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.