“——reason, my son,Should choose himself a wife; but as good reason,The father (all whose joy is nothing elseBut fair posterity) should hold some counselIn such business.”Shakspeare.
“——reason, my son,Should choose himself a wife; but as good reason,The father (all whose joy is nothing elseBut fair posterity) should hold some counselIn such business.”Shakspeare.
“——reason, my son,
Should choose himself a wife; but as good reason,
The father (all whose joy is nothing else
But fair posterity) should hold some counsel
In such business.”
Shakspeare.
The interview between Mr. Martindale and his newly-discovered daughter took place according to his own arrangement on the following day. Inquiries were abundantly made, and explanations entered into, by which the identity of the parties was ascertained. There was, however, little or nothing of that outrageous and passionate exhibition which is so frequentlyrepresented as attending such discoveries. Mr Martindale himself had given way to strong emotions on the preceding day, the ground of which emotions was rather remorse than affection: not that he was incapable of affection, or insensible to its claims; but age makes a difference in the mode of expressing affection; and the old gentleman had never been in the way of that habitual intercourse which gives to sentiments of love their strength and feeling. Mothers who have watched over the dawnings of an infant mind, and assisted in the development of the growing powers and expanding affections of their offspring, can and do remember through a long long life, and after a very long separation and absence, the endearing and delightful thoughts and feelings which occupied their souls when attending their infant charge, and they cannot see without strong emotion those features ripened into maturity in which they had taken delight in infancy; and even fathers who have watched a mother’s care, and participated in a mother’s interests, do, after many years, ay, even through life, retain the sentiments oflove and deep affection which an infant interest has excited; but that pure pleasure belongs not to him who has never taken a pure paternal interest in his own offspring. Let this or any other theory which the reader’s better judgment may suggest, account for the fact that the meeting between Mr. Martindale and his daughter was not productive of any thing like a scene. This, however, is true, that the old gentleman was very much pleased, both with his daughter and grand-daughter. With the latter, our readers are already acquainted.
As we have introduced Signora Rivolta to her father, it may not be amiss to introduce her also to our readers.
Comparatively little interest can be felt in the personal description of a lady who has passed the season of youth; but there are some women who have ceased to be young, without ceasing to be personally interesting. Of this number was Signora Rivolta. Her style and manner was such as to inspire respect. There was about her a certain graceful and becoming stateliness which only one of her cast of featuresand mould of figure could with propriety assume. Her hair and eyes were dark; her face oval; her eyebrows finely arched; her look rather downcast. To speak classically, or heathenishly, there was in her more of Minerva than of Venus; and more of Juno than of either. Her voice was exquisitely sweet; its tones were full, and its modulation graceful. Hers was the voice which Horatio Markham heard when he stood with old Mr. Martindale near the door of old Richard Smith’s cottage; and it was her hand which touched the lute that accompanied her voice; and hers was the ivory crucifix which the young barrister carelessly threw down, and which the young woman so hastily picked up.
At the discovery of his daughter, and her interesting appearance, Mr. Martindale was much pleased; and though no dramatic raptures marked their first interview, the old gentleman was relieved from a painful mental burden which weighed heavily on his spirits, and which, while it sometimes rendered him morose, sometimesgoaded him also to the opposite extreme of false levity and an artificial humour. It was this circumstance, to which might be attributed those eccentricities of manner, which led some observers to imagine that the old gentleman was not sound in his intellects. Still, however, the essential oddity of his character was not to be removed by any changes; and a very curious manifestation of that oddity he gave at this interview with his daughter and grand-daughter, when he abruptly asked the former if she had been brought up in the religion of the Roman Catholic church; to this question, she replied in the affirmative. Thereupon the old gentleman was disturbed, and he said:
“And is your daughter also educated in the same persuasion?”
“She is,” replied Signora Rivolta; “for in what other religion could or ought she to be educated? From the professors of that religion I received my first impulses to devotion, and from their kindness I experienced protection,and from their good counsel I had guidance. I love that religion.”
“Well, well,” observed Mr. Martindale, “that is all very natural, to be sure—I can say nothing against that; but it is a pity that, now you are likely to remain in England, you should not become a Protestant. I have no objection to your religion, only there is so much bigotry about it.”
“We think it important truth, and we cannot be indifferent to it; and we are desirous of bringing all to the knowledge of the truth, that all may be saved.”
“Ay, ay, that is my objection to your religion; you think that nobody can be saved but those who adopt your opinions—now I call that bigotry.”
“Then, sir, I fear that your church lies under the same reproach, for many of its formularies seem to indicate the same view of salvation.”
“Yes, yes, there may be some such language in the prayer-book and articles, but they were drawn up in times when men were not so enlightened as they are now; and it does notfollow that all Protestants should exactly follow every minute shade of opinion or doctrine there laid down.”
Some men have been so ungallant as to say that they would never condescend to reason with a woman: if Mr. Martindale had made the same determination, it would have saved him some trouble; for in this conversation, which was extended to a much greater length than we are desirous of pursuing it, Mr. Martindale had much the worst of the argument, though not the worst side of the question. His misfortune was, that he was totally ignorant of the nature of the Roman Catholic religion, and very little better informed concerning that faith which he himself professed. It is a practice too common to be greatly reprobated, for persons to argue with great earnestness and fluency on those subjects of which they are almost totally ignorant. But, on the other hand, if persons would never begin or pertinaciously continue an argument till they had made themselves fully acquainted with the subject, then there would be a great lack ofdiscussion, and the publication of controversial treatises would greatly fall off; and there would perhaps be a mighty deficiency in the article of zeal. But it is needless to anticipate ills which may never befall us; and we may venture to bid defiance to the genius of pantology, however loudly it may threaten to illuminate every mind.
Having stated that Mr. Martindale had the happiness of discovering his daughter, it will be superfluous to say that he forthwith made preparation for her establishment in the possession of such means as might place her in a style of life more suitable to her condition than a little lone cottage. But there was a change very naturally, though very quietly, taking place in the old gentleman’s mind and in his feelings towards the Hon. Philip Martindale. He could not now think of making this gentleman his heir. In Signora Rivolta there was evidently a prior claim. As yet, however, the young gentleman at the Abbey was ignorant of the new discovery; and what is more, he was not even aware of the existence of any such person asSignora Rivolta; nor did he suspect that any such discovery was within the compass of probability.
By what the Rev. Mr. Denver had heard, and by what the wife of that said gentleman had told to Mrs. Price and Mrs. Flint, and by what Mrs. Denver and Mrs. Price and Mrs. Flint had told to every body within the reach of their knowledge, the whole town of Brigland was full of confused rumours and reports of some great calamity having befallen Mr. John Martindale. Some said that he had lost all his property; some said that he had only lost half; some had it that old Richard Smith, who had lately died, had been discovered to be Mr. Martindale’s elder brother, and that all his immense property must descend to the young woman his niece. The reports at last found their way to the housekeeper’s room at the Abbey; and the trusty Oliver trembled when he was very credibly and circumstantially informed that, in consequence of the death of old Richard Smith, some papers or parchments, or some something, had been discovered, by which it appeared that oldMr. Martindale had no right to the large property which he had so long possessed. It is the peculiar privilege of rogues always to fear the worst in doubtful matters. This privilege Oliver now abundantly enjoyed. Not wishing to keep all his news to himself, he took the first opportunity of speaking to his master; and in order to break the matter gently to him, and not all at once to overwhelm him with the fatal intelligence, he began by asking:
“Have you heard any bad news lately, sir?”
“Bad news,” hastily asked Mr. Philip, “no; what do you mean?—what kind of bad news? Do you allude to the report that the old gentleman is going to be married to Lady Woodstock?”
“Oh dear no, sir; it is a great deal worse than that: but I hope it is not true; yet I am sure I had it from very good authority, and it is not likely such a thing should be invented.”
“Well, well, don’t stand prating and prosing, but tell me at once what it is.”
The trusty Oliver shook his head and sighed.“It is nothing more nor less, sir, than that some deeds have been discovered at old Richard Smith’s cottage since the poor man’s death, by which it appears that Mr. Martindale has no right to the property he now possesses.”
“Nonsense,” replied the Hon. Philip Martindale, “who told you that fool’s tale? Do you think that I should not have heard of it, if such had been the fact?”
“Why, sir, I heard it from a gentleman who had it from Mrs. Denver; and Mr. Denver himself was present when the discovery was made. It was only yesterday that the matter came out; and Mr. Denver went down to the cottage to Mr. Martindale to tell him all about it. The gentleman who claims the property went with him; and Mr. Martindale has been at Richard Smith’s this morning. The real owner of the property comes from Italy.”
At this part of the information communicated by Oliver, the young gentleman began to be in doubt whether there might not be something serious in the report; for he recollected sometalk of old Martindale’s visit to Genoa, and of his anxiety to discover if some one was living there or not. He also called to mind much that had been said to him by Lady Martindale, dissuading him from taking up his abode at the Abbey, and placing himself in a state of dependence. He remembered distinctly and vividly the tone and expression with which his anxious mother had said to him, “Now, my dear Philip, before you decide on this step, think seriously how you shall be able to bear a reverse, if by any change the wealth of your cousin Martindale should take a different direction, either by his own caprice, or by changes over which he has no controul.” He recollected that this caution was uttered more than once or twice. He considered it therefore as in some measure prophetic. He also recollected that the old gentleman had been very silent and absent at dinner the day before; and from what Miss Isabella Featherstone had said, it seemed very manifest that some serious interruption had occurred when the party were looking over the pictures at the cottage. There was also to be added to this, his own knowledgeof the fact that Mr. Martindale had that very morning paid a very long visit to the cottage of the late Richard Smith. All these circumstances put together did, to say the least of it, greatly perplex and puzzle the mind of the young gentleman. He dismissed the trusty Oliver from his presence; and when alone, he began to meditate, plan, arrange, and conjecture, till he found himself in a complete wilderness of perplexities, and a labyrinth of contending thoughts.
His meditations, however, availed him not. There was not the least glimmering of light in any direction; and the longer he thought, the more he was perplexed. The only bearable conclusion at which he could arrive was one of very equivocal consolation; namely, it was possible that things might not be quite so bad as they had been represented.
Not long had he been alone, before his solitude was invaded by Lord Martindale. “Philip,” said his lordship, “you look grave this morning. Has any thing occurred to disturb you?”
Philip made an abortive attempt to put on a look of cheerfulness, as he replied to his question: “You would not wish, sir, that I should never look grave. Perhaps, sir, I may have lost my heart.”
His lordship looked grave in his turn, and very solemnly said: “Ah! you are not serious! To whom, I beg to know, have you lost your heart? This is an affair on which I should have been consulted.”
“I do not say positively that I have lost my heart,” replied Philip, “I was speaking hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically?” echoed his lordship; “well then let me know who it is, or may be, that has had such power over your mind, or that may be supposed capable of making so great a conquest.”
“Suppose it should be Isabella Featherstone,” replied Philip; but in such a manner as abundantly proved that the supposition was perfectly gratuitous.
His lordship shook his head; and then, with very great earnestness of manner, said to hisson: “Philip, let me speak to you seriously and as a friend. I would not have you rely too confidently on the expectation of inheriting your cousin’s estate. I have my reasons for what I say, and it is for your welfare that I speak. The Featherstones are a very respectable and an old family, but you must look for something more than mere family; you cannot keep up the dignity of your rank without an accession, and a very considerable accession of fortune, which you cannot have from the Featherstones. I wish I could persuade you to apply yourself to public business; I am sure you might make a good figure in the house, and provide for yourself far better and more honorably than by living in a state of dependence.”
Philip, for the first time in his life, heard patiently this exhortation; and greatly to the surprise and satisfaction of his lordship, went so far as to say, that he would take the matter into serious consideration. So pleased was Lord Martindale even with this faint promise, that he hasted immediately to communicate thesame to Lady Martindale. The first dinner-bell was ringing as Lord Martindale left his son’s apartment; and at nearly the same instant, Mr. John Martindale entered it.
There appeared to be a cloud on the old man’s brow; and there was a manifest coolness in his manner as he entered the apartment, and said to the young gentleman:
“Now, young man, I am going to pay you greater attention than you paid to me the other day. I am going to London; and I come to let you know. I have made some discoveries, of which you shall know more hereafter. At present, all I can say is, I am going to London; and I must request that you will make some apology to our guests for my sudden departure.”
“You are not going to-day, sir; it is near dinner-time,” replied Mr. Philip.
“I can’t help that,” replied the old gentleman; “then you must dine without me; and if any excuse is needed for my absence, you must invent one; or if you are at a loss for alie, peradventure Oliver can help you to one. I have no time for any more prate, so farewell.”
Thus speaking, the queer old gentleman left the room; and poor Mr. Philip found himself in a very sad and sorrowful perplexity at his departure; especially, coupled as it was with such reports abroad, and such language from the old gentleman himself. The last sentence of all, in which allusion was made to Oliver’s inventive faculty, most closely touched the honorable tenant of Brigland Abbey; though the fact is, that Mr. John Martindale did not thereby design any particular or express allusion to any one individual part of Oliver’s conduct, yet in this light the young gentleman regarded it; and it therefore grieved him, and gave him an additional impulse towards thoughts and efforts of independence. But there were obstacles and impediments in the way which he could not mention to Lord Martindale; and if they had been known, his lordship would not have found it an easy task to removethem. The considerations dwelt heavily on the mind of the young gentleman, and made him regret that he had been so long acting the part of a simpleton.
“Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf,Foretels the nature of a tragic volume.”Shakspeare.
“Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf,Foretels the nature of a tragic volume.”Shakspeare.
“Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf,
Foretels the nature of a tragic volume.”
Shakspeare.
It is not to be supposed that Oliver should keep the secret which he had heard without the assistance of some of his fellow-servants; and if the servants of the house had kept the secret from the servants of the visitors, they would have been guilty of a gross breach of hospitality; and when a gentleman is in a stable,or a lady in a dressing-room, the distance between them and their respective servants is not so great but that the parties are within hearing of each other.
When, therefore, the party assembled at dinner, Mr. Philip found himself under no necessity of tasking either his own or Oliver’s inventive powers to account for the absence of Mr. John Martindale. Not one made any inquiry. This universal silence was very ominous to Philip; he very naturally supposed that the secret, whatever it was, had been divulged. He laboured hard to seem at ease; but that was no easy task. The party at table felt themselves also under some kind of restraint, so that their talk was very abrupt and unconnected. Could any one think it possible? but it really is a fact, that the guests were almost dying for an opportunity of talking one to another concerning the strange news which they had heard; and they were prepared with some notable aphorism on pride and extravagance ready to be shot forth as soon as the person should by his absence give them leave to speak.
As for the Hon. Philip Martindale himself, a variety of thoughts, hopes, fears, and conjectures, were passing through his mind; but none of them remained long enough there to be soberly and seriously considered, or to produce any composure or settled plan. There was, indeed, one thought which was most frequently springing up amidst the general agitation, and that was the thought of Miss Sampson; and so little command had he over the movements of his own mind, that he found himself paying a more than ordinary degree of attention to that young lady. Lord and Lady Martindale could not fail to notice this; and to the former it was not quite so unpleasant as might have been supposed, from the well-known high and lofty notions which his lordship entertained on the subject of the dignity of high rank. For though Lord Martindale venerated nobility and high birth, he knew that there also needed some other appurtenances to render greatness really and permanently imposing. He also knew that the estate which was destined to keep up the honour of the title was scarcely competent tothat great task. He also knew that there was not quite so much destined for his successor as his successor imagined; and he was well aware of the sad necessity which had frequently compelled persons of higher rank than himself to condescend to ennoble plebeian blood “for a consideration.” As to the present posture of affairs, his lordship was not much surprised at the rumors which he had heard; he knew that the property in question had descended rather unexpectedly on its present possessor, and he was also prepared for any disappointment which his own son might experience from the caprice of his relative. His fears, indeed, of disappointment to his son arose from an expectation that Mr. John Martindale might marry, and thus find a new set of connexions that would have a powerful influence on his decisions and arrangements concerning his property. Having then heard that another claimant had started for that property, and observing that the old gentleman had been more than usually attentive to Lady Woodstock, he thought it was time that his son should make some provision for himself.With as good a grace as might be, he therefore resigned himself to the thought that Miss Sampson might be allowed the honor of becoming the Hon. Mrs. P. Martindale.
We are not, indeed, prepared to say that all this was effected in his lordship’s mind without a considerable effort and a powerful conflict. Necessity, it is said, has no law. It would be more correct to say, that necessity is the most arbitrary and powerful lawgiver. Lord Martindale was very much to be pitied, and so was Mr. Philip. But calamities of this kind will sometimes overtake nobility: by a variety of circumstances, which need not be enumerated, there will be often occurring a painful necessity of repairing dilapidated fortunes by intermarriages with plebeians. It does not occur to us at present how this dreadful calamity can be avoided. There are certainly public stations with high salaries and easy duties; these help a little, but comparatively very little; and there are some of those offices which really require men of understanding and application to fill them; and we fear that such is the seditiousand discontented spirit of the times, that the people would grumble at any very great multiplication of places of no use but to those who fill them. Yet, upon second thoughts, there are certain laws, such for instance as the game-laws, which are made expressly and obviously for the amusement of the higher classes; might not some legislative arrangement be contrived, which should, on the same exclusive principle, prevent the nobility from intermarrying with plebeians in order to repair the broken fortunes? Seeing that the nobility, and its peculiar privileges, and its high and mighty purity, is one of the great blessings of our constitution, forming a grand reservoir of political wisdom, surely the people would not be very reluctant to contribute liberally towards an arrangement which should be the means of preventing the said nobility from receiving contamination from intermarriages with plebeians. We only suggest that some contrivance might be made; but what contrivance we must leave to the sagacity of wiser heads than our own, and to those who are more interested in it than we are.
It is enough for our present purpose that this arrangement is not yet made; and that in consequence of the want of a suitable supply, poor Philip Martindale was placed under the disagreeable necessity of paying great attention to Miss Sampson; and poor Lord Martindale was also under the same necessity of submitting to see and approve it.
We have already spoken of Miss Sampson, and have said or intimated that she was not a fool. We have also spoken of Sir Gilbert Sampson, and we have acknowledged that he was a man of good understanding. Miss Sampson had been an indulged child; some called her a spoiled child, but we do not admit that indulgence always spoils children. There is a great deal depending on the manner in which indulgence is administered. Indulgence or strictness in the hands of a simpleton may be made equally injurious. Miss Sampson certainly had not been snubbed, lectured, scolded at, talked to, and dragged about all her life in leading-strings; and Miss Sampson was certainly a thoughtless, good-tempered creature,not overburdened with taste, and not always so very attentive to minuter observances as many others of her own station; but whether she would have been any more thoughtful and reserved by a continued course of sloppy, sleepy, prosy, common-place lecturing, is very doubtful. Miss Sampson and her father were by no means proud, resentful, or suspicious. For though they both had heard the rumor touching the probable evanescence of Mr. John Martindale’s property; and though they both might have had reason to suppose that only property could induce Mr. Philip to make advances of a serious nature, and though he had once before paid, and afterwards discontinued his attentions, yet Sir Gilbert Sampson, who was a sensible man, and Miss Sampson, who was not a fool, were pleased with the very particular notice taken of the latter under present circumstances. The parties were therefore quits; for if it was manifest to Miss Sampson that Philip Martindale’s affection for her was only founded on her property, it was as manifest to Philip Martindale that MissSampson’s regard for him could only be on account of his title.
When the following day dawned upon the Abbey of Brigland, and the guests there visiting had an opportunity, unconstrained by the presence of the tenant of the great house, to discuss and discourse upon the interesting topic of the discovery of the preceding day, various and wise were the observations which they made; but one of the wisest of all was, that it would be desirable for them to hasten their departure; for it occurred to them that Mr. Philip might prefer being alone, now he had so much to occupy his thoughts. Sir Andrew Featherstone and his family recollected that it was absolutely necessary that they should be at home in a day or two, for they were expecting company. The Misses Woodstock also thought that it was very rude of Mr. John Martindale to take his departure so suddenly, and leave them without an apology; and Lady Woodstock thought that, though visiting at the Abbey, her visit was rather to Mr. John Martindale than to Mr. Philip; and even SirGilbert and Miss Sampson thought that they should be better able to ascertain Mr. Philip’s intentions by taking their departure than by prolonging their visit; and as the time was nearly arrived that they should have taken their leave in the ordinary course of things, the making a movement a day or two sooner might not be a matter of such great moment. In fact, there was among the whole party an unpleasant and awkward kind of restraint, which they could only get rid of by separation; and they certainly had a right to be offended at Mr. John Martindale for his rudeness in leaving so abruptly, and not giving any explanation, or even saying when he should return. Lady Featherstone was the first of the party who started the subject of departure; and when it was mentioned, or rather hinted, to Mr. Philip, he did not receive the intelligence with any affectation of concern; and thus the matter was easily managed by the rest of the party, who soon took leave, excepting, of course, Lord and Lady Martindale. The worthy persons who took their departure rather hastily, madeup their minds to forgive old Mr. Martindale for his rudeness, provided that it should turn out that he had not lost any very considerable part of his fortune.
Being now left to his own meditations, and the good counsel of his father and mother, the Hon. Philip Martindale began to employ himself in deliberating on what steps it would be prudent for him to take in the present conjuncture of affairs. As yet, he knew nothing for certainty. It was still possible that the story circulating in Brigland, and brought to his ears by the trusty and honest Oliver, might not be altogether correct, and he might yet be able to keep himself pure from the degradation of marrying below his rank, provided he took care not to give offence to the old gentleman; and yet when he thought of the very cool and abrupt manner in which his cousin had announced his design of going hastily to London, and of his allusion to the capacity of Oliver for invention, he feared that some of his own proceedings were not unknown to his relative, and that they had effected an alienation of hisregards. He knew well enough the eagerness with which all idle reports are received and circulated, without any regard to their truth or even probability, and therefore he considered that it would be a fruitless toil to interrogate Mr. Denver, or any of the people in the town upon the subject; and indeed, he did not think such proceeding very consistent with his dignity.
It occurred to his mind, however, that it might not be very unsuitable just to look in at the cottage where old Richard Smith used to live; for Mr. John Martindale had rebuked his relative for neglect in this matter. He took, therefore, an early opportunity of walking round by the heath, to avoid passing through the town; and he called at the cottage. The door was fastened, and he was under the necessity of making a long loud knocking before he could obtain admittance; at length, the door was opened from within by a little old woman who was as deaf as a post, or who affected to be so. Very little information indeed could he extract from her. He learned, however, thathis cousin had not gone alone, but that there were three persons with him from the cottage; and that of these three, one was the young woman who was called the niece of Richard Smith, and the other two were the father and mother of the young woman. He also ascertained that the cottage was no longer to be occupied by these persons, and that it was not expected that any one of them should return to Brigland. Whether in this party was the claimant to the old gentleman’s property was not to be ascertained; and indeed that question was not directly asked, and the old woman did not seem at all inclined to answer any questions which were not loudly, decidedly, and frequently repeated. Philip amused himself with looking at the drawings which decorated the cottage-walls, and he was surprised to see such decorations in such a place; but he soon found an interpretation of that difficulty when he observed the scenes which they represented, and when he recollected the Italian officer whom he had met in London. Now, though he had, as we have observed above, some faint recollectionof having heard something of old Mr. Martindale’s voyage to Genoa in search of some individual or other, who, for aught he knew to the contrary, might be a claimant, but he could not see how property in England should be claimed by a native Italian, as Colonel Rivolta clearly was. Very little information, therefore, did he acquire, and no satisfaction could he gain by this visit to the cottage.
In spite, however, of all his feeling of dignity and propriety, he felt an irresistible propensity to call on Mr. Denver, who, as a public intelligencer, was certainly one of the most able men in the town of Brigland. The very polite and exquisitely courteous manner in which the reverend perpetual curate received the tenant of the Abbey, was not at all indicative of falling fortunes or painful change of circumstance. Low as usual did he bow, graciously as ever did he smile. Courtesy and politeness, however, were essential and component parts of Mr. Denver’s constitution. We cannot say quite so much of the Hon. Philip Martindale; for his style of address was abrupt, and his mannersvery unceremonious; and so far was he from endeavouring to correct this habit, that he was in a measure absolutely proud of it. Receiving Mr. Denver’s homage as due to his own exalted rank and dignified character, he began his inquiries by lamenting the death of poor Richard Smith, and expressing a hope that the poor man had had proper medical assistance in his illness. To all this a satisfactory answer was given, accompanied, as was very suitable and regular, with a compliment to Mr. Philip’s very great kindness and condescension. The inquirer then proceeded to throw out an intimation, that it would be very agreeable to him to be informed as to who and what the stranger was, who had recently taken up his abode at the old man’s cottage. As far as Mr. Denver knew, he informed Mr. Philip; telling him also the particulars of the interview at Mr. John Martindale’s residence, as we have already narrated it. For we will do Mr. Denver the justice to say of him, that although he was now and then unconsciously guilty of circulating an incorrect narrative, he was never deliberately andwilfully guilty of fabricating one. Whatever he himself had seen and heard, he told, according to the best of his ability, as he saw and heard it. But if, as it sometimes happened, he heard Mrs. Denver, Mrs. Price, and Mrs. Flint, all talking together, and telling in one voice him and one another the same story, but with diversified embellishment and frequent mutual contradiction, many interruptions, and various repetitions and emendations; then, poor man, he was certainly to be forgiven, if his second-hand repetition of such story should not be altogether coherent in its parts, lucid in its arrangement, or exquisitely veracious in every particular. Nor should we severely condemn him, if, with a laudable eagerness to administer early intelligence, he should now and then run away with an ill-understood tale only heard by halves. Thus it often happens, that those newspapers which are proud of their early intelligence, are occasionally exposed to the temptation of inserting that which needs contradiction.
When Philip Martindale had thus fairly committed himself as an inquirer, he wentinto the subject very fully; and from all that he could learn from Mr. Denver, there did not appear to be any very powerful evidence of the existence of any claimant of the Martindale property; but it was at the same time very clear that Mr. John Martindale was gone to London, and that these three people had gone with him, and that they had all gone in his own carriage. Now it was not likely that the old gentleman should carry the oddity of his humor so far as to accommodate a claimant of his property with the use of his own carriage. There was a mystery in all this not to be solved. Philip’s inquiries were fruitless, therefore, at Mr. Denver’s; and all that he had ascertained was, that nobody knew what was the cause of the extraordinary movements of his extraordinary relative.
“Such is the weakness of all mortal hope,So fickle is the state of earthly things,That ere they come into their aimed scope,They fall so short of our fraile reckonings,And bring us bale and bitter sorrowings.”Spenser.
“Such is the weakness of all mortal hope,So fickle is the state of earthly things,That ere they come into their aimed scope,They fall so short of our fraile reckonings,And bring us bale and bitter sorrowings.”Spenser.
“Such is the weakness of all mortal hope,
So fickle is the state of earthly things,
That ere they come into their aimed scope,
They fall so short of our fraile reckonings,
And bring us bale and bitter sorrowings.”
Spenser.
When any extraordinary event occurs in which one is deeply interested, the person concerned need not take much pains in his endeavours to find it out—it will soon reveal itself. So did it happen to Philip Martindale. But the information did not come upon him all at once—it was gradually developed like the catastrophe of a well-told tale.
One of the first indications that all was not right towards him in the matter of the Martindale property was, that a few days after the departure of the old gentleman, some letters arrived, which required an answer not convenient for him to give. These letters came all together by a very remarkable coincidence; and indeed it was very remarkable that so many of the Hon. Philip Martindale’s creditors should be all at once most unaccountably pressed for money to make up a heavy payment. But there is no accounting for coincidences. By this unpleasant indication of unpleasant news, the young gentleman was mightily disturbed. We do not however mean to insinuate that it was not in Mr. Philip’s power to stop the importunities of the above-named creditors by satisfying their claims; but as the October meeting at Newmarket was so very near at hand, and as he had horses to run at that meeting, it was absolutely and indispensably necessary for him to make a reserve to meet the exigences of that important concern. Still, however, it was disagreeable to hisfeelings to have the annoyance of such applications, and it occurred to him that he would once more have recourse to the children of Israel previously to the meeting at Newmarket; and with this intention he again visited the metropolis. On this excursion he could very conscientiously set out without informing his cousin, as the old gentleman was in London himself. Mr. Philip, indeed, had no wish to meet his worthy relative in town, and he had not much fear of such an accident.
He lost no time when he arrived in town, but made the best of his way to his well-known resort, and found his kind accommodating friend at home, but wearing an altered countenance. Heavy complaints were heard, and gloomy looks were seen, and it was altogether impossible just at that unfortunate crisis to afford any accommodation.—“That was the unkindest cut of all.”
Very properly resenting this insult, he speedily left the house; and being guided by his own knowledge as well as by the reports of others, he hastened to bestow his patronage on another of the same profession. But the Hon. PhilipMartindale of Brigland Abbey was not, it appeared, at that time a name in high repute with that class of gentry who observe the strictest honor and secrecy in their transactions; and he had the mortification to find that his journey to London had been of no avail, and was not likely to be productive of any thing beneficial. Some people would, under these circumstances, have been disgusted with the world, and have retired to a hermitage, thinking that all their fellow-creatures were so worthless and unprincipled as not to be worth noticing or fit to live with. But happily in this instance for the Hon. Philip Martindale, he was not so easily disgusted with the world; he was under great obligations to it, and hoped to be under more. It is certainly a very pleasant thing to have a good opinion of oneself, but it is pleasanter to have that opinion positively than comparatively; and to quarrel with all the world at once is no great proof either of wisdom or virtue. Besides, Mr. Philip knew that half a dozen tradesmen, and half as many money-lenders, were not all the world.
The old proverb concerning misfortunes notcoming singly, seemed to be about to be verified in the case of Philip Martindale; for as he was thoughtfully pacing the streets of the great city, and thinking of the various ills of life, and wondering how it should come to pass that a gentleman called the honorable, and residing in a magnificent mansion, and being heir-apparent to a title, and being nearly related to and a great favorite of a person of enormous wealth, should not be comfortable and satisfied in his own feelings as one residing in an inn of court, and giving much of his days to the dry study of the law. As he was thus meditating with himself, and communing with his own thoughts, he was roused from his reverie by the sound of the well-known voice of old John Martindale; for the old gentleman had just left the Bank at the moment that his cousin was passing it. With no very pleasant feeling did Philip return the old gentleman’s greeting.
“So you have come to town to look after me, Master Philip. But who would have thought of meeting you in this part of the world? What, have you any sly money transactions,or are you come to look after some rich citizen’s daughter. Or, perhaps, you have been at my hotel, and you were directed here to find me. But is your company all gone? Is it not rather rude to leave them? Well, but I hope you will not stay long in town; for there are sad doings at the Abbey when you are out. The other day, when you went to the archery nonsense at Hovenden, I actually found a couple of fellows smoking their filthy pipes in the great hall at the Abbey, and I had much ado to send them out of the house. Oliver told me they were drunk. They had the impudence to call themselves sheriffs’ officers. Now, I do not like this.”
The old gentleman had talked himself almost out of breath, and it was well for the young gentleman that the old one did not like the sound of any one’s voice so well as that of his own. Philip was one of those conscientious people who endeavour as much as possible to avoid all unnecessary lies; and when he wished to deceive, he preferred the circuitous shuffling mode of equivocation to a plain downrighthonest lie. In some cases he found a difficulty in escaping by this contrivance; and this difficulty he would have found in the instance in question, had not old Mr. Martindale been too much taken up with other thoughts and other interests than those of Philip Martindale and Brigland Abbey. But in truth he had been so much delighted with his newly-discovered daughter, that he took no very lively interest in any thing else. At their first meeting there were, as we said, no very extraordinary raptures or dramatic exhibition; but as they grew better acquainted, the old gentleman was charmed with the mild good sense and amiable manners of Signora Rivolta, and was greatly pleased with the intelligence and meekness of his grand-daughter Clara. Even Colonel Rivolta, though he had commenced life in a mercantile line, and had spent his best days in the army, yet was not destitute of information and literary taste. But the Hon. Philip Martindale, though born a gentleman, educated at an English university, and destined for the legal profession, was, notwithstanding all these advantages,by no means attached to literature, or endowed with any great share of taste. The old gentleman therefore had not been much delighted with his society, inasmuch as his conversation was either grievously common-place, or concerning those sports in which Mr. John Martindale took no interest. Serious rivals therefore had started up to engross the notice of the opulent relative. This fact was known very quickly to those whom it concerned; viz. the gentlemen of the strictest honor and secrecy. Theirs, indeed, would be but a bad business, if they could not now and then get possession of early intelligence and important secrets.
Very briefly did Mr. John Martindale inform his cousin of the discovery which he had recently made; and requesting, or rather commanding the young gentleman to enter the carriage, they proceeded westward, towards Mr. Martindale’s hotel. In the middle of the day the streets of the city of London, though very unfavorable for conversation, so far as foot-passengers are concerned, afford peculiar advantagesand opportunities for this purpose to those who ride in carriages; for the multitude of vehicles, and their frequent misarrangement, very conveniently retards progress. Philip Martindale wished himself at home in Brigland Abbey, or quietly perusing briefs in his chambers at the Temple, or any where rather than where he was. But there was no escape for him.
“Now, Philip,” said the old gentleman, “I am going to introduce you to your new relations, or at least to mine, for I suppose you will hardly condescend to acknowledge them.”
“I shall be very happy, sir, to see, and very proud to own, any relations of yours.” So said the Hon. Philip Martindale; but his heart and lips were sadly at variance. He was not very well pleased that such relations existed; and it would not be very agreeable to him to be on terms of acquaintance, as he certainly must if his cousin commanded him, with persons of low and vulgar minds as he supposed these new relatives must be. The old gentleman suspecting that his high-minded relative wasfancying that the persons in question were of low caste, in consequence of their having been discovered in a cottage with a poor man, replied:
“And I will tell you what, young man, they are not persons of whom you need to be ashamed. Colonel Rivolta held a very respectable station in the army, though he did fight for that fellow Bonaparte; and his wife, who is my daughter, is as well informed and well behaved a woman as ever I saw in my life. The young woman, I believe, you have seen before.”
Philip did not like the tone in which the latter part of this sentence was uttered, and perhaps there was not a possibility of uttering it in any tone that should be agreeable. Many other topics of conversation were introduced, none of which were very agreeable; and even that which the old gentleman uttered with great glee, as being a matter of great interest and good tidings to his cousin, was by no means agreeable to the young gentleman. After having talked some little time on the subject of his discovered daughter, and as if fearing that his honorablecousin might apprehend from this discovery some ill fortune to himself, with the kind purpose of banishing such fear, he observed:
“But you need not be jealous, Philip; I shall not forget you: so make your mind easy.”
There is a wonderful difference, thought Philip, between making a man his heir and not forgetting him. Now, this not forgetting appeared to him more cruel and tormenting than entirely discarding him. It is very true that Mr. John Martindale had made no absolute promise that Philip should be his heir; and even if he had made the promise, and had violated it, there was no such thing as prosecuting him for breach of promise. He had merely given strong indications that such was his intention. Persons who are very rich, and have no legal heirs, may entertain themselves very much at the expense of hungry expectants and lean legacy-hunters. Who has not seen a poor dog standing on his hind legs, and bobbing up and down after a bone scarcely worth picking, with which some mischief-loving varlet has tantalised the poor animal till all itslimbs have ached? That poor dog shadows out the legacy-hunter or possible heir. Every body has a right to do as he pleases with his own property, so far as concerns the disposition of unentailed estates; and every body has a right to do a great number of actions which may render his fellow-creatures miserable and uncomfortable. Very few of the annoyances to which man is exposed from his fellow-men have a remedy from law. To be sure, it may be said that the legacy-hunter is a simpleton for giving another power over him; but, alas! how could a young man, situated as the Hon. Philip Martindale, help himself. As he himself observed to his mother, “if I refuse the offer of the Abbey, I may so far offend the old gentleman, as to induce him to leave his property elsewhere.” But the young gentleman forgot that accepting the offer might, and very naturally would, lead him into many difficulties, and fix him as a dependent. He afterwards discovered this, when it was too late to find a remedy for the evil. But to proceed with our narrative.
After Mr. Martindale the elder had addressed what he thought an encouraging speech to his cousin, he called out to the coachman to stop when they were near to Temple Bar. The old gentleman then alighted, saying, he would return in a few minutes; and in a very few minutes did he return, bringing with him a gentleman whom Philip had seen before. This was no other than Horatio Markham. Now here was another mortification. Thus the poor man was annoyed with one trouble after another; and thus his mortifications increased upon him, and all because he must support the dignity of his rank. He could not be uncivil to Markham, nor indeed did he wish to be so. He had said, and that very sincerely, that there was nothing at all objectionable in Markham’s speech at the trial. He had been rather pleased with it than otherwise; he thought it far better than that of his own counsellor; and he had observed to several persons that there were some spouting prigs at the bar, that in a cause like that would have represented the defendant as a demon of incomparable malignity,and would have smothered him with a countless accumulation of awkward metaphors. He had said that Markham had shown much good sense in stating his case clearly and strongly, and without any of that school-boy slang, and those theme-like declamations by which some ill-judging ranters seem rather to seek the applauses of a tasteless mob than to apply themselves to that which may benefit a client. All this he had said, and all this he had really and truly thought; but he had no wish for all that to be brought into immediately close contact and intimacy with the person of whom he had said it. He respected Markham as a young man of good understanding and sound judgment; but he had no particular desire to be acquainted with all young men of good understanding and sound judgment. Still, however, he behaved civilly to Markham; and recollecting what his cousin had told him, that the young barrister was about to carry his legal talents to another part of the world, he on this account behaved to him with the less reserve, because there was not much danger of soon meeting himagain, or being much troubled with his acquaintance. On the other hand, Horatio Markham, knowing or shrewdly suspecting the character and disposition of the gentleman to whom he was introduced, did not give himself any pedantic or professional airs, but with a very becoming and gentleman-like distance quietly entered into common-place talk, directing himself more to the elder of the two with whom he had been previously acquainted, than with the younger to whom he had been but recently introduced. Philip Martindale, therefore, began actually to like his new acquaintance, who was agreeable because he did not take any especial pains to make himself so, and who appeared to be well-informed because he did not studiously make a display of his knowledge. Now Philip, who could not tolerate any pedantry but the pedantry of rank, and that pedantry only in himself, was pleased with Markham for the absence of pedantry and affectation.
After a long and tedious rumbling, the carriage deposited the party at a hotel in the neighbourhood of St. James’s Square. Mostagreeably disappointed was Philip when he was introduced to Signora Rivolta. There was no appearance of vulgarity or plebeianism about her. There was nothing in her style which indicated a disposition or tendency to impertinent encroachment; but, on the contrary, her most excellent and graceful carriage seemed as that of one conferring, not receiving a patronage. In Clara Rivolta, the daughter, he recognised that sweet prettiness which had first attracted his disrespectful attention; but there was added to this, a kind of mild dignity, a steady and calm self-possession, which appeared much more obviously and impressively under change of circumstances. In Signora Rivolta there was much more stateliness than in Clara; but there was a charm in the general expression of the features, gait, and manner of the latter, not easily described. There was nothing of pertness in her self-possession, and there was not the slightest appearance of or the remotest approach towards artificialness in any one part of her carriage and demeanour. Philip was not much in the habit of falling in love, nor was he frequently thrown intoraptures by intellectual and moral charms; yet in the present instance he was very much struck both with the mother and daughter. Irresistibly was he led to behave to both with most respectful deference, and he for a moment forgot that these charming women would in all probability deprive him of the inheritance which otherwise seemed destined for him. Why could he not make an offer of his hand to Clara? What obstacle could there be to interfere with his success? Would his cousin object to it? Not likely. It would be a very convenient match, so far as pecuniary arrangements were concerned, and might save the old gentleman some trouble in disposing of his property. As for Miss Sampson, there might be a disappointment to her in such a step; but her fortune would not suffer her to wear the willow long.
Thoughts of this kind occupied the mind of the heir of Lord Martindale, and this seemed the most agreeable plan which he could possibly adopt to get rid of his difficulties. Before the day closed, he had made up his mind it should be so. In contemplating this new arrangement,he forgot to take one thing into consideration, that is, the probable consent of the young lady; and he also forgot or neglected to observe one thing, that is, the very particular attention paid to the young lady by Horatio Markham. It is pleasant to be deceived, and so we sometimes deceive ourselves, if nobody else will take the pains to do it for us. Very completely did Mr. Philip deceive himself in the idea that scarcely any thing was wanting to effect an union between Clara Rivolta and himself, save his own consent. He considered not that a young woman under twenty years of age, of secluded habits and of reflecting turn of mind, of calm good sense and of a feeling and sensible soul, unused to the fashions and flurries and formalities and flatteries of the great world, would entertain a very different idea of love from that entertained by a young gentleman between twenty and thirty, whose expectations were mortgaged to money-lenders—whose pleasures were the turf and the ring—whose spirit was agitated with gambling—whose motive for marrying was the means to keep up the dignityof his rank. He might have thought it possible that Clara Rivolta could not love the Hon. Philip Martindale, and he might also have thought it as possible that she would not marry him if she did not love him.