The Rev. Cornelius Denver, perpetual curate of Brigland, was one of the best-tempered creatures in the world. He would not injure any one; he had almost every one’s good word; he was full of smiles and courtesy; he had nothing of the pomp or pride of priestly manners; he did not keep his parishioners at an awful distance, or affect to exercise any spiritual dominion over them by virtue of his calling; he was familiar with all, and good-humoured to all; he had not the slightest tincture of bigotry or party-spirit; in politics and religion he was most truly liberal; he had, of course, his own opinions on these subjects, but he called them into use so seldom, that he and his neighbours scarcely knew what they were; he was equally obliging to all parties, and there were many differing sects of religion in his parish; every possible variety of sectarianism flourished at Brigland, and they all united in praising the curate’s liberality.

There were also many members of the established church in the parish; but though they all praised their curate, they did not all very frequently attend his ministrations. Old Mr. Martindale used facetiously to say, that he should go to church much oftener if Mr. Denver would make longer sermons, but that it was so tantalising to be woke before his nap was half finished. But Mr. Denver served two other churches beside Brigland, and one of them was almost eight miles distant, so he had not much time to spare on Sunday; for he had two services at his own parish, and one every Sunday at the other two.

Our worthy curate was a married man, but he had no family; and that circumstance gave him abundant opportunity to interest himself about the affairs of all the town. Mrs. Denver assisted him greatly in this public and universal sympathy. Mrs. Denver was said to be a very intelligent woman, and had enjoyed that reputation for many years. Her maiden name was Smith—no relation to old Richard Smith; and she had borne that name so long, that she was tired of it, regarding it as Archbishop Tillotson did the Athanasian Creed, wishing that she “was well rid of it.” Many people thought that Mr. Denver married her from a motive of pure good nature, because nobody else was likely to marry her. She was of high family “originally,” as she used to say; being descended from the Simsons of Devonshire, one of whom was knighted by Richard the Third; and she was very particular in stating that her ancestors did not spell the name with p, for that was an innovation, and it was a very inferior family that was called Simpson.

All the gossip of the town and neighbourhood flowed to the parsonage as a centre, and again flowed from it as from a perennial and exhaustless fountain. In justice to the worthy curate it must be stated, that so far as he was concerned, there was nothing of censoriousness blended with his collecting and communicating disposition: he was happy to hear intelligence, and pleased to spread it; but he never pronounced an opinion as to the propriety or impropriety of the matters of which he heard and of which he spoke. It was not exactly so with Mrs. Denver; her candour was not equal to that of her husband: not that she was at all censorious, very far from it; but she could not help, as she said, feeling indignant at the vices and wickednesses which abounded in the world; and she was certainly not to be blamed for what she could not help. Sometimes she would even be angry with her husband on account of the placidity of his temper; and she would even acknowledge that she could have no patience with the abominations of the age. It must be also added, that Mrs. Denver was not quite equal to her husband in the virtue of liberality towards sectarians. She had been brought up as a member of the church established by law, and she could not see how it was possible that any other religion should be true; and for her part, she was fully determined not to countenance any false religion. It was rather unfortunate for the poor woman, that, with the exception of the Martindales, the principal people at Brigland were dissenters; and so there were two or three drawing-rooms from which her orthodoxy would have excluded her, but to which her love of the good things of life attracted her. Mrs. Denver was decidedly loyal: her reverence for majesty was unbounded. She was so grateful to Richard the Third for having knighted one of the Simsons, that she thought she could never say enough in favour of royalty.

Now it came to pass in the progress of events, that while Mr. Martindale and Horatio Markham were in Richard Smith’s cottage, Mrs. Price, the wife of Philip Martindale’s attorney, had gained a piece of intelligence which, as she received it, was imperfect and obscure, but which she hoped and trusted that Mr. and Mrs. Denver might be able to elucidate and complete. She therefore made a very early call at the parsonage, and began by offering an apology for looking in so soon in the day. The apology was most readily accepted: for the good people of the parsonage knew that Mrs. Price would not have called so early had there not been something important to communicate. As soon as she was seated she began:—

“I suppose you have heard, Mrs. Denver, of the sheriffs’ officers being in possession at the Abbey.”

“Sheriffs’ officers in possession at the Abbey! Why, Mrs. Price, what do you mean?”

“Mean, Mrs. Denver! why I mean what I say; there are two sheriffs’ officers now at the Abbey. They were sent in yesterday morning; and old Mr. Martindale saw them there, and asked them what business they had there, and they told him that they were in possession; and the old gentleman asked what was the amount of the claim, and it was such an enormous sum that it was more than he could pay. I don’t know all the particulars, but I heard Oliver talking the matter over to my husband; and Mr. Philip is gone to London in a hired chaise, for they would not let him have his own carriage; and he is gone to get some money of the Jews. He intended to travel all night, that he might get home early this morning, and send the officers away before the old gentleman could know any thing of the matter.”

“Bless me, Mrs. Price, why you astonish me! Who would have thought it? Well, that’s what I always said; I knew it must come to that. You know it was not likely that he could ever support the expense of that great house; and really between ourselves, I never thought that old Mr. Martindale was so very rich as some people said.”

“I don’t know whether the old man is very rich,” replied Mrs. Price; “I am sure the young one is very poor. My husband has advanced money to him which has been owing a very long while; and I cannot see any probability of his getting it again in any reasonable time; and then he cannot even pay the damages in which he was cast in the action of old Smith.”

“Oh, now you talk about old Smith,” interrupted Mrs. Denver, “do you know any thing about that man’s history? for I scarcely ever heard of him before this action took place. Pray where does he live?”

“He lives in the lone cottage in Old Field Lane, I understand. But there is something very odd about that man. I thought perhaps you might know something about him. As for his being a poor man, I don’t believe any such thing. Every body says he has money; and my husband says that he is very sure that Flint would never have undertaken that cause for a poor superannuated labourer; and then Flint told my husband that there was no hurry about the damages. I very much doubt whether the man’s real name is Smith; for that is such a very convenient name for any one to assume.”

“Well, I have never heard any thing of him before; but now you mention it, I think I remember to have seen him one morning when I walked up to the spring with Mr. Denver.”

At this moment the reverend gentleman entered the apartment where the ladies were conversing, and he was immediately assailed with an impetuous torrent of interrogations from both of them, as touching the birth, parentage and education, life, character, and behaviour of the above-named Richard Smith. To these inquiries he returned answers not very satisfactory; and they all three began to blame themselves and each other that they had suffered the old man to settle quietly in the parish without making due previous inquiry concerning his history and origin. He had been, as they all acknowledged, a very quiet, inoffensive creature; but quietness was sometimes a symptom of mischief: it was so with children, and why might it not be so with old men too.

Though Mr. Denver had it not in his power to indulge Mrs. Price with any information, the worthy lady was too generous to withhold from him any information which it was in her power to convey; and she liberally repeated the story of the bailiff being in possession at the Abbey, and of the Hon. Philip Martindale having made a journey to London for the purpose of borrowing money of such as accommodated their particular friends on the most liberal terms and with the strictest secrecy. Mr. Denver was as usual astonished, amazed, thunderstruck at all that was told him. By the way, some of the perpetual curate’s good friends used to think that the good man was not altogether judicious in the use of the word “thunderstruck,” which he always employed when he received any intelligence from any of the ladies of Brigland.

Mrs. Price went on to say, that old Mr. Martindale had expressed his determination to disinherit Mr. Philip; but as that was a very particular secret, she begged that it might not be mentioned. At hearing this request, Mrs. Denver looked at her watch, for she thought it high time that she should take her morning’s round, and endeavour to ascertain whether this profound secret were known to any one else. Mrs. Price took the hint, and departed.

It is by no means the best method to keep a secret to endeavour to find out how many others are in possession of the same. Many a secret has been thus revealed, which might otherwise have been inviolably and safely kept. On the subject of keeping secrets, a great deal may be said; and the matter is surrounded with more difficulties than superficial observers are apt to imagine. For what is the use or benefit of knowing any thing, if we cannot let that knowledge be known. If a secret be confided to us, an honour is thereby conferred; but if that secret be not by us again talked about, directly or indirectly, how can the world know how much we are honoured? Who would give a fig to receive the honour of knighthood, if he were under an obligation to let no one know it? or who would give fifteen pence (pounds some say it costs) for a doctor’s degree, if he could never blazon the honour to the world? We check ourselves in the discussion with the consoling consideration that our business is with facts not with philosophy. Suffice it then to say, that before the day closed, every inhabitant of Brigland who had any care for other’s business, knew that old Richard Smith was mysteriously wealthy, that bailiffs were in possession at the Abbey, that the Hon. Philip Martindale was gone to London to borrow money, and that old Mr. Martindale would never speak to the young gentleman again. Then every body began to think that the Hon. Philip Martindale was the most profligate young man that ever lived; then all his follies became vices, and his irregularities most horrible enormities; then the talk was very loud concerning his pride and his overbearing manners; then Mrs. Dickinson, the landlady of the Red Lion, began to fear that she should not be paid for her chaise.

The good people of Brigland were unnecessarily alarmed for the result of Philip Martindale’s indiscretions: it was not true that the old gentleman knew for what purpose the bailiffs were in the house; nor was it probable that, had he known it, he would therefore have cast off his dependent relative. Power is not willingly or readily parted with. So long as the honourable gentleman acknowledged by endeavours to conceal his irregularities that he stood in awe of his opulent relative, so long would he continue an interesting object of patronage to the old gentleman. As, however, it may not be easy to gather from the floating rumours of the gossips of Brigland what was the real truth of the matter, it may be as well to state explicitly that the Hon. Philip Martindale had paid certain debts of honour with that supply which Mr. Martindale thought had been devoted to some other purpose, and an impatient creditor had actually put into force a threat which he had made of sending officers to the Abbey. The young gentleman had recourse in this extremity to some good friends in the city, by whose prompt assistance the supplies were raised, and the Abbey was cleared of those birds of ill omen. Oliver’s story, as we have seen, had satisfied the old gentleman; and he alone remained in ignorance of a fact in his relative’s conduct, which certainly would have disturbed him greatly, but which would not have provoked him to disinheriting.

By the same conveyance which brought the means of liberating the Abbey, old Richard Smith received through the hands of his attorney a satisfaction also of his claim; and as Mrs. Price was all the day occupied in telling the same story as she had told in the morning, it came to pass that she told more lies at the end of the day than she had at the beginning. In the mean time, the day was passing rapidly away, and Philip Martindale did not return. Oliver was a little puzzled to account for this delay to himself, but he could easily account for it to the old gentleman. What a pity it is that those ingenious gentlemen who can invent lies for the satisfaction of others, cannot invent any for the solution of their own difficulties. Mr. Oliver was in some degree of alarm, lest his stories, by some movement of his master, might not well hang together; and had it not been for some very natural fear that he might altogether lose his character and his place, he probably would have been provoked to tell the old gentleman the truth: he considered, however, that as he had so long played a double part, it would be now too late to affect honesty.