"Ay, and we are betrothed; nay more, our marriage-hour,
With all the cunning manner of our flight,
Determined of."
SHAKSPEARE.
From the state in which Philip found Lord Martindale, it seemed
very clear that anxiety of mind had the greatest share in producing
his illness. That father and son should both have been living beyond
their means, in order to keep up their dignity, was indeed a painful
consideration; but more especially was it painful to the young
gentleman, who now very strongly felt the difference between real and
nominal independence. When his father was a commoner, and he himself
was pursuing the studies of a profession, he thought that it would be
a very fine thing to be heir to a title, and to live independent of
the world. And when that long-desired and long-sought-for honor became
his father's portion, then did the pride of rank take possession of
the young gentleman's soul; and though the necessity for occupation
was greater, the inclination to it was less. It might be tolerable for
the younger sons to pursue a profession, but the heir was above it.
When also the opulent patronage of Mr. John Martindale was added to
the other stimulants to grandeur of feeling; and when the Hon. Philip
Martindale found himself heir to a title, and probable heir to a very
splendid mansion and an ample fortune, the folly of pride began to
shoot forth with rank luxuriance, and the young man behaved with the
greater absurdity. Very soon, however, as we have seen, did he feel the
inconveniences and perplexities of his situation; and every day those
inconveniences and perplexities grew more troublesome and annoying. And
when old Mr. Martindale found his daughter and her family, and when
he had opened his eyes to the folly of his cousin, then was the young
man in a state of real and severe distress. The title also to which he
once looked forward with the greatest complacency and satisfaction, now
threatened to devolve upon him at a moment when it would be rather an
inconvenience and an encumbrance than any very high gratification.
Watching therefore with great anxiety the progress of his father's
illness, and finding that no very immediate change was likely to take
place, he at last determined most heroically to lead to the altar
the daughter of the retired soap-boiler. Let no one cavil at our
phraseology, when we say that the determination was most heroical.
It was a sacrifice of very strong feeling on the part of Philip
Martindale; nothing but absolute necessity could have driven him to it.
To narrate the progress of a courtship in which one party was
urged by pecuniary necessity, and the other by vanity aspiring after
a title, would be somewhat difficult and tedious. Suffice it to say,
that the offer was accepted quite as readily as Mr. Philip could wish,
perhaps, indeed, something more so. The bride elect did not mightily
recommend herself by the manner in which the offer was accepted; and
during the short period which interfered between the acceptance of
the offer and the celebration of the marriage, the young lady was
so much intoxicated with the anticipation of the approaching honor,
that, to use a very coarse though expressive phrase, she made herself
quite ridiculous. Philip was mortified deeply at the prospect which
now threatened him; but there was no possibility of escape. From some
of Miss Sampson's language, it appeared that she was not altogether
ignorant of the claims which the Jewish people had on the Hon. Philip
Martindale; and by the young lady's mode of expressing herself, it
appeared that she was indebted for a knowledge of that fact to the
communicative tongue of Mr. Isaac Solomons, junior, of St. Mary Axe.
Here then was an additional and increasing mortification. To retract
was impossible, and indeed in one sense undesirable. With heavy heart
the courtship, if such it might be called, proceeded; and if the
honorable gentleman had entertained any fears that his more fashionable
friends would look coolly on him in consequence of his convenient match
with opulence from the city, he soon perceived that the place of former
acquaintants would be amply and copiously supplied by recruits from the
east. Miss Sampson was too proud of her humble servant, her gallant
knight, her sentimental swain, to lose any opportunity of introducing
him to those of her friends or distant relatives, in whose eyes she
was desirous of shining with a splendor that should eclipse them all.
Miserable was the mortification which the Hon. Philip Martindale
endured, when he was compelled to sit down at Sir Gilbert's table with
Mr. Isaac Solomons, junior, of St. Mary Axe; and when, at the kind and
good-humored peace-making solicitations of Celestina, he was under the
unavoidable necessity of shaking hands with that gallant gentleman.
Philip Martindale was not partial to perfumery, but he was forced to
see and to smell Mr. Henry Augustus Tippetson till he was quite tired
of the creature. This perfumed gentleman was indeed very gentle and
courteous: he would never act as Mr. Isaac Solomons, junior, of St.
Mary Axe. He was particularly cautious of giving offence voluntarily;
but involuntarily he gave much offence, yet not such as is the custom
to resent by a challenge to mortal combat. He was offensive by means of
his perfumery, and affectation, and servility, and over-officiousness.
But notwithstanding all this, Miss Sampson would persist in calling
him a "nice man." So convinced was Miss Sampson of this truth, that
she would frequently appeal to Mr. Philip for his judgment, and ask
him if he did not really think Mr. Tippetson was a "nice young man."
There were many other nice men and nice women to whom Miss Sampson
did contrive to introduce to her destined spouse. Being in violent
good-humor and high spirits; her weakness of mind and natural folly
were rendered more decidedly conspicuous; while, on the other hand,
Philip being in low spirits was more observant of, and more annoyed by,
these petty vexations. Philip never entertained a very high opinion of
Miss Sampson, though he did not think her to be an absolute simpleton;
but his opinion of the agreeableness of her manners and the soundness
of her understanding, considerably abated on the formation of that
acquaintance with her which was destined to lead to matrimony.
We have hinted at the awkwardness which Mr. Philip felt on the subject
of the marriage-settlement; very happily however for him, Sir Gilbert
Sampson was very prompt and liberal on the occasion. Not suspecting the
use to which the money was devoted, he was liberal even to Philip's
most sanguine expectations. Sir Gilbert, though a man of ambition, and
though pleased with the title to which his daughter would be advanced,
was not weak enough to suppose that Philip Martindale or any other
person of rank would marry the daughter for any other than substantial
reasons. He was well satisfied that Philip must be in want of money,
and therefore, with a very proper and becoming spirit, paid handsomely
for the honor to which Miss Sampson was advanced. This event naturally
put Mr. Philip into better spirits; and though he had at first been
somewhat desirous of postponing the marriage till the season was nearly
over in town, yet now as the purse of the city knight seemed to open so
freely, he thought it most advisable to make speedy use of the means
which it offered him for getting rid of his mortifying encumbrances.
Resolving therefore to take the earliest opportunity of bringing the
negotiation to a close, he of course made it a business to inform
Mr. John Martindale, with regular formality, of his intention of
honoring Miss Sampson by conferring upon her the style and title of
the Hon. Mrs. Martindale. To communicate a simple fact to a plain
straight-forward man might seem a very easy task, but it was, at all
events, to Mr. Philip, not a pleasant task. He anticipated unpleasant
observations, and perhaps some allusion to Mr. Isaac Solomons, junior,
of St. Mary Axe, and perhaps also some allusions to others of that
nation; but still it was absolutely impossible to avoid mentioning the
affair. Very soon, therefore, after Sir Gilbert had given his consent,
or to speak more accurately, had expressed his approbation, and
signified his satisfaction at the prospect of the marriage, Mr. Philip
Martindale ventured one morning, when his cousin and he were together,
and no one else in the apartment, to say in a somewhat subdued and
sheepish manner:
"I think it proper for me to inform you, sir, that I have it in
contemplation very shortly to enter into the married state."
"So I hear," replied the old gentleman; "the more fool you. But if you
want money, Miss Sampson has abundance. What else there is to recommend
her, I can't say. Where do you intend to live? I suppose now you would
be glad to go back to the Abbey. You may, if you like."
"I feel myself greatly obliged, sir, by your kind offer; but I think
that a smaller and less expensive house would be more suitable."
"Ay, I think so too. I was a fool to build the house. I am only
laughed at for my pains. Will you have Trimmerstone Hall fitted up
for your reception? That will not be fine enough for you. Now, Mr.
Philip, you know I am a strange old fellow, and rather addicted to the
sin of curiosity; may I then take the liberty of asking how much the
soap-boiler gives you to take his daughter. I mean how much does he
place at your own actual immediate disposal. Is it a very great secret?"
Philip had no objection to answer the question, but he was hesitating
as to what could be the motive of the old gentleman in making the
inquiry. He very much feared that his cousin was too well acquainted
with the purpose to which that money was devoted; and when he had
answered the question, he found that his suspicions were well-founded.
Most seriously was he overwhelmed with confusion, when, after he had
mentioned to his cousin the sum which was to be at his own absolute
disposal, Mr. Martindale hastily said:
"And pray, sir, how much of that is destined to go to the money-lenders
to liquidate your gambling-debts?"
Without waiting for an answer, the old gentleman continued: "Look ye
here, young man; you have been playing the fool for some years past,
and I believe I am almost as much to blame for it as yourself."
Philip was beginning to say something, as it were, exculpatory; but the
old gentleman stopped him, saying:
"Have the goodness to hear me out. I was saying that you had been
playing the fool, and that I was almost as much to blame as yourself;
for if I had not invited you to Brigland, you would not perhaps have
been exposed to so many temptations. Now, as I think I am to blame, I
ought to pay my part. If, therefore, you will fairly state to me the
whole of your debts without any reserve, they shall be immediately
discharged, so that you may not deprive your wife that is to be, of her
property; for you ought, in point of honor, to consider that property
to be hers, though placed at your disposal. You are to manage the
property for her advantage."
This was a very generous offer on the part of the old gentleman.
Philip most heartily wished that the offer had been made before, so
that he might have been saved the necessity of ennobling the blood
of the Sampsons. Better late than never; for by this liberality a
burden was removed from his mind, which had very seriously and heavily
weighed upon him; and he began again to see some prospect of holding
up his head again, and living like a man of rank and family. His
acknowledgments to the old gentleman were profuse and liberal, as the
old gentleman's offers to him. Mr. Martindale the elder interrupted his
acknowledgments, saying:
"I don't want your thanks, young man; but let us understand one
another. You know I must do something for my own daughter and her
family; but I do not forget the name of Martindale. You may yet do
honor to it; though I cannot for the life of me imagine what your
father could be thinking about to suffer himself to be raised to the
peerage. Foolish vanity. Well, but that can't be helped now. However,
as I was saying, I shall not forget you or your family. Now you have
enough with tolerable management to live respectably; but if you
attempt to live more than respectably, you will end with living less
so. Accordingly as you conduct yourself, so you will find my will. I
will not leave my property to be wasted."
The old gentleman in the midst of his speech suddenly stopped,
and leaving the room for a few minutes, returned with a handful of
memorandums. Throwing them on the table, and hastily looking over
them, he presently took up one of them, and said: "Now, look ye here.
This is a memorandum of that part of my will which concerns you. After
stating a number of legacies, which I can tell you, young man, do not
dip very deeply into the property, I bequeath to you all that remains
on these conditions; namely, that you shall not for one whole year
previous to my decease have attended any races, or cock-fights, or
boxing-matches; that you shall not have lost or won by any bet or game
any sum exceeding fifty pounds; and that you shall not have given any
entertainments at an expense exceeding two hundred pounds; and provided
also, that at the time of my decease you shall not be in debt. There,
now you know what you have to depend upon. I hope you will make good
use of the information. You see I am very candid; I have no wish to
keep you in the dark. If after this you are disinherited, you will
disinherit yourself. Don't complain of me for being harsh and cynical.
There are numbers of young men who would be very glad of such a
conditional legacy; but I am very much afraid you will be simple enough
to lose your chance. Remember, I have forewarned you."
Philip repeated and said all that ought to be repeated and said
on such an occasion. But old John Martindale did not believe his
protestations, and placed no very great confidence in his strength of
mind.