“Oh, for a horse with wings!”Shakspeare.
“Oh, for a horse with wings!”Shakspeare.
“Oh, for a horse with wings!”
Shakspeare.
“We must findAn evident calamity, though we hadOur wish, which side should win.”Shakspeare.
“We must findAn evident calamity, though we hadOur wish, which side should win.”Shakspeare.
“We must find
An evident calamity, though we had
Our wish, which side should win.”
Shakspeare.
Philip Martindale was very glad that his cousin had not asked any importunate questions concerning the motive of his journey to London, but he was very sorry that the journey had been fruitless. He was desirous of returning as soon as possible to Brigland, that he might there discuss with Lord and Lady Martindale,whom he had left at the Abbey, the important matter which had occupied his thoughts, as described at the close of the last chapter. For as yet they knew nothing of the discovery of Mr. John Martindale’s daughter; and their impression concerning the young gentleman’s journey to town was, that he had been there with a view of endeavouring to ascertain the real meaning and origin of the rumours which were afloat as touching their opulent relative. Philip, on his return to Brigland, explained the whole affair.
Thereupon serious looks were assumed by Lord and Lady Martindale, and those serious looks reflected by their honorable son. They were all three greatly perplexed—they all three uttered many wise sayings—they all three talked the matter over with great deliberation—they all three resolved and concluded that something must be done; but they were all three at a loss to know what must be done. Looking at one another was not the best way to get over their perplexities, and yet it is what people often do in perplexities; nor was there any progressmade by the simultaneous and harmonious expression of wishing that matters had been otherwise. The past will not return, and that which is done cannot be undone. There is no great wisdom in this discovery; the merit is in applying it to practical purposes. A great deal of time is lost, and a great deal of trouble and pains incurred, for want of the wisdom which the above truism would teach. Lady Martindale repeated what she had said before, as to the impolicy of Philip’s accepting the old gentleman’s offer of the Abbey. Philip repeated what he had said before, namely, that he might have offended and alienated the old gentleman by a refusal. Lord Martindale repeated, that there was some truth and propriety in what they both said. Still they were no nearer to a conclusion promising any satisfaction.
In the midst of this perplexity, Philip thought it would be a good time to propose his own scheme for getting rid of all the difficulty by offering his hand to Clara Rivolta. He was not, however, without his fears that theproposal would not be acceptable to Lord and Lady Martindale: he therefore approached the subject cautiously and circuitously. After a little pause, and with a change of tone and altered look, as if the question of what must be done had been adjourned and a new topic called, he began to talk of the meeting with these newly-discovered relatives in such a manner as to lead Lady Martindale to ask particularly as to their appearance and manner. To this inquiry he gave such an answer as impressed her ladyship with a higher opinion of them all three than he had actually expressed in his description of them. He uttered his compliments in the tone and with the air of concession, and his language was circuitous, so that it did not appear purposely directed to the object of exciting a high opinion of the party. When he spoke of Signora Rivolta, he did not say that her style was truly noble and commanding, but he said that her style and address reminded him of the Hon. Mrs. B——, or of Lady Charlotte D——. Then he added some little qualification of the comparison; but the qualification was rather in favor of the daughter of John Martindale, so far asthe taste of Lady Martindale was concerned; for it is a notorious fact that all sensible people think differently from the rest of the world. Therefore, if there be in any character or individual a little more or a little less than what the world in general is supposed to consider the medium of excellence, sensible people rather admire such excess or defect. Sensible people, for instance, may admire that eccentricity which is not according to the popular standard. Some may admire rather more than the standard allowance of pride, or prefer a little deficiency in the article of meekness. Philip was well acquainted with his mother’s taste in all these matters, and therefore he extolled the ladies to his mother’s mind, though he did not loudly praise them to her ear; for he spoke of the daughter after the same manner as he had spoken of the mother.
Another pause following this part of the conversation, gave an opportunity to Lord Martindale to suggest that it might perhaps be advisable for Philip to marry the young foreigner, and thus to have a double hold on Mr. John Martindale’s affections. This proposal was veryartfully insinuated into his lordship’s mind by the manner in which Philip had spoken of the high esteem in which Mr. John Martindale appeared to hold his new family. When his lordship had spoken, Philip did not reply, waiting for Lady Martindale’s opinion, which was generally of more weight in the family than that of his lordship. No answer being given, the question was repeated.
Philip then replied, that what his lordship had said was perfectly true; the property of Mr. John Martindale would be clearly secured by this arrangement, and so far as the young lady was concerned, there could be no objection on the ground of style and manner, or of education.
This was said hesitatingly, so that his lordship was under the necessity of asking what other objection there could be; to which Mr. Philip ventured to mention the circumstance of her mother’s birth. Now this on Philip’s part was a very affected refinement; but it was said for Lady Martindale’s ear, who then replied, that such objection was fastidious indeed, if theladies were such as they had been described. The greatest objection to such a step was, in her opinion, that it was not quite so sure of answering the purpose in point of property as they imagined. There was no answering for caprice; and it was possible that the property might be so left, as that Philip might have no power over it.
This objection staggered the young gentleman’s resolution, and rendered his scheme not so totally unexceptionable as he had imagined it to be. He looked thoughtful; and Lady Martindale continued, saying, that after all this plan would but increase and perpetuate her son’s dependence: that so long as he was unmarried, an opportunity might occur for him to marry a fortune, and place himself out of the power of Mr. John Martindale’s caprice. But again Philip replied, that if he should marry a fortune, and not please his cousin by his marriage, he should then lose all expectation from him, and that there were very few fortunes accessible that would compensate for the loss ofMr. John Martindale’s friendship. The whole deliberation at last concluded without coming to any definite conclusion.
Lady Martindale repeated, and Lord Martindale coincided with her in the opinion, that the wisest scheme of all would be, that Philip should give himself to public business, and that then he might be independent without forfeiting the friendship of his cousin. But Philip could not get the Jews out of his head, and the Jews could not get Philip out of their books.
In this unpleasant state of mind the honorable gentleman continued for several days; during which time Mr. John Martindale remained still in London, highly delighted with his Italian relatives, and exhibiting them wherever he could, though at that time of year there was comparatively little opportunity of displaying them. Philip made inquiries at his cousin’s cottage every morning, but no intelligence concerning the old gentleman could be procured. Lord and Lady Martindale took their leave of the Abbey, and Philip promised to join them in London before the end of January, by whichtime, perhaps, something might occur which would decide him as to what steps he should take.
The day at length arrived for the Newmarket meeting. Much business was expected to be transacted, and some very fine races were anticipated. The town was delightfully full, and Philip was in all his glory. He thought not of the Jews, or any of his other creditors. The charms of Clara Rivolta were forgotten; and the lively Celestina would have been forgotten too, but she was present on the ground.
The barouche of Sir Gilbert Sampson was most conveniently placed; and on the box thereof sat Celestina Sampson at her father’s side, and within were two other young ladies attended by the fragrant Henry Augustus Tippetson. The morning was fine, and the ground was brilliant. Rank, beauty, and fashion were there; the cream of English nobility; the stars of English beauty; souls of the first order; the pride of that nation which is the pride of the world. Glorious was the object for which they were assembled, and deep was the feeling withwhich their minds were animated. Who could look without emotion, or think without interest, on a scene like this? Where should our hereditary legislators, our modern Solons and Lycurguses, so well learn the science of government as in converse with black-legs and stable-boys? What occupation so befitting the most noble, the right honorable of the land—the superfine part of the species—the arbiters of the world’s destiny—the brightest lights of the collective wisdom of the nation—as the spending of princely fortunes to see how much faster one horse can run than another? And when the horses start, and while they are straining all their sinews, and while one rogue or another is trying how much he can make of the simpletons there, how intense is the interest! Every eye is strained, every neck is stretched, breathing is almost suspended, and the heart is almost afraid to beat; and when the great event is decided, then how many purses change hands, and how many blockheads go home again repenting their folly. But let that pass. It is enough for us here to state that the Hon.Philip Martindale was the winner, and that to a very considerable amount. He received the congratulations of his friends. Sir Gilbert and Miss Sampson congratulated him. Henry Augustus Tippetson congratulated him. Philip, however, had many accounts to settle; some on one side, and some on the other. There was not one to whom he lost a bet who found any inconvenience in receiving it—there were a few of whom he won who found it inconvenient to pay. Some of those to whom he paid were so very desirous that he should win again what he had lost, that they politely and considerately invited him to the hazard-table; and when he left the hazard-table, he was not so much an object of congratulation as he had been at the conclusion of the race. He was very much fatigued; quite worn out by the day’s toil and the night’s play. Legislation must be quite rest and refreshment to the honorable, right honorable, and most noble frequenters of the race-course and the hazard-table.
The honorable dependent on the bounty ofJohn Martindale retired to his lodgings, and looked over his betting-book and into his pocket-book, and considering that he was a winner at the race, he found himself much poorer than he expected. He felt no inclination to lay violent hands on himself; he did not clench his fists and strike his knuckles upon the table, nor did he beat his own forehead, nor did he think of hanging himself when he took off his garters, or entertain the slightest idea of cutting his throat when he looked at his razors. From what we have seen in plays and read in story-books about gambling, one should imagine that pistol-making and rope-twisting would be the best trades going at Newmarket; we are not sure that it may not be so, but we have never heard that it is. At all events, we do know that when Philip Martindale found that he was a considerable loser in the long run, though he had been a winner on the turf, he was very deeply mortified, and looked very foolish. He wished himself back in his chambers at the Temple; but he did not use any violent gesticulations, or groan aloud so as to alarm the people of thehouse. We think it especially necessary to mention these facts, in order to let our readers know what a very curious character Philip Martindale was. His conduct deserves to be particularly mentioned in the present case, because it seems to be the general practice, judging from books, for all gamblers when they lose their money to look very pale, to get very drunk, to clench their fists, and to stamp so as to split the very boards of the floor, and finally to hang, drown, poison, or shoot themselves. The last is the most common. Such is the usual description, and real life no doubt has exhibited some such cases; but powerfully as these may have been painted, we much question if that extreme delineation has been serviceable to the cause of morals. Nor are we afraid that, because we have here stated a very ordinary case of a silly young gentleman losing his money, and not going distracted and blowing out his brains, we shall therefore give encouragement to others to throw away their time and money in the same foolish way.
The poor young man however found it verydifficult to sleep after his losses; for though he was not distracted, he was grievously troubled in spirit, and much bewildered in his thoughts. He wished, over and over again, that he had not sat down to hazard; but his wishing did not bring back what he had lost. He almost wished that he had not been born an hereditary legislator, for then he might have applied himself to some useful pursuit, and not have been under the necessity of going to Newmarket and losing his money in a right honorable way to keep up his dignity. But it is very hard if a man of rank and fortune cannot have his amusements, and what else can a man of rank and fortune do with his time and property than waste them among sharpers?
It became now more and more imperative upon the young gentleman that he should seriously set himself to repair his broken fortunes, and his various meditations on the plans which suggested themselves for that purpose very naturally prevented him from sleeping. His habits had not much accustomed him to that application which business might require, andhis recent patrician contempt of study had put him into possession of so large a stock of ignorance as to be rather in the way of his promotion. It is not indeed much to be wondered at that, considering how widely and deeply education has lately been diffused, the higher sort of people should now and then court the singularity of not knowing, and preserve their separation from the inferior orders by an ignorance of that which every body knows; for it is very clear that whatever becomes universal, must of necessity cease to be fashionable: therefore the education bestowed upon the multitude must compel the higher ranks in their own defence to cultivate ignorance, unless they would give themselves the trouble of toiling more laboriously in pursuit of knowledge than the lower orders. That is not very likely.
“Good shepherd, tell this youth, what ’tis to love.”Shakspeare.
“Good shepherd, tell this youth, what ’tis to love.”Shakspeare.
“Good shepherd, tell this youth, what ’tis to love.”
Shakspeare.
It is now necessary for us to revert to old Mr. Martindale and his new pets. So delighted was he with the general character of the minds of this family, that he was reluctant to make any arrangement which should remove them from continual intercourse with himself. Very soon did they become essential to him; for they seemed to open his mind to a new consciousness of being. The discovery of their existence wasthe means of removing a burden from his soul; and not only was there a negative satisfaction derived from having thus providentially met with them, but the very lively and unexpected interest which he took in their being and well being, gave to his own existence a positive satisfaction, and a feeling hitherto unknown; so that in the intervals of reflection and thought, he was under a frequent necessity of saying to himself, “But I must not forget Philip.”
There was also another, though an unintentional and unconscious rival of Philip Martindale, in the person of Horatio Markham. But we will do Philip the justice to say, that he entertained no mean jealousy of this gentleman; inasmuch as he did not apprehend the probability of Markham’s occupying a very important station in the old gentleman’s last will and testament. Markham, indeed, did not seem to be acting the part of a legacy-hunter; and Philip felt very well satisfied with the thought, that many rich old men had in their life-time had many friends for whom they appeared to have a greater regard than for their own family,but to whom they have seldom made bequests of a nature so serious as deeply to injure their own relatives. There was, however, a danger in Markham’s intimacy with the old gentleman under present circumstances, of which danger Mr. Philip was not sufficiently aware. Our allusion is to the growing acquaintance between the young barrister and Clara Rivolta. The young lady had a grateful recollection of the considerate and respectful manner in which Markham had conducted himself at the trial, contrasted especially as that manner was with the boisterous and vulgar rudeness of the defendant’s counsel. So completely indeed was the young lady disgusted with the rudeness and coarseness manifested by the latter, that though she was tolerably well acquainted with English customs, so far as books could inform her, she could with difficulty be brought to believe that barristers were uniformly gentlemen of education; she could not help thinking that they must be of no higher rank or more polished manners thanbailiffs and constables. What ludicrous mistakes foreigners do sometimes fall into; and if the English were not a very polite nation, they would laugh at these blunders.
We have noticed already that Markham was very much struck with the personal appearance of Clara Rivolta when he saw her in the cottage of poor old Richard Smith; he was not less pleased with her when he saw her in those circumstances which he had in the first instance thought most appropriate to her. When he became more acquainted with her, and by conversation had traced the existence of as much mind and of as good feelings as her features and their expression had already intimated to his imagination, it is no wonder that he should be more interested in her than ever. When also he learned, as he did from the sociable communicativeness of old Mr. Martindale, how nearly she was related to a wealthy man; and when he saw how much of a favorite she was with the old gentleman, it was not likely that his regard for her should be diminished. Markhamwas by no means a selfish man, nor was he insensible to the desirableness of a fair fortune. He was not quite so romantic as to despise wealth; and if he had been originally addicted to that propensity, the frequent receiving of fees would have had no small tendency to cure it. However, it should be said that the motive for his attachment to the young lady had not, in the first instance, any thing to do with pecuniary expectations. Mr. Martindale himself contributed to cherish the attachment, for he was constantly soliciting the young man to favor them with his company; for as the old gentleman lived almost entirely at Brigland, he knew comparatively nothing about London, and the season of the year was not that at which any of his friends were in town.
The time now was very near when Markham should take his departure from his native land, and enter upon his professional duties in another region. Pleasant as preferment may be, there is always a degree of pain felt at parting from familiar faces and familiar scenes. This unpleasant feeling was by anticipationcoming upon the young barrister. He thought that he should very much miss the society to which he had been accustomed; he thought there was a peculiar, indescribable charm in the very streets of London and Westminster; he thought, with a shudder of repugnance, of a long, tedious, and as it were solitary voyage; he thought that nobody would think about him when he was gone; he thought that Clara Rivolta would be married before he came back. He wondered whether she knew that he was going abroad; he wondered whether she would care where or when he might go; he wondered whether she had ever been in love. These thoughts and these wonderings grew thicker and stronger as the time moved on, and he said to himself that Clara was a most interesting creature, but that he was not decidedly in love with her, as was very manifest by his being perfectly at ease when he was absent from her. He did not take into consideration, as perhaps he should have done, that the absence which he bore with so much fortitude was an absence likely to be soonsucceeded by the pleasure of seeing her again. There was also another thought which he overlooked, and that was, why did he take pains to persuade himself that he was not in love? Who said he was?
It is not fair, however, to lay open to our readers the heart of one of the parties, and totally to veil that of the other. Clara Rivolta had scarcely had any other society than that of her father and mother; and indeed, for the last four years, a very important part of her life, her mother and old Richard Smith had been her only companions. The very little which she had seen of English people had not made a favorable impression of their character upon her mind. While residing with her mother at Brigland, she had seen but few of the inhabitants of that place, and those not of the better sort. The only individual of the better sort, so called, that she had seen, was the Hon. Philip Martindale; and him she thought the worst sort of man she had ever seen. She at first mistook him for a gamekeeper; then she thought that he must be thecoachman or groom to the great man at the Abbey; and nothing could exceed her astonishment when old Richard Smith informed her that it was the great man himself; then, like all young people, hastily formed and readily expressed her opinion, that the highest class of people in England were the lowest people in the world. She was very wrong, but she had not much knowledge of the subject. The English people have so much originality and individuality, that it is not easy to find an individual who is a complete specimen of any class. To satirise or to compliment any class as a class, is absurd. It may do very well for a particular purpose, at a tavern-dinner, or in a dedication, to use highly complimentary language, which may be uttered with all the plausibility of truth and sincerity. It may also tell well in a farce or a comedy to satirise a whole class or profession; but to use such language in sad or sober earnest, is grievously unphilosophical and inaccurate. There are minds of every variety, intellects of every rank, hearts of every complexion in all classes.The virtues and the vices show differently under different circumstances. It was however pardonable in a young woman who knew scarcely any thing of human society, to form a wrong judgment; but, by degrees, her mind was enlarged and judgment corrected. Had she taken her notion of barristers solely from the clever, witty advocate of the Hon. Philip Martindale, she would have thought no better of barristers than she did of the sons of nobility. But Horatio Markham tended to correct her judgment in this particular. He was not a coxcomb; he was not a rude, blustering, self-sufficient and pert blockhead, fancying himself the depositary of all wisdom and the oracle of all ages; he did not aim at a display of his own wisdom, by insinuations that all the rest of mankind were simpletons. It must however be confessed that he was rather pedantic; he talked a little too professionally; and he had, in his ordinary mode of speaking and conversing, too much of the peculiar manner of the bar; he told many anecdotes, and they were mostly of the luminaries of his own profession;his conversation was much about books; he spoke of books critically, and as he had a good memory, he repeated many passages, especially of some of the more modern poets; and in reading or quoting, he had a very peculiar and prosy mode of utterance. In his expressions of admiration he was very enthusiastic; but his only censure was silence. Being, as it should seem, much pleased with his own peculiar eloquence of encomium, he was most pleased with praising; and so ingenious was his praise, that he not unfrequently found in his favorite writers beauties which the authors themselves were not aware of. Many others have been accused of doing the same; but we will vindicate them and him by observing, that it is quite as possible for an author to strike out beauties of which himself is unconscious and undesigning, as it is for an artist, by an accidental touch of his pencil, to “snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.” The mind is not always conscious of the gracefulness of its transient and unstudied attitudes.
We could say much more of Markham, butwe must postpone it. Our present concern is with the mind of Clara Rivolta, and her sentiments of and towards this young man. He was to all intents the most agreeable man she had seen since her arrival in England; and his slight tincture of pedantry, and his love of quotation and recitation, tedious and stupid as they might have been to many others, were to her peculiarly agreeable. Men’s hearts are stolen through the eye—women’s through the ear. Clara was pleased with Markham’s voice because she liked poetry; and as the poetry first rendered his company delightful, and his voice to her ear musical, so in process of time his company and his voice rendered the poetical extracts more pleasing. Markham also understood Italian; but to a native of Italy he would not read or recite her own poetry; but he often brought to her Italian poetry, and her bright eyes sparkled at the sight, and she began to like the English people better, because they had paid reverence to the poets of her native land by printing their works beautifully. Markham wished to hear the poetry of Italyread by a native; Clara could not refuse him, because he had been so obliging as to read much English poetry to her; but she was almost afraid to read to him, because she could not read so well as he could. That is a pretty and pardonable piece of vanity. But the fact is, Markham did not read so remarkably well: he had a singing kind of a tone; he read in a kind of recitative; some used to say he read very ill. We should wish these people to be sentenced to hear reading without a tone. At all events, Markham’s reading was very pleasant to Clara; and to Markham’s ear there was no music so sweet as Clara’s voice. She had read to him two or three of the sonnets of Petrarch; and Markham thought that he should recollect the melody of that voice when he should be afar off sailing on the mighty deep. How sweetly can the closed eye, by its own internal light, call up bright scenes which time and space have put far from us! and as sweetly in night’s silence and its wakeful repose rings in our ear again the voice of the absent and the beloved. When Clara read to Markham, there was a tremulousnessin her voice, and there was a tear in her eye; the tear was hardly visible, and not large enough to fall; but she felt it there, and her tremulousness increased. Scenes of this nature frequently occurred, and they produced their very natural effect. Clara felt herself very happy in Markham’s company, always asked his opinion on matters of taste and literature, was continually finding out new poetical beauties in Markham’s favorite authors, and perpetually discovering some philological difficulties in the English language, of which no one but Markham could give her a solution. It was not till she knew him that her mind was powerfully impressed with the absolute necessity of learning with very strict and minute attention the niceties of the English language.
There was another circumstance which contributed to increase Clara’s partiality to Horatio Markham; namely, his affectionate attention to his parents, and his respectful deference to their wishes. This she had no opportunity of observing, but she had heard Mr. John Martindale speak of it in highly complimentary terms.She was very well pleased to hear Markham praised. She did not say to herself that she was not in love, nor indeed did she know or suspect that she was. But she was very much pleased with Horatio Markham, and never spoke of him to any one, though she listened with great pleasure to any one who spoke of him favorably. This was certainly symptomatic, but the young woman was not aware of the nature of the symptoms, or of what they portended. When she learned the vocabulary, she did not find that admiration meant love; she did not find that gratitude meant love; she did not find that habit meant love; she did not find that approbation meant love; but in process of time she began to suspect that all these put together produced a feeling very much like love.
“If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;If not, why then this parting was well made.”Shakspeare.
“If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;If not, why then this parting was well made.”Shakspeare.
“If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;
If not, why then this parting was well made.”
Shakspeare.
A week is soon gone. This is not mentioned to our readers by way of information, as if any of them should be ignorant of the fact; but by way of directing their minds to a sympathy with Horatio Markham, who found that the last days of his remaining in England were shorter in their duration than any whichhad preceded them. In spite of all he had said to himself concerning his not being in love, he could not but experience a very painful feeling at the thought that he must soon leave the pleasant party with whom he was so agreeably spending so many of his hours. He could not persuade himself that he was not in love; and the more he said so, the less he believed it. He had taken his leave of his parents and his early friends. He thought it becoming to take a formal leave also of his new friend, Mr. John Martindale; he hesitated whether he should also make a business of taking leave of Colonel Rivolta and his family. He bethought himself that he had in his possession a book belonging to Clara, and that he ought to return it. He might send it, or he might leave it with Mr. Martindale, requesting him to present a message of thanks; and that plan would obviate the inconvenience of personally returning it, in doing which he feared that he might betray some emotion which he would fain conceal. For the truth is, he was of opinion that it would not be a prudent step to declare an attachmentat a moment when he was just about to leave England. That would be to involve himself and Clara too in a painful perplexity. There were many changes to be feared during the time of his absence from England. There was a considerate thought that it would be scarcely advisable that he should form an engagement so long before it could be fulfilled; and amidst other ideas which occupied his mind on the subject, was the consideration of theological differences between the parties.
All these things had their weight; but it does not follow that because a young man considers, that he is therefore considerate. Powerful as consideration may be, feeling is much more powerful; and it has also an efficacy in overruling and influencing the decisions of the understanding, and cheating the judgment by a speciousness of reasoning. Thus it was that Markham, with all his sagacity, allowed himself to be imposed on. He reasoned thus:—Perhaps, if I leave England without announcing it to Clara, it may occur to her that I had some very powerful reason for such neglect of common politeness,and there may arise in her mind a suspicion of that which really exists, and then there may be in her mind a corresponding sentiment, which, if not cherished, may die away and be forgotten; and it would not be right for me to arouse such sentiments at such a time. It will be best then if I personally return the book, and very coolly and politely take my leave; yet, upon second thoughts, why should or need there be any thing of coolness in my manner. It will be most suitable to be perfectly uniform, and to take my leave in a friendly, cordial manner, as I have hitherto behaved towards her.
With this resolution he made his last visit, with a view of taking leave of Colonel and Signora Rivolta and of Clara, and of returning with thanks a book which he had borrowed from the latter. Books are very convenient for lovers; they are a species of Cupid’s go-cart; they are the gentle and gradual introduction of sentiment; they speak without blushing; they are fluent in the utterance, and they can tell many a tender tale by a doubled leaf, or a pencil mark; or a rose-leaf may mark an interestingpage. When Markham talked to himself about a cool and quiet leave-taking and a friendly farewell, he did not recollect or deeply think of books interchanged, and of beautiful passages marked for their sentiment and pathos, and most peculiarly applicable to peculiar circumstances: he forgot how many striking passages and elegant extracts he had read aloud, and how much force and energy he gave, or attempted to give, to these expressive and select beauties: he forgot how many associations were connected with books. There was also another circumstance which of course did not occur to him. Clara Rivolta was not situated as any young woman of English family and extensive acquaintance; she had not seen much of society; Markham was the only young gentleman with whom she was at all acquainted; and those few other persons whom she had seen did not make any favourable impression on her mind. By comparison therefore with them, Markham was highly agreeable to her, and positively also was he not unacceptable, inasmuch as Clara herself had noslight tincture of what may be called pedantry. Confined intercourse with human society produces, almost of necessity, some degree of pedantry, which is nothing more than an undue estimate of the importance of some one object of human interest or pursuit. Clara had lived secluded, had been much alone, was of a poetical and almost romantic temperament, had contemplated humanity and its interests through the medium of imagination and poetry; she had lived in a world of her own, and the world of reality was to her thought harsh, rough, and ungracious. When therefore she met with Markham, who had also an imagination somewhat poetical, and a decided taste for the lighter and more graceful productions of genius; and when she saw this young gentleman brought into immediate contrast with an uncourteous and rude coxcomb, as he was at the trial, her opinion of him was flattering; and when, after farther acquaintance, she observed that his mind was well-cultivated, his manners gentle, his deportment essentially and decidedly courteous, and when he had taken great pains torender her well pleased with scenes about her, and to communicate information to her on such topics as she felt interested in, she became more and more pleased with his society, always happy to see him, always happy to hear him, disposed to acquiesce in his judgment, and to be guided by his opinion; and above all, as there was not in her heart any previous attachment, very naturally her affections rested more tenderly on Markham than she was well aware.
If, therefore, Markham had need of management and direction, that he might take his leave of Clara without betraying any undue emotion, so had the young lady also as great need to exercise a commanding discretion on her part. But in this matter the lady was not so well prepared as the gentleman; for the latter was somewhat aware of the state of his own mind, but the former knew not aright the nature of the interest she felt in the company of her kind and intelligent friend. Markham had told Mr. Martindale of the day fixed for his departure, and the old gentleman insisted that he should spend his last day in their company.
It is very remarkable, but not less true than strange, that though Mr. Martindale had cautioned the young gentleman against losing his heart when he saw Clara in old Richard Smith’s cottage, and regarded her merely as a country girl, yet it never occurred to the old gentleman, now the real circumstances of the young lady were known, and Markham was in the daily habit of seeing and conversing with her, that there was any danger of an attachment springing up between them. Mr. Martindale, if he thought at all upon the subject, thought that all Markham’s visits and attentions were to himself, and for his sake; and he was pleased with the young gentleman for devoting so much of his time to the party. Signora Rivolta, however, thought and saw otherwise. It was clear to her observing eye and her discerning mind, that Markham’s visits, if not attracted by Clara, were at least rendered agreeable by her company. It was also very obvious to her that the barrister’s visits were agreeable to Clara, and that an attachment to the young gentleman had been gradually andinsensibly forming in her heart. It might be supposed that the faith in which Signora Rivolta had been educated, would have influenced and determined her to oppose every obstacle in her power to the growth of such an attachment; but the truth is, that she had understanding enough to discern that the dangers and difficulties of opposition were as great and as serious as the danger threatened by this young attachment: for she knew that such had ever been the imaginative and ardent complexion of Clara’s mind, that if love should ever take possession of her heart, it would have a strong hold there, beyond the power of ordinary arguments and every-day principles to expel. She was not quite satisfied, for she had never had an opportunity of ascertaining how deeply the principles of her religion were infixed in her mind, nor could she conjecture what power these principles might have over her affections. She thought it safer, therefore, to avoid bringing these principles into danger by any premature experiment of their strength. There was also to be added to these considerationsanother thought; it was possible that Markham might be brought over to the true faith; and it may also be remarked that Signora Rivolta herself was not so very decided, as some persons of her faith are supposed to be, in the conviction that there could be no salvation out of the pale of that church to which she belonged. That there could be many virtues out of the pale of that church, she had learned from the amiable and excellent character of her maternal uncle, poor old Richard Smith; and that a religion which she had been taught to esteem heretical, could afford a calm and placid support in the hour of death, had been also manifested by her uncle’s dying-bed. These considerations rendered Signora Rivolta less decidedly hostile to the supposed intentions of Markham than otherwise she might have been.
The day appointed for Markham to pay his farewell visit to his good friends, Mr. Martindale and family, being arrived, the young gentleman went with not quite so heavy a heart as he had expected. He felt himself perfectly composed, and began to fancy that his attachmentto Clara was not so decided and powerful as to render it at all necessary to use any peculiar caution in his tones or language of leave-taking. He even smiled at the idea, that though it was the gloomy month of November, proverbial for its power of depressing the spirits, he was yet in a tolerably cheerful and composed state of mind.
Mr. Martindale had removed from the hotel in which he resided for the first week of his stay in town, and had established his daughter and family in a ready-furnished house. Markham was not beyond the time appointed for his visit, but rather before it. He was shown into the drawing-room, which at his entrance was empty. He was glad of that; for it gave him time to prepare himself, to study looks and speeches. There is more ostensible than real advantage in a circumstance of this nature. Empty rooms, especially such as are usually occupied by very interesting persons, always make one shiver, let the weather in summer be ever so warm, or the fires in winter ever so good. The most confident and self-satisfiedderive no benefit from such opportunity of preparation. So Markham presently found, though we do not say that he was a very confident man. He experienced after the first minute or two an indefinable sensation, as though the very air of the room was not in the best and fittest state for respiration. He had no power to sit still, and but little to walk about the apartment. The house, being a ready-furnished house, was not replete with much that was ornamental. There were some few pictures, but of such very inferior value, that no one who had any thing else to do or think of would trouble himself to rise from his seat to look at them. There was a table in the middle of the room, on which lay in disorder some books, which looked as if they were made on purpose to be scattered on drawing-room tables. There was also a portfolio of drawings partly open, or so carelessly closed, that its contents were visible and ascertainable without being moved. Markham looked at the drawings as they lay; then he ventured to draw them out one after another: they were the same that he had seen beforerepeatedly, and he thought that he should see them no more. Then his spirits began to sink and his cheerfulness abated, and he felt very November-like. Arranging the drawings as nearly as possible in the same disorder as he had found them, he perceived under the portfolio an open atlas. The map of that country which was destined to be his residence for some few years to come lay open before him. He was looking at it with the pleasing thought that some of his friends had been thinking of him, when the drawing-room door opened, and Clara entered alone.
It is very provoking after taking an infinity of trouble to prepare for a meeting, and after composing the countenance, and arranging the very words and tone of greeting and salutation, to be suddenly taken by surprise, just at that very moment when all this composure has been disarranged and unsettled. So was Markham taken. He very abruptly and awkwardly drew from his pocket the book which he had borrowed from the young lady, and was commencing a set speech, being about to say that hemust soon leave his native land and change the aspect of his being, when Mr. Martindale most unfortunately entered the room and abruptly dispersed his eloquence. The book was laid upon the table; Markham muttered polite acknowledgments for the use of it; and Mr. Martindale very unceremoniously hurried the young lady out of the room, urging her to make all possible haste to dress for dinner. Now it was very clear that there could be no farther opportunity for Markham to see Clara alone, or to ascertain the state of her feelings towards him; and had there been any sincerity in the many wise and prudent remarks he had made to himself on that subject, he would not have been sorry for the interruption, but would have consoled himself with the reflection that there had been a happy avoidance of that which might have produced a painful and perplexing explanation. The plain truth however was, that notwithstanding all his considerate thoughts, he was so far in love, that he would have been most happy in the assurance that the feeling was mutual, and that he might, when away fromEngland, live cheerfully on the bright hopes of the happiness awaiting his return. Being disappointed in his expectations of approaching an explanation, and feeling the manifest impropriety and indelicacy of making a regular and formal proposal on the very eve of his departure, he felt almost angry; he was decidedly low-spirited and out of humour.
At dinner the conversation turned almost solely on Markham’s departure. Mr. Martindale congratulated him on his peculiar good fortune in meeting with such valuable patronage, and expressed very cordially his confident hopes that so auspicious a commencement would be followed by corresponding success through life. The old gentleman then administered a very copious supply of most valuable advice, to all of which Markham listened with very respectful attention. The old gentleman had indeed all the talk to himself. Colonel Rivolta was a very brave man and a very good patriot, but ordinarily he was not much addicted to talking. Signora Rivolta could talk if she would, and could be silent if she would.This seems no great praise, but it is a compliment which cannot fairly be paid to great multitudes of either sex. Many are the simpletons that have not wit enough to talk, or not wisdom enough to hold their peace. The mother of Clara had reason to suppose it not improbable that Horatio Markham might one day make an offer of his hand to her daughter, and under this impression was especially desirous to understand and rightly apprehend the young man’s character; she was also desirous of knowing what Mr. Martindale also thought of him; and by paying attention to the topics on which the old gentleman thought it necessary to dwell in giving advice, inferences might be drawn as to the opinion which he entertained of the young man’s moral and intellectual character. That Clara was silent is not to be wondered at. Young people should always be silent when old people are giving advice. For supposing that the young people like good advice, they can the better hear it if they be silent; and supposing that they do not like it, it will be the sooner over if they do not interrupt it.
It requires not a very lively imagination to picture to itself how much and how deeply Markham was disappointed at being compelled to undergo at his farewell visit a long story of good advice, instead of enjoying the luxury of a pathetic parting. And as if from the pure desire to prevent any display of the pathetic, the old gentleman, soon after the ladies had retired from the dining-room, desired to have coffee sent in; and when it arrived, he most provokingly said to the young gentleman:
“Now, young man, it is growing late, and so I will not detain you. You must be stirring early to-morrow morning. I will make your apology to the ladies. I shall be very happy to hear from you, when you arrive at your station; and if I live till you come back, I shall be glad to see you.”
There was in Mr. Martindale’s manner of speaking an indescribable kind of positiveness and decision, which prevented all reply or contradiction. Poor Horatio was under an absolute necessity of complying, and after delaying as long as he decently could, he rose to takehis leave, and to make a long speech in good set terms, thanking his kind friend for the notice which he had taken of a young and obscure stranger. But the old gentleman did not like long speeches that were not made by himself. Nature designs the aged to be talkers, not listeners; as the faculty of hearing perishes before that of speaking. Markham was compelled to condense his farewell acknowledgments into very few words: there was certainly great sincerity in his repetition of the great regret which he felt in leaving such agreeable friends. Dismal is a November night in London; and especially dismal was it to Markham to walk through a drizzling rain, by the mockery of lamp-light, all the way from Piccadilly to the Inner Temple, and there to find his little luggage all carefully packed up ready to start; and to find a gloomy looking fire that seemed to grudge the little warmth and cheerfulness that it communicated to the apartment, and to see his book-cases empty, and to see two candles dimly burning on the table; but to see no human face, no look of home, of family, of friends.True, he was a successful man, was in the road to preferment, had made himself many and good friends, but he was very dull, very low-spirited. He had been grievously disappointed, nay, worse than disappointed; for had he found an opportunity to speak or even look a thought of love to Clara, and had it been met by the coldness of distaste, he would have had then only to divert his thoughts, and to fill his mind with other subjects. He then would have known what it was that he had to trust to. But now, poor man, all was uncertainty, perplexity, and suspense. He knew not whether Clara was totally indifferent or not, and he had no means left to ascertain the fact. It was clearly his own fault that he had not sooner made up his own mind, and ascertained his own feelings; for that he reproached himself, but his reproaches availed nothing.
Still farther meditating on the perplexing affair, he came to the unpleasant conclusion, that, if there had been on the part of Clara any feeling of regard and attachment towards him, she must now necessarily conclude that he hadno especial regard for her, or he would not have left England without declaring himself, or at least without giving some intimation of the state of his mind. But no sooner had he arrived at this conclusion, which ought at once to have put him out of suspense, than he flew back from it again; and instead of sorrowing only for himself, he began to feel great compassion for Clara, on the gratuitous supposition that her heart was partly if not entirely lost to him, and lost in vain; and, thereupon, he reproached himself for having behaved unkindly towards her.
Thus ingeniously did the young gentleman torment himself till past midnight, till his fire was extinct for want of stirring, and his candles were like torches for want of snuffing. Cold and cheerless he retired to rest, and there remains on record no memorial of his dreams.