“Why will you fight against so sweet a passion,And steel your heart to such a world of charms!”Addison.
“Why will you fight against so sweet a passion,And steel your heart to such a world of charms!”Addison.
“Why will you fight against so sweet a passion,
And steel your heart to such a world of charms!”
Addison.
Markham was glad that Mr. Martindale’s visit had terminated without discovering the unpleasant circumstances in which the young man’s father had been involved: and as soon as the elder Markham was sufficiently recovered to attend to his usual occupation, the young man took his leave of his parents and returned to town.
Now another season was commencing in the great metropolis, and the family of Colonel Rivolta had become tolerably well naturalised. The Colonel himself, from his relation to so opulent a man as old John Martindale, became a person of some consequence, and he had the honor to lounge and yawn about the streets with divers persons who bore titles or were in expectation of titles. Much as ignorant and superficial people may laugh at the old story of Jack helping Dick to do nothing, we are firmly and seriously of opinion that a man is never so much in need of assistance as when he has nothing to do. Colonel Rivolta found many persons in London in this predicament, and such was the natural benevolence of his mind that he took an inexpressible delight in affording them all the assistance in his power. The Colonel was never without a cigar in his mouth; and therefore he was peculiarly acceptable to those young noblemen and gentlemen who could not for the weakness of their heads smoke in the morning, because though they could not smoke they could employ themselveswith sniffing the fumes of the Colonel’s cigars.
The Colonel was not indeed very intimate with the English language so as to enjoy and understand its delicacies and niceties; but he was sufficiently well acquainted with the language and air and style of fashionable impertinence and coxcomical exclusiveness, and he could laugh remarkably well. He was also exceedingly well-dressed, and had that exquisitely ridiculous military air, which if it be not the glory is at least the pride of most of those green ones who have entered the army since 1815. The Colonel had also in very great perfection the imitative faculty, which enabled him to catch to the very life the manners of the people with whom he associated. He caught with great facility all the fashionable fool’s tricks of the dinner-table; and notwithstanding his imperfect knowledge of the English language, he had no difficulty in understanding and in making himself understood in all matters touching eating and drinking: on these subjects he was eloquent and animated. TheColonel was not a very young man, as may be inferred from the age of his daughter, but he had the air and manners of youth; and he was thus more ridiculous, if possible, than those young men with whom he chiefly associated. This, however, could be said for him which could not be said for them; namely, that he had seen actual and severe service, and had undergone many hardships: there was therefore something of philosophy in his very flippancy of character and manner.
Of a gentleman of this description while sauntering about in time of peace, it is very clear that the historian’s pen can have little or nothing to record: nor can our readers be much surprised if, when speaking of the interests of Clara Rivolta, we should say little or nothing of her father as influencing her destiny or directing her actions. It is not indeed to be supposed that such a woman as Signora Rivolta should pay very great deference to the opinions of Colonel Rivolta, even if he had any opinions, which, by the way, he had not. If any of our readers are astonished at the fact that thedaughter of John Martindale should, in spite of all her good natural understanding, have condescended to marry such a man as Colonel Rivolta, we can only say that such readers must have a very limited circle of acquaintance, or be gifted with the not unusual faculty of being blind to one half of that which passes immediately before their eyes. We have hinted before at this apparent incongruity, and our reference to it again in this place to account for the omission of Colonel Rivolta’s name or observations in some part of our narrative, which is now about to be opened; and we wish also to avoid any thing which might appear disrespectful to the nobler sex: for it would be very wrong to represent the disposal of a daughter’s hand as being more at the will or under the influence of the mother than of the father, unless some special and peculiar reason were given for the fact. Man is the lord of the creation, and he has right because he has power. If any body can find a better reason let them, we will not quarrel with them or dispute the point; our business is not philosophy.
To our narrative then. Horatio Markham no sooner arrived in town than he went to pay his respects to his noble patron. He was graciously received. He made a few common-place apologies, which were received with due common-place politeness, and that business was soon over.
From the house of his noble patron he made the best of his way to the residence of his queer old friend, John Martindale. Almost all single men, who are not downright hermits, have some peculiar pet place of call; some friend’s house, where they uniformly make their first and last visit; where they pop in without fear of intruding. Sometimes, such is the fickleness of humanity, these places are changed; and even Markham, with all his steadiness, was once in great danger of substituting the house of Mr. Henderson for that of Mr. Martindale. A thousand blessings on the head of Dr. Crack for supplanting him there!
Mr. Martindale was not at home when Markham called. That, of course, Markham knew; but he would not suffer any morereproaches from the old gentleman for neglect of attention. Signora Rivolta and her daughter were sitting together; the mother was reading, the daughter was drawing. The mother laid aside her book when Markham entered the room; and she smilingly said, that her time might be better employed than in reading for amusement. The book was a volume of Italian plays. An Englishwoman would have thought herself most learnedly occupied with the same; especially if she had had by her side a dictionary, which she was frequently under the necessity of consulting. There is no waste of time in reading books of amusement when they are not amusing. What a fuss people make about amusement, and very sensible people too! But perhaps there is a pleasure in railing against pleasure, and so we will let it pass.
It was not usual with Signora Rivolta to express herself with so much freedom and cheerfulness to Markham as she did at this interview. There had generally been something of distance and restraint in her, as iffearful of giving the young man too much encouragement.
The time had been that Markham would have been mightily pleased with this manifest change in the deportment of Signora Rivolta; but under present circumstances it appeared to him that it was merely owing to the apparent discontinuance on his part of all serious attention to Clara; and he also felt that it would be morally impossible for him, in the present state of his father’s affairs, to think of making proposals.
With affected ease and cheerfulness he conversed with Signora Rivolta; and with an almost ridiculous affectation of indifference, he took comparatively little notice of Clara. The conversation between Markham and Signora Rivolta was unusually animated. Matters of taste were discussed, politics touched upon, and theology alluded to.
The last was an exceedingly delicate topic. Markham, with all his simplicity and ignorance of what is called the world, had not been inattentiveto theology. He had observed and thought much of the influence of religion upon the human mind; this, indeed, had been his first and almost his only speculation. He had been very desirous, even from early youth, of acting and living most accurately and conscientiously. He was as ignorant on the subject of sectarianism as any member of an establishment need wish to be. But sectarianism does not spring from the attractions of heresy so much as from the dissatisfactions of orthodoxy. For so long as the dogmas of our own creed please us, the arguments of another, however ingenious, do not disturb us. Unfortunately, however, for Markham’s orthodoxy, his native town labored under the evil of a schism in the church, which is far more injurious to its stability than a schism from it. The evangelical party was very strong and very numerous, and very noisy; and made a great talk about religion, and paid very great attention to church duties and observances. Markham was a man generally speaking much in earnest, and he therefore gave much attention to this modificationof the established theology; and had, when a very young man, contrary to the opinion and advice of his father and mother, sided with this party; and he thought the other party little better than mere indifferentists.
He thought he saw among the evangelical party symptoms of the original and primitive spirit of Christianity; and he used to say so very freely, and to think so very seriously. And his mother used to say, he would know better as he grew older: and in process of time he did grow older; and whether he thought better or not we presume not to say; but we do know, that as he grew older, he acquired a habit of analysing motives and looking into principles. And it came to pass that he found among these evangelicals divers manifestations of a worldly spirit, which did not exactly coincide with his notions of extraordinary spiritual purity. In the mercantile part of that class he saw much that bordered very closely on trickery; in the class a little higher, he found a mighty spirit of conceit and priggishness. Towards their neighbours he saw that many of them were mightilycensorious. In conversing with some of them, and those the ringleaders, he found that they were prodigiously ignorant of the very principles on which their peculiarities were founded, and he found them to be unanimous only on one point; namely, that their favorite clergyman was anice man.
At this discovery he was somewhat tempted to smile; and as in some cases tears lead to thought, so in others do smiles lead to reflection. And is not this the order and ordinance of nature? The human infancy, which is the vestibule of intellect, is a scene commingled of smiles and tears, of passionate sorrows and of noisy joys; then comes reflection. So it had been with Markham in what may be called his theological infancy. Led by circumstances to reflect and to think, he perhaps carried reflection and thought farther than he first intended, or was aware of. But it was something, and indeed a very great matter, that he had penetration enough to see through, what he had charity enough to call, the unconscious mask of fanaticism.
Thus led to reflection, his mind did nothastily settle. He was entertained by various speculations, and he made many inquiries, and was forced to find answers for them as well as he could. He had, as people say, his own opinions. What those opinions were we know not, and perhaps Markham himself did not exactly know; and therefore, as he apprehended these opinions indistinctly, he could not communicate them, and thus they were likely to continue his own. Whatever were his literal opinions, the spirit of his theological feeling was catholic; not Roman Catholic, gentle reader, but catholic in its widest acceptation. He did at one time reprobate sectarianism not as a nurse of dangerous heresies, but as a violation of the spirit of nature’s catholicism, and an unauthorised earth-born enclosure of heaven’s free blessings; but he, in time, so far surmounted that feeling, as to discern in the constitution of the human mind the elements of sectarianism; and he at length came to the dangerous conclusion, that there must needs be diversity of opinion so long as there was diversity of minds.
This state of mind will easily account for hisoverlooking the theological education of Clara Rivolta, while and when he thought of paying court to her; and it will also serve to explain the fact of his calmly conversing with Signora Rivolta on subjects connected with theology. For this good lady had also a free and liberal spirit towards dissidents; and did think that in religion there was something eternal and indivisible, which humors of the day could not limit, nor the low walls and fences of sectarianism divide. Her faith, however, and her devotion, however liberal might be her feelings, were modulated and disposed according to the religion in which she had been educated. Those forms she preferred decidedly, but not angrily.
Now that part of the conversation which had reference to theology was on the broadest and most general principles; and the parties, so far as they went, coincided.
Markham had been talking with Signora Rivolta a long while; and he had been so mightily well pleased with his own speculations, freely uttered and candidly received, that he did not notice that all this time Clara had beenperfectly silent; and that she had been attentively, to all appearance, occupied with her drawing.
But the conversation on the part of the mother of Clara presently flagged; and the eyes of the Signora were directed to a time-piece that stood on a bracket in the room where they were sitting. The index pointed to the hour of two. Markham recollected having seen that time-piece in poor old Richard Smith’s cottage at Brigland; and when Signora Rivolta looked at it so earnestly, there rushed into the young man’s mind recollections of the past; and he was so lost in these recollections, that he did not think of the proper interpretation of the Signora’s looks at the time-piece.
There was presently an awkward silence; and Clara lifted up her face from the table and looked at her mother, and saw that her mother’s eyes were directed to the time-piece; and there also did she look, and then suddenly her countenance changed, and she looked again at her mother, and slightly at Markham, and she almost sighed.
Markham scarcely heeded these movements for a minute or two; but presently his recollection came to him, and he bethought himself that he had made an unusually long visit, and he rose to take his departure. Then he saw, by the manner in which Signora Rivolta received his motion to depart, that his stay had been quite long enough; and he was still, with all his philosophy, so far in love with Clara, that he fancied that she also seemed glad that he was going. She smiled, indeed, and courteously said, “Good morning, sir.” But if she had not smiled, she must have sighed; and perhaps have almost wept.
As Markham was retiring, he met at the drawing-room door a strange mysterious-looking personage, dressed in black, and having a look of gloom and darkness far beyond any darkness of attire. The stranger fixed his eyes inquiringly on the young barrister, and by his looks seemed to rebuke the young man as an unwelcome intruder. Markham again looked at the stranger, not from wilful curiosity and voluntary impertinence, but almost through apower of fascination. Never had he seen a countenance of such singular and curious expression. It seemed not only unenglish, but unearthly. The eyes were large, flat, and lustreless; the cheeks long, narrow, pendulous, and sadly sallow; the nose aquiline; the forehead low and wrinkled; the hair thick and grizzled; the mouth wide, and the lips thin and pale; and the teeth long and irregular, and alternately black and yellow, like the keys of an old harpsichord. Markham sickened at the sight; he guessed what the stranger was; and so can our readers.
“But here I am to speak what I do know.”Shakspeare.
“But here I am to speak what I do know.”Shakspeare.
“But here I am to speak what I do know.”
Shakspeare.
Markham had a long way to walk to reach his chambers. He went slowly, sorrowfully, and abstractedly. He thought over and over again of his troubles and disappointments. It was a painful thought to him, that just at the moment when his ambition of rising in the world seemed about to be gratified, he should find himself, by the misfortunes of his father,checked, thrown back, and humiliated. It could not but occur to his mind, that in order to gratify him, and to place him in a profession to which his genius and inclination directed him, his father and mother had made many sacrifices, and perhaps had impoverished themselves. He could, indeed, in a pecuniary point of view, repair the evil, at least in a great measure; but he could not heal the wounds of the spirit, which he saw that his father had so deeply felt. It was not in his power to recall the past, and restore health and spirits.
The young man also was perplexed and troubled on his own account. He had long cherished, though with some interruptions, the prospect of obtaining the hand of Clara Rivolta. He had, with a very pardonable, because very common conceit, pleased himself with the imagination that as the intellectual qualities of her mind were of a superior character, she was therefore most excellently well calculated for him; and he thought it a great pity that so intelligent a young woman should be sacrificed to such an empty coxcomb as Tippetson. Wemust pardon Markham for a little vanity: we are all of us vain of something; and those that are not vain of something, are vain of the absence of vanity.
Among other thoughts in Markham’s mind there now sprung up, and perhaps predominated over all others, the thought of Clara’s religious prejudices: for all people who differ from ourselves have religious prejudices. That hideous looking stranger, whom Markham met at the door as he was parting from Clara, was clearly a priest of the Roman Catholic church. He looked exactly like an inquisitor; so thought poor Markham, from whose representation we have described the person. What a blessing it is that Protestants have no prejudices!
It was a sad pity, the young man thought, that so amiable and beautiful a creature as Clara should be under the influence and spiritual direction of such an ill-looking, morose, and sour priest. He thought that her understanding was sufficiently strong to be above the influence of superstition; and his only fear was the reverence in which she held her motherwould overpower every other consideration, and prevent her from giving due weight to such arguments as might be urged against her hereditary faith. In his own mind there was some portion of imagination; and he could readily understand how a system of religious faith and ceremony, blended with early recollections and associated with thoughts of parental kindness, might be too powerful in its hold upon the mind to admit of being moved or shaken by the coldness and dryness of argument. At all events, whatever might be Clara’s faith, and to whatever church she might be attached, there were other objections which rendered it not by any means consistent with Markham’s notions of propriety to propose or even to take any steps towards proposing, under present circumstances.
When he arrived at his chambers, he found that during his absence many inquiries had been made for him. Among others, he saw that Sir Andrew Featherstone had called. As Markham had no acquaintance with, and but little knowledge of, that worthy baronet, hesupposed that the call was one of business; and knowing the intimacy which subsisted between that gentleman and the Martindale family, he thought that it might be agreeable to the old gentleman if he should return that call very promptly.
He therefore interrogated his clerk as to whether Sir Andrew had given any intimation of the object of his call. The clerk said that Sir Andrew looked in low spirits, and expressed great anxiety to see Mr. Markham, and made very particular inquiries as to the probable time of his return.
“And what answer did you give him?” asked Markham.
“I told him, sir, that I could not be sure of your return to chambers before four or five o’clock, and that you might not then stay longer than merely to dress for dinner.”
“But did not you tell him where he might find me?”
“I did, sir; I said that if Sir Andrew was very desirous of seeing you, he would probably find you at Mr. Martindale’s house in Piccadilly.When I mentioned Mr. Martindale’s name he shook his head and said, ‘No, that will not do;’ and then, after a little hesitation, he said that he would call again in the course of the morning.”
This colloquy between Markham and his clerk was scarcely finished, when Sir Andrew Featherstone made his appearance. The worthy baronet was indeed very serious in his looks; and as his usual manner was one of great levity, his serious moods were clumsily gloomy.
“Mr. Markham,” said the baronet, “have you recently seen our good old friend, Mr. Martindale?”
“I saw him, Sir Andrew,” replied Markham, “a few days ago on his way to Trimmerstone.”
“You have not heard from him since?” inquired the baronet; and as he made the inquiry he looked very grave.
Markham of course concluded that some serious accident had befallen his friend, or that he was no more. With anxious eagerness,therefore, he asked, “I am afraid, Sir Andrew, by this question, that you are the bearer of some painful intelligence respecting my worthy friend.”
“I certainly am, Mr. Markham; and I am sorry to say, that, judging from the letter which I received this morning from Mr. Martindale’s attorney at Brigland, I fear that the poor old gentleman is very near his end, even if he be living at all.”
Markham started at the intelligence and exclaimed, “Impossible! it is scarcely a week since I saw him on his way to Trimmerstone in perfect health and spirits.”
“But,” replied Sir Andrew, “he did not reach Trimmerstone: he stopped short at Brigland, where he had some matters to settle with his confidential attorney, Mr. Price; and between you and me, Mr. Markham,” continued the baronet, changing his grave and solemn for wise and mysterious looks, “I strongly suspect that that said confidential attorney will be found to have made of his confidence a great deal more than it was worth.”
Markham was again astonished; for Markham was a very conscientious man, and could not readily believe many of those insinuations which are made against divers members of the legal profession. He thought that the greatest pecuniary sins that could ordinarily be laid at the door of conveyancers were a little exaggeration in the statement of their labors, and an undue estimate set upon their toils. Markham also could not help observing how readily and easily Sir Andrew Featherstone made the transition from a serious annunciation of Mr. Martindale’s illness and probable decease, to the hypothetical knavery of his confidential attorney. But why should any thing be strange to us? Simply because we do not observe, or because observing we do not remember.
Markham proceeded to inquire of Sir Andrew Featherstone what steps it would be desirable to take with respect to communicating the intelligence to Signora Rivolta.
“That,” exclaimed Sir Andrew, “is the difficulty. Mr. Price has requested me to make the communication; and indeed, to saythe truth, I really fear that the poor old gentleman is no more. This is his letter.”
Thereupon the baronet handed to Markham the attorney’s letter, which was in the usual common-place style as adopted on such occasions, and as there is nothing else common-place in these volumes, we shall not think of violating their uniformity by the insertion of this letter. When Markham had read the letter, he returned it to the baronet, saying,
“Indeed, Sir Andrew, from the tenor of this letter, I am almost sure it must be as you suspect, and our worthy friend, I fear, is no more. It will be a painful task to communicate the information to his family.”
“So indeed it will, Mr. Markham,” replied the baronet; “and for that reason I wished to devolve the task on you, or any one else that would be kind enough to undertake it. I really cannot manage these affairs so well as some people can. I have already given a hint to the priest that is often calling at the house, but in truth there is very little in his look or mannerthat is likely to console the poor creatures. Do you know that priest, Mr. Markham?”
“I believe,” replied Markham, “that I saw him this morning for the first time in my life; for as I was leaving the house, I met a gentleman of clerical and morose look, who appeared as if he was the bearer of ill tidings.”
“Oh, very good, very good, he is the proper person to tell them. Well, but now, Mr. Markham, have you any idea of what will become of Mr. Martindale’s vast property? I am very much afraid that Price the lawyer will come in for a great share of it.”
“Indeed, Sir Andrew,” said Markham, “I have never given the subject a moment’s thought; but I have no doubt that a man of such natural acuteness as Mr. Martindale would not suffer himself to be imposed on or deceived by a country attorney. But what reason have you for imagining any thing of the kind?”
At this question Sir Andrew Featherstone shook his head and looked very wise; and he seemed pleased that Markham had given himan opportunity of entering upon the subject by way of explanation.
“Now I will tell you,” said the busy baronet; “Mr. Martindale and I have been long acquainted with each other, and very good friends we used to be in our younger days; but when Mr. Martindale came into possession of his large property, he rather altered his behaviour and was more distant: however, I bore no malice, but called on him as before. In time this shyness wore off; and one day when I was with him at Brigland, soon after he had finished building the Abbey, he told me that he had just been making his will. He was always very fond of making wills. I suppose he may have made twenty or thirty wills in the course of his life. Well, sir, he had been making a will, and he wished me for one to witness the will. Now I could not help, very naturally you know, just giving a glance of curiosity over the sheets; and the old gentleman said to me in his usual, hasty manner, ‘Read the will, man, read it; I don’t wish you to put your hand to you know not what.’So I read it over, and signed it. I observed that legacies are given to a very considerable amount; and at last this fellow Price was named as one of the executors and residuary-legatee. I could not help remarking to Mr. Martindale that I thought he had been over-liberal to his confidential solicitor; for I was almost sure that by this arrangement he would have at least one-half of the old gentleman’s property.”
“But you do not mean, Sir Andrew, to say, that Mr. Martindale was not aware of the extent of his own property?” replied Markham.
“I do mean to say so,” said the baronet, “and I am sure of the fact; and the villany of this man Price consists in this, that knowing he is to be residuary-legatee, he keeps or has kept Mr. Martindale in the dark as to the real value of his property.”
“Well,” replied Markham, “it cannot now be helped. But it was a pity that you did not endeavour to undeceive Mr. Martindale.”
“Endeavour to undeceive him? Why, my good sir, how do you think that was possible!You surely were sufficiently acquainted with our worthy friend to know that he would never be convinced against his will.”
Markham smiled, and acknowledged the truth of this remark. But the consideration now was, what steps should be taken to ascertain the real state of Mr. Martindale, and what farther communication should be made to Signora Rivolta, and who should be the bearer of the intelligence. Sir Andrew Featherstone, by paying great compliments to Markham’s superior understanding, attempted to throw the burden on his shoulders; but the young barrister, though no more adverse to flattery than any one else, did not think a compliment from the lips of Sir Andrew quite sufficient recompense for the trouble of an unpleasant embassy, and therefore gave it up to him on whom it devolved with greater right and propriety. Poor Sir Andrew was grievously annoyed by his commission, but he felt himself bound to undertake it.
With slow and reluctant steps the worthy baronet proceeded from Markham’s chambers to the town-house of Mr. Martindale; and thoughhe was a man of as much humanity as ninety-nine in a hundred, he was not very sorry when the servant who opened the door informed him that Signora Rivolta could not be seen; for intelligence had been just received from Brigland of the death of Mr. Martindale.
It seems that the letter which Mr. Price had written to Sir Andrew Featherstone was written just before the decease of Mr. Martindale, and that another had been despatched by the same day’s post to Colonel Rivolta immediately after the old gentleman’s departure from life. The Colonel did not trouble himself much about letters, and therefore handed over the communication to Signora Rivolta, who became thus suddenly and abruptly made acquainted with the event which Mr. Price in his considerateness would have conveyed to her circuitously and gradually. For though Mr. Price was rather cunning and dexterous as concerned pecuniary transactions, and made the business of conveyancing more profitable than many an honester man would have done, yet he was by no means an unfeeling man, or a man of rudenessor vulgarity of manners. He was, on the other hand, a man of great urbanity of manners, and altogether courteous, kind and gentle in his deportment. He never was accused or suspected of any thing like insensibility or unkindness: he was a most excellent father, and one of the best of husbands; and though he was not exceedingly conscientious in pecuniary affairs, he still would never have enriched himself at the expense of another’s misery and obvious sufferings. But when the affairs of old Mr. Martindale were put into his hands, and when he saw that the old gentleman’s property was so much beyond his wants and beyond his ideas, a temptation was thus presented to the man of law to take some little advantage of this ignorance.
As Mr. Martindale frequently amused himself with making wills, and as in all these drafts and directions he had uniformly stated that Mr. Price was to be one of his executors and residuary-legatee, the conveyancer thought it might be politic still to keep the old gentleman in the dark as to the real value and extentof his property. There is a casuistry which might represent such conduct as being perfectly honest; but we deal not in casuistry, and therefore we leave it with the stamp of our reprobation; and very much, no doubt, such men as Mr. Price will care for our reprobation.
“Trust not the frantic, or mysterious guide,Nor stoop a captive to the schoolman’s pride.”Savage.
“Trust not the frantic, or mysterious guide,Nor stoop a captive to the schoolman’s pride.”Savage.
“Trust not the frantic, or mysterious guide,
Nor stoop a captive to the schoolman’s pride.”
Savage.
Before we remove the scene of our narrative to Brigland again, it will be necessary to let our readers into the secret of the ill-omened appearance of the priest, at whose aspect our friend Markham so instinctively shuddered.
If the slight and occasional notice which we have taken of Clara Rivolta’s character andcircumstances have conveyed to the minds of our readers those impressions which we have designed that it should convey; they will see that the poor girl, from circumstances over which she had no control, and from a natural timidity and diffidence, had been painfully and severely tried. They will also readily imagine that she had experienced no slight inconvenience from the difference between the religion of her birthplace and the religion of her present home. They will easily imagine that her mind could not be so passionately and fervently devoted to the old religion as was the mind of her mother; and they will also be able to apprehend that she could not be very hostile to the faith which Markham professed. Now, though Signora Rivolta was a woman of good natural understanding, of great discernment, and of strong mind; and though she could reason well and talk liberally, yet she had by constitutional temperament a strong tincture of fanaticism. Her mind was naturally enthusiastic; and though fanaticism and enthusiasm may be managed with a better grace in minds of anexalted character than in those of inferior powers, yet where these feelings do exist in strong and superior minds they are exceedingly obstinate and unchangeable. It was therefore with no agreeable feelings that Signora Rivolta had contemplated the possibility, and indeed the great probability, that her daughter would give her hand to a Protestant.
A conversation which the mother of Clara once had with Lady Woodstock on this subject by no means reconciled her to the anticipation. The substance of the conversation was as follows: Lady Woodstock had prevailed with Clara for two or three successive Sundays to attend with her at Mr. Henderson’s chapel; and on their return from the chapel one morning, Lady Woodstock observing that Signora Rivolta looked unusually morose, addressed her as if her ill looks were from mere bodily indisposition.
“My dear Signora, I am afraid you are not well this morning.”
“Lady Woodstock, I am unwell; but it is the malady of mind. I am not pleased thatmy daughter should forsake the religion in which she was educated. I have not seen in this country sufficient proofs that the Protestant religion is so superior to the Catholic, as to make me wish that my daughter should renounce the faith of her native land.”
Lady Woodstock was not one of those good-humored people who are never out of humor except when they are displeased: her good-humor was perpetual; and it was by no means her habit to snatch eagerly at an opportunity of being affronted. With the greatest cheerfulness of manner, therefore, she replied to this pettish speech of Signora Rivolta.
“My very good lady, why should you imagine that I have any wish to withdraw your daughter from her own religion? But even suppose that such an event should take place, you are not so illiberally inclined as to believe that salvation is not attainable in the Protestant church; and as it is not impossible that your daughter may be married to a Protestant, it is well that she should at least learn to regard that religion with complacency.”
The mother of Clara was by no means softened by that reply, but with unabated asperity replied, “I must entreat you, my Lady Woodstock, not to speak so slightingly of religion. Would you have a woman renounce her religion for a husband?”
“I think seriously,” said Lady Woodstock, “that the religion of the wife should conform to that of the husband.”
“Abominable!” exclaimed Signora Rivolta.
“Nay, nay, my good friend, I see nothing so very abominable in the matter. No woman ought to marry a man whose religion will be his condemnation; and the religion which may be made effectual to the salvation of the husband is equally capable of saving the wife.”
“Sophistry, not worth refuting;” was the only answer which Signora Rivolta made to this last speech.
The cause of this ill-humor in the mother of Clara, and of this ebullition of bigotry, was the appearance in London of an Italian priest named Martini, whom Signora Rivolta had known in Italy, and from whose fanaticism hermind had received there a strong religious impulse. This Father Martini had, on the Sunday morning in question, officiated at the chapel where Signora Rivolta attended, and his discourse had been on the subject of religious indifference; and that part of religious indifference on which priests are most eloquent, and with which they are generally most angry, is an inattention to sectarian theories or peculiarities. By the eloquence of Father Martini the zeal of Signora Rivolta had been revived, and with that zeal there also arose a feeling of hostility and bitterness towards heretics.
This conversation took place just after the elopement of the Countess of Trimmerstone with Mr. Tippetson: and as after that event Horatio Markham, from circumstances already noticed, did not pay such constant attention as in former days he had paid to Clara, Signora Rivolta began to have hopes that the attachment on Markham’s part was dying away. With respect to Clara, it was evident that her mind was in a painfully unsettled state; and her mother thought that no better remedycould be applied, than removing her from those scenes and associations from whence her unhappiness arose; and as Father Martini was a man of some consideration in his own country, and a person in whom the Signora could confide, it entered into her mind that it might be desirable to send Clara back to her native land under his guardianship, till such time as in the revolution of events Colonel Rivolta and herself might be able to return to Italy.
It would indeed have been a gratification to her mother, could Clara have been easily induced to take the veil; but the Signora had more consideration for her daughter’s feelings than to use, or to suffer to be used, any urgent importunities on the subject. And here we are quite willing and most happy to render to Signora Rivolta the justice which acknowledges and commends the gentle and unimportunate mode in which her wishes on this subject were always expressed. Every body knows that there is a mode of importunity which wearies and worries into compliance, when the judgment and inclination are equally and strongly adverseto that compliance. And this importunity is so expressed, and with such jesuitical dexterity is it oftentimes managed, that when it has gained its object, its victim is thought and spoken of as acting from its own free will. Beautifully is this importunity pictured in that touching song called “Auld Robin Gray.”
“My mither didna speak,But she looked in my faceTill my heart was nigh to break.”
“My mither didna speak,But she looked in my faceTill my heart was nigh to break.”
“My mither didna speak,
But she looked in my face
Till my heart was nigh to break.”
Now there was no such species of tender worrying as this in Signora Rivolta’s conduct towards her daughter. The Signora was somewhat fanatical, but she was straightforward and honest.
The presence of Father Martini in London at this juncture certainly led the mother of Clara to thoughts concerning her daughter; and, knowing that Mr. Martindale was not very partial to the priests of her religion, she took occasion of his absence to hold frequent intercourse with this zealous supporter and advocate of that faith in which she had been educated.Father Martini had made frequent visits, and had held long consultations. In those consultations mention had been made of Markham and Tippetson; and when the priest made the last visit, he took it for granted that the person whom he met at the drawing-room door was Markham: for that reason he looked at him with such inquisitorial scrutiny.
It has been stated that Sir Andrew Featherstone had met this Father Martini, and had informed him of the dangerous state in which Mr. Martindale was, at Brigland. This information the priest of course conveyed to Signora Rivolta. But before he had well finished speaking, a letter came from Brigland, addressed to Colonel Rivolta, and by him it was immediately handed over to the Signora.
The suddenness of the information, and the unexpectedness of the event, gave a painful shock to her feelings. At the first meeting of father and daughter, as mentioned in an early part of our narrative, there was comparatively little emotion. They had not been acquainted with or accustomed to each other, and thereforeall the emotion which was excited was merely by force of imagination, in which faculty neither of them much abounded. But when Signora Rivolta had resided for a year or two with her lately-discovered father, and had experienced from him so much more kindness, attention, and even homage, than the circumstances of her birth could have led her to anticipate; when she had observed in his mind those traits and features, which are really and substantially good; and when she had seemed to be essential to his happiness and comfort: then indeed it was painful to her that he had been thus suddenly snatched away from her, and that he had breathed his last at a distance from every relative; and that the only farewell had been the parting for a short journey.
When Signora Rivolta had read the letter, she gave it to her daughter, and covered her face, and wept bitterly, but not loudly. The contents of the letter were thus made known to Clara before she read it. There is sometimes a consolation springing from the suddenness of an afflictive announcement; for if the firstshock is well sustained, the details and particulars frequently act as alleviations. But Clara’s nerves were not strong, and her susceptibility was acute; and as her mother was not ordinarily passionate in grief or profuse of tears, the deep sobbings which the poor girl now witnessed overcame her self-possession, and she uttered a slight scream and fainted. The usual restoratives were promptly applied, and the stern-looking Father Martini was deeply moved at the scene of distress before him.
Clara was presently removed to her own apartment; and when she was sufficiently recovered to be left alone, Signora Rivolta returned to the priest. Now though this man had a stern and forbidding aspect, and though he was most zealously and exclusively devoted to that form of Christianity which he professed, yet he had the kindly feelings of humanity about him; and even the sternness of his bigotry had mercy for its motive.
“Lady,” said the priest to Signora Rivolta, “I can pity you. I can make allowance for the frailty and weakness of human feeling; butyou must, in the midst of your grief, remember and adore the hand which sends affliction. And you should consider whether there be not some peculiar spiritual good to be derived and drawn from temporal and worldly sorrow. You have lost a parent. Pray for his soul. His errors might have shaken the stability of your faith; and if he endeavoured, while living, to poison your soul with heresy, now return good for evil, and pray for him. Who can tell how much the prayers of the faithful may avail!”
Signora Rivolta listened calmly, and replied, “But, father, will my prayers be successful for a heretic?”
“Daughter,” replied the priest, “there are no heretics in the grave.”
There was a pause in the conversation; and Father Martini anxiously watched the countenance of Signora Rivolta to see when there might be an opportunity of speaking concerning the daughter, of the steadiness of whose faith there was some ground of doubt. As there appeared some symptoms of composure, thepriest, after a short interval, said, “Daughter, when afflictions come upon us, it is for our own good, or for the good of the church, most frequently for both. You have a child who was brought up in the bosom of the holy church; the faith of that child has been endangered. It is now more than ever in your power to secure and establish it. Whereinsoever you doubt your own influence in this land of heresy, that defect may be supplied and that evil remedied by removal of your child into a country where heresy is unknown.”
There followed this address a much longer and more embarrassing interval of silence, which at length was slowly broken by Signora Rivolta in a subdued and almost whispering tone. “Father Martini, I reverence the faith in which I have been reared from my infancy, and I feel it to be a faith of holy and sustaining power; but I fear that it has no influence where it does not rule the will; and I cannot, dare not, use an importunity of persuasion to urge my child to the steps which you suggest.If the church receives her wholly, it shall receive her freely.”
At this speech there was a slight frown upon the brow of the holy man; but Signora Rivolta saw it not, nor was she aware of any unpleasant feeling in the mind of Father Martini, when in reply he said, “Lady, you, as a mother, have power to influence; and the influence which you can use is more than authority and weightier than command. A child cannot long resist a parent.”
With much quickness and promptitude, Signora Rivolta replied, “My child shall not resist me.”
Father Martini was pleased; and with an agreeable feeling he rose to take his leave, saying, “Now, lady, I leave you; and when you have performed your duty to the dead, you will not forget your duty also to the living.”
There was a meaning in the Signora’s last expression which the priest did not observe. To his ear it sounded as if it was intended tosay that resistance would be hopeless and ineffectual. From the lips of Clara’s mother it was intended to say, that no importunity of persuasion should be used. It was a pleasant misunderstanding on both sides.