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.