Фредерик Марриет
Peter Simple
Chapter Thirty Nine
Is a chapter of plots—Catholic casuistry in a new cassock—Plotting promotes promotion—A peasant’s love, and a peer’s peevishness—Prospects of prosperity
As soon as I arrived at the hotel, I sent for a Plymouth paper, and cut out the paragraph which had been of such importance to me in my emergency, and the next morning returned home to receive the congratulations of my family. I found a letter from O’Brien, which had arrived the day before. It was as follows:—
“My dear Peter,—Some people, they say, are lucky to ‘have a father born before them,’ because they are helped on in the world—upon which principle, mine was born after me, that’s certain; however, that can’t be helped. I found all my family well and hearty: but they all shook a cloth in the wind with respect to toggery. As for Father McGrath’s cassock, he didn’t complain of it without reason. It was the ghost of a garment; but, however, with the blessing of God, my last quarterly bill, and the help of a tailor, we have had a regular refit, and the ancient family of the O’Briens of Ballyhinch are now rigged from stem to stern. My two sisters are both to be spliced to young squireens in the neighbourhood; it appears that they only waited for a dacent town gown to go to the church in. They will be turned off next Friday, and I only wish, Peter, you were here to dance at the weddings. Never mind, I’ll dance for you and for myself too. In the meantime, I’ll just tell you what Father McGrath and I have been doing, all about and consarning that thief of an uncle of yours.
“It’s very little or nothing at all that Father McGrath did before I came back, seeing as how Father O’Toole had a new cassock, and Father McGrath’s was so shabby that he couldn’t face him under such a disadvantage: but still Father McGrath spied about him, and had several hints from here and from there, all of which, when I came to add them up, amounted to nothing at all.
“But since I came home, we have been busy. Father McGrath went down to Ballycleuch, as bold as a lion, in his new clothing, swearing that he’d lead Father O’Toole by the nose for slamming the door in his face, and so he would have done, if he could have found him; but as he wasn’t to be found, Father McGrath came back again just as wise, and quite as brave, as he went out.
“So, Peter, I just took a walk that way myself, and, as I surrounded the old house where your uncle had taken up his quarters, who should I meet but the little girl, Ella Flanagan, who was in his service; and I said to myself, ‘There’s two ways of obtaining things in this world, one is for love, and the other is for money.’ The O’Briens are better off in the first article than in the last, as most of their countrymen are, so I’ve been spending it very freely in your service, Peter.
“‘Sure,’ says I, ‘you are the little girl that my eyes were ever looking upon when last I was this way.’
“‘And who are you?’ says she.
“‘Lieutenant O’Brien, of His Majesty’s service, just come home for a minute to look out for a wife,’ says I; ‘and it’s one about your make, and shape, and discretion, that would please my fancy.’
“And then I praised her eyes, and her nose, and her forehead, and so downwards, until I came to the soles of her feet; and asked her leave to see her again, and when she would meet me in the wood and tell me her mind. At first, she thought (sure enough) that I couldn’t be in earnest, but I swore by all the saints that she was the prettiest girl in the parts—and so she is altogether—and then she listened to my blarney. The devil a word did I say about your uncle or your aunt, or Father McGrath, that she might not suspect, for I’ve an idea that they’re all in the story. I only talked about my love for her pretty self, and that blinded her, as it will all women, ’cute as they may be.
“And now, Peter, it’s three weeks last Sunday, that I’ve been bespeaking this poor girl for your sake, and my conscience tells me that it’s not right to make a poor cratur fond of me, seeing as how that I don’t care a fig for her in the way of a wife, and in any other way it would be the ruin of the poor thing. I have spoken to Father McGrath on the subject, who says ‘that we may do evil that good may come, and, that if she had been a party to the deceit, it’s nothing but proper that she should be punished in this world, and that will, perhaps, save her in the next;’ still I don’t like it, Peter, and it’s only for you among the living that I’d do such a thing; for the poor creature now hangs upon me so fondly and talks about the wedding day; and tells me long stories about the connections which have taken place between the O’Flanagans and the O’Briens, times gone by, when they were all in their glory. Yesterday as we sat in the wood, with her arm round my waist, ‘Ella, dear,’ says I ‘who are these people that you stay with?’ And then she told me all she knew about their history, and how Mary Sullivan was a nurse to the baby.
“‘And what is the baby?’ says I.
“‘A boy, sure,’ says she.
“‘And Sullivan’s baby?’
“‘That’s a girl.’
“‘And is Mary Sullivan there now?’
“‘No,’ says she; ‘it’s yestreen she left with her husband and baby, to join the regiment that’s going out to Ingy.’
“‘Yesterday she left?’ says I, starting up.
“‘Yes,’ replies she, ‘and what do you care about them?’
“‘It’s very much I care,’ replied I, ‘for a little bird has whispered a secret to me.’
“‘And what may that be?’ says she.
“‘Only that the childer were changed, and you know it as well as I do.’ But she swore that she knew nothing about it, and that she was not there when either of the children were born, and I believe that she told the truth. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘who tended the lady?’
“‘My own mother,’ says Ella. ‘And if it were so, who can know but she?’
“‘Then,’ says I, ‘Ella, jewel, I’ve made a vow that I’ll never marry, till I find out the truth of this matter; so the sooner you get it out of your mother the better.’ Then she cried very much, and I was almost ready to cry too, to see how the poor thing was vexed at the idea of not being married. After a while she swabbed up her cheeks, and kissing me, wished me good-bye, swearing by all the saints that the truth should come out somehow or another.
“It’s this morning that I saw her again, as agreed upon yesterday, and red her eyes were with weeping, poor thing; and she clung to me and begged me to forgive her, and not to leave her; and then she told me that her mother was startled when she put the question to her, and chewed it, and cursed her when she insisted upon the truth; and how she had fallen on her knees, and begged her mother not to stand in the way of her happiness, as she would die if she did (I leave you to guess if my heart didn’t smite me when she said that, Peter, but the mischief was done), and how her mother had talked about her oath and Father O’Toole, and said that she would speak to him.
“Now, Peter, I’m sure that the childer have been changed and that the nurse has been sent to the Indies to be out of the way. They say they were to go to Plymouth. The husband’s name is, of course, O’Sullivan; so I’d recommend you to take a coach and see what you can do in that quarter; in the meantime, I’ll try all I can for the truth in this, and will write again as soon as I can find out any thing more. All I want to do is to get Father McGrath to go to the old devil of a mother, and I’ll answer for it, he’ll frighten her into swearing anything. God bless you, Peter and give my love to all the family.
“Yours ever,
“Terence O’Brien.”
This letter of O’Brien was the subject of much meditation. The advice to go to Plymouth was too late, the troops having sailed some time; and I had no doubt but that Mary Sullivan and her husband were among those who had embarked at the time that I was at the port to pass my examination. Show the letter to my father I would not, as it would only have put him in a fever, and his interference would, in all probability, have done more harm than good. I therefore waited quietly for more intelligence, and resolved to apply to my grandfather to obtain my promotion.
A few days afterwards I set off for Eagle Park, and arrived about eleven o’clock in the morning. I sent in my name and was admitted into the library, where I found Lord Privilege in his easy chair as usual.
“Well, child,” said he, remaining on his chair, and not offering even one finger to me, “what do you want, that you come here without an invitation?”
“Only, my lord, to inquire after your health, and to thank you for your kindness to me in procuring me and Mr O’Brien the appointment to a fine frigate.”
“Yes,” replied his lordship, “I recollect—I think I did so, at your request, and I think I heard some one say that you have behaved well, and had been mentioned in the despatches.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied I, “and I have since passed my examination for lieutenant.”
“Well, child, I’m glad to hear it. Remember me to your father and family.” And his lordship cast his eyes down upon his book which he had been reading.
My father’s observations appeared to be well grounded, but I would not leave the room until I had made some further attempt.
“Has your lordship heard from my uncle?”
“Yes,” replied he, “I had a letter from him yesterday. The child is quite well. I expect them all here in a fortnight or three weeks, to live with me altogether. I am old—getting very old, and I shall have much to arrange with your uncle before I die.”
“If I might request a favour of your lordship, it would be to beg that you would interest yourself a little in obtaining my promotion. A letter from your lordship to the First Lord—only a few lines—”
“Well, child, I see no objection—only I am very old, too old to write now.” And his lordship again commenced reading.
I must do Lord Privilege the justice to state that he evidently was fast verging to a state of second childhood. He was much bowed down since I had last seen him, and appeared infirm in body as well as mind.
I waited at least a quarter of an hour before his lordship looked up.
“What, not gone yet, child? I thought you had gone home.”
“Your lordship was kind enough to say that you had no objection to write a few lines to the First Lord in my behalf. I trust your lordship will not refuse me—”
“Well,” replied he, peevishly, “so I did—but I am too old, too old to write—I cannot see—I can hardly hold a pen.”
“Will your lordship allow me the honour of writing the letter for your lordship’s signature?”
“Well, child,—yes—I’ve no objection. Write as follows—no—write anything you please—and I’ll sign it. I wish your uncle William was come.”
This was more than I did. I had a great mind to show him O’Brien’s letter, but I thought it would be cruel to raise doubts, and, harass the mind of a person so close to the brink of the grave. The truth would never be ascertained during his life, I thought; and why, therefore, should I give him pain? At all events, although I had the letter in my pocket, I resolved not to make use of it except as a dernier resort.
I went to another table, and sat down to write the letter. As his lordship had said that I might write what I pleased, it occurred to me that I might assist O’Brien, and I felt sure that his lordship would not take the trouble to read the letter. I therefore wrote as follows, while Lord Privilege continued to read his book:—
“My Lord,—You will confer a very great favour upon me, if you will hasten the commission which, I have no doubt, is in preparation for my grandson Mr Simple, who has passed his examination, and has been mentioned in the public despatches; and also that you will not lose sight of Lieutenant O’Brien, who has so distinguished himself by his gallantry in the various cutting-out expeditions in the West Indies. Trusting that your lordship will not fail to comply with my earnest request, I have the honour to be your lordship’s very obedient humble servant.”
I brought this letter, with a pen full of ink, and the noise of my approach induced his lordship to look up. He stared at first, as having forgotten the whole circumstance—then said—“O yes! I recollect, so I did—give me the pen.” With a trembling hand he signed his name, and gave me back the letter without reading it, as I expected.
“There, child, don’t tease me any more. Good-bye; remember me to your father.”
I wished his lordship a good morning, and went away well satisfied with the result of my expedition. On my arrival I showed the letter to my father, who was much surprised at my success, and he assured me that my grandfather’s interest was so great with the Administration, that I might consider my promotion as certain. That no accident might happen, I immediately set off for London, and delivered the letter at the door of the First Lord with my own hands, leaving my address with the porter.
Chapter Forty
O’Brien and myself take a step each, “pari passu”—A family reunion, productive of anything but unity—My uncle, not always the best friend
A few days afterwards I left my card with my address with the First Lord, and the next day received a letter from his secretary, which, to my delight, informed me that my commission had been made out some days before. I hardly need say that I hastened to take it up, and when paying my fee to the clerk, I ventured, at a hazard, to inquire whether he knew the address of Lieutenant O’Brien.
“No,” replied he, “I wish to find it out, for he has this day been promoted to the rank of Commander.”
I almost leaped with joy when I heard this good news; I gave O’Brien’s address to the clerk, hastened away with my invaluable piece of parchment in my hand, and set off immediately for my father’s house.
But I was met with sorrow. My mother had been taken severely ill, and I found the house in commotion—doctors, and apothecaries, and nurses, running to and fro, my father in a state of excitement, and my dear sister in tears. Spasm succeeded spasm; and although every remedy was applied, the next evening she breathed her last. I will not attempt to describe the grief of my father, who appeared to feel remorse at his late unkind treatment of her, my sister, and myself. These scenes must be imagined by those who have suffered under similar bereavements. I exerted myself to console my poor sister, who appeared to cling to me as to her only support, and, after the funeral was over, we recovered our tranquillity, although the mourning was still deeper in our hearts than in our outward dress. I had written to O’Brien to announce the mournful intelligence, and, like a true friend, he immediately made his appearance to console me.
O’Brien had received the letter from the Admiralty, acquainting him with his promotion; and, two days after he arrived, went to take up his commission. I told him frankly by what means he had obtained it, and he again concluded his thanks by a reference to the mistake of the former supposition, that of my being “the fool of the family.”
“By the powers, it would be well for any man if he had a few of such foolish friends about him,” continued he; “but I won’t blarney you, Peter; you know what my opinion always has been, so we’ll say no more about it.”
When he came back, we had a long consultation as to the best method of proceeding to obtain employment, for O’Brien was anxious to be again afloat, and so was I. I regretted parting with my sister, but my father was so morose and ill-tempered, that I had no pleasure at home, except in her company. Indeed, my sister was of opinion, that it would be better if I were away, as my father’s misanthropy, now unchecked by my mother, appeared to have increased, and he seemed to view me with positive dislike. It was, therefore, agreed unanimously between my sister, and me, and O’Brien, who was always of our councils, that it would be advisable that I should be again afloat.
“I can manage him much better when alone, Peter; I shall have nothing to occupy me, and take me away from him, as your presence does now; and, painful as it is to part with you, my duty to my father, and my wish for your advancement, induce me to request that you will, if possible, find some means of obtaining employment.”
“Spoken like a hero, as ye are, Miss Ellen, notwithstanding your pretty face and soft eyes,” said O’Brien. “And now, Peter, for the means to bring it about. If I can get a ship, there is no fear for you, as I shall choose you for my lieutenant; but how is that to be managed? Do you think that you can come over the old gentleman at Eagle Park?”
“At all events I’ll try,” replied I; “I can but be floored, O’Brien.”
Accordingly, the next day I set off for my grandfather’s, and was put down at the lodge, at the usual hour, about eleven o’clock. I walked up the avenue, and knocked at the door: when it was opened, I perceived a hesitation among the servants, and a constrained air which I did not like. I inquired after Lord Privilege—the answer was, that he was pretty well, but did not see any body.
“Is my uncle here,” said I.
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant, with a significant look, “and all his family are here too.”
“Are you sure that I cannot see my grandfather,” said I, laying a stress upon the word.
“I will tell him that you are here, sir,” replied the man, “but even that is against orders.”
I had never seen my uncle since I was a child, and could not even recollect him—my cousins, or my aunt, I had never met with. In a minute, an answer was brought, requesting that I would walk into the library. When I was ushered in, I found myself in the presence of Lord Privilege, who sat in his usual place, and a tall gentleman, whom I knew at once to be my uncle, from his likeness to my father.
“Here is the young gentleman, my lord,” said my uncle, looking at me sternly.
“Heh! what—oh! I recollect. Well, child, so you’ve been behaving very ill—sorry to hear it. Good-bye.”
“Behaving ill, my lord!” replied I. “I am not aware of having so done.”
“Reports are certainly very much against you, nephew,” observed my uncle dryly. “Some one has told your grandfather what has much displeased him. I know nothing about it myself.”
“Then some rascal has slandered me, sir,” replied I.
My uncle started at the word rascal; and then recovering himself, replied, “Well, nephew what is it that you require of Lord Privilege, for I presume this visit is not without a cause?”
“Sir,” replied I, “my visit to Lord Privilege was, first to thank him for having procured me my commission as lieutenant, and to request the favour that he would obtain me active employment, which a line from him will effect immediately.”
“I was not aware, nephew, that you had been made lieutenant; but I agree with you, that the more you are at sea the better. His lordship shall sign the letter. Sit down.”
“Shall I write it, sir?” said I to my uncle: “I know what to say.”
“Yes; and bring it to me when it is written.”
I felt convinced that the only reason which induced my uncle to obtain me employment, was the idea that I should be better out of the way, and that there was more risk at sea than on shore. I took a sheet of paper and wrote as follows:—
“My Lord,—May I request that your lordship will be pleased to appoint the bearer of this to a ship, as soon as convenient, as I wish him to be actively employed.
“I am, my lord, etcetera, etc.”
“Why not mention your name?”
“It is of no consequence,” replied I, “as it will be delivered in person, and that will insure my speedy appointment.”
The letter was placed before his lordship for signature. It was with some difficulty that he was made to understand that he was to sign it. The old gentleman appeared much more imbecile than when I last saw him. I thanked him, folded up the letter, and put it in my pocket. At last, he looked at me, and a sudden flash of recollection appeared to come across his mind.
“Well, child—so you escaped from the French prison—heh! and how’s your friend—what is his name, heh?”
“O’Brien, my lord.”
“O’Brien!” cried my uncle, “he is your friend; then, sir, I presume it is you am indebted for all the inquiries and reports which are so industriously circulated in Ireland—the tampering with my servants—and other impertinences?”
I did not choose to deny the truth, although I was a little fluttered by the sudden manner in which it came to light. I replied, “I never tamper with any people’s servants, sir.”
“No,” said he, “but you employ others so to do. I discovered the whole of your proceedings, after the scoundrel left for England.”
“If you apply the word scoundrel to Captain O’Brien, sir, in his name I contradict it.”
“As you please, sir,” replied my uncle, in a passion; “but you will oblige me by quitting this house immediately, and expect nothing more, either from the present or the future Lord Privilege, except that retaliation which your infamous conduct has deserved.”
I felt much irritated, and replied very sharply, “From the present Lord Privilege I certainly expect nothing more, neither do I from his successor;—but after your death, uncle, I expect that the person who succeeds to the title will do all he can for your humble servant. I wish you a good morning, uncle.”
My uncle’s eyes flashed fire as I finished my speech, which indeed was a very bold, and a very foolish one too, as it afterwards proved. I hastened out of the room, not only from the fear of being turned out of the house before all the servants, but also from the dread that my letter to the first Lord might be taken from me by force; but I never shall forget the scowl of vengeance which crossed my uncle’s brows as I turned round and looked at him as I shut the door. I found my way out without the assistance of the servants, and hastened home as fast as I could.
“O’Brien,” said I, on my return, “there is no time to be lost; the sooner you hasten to town with this letter of introduction, the better it will be, for depend upon it my uncle will do me all the harm that he can.” I then repeated to him all that had passed, and it was agreed, that O’Brien should take the letter, which having reference to the bearer, would do as well for him as for me; and, if O’Brien obtained on appointment, I was sure not only of being one of his lieutenants, but also of sailing with a dear friend. The next morning, O’Brien set off for London, and fortunately saw the First Lord the day after his arrival, which was a levée day. The First Lord received the letter from O’Brien, and requested him to sit down. He then read it, inquired after his lordship, asked whether his health was good, etc.
O’Brien replied that, “with the blessing of God, his lordship might live many years: that he had never heard him complain of ill health.” All which was not false, if not true. I could not help observing to O’Brien, when he returned home and told me what had passed, that “I thought, considering what he had expressed with respect to white lies and black lies, that he had not latterly adhered to his own creed.”
“That’s very true, Peter; and I’ve thought of it myself, but it is my creed nevertheless. We all know what’s right, but we don’t always follow it. The fact is, I begin to think that it is absolutely necessary to fight the world with it own weapons. I spoke to Father McGrath on the subject, and he replied, ‘That if any one, by doing wrong, necessitated another to do wrong to circumvent him, that the first party was answerable, not only for his own sin, but also for the sin committed in self-defence.’”
“But O’Brien, I do not fix my faith so implicitly upon Father McGrath; and I do not much admire many of his directions.”
“No more do I, Peter, when I think upon them; but how am I to puzzle my head upon these points? All I know is, that when you are divided between your inclination and your duty, it’s mighty convenient to have a priest like Father McGrath to decide for you, and to look after your soul into the bargain.”
It occurred to me, that I myself, when finding fault with O’Brien, had, in the instance of both the letters from Lord Privilege, been also guilty of deceit. I was therefore blaming him for the same fault committed by myself; and I am afraid that I was too ready in consoling myself with Father McGrath’s maxim, “That one might do evil, that good might come.” But to return to O’Brien’s interview.
After some little conversation, the First Lord said, “Captain O’Brien, I am always very ready to oblige Lord Privilege, and the more so as his recommendation is of an officer of your merit. In a day or two, if you will call at the Admiralty, you will hear further.” O’Brien wrote to us immediately, and we waited with impatience for his next letter; but instead of this letter, he made his appearance on the third day, and first hugging me in his arms, he then came to my sister, embraced her, and skipped and danced about the room.
“What is the matter, O’Brien?” said I, while Ellen retreated in confusion.
O’Brien pulled a parchment out of his pocket. “Here, Peter, my dear Peter; now for honour and glory. An eighteen-gun brig, Peter. The Rattlesnake—Captain O’Brien—West India station. By the holy father! my heart’s bursting with joy,” and down he sank into an easy chair “A’n’t I almost beside myself?” inquired he, after a short pause.
“Ellen thinks so, I daresay,” replied I, looking at my sister, who stood in a corner of the room, thinking O’Brien was really out of his senses, and still red with confusion.
O’Brien, who then called to mind what a slip of decorum he had been guilty of, immediately rose, and resuming his usual unsophisticated politeness, as he walked up to my sister, took her hand and said, “Excuse me, my dear Miss Ellen: I must apologise for my rudeness; but my delight was so great and my gratitude to your brother so intense, that I am afraid that in my warmth, I allowed the expressions of my feelings to extend to one so dear to him, and so like him in person and in mind. Will you only consider that you received the overflowings of a grateful heart towards your brother, and for his sake pardon my indiscretion?”
Ellen smiled, and held out her hand to O’Brien, who led her to the sofa, where we all three sat down: and O’Brien commenced a more intelligible narrative of what had passed. He had called on the day appointed, and sent up his card. The First Lord could not see him, but referred him to the private secretary, who presented him with his commission to the Rattlesnake, eighteen-gun brig. The secretary smiled most graciously, and told O’Brien in confidence, that he would proceed to the West India station as soon as his vessel was manned and ready for sea. He inquired of O’Brien whom he wished as his first lieutenant. O’Brien replied that he wished for me; but as, in all probability, I should not be of sufficient standing to be first lieutenant, that the Admiralty might appoint any other to the duty, provided I joined the ship. The secretary made a minute of O’Brien’s wish, and requested him, if he had a vacancy to spare as midshipman, to allow him to send one on board; to which O’Brien willingly acceded, shook hands with him, and O’Brien quitted the Admiralty to hasten down to us with the pleasing intelligence.
“And now,” said O’Brien, “I have made up my mind how to proceed. I shall first run down to Plymouth and hoist my pennant; then I shall ask for a fortnight’s leave, and go to Ireland to see how they get on, and what Father McGrath may be about. So, Peter, let’s pass this evening as happily as we can: for though you and I shall soon meet again, yet it may be years, or perhaps never, that we three shall sit down on the same sofa as we do now.”
Ellen, who was still nervous from the late death of my mother, looked down, and I perceived the tears start in her eyes at the remark of O’Brien, that perhaps we should never meet again. And I did pass a happy evening: my father dined out, and did not interrupt us. I had a dear sister on one side of me, and a sincere friend on the other. How few situations more enviable.
O’Brien left us early the next morning, and, at breakfast time, a letter was handed to my father. It was from my uncle, coldly communicating to him that Lord Privilege had died the night before very suddenly, and informing him that the burial would take place on that day week, and that the will would be opened immediately after the funeral. My father handed the letter over to me without saying a word, and sipped his tea with his tea-spoon. I cannot say that I felt very much on the occasion; but I did feel, because he had been kind to me at one time: as for my father’s feelings, I could not—or rather I should say, I did not wish to analyse them. As soon as he had finished his cup of tea, he left the breakfast-table, and went into his study. I then communicated the intelligence to my sister Ellen.
“My God!” said she, after a pause, putting her hand up to her eyes, “what a strange, unnatural state of society must we have arrived at when my father can thus receive the intelligence of a parent’s death. Is it not dreadful?”
“It is, my dearest girl,” replied I; “but every feeling has been sacrificed to worldly considerations and an empty name. The younger sons have been neglected, if not deserted. Virtue, talent, everything set at naught—intrinsic value despised—and the only claim to consideration admitted, that of being the heir entail. When all the ties of nature are cast loose by the parents, can you be surprised if the children are no longer bound by them? Most truly do you observe, that it is a detestable state of society.”
“I did not say detestable, brother; I said strange and unnatural.”
“Had you said what I said, Ellen, you would not have been wrong. I would not, for the title and wealth which it brings, be the heartless, isolated, I may say neglected, being that my grandfather was: were it offered now, I would not barter for it Ellen’s love.”
Ellen threw herself in my arms; we then walked into the garden, where we had a long conversation relative to our future wishes, hopes and, prospects.
