A week is soon gone. This is not mentioned to our readers by way of information, as if any of them should be ignorant of the fact; but by way of directing their minds to a sympathy with Horatio Markham, who found that the last days of his remaining in England were shorter in their duration than any which had preceded them. In spite of all he had said to himself concerning his not being in love, he could not but experience a very painful feeling at the thought that he must soon leave the pleasant party with whom he was so agreeably spending so many of his hours. He could not persuade himself that he was not in love; and the more he said so, the less he believed it. He had taken his leave of his parents and his early friends. He thought it becoming to take a formal leave also of his new friend, Mr. John Martindale; he hesitated whether he should also make a business of taking leave of Colonel Rivolta and his family. He bethought himself that he had in his possession a book belonging to Clara, and that he ought to return it. He might send it, or he might leave it with Mr. Martindale, requesting him to present a message of thanks; and that plan would obviate the inconvenience of personally returning it, in doing which he feared that he might betray some emotion which he would fain conceal. For the truth is, he was of opinion that it would not be a prudent step to declare an attachment at a moment when he was just about to leave England. That would be to involve himself and Clara too in a painful perplexity. There were many changes to be feared during the time of his absence from England. There was a considerate thought that it would be scarcely advisable that he should form an engagement so long before it could be fulfilled; and amidst other ideas which occupied his mind on the subject, was the consideration of theological differences between the parties.

All these things had their weight; but it does not follow that because a young man considers, that he is therefore considerate. Powerful as consideration may be, feeling is much more powerful; and it has also an efficacy in overruling and influencing the decisions of the understanding, and cheating the judgment by a speciousness of reasoning. Thus it was that Markham, with all his sagacity, allowed himself to be imposed on. He reasoned thus:—Perhaps, if I leave England without announcing it to Clara, it may occur to her that I had some very powerful reason for such neglect of common politeness, and there may arise in her mind a suspicion of that which really exists, and then there may be in her mind a corresponding sentiment, which, if not cherished, may die away and be forgotten; and it would not be right for me to arouse such sentiments at such a time. It will be best then if I personally return the book, and very coolly and politely take my leave; yet, upon second thoughts, why should or need there be any thing of coolness in my manner. It will be most suitable to be perfectly uniform, and to take my leave in a friendly, cordial manner, as I have hitherto behaved towards her.

With this resolution he made his last visit, with a view of taking leave of Colonel and Signora Rivolta and of Clara, and of returning with thanks a book which he had borrowed from the latter. Books are very convenient for lovers; they are a species of Cupid’s go-cart; they are the gentle and gradual introduction of sentiment; they speak without blushing; they are fluent in the utterance, and they can tell many a tender tale by a doubled leaf, or a pencil mark; or a rose-leaf may mark an interesting page. When Markham talked to himself about a cool and quiet leave-taking and a friendly farewell, he did not recollect or deeply think of books interchanged, and of beautiful passages marked for their sentiment and pathos, and most peculiarly applicable to peculiar circumstances: he forgot how many striking passages and elegant extracts he had read aloud, and how much force and energy he gave, or attempted to give, to these expressive and select beauties: he forgot how many associations were connected with books. There was also another circumstance which of course did not occur to him. Clara Rivolta was not situated as any young woman of English family and extensive acquaintance; she had not seen much of society; Markham was the only young gentleman with whom she was at all acquainted; and those few other persons whom she had seen did not make any favourable impression on her mind. By comparison therefore with them, Markham was highly agreeable to her, and positively also was he not unacceptable, inasmuch as Clara herself had no slight tincture of what may be called pedantry. Confined intercourse with human society produces, almost of necessity, some degree of pedantry, which is nothing more than an undue estimate of the importance of some one object of human interest or pursuit. Clara had lived secluded, had been much alone, was of a poetical and almost romantic temperament, had contemplated humanity and its interests through the medium of imagination and poetry; she had lived in a world of her own, and the world of reality was to her thought harsh, rough, and ungracious. When therefore she met with Markham, who had also an imagination somewhat poetical, and a decided taste for the lighter and more graceful productions of genius; and when she saw this young gentleman brought into immediate contrast with an uncourteous and rude coxcomb, as he was at the trial, her opinion of him was flattering; and when, after farther acquaintance, she observed that his mind was well-cultivated, his manners gentle, his deportment essentially and decidedly courteous, and when he had taken great pains to render her well pleased with scenes about her, and to communicate information to her on such topics as she felt interested in, she became more and more pleased with his society, always happy to see him, always happy to hear him, disposed to acquiesce in his judgment, and to be guided by his opinion; and above all, as there was not in her heart any previous attachment, very naturally her affections rested more tenderly on Markham than she was well aware.

If, therefore, Markham had need of management and direction, that he might take his leave of Clara without betraying any undue emotion, so had the young lady also as great need to exercise a commanding discretion on her part. But in this matter the lady was not so well prepared as the gentleman; for the latter was somewhat aware of the state of his own mind, but the former knew not aright the nature of the interest she felt in the company of her kind and intelligent friend. Markham had told Mr. Martindale of the day fixed for his departure, and the old gentleman insisted that he should spend his last day in their company.

It is very remarkable, but not less true than strange, that though Mr. Martindale had cautioned the young gentleman against losing his heart when he saw Clara in old Richard Smith’s cottage, and regarded her merely as a country girl, yet it never occurred to the old gentleman, now the real circumstances of the young lady were known, and Markham was in the daily habit of seeing and conversing with her, that there was any danger of an attachment springing up between them. Mr. Martindale, if he thought at all upon the subject, thought that all Markham’s visits and attentions were to himself, and for his sake; and he was pleased with the young gentleman for devoting so much of his time to the party. Signora Rivolta, however, thought and saw otherwise. It was clear to her observing eye and her discerning mind, that Markham’s visits, if not attracted by Clara, were at least rendered agreeable by her company. It was also very obvious to her that the barrister’s visits were agreeable to Clara, and that an attachment to the young gentleman had been gradually and insensibly forming in her heart. It might be supposed that the faith in which Signora Rivolta had been educated, would have influenced and determined her to oppose every obstacle in her power to the growth of such an attachment; but the truth is, that she had understanding enough to discern that the dangers and difficulties of opposition were as great and as serious as the danger threatened by this young attachment: for she knew that such had ever been the imaginative and ardent complexion of Clara’s mind, that if love should ever take possession of her heart, it would have a strong hold there, beyond the power of ordinary arguments and every-day principles to expel. She was not quite satisfied, for she had never had an opportunity of ascertaining how deeply the principles of her religion were infixed in her mind, nor could she conjecture what power these principles might have over her affections. She thought it safer, therefore, to avoid bringing these principles into danger by any premature experiment of their strength. There was also to be added to these considerations another thought; it was possible that Markham might be brought over to the true faith; and it may also be remarked that Signora Rivolta herself was not so very decided, as some persons of her faith are supposed to be, in the conviction that there could be no salvation out of the pale of that church to which she belonged. That there could be many virtues out of the pale of that church, she had learned from the amiable and excellent character of her maternal uncle, poor old Richard Smith; and that a religion which she had been taught to esteem heretical, could afford a calm and placid support in the hour of death, had been also manifested by her uncle’s dying-bed. These considerations rendered Signora Rivolta less decidedly hostile to the supposed intentions of Markham than otherwise she might have been.

The day appointed for Markham to pay his farewell visit to his good friends, Mr. Martindale and family, being arrived, the young gentleman went with not quite so heavy a heart as he had expected. He felt himself perfectly composed, and began to fancy that his attachment to Clara was not so decided and powerful as to render it at all necessary to use any peculiar caution in his tones or language of leave-taking. He even smiled at the idea, that though it was the gloomy month of November, proverbial for its power of depressing the spirits, he was yet in a tolerably cheerful and composed state of mind.

Mr. Martindale had removed from the hotel in which he resided for the first week of his stay in town, and had established his daughter and family in a ready-furnished house. Markham was not beyond the time appointed for his visit, but rather before it. He was shown into the drawing-room, which at his entrance was empty. He was glad of that; for it gave him time to prepare himself, to study looks and speeches. There is more ostensible than real advantage in a circumstance of this nature. Empty rooms, especially such as are usually occupied by very interesting persons, always make one shiver, let the weather in summer be ever so warm, or the fires in winter ever so good. The most confident and self-satisfied derive no benefit from such opportunity of preparation. So Markham presently found, though we do not say that he was a very confident man. He experienced after the first minute or two an indefinable sensation, as though the very air of the room was not in the best and fittest state for respiration. He had no power to sit still, and but little to walk about the apartment. The house, being a ready-furnished house, was not replete with much that was ornamental. There were some few pictures, but of such very inferior value, that no one who had any thing else to do or think of would trouble himself to rise from his seat to look at them. There was a table in the middle of the room, on which lay in disorder some books, which looked as if they were made on purpose to be scattered on drawing-room tables. There was also a portfolio of drawings partly open, or so carelessly closed, that its contents were visible and ascertainable without being moved. Markham looked at the drawings as they lay; then he ventured to draw them out one after another: they were the same that he had seen before repeatedly, and he thought that he should see them no more. Then his spirits began to sink and his cheerfulness abated, and he felt very November-like. Arranging the drawings as nearly as possible in the same disorder as he had found them, he perceived under the portfolio an open atlas. The map of that country which was destined to be his residence for some few years to come lay open before him. He was looking at it with the pleasing thought that some of his friends had been thinking of him, when the drawing-room door opened, and Clara entered alone.

It is very provoking after taking an infinity of trouble to prepare for a meeting, and after composing the countenance, and arranging the very words and tone of greeting and salutation, to be suddenly taken by surprise, just at that very moment when all this composure has been disarranged and unsettled. So was Markham taken. He very abruptly and awkwardly drew from his pocket the book which he had borrowed from the young lady, and was commencing a set speech, being about to say that he must soon leave his native land and change the aspect of his being, when Mr. Martindale most unfortunately entered the room and abruptly dispersed his eloquence. The book was laid upon the table; Markham muttered polite acknowledgments for the use of it; and Mr. Martindale very unceremoniously hurried the young lady out of the room, urging her to make all possible haste to dress for dinner. Now it was very clear that there could be no farther opportunity for Markham to see Clara alone, or to ascertain the state of her feelings towards him; and had there been any sincerity in the many wise and prudent remarks he had made to himself on that subject, he would not have been sorry for the interruption, but would have consoled himself with the reflection that there had been a happy avoidance of that which might have produced a painful and perplexing explanation. The plain truth however was, that notwithstanding all his considerate thoughts, he was so far in love, that he would have been most happy in the assurance that the feeling was mutual, and that he might, when away from England, live cheerfully on the bright hopes of the happiness awaiting his return. Being disappointed in his expectations of approaching an explanation, and feeling the manifest impropriety and indelicacy of making a regular and formal proposal on the very eve of his departure, he felt almost angry; he was decidedly low-spirited and out of humour.

At dinner the conversation turned almost solely on Markham’s departure. Mr. Martindale congratulated him on his peculiar good fortune in meeting with such valuable patronage, and expressed very cordially his confident hopes that so auspicious a commencement would be followed by corresponding success through life. The old gentleman then administered a very copious supply of most valuable advice, to all of which Markham listened with very respectful attention. The old gentleman had indeed all the talk to himself. Colonel Rivolta was a very brave man and a very good patriot, but ordinarily he was not much addicted to talking. Signora Rivolta could talk if she would, and could be silent if she would. This seems no great praise, but it is a compliment which cannot fairly be paid to great multitudes of either sex. Many are the simpletons that have not wit enough to talk, or not wisdom enough to hold their peace. The mother of Clara had reason to suppose it not improbable that Horatio Markham might one day make an offer of his hand to her daughter, and under this impression was especially desirous to understand and rightly apprehend the young man’s character; she was also desirous of knowing what Mr. Martindale also thought of him; and by paying attention to the topics on which the old gentleman thought it necessary to dwell in giving advice, inferences might be drawn as to the opinion which he entertained of the young man’s moral and intellectual character. That Clara was silent is not to be wondered at. Young people should always be silent when old people are giving advice. For supposing that the young people like good advice, they can the better hear it if they be silent; and supposing that they do not like it, it will be the sooner over if they do not interrupt it.

It requires not a very lively imagination to picture to itself how much and how deeply Markham was disappointed at being compelled to undergo at his farewell visit a long story of good advice, instead of enjoying the luxury of a pathetic parting. And as if from the pure desire to prevent any display of the pathetic, the old gentleman, soon after the ladies had retired from the dining-room, desired to have coffee sent in; and when it arrived, he most provokingly said to the young gentleman:

“Now, young man, it is growing late, and so I will not detain you. You must be stirring early to-morrow morning. I will make your apology to the ladies. I shall be very happy to hear from you, when you arrive at your station; and if I live till you come back, I shall be glad to see you.”

There was in Mr. Martindale’s manner of speaking an indescribable kind of positiveness and decision, which prevented all reply or contradiction. Poor Horatio was under an absolute necessity of complying, and after delaying as long as he decently could, he rose to take his leave, and to make a long speech in good set terms, thanking his kind friend for the notice which he had taken of a young and obscure stranger. But the old gentleman did not like long speeches that were not made by himself. Nature designs the aged to be talkers, not listeners; as the faculty of hearing perishes before that of speaking. Markham was compelled to condense his farewell acknowledgments into very few words: there was certainly great sincerity in his repetition of the great regret which he felt in leaving such agreeable friends. Dismal is a November night in London; and especially dismal was it to Markham to walk through a drizzling rain, by the mockery of lamp-light, all the way from Piccadilly to the Inner Temple, and there to find his little luggage all carefully packed up ready to start; and to find a gloomy looking fire that seemed to grudge the little warmth and cheerfulness that it communicated to the apartment, and to see his book-cases empty, and to see two candles dimly burning on the table; but to see no human face, no look of home, of family, of friends. True, he was a successful man, was in the road to preferment, had made himself many and good friends, but he was very dull, very low-spirited. He had been grievously disappointed, nay, worse than disappointed; for had he found an opportunity to speak or even look a thought of love to Clara, and had it been met by the coldness of distaste, he would have had then only to divert his thoughts, and to fill his mind with other subjects. He then would have known what it was that he had to trust to. But now, poor man, all was uncertainty, perplexity, and suspense. He knew not whether Clara was totally indifferent or not, and he had no means left to ascertain the fact. It was clearly his own fault that he had not sooner made up his own mind, and ascertained his own feelings; for that he reproached himself, but his reproaches availed nothing.

Still farther meditating on the perplexing affair, he came to the unpleasant conclusion, that, if there had been on the part of Clara any feeling of regard and attachment towards him, she must now necessarily conclude that he had no especial regard for her, or he would not have left England without declaring himself, or at least without giving some intimation of the state of his mind. But no sooner had he arrived at this conclusion, which ought at once to have put him out of suspense, than he flew back from it again; and instead of sorrowing only for himself, he began to feel great compassion for Clara, on the gratuitous supposition that her heart was partly if not entirely lost to him, and lost in vain; and, thereupon, he reproached himself for having behaved unkindly towards her.

Thus ingeniously did the young gentleman torment himself till past midnight, till his fire was extinct for want of stirring, and his candles were like torches for want of snuffing. Cold and cheerless he retired to rest, and there remains on record no memorial of his dreams.