Shakspeare.
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.”