In pursuance of the arrangement proposed the preceding evening, Mr. Martindale and his guest, immediately after an early breakfast, went out in search of Richard Smith’s cottage. They had some little difficulty to find the place; for, though the old man had lived several years at Brigland, he was of such retired habits that he was comparatively unknown in the parish: some persons knew him by sight who did not know his name, and others had heard his name, who were unacquainted with his person.

The cottage in which he lived seemed to have been selected for its very retired situation. It stood in a narrow lane, which, before the building of the great house, had served as a thoroughfare from Brigland Common to the meadows, which, since the erection of the Abbey, had been included in the park. The cottage, though apparently so secluded and almost embowered in wood, was by no means a gloomy abode; for through a natural vista in the wood before it there was an extensive view of highly-cultivated scenery, which showed between the over-arching trees like a beautiful painting in a rustic frame. The light which shone through this opening, drew the eyes of Markham and his companion to notice the beauty of the landscape.

There is a peculiar and almost indescribable effect produced on the mind by the sight of well-known scenery taken from a new point, or viewed with some variety or novelty of accompaniment. The feeling thus excited, has not all its interest from novelty alone, nor is it indebted for its interest to association. In viewing this scene, Mr. Martindale enjoyed this pleasure: he had lived for many years in Brigland, and had long been in possession of this estate, but here was a beauty he had never seen before.

While they were both admiring the scene before them, Horatio Markham fancied that he could hear a distant sound of music, and stood for a moment in a listening attitude. Presently the sound caught the ear of Mr. Martindale; and the two companions looked at each other in mute astonishment, when the faint tinkling of the unknown instrument was accompanied with the human voice in notes of indescribable sweetness. The voice was near enough to be distinctly audible; and Markham, who had a more acute sense of hearing, and a more extensive knowledge of music than his friend Mr. Martindale, soon perceived that neither the words nor the melody were English. It was presently obvious that the music was in the cottage of old Richard Smith. The two listeners waited till the voice was silent, and then, without the ceremony of tapping at the door, entered the poor man’s humble dwelling.

The interior of the cottage was perfectly neat and clean, as might have been anticipated from the style and appearance of the old man; but there was in it more than neatness—there were symptoms that its present tenants had seen better days. There were several articles of furniture and embellishment which cottagers have neither means nor inclination to purchase. Symptoms indeed of better days are to be continually met with in many humble, even in many miserable dwellings; but such symptoms consist generally of those articles which cannot find purchasers, or which are in daily use, or of indispensable utility, or which have an imaginary value far beyond their real value. And the poor people are sometimes proud of these mementos of their high descent. They can perhaps show, in an old black frame, and drawn on durable vellum, their family-arms:—they may have large unwieldy portraits of ancestors who were distinguished somehow or other in former days, but they know not when, and have perhaps forgotten their very names:—they still retain pieces of fine needlework, which make it manifest that some female ancestor had received a boarding-school education; and many a poor old couple eat their daily scanty meal on the remains of the fine porcelain which some of their progenitors used and exhibited only on days of high festivity.

But the articles in Richard Smith’s cottage were of a different character, and of much more recent date than such as those alluded to above. There hung upon the walls some landscapes, which indeed a person in poverty might have drawn, but which no poor man would keep or would embellish with handsome modern frames. There were also several engravings, which had not been published more than sixteen or seventeen years. Instead of the usual cottage clock with clumsily painted figures and elm-case, there stood on a bracket a neat time-piece, with the name of a celebrated Parisian maker. Upon a set of hanging-shelves there lay several volumes of fancifully and apparently foreign bound books. These were for the most part Italian, but a few were French.

While Mr. Martindale was talking to the old man, Horatio Markham, according to a very common, but not very decorous practice of young men who affect literature, was amusing himself with taking down and opening one after another of the books; and seeing the character of them, and that in their selection they gave proof of a correct and polished taste, he could not but look more attentively at the old man’s niece, with an endeavour to trace in her countenance an expression of a style above that of a simple rustic. The human countenance is susceptible of great variety of expression, and owes much to surrounding circumstances: the very same set of features which in one garb and place would savour of rusticity, would bear a different interpretation in another garb and with other adjuncts. In like manner, the imagination of the spectator does much in giving an interpretation to features, and ascertaining physiognomical indications. So when Horatio Markham saw the young woman in the witness-box giving, with downcast look and trembling accents, her testimony as to the injury sustained by a poor old man, he could see nothing more, for he thought nothing more was to be seen, than a modest, simple, and tolerably pretty face, having no remarkable or peculiar expression. But when he saw the same person, with the same features and the same expression of retiring modesty, surrounded with the productions of art, and apparently the only person in the cottage to whom those productions could be interesting, and by whom those books should be read and enjoyed, he soon fancied that he observed indications of a superior mind and a cultivated understanding. Nay, so far did his imagination influence him, that the impulse which he first felt to address some inquiries to the old man’s niece concerning the books and drawings was absolutely repelled by a feeling of awe. He now began to paint to his imagination a person of superior rank, and to be astonished that he had not before observed that her whole style and expression was far above her professed situation.

As he was replacing on the shelf one of the books into which he had been looking, a hard substance fell to the ground, and he stooped immediately to pick it up; but the young woman was before him, and Markham saw, or thought he saw, that the article which she had thus hastily picked up, was neither more nor less than an ivory crucifix. The object itself he would not have noticed, but he was very much struck with the eagerness with which it was taken up and concealed. Apologising for his awkwardness, and accepting an acknowledgment of his apology, he turned from the books to look more minutely at the pictures. The drawings were, without exception, scenes in Italy, evidently executed by a practised hand, and bearing a date which rendered it highly improbable that they should have been the production of the old man’s niece.

The conversation which passed between Mr. Martindale and Richard Smith was indeed heard, but not heeded by Horatio Markham. It had a reference chiefly to the nature of the injury for which the old man had recently sought legal redress; and the account which Mr. Martindale received concerning the conduct of his honourable relative, was not by any means calculated to soothe the already irritated mind of the old gentleman. Turning the discourse from these unpleasant matters, he suddenly asked:

“Did not I hear music just before I came in? Does this young woman play or sing?”

This question excited the attention of Markham, who cast his eyes round the apartment, but all in vain, to find what musical instrument it was which he had heard while he was standing near the cottage. To the question thus asked no answer was given, but the young woman held down her head and blushed; exhibiting, as Markham thought, much more confusion than such an inquiry in such circumstances seemed to demand. Mr. Martindale did not repeat the question, but proceeded to say:

“Well, my good man, I have brought with me the young advocate who pleaded your cause so effectually. I hope he will be as successful in every cause that he undertakes, and that he will never undertake any less honourable to himself.”

“The law is a dangerous profession, sir; but we must not measure a man’s integrity by the brief which he holds. The barrister professes himself an advocate, not a judge; and if he refuses a brief because he thinks the cause a bad one, he acts with prejudice, seeing only one side of the question. Besides, sir, there are few causes which may bear altogether the name of bad. Sometimes a cause may be bad in law, but good in morals; sometimes an action at law may be good so far as the moral feeling is concerned, and bad as to the letter of some statute; and it is possible that some persons may consider any litigation whatever as being inconsistent with the strict letter of Christianity. We must also make great allowances for diversity of temper and disposition: what may appear just to one man appears perhaps too rigidly strict to another. I think, sir, that the barrister’s profession is unduly calumniated. If, indeed, a client comes to an advocate and says, ‘I wish to take an unfair advantage of my neighbour, and I will pay you to assist me,’ then the barrister would act improperly to sell his conscience to his client; but every litigant sees, or fancies he sees, something of right in his cause, and the barrister merely gives him legal assistance. The law is a dangerous profession indeed, because it may lead to a confusion of right and wrong; but while it endangers a man’s integrity, it also gives him abundant and honourable opportunity of displaying an upright mind and good principle. You will excuse an old man,” said he, turning towards Markham; “garrulity is the privilege of age; but I have had experience of the world. I see but little of it now; the time has been that I have seen more.”

Horatio Markham, though but five-and-twenty years of age—though he had gained two causes in the Court of King’s Bench—though he had been successful in his first brief in his native town—though he had at other towns on the circuit held an extraordinary number of briefs for a first journey—though he held those briefs by means of a reputation going before him that he was a man of good talents—though he had more than once received a marked compliment from his seniors both at the bar and on the bench—and though he was of humble origin, and was rationally expecting to rise in a profession which would place him in a higher station than his parents or early acquaintance, yet, with all this, he was not a coxcomb. Moralists and divines may speak as contemptuously as they will of negative virtues; but in defiance of their wisdom, we will contend that, humanly speaking, there was great merit in Horatio, that he did not feel himself unduly elated by all his honors. He attentively listened to the common-place harangue of old Richard Smith, and replied to it with the respect due to old age.

“You are very candid to the profession, sir; few will concede so much: but it would be difficult to find any profession or employment which is not subject to the reproaches of those who are not engaged in it. Indeed, I have known that even individuals in the profession have also spoken disrespectfully of its moral character and tendency.”

“Then,” replied the old man, “they ought to leave it. A profession cannot be indispensable that is essentially immoral. But, sir, I have to thank you for the manner in which you conducted my cause. It was well done of you that you spoke so temperately of the defendant, or that you rather let facts speak for themselves. I have no spiteful feeling against the gentleman, and for my own part could easily have borne with what I received from him; but I have a serious charge here,” pointing to his niece; “that poor child looks up to me for protection, and I must not suffer any one to approach her disrespectfully. I love her as if she were my own. She has, indeed, no other protector. I must be almost fastidious and jealous in the care that I take of her: a life dearer to me than my own depends upon her happiness.”

As the old man was speaking, his face was suffused with a glow of strong feeling; the young woman’s lip quivered, her eye glistened, and she left the room where they were sitting. As she opened the door by which she made her retreat, Markham, whose curiosity had been strongly excited by all the appearances in the cottage, caught a glimpse of a second or inner apartment, apparently fitted up with very great neatness. Of its extent he could form no idea, but its ornaments were of the same nature as those in the room in which he was sitting. Old Mr. Martindale now felt his curiosity roused; he said:

“I am quite curious to know the history of this young woman. Is she really your niece?”

“She is really my niece,” said the old man, “so far as that her mother was my sister’s child.”

“Are these drawings done by your niece too? You seem to have given her a very good education.”

“These drawings,” replied the old man, “are not hers; and as for her education, such as it is, she received it before she was placed under my care.”

“Are her father and mother living?” continued Mr. Martindale; “but I suppose not, by her being placed, as you say, under your sole protection.”

This last part of the sentence was uttered at an interval after the first; for no immediate answer was returned to the interrogation concerning her father and mother. Indeed, the poor man did not seem very willing to enter into any very particular explanation upon the subject; and Mr. Martindale himself, though he had expressed a curiosity to know the history of the young woman, was not so very curious as to persevere in putting a multitude of questions.

There are some persons whose curiosity gains strength by opposition, and others who will not condescend to be at the expense of any great number of questions. Mr. Martindale was of this latter class. Indeed, had he received ever so much intelligence, it would have been of little use, for he would soon have forgotten it. There was another person present whose curiosity had been much more strongly excited. Horatio Markham felt himself fully convinced that the young woman was not a daughter of a cottager: he could, as he fancied, see clearly enough, by her manner and expression, that she was of much superior rank. It was very ridiculous for a young barrister, who had scarcely seen any society at all, who had been born and brought up in a country town, and of a humble family, or, more properly speaking, of no family at all, and who had spent most of his time in study;—it was very ridiculous for him to affect to decide what manners designated or manifested superior breeding. It is a species of vanity, however, in which Markham is by no means singular.

Mr. Martindale having given the old man an assurance of his protection, and having now no more questions to ask, rose and took his leave, accompanied by his young friend.

“That was a pretty young woman at the cottage, Mr. Barrister; but you must not fall in love with her. It will never do for professional men to make love-matches. Love in a cottage is very pretty, very poetical, very well to talk about.”

Markham protested that he had not the slightest notion of falling in love with a person who was a total stranger to him; but seriously, he could not but acknowledge that there was something very superior in the look and manner of the young woman, and that it might not have been impossible for him to have received an impression, had he met with a similar person in a suitable rank in life. He felt himself not well pleased that Mr. Martindale should have thought it within the verge of possibility that a gentleman of the bar should condescend so low as to fall in love with a young woman, the niece of a poor cottager. He forgot, however, that during the time he was in the cottage, he had his eyes very much fixed upon the old man’s niece; he forgot how very completely his attention had been absorbed; and while he was speculating as to the causes which operated in bringing so much elegance and gracefulness into so humble an abode, Mr. Martindale thought him occupied in admiring the young woman’s pretty face. There was certainly a tolerable share of that species of beauty called prettiness in the composition of her features; but as she rather exceeded the middle stature, and wore a general look of thoughtfulness, the word pretty was not comprehensive enough for a description of her person. When she appeared in the court as a witness, her fine glossy black ringlets were totally concealed, and her dark eyes were so bent towards the ground that their life and expression were not visible. Markham had observed her but little; thinking probably that his behaviour could not be more becoming than when it was totally and directly opposed to that of the defendant’s counsel. He was, therefore, not a little surprised when he saw so much beauty and gracefulness in one whom he had taken for a mere country girl; and his curiosity was still more raised when he observed the nature of the decorations of the poor man’s cottage. The charm which struck him most of all was, the total absence of all affectation or artifice both in the old man and in his niece. Richard Smith, indeed, used language superior in ordinary correctness to that of the usual inhabitants of cottages, but did not give himself airs, as some poor men who fancy themselves conjurers, because they happen to be a little better informed than their neighbours; and the young woman appeared quite as free from any species of affectation, either of manner or of dress.