Peter Simple

I kissed her, for I felt grateful for her kindness; and with a little smirking and ogling she quitted the room. I could not help thinking, after she was gone, how little we know the hearts of others. If I had been asked if Mrs Trotter was a person to have done a generous action, from what I had seen of her in adversity, I should have decidedly said, No. Yet in this offer she was disinterested, for she knew the service well enough to be aware that I had little chance of being a first lieutenant again, and of being of service to her. And how often does it also occur, that those who ought, from gratitude or long friendship, to do all they can to assist you, turn from you in your necessity, and prove false and treacherous! It is God alone who knows our hearts. I sent my letter to O’Brien to the admiral’s office, sat down to a dinner which I could not taste, and at seven o’clock got into the mail. I was very ill; I had a burning fever and a dreadful headache, but I thought only of my sister.

When I arrived in town I was much worse, but did not wait more than an hour. I took my place in a coach which did not go to the town near which we resided; for I had inquired and found that coach was full, and I did not choose to wait another day. The coach in which I took my place went within forty miles of the vicarage, and I intended to post across the country. The next evening I arrived at the point of separation, and taking out my portmanteau, ordered a chaise, and set off for what once had been my home. I could hardly hold my head up, I was so ill, and I lay in a corner of the chaise, in a sort of dream, kept from sleeping from intense pain in the forehead and temples.

It was about nine o’clock at night, when we were in a dreadful jolting road, the shocks proceeding from which gave me agonising pain, that the chaise was stopped by two men, who dragged me out on the grass. One stood over me, while the other rifled the chaise. The post-boy, who appeared a party to the transaction, remained quietly on his horse, and as soon as they had taken my effects, turned round and drove off. They then rifled my person, taking away everything that I had, leaving me nothing but my trowsers and shirt. After a short consultation, they ordered me to walk on in the direction in which we had been proceeding in the chaise, and to hasten as fast as I could, or they would blow my brains out. I complied with their request, thinking myself fortunate to have escaped so well. I knew that I was still thirty miles at least from the vicarage; but ill as I was, I hoped to be able to reach it on foot. I walked during the remainder of the night, but I got on but slowly. I reeled from one side of the road to the other, and occasionally sat down to rest. Morning dawned, and I perceived habitations not far from me. I staggered on in my course.

The fever now raged in me, my head was splitting with agony, and I tottered to a bank near a small neat cottage, on the side of the road. I have a faint recollection of some one coming to me and taking my hand, but nothing further; and it was not till many months afterwards, that I became acquainted with the circumstances which I now relate. It appears that the owner of the cottage was a half-pay lieutenant in the army, who had sold out on account of his wounds. I was humanely taken into his house, laid on a bed, and a surgeon requested to come to me immediately. I had now lost all recollection, and who I was they could not ascertain. My pockets were empty, and it was only by the mark on my linen that they found that my name was Simple. For three weeks I remained in a state of alternate stupor and delirium. When the latter came on, I raved of Lord Privilege, O’Brien, and Celeste. Mr Selwin, the officer who had so kindly assisted me, knew that Simple was the patronymic name of Lord Privilege, and he immediately wrote to his lordship, stating that a young man of the name of Simple, who, in his delirium called upon him and Captain O’Brien, was lying in a most dangerous state in his house, and, that as he presumed. I was a relative of his lordship’s, he had deemed it right to apprise him of the fact.

My uncle, who knew that it must be me, thought this too favourable an opportunity, provided I should live, not to have me in his power. He wrote to say that he would be there in a day or two; at the same time thanking Mr Selwin for his kind attention to his poor nephew, and requesting that no expense might be spared. When my uncle arrived, which he did in his own chariot, the crisis of the fever was over; but I was still in a state of stupor arising from extreme debility. He thanked Mr Selwin for his attention, which he said he was afraid was of little avail, as I was every year becoming more deranged; and he expressed his fears that it would terminate in chronic lunacy—“His poor father died in the same state,” continued my uncle, passing his hand across his eyes, as if much affected. “I have brought my physician with me, to see if he can be moved. I shall not be satisfied unless I am with him night and day.”

The physician (who was my uncle’s valet) took me by the hand, felt my pulse, examined my eyes, and pronounced that it would be very easy to move me, and that I should recover sooner in a more airy room. Of course, Mr Selwin raised no objections, putting down all to my uncle’s regard for me; and my clothes were put on me, as I lay in a state of insensibility, and I was lifted into the chariot. It is most wonderful that I did not die from being thus taken out of my bed in such a state, but it pleased Heaven that it should be otherwise. Had such an event taken place, it would probably have pleased my uncle much better than my surviving. When I was in the carriage, supported by the pseudo-physician, my uncle again thanked Mr Selwin, begged that he would command his interest, wrote a handsome check for the surgeon who had attended me, and getting into the carriage, drove off with me still in a state of insensibility—that is, I was not so insensible, but I think I felt I had been removed, and I heard the rattling of the wheels; but my mind was so uncollected, and I was in a state of such weakness, that I could not feel assured of it for a minute.

For some days afterwards, for I recollect nothing about the journey, I found myself in bed in a dark room, and my arms confined. I recalled my senses, and by degrees was able to recollect all that had occurred, until I laid down by the roadside. Where was I? The room was dark, I could distinguish nothing; that I had attempted to do myself some injury, I took for granted, or my arms would not have been secured. I had been in a fever and delirious, I supposed, and had now recovered.

I had been in a reverie for more than an hour, wondering why I was left alone, when the door of the apartment opened. “Who is there?” inquired I.

“Oh! you’ve come to yourself again,” said a gruff voice; “then I’ll give you a little daylight.”

He took down a shutter which covered the whole of the window, and a flood of light poured in, which blinded me. I shut my eyes, and by degrees admitted the light until I could bear it. I looked at the apartment: the walls were bare and white-washed. I was on a truckle bed. I looked at the window—it was closed up with iron bars. “Why, where am I?” inquired I of the man, with alarm.

“Where are you?” replied he; “why, in Bedlam!”

Chapter Sixty Four

As O’Brien said, it’s a long lane that has no turning—I am rescued, and happiness pours in upon me as fast as misery before overwhelmed me

The shock was too great—I fell back on my pillow insensible. How long I lay, I know not, but when I recovered, the keeper was gone, and I found a jug of water and some bread by the side of the bed. I drank the water, and the effect it had upon me was surprising. I felt that I could get up, and I rose: my arms had been unpinioned during my swoon.

It was about noon that the medical people, attended by the keepers and others, came into my apartment.

“Is he quite quiet?”

“O Lord! yes, sir, as quiet as a lamb,” replied the man who had before entered.

I then spoke to the medical gentleman, begging him to tell why, and how, I had been brought here. He answered mildly and soothingly, saying that I was there at the wish of my friends, and that every care would be taken of me; that he was aware that my paroxysms were only occasional, and that, during the time that I was quiet, I should have every indulgence that could be granted, and that he hoped that I soon should be perfectly well, and be permitted to leave the hospital. I replied by stating who I was, and how I had been taken ill. The doctor shook his head, advised me to lie down as much as possible, and then quitted me to visit the other patients.

As I afterwards discovered, my uncle had had me confined upon the plea that I was a young man, who was deranged with an idea that his name was Simple, and that he was the heir to the title and estates; that I was very troublesome at times, forcing my way into his house and insulting the servants, but in every other respect was harmless; that my paroxysms generally ended in a violent fever, and that it was more from the fear of my coming to some harm, than from any ill-will towards the poor young man, that he wished me to remain in the hospital, and be taken care of.

The reader may at once perceive the art of this communication: I, having no idea why I was confined, would of course continue to style myself by my true name; and as long as I did this, so long would I be considered in a deranged state. The reader must not therefore be surprised when I tell him, that I remained in Bedlam for one year and eight months. The doctor called upon me for two or three days, and finding me quiet, ordered me to be allowed books, paper, and ink, to amuse myself; but every attempt at explanation was certain to be the signal for him to leave my apartment. I found, therefore, not only by him, but from the keeper, who paid no attention to anything I said, that I had no chance of being listened to, or of obtaining my release.

After the first month, the doctor came to me no more: I was a quiet patient, and he received the report of the keeper. I was sent there with every necessary document to prove that I was mad; and, although a very little may establish a case of lunacy, it requires something very strong indeed, to prove that you are in your right senses. In Bedlam I found it impossible. At the same time I was well treated, was allowed all necessary comforts, and such amusement as could be obtained from books, etcetera. I had no reason to complain of the keeper—except that he was too much employed to waste his time in listening to what he did not believe. I wrote several letters to my sister and to O’Brien during the first two or three months, and requested the keeper to put them in the post. This he promised to do, never refusing to take the letters; but, as I afterwards found out, they were invariably destroyed. Yet I still bore up with the hopes of release for some time; but the anxiety relative to my sister, when I thought of her situation, my thoughts of Celeste and of O’Brien, sometimes quite overcame me; then, indeed, I would almost become frantic, and the keeper would report that I had had a paroxysm. After six months I became melancholy, and I wasted away. I no longer attempted to amuse myself, but sat all day with my eyes fixed upon vacancy. I no longer attended to my person; I allowed my beard to grow—my face was never washed, unless mechanically, when ordered by the keeper; and, if I was not mad, there was every prospect of my soon becoming so. Life passed away as a blank—I had become indifferent to everything—I noted time no more—the change of seasons was unperceived—even the day and the night followed without my regarding them.

I was in this unfortunate situation, when one day the door was opened, and, as had been often the custom during my imprisonment, visitors were going round the establishment, to indulge their curiosity, in witnessing the degradation of their fellow-creatures, or to offer their commiseration. I paid no heed to them, not even casting up my eyes. “This young man,” said the medical gentleman who accompanied the party, “has entertained the strange idea that his name is Simple, and that he is the rightful heir to the title and property of Lord Privilege.”

One of the visitors came up to me, and looked me in the face. “And so he is,” cried he, to the doctor, who looked with astonishment. “Peter, don’t you know me?” I started up. It was General O’Brien. I flew into his arms, and burst into tears.

“Sir,” said General O’Brien, leading me to the chair, and seating me upon it, “I tell you that is Mr Simple, the nephew of Lord Privilege; and, I believe the heir to the title. If, therefore, his assertion of such being the case, is the only proof of his insanity, he is illegally confined. I am here, a foreigner, and a prisoner on parole; but I am not without friends. My Lord Belmore,” said he, turning to another of the visitors who had accompanied him, “I pledge you my honour that what I state is true; and I request you will immediately demand the release of this poor young man.”

“I assure you, sir, that I have Lord Privilege’s letter,” observed the doctor.

“Lord Privilege is a scoundrel,” replied General O’Brien. “But there is justice to be obtained in this country, and he shall pay dearly for his lettre de cachet. My dear Peter, how fortunate was my visit to this horrid place! I have heard so much of the excellent arrangements of this establishment, that I agreed to walk round with Lord Belmore; but I find that it is abused.”

“Indeed, General O’Brien, I have been treated with kindness,” replied I; “and particularly by this gentleman. It was not his fault.”

General O’Brien and Lord Belmore then inquired of the doctor if he had any objection to my release.

“None whatever, my lord, even if he were insane; although I see now how I have been imposed upon. We allow the friends of any patient to remove him, if they think that they can pay him more attention. He may leave with you this moment.”

I now did feel my brain turn with the revulsion from despair to hope, and I fell back in my seat. The doctor perceiving my condition, bled me copiously, and laid me on the bed, where I remained more than an hour, watched by General O’Brien. I then got up, calm and thankful. I was shaved by the barber of the establishment, washed and dressed myself, and, leaning on the general’s arm, was led out. I cast my eyes upon the two celebrated stone figures of Melancholy and Raving Madness; as I passed them, I trembled, and clung more tightly to the general’s arm, was assisted into the carriage, and bade farewell to madness and misery.

The general said nothing until we approached the hotel where he resided, in Dover Street; and then he inquired, in a low voice, whether I could bear more excitement.

“Is it Celeste you mean, general?”

“It is, my dear boy, she is here;” and he squeezed my hand.

“Alas!” cried I, “what hopes have I now of Celeste?”

“More than you had before,” replied the general. “She lives but for you; and if you are a beggar, I have a competence to make you sufficiently comfortable.”

I returned the general’s pressure of the hand, but could not speak. We descended, and in a minute I was led by the father into the arms of the astonished and delighted daughter.

I must pass over a few days, during which I had almost recovered my health and spirits; and had narrated my adventures to General O’Brien and Celeste. My first object was to discover my sister. What had become of poor Ellen, in the destitute condition in which she had been left, I knew not; and I resolved to go down to the vicarage, and make inquiries. I did not, however, set off until a legal adviser had been sent for by General O’Brien; and due notice given to Lord Privilege of an action to be immediately brought against him for false imprisonment.

I set off in the mail, and the next evening arrived at the town of —. I hastened to the parsonage, and the tears stood in my eyes as I thought of my mother, my poor father, and the peculiar and doubtful situation of my dear sister. I was answered by a boy in livery, and found the present incumbent at home. He received me politely, listened to my story, and then replied, that my sister had set off for London on the day of his arrival, and that she had not communicated her intentions to any one. Here, then, was all clue lost, and I was in despair, I walked to the town in time to throw myself into the mail, and the next evening joined Celeste and the general, to whom I communicated the unpleasant intelligence, and requested advice how to proceed.

Lord Belmore called the next morning, and the general consulted him. His lordship took great interest in my concerns; and, previous to any further steps, advised me to step into his carriage, and allow him to relate my case to the First Lord of the Admiralty. This was done immediately; and, as I had now an opportunity of speaking freely to his lordship, I explained to him the conduct of Captain Hawkins, and his connexion with my uncle; also the reason of my uncle’s persecution. His lordship finding me under such powerful protection as Lord Belmore’s, and having an eye to my future claims, which my uncle’s conduct gave him reason to suppose were well founded, was extremely gracious, and said, that I should hear from him in a day or two. He kept his word, and on the third day after my interview, I received a note, announcing my promotion to the rank of commander. I was delighted with this good fortune, as was General O’Brien and Celeste.

When at the Admiralty, I inquired about O’Brien, and found that he was expected home every day. He had gained great reputation in the East Indies, was chief in command at the taking of some of the islands, and, it was said, was to be created a baronet for his services. Everything wore a favourable aspect, excepting the disappearance of my sister. This was a weight on my mind I could not remove.

But I have forgotten to inform the reader by what means General O’Brien and Celeste arrived so opportunely in England. Martinique had been captured by our forces about six months before, and the whole of the garrison surrendered as prisoners of war. General O’Brien was sent home, and allowed to be on parole; although born a Frenchman, he had very high connections in Ireland, of whom Lord Belmore was one. When they arrived, they had made every inquiry for me without success: they knew that I had been tried by a court-martial and dismissed my ship, but after that, no clue could be found for my discovery.

Celeste, who was fearful that some dreadful accident had occurred to me, had suffered very much in health, and General O’Brien, perceiving how much his daughter’s happiness depended upon her attachment for me, had made up his mind that if I were found, we should be united. I hardly need say how delighted he was when he discovered me, though in a situation so little to be envied.

The story of my incarceration, of the action to be brought against my uncle, and the reports of foul play, relative to the succession, had, in the meantime, been widely circulated among the nobility; and I found that, every attention was paid me, and I was repeatedly invited out as an object of curiosity and speculation. The loss of my sister also was a subject of much interest, and many people, from good will, made every inquiry to discover her. I had returned one day from the solicitor’s, who had advertised for her in the newspapers without success, when I found a letter for me on the table, in an Admiralty enclosure. I opened it—the enclosure was one from O’Brien, who had just cast anchor at Spithead, and who had requested that the letter should be forwarded to me, if any one could tell my address.

“My dear Peter,—Where are, and what has become of, you? I have received no letters for these two years, and I have fretted myself to death. I received your letter about the rascally court-martial; but, perhaps, you have not heard that the little scoundrel is dead. Yes, Peter; he brought your letter out in his own ship, and that was his death-warrant. I met him at a private party. He brought up your name—I allowed him to abuse you, and then told him he was a liar and a scoundrel; upon which he challenged me, very much against his will; but the affront was so public, that he couldn’t help himself. Upon which I shot him, with all the good-will in the world, and could he have jumped up again twenty times, like Jack in the box, I would have shot him every time. The dirty scoundrel! but there’s an end of him. Nobody pitied him, for every one hated him; and the admiral only looked grave, and then was very much obliged to me for giving him a vacancy for his nephew. By-the-bye, from some unknown hand, but I presume from the officers of his ship, I received a packet of correspondence between him and your worthy uncle, which is about as elegant a piece of rascality as ever was carried on between two scoundrels; but that’s not all, Peter. I’ve got a young woman for you, who will make your heart glad—not Mademoiselle Celeste, for I don’t know where she is—but the wet-nurse who went out to India. Her husband was sent home as an invalid, and she was allowed her passage home with him in my frigate. Finding that he belonged to the regiment, I talked to him about one O’Sullivan who married in Ireland, and mentioned the girl’s name, and when he discovered that she was a countryman of mine, he told me that his real name was O’Sullivan, sure enough, but that he had always served as O’Connell, and that his wife on board was the young woman in question. Upon which, I sent to speak to her, and telling her that I knew all about it, and mentioning the names of Ella Flanagan, and her mother, who had given me the information, she was quite astonished; and when I asked her what had become of the child which she took in place of her own, she told me that it had been drowned at Plymouth, and that her husband was saved at the same time by a young officer, ‘whose name I have here,’ says she; and then she pulled out of her neck your card, with Peter Simple on it. ‘Now,’ says I, ‘do you know, good woman, that in helping on the rascally exchange of children, you ruin that very young man who saved your husband, for you deprive him of his title and property?’ She stared like a stuck pig, when I said so, and then cursed and blamed herself, and declared she’d right you as soon as we came home; and most anxious she is still to do so, for she loves the very name of you; so you see, Peter, a good action has its reward sometimes in this world, and a bad action also, seeing as how I’ve shot that confounded villain who dared to ill-use you. I have plenty more to say to you, Peter; but I don’t like writing what, perhaps, may never be read, so I’ll wait till I hear from you; and then, as soon as I get through my business, we will set to and trounce that scoundrel of an uncle. I have twenty thousand pounds jammed together in the consolidated, besides the Spice Islands, which will be a pretty penny; and every farthing of it shall go to right you, Peter, and make a lord of you, as I promised you often that you should be; and if you win you shall pay, and if you don’t, then damn the luck and damn the money too. I beg you will offer my best regards to Miss Ellen, and say how happy I shall be to hear that she is well; but it has always been on my mind, Peter, that your father did not leave too much behind him, and I wish to know how you both get on. I left you a carte blanche at my agent’s, and I only hope that you have taken advantage of it, if required; if not, you’re not the Peter that I left behind me. So now, farewell, and don’t forget to answer my letter in no time.

“Ever yours, Terence O’Brien.”

This was indeed joyful intelligence. I handed the letter to General O’Brien, who read it; Celeste hanging over his shoulder, and perusing it at the same time.

“This is well,” said the general. “Peter, I wish you joy; and, Celeste, I ought to wish you joy also, at your future prospects. It will indeed be a gratification if ever I hail you as Lady Privilege.”

“Celeste,” said I, “you did not reject me when I was penniless, and in disgrace. O my poor sister Ellen! if I could but find you, how happy should I be!”

I sat down to write to O’Brien, acquainting him with all that had occurred, and the loss of my dear sister. The day after the receipt of my letter, O’Brien burst into the room. After the first moments of congratulation were past, he said, “My heart’s broke, Peter, about your sister Ellen: find her I must. I shall give up my ship, for I’ll never give up the search as long as I live. I must find her.”

“Do, pray, my dear O’Brien, and I only wish—”