“----reason, my son,
Should choose himself a wife; but as good reason,
The father (all whose joy is nothing else
But fair posterity) should hold some counsel
In such business.”
SHAKSPEARE.
The interview between Mr. Martindale and his newly-discovered daughter
took place according to his own arrangement on the following day.
Inquiries were abundantly made, and explanations entered into, by which
the identity of the parties was ascertained. There was, however, little
or nothing of that outrageous and passionate exhibition which is so
frequently represented as attending such discoveries. Mr Martindale
himself had given way to strong emotions on the preceding day, the
ground of which emotions was rather remorse than affection: not that
he was incapable of affection, or insensible to its claims; but age
makes a difference in the mode of expressing affection; and the old
gentleman had never been in the way of that habitual intercourse which
gives to sentiments of love their strength and feeling. Mothers who
have watched over the dawnings of an infant mind, and assisted in the
development of the growing powers and expanding affections of their
offspring, can and do remember through a long long life, and after a
very long separation and absence, the endearing and delightful thoughts
and feelings which occupied their souls when attending their infant
charge, and they cannot see without strong emotion those features
ripened into maturity in which they had taken delight in infancy; and
even fathers who have watched a mother’s care, and participated in a
mother’s interests, do, after many years, ay, even through life, retain
the sentiments of love and deep affection which an infant interest has
excited; but that pure pleasure belongs not to him who has never taken
a pure paternal interest in his own offspring. Let this or any other
theory which the reader’s better judgment may suggest, account for the
fact that the meeting between Mr. Martindale and his daughter was not
productive of any thing like a scene. This, however, is true, that
the old gentleman was very much pleased, both with his daughter and
grand-daughter. With the latter, our readers are already acquainted.
As we have introduced Signora Rivolta to her father, it may not be
amiss to introduce her also to our readers.
Comparatively little interest can be felt in the personal description
of a lady who has passed the season of youth; but there are some
women who have ceased to be young, without ceasing to be personally
interesting. Of this number was Signora Rivolta. Her style and manner
was such as to inspire respect. There was about her a certain graceful
and becoming stateliness which only one of her cast of features and
mould of figure could with propriety assume. Her hair and eyes were
dark; her face oval; her eyebrows finely arched; her look rather
downcast. To speak classically, or heathenishly, there was in her
more of Minerva than of Venus; and more of Juno than of either. Her
voice was exquisitely sweet; its tones were full, and its modulation
graceful. Hers was the voice which Horatio Markham heard when he stood
with old Mr. Martindale near the door of old Richard Smith’s cottage;
and it was her hand which touched the lute that accompanied her voice;
and hers was the ivory crucifix which the young barrister carelessly
threw down, and which the young woman so hastily picked up.
At the discovery of his daughter, and her interesting appearance, Mr.
Martindale was much pleased; and though no dramatic raptures marked
their first interview, the old gentleman was relieved from a painful
mental burden which weighed heavily on his spirits, and which, while
it sometimes rendered him morose, sometimes goaded him also to the
opposite extreme of false levity and an artificial humour. It was this
circumstance, to which might be attributed those eccentricities of
manner, which led some observers to imagine that the old gentleman
was not sound in his intellects. Still, however, the essential oddity
of his character was not to be removed by any changes; and a very
curious manifestation of that oddity he gave at this interview with
his daughter and grand-daughter, when he abruptly asked the former if
she had been brought up in the religion of the Roman Catholic church;
to this question, she replied in the affirmative. Thereupon the old
gentleman was disturbed, and he said:
“And is your daughter also educated in the same persuasion?”
“She is,” replied Signora Rivolta; “for in what other religion could
or ought she to be educated? From the professors of that religion I
received my first impulses to devotion, and from their kindness I
experienced protection, and from their good counsel I had guidance. I
love that religion.”
“Well, well,” observed Mr. Martindale, “that is all very natural, to be
sure--I can say nothing against that; but it is a pity that, now you
are likely to remain in England, you should not become a Protestant. I
have no objection to your religion, only there is so much bigotry about
it.”
“We think it important truth, and we cannot be indifferent to it; and
we are desirous of bringing all to the knowledge of the truth, that all
may be saved.”
“Ay, ay, that is my objection to your religion; you think that nobody
can be saved but those who adopt your opinions--now I call that
bigotry.”
“Then, sir, I fear that your church lies under the same reproach, for
many of its formularies seem to indicate the same view of salvation.”
“Yes, yes, there may be some such language in the prayer-book
and articles, but they were drawn up in times when men were not
so enlightened as they are now; and it does not follow that all
Protestants should exactly follow every minute shade of opinion or
doctrine there laid down.”
Some men have been so ungallant as to say that they would never
condescend to reason with a woman: if Mr. Martindale had made the
same determination, it would have saved him some trouble; for in this
conversation, which was extended to a much greater length than we are
desirous of pursuing it, Mr. Martindale had much the worst of the
argument, though not the worst side of the question. His misfortune
was, that he was totally ignorant of the nature of the Roman Catholic
religion, and very little better informed concerning that faith which
he himself professed. It is a practice too common to be greatly
reprobated, for persons to argue with great earnestness and fluency
on those subjects of which they are almost totally ignorant. But,
on the other hand, if persons would never begin or pertinaciously
continue an argument till they had made themselves fully acquainted
with the subject, then there would be a great lack of discussion, and
the publication of controversial treatises would greatly fall off; and
there would perhaps be a mighty deficiency in the article of zeal. But
it is needless to anticipate ills which may never befall us; and we
may venture to bid defiance to the genius of pantology, however loudly
it may threaten to illuminate every mind.
Having stated that Mr. Martindale had the happiness of discovering
his daughter, it will be superfluous to say that he forthwith made
preparation for her establishment in the possession of such means as
might place her in a style of life more suitable to her condition than
a little lone cottage. But there was a change very naturally, though
very quietly, taking place in the old gentleman’s mind and in his
feelings towards the Hon. Philip Martindale. He could not now think of
making this gentleman his heir. In Signora Rivolta there was evidently
a prior claim. As yet, however, the young gentleman at the Abbey was
ignorant of the new discovery; and what is more, he was not even aware
of the existence of any such person as Signora Rivolta; nor did he
suspect that any such discovery was within the compass of probability.
By what the Rev. Mr. Denver had heard, and by what the wife of that
said gentleman had told to Mrs. Price and Mrs. Flint, and by what Mrs.
Denver and Mrs. Price and Mrs. Flint had told to every body within
the reach of their knowledge, the whole town of Brigland was full of
confused rumours and reports of some great calamity having befallen
Mr. John Martindale. Some said that he had lost all his property;
some said that he had only lost half; some had it that old Richard
Smith, who had lately died, had been discovered to be Mr. Martindale’s
elder brother, and that all his immense property must descend to the
young woman his niece. The reports at last found their way to the
housekeeper’s room at the Abbey; and the trusty Oliver trembled when he
was very credibly and circumstantially informed that, in consequence
of the death of old Richard Smith, some papers or parchments, or some
something, had been discovered, by which it appeared that old Mr.
Martindale had no right to the large property which he had so long
possessed. It is the peculiar privilege of rogues always to fear
the worst in doubtful matters. This privilege Oliver now abundantly
enjoyed. Not wishing to keep all his news to himself, he took the first
opportunity of speaking to his master; and in order to break the matter
gently to him, and not all at once to overwhelm him with the fatal
intelligence, he began by asking:
“Have you heard any bad news lately, sir?”
“Bad news,” hastily asked Mr. Philip, “no; what do you mean?--what kind
of bad news? Do you allude to the report that the old gentleman is
going to be married to Lady Woodstock?”
“Oh dear no, sir; it is a great deal worse than that: but I hope it is
not true; yet I am sure I had it from very good authority, and it is
not likely such a thing should be invented.”
“Well, well, don’t stand prating and prosing, but tell me at once what
it is.”
The trusty Oliver shook his head and sighed. “It is nothing more nor
less, sir, than that some deeds have been discovered at old Richard
Smith’s cottage since the poor man’s death, by which it appears that
Mr. Martindale has no right to the property he now possesses.”
“Nonsense,” replied the Hon. Philip Martindale, “who told you that
fool’s tale? Do you think that I should not have heard of it, if such
had been the fact?”
“Why, sir, I heard it from a gentleman who had it from Mrs. Denver;
and Mr. Denver himself was present when the discovery was made. It was
only yesterday that the matter came out; and Mr. Denver went down to
the cottage to Mr. Martindale to tell him all about it. The gentleman
who claims the property went with him; and Mr. Martindale has been at
Richard Smith’s this morning. The real owner of the property comes from
Italy.”
At this part of the information communicated by Oliver, the young
gentleman began to be in doubt whether there might not be something
serious in the report; for he recollected some talk of old Martindale’s
visit to Genoa, and of his anxiety to discover if some one was living
there or not. He also called to mind much that had been said to him
by Lady Martindale, dissuading him from taking up his abode at the
Abbey, and placing himself in a state of dependence. He remembered
distinctly and vividly the tone and expression with which his anxious
mother had said to him, “Now, my dear Philip, before you decide on
this step, think seriously how you shall be able to bear a reverse,
if by any change the wealth of your cousin Martindale should take a
different direction, either by his own caprice, or by changes over
which he has no controul.” He recollected that this caution was uttered
more than once or twice. He considered it therefore as in some measure
prophetic. He also recollected that the old gentleman had been very
silent and absent at dinner the day before; and from what Miss Isabella
Featherstone had said, it seemed very manifest that some serious
interruption had occurred when the party were looking over the pictures
at the cottage. There was also to be added to this, his own knowledge
of the fact that Mr. Martindale had that very morning paid a very long
visit to the cottage of the late Richard Smith. All these circumstances
put together did, to say the least of it, greatly perplex and puzzle
the mind of the young gentleman. He dismissed the trusty Oliver from
his presence; and when alone, he began to meditate, plan, arrange,
and conjecture, till he found himself in a complete wilderness of
perplexities, and a labyrinth of contending thoughts.
His meditations, however, availed him not. There was not the least
glimmering of light in any direction; and the longer he thought, the
more he was perplexed. The only bearable conclusion at which he could
arrive was one of very equivocal consolation; namely, it was possible
that things might not be quite so bad as they had been represented.
Not long had he been alone, before his solitude was invaded by Lord
Martindale. “Philip,” said his lordship, “you look grave this morning.
Has any thing occurred to disturb you?”
Philip made an abortive attempt to put on a look of cheerfulness, as he
replied to his question: “You would not wish, sir, that I should never
look grave. Perhaps, sir, I may have lost my heart.”
His lordship looked grave in his turn, and very solemnly said: “Ah! you
are not serious! To whom, I beg to know, have you lost your heart? This
is an affair on which I should have been consulted.”
“I do not say positively that I have lost my heart,” replied Philip, “I
was speaking hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically?” echoed his lordship; “well then let me know who it
is, or may be, that has had such power over your mind, or that may be
supposed capable of making so great a conquest.”
“Suppose it should be Isabella Featherstone,” replied Philip; but in
such a manner as abundantly proved that the supposition was perfectly
gratuitous.
His lordship shook his head; and then, with very great earnestness of
manner, said to his son: “Philip, let me speak to you seriously and as
a friend. I would not have you rely too confidently on the expectation
of inheriting your cousin’s estate. I have my reasons for what I say,
and it is for your welfare that I speak. The Featherstones are a
very respectable and an old family, but you must look for something
more than mere family; you cannot keep up the dignity of your rank
without an accession, and a very considerable accession of fortune,
which you cannot have from the Featherstones. I wish I could persuade
you to apply yourself to public business; I am sure you might make a
good figure in the house, and provide for yourself far better and more
honorably than by living in a state of dependence.”
Philip, for the first time in his life, heard patiently this
exhortation; and greatly to the surprise and satisfaction of his
lordship, went so far as to say, that he would take the matter into
serious consideration. So pleased was Lord Martindale even with this
faint promise, that he hasted immediately to communicate the same to
Lady Martindale. The first dinner-bell was ringing as Lord Martindale
left his son’s apartment; and at nearly the same instant, Mr. John
Martindale entered it.
There appeared to be a cloud on the old man’s brow; and there was a
manifest coolness in his manner as he entered the apartment, and said
to the young gentleman:
“Now, young man, I am going to pay you greater attention than you paid
to me the other day. I am going to London; and I come to let you know.
I have made some discoveries, of which you shall know more hereafter.
At present, all I can say is, I am going to London; and I must request
that you will make some apology to our guests for my sudden departure.”
“You are not going to-day, sir; it is near dinner-time,” replied Mr.
Philip.
“I can’t help that,” replied the old gentleman; “then you must dine
without me; and if any excuse is needed for my absence, you must invent
one; or if you are at a loss for a lie, peradventure Oliver can help
you to one. I have no time for any more prate, so farewell.”
Thus speaking, the queer old gentleman left the room; and poor Mr.
Philip found himself in a very sad and sorrowful perplexity at his
departure; especially, coupled as it was with such reports abroad, and
such language from the old gentleman himself. The last sentence of
all, in which allusion was made to Oliver’s inventive faculty, most
closely touched the honorable tenant of Brigland Abbey; though the fact
is, that Mr. John Martindale did not thereby design any particular or
express allusion to any one individual part of Oliver’s conduct, yet in
this light the young gentleman regarded it; and it therefore grieved
him, and gave him an additional impulse towards thoughts and efforts of
independence. But there were obstacles and impediments in the way which
he could not mention to Lord Martindale; and if they had been known,
his lordship would not have found it an easy task to remove them.
The considerations dwelt heavily on the mind of the young gentleman,
and made him regret that he had been so long acting the part of a
simpleton.