Rank and Talent; A Novel, Vol. 1 (of 3)

by William Pitt Scargill

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.