it; I embarked it in speculations in which it sank down with ten times the
amount of my own private property. Half-year after halfyear, with straitened
means and with the greatest difficulty to myself, my poor boy has had his
dividend; and he at least has never known what was want or anxiety until now.
Want? Anxiety? Pray heaven he never may suffer the sleepless anguish, the
racking care which has pursued me! "Post equitem sedet atra cura," our favourite
poet says. Ah! how truly, too, does he remark, "Patri� quis exul se quoque
fugit?" Think you where I go grief and remorse will not follow me? They will
never leave me until I shall return to this country ��for that I shall return,
my heart tells me��until I can reimburse General Baynes, who stands indebted to
Philip through his incautiousness and my overpowering necessity; and my
heart��an erring but fond father's heart��tells me that my boy will not
eventually lose a penny by my misfortune.
I own, between ourselves, that this illness of the Grand Duke of Groningen was a
pretext which I put forward. You will hear of me cre long from the place whither
for some time past I have determined on bending my steps. I placed 2001. on
Saturday, to Philip's credit, at his banker's I take little more than that sum
with me; depressed, yet full of hope; having done wrong, yet determined to
retrieve it, and vowing that ere I die my poor boy shall not have to blush at
bearing the name of
George Brand Firmin.
Good-by, dear Philip! Your old friend will tell you of my misfortunes. When I
write again, it will be to tell you where to address me; and wherever I am, or
whatever misfortunes oppress me, think of me always as your fond.
Father.
I had scarce read this awful letter when Philip Firmin himself came into our
breakfast-room, looking very much disturbed.
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
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
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
thing, and she led me down to my cousin; and��Captain Woolcomb, I think, is your
name, sir?"
As Philip curls his moustache and smiles blandly, Captain Woolcomb pulls his and
scowls fiercely. "Yes, sir," he mutters, "my name is Woolcomb." Another bow and
a touch of the hat from Mr. Firmin. A touch? ��a gracious wave of the hat;
acknowledged by no means so gracefully by Captain Woolcomb.
To these remarks, Mrs. Penfold says, "Oh!" In fact, "Oh!" is about the best
thing that could be said under the circumstances.
"My cousin, Miss Twysden, looks so pale because she was out very late dancing
last night. I hear it was a very pretty ball. But ought she to keep such late
hours, Mrs. Penfold, with her delicate health? Indeed, you ought not, Agnes!
Ought she to keep late hours, Brownie? There��don't, you little foolish thing! I
gave my cousin the dog: and she's very fond of me�� the dog is��still. You were
saying, Captain Woolcomb, when I came up, that you would give Miss Twysden a dog
on whose nose you could hang your��I beg pardon?"
Mr. Woolcomb, as Philip made this second allusion to the peculiar nasal
formation of the pug, ground his little white teeth together, and let slip a
part of Miss Twysden. Mrs. Penfold said, "The day is clouding over. I think,
Agnes, I will have my chair, and go home."
"May I be allowed to walk with you as far as your house?" says Philip, twiddling
a little locket which he wore at his watch-chain. It was a little gold locket,
with a little pale hair inside. Whose hair could it have been that was so pale
and fine? As for the pretty hieroglyphical A. T. at the back, those letters
might indicate Alfred Tennyson, or Anthony Trollope, who might have given a lock
of their golden hair to Philip, for I know he is an admirer of their works.
Agnes looked guiltily at the little locket. Captain Woolcomb pulled his
moustache so, that you would have thought he would have pulled it off; and his
opal eyes glared with fearful confusion and wrath.
"Will you please to fall back and let me speak to you, Agnes? Pardon me, Captain
Woolcomb, I have a private message for my cousin; and I came from London
expressly to deliver it."
"If Miss Twysden desires me to withdraw, I fall back in one moment," says the
captain, clenching the little lemon-coloured gloves.
"My cousin and I have lived together all our lives, and I bring her a family
message. Have you any particular claim to hear it, Captain Woolcomb?"
"Not if Miss Twysden don't want me hear it. ... D��the little brute."
"Don't kick poor little harmless Brownie! He shan't kick you, shall he,
Brownie?"
"If the brute comes between my shins, I'll kick her!" shrieks the captain. "Hang
her, I'll throw her into the sea!"
"Whatever you do to my dog, I swear I will do to you!" whispers Philip to the
captain.
"Where are you staying?" shrieks the captain. "Hang you, you shall hear from
me."
"Quiet��Bedford Hotel. Easy, or I shall think you want the ladies to overhear."
"Your conduct is horrible, sir," says Agnes, rapidly, in the French language.
"Mr. does not comprehend it."
"��it! If you have any secrets to talk, I'll withdraw fast enough, Miss Agnes,"
says Othello.
"Oh, Grenville! can I have any secrets from you? Mr. Firmin is my first-cousin.
We have lived together all our lives. Philip, I��I don't know whether mamma
announced to you my��my engagement with Captain Grenville Woolcomb." The
agitation has brought on another severe bronchial attack. Poor, poor little
Agnes! What it is to have a delicate throat!
The pier tosses up to the skies, as though it had left its moorings��the houses
on the cliff dance and reel, as though an earthquake was driving them��the sea
walks up into the lodging-houses��and Philip's legs are failing from under him:
it is only for a moment. When you have a large, tough double tooth out, doesn't
the chair go up to the ceiling, and your head come off too? But, in the next
instant, there is a grave gentleman before you, making you a bow, and concealing
something in his right sleeve. The crash is over. You are a man again. Philip
clutches hold of the chain pier for a minute: it does not sink under him. The
houses, after reeling for a second or two, reassume the perpendicular, and bulge
their bow windows towards the main. He can see the people looking from the
windows, the carriages passing, Professor Spurrier riding on the cliff with
eighteen young ladies, his pupils. In long after days he remembers those absurd
little incidents with a curious tenacity.
"This news, "Philip says, "was not��not altogether unexpected. I congratulate my
cousin, I am sure. Captain Woolcomb, had I known this for certain, I am sure I
should not have interrupted you. You were going, perhaps, to ask me to your
hospitable house, Mrs. Penfold?"
"Was she though?" cries the captain.
"I have asked a friend to dine with me at the Bedford, and shall go to town, I
hope, in the morning. Can I take anything for you, Agnes? Good-by:" and he
kisses his hand in quite a d�gag� manner, as Mrs. Penfold's chair turns eastward
and he goes to the west. Silently the tall Agnes sweeps along, a fair hand laid
upon her friend's chair.
It's over! it's over! She has done it. He was bound, and kept his honour, but
she did not: it was she who forsook him. And I fear very much Mr. Philip's heart
leaps with pleasure and an immense sensation of relief at thinking he is free.
He meets half a dozen acquaintances on the cliff. He laughs, jokes, shakes
hands, invites two or three to dinner in the gayest manner. He sits down on that
green, not very far from his inn, and is laughing to himself, when he suddenly
feels something nestling at his knee,��rubbing, and nestling, and whining
plaintively. "What, is that you?" It is little Brownie, who has followed him.
Poor little rogue!
Then Philip bent down his head over the dog, and as it jumped on him, with
little bleats, and whines, and innocent caresses, he broke out into a sob, and a
great refreshing rai
n of tears fell from his eyes. Such a little illness! Such a
mild fever! Such a speedy cure! Some people have the complaint so mildly that
they are scarcely ever kept to their beds. Some bear its scars for ever.
Philip sat resolutely at the hotel all night, having given special orders to the
porter to say that he was at home, in case any gentleman should call. He had a
faint hope, he afterwards owned, that some friend of Captain Woolcomb might wait
on him on that officer's part. He had a faint hope that a letter might come
explaining that treason,��as people will have a sick, gnawing, yearning, foolish
desire for letters��letters which contain nothing, which never did contain
anything ��letters which, nevertheless, you�� You know, in fact, about those
letters, and there is no earthly use in asking to read Philip's. Have we not all
read those love-letters which, after love-quarrels, come into court sometimes?
We have all read them; and how many have written them? Nine o'clock. Ten
o'clock. Eleven o'clock. No challenge from the captain; no explanation from
Agnes. Philip declares he slept perfectly well. But poor little Brownie the dog
made a piteous howling all night in the stables. She was not a well-bred dog.
You could not have hung the least hat on her nose.
We compared anon our dear Agnes to a Brahmin lady, meekly offering herself up to
sacrifice according to the practice used in her highly respectable caste. Did we
speak in anger or in sorrow?��surely in terms of respectful grief and sympathy.
And if we pity her, ought we not likewise to pity her highly respectable
parents? When the notorious Brutus ordered his sons to execution, you can't
suppose he was such a brute as to be pleased? All three parties suffered by the
transaction: the sons, probably, even more than their austere father; but it
stands to reason that the whole trio were very melancholy. At least, were I a
poet or musical composer depicting that business, I certainly should make them
so:��the sons, piping in a very minor key indeed; the father's manly basso,
accompanied by deep wind instruments, and interrupted by appropriate sobs.
Though pretty fair Agnes is being led to execution, I don't suppose she likes
it, or that her parents are happy, who are compelled to order the tragedy.
That the rich young proprietor of Mangrove Hall should be fond of her, was
merely a coincidence, Mrs. Twysden afterwards always averred. Not for mere
wealth��ah, no! not for mines of gold��would they sacrifice their darling child.
But when that sad Firmin affair happened, you see it also happened that Captain
Woolcomb was much struck by dear Agnes, whom he met everywhere. Her scapegrace
of a cousin would go nowhere. He preferred his bachelor associates, and horrible
smoking and drinking habits, to the amusements and pleasures of more refined
society. He neglected Agnes. There is not the slightest doubt he neglected and
mortified her, and his wilful and frequent absence showed how little he cared
for her. Would you blame the dear girl for coldness to a man who himself showed
such indifference to her? "No, my good Mrs. Candour. Had Mr. Firmin been ten
times as rich as Mr. Woolcomb, I should have counselled my child to refuse him.
I take the responsibility of the measure entirely on myself��I, and her father,
and her brother." So Mrs. Twysden afterwards spoke, in circles where an absurd
and odious rumour ran, that the Twysdens had forced their daughter to jilt young
Mr. Firmin in order to marry a young quadroon. People will talk, you know, de
me, de te. If Woolcomb's dinners had not gone off so after his marriage, I have
little doubt the scandal would have died away, and he and his wife might have
been pretty generally respected and visited.
Nor must you suppose, as we have said, that dear Agnes gave up her first love
without a pang. That bronchitis showed how acutely the poor thing felt her