The World's Greatest Books - Volume 6 Part 33

"Peter," said he, "thank G.o.d we have succeeded so far. Now we must push on as far as we can, for we shall have daylight in two hours."

It was not till some months later that, after many adventures, we reached Flus.h.i.+ng, and procured the services of a pilot. With a strong tide and a fair wind we were soon clear of the Scheldt, and next morning a cutter hove in sight, and in a few minutes we found ourselves once more under the British pennant.

_IV.--In Bedlam_

Once, in the West Indies, O'Brien and I had again come across our good friend Colonel O'Brien and his daughter Celeste. He was now General O'Brien, Governor of Martinique; and Celeste was nineteen, and I one-and-twenty. And though France and England were still at war, before we parted Celeste and I were lovers, engaged to be married; and the general raised no objection to our attachment.

On our return from that voyage a series of troubles overtook me. My grandfather, Lord Privilege, had begun to take some interest in me; but before he died my uncle went to live with him, and so poisoned his mind against me that when the old lord's will was read it was found that 10,000 bequeathed to me had been cancelled by a codicil. As both my brothers and my other uncle were dead, my uncle was enraged at the possibility of my succeeding to the t.i.tle.

The loss of 10,000 was too much for my father's reason, and from lunacy he went quietly to his grave, leaving my only sister, Ellen, to find a home among strangers.

In the meantime, O'Brien had been made a captain, and had sailed for the East Indies. I was to have accompanied him, but my uncle, who had now succeeded to the t.i.tle, had sufficient influence at the Admiralty to prevent this, and I was appointed first lieutenant to a s.h.i.+p whose captain, an illegitimate son of Lord Privilege, was determined to ruin me. Captain Hawkins was a cowardly, mean, tyrannical man, and, although I kept my temper under all his petty persecutions, he managed at last to string together a number of accusations and, on our return, send me to a court-martial.

The verdict of the court-martial was that "the charges of insubordination had been partly proved, and therefore that Lieutenant Peter Simple was dismissed his s.h.i.+p; but in consideration of his good character and services his case was strongly recommended to the consideration of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty."

I hardly knew whether I felt glad or sorry at this sentence. On the one hand, in spite of the fourteen years I had served, it was almost a death-blow to my future advancement or employment in the service; on the other, the recommendation very much softened down the sentence, and I was quite happy to be quit of Captain Hawkins and free to hasten to my poor sister.

I hurried on sh.o.r.e, but on my journey north fell ill with fever, and for three weeks was in a state of alternate stupor and delirium, lying in a cottage by the roadside.

My uncle, learning of my condition, thought this too favourable an opportunity, provided I should live, not to have me in his power. He sent to have me removed, and some days afterwards--for I recollect nothing about the journey--I found myself in bed in a dark room, and my arms confined. Where was I? Presently the door opened, and a man entered who took down a shutter, and the light streamed in. The walls were bare and whitewashed. I looked at the window; it was closed up with two iron bars.

"Why, where am I?" I inquired, with alarm.

"Where are you?" replied he. "Why, in Bedlam!"

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 t.i.tle and estates, and that it was more from the fear of my coming to some harm than from any ill-will toward the poor young man that he wished me to remain in the hospital and be taken care of. Under these circ.u.mstances, I remained in Bedlam for one year and eight months.

A chance visit from General O'Brien, a prisoner on parole, who was accompanied by his friend, Lord Belmore, secured my release; and shortly afterwards I commenced an action for false imprisonment against Lord Privilege. But the sudden death of my uncle stopped the action, and gave me the t.i.tle and estates. The return of my old messmate, Captain O'Brien, who had just been made Sir Terence O'Brien, in consequence of his successes in the East Indies, added to my happiness.

I found that Sir Terence had been in love with my sister Ellen from the day I had first taken him home, and that Ellen was equally in love with him; so when Celeste consented to my entreaties that our wedding should take place six weeks after my a.s.suming the t.i.tle, O'Brien took the hint and spoke.

Both unions have been attended with as much happiness as this world can afford. O'Brien and I are blessed with children, until we can now muster a large Christmas party in the two families.

Such is the history of Peter Simple, Viscount Privilege, no longer the fool, but the head, of the family.

CHARLES MATURIN

Melmoth the Wanderer

The romances of Charles Robert Maturin mark the transition stage between the old crude "Gothic" tales of terror and the subtler and weirder treatment of the supernatural that had its greatest master in Edgar Allan Poe. Maturin was born at Dublin in 1782, and died there on October 30, 1824. He became a clergyman of the Church of Ireland; but his leanings were literary rather than clerical, and his first story, "Montorio"

(1807), was followed by others that brought him increasing popularity. Over-zealousness on a friend's behalf caused him heavy financial losses, for which he strove to atone by an effort to write for the stage. Thanks to the good offices of Scott and Byron, his tragedy, "Bertram," was acted at Drury Lane in 1816, and proved successful. But his other dramatic essays were failures, and he returned to romance. In 1820 was published his masterpiece, "Melmoth the Wanderer," the central figure of which is acknowledged to be one of the great Satanic creations of literature. The book has been more appreciated in France than in England; one of its most enthusiastic admirers was Balzac, who paid it the compliment of writing a kind of sequel to it.

_I.--The Portrait_

"I want a gla.s.s of wine," groaned the old man; "it would keep me alive a little longer."

John Melmoth offered to get some for him. The dying man clutched the blankets around him, and looked strangely at his nephew.

"Take this key," he said. "There is wine in that closet."

John knew that no one but his uncle had entered the closet for sixty years--his uncle who had spent his life in greedily heaping treasure upon treasure, and who, now, on his miserable death-bed, grudged the clergyman's fee for the last sacrament.

When John stepped into the closet, his eyes were instantly riveted by a portrait that hung on the wall. There was nothing remarkable about costume or countenance, but the eyes, John felt, were such as one feels they wish they had never seen. In the words of Southey, "they gleamed with demon light." John held the candle to the portrait, and could distinguish the words on the border: "Jno. Melmoth, anno 1646." He gazed in stupid horror until recalled by his uncle's cough.

"You have seen the portrait?" whispered old Melmoth.

"Yes."

"Well, you will see him again--he is still alive."

Later in the night, when the miser was at the point of death, John saw a figure enter the room, deliberately look round, and retire. The face of the figure was the face of the portrait! After a moment of terror, John sprang up to pursue, but the shrieks of his uncle recalled him. The agony was nearly ended; in a few minutes old Melmoth was dead.

In the will, which made John a wealthy man, there was an instruction to him to destroy the portrait in the closet, and also to destroy a ma.n.u.script that he would find in the mahogany chest under the portrait; he was to read the ma.n.u.script if he pleased.

On a cold and gloomy evening John entered the closet, found the ma.n.u.script, and with a feeling of superst.i.tious awe, began to read it.

The task was a hard one, for the ma.n.u.script was discoloured and mutilated, and much was quite indecipherable.

John was able to gather, however, that it was the narrative of an Englishman, named Stanton, who had travelled in Spain in the seventeenth century. On one night of storm, Stanton had seen carried past him the bodies of two lovers who had been killed by lightning. As he watched, a man had stepped forward, had looked calmly at the bodies, and had burst into a horrible demoniac laugh. Stanton saw the man several times, always in circ.u.mstances of horror; he learnt that his name was Melmoth.

This being exercised a kind of fascination over Stanton, who searched for him far and wide. Ultimately, Stanton was confined in a madhouse by relatives who wanted to secure his property; and from the madhouse he was offered, but refused, release by Melmoth as a result of some bargain, the nature of which was not revealed.

After reading this story, John Melmoth raised his eyes, and he started involuntarily as they encountered those of the portrait. With a shudder, he tore the portrait from its frame, and rushed into his room, where he flung its fragments on the fire.

The mansion was close by the iron-bound coast of Wicklow, in Ireland, and on the next night John was summoned forth by the news that a vessel was in distress. He saw immediately that the s.h.i.+p was doomed. She lay beating upon a rock, against which the tempest hurled breakers that dashed their foam to a height of thirty feet.

In the midst of the tumult John descried, standing a little above him on the rock, a figure that showed neither sympathy nor terror, uttered no sound, offered no help. A few minutes afterwards he distinctly heard the words, "Let them peris.h.!.+"

Just then a tremendous wave das.h.i.+ng over the vessel extorted a cry of horror from the spectators. When the cry had ceased, Melmoth heard a laugh that chilled his blood. It was from the figure that stood above him. He recalled Stanton's narrative. In a blind fury of eagerness, he began to climb the rock; but a stone gave way in his grasp, and he was hurled into the roaring deep below.

It was several days before he recovered his senses, and he then learned that he had been rescued by the one survivor of the wreck, a Spaniard, who had clutched at John and dragged him ash.o.r.e with him. As soon as John had recovered somewhat, he hastened to thank his deliverer, who was lodged in the mansion. Having expressed his grat.i.tude, Melmoth was about to retire, when the Spaniard detained him.

"Senor," he said, "I understand your name is"--he gasped--"Melmoth?"

"It is."

"Had you," said the Spaniard rapidly, "a relative who was, about one hundred and forty years ago, said to be in Spain?"

"I believe--I fear--I had."