Markham had a long way to walk to reach his chambers. He went slowly, sorrowfully, and abstractedly. He thought over and over again of his troubles and disappointments. It was a painful thought to him, that just at the moment when his ambition of rising in the world seemed about to be gratified, he should find himself, by the misfortunes of his father, checked, thrown back, and humiliated. It could not but occur to his mind, that in order to gratify him, and to place him in a profession to which his genius and inclination directed him, his father and mother had made many sacrifices, and perhaps had impoverished themselves. He could, indeed, in a pecuniary point of view, repair the evil, at least in a great measure; but he could not heal the wounds of the spirit, which he saw that his father had so deeply felt. It was not in his power to recall the past, and restore health and spirits.

The young man also was perplexed and troubled on his own account. He had long cherished, though with some interruptions, the prospect of obtaining the hand of Clara Rivolta. He had, with a very pardonable, because very common conceit, pleased himself with the imagination that as the intellectual qualities of her mind were of a superior character, she was therefore most excellently well calculated for him; and he thought it a great pity that so intelligent a young woman should be sacrificed to such an empty coxcomb as Tippetson. We must pardon Markham for a little vanity: we are all of us vain of something; and those that are not vain of something, are vain of the absence of vanity.

Among other thoughts in Markham’s mind there now sprung up, and perhaps predominated over all others, the thought of Clara’s religious prejudices: for all people who differ from ourselves have religious prejudices. That hideous looking stranger, whom Markham met at the door as he was parting from Clara, was clearly a priest of the Roman Catholic church. He looked exactly like an inquisitor; so thought poor Markham, from whose representation we have described the person. What a blessing it is that Protestants have no prejudices!

It was a sad pity, the young man thought, that so amiable and beautiful a creature as Clara should be under the influence and spiritual direction of such an ill-looking, morose, and sour priest. He thought that her understanding was sufficiently strong to be above the influence of superstition; and his only fear was the reverence in which she held her mother would overpower every other consideration, and prevent her from giving due weight to such arguments as might be urged against her hereditary faith. In his own mind there was some portion of imagination; and he could readily understand how a system of religious faith and ceremony, blended with early recollections and associated with thoughts of parental kindness, might be too powerful in its hold upon the mind to admit of being moved or shaken by the coldness and dryness of argument. At all events, whatever might be Clara’s faith, and to whatever church she might be attached, there were other objections which rendered it not by any means consistent with Markham’s notions of propriety to propose or even to take any steps towards proposing, under present circumstances.

When he arrived at his chambers, he found that during his absence many inquiries had been made for him. Among others, he saw that Sir Andrew Featherstone had called. As Markham had no acquaintance with, and but little knowledge of, that worthy baronet, he supposed that the call was one of business; and knowing the intimacy which subsisted between that gentleman and the Martindale family, he thought that it might be agreeable to the old gentleman if he should return that call very promptly.

He therefore interrogated his clerk as to whether Sir Andrew had given any intimation of the object of his call. The clerk said that Sir Andrew looked in low spirits, and expressed great anxiety to see Mr. Markham, and made very particular inquiries as to the probable time of his return.

“And what answer did you give him?” asked Markham.

“I told him, sir, that I could not be sure of your return to chambers before four or five o’clock, and that you might not then stay longer than merely to dress for dinner.”

“But did not you tell him where he might find me?”

“I did, sir; I said that if Sir Andrew was very desirous of seeing you, he would probably find you at Mr. Martindale’s house in Piccadilly. When I mentioned Mr. Martindale’s name he shook his head and said, ‘No, that will not do;’ and then, after a little hesitation, he said that he would call again in the course of the morning.”

This colloquy between Markham and his clerk was scarcely finished, when Sir Andrew Featherstone made his appearance. The worthy baronet was indeed very serious in his looks; and as his usual manner was one of great levity, his serious moods were clumsily gloomy.

“Mr. Markham,” said the baronet, “have you recently seen our good old friend, Mr. Martindale?”

“I saw him, Sir Andrew,” replied Markham, “a few days ago on his way to Trimmerstone.”

“You have not heard from him since?” inquired the baronet; and as he made the inquiry he looked very grave.

Markham of course concluded that some serious accident had befallen his friend, or that he was no more. With anxious eagerness, therefore, he asked, “I am afraid, Sir Andrew, by this question, that you are the bearer of some painful intelligence respecting my worthy friend.”

“I certainly am, Mr. Markham; and I am sorry to say, that, judging from the letter which I received this morning from Mr. Martindale’s attorney at Brigland, I fear that the poor old gentleman is very near his end, even if he be living at all.”

Markham started at the intelligence and exclaimed, “Impossible! it is scarcely a week since I saw him on his way to Trimmerstone in perfect health and spirits.”

“But,” replied Sir Andrew, “he did not reach Trimmerstone: he stopped short at Brigland, where he had some matters to settle with his confidential attorney, Mr. Price; and between you and me, Mr. Markham,” continued the baronet, changing his grave and solemn for wise and mysterious looks, “I strongly suspect that that said confidential attorney will be found to have made of his confidence a great deal more than it was worth.”

Markham was again astonished; for Markham was a very conscientious man, and could not readily believe many of those insinuations which are made against divers members of the legal profession. He thought that the greatest pecuniary sins that could ordinarily be laid at the door of conveyancers were a little exaggeration in the statement of their labors, and an undue estimate set upon their toils. Markham also could not help observing how readily and easily Sir Andrew Featherstone made the transition from a serious annunciation of Mr. Martindale’s illness and probable decease, to the hypothetical knavery of his confidential attorney. But why should any thing be strange to us? Simply because we do not observe, or because observing we do not remember.

Markham proceeded to inquire of Sir Andrew Featherstone what steps it would be desirable to take with respect to communicating the intelligence to Signora Rivolta.

“That,” exclaimed Sir Andrew, “is the difficulty. Mr. Price has requested me to make the communication; and indeed, to say the truth, I really fear that the poor old gentleman is no more. This is his letter.”

Thereupon the baronet handed to Markham the attorney’s letter, which was in the usual common-place style as adopted on such occasions, and as there is nothing else common-place in these volumes, we shall not think of violating their uniformity by the insertion of this letter. When Markham had read the letter, he returned it to the baronet, saying,

“Indeed, Sir Andrew, from the tenor of this letter, I am almost sure it must be as you suspect, and our worthy friend, I fear, is no more. It will be a painful task to communicate the information to his family.”

“So indeed it will, Mr. Markham,” replied the baronet; “and for that reason I wished to devolve the task on you, or any one else that would be kind enough to undertake it. I really cannot manage these affairs so well as some people can. I have already given a hint to the priest that is often calling at the house, but in truth there is very little in his look or manner that is likely to console the poor creatures. Do you know that priest, Mr. Markham?”

“I believe,” replied Markham, “that I saw him this morning for the first time in my life; for as I was leaving the house, I met a gentleman of clerical and morose look, who appeared as if he was the bearer of ill tidings.”

“Oh, very good, very good, he is the proper person to tell them. Well, but now, Mr. Markham, have you any idea of what will become of Mr. Martindale’s vast property? I am very much afraid that Price the lawyer will come in for a great share of it.”

“Indeed, Sir Andrew,” said Markham, “I have never given the subject a moment’s thought; but I have no doubt that a man of such natural acuteness as Mr. Martindale would not suffer himself to be imposed on or deceived by a country attorney. But what reason have you for imagining any thing of the kind?”

At this question Sir Andrew Featherstone shook his head and looked very wise; and he seemed pleased that Markham had given him an opportunity of entering upon the subject by way of explanation.

“Now I will tell you,” said the busy baronet; “Mr. Martindale and I have been long acquainted with each other, and very good friends we used to be in our younger days; but when Mr. Martindale came into possession of his large property, he rather altered his behaviour and was more distant: however, I bore no malice, but called on him as before. In time this shyness wore off; and one day when I was with him at Brigland, soon after he had finished building the Abbey, he told me that he had just been making his will. He was always very fond of making wills. I suppose he may have made twenty or thirty wills in the course of his life. Well, sir, he had been making a will, and he wished me for one to witness the will. Now I could not help, very naturally you know, just giving a glance of curiosity over the sheets; and the old gentleman said to me in his usual, hasty manner, ‘Read the will, man, read it; I don’t wish you to put your hand to you know not what.’ So I read it over, and signed it. I observed that legacies are given to a very considerable amount; and at last this fellow Price was named as one of the executors and residuary-legatee. I could not help remarking to Mr. Martindale that I thought he had been over-liberal to his confidential solicitor; for I was almost sure that by this arrangement he would have at least one-half of the old gentleman’s property.”

“But you do not mean, Sir Andrew, to say, that Mr. Martindale was not aware of the extent of his own property?” replied Markham.

“I do mean to say so,” said the baronet, “and I am sure of the fact; and the villany of this man Price consists in this, that knowing he is to be residuary-legatee, he keeps or has kept Mr. Martindale in the dark as to the real value of his property.”

“Well,” replied Markham, “it cannot now be helped. But it was a pity that you did not endeavour to undeceive Mr. Martindale.”

“Endeavour to undeceive him? Why, my good sir, how do you think that was possible! You surely were sufficiently acquainted with our worthy friend to know that he would never be convinced against his will.”

Markham smiled, and acknowledged the truth of this remark. But the consideration now was, what steps should be taken to ascertain the real state of Mr. Martindale, and what farther communication should be made to Signora Rivolta, and who should be the bearer of the intelligence. Sir Andrew Featherstone, by paying great compliments to Markham’s superior understanding, attempted to throw the burden on his shoulders; but the young barrister, though no more adverse to flattery than any one else, did not think a compliment from the lips of Sir Andrew quite sufficient recompense for the trouble of an unpleasant embassy, and therefore gave it up to him on whom it devolved with greater right and propriety. Poor Sir Andrew was grievously annoyed by his commission, but he felt himself bound to undertake it.

With slow and reluctant steps the worthy baronet proceeded from Markham’s chambers to the town-house of Mr. Martindale; and though he was a man of as much humanity as ninety-nine in a hundred, he was not very sorry when the servant who opened the door informed him that Signora Rivolta could not be seen; for intelligence had been just received from Brigland of the death of Mr. Martindale.

It seems that the letter which Mr. Price had written to Sir Andrew Featherstone was written just before the decease of Mr. Martindale, and that another had been despatched by the same day’s post to Colonel Rivolta immediately after the old gentleman’s departure from life. The Colonel did not trouble himself much about letters, and therefore handed over the communication to Signora Rivolta, who became thus suddenly and abruptly made acquainted with the event which Mr. Price in his considerateness would have conveyed to her circuitously and gradually. For though Mr. Price was rather cunning and dexterous as concerned pecuniary transactions, and made the business of conveyancing more profitable than many an honester man would have done, yet he was by no means an unfeeling man, or a man of rudeness or vulgarity of manners. He was, on the other hand, a man of great urbanity of manners, and altogether courteous, kind and gentle in his deportment. He never was accused or suspected of any thing like insensibility or unkindness: he was a most excellent father, and one of the best of husbands; and though he was not exceedingly conscientious in pecuniary affairs, he still would never have enriched himself at the expense of another’s misery and obvious sufferings. But when the affairs of old Mr. Martindale were put into his hands, and when he saw that the old gentleman’s property was so much beyond his wants and beyond his ideas, a temptation was thus presented to the man of law to take some little advantage of this ignorance.

As Mr. Martindale frequently amused himself with making wills, and as in all these drafts and directions he had uniformly stated that Mr. Price was to be one of his executors and residuary-legatee, the conveyancer thought it might be politic still to keep the old gentleman in the dark as to the real value and extent of his property. There is a casuistry which might represent such conduct as being perfectly honest; but we deal not in casuistry, and therefore we leave it with the stamp of our reprobation; and very much, no doubt, such men as Mr. Price will care for our reprobation.