“The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness,
And time to speak it in; you rub the sore
When you should find the plaster.”
SHAKSPEARE.
Wandering in various directions, and engaged in divers pursuits, the
visitors at Brigland Abbey were dispersed, to fill up the dreary
morning hours. To follow them all is impossible; and to follow most
of them would be uninteresting and uninstructive. Leaving, therefore,
unobserved, all but Lady Woodstock and her eldest daughter, who
reluctantly suffered themselves to be accompanied in their walk by Sir
Andrew Featherstone, we will attend these three in their morning’s
ramble.
With the scenery of the Abbey itself, and its park, our readers are
partly acquainted. They know that the house stood on an open and
gracefully sloping lawn; and that behind it rose a dense plantation,
or rather wood. This wood was in one direction very extensive; but
its breadth rendered it little more than a belt, which divided a
tract of uncultivated land from one which was most highly embellished
by art as well as by nature. In front of the Abbey, as far as the
eye could reach, the land was highly cultivated, and thickly studded
with trees and human dwellings. At the back of the wood the land
was open and unenclosed; for the soil, if soil it might be called,
was but a very thin stratum of light earth; through which, at short
intervals, appeared the bare or moss-covered rock, which was the
basis of the whole district. One part of this open space bore the
name of the Common; and it was partly surrounded by a few miserable
cottages: beyond that it bore the name of Brigland Heath. There was
one advantage, however, in this barren scene; that the ground, being
very high, afforded extensive prospects, keen air, and dry footing.
There had been formerly a passage through the wood from the park to the
common; but since the erection of the Abbey, that path was no longer
used: there remained, however, a serpentine-road towards the heath; and
at the end of this road stood one of the park-lodges, on the borders of
the heath; and as the lodge was built to correspond with the style of
the Abbey, it formed a very beautiful object in that otherwise dreary
situation.
To this open and extensive heath the three above-named betook
themselves for the sake of enjoying the fine air and wide scenery.
Sir Andrew Featherstone, who was very ready with his quaint remarks
when any thing was said or done at all susceptible of ridiculous
construction or comment, was mute as fish, and awkward as a fish out
of water, when his company was decidedly serious. Though the facetious
baronet very promptly offered, or rather urged his services to
accompany Lady Woodstock to the heath, yet before the party had made
much progress, Sir Andrew felt himself almost weary of his charge.
He had made several attempts at talk, and had failed; and to the few
remarks uttered by the ladies, as he was not prepared with a lively or
witty reply, he returned none at all, or such a one as did not by any
means promise to be productive of further colloquy or discussion. Happy
to avail himself of any thing which afforded a prospect of a subject
for discourse, as soon as they had passed the lodge, the worthy baronet
most fortunately descried at a little distance a great concourse of
people issuing from that part of the wood which bordered on the common,
and apparently surrounding a funeral procession. The multitude took the
direction towards the town; and the curiosity of Sir Andrew and his
party being excited by the unusual number of people who surrounded the
procession, took the same direction, and arrived at the church-yard
almost as soon as the funeral. Curiosity is contagious; few can resist
the impulse to gaze upon a spectacle surrounded by many spectators. The
party from the Abbey were curious to know who and what it was which
excited so very general an interest. They approached as near as they
could, without forming part of the crowd. They waited till the coffin
was deposited in the earth; and as many of the crowd stayed to gaze
into the grave where the body was laid, the mourners in returning from
the church-yard were less encumbered by the curious multitude, so that
they were distinctly visible. The procession of the mourners was but
short, yet several of them were real mourners. There is something very
touching in the struggle which real sorrow makes to calm its agitation,
and to suppress its tears; and there sometimes is a strong and deep
feeling which tears or loud laments might relieve, but which, from a
sense of its own intensity, dares not indulge in those expressions
over which it might have no controul, or in yielding to which it might
be betrayed into extravagance. This was a feeling which manifestly had
possession of more than one of the mourners, who had attracted the
curiosity of Sir Andrew Featherstone and the ladies that were with
him. The keenness of their sorrow prevented Lady Woodstock and her
daughter from gazing upon them with an eye of too curious inquiry. To
gaze upon the afflicted without a look of sympathy is very cruel; and
to look with compassion upon the eye that is full of tears, which it
would fain suppress, does but still more unnerve the sorrowing heart.
Lady Woodstock observed that the principal mourners were two females,
who appeared, by their resemblance to each other, to be mother and
daughter; and the scene brought to her recollection the time when she
herself, accompanied by the daughter who was then leaning on her arm,
did, in violation of the practice of the world, follow to the grave
the remains of her beloved husband: nor were the recollections of her
sorrows painful when thus brought back to her mind, but the rather
was there a pure and holy pleasure in the tear which rose to her eye
at the thought of the past, so that she felt more than satisfied at
having in that instance dared to be singular. Fashion forms pleasant
leading-strings for those minds which are too weak to walk alone. The
mind of Lady Woodstock was not of that description.
Sir Andrew Featherstone inquired of one of the spectators what was the
name and character of the deceased, who seemed to have occupied so
large a share in the interest and sympathy of the people of Brigland.
He was informed that the name of the departed was Richard Smith;
that he was a poor man whom nobody knew much about; but that lately
a report was spread abroad that he was a rich man and a miser, and
that, instigated probably by that report, one of the gipsies that had
lately been in that neighbourhood, had broken into his cottage with
the intent of robbing him; but there happened to be in the house with
him at the time a foreign officer whose wife was related to Richard
Smith, and this stranger wounded the gipsey so severely, that he was
not able to effect his escape, and he was therefore sent off to the
county jail; and that the old man was so dreadfully alarmed, that he
soon after died in consequence of the fright. It appeared also from the
informant, that the unusual number of persons congregated to witness
the funeral was owing to the singularity of the circumstances of the
old man’s death, and also to the desire felt to see the foreigner and
his family; for the two females were, one of them the wife, and the
other the daughter of the foreigner. The youngest of the two was the
young woman of whom mention has before been made, as being the niece of
old Richard Smith. This narrative happened to be somewhat more correct
than many narratives which are thus picked up by an accidental inquiry.
The account, however, of the motive which prompted the attendance of
so many spectators of the funeral, in some degree disappointed the
expectation of Lady Woodstock and her daughter; for they had promised
themselves the pleasure of hearing an account of some specimen of
humble virtue and extensive benevolent influence in a comparatively low
sphere of life. They could not, therefore, but painfully smile at the
thought that accident and unessential circumstance should excite an
interest so strong and extensive.
At all events, serious feelings had been excited in the minds of the
ladies; and even Sir Andrew himself partook of them, and no longer
tasked his imagination for something remarkably witty or singular
wherewith to amuse his companions, but very suitably and decently
joined his companions in that species of talk which minds of their
description would naturally have recourse to on such an occasion. And
really, Sir Andrew could talk very well and very rationally when he
was once set in the right key; but generally he seemed to think it
necessary, in order to make himself agreeable, to be always uttering
some quaint saying that should make his hearers laugh. He too often
forgot that that which is very well as seasoning, is very unpalatable
as food. This is a simile drawn from Sir Andrew’s favorite pursuit,
which was the art of cookery, as we have above named.
When the party was assembled at dinner, it so happened that the old
gentleman, Mr. John Martindale, took his seat at the side of Lady
Woodstock, or to speak more definitely, caused Lady Woodstock to take
a seat at his side. Some elderly unmarried gentlemen are remarkable
for their love of monotony and exactness, always choosing the same
seat, and ever going through the same daily routine. It was quite the
reverse with John Martindale. In his own residence there was nothing of
uniformity, and in his own habits there was nothing like regularity.
He would sometimes rise at four or five, and sometimes not till eleven
or twelve; and more than once he has been known to breakfast one day
at the very same hour, at which he had dined the preceding day. He had
the same crotchet in other houses where he could take the liberty, and
in fact would rarely enter any house in which he was not so indulged.
When he was at the Abbey, it was his very frequent practice to take a
seat at table before any of the rest of the party, and to call some one
by name to sit by him; and on these occasions he was generally very
talkative; but if he were silently inclined, he would go creeping to
the lower end of the table like a humble tolerated guest, and never
speak but when spoken to; and that was not frequently when amongst
those who were acquainted with his habits. The present was not the
first time that he had so distinguished Lady Woodstock; indeed, so
frequently on other occasions, and at other tables, had he singled out
this lady, that it is not to be wondered at that a rumour should have
gone abroad of an intention on the old gentleman’s part to make her
ladyship an offer of his hand. To say the truth, even Philip himself
began to have some apprehensions, and rather to increase in his polite
attentions to Miss Sampson.
“Now pray, madam,” said Mr. Martindale, in a very loud voice, “how have
you been amusing yourself this morning? I suppose you would have stayed
within all the morning studying architecture, if I had not mercifully
driven you out to breathe a little wholesome air. You have not such
fine air at Hollywick as we have on the heath. You have been walking
that way I presume.”
Lady Woodstock gently replied: “Sir Andrew Featherstone was so polite
as to accompany me and one of my daughters in a ramble on the heath.”
“Sir Andrew was very polite, indeed,” replied Mr. Martindale; “and I
have no doubt you had a most delightful walk. Sir Andrew made himself
very agreeable, I hope; he is a witty man. But how is it, my good lady,
that you look so unusually grave? Have you been laughing so heartily at
Sir Andrew’s wit, that you have no more smiles left for us?”
Her ladyship then explained, and said that she really did feel rather
more serious than usual. She then related what she had seen and heard
that morning. Mr. Martindale listened with great attention to her
narration, and as soon as it was concluded, he abruptly turned round
and addressing himself to his relative exclaimed: “Philip, do you hear
that? The poor old man who brought the action against you the other
day is dead and buried. Lady Woodstock has been at his funeral this
morning; and I think you should have been there too, if you had a spark
of grace about you, young man.”
“You astonish me, sir,” replied Philip; “I had not heard that the poor
man was ill.”
“Ay, but you ought to have known it. Did not you tell me the other day
that he was so terrified at the gipsey breaking into his dwelling and
threatening his life, that he was quite speechless. You ought to have
made inquiries about him. If the poor man did bring an action against
you, you ought not to bear malice.”
The Hon. Philip Martindale was most deeply mortified at being thus
lectured at his own table, and schooled in the presence and hearing
of his guests. To be dependent is bad enough; but to be thus publicly
exposed as it were, is one of the severest parts of dependence. He had
never felt any thing so mortifying while he was in chambers in the
Temple; and he could not help thinking that those former acquaintances
towards whom he had carried himself with proud and haughty reserve,
would now look down on him with a much better grace than he could
ever have looked contemptuously on them. The feeling of littleness
is a very painful feeling, especially to one who has sacrificed his
independence for the sake of the semblance of greatness. This was the
case with Philip Martindale, whose dependent condition was entirely
on his part wilful and voluntary. He had been cautioned by his most
excellent mother, but he gave no heed to her admonitions. Lord and Lady
Martindale felt on this occasion almost as much mortified as the young
gentleman himself: indeed, there was at the table a general feeling
of awkwardness and constraint. Philip himself was so far moved, that
though he trusted not himself to the language of resentment, he could
not altogether suppress a look of indignation at being thus accused
of bearing malice against a poor old man. After a little interval of
embarrassment, he ventured to say something in vindication of himself;
but the very language and manner which he used, sufficiently manifested
that he was fearful of offending the old gentleman, and left a very
unpleasant impression on the mind of Lady Martindale.
In the evening of that day, Lady Martindale took occasion to converse
with her son on the subject of his dependent situation, and to urge
upon him the propriety of renouncing a patronage of such a mortifying
nature. Her reasoning was very good, and her arguments for the most
part unanswerable. It was very true that no confidence could be
placed in the whims and caprices of a wealthy old humorist. He might,
notwithstanding his advanced years, take it into his mind to marry. He
might find out some new favourite on whom he might bestow the greatest
part of his property. He would in all human probability live many
years; and his capriciousness might, and most likely would, rather
increase than diminish. Lady Martindale also reminded her son, that
the allowance which he received from the old gentleman was barely
sufficient to meet the increased expenses of so large an establishment;
so that although he had the honor of living in a splendid mansion, he
was rather poorer than richer by the change. To all this not a word
of objection could be made; but there was an argument unnamed which
had more weight with the young gentleman than all those which Lady
Martindale had used. He was aware that he had so far anticipated that
he must be indebted to other means than his own hereditary property,
or the result of his own professional diligence, to get rid of the
encumbrance. It was a truth, though a painful one, that he could never
keep up his dignity but by continuing his dependence. His answers,
therefore, to Lady Martindale’s persuasions, were such as gave her no
hopes of success. As for returning to his profession, his own pride
forbade that, and his “dread of shame among the spirits beneath.”