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

by William Pitt Scargill

It may then be easily supposed that Mr. Martindale was not much disturbed or annoyed by the difference between his own faith and that of his family. Whatever disturbance the subject gave him was entirely of his own making, and arose purely from his own fidgetty disposition. Such however was the very high estimation in which he held his daughter, that notwithstanding his zeal for Protestantism, he would occasionally attend the worship of her church, and occasionally the compliment was returned. This compliance on the part of the old gentleman, together with the satisfaction that he expressed at the occasional conformity of his newly-found family, gave pretty strong indication to Philip Martindale that his wealthy cousin destined a larger share of his fortune for Signora Rivolta than ordinarily falls to the lot of a natural daughter. His difficulties and perplexities therefore increased, and his choice vibrated with great rapidity between Clara Rivolta and Celestina Sampson. He exercised much caution and deliberation in considerations of various eligibilities and ineligibilities. Had he used as much thought before he gave his honorable countenance to the ring, the course, and the cockpit, before he laid bets on rat-catchers’ dogs, and borrowed money of the Jews to pay those bets withal, he would not have needed now to have recourse to the meanness of attempting a heartless marriage to mend his broken fortunes. Sadly and seriously did he lay to heart his past follies; and he grieved the more because he grieved in vain. He knew very well that there was no remedy for the past, and that it would require some ingenuity to prevent affairs from becoming worse. He grew quite dejected, and even demure; and he occasionally would lecture some of his honorable and right honorable friends on the folly and absurdity of gaming. But his repentance, though he was not aware of the fact, consisted rather of uneasiness under the consequences of transgression, than of any feeling of regret for the transgression as considered in itself.

There was in his mind also another thought which was very natural under present circumstances, and that was, that it would be desirable that he should leave the Abbey, and thankfully resign it to his worthy relative, who on the unexpected discovery of a new family might be willing to increase his establishment, though he might feel some little delicacy and hesitation about the removal of his relative. With this idea Philip went again to London, where the old gentleman continued to reside with his family; for by taking this step, the young gentleman hoped that he should be able to ascertain what were the intentions of his relative towards him.

Philip was very cordially received by Mr. John Martindale, who did not interrogate him as usual on the object of his visit to London. This omission was a symptom of indifference; but a still stronger symptom was manifested when Philip announced to his relative the business on which he had come to town. As soon as he had done speaking, the old gentleman in his usual abrupt manner replied: “Well, do as you like. I think a smaller house may be better for you. But as for my going to reside there, I should not think of such a thing. I shall sell the Abbey, if I can have a price for it.”

“Sell it, sir!” replied Philip in the utmost astonishment; “you surely are not serious.”

“But I am decidedly serious,” said the old gentleman; “I have had the amusement of building the house, and so far it has answered my purpose. It is of no farther use to me. Will you buy it?”

Philip smiled at the question; but the smile cost him a great effort. He saw that he was destined to be the sport of circumstances, and he inwardly groaned at his very unfortunate lot; that the line which he had pursued in hopes of coming into possession of a valuable inheritance, had brought him into painful and mortifying perplexities. He thought within himself how foolish he should look at being compelled to leave his splendid mansion; but he had never thought before how much more foolish he looked, when he was only nominal master of a mansion which was far too large for him, and too magnificent for his actual or possible means. It was, indeed, by the more knowing ones shrewdly suspected that Mr. John Martindale had, in building so splendid a concern, seriously transgressed the limits of prudence, and that he had not the ability, supposing him to have the inclination, suitably and consistently to occupy so large and splendid a building. There had need be very great pleasure in building, for there are often very great pains and mortifications resulting from efforts at architectural magnificence. Blessings, however, rest on the heads of those ingenious architects who let us have splendour so cheap, and who convert plaister into stone, and splinters into timber!

To return to our subject. The old gentleman seriously and coolly persisted in his determination to sell the house, and as coolly did he accept Philip’s resignation of his possession. Mr. Martindale the elder merely said:

“But where do you intend to reside? At home with his lordship? Or, suppose you look out for a place in the country. What say you to living among your constituents? There is a very good house at Trimmerstone; it has not been occupied lately, but the last who resided there was a man of rank. If you like to reside there, I will put it in order for you. But it is high time you should think of marrying.”

The house at Trimmerstone had indeed been occupied by a man of rank, or, more properly speaking, by the housekeeper and a few old servants of a man of rank. Many summers had passed over its roof, and many storms had spent their fury on its weather-beaten sides, since any thing had been done to it in the way of repair. At the time that Mr. Martindale was speaking of it as a suitable residence for his honorable cousin, it was almost in a state of dilapidation. Philip had seen the house, and had some recollection of it; and our readers may easily judge of the young gentleman’s state of mind when the proposal was made to settle him there, and to exchange a splendid modern mansion for an out-of-the-way, ill-contrived, lumbering old mansion-house.

Trimmerstone Hall was a long and almost indescribable building, which seemed as if it had stood till it half sunk into the earth. It was approached by a long, superannuated, everlasting avenue of trees, which had stood growing, no mortal could tell how long. There was such a density of foliage, that the middle part of the building was almost in total darkness; and whether the path between the trees was gravel, grass, or withered vegetation, it was not easy to ascertain. Two broad, dislocated stone steps sinking downwards between two stunted black brick walls, and surmounted by a grotesque wooden portico, admitted those who could stoop low enough to avoid hitting their heads, into a wide, broad, cold hall paved with marble, which nature had made black and white, but which time and other accidents had converted into brown and yellow. Immediately opposite to the front door, and not many yards from it, opened the back door, which in architectural beauty and convenience of arrangement was a fac-simile of its opposite neighbour. There were windows also in the entrance-hall, one on each side the two doors; and the windows were constructed upon that ingenious principle which admits any thing but light. On one side of this hall was a mighty fire-place, which looked as if it had never had a fire in it; and on the other was a broad staircase, with banisters strong enough to build a dozen Regent Street houses withal. There were rooms of divers dimensions and various degrees of deformity. To describe their arrangement is impossible, inasmuch as they had no arrangement.