“Such is the weakness of all mortal hope,
So fickle is the state of earthly things,
That ere they come into their aimed scope,
They fall so short of our fraile reckonings,
And bring us bale and bitter sorrowings.”
SPENSER.
When any extraordinary event occurs in which one is deeply interested,
the person concerned need not take much pains in his endeavours to
find it out--it will soon reveal itself. So did it happen to Philip
Martindale. But the information did not come upon him all at once--it
was gradually developed like the catastrophe of a well-told tale.
One of the first indications that all was not right towards him in
the matter of the Martindale property was, that a few days after the
departure of the old gentleman, some letters arrived, which required
an answer not convenient for him to give. These letters came all
together by a very remarkable coincidence; and indeed it was very
remarkable that so many of the Hon. Philip Martindale’s creditors
should be all at once most unaccountably pressed for money to make
up a heavy payment. But there is no accounting for coincidences. By
this unpleasant indication of unpleasant news, the young gentleman was
mightily disturbed. We do not however mean to insinuate that it was
not in Mr. Philip’s power to stop the importunities of the above-named
creditors by satisfying their claims; but as the October meeting at
Newmarket was so very near at hand, and as he had horses to run at
that meeting, it was absolutely and indispensably necessary for him to
make a reserve to meet the exigences of that important concern. Still,
however, it was disagreeable to his feelings to have the annoyance
of such applications, and it occurred to him that he would once more
have recourse to the children of Israel previously to the meeting at
Newmarket; and with this intention he again visited the metropolis. On
this excursion he could very conscientiously set out without informing
his cousin, as the old gentleman was in London himself. Mr. Philip,
indeed, had no wish to meet his worthy relative in town, and he had not
much fear of such an accident.
He lost no time when he arrived in town, but made the best of his way
to his well-known resort, and found his kind accommodating friend at
home, but wearing an altered countenance. Heavy complaints were heard,
and gloomy looks were seen, and it was altogether impossible just at
that unfortunate crisis to afford any accommodation.--“That was the
unkindest cut of all.”
Very properly resenting this insult, he speedily left the house; and
being guided by his own knowledge as well as by the reports of others,
he hastened to bestow his patronage on another of the same profession.
But the Hon. Philip Martindale of Brigland Abbey was not, it appeared,
at that time a name in high repute with that class of gentry who
observe the strictest honor and secrecy in their transactions; and he
had the mortification to find that his journey to London had been of
no avail, and was not likely to be productive of any thing beneficial.
Some people would, under these circumstances, have been disgusted with
the world, and have retired to a hermitage, thinking that all their
fellow-creatures were so worthless and unprincipled as not to be worth
noticing or fit to live with. But happily in this instance for the Hon.
Philip Martindale, he was not so easily disgusted with the world; he
was under great obligations to it, and hoped to be under more. It is
certainly a very pleasant thing to have a good opinion of oneself, but
it is pleasanter to have that opinion positively than comparatively;
and to quarrel with all the world at once is no great proof either of
wisdom or virtue. Besides, Mr. Philip knew that half a dozen tradesmen,
and half as many money-lenders, were not all the world.
The old proverb concerning misfortunes not coming singly, seemed to
be about to be verified in the case of Philip Martindale; for as he
was thoughtfully pacing the streets of the great city, and thinking
of the various ills of life, and wondering how it should come to pass
that a gentleman called the honorable, and residing in a magnificent
mansion, and being heir-apparent to a title, and being nearly related
to and a great favorite of a person of enormous wealth, should not be
comfortable and satisfied in his own feelings as one residing in an
inn of court, and giving much of his days to the dry study of the law.
As he was thus meditating with himself, and communing with his own
thoughts, he was roused from his reverie by the sound of the well-known
voice of old John Martindale; for the old gentleman had just left
the Bank at the moment that his cousin was passing it. With no very
pleasant feeling did Philip return the old gentleman’s greeting.
“So you have come to town to look after me, Master Philip. But who
would have thought of meeting you in this part of the world? What, have
you any sly money transactions, or are you come to look after some rich
citizen’s daughter. Or, perhaps, you have been at my hotel, and you
were directed here to find me. But is your company all gone? Is it not
rather rude to leave them? Well, but I hope you will not stay long in
town; for there are sad doings at the Abbey when you are out. The other
day, when you went to the archery nonsense at Hovenden, I actually
found a couple of fellows smoking their filthy pipes in the great hall
at the Abbey, and I had much ado to send them out of the house. Oliver
told me they were drunk. They had the impudence to call themselves
sheriffs’ officers. Now, I do not like this.”
The old gentleman had talked himself almost out of breath, and it was
well for the young gentleman that the old one did not like the sound
of any one’s voice so well as that of his own. Philip was one of
those conscientious people who endeavour as much as possible to avoid
all unnecessary lies; and when he wished to deceive, he preferred
the circuitous shuffling mode of equivocation to a plain downright
honest lie. In some cases he found a difficulty in escaping by this
contrivance; and this difficulty he would have found in the instance
in question, had not old Mr. Martindale been too much taken up with
other thoughts and other interests than those of Philip Martindale
and Brigland Abbey. But in truth he had been so much delighted with
his newly-discovered daughter, that he took no very lively interest
in any thing else. At their first meeting there were, as we said, no
very extraordinary raptures or dramatic exhibition; but as they grew
better acquainted, the old gentleman was charmed with the mild good
sense and amiable manners of Signora Rivolta, and was greatly pleased
with the intelligence and meekness of his grand-daughter Clara. Even
Colonel Rivolta, though he had commenced life in a mercantile line,
and had spent his best days in the army, yet was not destitute of
information and literary taste. But the Hon. Philip Martindale, though
born a gentleman, educated at an English university, and destined
for the legal profession, was, notwithstanding all these advantages,
by no means attached to literature, or endowed with any great share
of taste. The old gentleman therefore had not been much delighted
with his society, inasmuch as his conversation was either grievously
common-place, or concerning those sports in which Mr. John Martindale
took no interest. Serious rivals therefore had started up to engross
the notice of the opulent relative. This fact was known very quickly to
those whom it concerned; viz. the gentlemen of the strictest honor and
secrecy. Theirs, indeed, would be but a bad business, if they could not
now and then get possession of early intelligence and important secrets.
Very briefly did Mr. John Martindale inform his cousin of the discovery
which he had recently made; and requesting, or rather commanding
the young gentleman to enter the carriage, they proceeded westward,
towards Mr. Martindale’s hotel. In the middle of the day the streets
of the city of London, though very unfavorable for conversation, so
far as foot-passengers are concerned, afford peculiar advantages and
opportunities for this purpose to those who ride in carriages; for
the multitude of vehicles, and their frequent misarrangement, very
conveniently retards progress. Philip Martindale wished himself at home
in Brigland Abbey, or quietly perusing briefs in his chambers at the
Temple, or any where rather than where he was. But there was no escape
for him.
“Now, Philip,” said the old gentleman, “I am going to introduce you to
your new relations, or at least to mine, for I suppose you will hardly
condescend to acknowledge them.”
“I shall be very happy, sir, to see, and very proud to own, any
relations of yours.” So said the Hon. Philip Martindale; but his heart
and lips were sadly at variance. He was not very well pleased that such
relations existed; and it would not be very agreeable to him to be on
terms of acquaintance, as he certainly must if his cousin commanded
him, with persons of low and vulgar minds as he supposed these new
relatives must be. The old gentleman suspecting that his high-minded
relative was fancying that the persons in question were of low caste,
in consequence of their having been discovered in a cottage with a poor
man, replied:
“And I will tell you what, young man, they are not persons of whom you
need to be ashamed. Colonel Rivolta held a very respectable station
in the army, though he did fight for that fellow Bonaparte; and his
wife, who is my daughter, is as well informed and well behaved a woman
as ever I saw in my life. The young woman, I believe, you have seen
before.”
Philip did not like the tone in which the latter part of this sentence
was uttered, and perhaps there was not a possibility of uttering it in
any tone that should be agreeable. Many other topics of conversation
were introduced, none of which were very agreeable; and even that
which the old gentleman uttered with great glee, as being a matter
of great interest and good tidings to his cousin, was by no means
agreeable to the young gentleman. After having talked some little time
on the subject of his discovered daughter, and as if fearing that his
honorable cousin might apprehend from this discovery some ill fortune
to himself, with the kind purpose of banishing such fear, he observed:
“But you need not be jealous, Philip; I shall not forget you: so make
your mind easy.”
There is a wonderful difference, thought Philip, between making a man
his heir and not forgetting him. Now, this not forgetting appeared
to him more cruel and tormenting than entirely discarding him. It is
very true that Mr. John Martindale had made no absolute promise that
Philip should be his heir; and even if he had made the promise, and
had violated it, there was no such thing as prosecuting him for breach
of promise. He had merely given strong indications that such was his
intention. Persons who are very rich, and have no legal heirs, may
entertain themselves very much at the expense of hungry expectants and
lean legacy-hunters. Who has not seen a poor dog standing on his hind
legs, and bobbing up and down after a bone scarcely worth picking, with
which some mischief-loving varlet has tantalised the poor animal till
all its limbs have ached? That poor dog shadows out the legacy-hunter
or possible heir. Every body has a right to do as he pleases with his
own property, so far as concerns the disposition of unentailed estates;
and every body has a right to do a great number of actions which may
render his fellow-creatures miserable and uncomfortable. Very few of
the annoyances to which man is exposed from his fellow-men have a
remedy from law. To be sure, it may be said that the legacy-hunter is
a simpleton for giving another power over him; but, alas! how could a
young man, situated as the Hon. Philip Martindale, help himself. As he
himself observed to his mother, “if I refuse the offer of the Abbey,
I may so far offend the old gentleman, as to induce him to leave his
property elsewhere.” But the young gentleman forgot that accepting the
offer might, and very naturally would, lead him into many difficulties,
and fix him as a dependent. He afterwards discovered this, when it
was too late to find a remedy for the evil. But to proceed with our
narrative.
After Mr. Martindale the elder had addressed what he thought an
encouraging speech to his cousin, he called out to the coachman
to stop when they were near to Temple Bar. The old gentleman then
alighted, saying, he would return in a few minutes; and in a very few
minutes did he return, bringing with him a gentleman whom Philip had
seen before. This was no other than Horatio Markham. Now here was
another mortification. Thus the poor man was annoyed with one trouble
after another; and thus his mortifications increased upon him, and
all because he must support the dignity of his rank. He could not be
uncivil to Markham, nor indeed did he wish to be so. He had said, and
that very sincerely, that there was nothing at all objectionable in
Markham’s speech at the trial. He had been rather pleased with it than
otherwise; he thought it far better than that of his own counsellor;
and he had observed to several persons that there were some spouting
prigs at the bar, that in a cause like that would have represented
the defendant as a demon of incomparable malignity, and would have
smothered him with a countless accumulation of awkward metaphors.
He had said that Markham had shown much good sense in stating his
case clearly and strongly, and without any of that school-boy slang,
and those theme-like declamations by which some ill-judging ranters
seem rather to seek the applauses of a tasteless mob than to apply
themselves to that which may benefit a client. All this he had said,
and all this he had really and truly thought; but he had no wish for
all that to be brought into immediately close contact and intimacy with
the person of whom he had said it. He respected Markham as a young man
of good understanding and sound judgment; but he had no particular
desire to be acquainted with all young men of good understanding and
sound judgment. Still, however, he behaved civilly to Markham; and
recollecting what his cousin had told him, that the young barrister
was about to carry his legal talents to another part of the world, he
on this account behaved to him with the less reserve, because there
was not much danger of soon meeting him again, or being much troubled
with his acquaintance. On the other hand, Horatio Markham, knowing or
shrewdly suspecting the character and disposition of the gentleman
to whom he was introduced, did not give himself any pedantic or
professional airs, but with a very becoming and gentleman-like distance
quietly entered into common-place talk, directing himself more to the
elder of the two with whom he had been previously acquainted, than
with the younger to whom he had been but recently introduced. Philip
Martindale, therefore, began actually to like his new acquaintance,
who was agreeable because he did not take any especial pains to make
himself so, and who appeared to be well-informed because he did not
studiously make a display of his knowledge. Now Philip, who could not
tolerate any pedantry but the pedantry of rank, and that pedantry only
in himself, was pleased with Markham for the absence of pedantry and
affectation.
After a long and tedious rumbling, the carriage deposited the party
at a hotel in the neighbourhood of St. James’s Square. Most agreeably
disappointed was Philip when he was introduced to Signora Rivolta.
There was no appearance of vulgarity or plebeianism about her. There
was nothing in her style which indicated a disposition or tendency to
impertinent encroachment; but, on the contrary, her most excellent and
graceful carriage seemed as that of one conferring, not receiving a
patronage. In Clara Rivolta, the daughter, he recognised that sweet
prettiness which had first attracted his disrespectful attention; but
there was added to this, a kind of mild dignity, a steady and calm
self-possession, which appeared much more obviously and impressively
under change of circumstances. In Signora Rivolta there was much
more stateliness than in Clara; but there was a charm in the general
expression of the features, gait, and manner of the latter, not easily
described. There was nothing of pertness in her self-possession, and
there was not the slightest appearance of or the remotest approach
towards artificialness in any one part of her carriage and demeanour.
Philip was not much in the habit of falling in love, nor was he
frequently thrown into raptures by intellectual and moral charms; yet
in the present instance he was very much struck both with the mother
and daughter. Irresistibly was he led to behave to both with most
respectful deference, and he for a moment forgot that these charming
women would in all probability deprive him of the inheritance which
otherwise seemed destined for him. Why could he not make an offer of
his hand to Clara? What obstacle could there be to interfere with his
success? Would his cousin object to it? Not likely. It would be a very
convenient match, so far as pecuniary arrangements were concerned, and
might save the old gentleman some trouble in disposing of his property.
As for Miss Sampson, there might be a disappointment to her in such a
step; but her fortune would not suffer her to wear the willow long.
Thoughts of this kind occupied the mind of the heir of Lord Martindale,
and this seemed the most agreeable plan which he could possibly adopt
to get rid of his difficulties. Before the day closed, he had made up
his mind it should be so. In contemplating this new arrangement, he
forgot to take one thing into consideration, that is, the probable
consent of the young lady; and he also forgot or neglected to observe
one thing, that is, the very particular attention paid to the young
lady by Horatio Markham. It is pleasant to be deceived, and so we
sometimes deceive ourselves, if nobody else will take the pains to
do it for us. Very completely did Mr. Philip deceive himself in the
idea that scarcely any thing was wanting to effect an union between
Clara Rivolta and himself, save his own consent. He considered not
that a young woman under twenty years of age, of secluded habits and
of reflecting turn of mind, of calm good sense and of a feeling and
sensible soul, unused to the fashions and flurries and formalities
and flatteries of the great world, would entertain a very different
idea of love from that entertained by a young gentleman between twenty
and thirty, whose expectations were mortgaged to money-lenders--whose
pleasures were the turf and the ring--whose spirit was agitated with
gambling--whose motive for marrying was the means to keep up the
dignity of his rank. He might have thought it possible that Clara
Rivolta could not love the Hon. Philip Martindale, and he might also
have thought it as possible that she would not marry him if she did not
love him.