little failings, and one of Philip's was an ignorant impatience of bores,
parasites, and pretenders.
So no wonder my young gentleman was not very fond of his father's friend, the
dingy gaol chaplain. I, who am the most tolerant man in the world, as all my
friends know, liked Hunt little better than Phil did. The man's presence made me
uneasy. His dress, his complexion, his teeth, his leer at women��Que
sais-je?��everything was unpleasant about this Mr. Hunt, and his gaiety and
familiarity more specially disgusting than even his hostility. The wonder was
that battle had not taken place between Philip and the gaol clergyman, who, I
suppose, was accustomed to be disliked, and laughed with cynical good-humour at
the other's disgust.
Hunt was a visitor of many tavern parlours; and one day, strolling out of the
"Admiral Byng," he saw his friend Dr. Firmin's well-known equipage stopping at a
door in Thornhaugh Street, out of which the doctor presently came. "Brandon" was
on the door. Brandon, Brandon! Hunt remembered a dark transaction of more than
twenty years ago��of a woman deceived by this Firmin, who then chose to go by
the name of Brandon. He lives with her still, the old hypocrite, or he has gone
back to her, thought the parson. Oh, you old sinner! And the next time he called
in Old Parr Street on his dear old college friend, Mr. Hunt was specially
jocular, and frightfully unpleasant and familiar.
"Saw your trap Tottenham Court Road way," says the slang parson, nodding to the
physician.
"Have some patients there. People are ill in Tottenham Court Road," remarks the
doctor.
"Pallida mors �quo pede��hey, doctor? What used Flaccus to say, when we were
undergrads?"
"�quo pede," sighs the doctor, casting up his fine eyes to the ceiling.
"Sly old fox! Not a word will he say about her!" thinks the clergyman. "Yes,
yes, I remember. And, by Jove! Gann was the name."
Gann was also the name of that queer old man who frequented the "Admiral Byng,"
where the ale was so good��the old boy whom they called the Captain. Yes; it was
clear now. That ugly business was patched up. The astute Hunt saw it all. The
doctor still kept up a connection with the��the party. And that is her old
father, sure enough. "The old fox, the old fox! I've earthed him, have I? This
is a good game. I wanted a little something to do, and this will excite me,"
thinks the clergyman.
I am describing what I never could have seen or heard, and can guarantee only
verisimilitude, not truth, in my report of the private conversation of these
worthies. The end of scores and scores of Hunt's conversations with his friend
was the same��an application for money. If it rained when Hunt parted from his
college chum, it was, "I say, doctor, I shall spoil my new hat, and I am blest
if I have any money to take a cab. Thank you, old boy. Au revoir." If the day
was fine, it was, "My old blacks show the white seams so, that you must out of
your charity rig me out with a new pair. Not your tailor: he is too expensive.
Thank you��a couple of sovereigns will do." And the doctor takes two from the
mantelpiece, and the divine retires, jingling the gold in his greasy pocket.
The doctor is going after the few words about pallida mors, and has taken up
that well-brushed broad hat with that ever-fresh lining, which we all admire in
him�� "Oh, I say, Firmin!" breaks out the clergyman. "Before you go out, you
must lend me a few sovs, please. They've cleaned me out in Air Street. That
confounded roulette! It's a madness with me."
"By George!" cries the other, with a strong execration, "you are too bad, Hunt.
Every week of my life you come to me for money. You have had plenty. Go
elsewhere. I won't give it you."
"Yes, you will, old boy," says the other, looking at him a terrible look;
"for��"
"For what?" says the doctor, the veins of his tall forehead growing very full.
"For old times' sake," says the clergyman. "There's seven of 'em on the table in
bits of paper��that'll do nicely." And he sweeps the fees with a dirty hand into
a dirty pouch. "Halloa! Swearin' and cursin' before a clergyman. Don't cut up
rough, old fellow! Go and take the air. It'll cool you."
"I don't think I would like that fellow to attend me, if I was sick," says Hunt,
shuffling away, rolling the plunder in his greasy hand. "I don't think I'd like
to meet him by moonlight alone, in a very quiet lane. He's a determined chap.
And his eyes mean miching malecho, his eyes do. Phew!" And he laughs, and makes
a rude observation about Dr. Firmin's eyes.
That afternoon the gents who used the "Admiral Byng" remarked the reappearance
of the party who looked in last evening, and who now stood glasses round, and
made himself uncommon agreeable to be sure. Old Mr. Ridley says he is quite the
gentleman. "Hevident have been in foring parts a great deal, and speaks the
languages. Probbly have 'ad misfortunes, which many 'av 'ad them. Drinks
rum-and-water tremenjous. 'Ave scarce no heppytite. Many get into this way from
misfortunes. A plesn man, most well informed on almost every subjeck. Think he's
a clergyman. He and Mr. Gann have made quite a friendship together, he and Mr.
Gann 'ave. Which they talked of Watloo, and Gann is very fond of that, Gann is,
most certny." I imagine Ridley delivering these sentences, and alternate little
volleys of smoke, as he sits behind his sober calumet and prattles in the tavern
parlour.
After Dr. Firmin has careered through the town, standing by sick-beds with his
sweet sad smile; fondled and blessed by tender mothers who hail him as the
saviour of their children; touching ladies' pulses with a hand as delicate as
their own; patting little fresh cheeks with courtly kindness��little cheeks that
owe their roses to his marvellous skill; after he has soothed and comforted my
lady, shaken hands with my lord, looked in at the club, and exchanged courtly
salutations with brother bigwigs, and driven away in the handsome carriage with
the noble horses��admired, respecting, respectful, saluted, saluting��so that
every man says, "Excellent man, Firmin. Excellent doctor, excellent man. Safe
man. Sound man. Man of good family. Married a rich wife. Lucky man." And so
on��After the day's triumphant career, I fancy I see the doctor driving
homeward, with those sad, sad eyes, that haggard smile.
He comes whirling up Old Parr Street just as Phil saunters in from Regent
Street, as usual, cigar in mouth. He flings away the cigar as he sees his
father, and they enter the house together.
"Do you dine at home, Philip?" the father asks.
"Do you, sir? I will if you do," says the son, "and if you are alone."
"Alone? Yes. That is, there'll be Hunt, I suppose, whom you don't like. But the
poor fellow has few places to dine at. What? D�� Hunt? That's a strong
expression about a poor fellow in misfortune, and your father's old friend."
I am afraid Philip had used that wicked monosyllable whilst his father was
speaking, and at the mention of the clergyman's detested name. "I beg your
pardon, father. It slipped out in spite of me. I can't help it. I hate the
fellow."
"You don't disguise your likes or dislikes, Philip," says, or rather groans, the
safe man, the sound man, the prosperous man, the lucky man, the miserable man.
For years and years he has known that his boy's heart has revolted from him, and
detected him, and gone from him; and with shame, and remorse, and sickening
feeling, he lies awake in the night-watches, and thinks how he is alone��alone
in the world. Ah! Love your parents, young ones! O Father Beneficent! strengthen
our hearts: strengthen and purify them, so that we may not have to blush before
our children!
"You don't disguise your likes and dislikes, Philip," says the father then, with
a tone that smites strangely and keenly on the young man.
There is a great tremor in Philip's voice, as he says, "No, father, I can't bear
that man, and I can't disguise my feelings. I have just parted from the man. I
have just met him."
"Where?"
"At��at Mrs. Brandon's, father." He blushes like a girl as he speaks.
At the next moment he is scared by the execration which hisses from his father's
lips, and the awful look of hate which the elder's face assumes��that fatal,
forlorn, fallen, lost look which, man and boy, has often frightened poor Phil.
Philip did not like that look, nor indeed that other one, which his father cast
at Hunt, who presently swaggered in.
"What, you dine here? We rarely do papa the honour of dining with him," says the
parson, with his knowing leer. "I suppose, doctor, it is to be fatted-calf day
now the prodigal has come home. There's worse things than a good fillet of veal;
eh?"
Whatever the meal might be, the greasy chaplain leered and winked over it as he
gave it his sinister blessing. The two elder guests tried to be lively and gay,
as Philip thought, who took such little trouble to disguise his own moods of
gloom or merriment. Nothing was said regarding the occurrences of the morning
when my young gentleman had been rather rude to Mr. Hunt; and Philip did not
need his father's caution to make no mention of his previous meeting with their
guest. Hunt, as usual, talked to the butler, made side-long remarks to the
footman, and garnished his conversation with slippery double-entendre and dirty
old-world slang. Betting-houses, gambling-houses, Tattersall's, fights, and
their frequenters, were his cheerful themes, and on these he descanted as usual.
The doctor swallowed this dose, which his friend poured out, without the least
expression of disgust. On the contrary, he was cheerful: he was for an extra
bottle of claret�� it never could be in better order than it was now.
The bottle was scarce put on the table, and tasted and pronounced perfect,
when��oh! disappointment! the butler reappears with a note for the doctor. One
of his patients. He must go. She has little the matter with her. She lives hard
by, in May Fair. "You and Hunt finish this bottle, unless I am back before it is
done; and if it is done, we'll have another," says Dr. Firmin, jovially. "Don't
stir, Hunt"��and Dr. Firmin is gone, leaving Philip alone with the guest to whom
he had certainly been rude in the morning.
"The doctor's patients often grow very unwell about claret time," growls Mr.
Hunt, some few minutes after. "Never mind. The drink's good��good! as somebody
said at your famous call supper, Mr. Philip��won't call you Philip, as you don't
like it. You were uncommon crusty to me in the morning, to be sure. In my time
there would have been bottles broke, or worse, for that sort of treatment."
"I have asked your pardon," Philip said. "I was annoyed about��no matter
what��and had no right to be rude to Mrs. Brandon's guest."
"I say, did you tell the governor that you saw me in Thornhaugh Street?" asks
Hunt.
"I was very rude and ill-tempered, and again I confess I was wrong," says Phil,
boggling and stuttering, and turning very red. He remembered his father's
injunction.
"I say again, sir, did you tell your father of our meeting this morning?"
demands the clergyman.
"And pray, sir, what right have you to ask me about my private conversation with
my father?" asks Philip, with towering dignity.
"You won't tell me? Then you have told him. He's a nice man, your father is, for
a moral man."
"I am not anxious for your opinion about my father's morality, Mr. Hunt," says
Philip, gasping in a bewildered manner, and drumming the table. "I am here to
replace him in his absence, and treat his guest with civility."
"Civility! Pretty civility!" says the other, glaring at him.
"Such as it is, sir, it is my best, and��I��I have no other," groans the young
man.
"Old friend of your father's, a university man, a Master of Arts, a gentleman
born, by Jove! a clergyman ��though I sink that��"
"Yes, sir, you do sink that," says Philip.
"Am I a dog," shrieks out the clergyman, "to be treated by you in this way? Who
are you? Do you know who you are?"
"Sir, I am striving with all my strength to remember," says Philip.
"Come! I say! don't try any of your confounded airs on me!" shrieks Hunt, with a
profusion of oaths, and swallowing glass after glass from the various decanters
before him. "Hang me, when I was a young man, I would have sent one��two at your
nob, though you were twice as tall! Who are you, to patronize your senior, your
father's old pal��a university man:�� you confounded, supercilious ��"
"I am here to pay every attention to my father's guest," says Phil; "but, if you
have finished your wine, I shall be happy to break up the meeting, as early as
you please."
"You shall pay me; I swear you shall," said Hunt.
"Oh, Mr. Hunt!" cried Philip, jumping up, and clenching his great fists, "I
should desire nothing better."
The man shrank back, thinking Philip was going to strike him (as Philip told me
in describing the scene), and made for the bell. But when the butler came,
Philip only asked for coffee; and Hunt, uttering a mad oath or two, staggered
out of the room after the servant. Brice said he had been drinking before he
came. He was often so. And Phil blessed his stars that he had not assaulted his
father's guest then and there, under his own roof-tree.
He went out into the air. He gasped and cooled himself under the stars. He
soothed his feelings by his customary consolation of tobacco. He remembered that
Ridley in Thornhaugh Street held a divan that night; and jumped into a cab, and
drove to his old friend.
The maid of the house, who came to the door as the cab was driving away, stopped
it; and as Phil entered the passage, he found the Little Sister and his father
talking together in the hall. The doctor's broad hat shaded his face from the
hall-lamp, which was burning with an extra brightness, but Mrs. Brandon's was
very pale, and she had been crying.
She gave a little scream when she saw Phil. "Ah! is it you, dear?" she said. She
ran up to him: seized both his hands: clung to him, and sobbed a thousand hot
tears on his hand. "I never will. Oh, never, never, never!" she murmured.
The doctor's broad chest heaved as with a great sigh of relief. He looked at the
woman and at his son with a strange smile;��not a sweet smile.
"God bless you, Caroline," he said, in his pompous, rather theatrical, way.
"Good-night, sir," said Mrs. Brandon, still clinging to Philip's hand, and
making the doctor a little humble curtsey. And when he was gone, again she
kissed Philip's hand, and dropped her tears on it, and said, "Never, my dear;
no, never, never!"
CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH PHILIP IS VERY ILL-TEMPERED.
Philip had long divined a part of his dear little friend's history. An
uneducated young girl had been found, cajoled, deserted by a gentleman of the
world. And poor Caroline was the victim, and Philip's own father the seducer. He
easily guessed as much as this of the sad little story. Dr. Firmin's part in it
was enough to shock his son with a thrill of disgust, and to increase the
mistrust, doubt, alienation, with which the father had long inspired the son.
What would Philip feel, when all the pages of that dark book were opened to him,
and he came to hear of a false marriage, and a ruined and outcast woman,
deserted for years by the man to whom he himself was most bound? In a word,
Philip had considered this as a mere case of early libertinism, and no more: and
it was as such, in the very few words which he may have uttered to me respecting
this matter, that he had chosen to regard it. I knew no more than my friend had
told me of the story as yet; it was only by degrees that I learned it, and as
events, now subsequent, served to develop and explain it.
The elder Firmin, when questioned by his old acquaintance, and, as it appeared,
accomplice of former days, regarding the end of a certain intrigue at Margate,
which had occurred some four or five and twenty years back, and when Firmin,
having reason to avoid his college creditors, chose to live away and bear a
false name, had told the clergyman a number of falsehoods, which appeared to
satisfy him. What had become of that poor little thing about whom he had made
such a fool of himself? Oh, she was dead, dead ever so many years before. He had
pensioned her off. She had married, and died in Canada��yes, in Canada. Poor
little thing! Yes, she was a good little thing, and, at one time, he had been
very soft about her. I am sorry to have to state of a respectable gentleman,
that he told lies, and told lies habitually and easily. But, you see, if you
commit a crime, and break a seventh commandment let us say, or an eighth, or
choose any number you will��you will probably have to back the lie of action by
the lie of the tongue, and so you are fairly warned, and I have no help for you.
If I murder a man, and the policeman inquires, "Pray, sir, did you cut this here
gentleman's throat?" I must bear false witness, you see, out of self-defence,
though I may be naturally a most reliable, truth-telling man. And so with regard
to many crimes which gentlemen commit��it is painful to have to say respecting
gentlemen, but they become neither more nor less than habitual liars, and have
to go lying on through life to you, to me, to the servants, to their wives, to
their children, to��oh, awful name! I bow and humble myself. May we kneel, may
we kneel, nor strive to speak our falsehoods before Thee!
And so, my dear sir, seeing that after committing any infraction of the moral
laws, you must tell lies in order to back yourself out of your scrape, let me
ask you, as a man of honour and a gentleman, whether you had not better forego
the crime, so as to avoid the unpleasant, and daily-recurring necessity of the
subsequent perjury? A poor young girl of the lower orders, cajoled, or ruined,
more or less, is of course no great matter. The little baggage is turned out of
doors�� worse luck for her��or she gets a place, or she marries one of her own
class, who does not care to remember bygones,��and there is an end of her. But
The Adventures of Philip Page 15