Mr. Martindale, as we have said in the preceding chapter, left his company, and walked up to the Abbey to ascertain, if possible, from some of the servants the cause of their master’s sudden journey. The old gentleman was not in the habit usually of entering the house by the grand entrance; but on the present occasion, seeing the great doors partly open, he directed his steps that way; and as he approached, he heard voices with which he had not been familiar, and when he opened the door, he saw two vulgar-looking fellows gaping about in broad astonishment at the splendid decorations of the great hall, interspersing their profound remarks with unseemly puffings of tobacco-smoke from two pipes with which they were regaling themselves. It was not on trifling occasions that Mr. Martindale was struck dumb with astonishment; but at the sight which he then saw, he was so far thunderstruck that he did not instantaneously commence the pouring forth of his interrogatory eloquence. He gazed for a moment or more on the two men, and they gazed as long at him; but their looks were not so full of astonishment as his were: at length he spoke in very hurried tones.

“Who are you? What do you want here? What do you mean by smoking your filthy pipes in this place? Have the goodness to walk out directly.”

To this speech one of the men calmly replied, “We have as much right here, sir, as you have, and perhaps more; for I guess you are only one of the upper servants, and we are sheriffs’ officers.”

“Sheriffs’ devils!” foamed forth the old gentleman; “and who sent you here, I pray? I will have no sheriffs’ officers here, I can tell you.”

This language was not respectful to the men of office, and therefore it was more sharply taken up by the speaker, who, laying aside his composure, very loudly answered:

“Come, old fellow, let us have none of your insolence, or I shall soon let you know who is master.”

Furiously again Mr. Martindale was beginning to reply, by repeating the word “Master! master! master!” when the noise brought the butler to the scene of contention. This butler was more properly a spy over the actions of the Hon. Philip Martindale than a servant of his: he was the immediate pensioner of the old gentleman; but he was also somewhat attached to his nominal master, and he therefore acted the part of a traitor rather treacherously. He knew, but had not communicated to Mr. Martindale, the intention of the young gentleman to make a journey to London, and he knew also the business on which he had gone; and he had also, on previous occasions, known more than he had thought fit to communicate to his employer. When this trusty domestic made his appearance, Mr. Martindale addressed him very impetuously:

“Oliver! what does all this mean? Here are two insolent dirty fellows calling themselves sheriffs’ officers, and strutting about as if the house was their own. Where do they come from? What do they want here? And pray, where is your master? I must insist upon knowing the meaning of all this.”

Mr. Oliver looked foolish and confused, and while he was beating his brains for a plausible lie, one of the officers began to save him all further trouble of invention by saying:

“Why, if you must know the meaning of all this, I will tell you. The Hon. Philip Martindale is—”

“Is gone out shooting,” interrupted the trusty Oliver: “he went out early this morning, sir.”

“Shooting with a long bow,” muttered the officer. “Shooting at this time of year, you rascal!” exclaimed Mr. Martindale: “why, you puppy, this is only the beginning of August.”

“I don’t mean shooting game, sir, but shooting with bow and arrow. He—he—is gone to—an archery meeting.”

“What! is he gone to an archery meeting in London? But pray, Mr. Oliver, can you tell me why he has been so careful of his own carriage as to take a hired chaise?”

“He was afraid, sir, that the journey might be rather too long for his own horses.”

“Yes,” interrupted the officer, “it would have been too far for his own horses to travel.”

“Hold your tongue, you puppy!” was the only acknowledgment which the speaker received for this corroboration of the trusty Oliver’s speech: then turning again to Oliver, Mr. Martindale continued:

“So your master is grown mightily merciful to his horses all on a sudden; and was he also afraid that his travelling chariot would be tired of the long journey? Was it too far for the carriage to travel?”

“I guess it was rather too far for his carriage to go from home,” replied the officer.

“Fellow!” cried Mr. Martindale, “I want none of your fool’s prate.”

“Perhaps not,” replied the man; “you seem to have enough of your own.”

“Silence, you puppy! do you know who you are speaking to? I will not put up with this insolence in my own house. This is my own house; I built it: every article in it is mine.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the officer, “I did not know you: but I will immediately explain.…”

“If you will have the goodness, sir, to step this way,” interrupted Oliver, “perhaps my master may be returned by this time. I will tell you all the particulars.”

Mr. Martindale had kept this fellow a long while in his employment, and had estimated his fidelity by his treachery, forgetting that they who have a double game to play make a double profit upon it; for while the old gentleman had been bribing him to betray the young one, the young one had been paying him to deceive the old one: so that by this double diplomacy Oliver had become, to use a phrase of Dr. Johnson’s, “a very pretty rascal.” By deceiving both parties he had injured both; but they had only themselves to thank for it. Had they been simple enough to follow the old maxim, that honesty is the best policy, they would both have gained their ends more effectually: the elder Martindale would have experienced from the younger greater deference and confidence, and the younger Martindale would have experienced from the elder a greater degree of liberality.

On the present occasion, it never for a moment entered the mind of the old gentleman that the sheriffs’ officers could be at Brigland Abbey on any serious professional engagement. It may indeed be asked, if he did not think that, what was he thinking of? What, indeed! That is a question which he himself could not answer. Having however no suspicion of what was really the case, he was the more easily drawn away by the crafty Oliver from the impending explanation which was threatened by the officer.

Having thus drawn Mr. Martindale away from the immediate explanation which was just coming upon him, Oliver’s next concern was to construct something of a plausible story to account not only for the presence of the officers at the Abbey, but for their rude behaviour, which to his mind appeared totally insoluble on any other theory than that of their being in possession by virtue of their office. To acknowledge this truth appeared to him as the most effectual means to bring ruin on himself and his master. As soon, therefore, as he had conducted the old gentleman into the library, he began to apologise for the presence and rudeness of these men; and Mr. Martindale being removed from the sight of those who had excited his anger, began to grow a little more cool, and was better prepared to hear explanation. Fortunately for Oliver and his master, the curiosity of the old gentleman was not so strongly excited by the presence of the officers as by the absence of the Hon. Philip Martindale. He therefore very easily believed the story which the trusty butler invented, that these officers had been on a visit to one of the servants, and that they were rather intoxicated; but the difficulty to be solved was the absence of the master of the house, and his travelling with post-horses and a hired chaise. Now Mr. Oliver would have been utterly unworthy of his place and occupation as a professional tell-tale and a hired spy, had he been unable to invent, or unready to utter, a most wilful, deliberate, and glorious lie. Having therefore disposed of the difficulty of the presence of the officers, he went on very deliberately to say:

“Did not my master call at the cottage this morning? I am sure he intended to do so; but perhaps he was too early. I think he must have called, but perhaps you were not stirring, sir.”

“Not stirring, you dog; why I was at the mineral spring by five o’clock, or very little after.”

“Oh! then that accounts for your not seeing my master before he went, for he set out just after the turret-clock struck five; and very likely he saw you walking across the meadow, and knew it would be useless to call at the cottage.”

“But I wonder why he did not tell me of his engagement yesterday; for he must have known it then, if he set out so early this morning.”

“I believe, sir,” replied the trusty one, “that I am to blame for that; for a note was brought here yesterday morning, and I forgot to deliver it till just as my master was going to bed. The note was from Sir Andrew Featherstone, to say that the archery-meeting was fixed for this day instead of next Wednesday, in order to accommodate the young ladies from Hollywick Priory, because they must accompany their uncle to Cheltenham on Monday at the latest; and so, sir, my master was forced to go in a hurry; and as he had taken the carriage-horses to the assizes yesterday, and as the other horses had not been much used to the chariot, so he ordered me to go down to the Red Lion to bespeak a pair of chaise-horses, and I by mistake ordered chaise and horses; and as it was very late when I returned, my master would not make any alteration, and he took them as I had ordered.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Martindale, “but Parson Denver told me that your master was gone to London; now Sir Andrew Featherstone has not an archery-meeting at his townhouse.”

“That must be a mistake of Mr. Denver’s; for I am sure that my master is not gone to London. I can show you, sir, the very letter which my master received from Sir Andrew Featherstone.”

Thereupon the trusty Oliver left the worthy old gentleman for a few minutes to his own meditations; and as he knew that it would be in vain to look for a letter which had no existence but in his own imagination, he used this interval in properly tutoring the sheriffs’ officers in case they should again meet Mr. Martindale.

“It is very unfortunate, sir,” exclaimed the butler, when he returned to the library, “but I believe my master must have carried the letter with him; for I saw it on his dressing-table this morning, and I read it when his back was turned; but I think he went into the room again before he left home, and he has, no doubt, taken the letter with him.”

“Ay, ay, never mind; I don’t want to see any of Sir Andrew Featherstone’s foolish letters. Archery, forsooth! and for young women to make such an exhibition of themselves! It is absolutely indecent. I am sorry that Philip should lend himself to encourage any such ridiculous foolery. What crotchet will seize the fashionable world next, I wonder. I suppose we shall have the tread-mill converted into a machine for the amusement of elegant females. It will be a pretty species of gymnastic exercise. Now, Oliver, I beg you will not say a word to your master of my having made inquiries after him, and see that these drunken officers are sent away as soon as possible. It is quite disreputable for the servants to keep such company.”

Mr. Oliver made all the professions and promises which were required of him, and was not sorry to get so easily rid of his difficulties. The old gentleman then recollecting that he had left his guests to entertain each other at the cottage, prepared to return home, but in his way he met old Richard Smith, whom indeed he did not personally know; but as the poor man knew Mr. Martindale, he pulled off his hat, and made a very humble obeisance to the rich man. There was something very striking in the appearance of Richard Smith, especially when his head was uncovered. His hair was of a silvery whiteness, and it hung about his neck in full and graceful ringlets; his forehead was bold and high, and almost without a wrinkle; and his fine eyes, but little dimmed with age, presented the appearance of strength and vigour contending with time. His figure was tall, and but just beginning to bend under the weight of years. The manner in which he made his obeisance was also impressive; there was dignity in his humility, and his bow was neither slavishly obsequious nor vulgarly insolent. There was in his whole appearance a manifestation of that indelible nobility with which nature endows some individuals of the human species in every rank and condition of life, and which all the drilling and tutoring of artificial society can neither imitate nor improve. The venerable look and the graceful demeanour of the old man induced Mr. Martindale to take especial notice of him, and ask his name, and place of abode, and employment.

“My name, sir,” replied the old man, “is Richard Smith; my abode is at Brigland; and I am past labour.”

“Eh! what! Smith! Richard Smith!—Are you the person that my graceless cub of a cousin had the insolence to knock down and send to jail as a poacher? I hope he has paid you the amount of damages awarded to you.”

“It was only yesterday, sir, that the verdict was given, and I have no desire to hurry the gentleman for payment: I wish him to make it convenient to himself.”

“What are you talking about, my good man? Do you think it can make any difference to my cousin when he pays such a sum as one hundred pounds. You fancy you are talking about a shopkeeper.”

“I beg pardon, sir; I do not mean to speak disparagingly of the Hon. Philip Martindale, but lawyer Flint told me this morning, that when he applied to lawyer Price about the settlement of the damages and costs, he was informed that they would be paid in a few days, but it was not quite convenient at present.”

“Nonsense, the lawyers want to cheat you; Philip has money enough to pay you, and I will take care that you shall be paid. I will see Price to-morrow, and he shall settle the business at once. I am afraid the young man is not quite so steady as he ought to be. I don’t at all approve of his behaviour to you and your niece, and I shall tell him my mind pretty plainly.”

The old man shook his head and sighed. Mr. Martindale observed his emotion, and interrogated him more closely concerning the behaviour of Philip, assuring him that, instead of being offended, he should be thankful for any information concerning the conduct of his young relative, in order that he might use his influence to correct it.

“I am not thinking, sir,” replied Richard Smith, with great solemnity of tone, “only of your honourable relative, but of the numbers in his rank of life who make the miseries of the poor their amusement and sport. I am thinking, sir, that it is a sad mockery of the seriousness of legislation, that profligate and ignorant lads should sit as lawgivers.” Mr. Martindale frowned, for he had bought a borough for his hopeful relative; but as he stood in the attitude of listening, the old man went on: “I think it a sad disgrace to the country, that ignominious and painful punishments are denounced against those offences only which the legislators have no temptation to commit.”

“Well done, old gentleman,” replied Mr. Martindale, “you talk like a philosopher. I am quite of your way of thinking. So you don’t think that it is enough to make young gentlemen pay for their frolics; you would have them sent to work at the tread-mill, or give them a public whipping now and then by way of example.”

“And do not you think,” said the old man more sternly, “that such inflictions as these would be more effectual in checking the vices of the higher orders, than a mere fine which is paid and forgotten, or which places vice in the same scale as a luxury?”

“Why, my good friend, you are a severe legislator; you seem to be angry with my young spark. But now, if your system should be adopted, the injured party would gain no redress; whereas now the wound is healed by heavy damages; and surely it is much better to receive a pecuniary compensation, than merely to have the satisfaction of knowing that the offender is personally punished.”

“Excuse me, sir, but you are not speaking according to your own judgment. You must know that the professed end of the law is security from injury. Substitute a pecuniary compensation for the punishment now denounced against murder, and whose life is safe?”

“You are angry, my friend, you are angry. You should not bear malice; I will take care and see you righted; my cousin shall not have it said of him that he oppresses the poor.”

“Then, perhaps, sir, you will so far befriend me as that I may not be turned out of my cottage; for lawyer Price told me that I should be sent off as soon as the damages were paid.”

At this request of the poor man, or rather at the occasion for the request, Mr. Martindale was really vexed and angry. He had tolerated many of his cousin’s vices under the name of youthful follies; but when he found him guilty of the meanness of so despicable a species of revenge, he was deeply mortified, and with great emotion replied: “The very day that you are driven out of the cottage, Philip shall leave the Abbey.”

Having said this, he hurried home to his guests in no enviable frame of mind. Mr. Denver was accustomed to the old gentleman’s peculiarities; but Horatio Markham, who had never known, and who scarcely apprehended what it was to be dependent on another’s caprices, felt uneasy and constrained, and was beginning to wish that he could, consistently with common politeness, reduce his visit to a day, instead of a week or ten days. He was however soon relieved from his temporary uneasiness, by the return of good humour to the tone and countenance of his host, who proposed that, before visiting the Abbey, they should call at old Richard’s cottage, and inquire into his circumstances.