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.