“And if thou ever happen that same way
To traveill, go to see that dreadful place.”
SPENSER.
The following day dawned brighter. Though it was November, the sun had
strength to struggle through the clouds; and much of the heavy weight
that lay on Markham’s mind the preceding day was alleviated by brighter
hopes and better thoughts. There was a pleasant re-action in his
spirits, and he wondered how it was that he had been so depressed on
the previous evening. He was cheerful and light-hearted in giving his
orders concerning the removal of his luggage, and when he went aboard
the vessel which was destined to convey him from England, he met with
so flattering and complimentary a reception from the captain, that all
the world seemed bright about him, and he trusted that he should not
lack friends in a distant land. His thoughts rushed impetuously forward
to the new scene which was about to open upon him, and he was pleased
to think how many valuable introductory letters he possessed, and he
hoped that acquaintances would, many of them, become valuable friends
and agreeable companions. But we have no intention of accompanying
our young friend on his voyage. Suffice it to say, that he sailed in
good spirits, that the wind blew variously as it often does on a long
voyage, and that he reached his port in safety.
We must return now to old Mr. Martindale and his family. His attachment
to his family was continually increasing. He was more than pleased
with his daughter, he was absolutely proud of her. He always spoke of
her emphatically as _my daughter_. He consulted her wishes in every
thing, and was always guided by her opinion, the least intimation of
which was law to him. With all his oddities, and he had not a few,
he had discernment enough to see that Signora Rivolta was really a
person of solid understanding and of clear judgment. He only wondered
how it was that a woman of such good sense should adopt the Roman
Catholic religion; but on this subject he seldom touched, for he
found that he could make no impression. With the Colonel, however,
he would occasionally enter into an argument, and not unfrequently
did he fancy that in these discussions he had the advantage. Colonel
Rivolta was not a very zealous believer in the infallibility of His
Holiness. He had never paid much attention to theology as a matter of
argument or reflection; he did not know enough of his native religion
to be converted to any other, though the side which he had taken in
politics rendered him not very bigoted to the religion established in
Italy. In religion he was a liberal, not a sceptic or an unbeliever;
he had no doubts, for he scarcely ever thought of the subject. He had
no wish to make converts, he was willing to let every one enjoy his
own opinions; and he would never have taken the trouble to defend
the Catholic religion against Mr. Martindale, but that he thought
the old gentleman was fond of an argument, and he liked to indulge
him. As for the religion of Clara, which is of the most importance
to our purpose, it is rather difficult to define or describe it. Her
education had been miscellaneous; she had been in early life initiated
into the religion of Italy, but in after-years the conversation of
Richard Smith, her great uncle, had somewhat disturbed and unsettled
her mind as to the exclusive safety of the Catholic religion. Her
strongest ground of attachment to that faith was, that it was the
religion of her mother. There was, however, in her mind that degree of
imaginativeness, that needed not so much external and visible aid to
devotion as that religion presented her with, therefore she did not
feel herself dependent on its forms. Truth compels us to add, which
we do with a considerable degree of reluctance, that Clara Rivolta,
during her residence at Brigland, had more than once said to her great
uncle, that her principal objection to the Protestant religion was the
indifference of its priests. This remark had reference, we ought to
say, almost solely to Mr. Denver, the perpetual curate of Brigland;
and every allowance ought to be made for him. It is no easy matter to
serve three churches with a very lively and ardent feeling, especially
when to the fatigue of the duty there is also added the toil of
riding several miles on a tall, old, raw-boned, shuffling, stumbling,
jumbling, broken-winded, and ill-saddled, iron-grey mare. Clara had
never seen any other clergyman, except one or two who had occasionally
been visiting the Hon. Philip Martindale during the shooting season. Of
these gentlemen she knew nothing, except that whenever they met her,
they stared very rudely at her. She formed her judgment of the English
clergy from a very few and very so-so samples. Blending a respectable
share of discrimination and reflection with an imaginative soul and a
feeling heart, her religion was in the most comprehensive sense of the
word purely Catholic. Outwardly her conformity was to the religion of
her birth-place; and perhaps had she never been acquainted with any
other mode, her devotion to that in which she had been educated would
have been much stronger. But when she was instructed that religion
was the medium by which virtue was impressed on the mind, and man
made acceptable to his Maker, and when she was told that there was no
salvation out of the pale of the Roman Catholic Church, and when she
saw what real excellences and what solid virtues adorned the character
of her maternal great uncle, then she thought it absolutely impossible
that the religion of such a man could be otherwise than acceptable to
his Maker; and thereupon, without the elaborateness of argument or the
undetectable wiliness of sophistry, there entered irresistibly into her
mind a spirit of liberality and pure Catholicism.
It may then be easily supposed that Mr. Martindale was not much
disturbed or annoyed by the difference between his own faith and
that of his family. Whatever disturbance the subject gave him was
entirely of his own making, and arose purely from his own fidgetty
disposition. Such however was the very high estimation in which he
held his daughter, that notwithstanding his zeal for Protestantism, he
would occasionally attend the worship of her church, and occasionally
the compliment was returned. This compliance on the part of the old
gentleman, together with the satisfaction that he expressed at the
occasional conformity of his newly-found family, gave pretty strong
indication to Philip Martindale that his wealthy cousin destined a
larger share of his fortune for Signora Rivolta than ordinarily falls
to the lot of a natural daughter. His difficulties and perplexities
therefore increased, and his choice vibrated with great rapidity
between Clara Rivolta and Celestina Sampson. He exercised much
caution and deliberation in considerations of various eligibilities
and ineligibilities. Had he used as much thought before he gave his
honorable countenance to the ring, the course, and the cockpit, before
he laid bets on rat-catchers’ dogs, and borrowed money of the Jews to
pay those bets withal, he would not have needed now to have recourse
to the meanness of attempting a heartless marriage to mend his broken
fortunes. Sadly and seriously did he lay to heart his past follies;
and he grieved the more because he grieved in vain. He knew very well
that there was no remedy for the past, and that it would require
some ingenuity to prevent affairs from becoming worse. He grew quite
dejected, and even demure; and he occasionally would lecture some of
his honorable and right honorable friends on the folly and absurdity
of gaming. But his repentance, though he was not aware of the fact,
consisted rather of uneasiness under the consequences of transgression,
than of any feeling of regret for the transgression as considered in
itself.
There was in his mind also another thought which was very natural
under present circumstances, and that was, that it would be desirable
that he should leave the Abbey, and thankfully resign it to his worthy
relative, who on the unexpected discovery of a new family might be
willing to increase his establishment, though he might feel some little
delicacy and hesitation about the removal of his relative. With this
idea Philip went again to London, where the old gentleman continued to
reside with his family; for by taking this step, the young gentleman
hoped that he should be able to ascertain what were the intentions of
his relative towards him.
Philip was very cordially received by Mr. John Martindale, who did not
interrogate him as usual on the object of his visit to London. This
omission was a symptom of indifference; but a still stronger symptom
was manifested when Philip announced to his relative the business on
which he had come to town. As soon as he had done speaking, the old
gentleman in his usual abrupt manner replied: “Well, do as you like.
I think a smaller house may be better for you. But as for my going to
reside there, I should not think of such a thing. I shall sell the
Abbey, if I can have a price for it.”
“Sell it, sir!” replied Philip in the utmost astonishment; “you surely
are not serious.”
“But I am decidedly serious,” said the old gentleman; “I have had the
amusement of building the house, and so far it has answered my purpose.
It is of no farther use to me. Will you buy it?”
Philip smiled at the question; but the smile cost him a great effort.
He saw that he was destined to be the sport of circumstances, and he
inwardly groaned at his very unfortunate lot; that the line which
he had pursued in hopes of coming into possession of a valuable
inheritance, had brought him into painful and mortifying perplexities.
He thought within himself how foolish he should look at being compelled
to leave his splendid mansion; but he had never thought before how much
more foolish he looked, when he was only nominal master of a mansion
which was far too large for him, and too magnificent for his actual
or possible means. It was, indeed, by the more knowing ones shrewdly
suspected that Mr. John Martindale had, in building so splendid a
concern, seriously transgressed the limits of prudence, and that he
had not the ability, supposing him to have the inclination, suitably
and consistently to occupy so large and splendid a building. There
had need be very great pleasure in building, for there are often very
great pains and mortifications resulting from efforts at architectural
magnificence. Blessings, however, rest on the heads of those ingenious
architects who let us have splendour so cheap, and who convert plaister
into stone, and splinters into timber!
To return to our subject. The old gentleman seriously and coolly
persisted in his determination to sell the house, and as coolly did he
accept Philip’s resignation of his possession. Mr. Martindale the elder
merely said:
“But where do you intend to reside? At home with his lordship? Or,
suppose you look out for a place in the country. What say you to living
among your constituents? There is a very good house at Trimmerstone; it
has not been occupied lately, but the last who resided there was a man
of rank. If you like to reside there, I will put it in order for you.
But it is high time you should think of marrying.”
The house at Trimmerstone had indeed been occupied by a man of rank,
or, more properly speaking, by the housekeeper and a few old servants
of a man of rank. Many summers had passed over its roof, and many
storms had spent their fury on its weather-beaten sides, since any
thing had been done to it in the way of repair. At the time that Mr.
Martindale was speaking of it as a suitable residence for his honorable
cousin, it was almost in a state of dilapidation. Philip had seen the
house, and had some recollection of it; and our readers may easily
judge of the young gentleman’s state of mind when the proposal was made
to settle him there, and to exchange a splendid modern mansion for an
out-of-the-way, ill-contrived, lumbering old mansion-house.
Trimmerstone Hall was a long and almost indescribable building, which
seemed as if it had stood till it half sunk into the earth. It was
approached by a long, superannuated, everlasting avenue of trees, which
had stood growing, no mortal could tell how long. There was such a
density of foliage, that the middle part of the building was almost
in total darkness; and whether the path between the trees was gravel,
grass, or withered vegetation, it was not easy to ascertain. Two broad,
dislocated stone steps sinking downwards between two stunted black
brick walls, and surmounted by a grotesque wooden portico, admitted
those who could stoop low enough to avoid hitting their heads, into
a wide, broad, cold hall paved with marble, which nature had made
black and white, but which time and other accidents had converted into
brown and yellow. Immediately opposite to the front door, and not many
yards from it, opened the back door, which in architectural beauty and
convenience of arrangement was a fac-simile of its opposite neighbour.
There were windows also in the entrance-hall, one on each side the two
doors; and the windows were constructed upon that ingenious principle
which admits any thing but light. On one side of this hall was a
mighty fire-place, which looked as if it had never had a fire in it;
and on the other was a broad staircase, with banisters strong enough
to build a dozen Regent Street houses withal. There were rooms of
divers dimensions and various degrees of deformity. To describe their
arrangement is impossible, inasmuch as they had no arrangement.
The state-apartments were hung with damask or with tapestry. Time had
played sad tricks with these decorations, as it had also with the old
oak floors, which had lost their shape and colour. No four-legged
article of furniture could by any arguments be induced to stand steady
on its legitimate supporters; and if a four-post bedstead had been
placed on the higher side of a room, it must inevitably have rolled on
its castors to the opposite side. The windows throughout the mansion
were villainous; and the whole building seemed fit for nothing but to
make a pencil-drawing, or an etching from it.
Though the great mass of the house appeared to have sunk into the
ground, the fine old chimneys looked as if they had grown taller, or
left the house to sink without them. They almost rivalled in altitude
the old trees of the avenue. They were visible from a great distance,
but the house was not, for it stood in a hollow; and the ground about
was finely watered by divers rivulets, which did not seem at all
particular as to the course they took, but with a noble and liberal
impartiality spontaneously or promiscuously irrigated, that is to say,
sopped the meadows, grounds, and gardens, which surrounded the house.
Such was the habitation which the wealthy cousin of the Hon. Philip
Martindale proposed for the residence of a young gentleman born to be
legislator, and proud of the antiquity of his family and the dignity of
his high rank. Philip knew the house, and what is more, he knew that
his cousin knew it.
It was a keen and bitter mortification to have such a proposal made;
but though he fully determined not to stoop so low as to accept it, he
was too dependent to reject it point-blank. He merely said:--
“I am inclined to think, sir, from what I recollect of Trimmerstone
Hall, that it will require more to put it into good repair than the
present building is worth; and the situation being so very low and
swampy, I am afraid that I should not enjoy my health there. But, sir,
there is no absolute necessity for my having a distinct residence at
present, while I remain single. I can reside with my family; and as I
think of paying a closer attention to my parliamentary duties, I shall
of course spend more of my time in London.”
“Ay, ay, so you will; right, I forgot that. Yes, yes, you ought clearly
to be more attentive to your parliamentary duties. Well, I am not
sorry you think of leaving the Abbey. I shall certainly dispose of it.
It was very amusing to build the house; and so the proverb will be
verified--Fools build houses, and wise men live in them.”
When a man calls himself a fool in the hearing of another, that other
is in duty bound to contradict him: for it is not in the nature of
things that any man really thinking himself a fool should avow that
conviction. To speak paradoxically, if a man sincerely avows himself
a fool, he thinks himself a wise man in having found out that he is
a fool, and requires a compliment as a matter of course. It is the
expected duty of every one therefore, hearing another call himself a
fool, to contradict him. To do that well is difficult, and requires
great address. It must not be contradicted point-blank and flatly, but
it must be circuitously done. Every man who calls himself a fool is
offended if he fancies that he is believed, is offended if he be not
contradicted, and is also offended if he be contradicted, so as to give
proof that he is suspected of expecting contradiction.
Now, though Philip Martindale was a gentleman of very fashionable
manners, and perfectly informed and well instructed as to all the forms
and modes of fashionable address, yet his knowledge was simply that of
forms and modes; he had no natural intuition; no native and unbought
perception of abstract propriety and unchangeable good manners. Of
mind and its movements he was totally ignorant; he knew what was
fashionable as well as any man; even at the cockpit or the ring, though
dressed like a groom, he was known to be a gentleman. Thus it is that
those who belong to a certain class are always known and recognised by
their inimitable and untranscribable manners, having only to do with
externals, they are perfect in them. The less intellect they have, the
more skilful are they in the art; even as parrots most faithfully utter
the words which they are taught, because reflection supplies them with
none other. But such parrot-like politeness would not answer with such
a man as old John Martindale. Any thing common-place was his aversion
and abomination. It required peculiar tact and skill to manage him; and
this skill the Hon. Philip Martindale did not possess in a very eminent
degree. When therefore the young gentleman began to mutter forth some
affected contradiction to what Mr. John Martindale had been pleased to
say of himself, the latter hastily interrupted him.
“Pish, nonsense; none of your foolish complimenting. I was a fool to
build the house, and I should be a greater fool to live in it. I shall
find some simpleton with more money than wit, who may be glad to buy
it at half the money which it cost me to build it. Well, now you are
in town, you may as well stay with us, if you are not too proud to
patronise my relations. You will find them very sensible, well-informed
people, though they have no title.”
To this invitation Philip felt no repugnance, and consequently made no
objection: for he was very desirous of seeing more of Clara Rivolta,
and of ingratiating himself into her favour, should such a measure
be found necessary or desirable in a financial point of view. As the
London winter was now approaching, he also hoped that he should have
an opportunity of observing how Mr. Martindale’s relatives would be
received in the world, determining to be chiefly governed as to his
decision respecting Clara by the manner in which her family should be
noticed. He had sense enough to see that Signora Rivolta was a superior
woman in mind and manners; but he was doubtful whether the rank of
his cousin was high enough, or wealth extensive enough, to command
respect for a natural daughter. There is a jealousy of superior minds;
and artificial nobility feels indignant at being eclipsed by natural
nobility. As for Clara, her mild and gentle spirit would create for
her affection and patronage every where. The sweetness of her temper,
the unobtrusive soundness of her judgment, her strong natural sense
of propriety, would command universal regard; but there was also to
be considered the reception with which the mother might meet: for the
mother and the daughter were clearly inseparable. The one would receive
no smiles or courtesy which should be denied to or withheld from the
other. A severe trial now awaited the half-captived heart of Clara
Rivolta.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY A.J. VALPY, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.