“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. We must 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 mother would 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, he supposed 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 say the 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 manner that 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 him an 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 though he 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 rudeness or 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 extent of 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.