thought! I will not pursue the simile, which may be but a jealous man's mad
fantasy. Of this I am sure, no pebble on that beach is cooler than polished
Agnes. But, then, Philip drunk with jealousy is not a reasonable being like
Philip sober. "He had a dreadful temper," Philip's dear aunt said of him
afterwards,�� "I trembled for my dear, gentle child, united for ever to a man of
that violence. Never, in my secret mind, could I think that their union could be
a happy one. Besides, you know, the nearness of their relationship. My scruples
on that score, dear Mrs. Candour, never, never could be quite got over." And
these scruples came to weigh whole tons, when Mangrove Hall, the house in
Berkeley Square, and Mr. Woolcomb's West India island were put into the scale
along with them.
Of course there was no good in remaining amongst those damp, reeking timbers,
now that the pretty little t�te-�-t�te was over. Little Brownie hung fondling
and whining round Philip's ankles, as the party ascended to the upper air. "My
child, how pale you look!" cries Mrs. Penfold, putting down her volume. Out of
the captain's opal eyeballs shot lurid flames, and hot blood burned behind his
yellow cheeks. In a quarrel, Mr. Philip Firmin could be particularly cool and
self-possessed. When Miss Agnes rather piteously introduced him to Mrs. Penfold,
he made a bow as polite and gracious as any performed by his royal father. "My
little dog knew me," he said, caressing the animal. "She is a faithful little
The Adventures of Philip Page 21
