The Wolves and the Lamb

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  LADY K.—Upon my word, this insolence is too much.

  JOHN.—I beg your ladyship's pardon. I am sure I have said nothing.

  K.—Said, sir! your manner is mutinous, by Jove, sir! if I had you in the regiment!—

  JOHN.—I understood that you had left the regiment, sir, just before it went on the campaign, sir.

  K.—Confound you, sir! [Starts up.]

  LADY K.—Clarence, my child, my child!

  JOHN.—Your ladyship needn't be alarmed; I'm a little man, my lady, but I don't think Mr. Clarence was a-goin' for to hit me, my lady; not before a lady, I'm sure. I suppose, sir, that you WON'T pay the boatman?

  K.—No, sir, I won't pay him, nor any man who uses this sort of damned impertinence!

  JOHN.—I told Rullocks, sir, I thought it was JEST possible you wouldn't. [Exit.]

  K.—That's a nice man, that is—an impudent villain!

  LADY K.—Ruined by Horace's weakness. He ruins everybody, poor good-natured Horace!

  K.—Why don't you get rid of the blackguard?

  LADY K.—There is a time for all things, my dear. This man is very convenient to Horace. Mr. Milliken is exceedingly lazy, and Howell spares him a great deal of trouble. Some day or other I shall take all this domestic trouble off his hands. But not yet: your poor brother-in-law is restive, like many weak men. He is subjected to other influences: his odious mother thwarts me a great deal.

  K.—Why, you used to be the dearest friends in the world. I recollect when I was at Eton—

  LADY K.—Were; but friendship don't last for ever. Mrs. Bonnington and I have had serious differences since I came to live here: she has a natural jealousy, perhaps, at my superintending her son's affairs. When she ceases to visit at the house, as she very possibly will, things will go more easily; and Mr. Howell will go too, you may depend upon it. I am always sorry when my temper breaks out, as it will sometimes.

  K.—Won't it, that's all!

  LADY K.—At his insolence, my temper is high; so is yours, my dear. Calm it for the present, especially as regards Howell.

  K.—Gad! d'you know I was very nearly pitching into him? But once, one night in the Haymarket, at a lobster-shop, where I was with some fellows, we chaffed some other fellows, and there was one fellah—quite a little fellah—and I pitched into him, and he gave me the most confounded lickin' I ever had in my life, since my brother Kicklebury licked me when we were at Eton; and that, you see, was a lesson to me, ma'am. Never trust those little fellows, never chaff 'em: dammy, they may be boxers.

  LADY K.—You quarrelsome boy! I remember you coming home with your naughty head SO bruised. [Looks at watch.] I must go now to take my drive. [Exit LADY K.]

  K.—I owe a doose of a tick at that billiard-room; I shall have that boatman dunnin' me. Why hasn't Milliken got any horses to ride? Hang him! suppose he can't ride—suppose he's a tailor. He ain't MY tailor, though, though I owe him a doosid deal of money. There goes mamma with that darling nephew and niece of mine. [Enter BULKELEY]. Why haven't you gone with my lady, you, sir? [to Bulkeley.]

  BULKELEY.—My lady have a-took the pony-carriage, sir; Mrs. Bonnington have a-took the hopen carriage and 'orses, sir, this mornin', which the Bishop of London is 'olding a confirmation at Teddington, sir, and Mr. Bonnington is attending the serimony. And I have told Mr. 'Owell, sir, that my lady would prefer the hopen carriage, sir, which I like the hexercise myself, sir, and that the pony-carriage was good enough for Mrs. Bonnington, sir; and Mr. 'Owell was very hinsolent to me, sir; and I don't think I can stay in the 'ouse with him.

  K.—Hold your jaw, sir.

  BULKELEY.—Yes, sir. [Exit BULKELEY.]

  K.—I wonder who that governess is?—sang rather prettily last night—wish she'd come and sing now—wish she'd come and amuse me—I've seen her face before—where have I seen her face?—it ain't at all a bad one. What shall I do? dammy, I'll read a book: I've not read a book this ever so long. What's here? [looks amongst books, selects one, sinks down in easy-chair so as quite to be lost.]

  Enter Miss PRIOR.

  MISS PRIOR.—There's peace in the house! those noisy children are away with their grandmamma. The weather is beautiful, and I hope they will take a long drive. Now I can have a quiet half-hour, and finish that dear pretty "Ruth"—oh, how it makes me cry, that pretty story. [Lays down her bonnet on table—goes to glass—takes off cap and spectacles—arranges her hair—Clarence has got on chair looking at her.]

  K.—By Jove! I know who it is now! Remember her as well as possible. Four years ago, when little Foxbury used to dance in the ballet over the water. DON'T I remember her! She boxed my ears behind the scenes, by jingo. [Coming forward]. Miss Pemberton! Star of the ballet! Light of the harem! Don't you remember the grand Oriental ballet of the "Bulbul and the Peri?"

  MISS P.—Oh! [screams.] No, n—no, sir. You are mistaken: my name is Prior. I—never was at the "Coburg Theatre." I—

  K. [seizing her hand].—No, you don't, though! What! don't you remember well that little hand slapping this face? which nature hadn't then adorned with whiskers, by gad! You pretend you have forgotten little Foxbury, whom Charley Calverley used to come after, and who used to drive to the "Coburg" every night in her brougham. How did you know it was the "Coburg?" That IS a good one! HAD you there, I think.

  MISS P.—Sir, in the name of heaven, pity me! I have to keep my mother and my sisters and my brothers. When—when you saw me, we were in great poverty; and almost all the wretched earnings I made at that time were given to my poor father then lying in the Queen's Bench hard by. You know there was nothing against my character—you know there was not. Ask Captain Touchit whether I was not a good girl. It was he who brought me to this house.

  K.—Touchit! the old villain!

  MISS P.—I had your sister's confidence. I tended her abroad on her death-bed. I have brought up your nephew and niece. Ask any one if I have not been honest? As a man, as a gentleman, I entreat you to keep my secret! I implore you for the sake of my poor mother and her children! [kneeling.]

  K.—By Jove! how handsome you are! How crying becomes your eyes! Get up; get up. Of course I'll keep your secret, but—

  MISS P.—Ah! ah! [She screams as he tries to embrace her. HOWELL rushes in.]

  HOWELL.—Hands off, you little villain! Stir a step and I'll kill you, if you were a regiment of captains! What! insult this lady who kept watch at your sister's death-bed and has took charge of her children! Don't be frightened, Miss Prior. Julia—dear, dear Julia—I'm by you. If the scoundrel touches you, I'll kill him. I—I love you—there—it's here—love you madly—with all my 'art—my a-heart!

  MISS P.—Howell—for heaven's sake, Howell!

  K.—Pooh—ooh! [bursting with laughter]. Here's a novel, by jingo! Here's John in love with the governess. Fond of plush, Miss Pemberton—ey? Gad, it's the best thing I ever knew. Saved a good bit, ey, Jeames? Take a public-house? By Jove! I'll buy my beer there.

  JOHN.—Owe for it, you mean. I don't think your tradesmen profit much by your custom, ex-Cornet Kicklebury.

  K.—By Jove! I'll do for you, you villain!

  JOHN.—No, not that way, Captain. [Struggles with and throws him.]

  K. [screams.]—Hallo, Bulkeley! [Bulkeley is seen strolling in the garden.]

  Enter BULKELEY.

  BULKELEY.—What is it, sir?

  K.—Take this confounded villain off me, and pitch him into the Thames—do you hear?

  JOHN.—Come here, and I'll break every bone in your hulking body. [To BULKELEY.]

  BULKELEY.—Come, come! whathever his hall this year row about?

  MISS P.—For heaven's sake don't strike that poor man.

  BULKELEY.—YOU be quiet. What's he a-hittin' about my master for?

  JOHN.—Take off your hat, sir, when you speak to a lady. [Takes up a poker.] And now come on, both of you, cowards! [Rushes at BULKELEY and knocks his hat off his head.]

  BULKELEY [stepping back].—If you'll put down that there poker, you
know, then I'll pitch into you fast enough. But that there poker ain't fair, you know.

  K.—You villain! of course you will leave this house. And, Miss Prior, I think you understand that you will go too. I don't think my niece wants to learn DANCIN', you understand. Good-by. Here, Bulkeley! [Gets behind footman and exit.]

  MISS P.—Do you know the meaning of that threat, Mr. Howell?

  JOHN.—Yes, Miss Prior.

  MISS P.—I was a dancer once, for three months, four years ago, when my poor father was in prison.

  JOHN.—Yes, Miss Prior, I knew it. And I saw you a many times.

  MISS P.—And you kept my secret?

  JOHN.—Yes, Ju—Jul—Miss Prior.

  MISS P.—Thank you, and God bless you, John Howell. There, there. You mustn't! indeed you mustn't!

  JOHN.—You don't remember the printer's boy who used to come to Mr. O'Reilly, and sit in your 'all in Bury Street, Miss Prior? I was that boy. I was a country-bred boy—that is if you call Putney country, and Wimbledon Common and that. I served the Milliken family seven year. I went with Master Horace to college, and then I revolted against service, and I thought I'd be a man and turn printer like Doctor Frankling. And I got in an office: and I went with proofs to Mr. O'Reilly, and I saw you. And though I might have been in love with somebody else before I did—yet it was all hup when I saw you.

  MISS P. [kindly.]—YOU must not talk to me in that way, John Howell.

  JOHN.—Let's tell the tale out. I couldn't stand the newspaper night-work. I had a mother and brothers and sisters to keep, as you had. I went back to Horace Milliken and said, Sir, I've lost my work. I and mine want bread. Will you take me back again? And he did. He's a kind, kind soul is my master.

  MISS P.—He IS a kind, kind soul.

  JOHN.—He's good to all the poor. His hand's in his pocket for everybody. Everybody takes advantage of him. His mother-in-lor rides over him. So does his Ma. So do I, I may say; but that's over now; and you and I have had our notice to quit. Miss, I should say.

  MISS P.—Yes.

  JOHN.—I have saved a bit of money—not much—a hundred pound. Miss Prior—Julia—here I am—look—I'm a poor feller—a poor servant—but I've the heart of a man—and—I love you—oh! I love you!

  MARY.—Oh ho—ho! [Mary has entered from garden, and bursts out crying.]

  MISS P.—It can't be, John Howell—my dear, brave, kind John Howell. It can't be. I have watched this for some time past, and poor Mary's despair here. [Kisses Mary, who cries plentifully.] You have the heart of a true, brave man, and must show it and prove it now. I am not—am not of your pardon me for saying so—of your class in life. I was bred by my uncle, away from my poor parents, though I came back to them after his sudden death; and to poverty, and to this dependent life I am now leading. I am a servant, like you, John, but in another sphere—have to seek another place now; and heaven knows if I shall procure one, now that that unlucky passage in my life is known. Oh, the coward to recall it! the coward!

  MARY.—But John whopped him, Miss! that he did. He gave it him well, John did. [Crying.]

  MISS P.—You can't—you ought not to forego an attachment like that, John Howell. A more honest and true-hearted creature never breathed than Mary Barlow.

  JOHN.—No, indeed.

  MISS P.—She has loved you since she was a little child. And you loved her once, and do now, John.

  MARY.—Oh, Miss! you hare a hangel,—I hallways said you were a hangel.

  MISS P.—You are better than I am, my dear much, much better than I am, John. The curse of my poverty has been that I have had to flatter and to dissemble, and hide the faults of those I wanted to help, and to smile when I was hurt, and laugh when I was sad, and to coax, and to tack, and to bide my time,—not with Mr. Milliken: he is all honor, and kindness, and simplicity. Who did HE ever injure, or what unkind word did HE ever say? But do you think, with the jealousy of those poor ladies over his house, I could have stayed here without being a hypocrite to both of them? Go, John. My good, dear friend, John Howell, marry Mary. You'll be happier with her than with me. There! There! [They embrace.]

  MARY.—O—o—o! I think I'll go and hiron hout Miss Harabella's frocks now. [Exit MARY.]

  Enter MILLIKEN with CLARENCE—who is explaining things to him.

  CLARENCE.—Here they are, I give you my word of honor. Ask 'em, damn em.

  MILLIKEN.—What is this I hear? You, John Howell, have dared to strike a gentleman under my roof! Your master's brother-in-law?

  JOHN.—Yes, by Jove! and I'd do it again.

  MILLIKEN.—Are you drunk or mad, Howell?

  JOHN.—I'm as sober and as sensible as ever I was in my life, sir—I not only struck the master, but I struck the man, who's twice as big, only not quite as big a coward, I think.

  MILLIKEN.—Hold your scurrilous tongues sir! My good nature ruins everybody about me. Make up your accounts. Pack your trunks—and never let me see your face again.

  JOHN.—Very good, sir.

  MILLIKEN.—I suppose, Miss Prior, you will also be disposed to—to follow Mr. Howell?

  MISS P.—To quit you, now you know what has passed? I never supposed it could be otherwise—I deceived you, Mr. Milliken—as I kept a secret from you, and must pay the penalty. It is a relief to me, the sword has been hanging over me. I wish I had told your poor wife, as I was often minded to do.

  MILLIKEN.—Oh, you were minded to do it in Italy, were you?

  MISS P.—Captain Touchit knew it, sir, all along: and that my motives and, thank God, my life were honorable.

  MILLIKEN.—Oh, Touchit knew it, did he? and thought it honorable—honorable. Ha! ha! to marry a footman—and keep a public-house? I—I beg your pardon, John Howell—I mean nothing against you, you know. You're an honorable man enough, except that you have been damned insolent to my brother-in-law.

  JOHN.—Oh, heaven! [JOHN strikes his forehead, and walks away.]

  MISS P.—You mistake me, sir. What I wished to speak of was the fact which this gentleman has no doubt communicated to you—that I danced on the stage for three months.

  MILLIKEN.—Oh, yes. Oh, damme, yes. I forgot. I wasn't thinking of that.

  KICKLEBURY.—You see she owns it.

  MISS P.—We were in the depths of poverty. Our furniture and lodging-house under execution—from which Captain Touchit, when he came to know of our difficulties, nobly afterwards released us. My father was in prison, and wanted shillings for medicine, and I—I went and danced on the stage.

  MILLIKEN.—Well?

  MISS P.—And I kept the secret afterwards; knowing that I could never hope as governess to obtain a place after having been a stage-dancer.

  MILLIKEN.—Of course you couldn't,—it's out of the question; and may I ask, are you going to resume that delightful profession when you enter the married state with Mr. Howell?

  MISS P.—Poor John! it is not I who am going to—that is, it's Mary, the school-room maid.

  MILLIKEN.—Eternal blazes! Have you turned Mormon, John Howell, and are you going to marry the whole house?

  JOHN.—I made a hass of myself about Miss Prior. I couldn't help her being l—l—lovely.

  KICK.—Gad, he proposed to her in my presence.

  JOHN.—What I proposed to her, Cornet Clarence Kicklebury, was my heart and my honor, and my best, and my everything—and you—you wanted to take advantage of her secret, and you offered her indignities, and you laid a cowardly hand on her—a cowardly hand!—and I struck you, and I'd do it again.

  MILLIKEN.—What? Is this true? [Turning round very fiercely to K.]

  KICK.—Gad! Well—I only—

  MILLIKEN.—You only what? You only insulted a lady under my roof—the friend and nurse of your dead sister—the guardian of my children. You only took advantage of a defenceless girl, and would have extorted your infernal pay out of her fear. You miserable sneak and coward!

  KICK.—Hallo! Come, come! I say I won't stand this sort of chaff. Dammy, I'll send a friend to
you!

  MILLIKEN.—Go out of that window, sir. March! or I will tell my servant, John Howell, to kick you out, you wretched little scamp! Tell that big brute,—what's-his-name?—Lady Kicklebury's man, to pack this young man's portmanteau and bear's-grease pots; and if ever you enter these doors again, Clarence Kicklebury, by the heaven that made me!—by your sister who is dead!—I will cane your life out of your bones. Angel in heaven! Shade of my Arabella—to think that your brother in your house should be found to insult the guardian of your children!

  JOHN.—By jingo, you're a good-plucked one! I knew he was, Miss,—I told you he was. [Exit, shaking hands with his master, and with Miss P., and dancing for joy. Exit CLARENCE, scared, out of window.]

  JOHN [without].—Bulkeley! pack up the Capting's luggage!

  MILLIKEN.—How can I ask your pardon, Miss Prior? In my wife's name I ask it—in the name of that angel whose dying-bed you watched and soothed—of the innocent children whom you have faithfully tended since.

  MISS P.—Ah, sir! it is granted when you speak so to me.

  MILLIKEN.—Eh, eh—d—don't call me sir!

  MISS P.—It is for me to ask pardon for hiding what you know now: but if I had told you—you—you never would have taken me into your house—your wife never would.

  MILLIKEN.—No, no. [Weeping.]

  MISS P.—My dear, kind Captain Touchit knows it all. It was by his counsel I acted. He it was who relieved our distress. Ask him whether my conduct was not honorable—ask him whether my life was not devoted to my parents—ask him when—when I am gone.

  MILLIKEN.—When you are gone, Julia! Why are you going? Why should you go, my love—that is—why need you go, in the devil's name?

  MISS P.—Because, when your mother—when your mother-in-law come to hear that your children's governess has been a dancer on the stage, they will send me away, and you will not have the power to resist them. They ought to send me away, sir; but I have acted honestly by the children and their poor mother, and you'll think of me kindly when—I—am—gone?

  MILLIKEN.—Julia, my dearest—dear—noble—dar—the devil! here's old Kicklebury.