“There was a time,--
And pity ’tis so good a time had wings
To fly away,--when reverence was paid
To a grey head; ’twas held a sacrilege
Not expiable, to deny respect
To one, sir, of your years and gravity.”
RANDOLPH.
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.