CHAPTER XI.
“But here I am to speak what I do know.”
Shakspeare.
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.