Horatio Markham bowed, and they entered the cottage. This building was, in its construction and appearance, almost indescribable. There was no semblance of arrangement or regularity about it. It was very large, and at the same time thoroughly inconvenient. Its furniture was in some points very elegant, and in others mean. While it was in course of building, Mr. Martindale had changed his mind about the plan of it fifty times, or more; and in the furnishing, there had been evidently as much caprice. There was a room called the library; but which that room was, a stranger would have been puzzled to guess; for not a single apartment through the whole house was free from books, and in no one room were the books arranged in any order. There were books upon the tables, and books upon the chairs, and books on the floors. The very staircases were not free from them; and whenever a visitor came to the cottage to spend a day or two, it was an essential part of the preparation to remove the books from the bed on which they were lying.
Now Mr. Martindale was very particular about his books, and would not suffer any of his domestics to meddle with them. In his younger days he had been a reader of books; and when he came to his property, he began to purchase, and cease to read. It was indeed conjectured by some that his large property, which came to him from a distant relative, and in some measure unexpectedly, had, in a degree, disordered his mind. There might, perhaps, be some foundation for this suspicion; but it is a fact, that even before his acquisition of great wealth, he had been remarked for many singularities.
“Now, Mr. Barrister,” said the occupier of the cottage, “what time would you like to dine? You have villainous late hours in London, I know. Some of the great folks there don’t dine till to-morrow morning. If I should ever sport a house in town, and give dinners, I think I shall send out my cards inviting my company to dinner on Tuesday next, at one o’clock on Wednesday morning. Will five o’clock be too soon for you, Mr.?”
“Not at all, sir.” So the business was settled; and then Mr. Martindale proposed a walk into the town to call upon the clergyman, whom he designated by the not much admired name of parson.
“Good morning to you, Mr. Denver; will you condescend to dine at the cottage at five o’clock to-day? In the mean time, let me introduce to you my friend Mr. Markham, a barrister; who has distinguished himself by obtaining a very proper verdict against my hopeful young cousin, the Hon. Philip Martindale.”
Mr. Denver accepted the invitation, politely bowed to Mr. Markham, and expressed great sorrow at the event which was alluded to by Mr. Martindale.
“He is a wild youth, Mr. Parson; why don’t you preach to him, and make him better?” replied Mr. Martindale.—“If I were a parson, I would take much better care of my parishioners than nine out of ten of you black-coated gentry. You are afraid of offending great folks. Now, you would not dare to go up to the Abbey this morning, and tell my honourable cousin that he ought to be ashamed of himself.—Eh! what say you, Mr.? Will you take my arm, and walk up to the great house, and set about rebuking the wicked one?”
Mr. Denver gently smiled, and said: “I fear, sir, that we should not find Mr. Philip at home this morning.”
“Not find him at home!” exclaimed Mr. Martindale; “why not? Where is he gone?”
“He left Brigland early this morning in a post-chaise; and the lad who drove him the first stage saw him take another chaise, and proceed towards London.”