# The Adventures of David Simple (1904)/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III
in which is seen the possibility of a married couple's leading an uneasy life
Mutual fondness, and the desire of marrying with each other, had prevailed with the two servants, who were the cause of poor David's misfortunes, and the engines of Daniel's treachery, to consent to an action which they themselves feared they should be d———n'd for; but this fond couple had not long been joined together in the state of matrimony, before John found out, that Peggy had not all those perfections he once imagined her possessed of; and her merit decreased every day more and more in his eyes. However, while the money lasted, (which was not very long, for they were not at all scrupulous of using it, thinking such great riches were in no danger of being brought to an end) between upbraidings, quarrels, reconciliations, kissing, and falling out, they made a shift to jumble on together, without coming to an open rupture. But the money was no sooner gone, than they grew out of all patience. When John began to feel poverty coming upon him, and found all he had got by his villainy was a wife, whom he now was heartily weary of, his conscience flew in his face, and would not let him rest. All the comfort he had left, was in abusing Peggy: he said she had betrayed him, and he should have been always honest, had it not been for her wheedling. She, on the other hand, justified herself, by alleging, nothing but her love for him could have drawn her into it; and if he thought it so great a crime, as he was a man, and knew better than her, he should not have consented, or suffered her to do it. For though I dare say this girl had never read Milton, yet she could act the part of ​throwing the blame on her husband, as well as if she had learned it by heart. In short, from morning till night, they did nothing but quarrel; and there passed many curious dialogues between them, which I shall not here repeat; for, as I hope to be read by the polite world, I would avoid every thing of which they can have no idea. I shall therefore only say in general, that between the stings of their consciences, the distresses from poverty, John's coldness and neglect; nay, his liking other women better than his wife, which no virtuous woman can possibly bear; and Peggy's uneasiness and jealousy; this couple led a life very little to be envied. But this could not last long; for when they found it was impossible for them to subsist any longer without working, they resolved to go into separate services: for they were now as eager to part, as they had formerly been to come together.
They were forming this resolution when they heard Mr. David was gone from his brother's house on a violent quarrel. This separation had made a general discourse, and people said—it was no wonder, for it was impossible anybody could live in the house with him; for he was of such a temper that he fell out with his brother, for no other reason than because he would not turn away all his servants to gratify his humours! For although Mr. Daniel had all the money, yet he was so good to keep him; and sure, when people are kept upon charity they need not be so proud, but be glad to be contented without setting a gentleman against his servants! The old gentleman, his father, knew what he was, or he would have left him more!
When John heard all this he was struck with amazement and the wickedness he had been guilty of appeared in so horrible a light that he was almost mad. At first he thought he would find Mr. David ​out, and confess the whole truth: they had lived in the same house a great while and John knew him to be so mild and gentle that he flattered himself he might possibly obtain his forgiveness; but then the fear of shame worked so violently, that he despaired of mustering sufficient spirits to go through the story. The struggle in his mind was so great, he could not fix on what to determine; but the same person who had drawn him into this piece of villainy occasioned at last the discovery; for his wife intreated him with all the arguments she could think of not to be hanged voluntarily, when there was no necessity for it, for although the action they had done was not right, yet, thank God, they had not been guilty of murder. Indeed, if that had been the case there would have been a reason for confessing it, because it could not have been concealed, for murder will out; the very birds of the air will tell of that: but as they were in no danger of being found out it would be madness to run their necks into a halter.
John, who was ruined by his compliance with this woman while he liked her, since he was weary of and hated her, took hold of every opportunity to contradict her. Therefore, her eagerness to keep their crime a secret, joined to his own remorse, determined him to let Mr. David know it. However, he dissembled with her for the present lest she should take any steps to obstruct his designs.
He immediately began to inquire where Mr. David was gone, and when he was informed he was at his uncle's he went thither and asked for him; but a servant told him Mr. David was indeed there but so ill he could not be spoke with. However, if the business was of great consequence, he would call his master, but disclosing it to himself would do as well. John answered what he had to say could be communicated to nobody but to ​Mr. David himself. He was so very importunate to see him that at last, by the uncle's consent, he was admitted into his chamber. When the fellow came near poor David, and observed that wan and meagre countenance, which the great agitation of his mind (together with a fever, which he had been in ever since he came to his uncle's) had caused, he was so shocked for some time, that he could not speak. At last he fell on his knees, and imploring pardon, told him the whole story of his forging the will, not omitting any one circumstance. The great weakness of David's body, with this fresh astonishment and strong conviction of his brother's villainy, quite overcame him, and he fainted away; but as soon as his spirits were a little revived, he sent for his uncle, and told him what John had just related. He asked him what was to be done, and in what manner they could proceed; for that he would on no account bring public infamy on his brother. His uncle told him, he could do nothing in his present condition; but desired him to compose himself, and have a regard to his health, and that he would take care of the whole affair, adding a promise to manage everything in the quietest manner possible.
Then the good-natured man took John into another room, examined him closely, and assured him, if he would act as he would have him, he would make interest that he should be forgiven; but that he must prevail with his wife to join her evidence with his. John said, if he pleased to go with him, he thought the best method to deal with her, was to frighten her to it. On which the old gentleman sent for an attorney, and carried one of his own servants for a constable, in order to make her comply with as little noise as such an affair could admit of. They then set out for John's house, when David's uncle told the woman, if she would ​confess the truth, she should be forgiven; but if she resolved to persist, he had brought a constable to take her up, and she would surely be hanged on her husband's evidence. The wench was so terrified she fell a-crying, and told all she knew of the matter. The attorney then took both their depositions in form; after which, John and his wife went home with Mr. David's uncle, and were to stay there till the affair was finished.
The poor young man, with this fresh disturbance of his mind, was grown worse, and thought to be in danger of losing his life; but by the great care of the old gentleman he soon recovered. The uncle's next design was to go to Daniel, and endeavour by all means to bring him to reasonable terms, and to prevail on him to submit himself to his brother's discretion. Daniel at first blustered, and swore it was a calumny, and that he would prosecute the fellow and wench for perjury: and then left the room, with a haughtiness that generally attends that high-mindedness which is capable of being detected in guilt. He tried all methods possible to get John and his wife out of his uncle's house, in order to bribe them a second time; but that scheme could not succeed. He then used every endeavour to procure false evidence; but when the time of trial approached, his uncle went once more to him, and talked seriously to him on the consequences of being convicted in a court of justice of forgery, especially of that heinous sort: assuring him, he had the strongest evidence, joined to the greatest probability of the falseness of his father's will. After he had discoursed with him some time, and Daniel began to find the impossibility of defending himself, he fell from one extreme to another (for a mind capable of treachery is most times very pusillanimous) and his pride now thought fit to condescend to the most abject submissions; he ​begged he might see his brother, and ask his pardon; and said, he would live with him as a servant for the future, if he would but forgive him. His uncle told him, he could by no means admit of his seeing David as yet, for he was still too weak to be disturbed; but if he would resign all that was left of his father's fortune, and leave himself at his brother's mercy, he would venture to promise that he should not be prosecuted. Daniel was very unwilling to part with his money; but finding there was no remedy, he at last consented.
His uncle would not leave him till he had got everything out of his hands, lest he should embezzle any of it; there was not above eight thousand pounds out of eleven left by his father, for he had rioted away the rest with women and sots.
When everything was secured, the old gentleman told David what he had done, who highly approved every step he had taken, and was full of gratitude for his goodness to him. And now in appearance all David's troubles were over, and indeed he had nothing to make himself uneasy, but the reflecting on his brother's actions; these were continually before his eyes, and tormented him in such a manner, it was some time before he could recover his strength. However, he resolved to settle on Daniel an annuity for life to keep him from want; and if he should ever by his extravagance fall into distress, to relieve him, though he should not know from whom it came; but he thought it better not to see him again, for he dared not venture that trial.
David desired his uncle would let him live with him, that he might take care of him in his old age; and make as much return as possible for his generous, good-natured treatment of him in his distress. This request was easily granted; his company being the greatest pleasure the old man could enjoy.
David now resolved to live an easy life, without ​entering into any more engagements of either friendship or love; but to spend his time in reading and calm amusements, not flattering himself with any great pleasures, and consequently not being liable to any great disappointments. This manner of life was soon interrupted again by his uncle's being taken violently ill of a fever, which carried him off in ten days' time. This was a fresh disturbance to the ease he had proposed; for David had so much tenderness, he could not possibly part with so good a friend, without being moved: though he soothed his concern as much as possible, with the consideration that he was arrived to an age, wherein to breathe was all could be expected, and that diseases and pains must have filled up the rest of his life. At last he began to reflect, even with pleasure, that the man whom he had so much reason to esteem and value, had escaped the most miserable part of human life; for hitherto the old man had enjoyed good health; and he was one of those sort of men who had good principles, designed well, and did all the good in his power; but at the same time was void of those delicacies and strong sensations of the mind, which constitute both the happiness and misery of those who are possessed of them. He left no children; for though he was married young, his wife died within half a year, of the small-pox. She brought him a very good fortune; and by his frugality and care he died worth upwards of ten thousand pounds, which he gave to his nephew David, some few legacies to old servants excepted.
When David saw himself in the possession of a very easy, comfortable fortune, instead of being overjoyed, as is usual on such occasions, he was at first the more unhappy; the considerations of the pleasure he should have had to share this fortune with his brother continually brought to his ​remembrance his cruel usage, which made him feel all his old troubles over again. He had no ambition, nor any delight in grandeur. The only use he had for money was to serve his friends; but when he reflected how difficult it was to meet with a person who deserved that name, and how hard it would be for him ever to believe any one sincere, having been so much deceived, he thought nothing in life could be any great good to him again. He spent whole days in thinking on this subject, wishing he could meet with a human creature capable of friendship: by which word he meant so perfect a union oi minds, that each should consider himself but as a part of one entire being; a little community, as it were, of two, to the happiness oi which all the actions of both should tend, with an absolute disregard of any selfish or separate interest.
This was the phantom, the idol of his soul's admiration. In the worship of which he at length grew such an enthusiast, that he was in this point only as mad as Quixote himself could be with knight-errantry; and after much amusing himself with the deepest ruminations on this subject, in which a fertile imagination raised a thousand pleasing images to itself, he at length took the oddest, most unaccountable resolution, that ever was heard of, viz., to travel through the whole world, rather than not meet with a real friend.
From the time he lived with his brother, he had led so recluse a life, that he in a manner had shut himself up from the world; but yet when he reflected that the customs and manners of nations relate chiefly to ceremonies, and have nothing to do with the hearts of men; he concluded, he could sooner enter into the characters of men in the great metropolis where he lived, than if he went into foreign countries; where, not understanding the languages so readily, it would be more difficult to find out the ​sentiments of others, which was all he wanted to know. He resolved, therefore, to take a journey through London; not as some travellers do, to see the buildings, the streets, to know the distances from one place to another, with many more sights of equal use and improvement; but his design was to seek out one capable of being a real friend, and to assist all those who had been thrown into misfortunes by the ill usage of others.
He had good sense enough to know, that mankind in their natures are much the same everywhere; and that if he could go through one great town, and not meet with a generous mind, it would be in vain to seek farther. In this project he intended not to spend a farthing more than was necessary; designing to keep all his money to share with his friend, if he should be so fortunate to find any man worthy to be called by that name.