The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

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!
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  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,