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Title: Penelope
        or, Love's labour lost. A novel. Volume 1 (of 3)

Author: William Pitt Scargill

Release date: December 16, 2023 [eBook #72432]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hunt & Clarke, 1828

Credits: Lisa Corcoran, Tim Lindell, Heather Clark and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PENELOPE ***





                               PENELOPE:

                                  OR,

                          LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.




                               PENELOPE:

                                  OR,

                          LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.

                                A NOVEL.

                           IN THREE VOLUMES.

                                   I.

                                LONDON:
                      PRINTED FOR HUNT AND CLARKE,
                      YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

                                 1828.


                                LONDON:
         PRINTED BY C. H. REYNELL. BROAD STREET, GOLDEN SQUARE.




                               PENELOPE:

                                  OR,

                          LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.




                              CHAPTER I.


Six days out of seven, and nine hours out of twenty-four, the reverend
and learned Dr Gregory Greendale sat surrounded with open volumes,
and immersed in profound thoughts, which ever and anon he committed
to writing. For twenty years had this been his regular practice, and
to this dull monotony of being nothing could have reconciled him but
a strong sense of duty, seasoned with a little spice of theological
ambition. But his ambition was not for worldly honour or for filthy
lucre. His aspirings were not after mitres, stalls, and deaneries, nor
was his anticipated recompense compounded, in his mind, of pounds,
shillings, and pence. Far purer and sublimer motives prompted his
diligence and filled his hopes. It was his ambition to occupy a
distinguished station among the defenders of the faith, and to be
hereafter celebrated in the records of ecclesiastical history as the
most irrefragable polemic that ever wrote or reasoned. It was his
opinion, that the church established by law was the best and purest
in Christendom; and that if its tenets were fully and clearly stated,
accompanied with such refutation of sectarian errors as he in his
wisdom and logic could furnish, all sects would be converted, and all
heresies expire for ever.

In this most laudable pursuit the doctor was not altogether free from
obstacles, disappointments, and interruptions. Frequently when he
thought that he had only to sail quietly and smoothly into harbour,
a fresh breeze of controversy sprung up, driving him out again into
the unfathomable ocean. Oftentimes when, after a long, tedious, and
multifarious series of references and quotations, he fancied that his
argument had been completed, and the key-stone of his logic immoveably
fixed, he found that some very unaccountable oversight, some trifling
neglect, let the whole fabric sink down in confusion. And very, very
many times, was the thread of his argument snapped asunder by the
intrusion of the bustling, active, clever, managing, contriving,
economical Mrs Greendale. With one of these interruptions our history
commences.

As the study door opened, the doctor laid down his pen, pushed up
his spectacles and lifted up his eyes, and Mrs Greendale entered
courteously, and gracefully smiling and saying--

“My dear, I don’t wish to interrupt you, but--”

To which unfinished apologetic introduction the worthy doctor in a more
rapid manner, and with greater asperity of tone than became a learned
divine and an affectionate husband, replied--

“You _have_ interrupted me, Mrs Greendale.”

“There now, my dear, you are always so impatient, you will never let me
speak.”

Mrs Greendale was wrong; the doctor was not always so impatient. But
Mrs Greendale was one of that countless myriad of persons who, in their
intense feeling of the present, too hastily draw general inferences
from particular facts.

“Well, well,” said the doctor, “what is it, my dear, that you wish to
say to me?”

This was spoken in a more conciliating tone; for the worthy polemic
knew that the more gently and quietly such interruptions were received,
the more likely they were soon to terminate. And Mrs Greendale having
now permission to speak, was accordingly well pleased.

“Why, my dear, I was wishing to consult you and to ask your advice on a
subject of which you must be a far better judge than I am.”

This was certainly a concession on the part of Mrs Greendale; but
unfortunately the concession was not so highly estimated by the
receiver as the giver; and that is often the case with concessions
of this kind. The doctor was silent, waiting for Mrs Greendale’s
own enunciation of her own story; for he well knew that impatient
questionings rather retard than accelerate the progress of a narrative.
Mrs Greendale then proceeded.

“I have been thinking a great deal about Penelope. Now, you know, we
have of late heard very little of her father, and there really does not
seem to be any prospect that he will ever fulfil the fine promises he
has made. And we are not doing justice to the poor girl by bringing her
up with expectations that are not likely to be realised; we are giving
her an education which is only justifiable under the idea that she
should apply that education to the purpose of supporting herself.”

“Certainly, Mrs Greendale, it is with that view, you know, that we have
given her the kind of instruction of which you speak.”

“Yes, I know it is, but--but--”

“But what, my dear?”

“Why I was going to say, that though it may be very proper that
Penelope should have these accomplishments, yet it may not be
altogether right that she should be introduced into the society of
persons of rank, on terms of equality and intimacy.”

“Persons of rank, my dear--what do you mean? What persons of rank are
we likely to introduce her to? Surely we are not in the way of doing
her any injury in this respect.”

“I don’t know that, my dear; for you know that we are to have a party
to-morrow evening, and Miss Spoonbill and Colonel Crop have consented
to come.”

The doctor did not laugh aloud; nor did he visibly smile at this
last speech of his active, bustling, managing partner. And it would
have been indeed excusable had the reverend divine at least relaxed
his features into a smile, at the dexterity with which Mrs Greendale
converted the above-named lady and gentleman into persons of rank. As
these names have been mentioned, it is proper that our readers should
know something of the parties.

Honoria Letitia Spoonbill was a maiden lady of some forty, fifty,
sixty, or seventy years old; but in whose cranium the organ of number
was so slightly developed, that she could not say which of the
above numbers came nearest to the truth. In person not fascinating,
in manners not commanding, in wealth not abounding, in temper not
prepossessing, in understanding not profound; but in pride and vanity
almost more than superabounding. Her rank not the deepest herald could
ascertain, but it was very true that for many years she had been
accustomed to claim kindred with the lord of Smatterton Castle, always
speaking of and addressing the Earl of Smatterton as her cousin.

Colonel Crop was only Colonel Crop; he enjoyed the rank of colonel,
and that was all the rank that he could boast; he was tolerated at
the castle; he dined occasionally with his lordship; and occasionally
partook of the pleasure of shooting the birds which were cultivated on
his lordship’s estate. In town, he patronised the Countess’s routs,
and in the country he was a companion for the Earl, when not otherwise
engaged. He was proud of the Earl’s acquaintance, though he was not
weak enough to suppose that he was more than tolerated. The haughtiest
of the great do sometimes pick up such acquaintances as Colonel Crop,
and they cannot easily get rid of them. At the village of Smatterton,
of which Dr Greendale was rector, Colonel Crop was only known as the
intimate friend of my lord; but the doctor knowing the humble rank
which the colonel held in his lordship’s estimation, was amused at the
gravity with which Mrs Greendale spoke of this gentleman and Miss
Spoonbill, as persons of rank, and as too magnificent for the society
of Penelope Primrose. With a slightly ironical expression he therefore
said--

“I quite agree with you, Mrs Greendale, that it would not be very
desirable to have our niece intimate with such persons of rank as Miss
Spoonbill and Colonel Crop.”

“Well, I am glad you think as I do, my dear; but how shall we manage
about the party to-morrow? How can we best get rid of Penelope? For
really I cannot help observing that, notwithstanding her dependent
situation, she begins to assume the airs of a lady.”

Mrs Greendale was going on with all the fluency of which she was
capable, and that was no trifle, to recommend the exclusion of the
young lady from the impending party which threatened on the morrow to
grace the rectory-house of the village of Smatterton; but suddenly
the loudness of her tones abated, and the words came slower, and her
countenance looked blank with an expression of interrogation; for, as
she was speaking, the worthy rector drew himself up to full sitting
length, opened his eyes unusually wide, compressed his lips unusually
close, and placing his hands in the arms of his chair, before his
spouse had ceased speaking, he exclaimed--

“My good woman, what are you talking about?”

“Mrs Greendale certainly thought herself a very good woman, but she did
not like to be so called. She was therefore somewhat confounded, and
she replied with an expression of confusion--

“But, my dear, did not you say yourself that you did not wish your
niece to be introduced to persons of such high rank as Miss Spoonbill
and Colonel Crop?”

Speaking more slowly, and in a tone of expostulation, the good man
replied--

“I did say, Mrs Greendale, that I had no wish to introduce my niece to
an intimacy with such persons of rank as Miss Spoonbill and Colonel
Crop. It is not to their rank I object, but I am of opinion that from
such an intimacy Penelope would not derive any benefit, nor add to her
respectability; I look upon her as above them, and not upon them as
above her.”

Mrs Greendale was angry; and surely it was enough to provoke a saint
to hear such disrespectful language applied to those persons of whose
acquaintance the worthy lady was especially and peculiarly proud.
Bridling up therefore, and assuming in her turn a high tone, she
replied--

“Well, my dear, if you think it beneath your niece’s dignity to meet
such persons, you had perhaps better send word to say that you do not
wish to have their company: I dare say they will not require much
persuasion to stay away.”

“I wish, my dear, you would not talk such nonsense. Penelope will
not become very intimate with these people of rank by meeting them
in a party. Have your party quietly, and let the poor girl enjoy it,
if she can; it will be time enough for her to feel the bitterness of
servitude when she is actually in that condition; while she is under
my roof she shall be treated as if she were my own.”

There was in this last speech a tone of authority and decision to which
Mrs Greendale was in the habit of submitting without an audible murmur
or expostulation. She therefore left the doctor’s apartment, merely
muttering to herself, “I don’t think you would indulge a child of your
own as you indulge this pert conceited creature. I am very glad she is
no niece of mine.”

The doctor returned to his studies, and Mrs Greendale to her domestic
occupations. The doctor soon forgot what was past, losing himself
amidst the perplexities and intricacies of theological discussions and
doctrinal controversies. But Mrs Greendale brooded over the obstinacy
of her spouse, and the pride of her niece, and the mortifications of
her own pride. She could not imagine what her husband could mean by
speaking so disrespectfully of persons of such high consideration as
Miss Spoonbill and Colonel Crop. Ever since the high-born spinster had
taken up her residence at Smatterton, for the sake of living near to
her cousin the Earl, Mrs Greendale had been paying homage to her for
the purpose of obtaining her illustrious notice and patronage. It was
a concern of the utmost moment to have the honour of Miss Spoonbill’s
company at the rectory; for the wife of the rector of Smatterton
was very jealous of the superior glory of the wife of the rector of
Neverden, whose parties were graced by the presence of the great man
of the parish, Sir George Aimwell, Bart. Mrs Darnley, the lady alluded
to, was not indeed quite so much gratified by the distinction as Mrs
Greendale was mortified by it. Now it was some pleasure to the latter
that the great man in her husband’s parish was an Earl, whereas the
great man in Mr Darnley’s parish was only a commoner; for Mrs Greendale
always caused it to be understood, that baronet was not a title of
nobility. Still, however, it was a mortification that the Earl would
not condescend to visit at the rectory. But when Miss Spoonbill and
Colonel Crop had accepted an invitation to Mrs Greendale’s party, it
was a matter of high exultation to her; it was therefore not very
agreeable to her to hear these distinguished personages spoken of so
slightingly by her reverend spouse. But Dr Greendale was an odd sort of
man, that everybody allowed; and he used to say the strangest things
imaginable. Being so studious a man, was quite enough to account for
his oddities.

It may be proper now to give some account of Miss Penelope Primrose,
and to state how she was brought into a state of dependence upon her
uncle, Dr Greendale. This young lady was an only child of Mr Primrose,
who had married a sister of the rector of Smatterton. When he married
he was possessed of a very decent independent fortune, which though
not ample enough to introduce him to the highest walk of fashion, was
quite sufficient to introduce him to the notice of some part of the
fashionable world, and to bring him acquainted with several gentlemen
of the strictest honor; or to say the least, gentlemen who made great
talk about their honor. With the acquaintance with these gentlemen he
was exceedingly flattered, and with their truly elegant manners he was
highly pleased. As some of them bore titles, their condescension was so
much the greater, in not only tolerating, but even in almost seeking
his acquaintance; and he found that there did not exist in the higher
ranks so much of that pride of birth and family as some of his earlier
friends had often talked about. For as Mr Primrose was the son of a
merchant, some of his city intimates, and his father’s old companions,
had represented to him that if he should assume the character of a
man of fashion, he would only be ridiculed and despised by the higher
ranks. He found, however, that these censorious citizens were quite in
an error; instead of experiencing contempt and neglect, he found that
his society was actually courted; he was a frequent guest at splendid
entertainments, and his own invitations were not refused. He observed,
that although Mrs Primrose was a beautiful and accomplished woman, it
was not so much on her account as his own that he was so much noticed.
The parties to which he was most frequently invited, were gentlemen’s
dinner parties; and it was very likely that his company was agreeable,
for he had great powers of conversation, and was a man of ready wit.
It was very pleasant to have his good sayings applauded by men of
fashion and of honor, and he thought that the exquisitely courteous and
graceful demeanour of the higher ranks was the very perfection of human
excellence. In the course of five years, or rather less, he found that
his style of living was rather too expensive for his means, and upon
looking into his affairs he also discovered that he was in possession
of nothing that he could call his own, but that when his debts should
be paid, his coffers must be emptied and his house unfurnished. He
was quite astonished at the discovery, and for awhile dreaded to
communicate the painful intelligence to his wife; but she had foreseen
it, and the anticipation had affected her deeply and irretrievably; she
sunk under the pressure, and left Mr Primrose a widower with an only
child. By this calamity he was roused to recollection, and he called
to mind that he had occasionally played at cards with some of his
honorable friends, and that he must certainly have been a greater loser
than he had imagined at the time. He had at one sitting won upwards of
three thousand pounds, and he never afterwards sat down to the table
without being reminded of his good luck; but it so happened, that when
he went into an examination of his affairs, he found that his many
smaller losses had more, much more, than counterbalanced his once great
winnings. Now was the time for reflection, and so his friends thought,
and they left him to reflection. The result was, that he committed the
motherless and portionless Penelope to the care of his brother-in-law,
Dr Greendale, and betook himself to commercial diligence in a foreign
country, with the hope of at least providing for himself, if not of
retrieving his losses.

Fourteen years had Penelope spent under the roof of the worthy and
benevolent rector of Smatterton. To her uncle she had ever looked up
as to a father. Of her own father she knew but little; and in all the
thoughts she entertained concerning him, there was mingled a feeling
of pity. It was highly creditable to Dr Greendale, that his manner
of speaking of Mr Primrose should have produced this impression on
his daughter’s mind. There certainly was in the conduct of Penelope’s
father enough of the blameable to justify the doctor in declaiming
against him as a profligate and thoughtless man, who had brought ruin
upon himself and family. But censoriousness was not by any means the
doctor’s forte. He was rather a moral physician than a moral quack,
and he had found in his own parish that the gentleness of fatherly
admonition was more effectual than the indignant eloquence of angry
rebuke.

Penelope naturally possessed high and buoyant spirits; and had her
situation been any other than that of dependence, it is probable that
this vivacity might have degenerated into pertness. It was however
softened, though not subdued by the thought of her father in voluntary
exile, and the language in which Dr Greendale was accustomed to
speak of his “poor brother Primrose.” Her spirit also was humbled,
though not broken, by the stepmother-like behaviour of Mrs Greendale.
Penelope could never do or say anything to please her aunt. When she
was cheerful, she was reproved for her pertness; when serious, she was
rebuked for being sulky. At her books, she was proud of her learning;
at her pianoforte, she was puffed up with useless accomplishments. Out
of the kitchen she was too proud for domestic occupation, in it her
assistance was not wanted. In her dishabille she was slovenly, when
dressed she was a fine lady. By long experience she grew accustomed to
this studied annoyance, and it ceased to have a very powerful effect
upon her mind; and it might perhaps be the means of doing her good,
though its intention was anything but kindness.

As the mind and feelings of Penelope Primrose were impelled in
different directions by her natural constitution, and by her accidental
situation, a greater degree of interest was thus attached to her
character. There is in our nature a feeling, from whatever source
arising, which loves not monotony, but delights in contrast. The tear
which is always flowing moves not our sympathy so strongly as that
which struggles through a smile; and the sun never shines so sweetly as
when it gleams through the drops of an April shower.

To introduce a female character without some description of person,
is almost unprecedented, though it might not be injudicious; seeing
that then the imagination of the reader might fill the vacant niche
with whatever outward, visible form might be best calculated to rouse
his attention, to fix his sympathies, and to please his recollections.
But we are not of sufficient authority to make precedents. Let it be
explicitly said, that Penelope Primrose exceeded the middle stature,
that her dark blue eyes were shaded by a deep and graceful fringe,
that her complexion was somewhat too pale for beauty, but that its
paleness was not perceptible as a defect whenever a smile illumined her
countenance, and developed the dimples that lurked in her cheek and
under-lip. Her features were regular, her gait exceedingly graceful,
and her voice musical in the highest degree. Seldom, indeed, would
she indulge in the pleasure of vocal music, but when she did, as was
sometimes the case to please the Countess of Smatterton, her ladyship,
who was a most excellent judge, used invariably to pronounce Miss
Primrose as the finest and purest singer that she had ever heard. More
than once indeed the Countess had recommended Penelope to adopt the
musical profession as a sure and ready means of acquiring independence;
but the young lady had scruples, and so had her uncle.




                              CHAPTER II.


It has been said in the preceding chapter, that Dr Greendale resumed
his studies as soon as Mrs Greendale left his apartment, and that
he soon forgot the interruption and the discussion which it had
occasioned. After a little while however he found that the train of
his thoughts had been seriously broken, and that he could not very
easily or conveniently resume and connect it. He therefore determined
that he would for a few hours lay aside his pen, and indulge himself
with a little relaxation from study. These occasional relaxations are
very essential to authors, especially to those whose writings are the
result of deep and continuous argumentative thought. The doctor indeed
had found this to be the case to a much greater extent than he had
anticipated: for, when he first busied himself upon his great work, he
thought that three years would be the very utmost of the time which
he should occupy in the labours of the pen. But it so happened that
he spent so very large a portion of those three years in the pleasing
employment of looking to the honor and glory which lay beyond them,
that they were absolutely gone before he was well aware of it, and his
important and momentous labours were only begun; he had scarcely laid
the foundation of that magnificent superstructure, which was destined
to be an immortal and unfading monument of his theological and polemic
glory. And even long after the expiration of the first three years,
he found it necessary to rouse himself to extraordinary, and almost
convulsive diligence by preaching some very eloquent discourses on
procrastination. In these discourses he quoted Young’s Night Thoughts;
and most of his parishioners thought the quotations exceedingly fine;
but Mr Kipperson, of whom more hereafter, quite sneered at them, and
afterwards told the Earl of Smatterton’s gamekeeper, that Young was
nothing of a poet compared to Lord Byron. But, notwithstanding all
that the worthy rector of Smatterton had said, thought, or preached,
concerning procrastination, he could not help now and then indulging
himself and laying aside his pen, just for an hour or two; it could not
make much difference; and besides it would not do to be always writing;
there must be some interval allowed for thought. In one of these
intervals, now accounted for by the interruption of Mrs Greendale, he
sent for his niece Penelope; for he thought that in Mrs Greendale’s
present humour the young lady would feel herself more at ease in any
other company than that of her diligent and managing aunt.

Well it was indeed, for the dependent one, that this humour of
relaxation seized the doctor at this moment: for Penelope had met
Mrs Greendale on her return from the doctor’s study, and had, in as
considerately gentle, and humble terms as possible, proffered her
assistance in making preparation for the morrow’s party; and Mrs
Greendale, instead of receiving the offered aid courteously, as it was
proposed, only replied:

“I beg, Miss Primrose, that I may not take you away from your studies.
Besides, it is not quite correct that guests should provide for their
own entertainment.”

Much more to this purpose said the angry wife of the rector of
Smatterton, and Penelope bore it as patiently as she could. From
this discussion however she was soon and most agreeably relieved by
a message from the doctor, commanding, or more properly speaking,
requesting her attendance in the study.

Hastily but not rudely she quitted the paragon of domestic managers to
attend to the best of uncles, and the keenest of polemics. When she
entered the doctor’s room, she found the books closed, and the pen laid
down, and the chair moved, and the fire stirred, and a chair cleared
of its literary lumber and put on the opposite side of the fire-place
for her to sit down upon. These were pleasant symptoms, and pleasanter
than all were the kind and amiable looks of her uncle.

“Penelope, my dear, if you are not very much engaged I should like to
have a little conversation with you. But, perhaps, you are helping your
aunt to prepare for tomorrow?”

“No, sir, I am not, for my aunt does not want any help. I was offering
my assistance when you sent for me, but my aunt declines it.”

“Indeed!--Well then sit down, my dear, sit down. Have you been
practising this morning? I have not heard you. You must learn that new
song before you go to the castle, for it is a great favourite with Lady
Smatterton.”

“I have practised this morning, and I sang it over two or three times
after breakfast. I think I know it now quite perfectly.”

“That’s a good girl. But I cannot say I wish you to make a business
of singing. It is always very well for an amusement but no farther.
The Countess is very kind to you, and you ought to oblige her as much
as possible; yet I would not wish that you should give your exclusive
attention to that science.”

“I have no such wish myself, sir; I feel very much embarrassed and
confused even when I sing at the castle, when no one is present but
Lord and Lady Smatterton. I am sure I could never bring myself to
perform in public.”

“Very good; you have a very proper feeling on the subject. I know the
Countess would be very happy to bring you out under her patronage,
and very respectable patronage it would be; but I have very great
objections to such publicity for a young person like you.”

“But, my dear uncle, I have been thinking--I have been thinking--”

Penelope, in thus speaking, hesitated and blushed, and trembled, and
a tear would have been seen starting into her eye, but the doctor
observing that she was confused, did not look at her to increase her
confusion. Suspecting what was the cause of this embarrassment, he said:

“Yes, yes, my dear, I know what you have been thinking about, and I
have been thinking of the same subject. You think it very strange that
you have not heard from Robert Darnley.”

The doctor was right, and the doctor was wrong. Penelope had indeed
been so thinking, but it was not of these thoughts that she was then
about to speak. The suspicion however increased her confusion and she
wept. Sobbing, she exclaimed with great earnestness:

“Oh no, my dear uncle! I had no such meaning, but I was going--”

The doctor heeded not these words, but proceeded to say, with much
tenderness of manner:

“But, my dear Penelope, you should not make yourself uneasy. Foreign
letters are frequently delayed and detained from a variety of causes. I
dare say you will soon have a sufficient explanation of this silence. I
have often had your father’s letters two or even three together, after
waiting a long while, and fearing that the correspondence had ceased.”

Penelope recovered her voice and more composedly replied; “Indeed, sir,
it was not of Robert Darnley that I was going to speak; I was about to
say that it was now time for me to go out into the world and no longer
to be burdensome to you.”

“Burdensome to me, my dear child, how can you think of such a thing?”

“But, sir, it is painful to be in a state of dependence when one has
the means of doing something for a maintenance. I am sure, my dear
uncle, you would not mention the subject to me, and so I am compelled
to speak first.”

“A state of dependence is a state in which we all are. We must be
dependent on one another, it is the ordering of a wise Providence; it
is the means by which we have the development and exercise of some of
our best and purest feelings. Beside, you are yet too young to teach
others, you have not finished your own education, you want experience.
Pray do not talk of leaving me. If you say any more on this subject I
shall be afraid your home is irksome.”

This was the most effectual appeal that could be made to Penelope; it
silenced, but convinced her not. It is true that her home was irksome.
It was annoying to her in spite of all her constitutional vivacity and
acquired philosophy to be continually exposed to the open or covert
reproaches of Mrs Greendale. For this very clever lady had exercised
management in everything but in the government of her own temper. And
true it is, though strange it may appear, that her own opinion of her
own temper and habit of mind was exactly the converse of reality; so
when we see our image reflected by a looking-glass, that which is our
right hand appears as our left, and that which is our left appears as
our right. Mrs Greendale thought herself a model of candour and good
humour; and whenever she uttered reproaches against Penelope, which was
not very seldom, she actually thought and believed that all the fault
was in the young woman’s perverseness, vanity, or affectation, whereas
the only fault was in her own distempered vision, which could see
nothing good in her, against whom, for some unaccountable cause, she
possessed a decided prejudice. For a mind thus constituted, there was
obviously no remedy; Mrs Greendale could not profit by indirect hints,
nor could she see in others of the same temperament a portraiture of
herself. It was also in vain that Penelope attempted to please her;
that was an absolute impossibility, and the dependent one had found
it so by long and bitter experience. The poor girl therefore was not
of opinion that she was burdensome to Dr Greendale, but she felt that
Mrs Greendale was burdensome to her; she found that her elasticity of
spirit was diminishing; she began to assume the air and aspect of one
tried with far deeper troubles than the continual wearisomeness of
undeserved reproaches. Though occasionally Dr Greendale had perceived
something of this, and though he had given some gentle hints to that
purpose to his better half, yet he had no idea of the extent to which
the annoyance reached, and of the bitter pains of heart and spirit
which it occasioned to his niece. The art of ingeniously tormenting
was once made the subject of a lively little book, but the art is not
to be learned; it comes as the spontaneous growth of the mind, and
Mrs Greendale knew the art much better than the witty author of that
treatise.

We have explained the situation in which Penelope was placed. But
as every condition of humanity is more or less of a mixed nature,
so in her state there were some alleviations. Her kind-hearted and
benevolent uncle, so considerate and so gentle in his manner towards
her, partly counterbalanced the pain which she experienced from the
behaviour of her aunt. He was constantly endeavouring to encourage her
with hopes that her situation was not destined to be for ever a state
of dependence. He was perpetually dwelling upon the brightest view of
her father’s prospects; and though Mr Primrose had now been fourteen
years in India, and during that time had sent to England very little
more than promises and flattering hopes, yet the worthy doctor was
pertinacious in cleaving to the conviction, that his brother-in-law
would eventually, and perhaps very soon, fulfil his promises, and
realize the hopes which he had excited. As for himself, the uncle of
Penelope would willingly have adopted her as his own, but this adoption
would have been serviceable only during his natural life; for he had
scarcely anything to call his own beyond the income of his living.

In the situation of Penelope there was also another circumstance,
which might be said to be an alleviation; but which, in some of its
bearings, was a source of deep anxiety. Robert Darnley, the son of
the rector of Neverden, had very early in life, by means of strong
interest, been appointed to a situation of great promise in India; and
two years before the time of which we are writing had made a visit to
England; during this visit an acquaintance had been formed between him
and Miss Primrose, and this acquaintance was not met by any opposition
on the part of the young gentleman’s parents. Mrs Greendale could not
imagine what Mr and Mrs Darnley could see in Penelope to make them so
partial to her, and she thought that a young man of such talents and
prospects might make a far better match than with a young woman whose
only portion was her pride, and a few useless accomplishments; for in
this point of view did she regard her niece, or, to speak according to
her own most frequent manner of expression, Dr Greendale’s niece. Mrs
Greendale, to be sure, did not oppose the match, but she could not help
giving a few hints as to the unreasonableness of the expectation that
Penelope should consider the rectory as her home till she should be
married. For, as the good lady well observed, there is no accounting
for these young sparks, they may change their minds a thousand times;
and then in such case what would the young woman be fit for, after
living in expectation of becoming a fine lady, and at last being
compelled to earn her own living? It may be imagined, and it might be
described, how unceasingly eloquent was Mrs Greendale on these topics;
and it may also be imagined that no great delicacy would be used as to
the manner in which such precautionary reflections and admonitions were
administered by the prudent and knowing wife of the book-loving rector
of Smatterton. And as the worthy doctor gave himself up so closely to
his studies, his dear wife took it for granted that he must be a mere
ignoramus as to all worldly matters, and therefore she endeavoured to
supply the deficiencies of his knowledge by the redundancy of her own.

Pleasing then as it might be to Penelope Primrose to look forward
to competence and independence with one for whom she entertained a
reverence as well as an affection, yet, in spite of her confidence
in the mental stability and good sense of her destined husband, it
was impossible not to be in some degree affected by the perpetual
and unceasing repetition of hints and insinuations concerning human
fickleness and juvenile inconstancy; more especially when these hints
and insinuations were somewhat corroborated by the fact, that latterly
the epistolary communications had diminished in frequency.

From these circumstances it may be then easily inferred, that Penelope
was not in an enviable situation, and that nothing could have supported
her spirits but that exceedingly strong propensity to bright hopes
which is the characteristic of the youthful mind, and about which
moralists, and essay-writers, and other wiseacres, make such a
prodigious and prosy preachment. Mr Malthus himself could not desire
a more effectual mean of thinning the denseness of population, than
causing every mind, if it were possible, to form such a view of future
days as should be actually realized by the event. But it never will
be so, and it never can be so; Providence is wiser and kinder than
moralists and essay-writers; and Providence has given to the young that
brightness of hope, the pleasures of which are far greater than the
pains of disappointment. The very disappointments of maturer life bring
with them some pleasurable alleviation, in the eloquence and pathos
with which we sigh and lament over the deceitfulness of the world’s
promises; and thus there is a double good derived from a single evil.
For youth is pleased as it looks forward to manhood, and manhood is
soothed and instructed as it looks backward to youth.

We do not like to finish a chapter with a sentimentality clap-trap,
therefore we turn from our digression to inform the reader, that the
interview between Dr Greendale and his niece terminated in reconciling
the latter to a longer residence under her uncle’s roof, and in
convincing her that the non-arrival of letters from India would be very
satisfactorily accounted for; so that Penelope looked forward to the
party engaged for the next day with a degree of pleasure, and a portion
of hope that Mr or Mrs Darnley would explain the long silence of their
son.




                             CHAPTER III.


“A party in a parlour,” to quote an expression from the author of
Peter Bell, is to a clever, active, and managing woman, a very serious
and important matter. If then on the morning of that day which was
destined for the reception and entertainment of Colonel Crop and Miss
Spoonbill, Mrs Greendale should be extraordinarily full of business,
and in proportionable ill-humour, it were not to be wondered at. This
was very naturally anticipated by Penelope, who endeavoured as well as
possible to provide against it. As soon therefore as breakfast was over
she put on as cheerful a look as she could well assume, and asked Mrs
Greendale to give her leave to assist in preparing for the evening
entertainment; and to her very great astonishment, instead of meeting
with a rebuff, she was answered with great civility, and her offer was
accepted; and even her opinion was asked concerning divers ornamental
arrangements of the supper table. The cause of this phenomenon it is
our duty to explain.

Our readers then are to be informed, that on the preceding day, almost
immediately after the interview and dialogue between Mrs Greendale and
the doctor concerning Penelope, the angry lady of the rectory went to
call on Miss Spoonbill, in order to make assurance doubly sure, as
concerned the longed-for visit. At this lady’s house, Mrs Greendale
had the pleasure of seeing Lord Spoonbill; and as his lordship was a
very affable young man, he condescended to take great notice of Mrs
Greendale, and to ask particularly after the doctor and his niece.
In the course of conversation Mrs Greendale cleverly contrived to
let the young lord know that there was to be a party at the rectory
the following day, and that Miss Spoonbill and Colonel Crop had
kindly condescended to honor the humble roof of Dr Greendale by their
presence; at the same time she also ventured to express how much they
would be honored and how highly gratified if his lordship should not
happen to be better engaged, and would favor them with the pleasure
of his company. To her inexpressibly agreeable surprise, his lordship
unhesitatingly accepted the invitation. “Now a fig for Mrs Darnley,”
thought Mrs Greendale; “I shall have a lord for my guest.” This it was
that put Mrs Greendale in such good humour. Penelope soon received from
her aunt the information which we have communicated to our readers, and
with that communication she also had a request from the good-humoured
and managing mistress of the rectory, that she would see that the
pianoforte was in tune, and that her music-books were in order, because
his lordship was excessively partial to music. It was absolutely
impossible for Penelope not to comply with this courteous request, and
she promised that the music should be all in proper order, though she
knew that she should be under the disagreeable necessity of performing
some stupid duets, in order to give his lordship an opportunity of
displaying his own little knowledge of music.

Lord Spoonbill was the only son and heir of the Earl of Smatterton.
At the time of which we are writing, this promising youth had just
finished his education at the university of Cambridge, or more properly
speaking at the joint universities of Cambridge and Newmarket; for
the latter is a kind of essential appendix, or chapel of ease, to
the former. It is indeed a great piece of neglect, and grievously
impeaching the wisdom of our ancestors, that Cambridge only of the two
universities is blessed by the vicinity of a race-course; seeing that
our hereditary legislators are in many cases more fond of applying the
knowledge which they acquire at Newmarket, than that which they gain,
if it be any at all, at the university of Cambridge: and if there
be any truth in the observation, that the best kind of education is
that which is applicable to the purposes and pursuits of after-life,
then indeed Newmarket may be called the better half of Cambridge. Lord
Spoonbill was not one of those careless young men who lose at the
university what they have gained at school; one reason was, that he had
little or nothing to lose; nor was his lordship one of those foolish
people who go to a university and study hard to acquire languages which
they never use, and sciences which they never apply in after-life. His
lordship had sense enough to conclude that, as the nobility do not talk
Greek, he had no occasion to learn it; and as hereditary legislators
have nothing to do with the exact sciences, it would be a piece of idle
impertinence in him to study mathematics. But his lordship had heard
that hereditary legislators did occasionally indulge in other pursuits,
and for those pursuits he took especial care to qualify himself. In
his lordship’s cranium, the organ of exclusiveness was strongly
developed. We do not mean that his head was so constructed internally,
as to exclude all useful furniture, but that he had a strong sense of
the grandeur of nobility and the inseparable dignity which attaches
itself to the privileged orders. The only instances in which he
condescended to persons in inferior rank, were when he was engaged
at the race-course at Newmarket, or when he found that condescension
might enable him to fleece some play-loving plebeian, or when affairs
of gallantry were concerned. In these matters no one could be more
condescending than Lord Spoonbill. We should leave but an imperfect
impression on the minds of our readers if we should omit to speak of
his lordship’s outward and visible form. This was an essential part
of himself which he never neglected or forgot; and it should not be
neglected or forgotten by his historian. He was tall and slender, his
face was long, pale and thin, his forehead was narrow, his eyes large
and dull, his nose aquiline, his mouth wide, his teeth beautifully
white and well formed, and displayed far more liberally than many
exhibitions in the metropolis which are only ‘open from ten till dusk.’
His lips were thin, but his whiskers were tremendously thick. Of his
person he was naturally and justly proud. Who ever possessed such a
person and was not proud of it?

Now when this superb and elegant specimen of nobility condescended to
patronize Mrs Greendale’s party, was it not enough to account for the
exquisitely high spirits in which the good lady appeared, and for the
unparalleled courtesy with which she accepted the offer of her niece
to assist in preparation for the evening’s entertainment? Penelope
herself was very much pleased; for though she had often endeavoured to
persuade herself that she did not heed Mrs Greendale’s ill-humours,
yet she could not help feeling the difference between good-humour and
moroseness. It is not pleasant to be always within hearing even of
the snarling of a dog, or the creaking of a rusty hinge, and far less
pleasant is the language and tone of human censoriousness. The young
lady was not only pleased with her aunt, but she also regarded Lord
Spoonbill with some degree of approbation. Of his lordship indeed, she
knew but little, save that when she passed him he used to stare at her
with great rudeness and earnestness. That was not agreeable; but, for
aught her simplicity knew to the contrary, such behaviour might be
the mark of that superiority of mind which so exclusively belongs to
persons of rank.

Penelope was also in good spirits at the thought of meeting Mr and
Mrs Darnley, from whom it was possible that she might hear something
of Robert Darnley; for though she had frequently said to herself, “I
am sure he has forgotten me,” yet she did not believe herself when
she said so. Most highly proper and suitable was that feeling; for it
was possible that the neglect was only apparent and not real; in such
case, therefore, common candour required the most favorable view of
the matter. It should be stated, that Smatterton and Neverden were
adjoining villages, both of them at some distance from the high road,
and Neverden was in the line between Smatterton and the nearest post
town. The letters were carried by a great lubberly boy, called Nick
Muggins, who rode upon a little half-starved weazel-faced animal,
that might pass for a horse, ass, or mule; but the poor animal was
so grievously insignificant, that the inhabitants of Neverden and
Smatterton did not even take the trouble to decide to what species it
belonged. But let that pass. Now Nick Muggins was not one of the best
readers in the world; he had unfortunately left school before he came
to that part of his education. There is many a man of letters who does
not know how to read. In consequence of this defect, Nick was forced to
call in the aid of the more learned, and it was not unfrequently the
case that when he asked Mr Darnley, saying; “Please sir, what’s the
’rection of this here?” that if the letter was for Penelope, Mr Darnley
would take it of the boy and carry it to Smatterton in the course of
the day, and especially when no letter came for himself from the same
quarter, as he was anxious to hear from his son by every opportunity.
In hopes therefore that Mr Darnley would make himself doubly welcome at
Smatterton, Penelope kept up her spirits. So the day passed over very
brightly and calmly; and before the shadows of evening had descended,
Mrs Greendale’s party began to assemble.

No newspaper announced to the world Mrs Greendale’s rout, nor did the
hospitality of the rectory disturb the neighbourhood by the rattle of
carriages, the glaring of torches, the thundering of knockers, or the
impatient vociferations of coachmen and footmen. Of the party, we have
already mentioned Miss Spoonbill, Colonel Crop, and Lord Spoonbill.
Mention has also been made of Mr and Mrs Darnley; but nothing further
has been mentioned than their names. As it is desirable to know one’s
company, it may not be unsuitable in this place to introduce to our
readers more particularly and descriptively Mr and Mrs Darnley and
family.

The Rev. Robert Darnley was rector of Neverden, having enjoyed the
living about five and twenty years at the time of which we are writing.
He was a most zealous churchman, and was thought by some persons of
more lax and complying principles to be rather a bigot. In his manners
there was no lack of courtesy, though to a casual observer he might
seem rather proud and haughty. He certainly did entertain a very high
sense of the dignity and importance of the clerical office; and even
those who censured his stately manners bore willing testimony to the
activity and zeal with which he discharged his clerical duties; and
the more creditable to him was this testimony, inasmuch as he never
appeared in the character of a preferment-hunter. He almost entirely
confined his labours to his own parish, and though the living was
small and his own property was ample, he was as attentive as if his
subsistence depended on his parish. Some of his friends used to say
that his professional income was altogether expended in charity. He
was a man therefore of much influence in his neighbourhood, and indeed
it was often remarked that he seemed to be a greater man than Sir
George Aimwell himself; and in truth, if moral dignity has anything to
do with greatness, he certainly was.

Mrs Darnley was the best-tempered woman in the world; not very
remarkable for anything else than for her good-humour, which was
imperturbable and imperishable, and for the remains of great personal
beauty, or rather prettiness. Their family consisted of one son, of
whom we have already spoken, and of three daughters, who were educated
by Mr Darnley himself, and therefore were more distinguished by the
depth of their learning than the extent of their accomplishments.
Happy was it for them, and happy for their father, that they possessed
minds capable of doing justice to a literary education. They were not
pedants nor prigs. To Penelope Primrose they were invaluable friends,
and one or other of them was an almost unceasing companion to her. The
name of the eldest was Anne; of the second, Mary; and of the third,
Martha. Mary was most distinguished for talent, Martha for imagination,
and Anne for good humour and practical good sense. If there were any
difference in the degree in which the young ladies were devoted to
literary pursuits, perhaps the eldest was the least zealous. It does
indeed not unfrequently happen, that increasing years abate the fervour
of literary pursuits, from shewing us the vanity of mental labour,
and teaching us how little we can learn, and how limited must be our
knowledge even in its utmost possible range. We do not, however, design
to insinuate that Miss Darnley was far advanced in years, or that her
knowledge had reached, or even closely approached, the practical limits
of mortal acquirement. We are merely making the best apology we can for
the young lady’s but moderate thirst for literary distinction.

There was one however of Mrs Greendale’s party against whom no charge
of indifference to literature or science could be justly brought.
It was Peter Kipperson, Esq. This gentleman, though in middle life,
had not abated aught of his zeal for learning. He was a man of very
great intellectual ambition. His views were not confined to any one
branch of literature, or directed exclusively to any one science.
As an agriculturist he certainly took the lead in his county; and
being, as it was currently reported, “a capital scholar,” he was the
composer or compiler of all resolutions and petitions touching the
interest of corn-growers. His opinion was asked, and his expressions
quoted as authority on all matters connected with land, or stock, or
grain. If any ingenious mechanic had constructed or invented any new
machine, the invention was worth nothing till it had the sanction
and patronage of Mr Kipperson. But he was not a mere farmer: he was
also a man of letters. He had one of the largest libraries in the
neighbourhood; besides which he was a subscriber to a public library
in the metropolis, from whence he had all the new publications as
soon as they came out. He had read far more than Mr Darnley or Dr
Greendale: the former of whom he called a high priest, and the latter
a mere pedant. On the great men of the two villages, Lord Smatterton
of Smatterton, and Sir George Aimwell of Neverden, he looked down
with great contempt as very ignorant men; and though Lord Spoonbill
had been at Cambridge, Mr Kipperson was quite sure, from the obsolete
constitution of the universities, that nothing could be taught there
that was worth knowing. He therefore thought Lord Spoonbill a very
superficial and ignorant man. To the pursuits of literature Peter
Kipperson added a profound love of science. The plain farmers, when
they called upon this genius, were astonished at the very knowing
aspect which his library wore; seeing, that besides the numerous
volumes of elegantly bound books, which were ranged on shelves
surmounted with busts of Milton, Shakspeare, Cicero, &c. &c., there
were globes, maps, electrical machines, telescopes, air-pumps, casts
of skulls, chemical apparatus, and countless models of machines of
every description, from steam-engines down to mole-traps. The glories
of Peter are yet untold. Wearied as our readers may be with the
monotony of panegyric, they must, if they continue to be our readers,
undergo yet more, and be told, that Mr Kipperson was a great judge of
music. He could play on the flute and on the pianoforte; but he thought
nothing of his performance compared with his judgment. He had once at
the opera witnessed the performance of Don Giovanni, and from that
moment became a critic. Furthermore, Peter was a perfect gentleman,
and, to crown all, a man of patriotic principles;--though it has been
whispered that his politics were conveniently adapted to those of the
Earl of Smatterton and Sir George Aimwell. It does sometimes happen,
as some of our readers may know, that in some parts of Great Britain
the little gentry copy the politics of the great gentry or nobility of
their neighbourhood. Mr Kipperson, with all those amiable and estimable
qualities, was a single man. He consoled himself, however, with the
reflection that Lord Bacon and Sir Isaac Newton were unmarried.

The above-named, with divers others, formed Mrs Greendale’s party;
and when they were assembled, the worthy lady found herself perplexed
and puzzled by the grandeur of her guests. There were three persons
present to whom she would fain have given, if it were possible, her
undivided attention. Lord Spoonbill was one of the three. His lordship,
however, did not seem disposed to draw very liberally on the attention
of the lady of the house; for, as soon as he entered the rectory
drawing-room, he lounged up to Mrs Greendale, whom he honored with a
nod, turned round to the Doctor, whom he recognised with a smile, said
to the Colonel, “How do ye do, Crop?” and then thew himself almost
at full length upon a sofa, as if those to whom he had addressed
himself were vanished, and as if there were no one else in the room.
By degrees, however, he condescended to recognise one, or two, or
more of the party. Of Mr Kipperson he asked the price of wheat, and
Mr Kipperson asked what his lordship thought of Mozart’s opera of Don
Giovanni. His lordship admired it prodigiously, but he condescended to
say very little on the subject; whether it was that he had but little
to say, or whether he thought that such an universal genius as Mr
Kipperson could not receive any new light from a Cambridge man. The
great agriculturist, finding that his lordship was not eloquent on the
subject of music, assailed him again on the subject of Don Juan, as
versified by Lord Byron, and his lordship being rather weary of the
company and questions of Mr Kipperson, stared him full in the face, and
with an affected smile, said:

“’Pon honour, Mr--Mr--I--I am not a reading man.”

Mr Kipperson thought his lordship somewhat rude, and perhaps might
have been disposed to challenge him, only he feared that he might be
disappointed, and hear his lordship exclaim,

“’Pon honour, Mr--Mr--I--I am not a fighting man.”

Lest by any perverseness of apprehension the interrogator of his
lordship might be induced to proceed in his unwelcome familiarities
of approach, the heir of Smatterton rose from the sofa and took his
station at the pianoforte, where Miss Primrose had been with much
persuasion vainly endeavouring to place Miss Martha Darnley. Now Lord
Spoonbill did not like to hear Miss Martha Darnley so well as he liked
to hear Miss Primrose; and the three reasons which determined him are
such as for their soundness must approve themselves to all our readers.
In the first place, the politics of Mr Darnley were opposed to the
politics of Smatterton castle; in the second place, Miss Martha Darnley
was not so pretty as Miss Primrose; and in the third place, Miss
Primrose was by far the best performer of the two.

It was a great relief therefore to his lordship that Miss Primrose was
absolutely compelled to take her place at the instrument, and it was
a great pleasure to him to see that when the leaves of Mozart’s Don
Giovanni were turned over there was a pause when the young lady came to
the duet of “_La ci darem_.”

“That is a beautiful duet, Miss Primrose,” said his lordship.

“Will your Lordship take a part in it?” replied Miss Primrose.

“With the greatest pleasure,” responded his lordship: and as his
lordship was speaking, Mr Kipperson approached the musical group, and
was about to repeat his well-known commentary on Mozart’s music, when,
at the instigation of Lord Spoonbill, the music began. He only made two
or three blunders through the piece, and Miss Primrose very mercifully
concealed them when she could, and accounted for them when she could
not conceal them.

In like manner his lordship went through several other duets, as
historians speak of battles being fought, “with various success.”
In like manner his lordship kept Miss Primrose engaged at the
instrument nearly the whole of the evening: so that no one else could
enjoy the use of the pianoforte, or be favoured with the company of
Miss Primrose, or the charms of his lordship’s conversation. But Mrs
Darnley, after long and anxiously watching an opportunity to speak to
Penelope, came near to the instrument, and whispered loud enough to be
overheard by Lord Spoonbill, “We understand that the Warley is arrived
off Portsmouth, and we shall no doubt have letters tomorrow or next
day.”

It was rude in Mrs Darnley to interrupt the musical people, and it was
condescending in Penelope not to be rudely inattentive, especially
as she was listening also to compliments from a lord. But Penelope
Primrose was one of those high-spirited young ladies who think nothing
of titles. She was thankful for the information which Mrs Darnley
communicated to her; but while she felt thankful for the matter she
was somewhat troubled by the manner of the information. There was an
expression in Lord Spoonbill’s countenance which signified that he not
only heard but understood the nature of the communication which was
thus made. Very true, it was nothing to his lordship, but still it was
not pleasant to Penelope to have this information conveyed to her in
the hearing of a third person. She therefore blushed most burningly.

Now Lord Spoonbill was quite as capable of behaving politely as of
behaving rudely; and he never did either the one or the other without
abundant reason and motive. It was not at this moment part of his
system to behave rudely. Very kindly therefore he took no notice of
the blushes of the young lady, and very naturally he spoke about Mrs
Darnley and the rector of Neverden. He spoke of them in such terms of
recommendation as were not best calculated to recommend them. This is
an ingenious artifice too well known to require explanation, and too
villanous to justify us in saying a single word that should contribute
to render the practice more facile. The language had an effect on
Penelope, of which she was scarcely aware. She had a feeling of
undefined and unaccountable uneasiness, and the very intelligence which
Mrs Darnley had communicated did not give her that unmingled pleasure
which she had anticipated. The evening passed off not so pleasantly as
the day had done.

While Miss Primrose was engaged at the pianoforte, Mrs Greendale was
endeavouring with all her powers to entertain Miss Spoonbill. In these
endeavours the poor lady laboured with more zeal than judgment. It
is a common, but very foolish, practice for little folks to assume
greatness, in order to recommend themselves to the great. It never
answers, nor is it likely that it should. For what is the use and
benefit of rank if it be not to separate and distinguish the superfine
part of the species from the general mass of mankind? And whence arises
the pleasure of this distinction but from its rarity. Who would care
to be a duke amidst a whole nation of dukes, or who feels himself
honoured by the title of esquire? Instead therefore of listening with
complacency to the harangues of Mrs Greendale, and the talk of her own
or her husband’s alliance to nobility, Miss Spoonbill most perversely
directed her conversation to the prospects of Penelope Primrose.

“Your niece has a most delightful voice, Mrs Greendale; I think it
a great pity that she does not take the advice of my cousin, the
Countess, and make use of her musical talents. She would come out under
very great patronage.”

“Perhaps so, madam,” replied Mrs Greendale rather hastily: “but as Miss
Primrose is the doctor’s relative, and not mine, I do not presume to
interfere with my advice as to the disposal of the young lady. Indeed
I do not know that there will be any absolute necessity for her having
recourse to any occupation.”

“I understand you, Mrs Greendale; but let me advise you as a friend
not to suffer any foolish expectations of that nature to prevent the
young woman from making use of her talents for her own maintenance.
Young women are dependent enough at best. It would be better for them
rather to increase than to diminish the means of making themselves
independent. It is not wise in young women to depend on the speculation
of marrying, for thus many poor things are forced into marriages which
are productive of anything but happiness. My cousin, the late Earl of
Smatterton, and his most excellent Countess, used always to give it
as their advice to young people, not to speculate on the chance of
marriage; and the present Countess is of the same opinion.”

Miss Spoonbill thereupon launched out more fully and freely into divers
discussions concerning portionless females, and administered much
advice, more valuable than welcome, to Mrs Greendale. We will put it
to any of our readers whether they would be greatly pleased, if, after
taking pains to procure the visiting countenance of a person of high
rank, the said personage, instead of visiting on terms of equality,
should presume to play the part of a dictator? Mrs Greendale was
therefore disappointed, and that most grievously.

Much more conversation than we have recorded passed at the rector of
Smatterton’s evening party, but we do not think it necessary to give
more to the world. For if by any accident such conversation should
find its way into a library for the people, it is possible that the
people would not thereby be very greatly edified, nor add much to the
reverence which they feel for the clerical order and profession.




                              CHAPTER IV.


The party at the rectory was not kept up to such a late hour as to
prevent Lord Spoonbill and Colonel Crop from riding over to Neverden
the next morning to take a day’s shooting with Sir George Aimwell, whom
we shall have great pleasure in introducing to our readers.

Sir George Aimwell, of Neverden Hall, Bart. was descended from a long
line of illustrious ancestry, and was a wholesale poulterer, and one
of the great unpaid. Not that we mean by this expression to insinuate
that the retail poulterers did not pay him for what they had: we
merely mean to say, that the preserve-worshipping, spring-gun-setting,
poacher-committing baronet administered justice for nothing; and,
with reverence be it spoken, that was quite as much as it was worth.
Perhaps we may do our country a piece of service that shall immortalize
us, if we suggest by the way a great improvement on the present system
of justice-mongering. Let not Mr Hume imagine that we are going to
recommend that the country justices of the peace should be paid for
their valuable time and invaluable labours. A far better plan would
be, that they should pay for their places, and that the magistracy
should be given to the highest bidder. For surely it is worth something
to have authority, to be able to accommodate or annoy a neighbour,
to commit a poacher, and to keep a whole village in awe. It is
worth something also to be called “your worship.” This however is a
digression. Not that we apologize for it, but rather take to ourselves
praise for communicating so much valuable information in so pleasant a
style.

To proceed then with our description of Sir George Aimwell. The worthy
baronet was a most active magistrate, peculiarly acute in matters
of summary conviction; and thinking it a great pity that any rogue
should escape, or that any accused, but honest man, should lose an
opportunity of clearing his character by means of a jury of his fellow
countrymen, he never failed to commit all that were brought before
him. There was also modesty in this; for he thereby insinuated that
he would not take upon himself to make a decision in these cases, but
would leave the determination to the judges of assize and the wisdom
of a jury. Sir George professed Whig politics; these were hereditary
in his family, but by no means constitutional in him as an individual.
Therefore he passed for a very moderate Whig; for one who would not
clog the wheels of government. In short, he was no more a Whig than
a game preserver ought to be; and that, as our readers know, is not
much. He took especial pains to keep the parish clear of vagrants and
paupers; and by his great activity he kept down the poor-rates to a
very moderate sum. The excessive zeal and satisfaction with which he
exercised the magisterial functions led us to the recommendation which
we have given above. Sir George, though a professed Whig, was not very
partial to the education of the lower orders, and he always expressed
himself well pleased when he met with a country booby who could neither
read nor write. For this reason Nick Muggins, the post-boy, was a
great favourite with him. Our worthy baronet could not see the use of
reading, and he thought it a great piece of affectation for country
gentlemen to have libraries. His own books, for he had a few, were
huddled together in a light closet, where he kept his guns and sporting
tackle. There was a Lady Aimwell, wife to Sir George; but this lady was
a piece of still life, of whom the neighbours knew nothing, and for
whom her husband cared nothing.

Colonel Crop was quite at home with Sir George Aimwell, and so he could
be with any one who kept a good table. Shooting was not any great
pleasure to the colonel, but as he could not sleep all day long, and
as the dinner hour did not hurry itself to accommodate him, he was
content to walk about the fields with a gun, and say alternately yes
or no to the various wise remarks made by Lord Spoonbill or Sir George
Aimwell. Let no one despise Colonel Crop for this most useful of all
social qualities, a decided and settled acquiescence in all that his
feeders may please to assert. The colonel belonged to a profession the
glory of which is to obey orders. If therefore he carried this spirit
into all his intercourse with those whom he considered his superiors,
it is neither to be wondered at nor to be blamed. We do not wish to
speak disrespectfully of the army; it is very useful in war and very
ornamental in peace.

The morning’s sport was not good, and therefore the worthy baronet was
sulky and ill-humoured, and kicked his dogs; and he made use of such
language as is very unfashionable to print. Colonel Crop re-echoed
the unprintable exclamations of the great unpaid, but Lord Spoonbill
did not seem to heed the sport, or more properly speaking the want
of sport. It is very provoking to be in a passion with anything that
thwarts our humour, and it is still more provoking to find another,
who ought to be in a passion with the same object, regard the matter
with total indifference and unconcern. Thus provoked was the worthy
and exemplary magistrate Sir George Aimwell. His red face grew redder,
and his magisterial looks became more majestic; at length, with a due
degree of deference to one of noble rank, he began to utter something
like reproach or expostulation to Lord Spoonbill.

“Upon my word, Spoonbill, this may be very good sport for you, but it
is not so for me. I never saw the birds so shy or the dogs so stupid.
But you seem to be very easy about the matter.” Then turning to the
colonel, he continued: “I suppose his lordship is thinking of old
Greendale’s pretty niece.”--At this speech the baronet laughed, and so
did the colonel. Who could help laughing at it?

Lord Spoonbill smiled, and only replied in an affected drawl, “By all
that is good, Sir George, you must think me a great simpleton to be
caught by a pretty face. The fact is, I am not much of a sportsman, you
know. I could enjoy a _battue_ very well, but this hunting about for a
few stray birds is poor work.”

“A _battue_, forsooth!” exclaimed the amiable baronet:--“I believe
those villains the poachers have scarcely left a single bird in the
Cop-wood.”

The worthy magistrate was going on, but his indignation at the shocking
violation of those most excellent laws which the wisdom of our
ancestors has formed, and the folly of their descendants has tolerated,
so entirely overcame his feelings, that in the violence of his anger
he incurred the penalty of five shillings; but his companions did not
inform against him. In a word, he swore most bitterly and tremendously.
Our readers must not blame him too hastily for this transgression.
Let them consider that he was a magistrate, and of course very zealous
for the due observance of the laws. Swearing is certainly wrong; but
that is a mere trifle compared to poaching: the uttering of a single
profane oath being, in the eye of our most excellent laws, precisely
one-twentieth part of the crime of an unqualified person having in his
possession a dead partridge.

When the baronet had relieved his bursting heart, and vented his
swelling indignation in the mode above named, and when Colonel Crop had
sympathetically joined him in the execration of the transgressors of
our most excellent and equal laws which regard the arrangement of game,
then did Sir George proceed:

“Could you believe it, Spoonbill?--You know the pains I have taken with
that wood--I say, could you believe it, after all the expense I have
been at about it--after having six men sitting up night after night to
watch it, that in one afternoon, and that in broad daylight, it should
be almost cleared by those infernal villains?”

Here the baronet became angry again, and no wonder; it was beyond
all endurance. Not only did he as a magistrate feel grieved at the
violation of the laws, but as a gentleman and a man he was pained at
the loss of those birds which he seemed born to shoot. The birds were
gone and the poachers were gone; the first he could not shoot, and the
last he could not commit. And what is the use of living in the country,
if there are no birds to be shot and no poachers to be sent to gaol?

Pitying the sorrows of the magistrate, Colonel Crop replied, “Too bad,
’pon my honor.”

But Lord Spoonbill having recently quitted the university, in which he
had been taught to investigate and seek out the connection of cause and
effect, enquired:--

“But how could the rascals do all this without being detected, if you
had men to keep the wood by night and day?”

“I will tell you,” said the baronet, whose violence seemed a little
abated by the kind sympathy of his friends: “it was entirely owing to a
rascally gamekeeper of mine, who, no longer ago than last Sunday week,
instead of attending to his duty, must needs go sneaking to church. I
saw the fellow there myself. He absolutely had the impudence to come
into church when he knew I was there. I dismissed him however at a
short notice. I was determined to have no church-going gamekeepers.”

“That going to church was abominable,” said the colonel.

“But I thought you had always guns in your plantations, Sir George?”
said Lord Spoonbill.

“So I have,” replied the magistrate; “but unfortunately the guns had
been discharged in the morning on some boys and girls who had gone to
look for nuts; and as one of the boys was nearly killed, the under
keeper took it into his fool’s head that he would not charge the guns
again; so I gave him his discharge.”

“You have been very unfortunate in your servants, Sir George.” So spake
the colonel, who was more than usually eloquent and voluble; and Sir
George was especially delighted with him, for he seemed to enter so
fully into all the magistrate’s feelings upon the subject of game and
poaching.

It is astonishing that, notwithstanding all the pains which the
legislature has taken upon the subject of the game laws, which are so
essential to national prosperity and the Protestant succession, still
there is a possibility that gentlemen may be deprived of their sport
by the intervention of a poacher. The laws are too lenient by half;
and till it is made felony without benefit of clergy to be suspected
of poaching, we shall never be free from this dreadful calamity. Our
legislators have done a great deal, certainly; but they ought to take
up the subject with as much zeal as if the cause were their own.

Now while Colonel Crop was sympathising with Sir George Aimwell on his
great and serious calamity, Lord Spoonbill was gradually withdrawing
himself from his companions, and moving towards the side of the field
which lay nearest to the road, and looking with great earnestness
in the direction of the village of Neverden. It was not long before
his eye caught the object for which he had been looking. There came
clumsily cantering towards him a quadruped, the appearance of which
would have puzzled Buffon, and on its back there sat a biped as
unclassable as the beast on which he rode. The two were usually called
Nick Muggins and his pony. Lord Spoonbill took great pains to see Nick
by accident.

“Have you any letters for the castle, Muggins?” said the heir of
Smatterton.

“Isser,” replied Muggins, and forthwith he produced two letters, one of
which was addressed to the Right Honorable the Earl of Smatterton, and
the other to the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill.

“I will take charge of them,” said his lordship.

To which proposal Nick Muggins made no objection. His lordship then,
just by way of condescendingly noticing the humble post-boy, said--

“There now, I have saved you the trouble of riding any farther, unless
you have any letters for the parsonage?”

“Here is one, sir, for the young lady as lives at Parson Grindle’s.”

Muggins looked rather significantly at Lord Spoonbill when he thus
spoke, and his lordship replied--

“You may give that to me, and I will take care of it.”

What arguments were used to induce this breach of trust in the guardian
of the Smatterton post-bag, is not stated, nor known, but conjectured.
Muggins, when he had given the letter to his lordship, looked rather
hesitatingly, and as if he wished to speak; his lordship interpreted
his looks, and said, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

To this interrogation Muggins replied with a cunning simper, “Why,
please, sir, my lord, on case of any questions being axed, perhaps your
lordship, sir, will just-like get a poor boy off, you know, my lord.”

“Bah!” replied his lordship, “leave that to me.” And thereupon those
arguments were used which had been of such great and decided efficacy
in previous cases of the same nature. The undescribable rider of the
undescribable beast then turned about and went homewards, and the heir
of Smatterton soon rejoined his sporting companions.

Lord Spoonbill was now in possession of two letters more than did of
right belong to him; and though he had taken great pains to become
possessed of at least one of them, and though he was glad that he
could prevent the information which they contained from reaching the
destined point, still he was not altogether comfortable. Once or twice
he determined that the letter designed for the parsonage of Smatterton
should reach its destination, and then he as often changed his mind
again. It may seem strange, and perhaps be thought not true, that an
hereditary legislator should descend to such meanness as to intercept
a letter. It is indeed strange, and but for its strangeness it would
not be here recorded. But Lord Spoonbill was one of those decided
characters that do not let trifles deter them from pursuing their
schemes. He was rather proud of the dexterity and address with which
he pursued any object on which he had fixed his mind, and he mistook,
as many other prigs do, obstinacy for firmness. He had fully made up
his mind to a certain end, and he was not choice as to the means. Yet
he was a man of honor, a man of the nicest honor, a man of the most
sensitive and susceptible honor. If any one had been capable of calling
him mean, if any one so bold as to have expressed the slightest idea
that his lordship was a contemptible fellow, with what indignation
would he have heard and repelled the suspicion. His notions of honor
must have been very curious and quite unique. We wish it were in our
power to present to our readers an analysis of those views which Lord
Spoonbill took of the principles of honor. We are not equal to a task
so truly philosophical: we can only say that his lordship did descend
to the meanness of intercepting a letter, and did call and think
himself a man of honor. If any of our readers think that this is very
paradoxical and altogether improbable, we congratulate them on their
ignorance.

We cannot help at this part of our narrative shifting the scene for
a little moment, just enough to shew our readers the effect produced
in another quarter by the conduct of the above-named man of honor.
From the sportsmen at Neverden we turn to the rectory of Smatterton
and its inhabitants. Dr Greendale was in his study as usual, not kept
away by any weariness of the preceding evening. Mrs Greendale felt
more acutely the trouble of company departed than of company coming,
and Mrs Greendale was not selfish in her sorrows, but communicated
them to all about her. Penelope Primrose felt the full weight of
her aunt’s troubles; and as the good lady of the rectory had been
rather disappointed the preceding evening she was not in one of her
best humours. Patiently as possible did Penelope bear with those ill
humours, for her mind was buoyed up with hopes of pleasing intelligence
from abroad. The hour arrived which usually brought the postman, but
no postman arrived. It was possible the clocks at Smatterton were too
fast. The hour was gone by, a full hour was past. It was not probable
that the Smatterton clocks were an hour too fast. There was a little
hope that Mr Darnley might be at Smatterton in the course of the
morning; but the morning passed away and Mr Darnley did not come. But
a messenger came from the rectory of Neverden with enquiries after Dr
and Mrs Greendale. Penelope asked very particularly after the rector of
Neverden and Mrs Darnley, and hoped that they arrived safely home, and
that they had taken no cold, and--and--just as a matter of curiosity,
had they heard from their son lately? The answer was, that a letter
from Mr Robert Darnley had arrived the very hour before the messenger
set out. Penelope turned pale, and then blushed most intemperately,
because she felt how pale she looked; and then she thought--“Now I know
he has forgotten me.” Immediately after however she thought again, and
then it occurred to her that, as Robert Darnley was remarkable for his
great filial affection, it was possible that he might have had no time
to write by that conveyance more than one letter. But she still could
not help thinking that he might have sent her one small letter: if it
had been but short, it might have been a memorial of his thoughts still
dwelling upon her. She felt hurt, but would not be angry; and hoped,
very earnestly hoped, that she was not cherishing a foolish and fond
passion for one who had relinquished all fondness for her. It was very
strange and altogether unaccountable. It was so very much unlike the
usual frankness and openness of mind for which Robert Darnley was so
remarkable. These were painful thoughts, and the more painful because
so very perplexing. It is somewhat wearying to exert the mind very
diligently and perseveringly, even in solving problems and guessing
riddles which are mere abstractions; but when, in addition to the
perplexity, there is personal and deep interest and moral feeling, then
the agitation and weariness of the mind is at the highest.

Penelope found her accustomed resource in trouble, and her consolation
under life’s perplexities, in the kind and paternal attention of her
uncle. She spent the greatest part of the afternoon of that day in Dr
Greendale’s study, and listened with great pleasure to the fatherly
exhortations of that most excellent man; and, as she was afterwards
heard to observe, she thought that he spoke more like an angel than a
man. She treasured up in her heart the hope that the morrow would bring
tidings from the beloved one.




                              CHAPTER V.


Sir George Aimwell and his companions found but little sport in the
field, and it was not unpleasant to Colonel Crop to hear that it was
now high time to leave the birds and to adjourn to dinner. This was a
relief also to the baronet himself; for though he was a keen sportsman
he never suffered the amusements of the field to interfere with the
duties of the dinner table. Colonel Crop was aware of this laudable
peculiarity in the manners of Sir George of Neverden, and therefore
enjoyed a day’s sport with him far more than he would have done with
another.

Those of our readers who know the worthy baronet need not be informed
of the superior style of his culinary arrangements. It was very well
for him that his table had this attraction, for it is very certain it
had no other. His own conversation was by no means the most brilliant.
Lady Aimwell might indeed be capable of conversing, but the guests of
Sir George never heard her voice, excepting so far as it was absolutely
necessary that some words must be uttered by the lady who presides at
the head of a table.

Speaking of the intellectual accomplishments of the magistrate of
Neverden, we may not be considered as making a needless digression if
we narrate an anecdote, or rather expression, a critical expression,
of the worthy baronet. Mr Peter Kipperson, the wise and knowing
agriculturist of Smatterton, one day dined at the table of Sir George
of Neverden hall. Now Peter was a very literary man, who thought there
was nothing worth living for but science and literature; and having
somewhere read that it was impossible to take shelter in a shower of
rain with such a man as Burke, without discovering him to be a man
of genius, Peter was desirous of continually showing off, and was
instant in season and out of season. Therefore when sitting at the
table of the worthy baronet, he assailed the magistrate with various
scientific subjects, but all to no purpose; there was no response from
his worthy host. Endeavouring to adapt himself to the moderate talents
and circumscribed reading of the baronet, he next started the subject
of novels and novel reading, taking care to insinuate that, though Sir
George might not read the trash of circulating libraries, he might be
acquainted with some of our best novels. To this at last the baronet
replied--

“Oh, yes; I remember many years ago reading a novel called Tom Jones,
written by a Bow-street officer. I recollect something about it--it was
very low stuff--I forget the particulars, but it was written in the
manner of servants.”

Hereupon Mr Peter Kipperson set it down as an indisputable fact that
baronets and magistrates were the most ignorant creatures on the face
of the earth, and he congratulated himself that neither he nor Sir
Isaac Newton were baronets.

Our readers may therefore very well imagine that if we pass over
in silence the dinner at Neverden hall, where sat Sir George and
Lady Aimwell, and Colonel Crop, and my Lord Spoonbill, we are not
transgressing the truth of history. Soon after the cloth was removed,
Lady Aimwell made herself invisible, and Sir George made himself what
he called comfortable.

“Now, my good friends,” said he, “you know my way. Pray take
care of yourselves. Pass the bottle. There--now--well--you
know--I--sometimes--it is very rude--you--I know you will--excuse”--

Saying, or muttering as above, the guardian of laws and game sank to
sleep in his easy chair, and left Lord Spoonbill and Colonel Crop to
amuse each other. They were however very bad company, for one had no
good in his head, and the other had nothing at all there.

Lord Spoonbill smiled at the baronet in his easy chair, and Colonel
Crop smiled also. Colonel Crop looked at his lordship most imploringly,
as if to beg that he would say something to which yes or no might be
replied; but the heir of Smatterton was more deeply engaged in his own
thoughts. Colonel Crop filled his glass and emptied it, and cracked
nuts, and picked his teeth, and took snuff, and yawned, and looked at
the pictures, and looked at his own fingers, and put them into the
finger glass, and took them out and wiped them. Lord Spoonbill filled
his glass, and did not empty it, and did not look at the pictures, and
he took out his watch and put it into his pocket without looking at
it. Of many events it is said, that they are no sooner said than done.
But all these movements took up a much longer time in doing than they
have in the reporting. It was a great relief to the colonel that Lord
Spoonbill looked at his watch, for that enabled the man-of-war to say,
“What time is it?”

Lord Spoonbill answered by guess, and the colonel was not very
particular. When about half an hour more had elapsed, the heir of
Smatterton rang to order his horse, and he said to the colonel, “Crop,
I shall leave you to play at backgammon with Sir George. Make my
apologies. I have some matters to attend to at the castle.”

Lord Spoonbill then took his departure from Neverden hall. It was a
fine moonlight night, and the road from Neverden to Smatterton was
peculiarly well calculated for the enjoyment of a moonlight ride. The
domain of Neverden was for the most part on low and level ground; and
the road from the hall towards Smatterton lay partly by the side of
the park, over the low fence of which a person on horseback might have
a most beautiful view of plantation scenery, and a distant glimpse of
lofty and swelling hills, dark with abundant foliage, but softened by
indistinctness and remoteness. The ground then gradually rose, and on
the left hand might be seen at no great distance a broad and gracefully
undulating river, far indeed from the sea, but bearing on its bosom
the sails of commerce and the barks of pleasure. And there ran rippling
by the side of the road a little prattling infant streamlet, bounding
along its bright pebbly channel as in haste to reach the calmer and
more majestic expanse of waters. On the right hand a dense and dark
plantation of firs skirted an abruptly rising ground, at the end of
which the road brought the traveller by a sudden turn to an immediate
and full view of the massive and whitened towers of Smatterton castle.
The castle rose, as some writers would say, but stood, we think, is the
most proper, majestically towering above all surrounding objects, and
enjoying from its lofty turrets a view of four counties; what these
counties were we will not say,--we dislike personalities.

Now as Lord Spoonbill rode along under the bright light of the moon,
undisturbed by any earthly sound but the tinkling of the sheep-bell, or
the barking of some cottage curs, he did seem to himself to enjoy the
beauty of the scenery and the pleasant balm of the autumnal air. And
as a feeling of scenic beauty penetrated his soul, there entered also
with that a thought of moral beauty, and he felt that his mind did not
harmonize with the repose and beauty which surrounded him. The feeling
was not strong enough to be called remorse, it was not serious enough
to border upon repentance. He felt conscious that he had acted with
meanness, that he had been guilty of a piece of cruelty. He had used a
most contemptible and debasing artifice to produce alienation between
too worthy and excellent young persons, loving and beloved, confiding
and hoping amidst their doubts and difficulties. These feelings were
unpleasant, and he endeavoured to soothe himself by sophistry. After
all, what injury had he done to Robert Darnley? It would be a pity that
so fine a woman as Penelope Primrose should be sacrificed to such a
dull, plodding, common-place man as the younger Darnley. Common-place
men are not worthy of the notice of men of fashion, nor deserving of
the ordinary privileges of humanity. His lordship had some recollection
of Mr Darnley as being a very poor creature, and he thought that it was
not probable that he should have gained any great degree of improvement
by commercial pursuits and habits of business; for, as everybody
knows, these things tend very much to degrade and to cramp the mind;
while on the other hand those pursuits in which his lordship had been
engaged had quite the contrary effect. It must be very ennobling
to the mind to be engaged in gambling, horse-racing, lounging,
bird-shooting, fox-hunting, and seduction; and any woman of sense and
spirit must infinitely prefer a protector of this description, to a
common-place man who knows nothing of the world. As to Penelope then,
his lordship very naturally concluded that he was designing her an
essential service. Poor, simple, artless creature, she knew nothing
of society, all her days had been passed in a sequestered village;
and as Robert Darnley was almost the only person she was acquainted
with, at all likely to make her an offer, she fancied that she must
of necessity be in love with him. Lord Spoonbill had not according to
his own account been much of a reader, but he had read the Sorrows of
Werter, and he had read many other compositions of that nature; and
he invariably found that the lovers of the betrothed and the married
were men of genius, fine feeling, elegant manners, and every species
of sentimentality; and he observed that they were induced to the very
laudable practice of seducing the affections of young women from their
husbands or lovers, by a mere principle of compassion. It was a pity
that so much sense and sensibility should be so ill met, and then how
kind and considerate for some high-minded young gentleman, like my Lord
Spoonbill, to save them from the stupidity of a common-place husband,
and consign them to infamy and a broken heart. Nothing of course can be
a greater manifestation and proof of sensibility and fine feeling, than
seducing engaged affections, and, if Lord Spoonbill had written his
own history, we should have heard of as much sympathy being expressed
for him as there has been for Werter and such like coxcombs; but as we
do not suffer his lordship to speak for himself, our readers must be
content to contemplate his character in all the baldness of truth.

While thoughts as above described were occupying the mind of his
lordship, he drew nearer to the domain of Smatterton, and as the view
of the castle and village opened upon him, he saw more lights in the
cottages than usual at that time in the evening, and he heard at a
little distance sounds of more than ordinary movements. And presently
there came galloping towards him a servant from the castle. Thinking
that it was a messenger sent for himself, he stopped the man to ask
what was the matter. The man drew up his horse just for a moment, and
in hurried accents replied that Dr Greendale had been taken seriously
ill, and that the Earl had given orders to ride over to M---- to fetch
his lordship’s own physician. Waiting for no further interrogations
the messenger rode off as fast as before.

Will it be believed that at this moment one of the first and promptest
thoughts that occurred to Lord Spoonbill was the idea, that should this
illness terminate fatally, the event might facilitate his designs upon
Penelope? Yet so it was. This was his first and strongest feeling.
He had forgotten all the fatherly kindness of that good man. He was
insensible to any impression from the numberless acts and words of
friendship received from the pious and holy rector. Dr Greendale had
been for many years an intimate friend of the family at the castle. The
Earl, though a haughty man and of very strong aristocratic feelings,
had never regarded the worthy rector with any other feeling than
friendship and respect; and the Countess, though not insensible to the
charms and fascinations of fashionable life, yet delighted in the moral
repose and the sober beauties of the pastor’s character. The Earl and
Countess did not condescend to visit at the rectory, but the doors
of the castle were most cheerfully open for the doctor, and there was
sincerity in their language, when the noble inhabitants of the mansion
declared that a more welcome guest never crossed their threshold. There
must have been something good and pre-eminently good in the character
of a man who could thus as it were command the moral homage of minds in
the highest walks of society. The doctor was not a man of fortune or
of family. His respectability was altogether personal and individual.
This good man had taken very especial notice of the heir of Smatterton,
and had endeavoured, according to the best of his ability, to impress
upon the mind of the young lord those principles which, in after-life,
might become a blessing to him; and when he could not but observe with
all his natural disposition to candor and charity, that there were bad
principles at work within, he endeavoured to hope for the best, and in
his pastoral admonitions to the youth he did not assume the sternness
of the censor, but adopted the gentle insinuating language of a friend
to a friend. He was grieved, indeed, when he saw that Lord Spoonbill
was likely to become a frivolous character, but he was spared the
bitter mortification of knowing that he was decidedly profligate.

Miserably degraded must have been the mind of Lord Spoonbill when
intelligence of the good man’s illness reached him, that he could think
only, or chiefly, of the vicious benefit likely to accrue from the
fatal termination of that illness. There was indeed another thought
in his lordship’s mind. He could not but notice the hurry in which
the messenger seemed to be, and he was also struck with the obvious
sensation which the illness of the rector had created in the village.
And this thought was more powerfully impressed as he rode past a
few cottages near the park-gate. He there heard the comments and
commendations of the humblest of the humble, and the poorest of the
poor. He heard the aged tremulously uttering their lamentations; these
lamentations were perhaps rather selfish, but still they were such as
did honour to him for whom they were expressed, if not to those by whom
they were used. Then his lordship thought within himself of the power
and efficacy of moral worth; and he himself began to be almost sorry;
but his more degrading and vicious thoughts had the ascendancy; and he
was fully resolved not to be moved or melted by the sorrows of ignorant
rustics.

He rode up to the castle, and having dismounted he proceeded
immediately to the magnificent saloon, in which the Earl was so fond of
sitting even when alone. As Lord Spoonbill entered the apartment, the
Earl raised his eyes from a book which he was reading, and said, “You
are soon returned, Spoonbill; did you find Sir George’s company not
very inviting? Or, have you left Crop to enjoy the sole benefit of the
worthy baronet’s wit and humour?”

“I left the baronet taking his nap after dinner, and desired Crop to
stay and amuse him with his backgammon when he should wake. My visits
at Neverden, you know, are never long.”

The Earl was about to resume his book, when Lord Spoonbill added, “But
pray, sir, what is this account I hear from one of your people about Dr
Greendale? I hope the old gentleman is not seriously ill.”

By this interrogation the Earl seemed to be roused to a recollection of
what might otherwise have passed away from his mind. Laying down his
book, he said:

“Oh!--ay--right: I am very sorry to tell you that the poor man is very
ill. That is, so I understand--I sent immediately for my physician,
and I also said that, if it were necessary, I myself would go down to
the rectory and see the good man. He will be a very great loss to the
village. The poor people are very much attached to him, and I believe
he is very conscientiously attentive to his duties. We must do all we
can for him.”

“Certainly, we must. I am sure I should be extremely sorry to lose
him. What is the nature of his complaint? I was at the rectory last
night, and he seemed perfectly well.”

“They tell me,” replied the Earl, “that it is a fit of apoplexy,
and that the poor man is in a state of total insensibility. I would
certainly go down and see him, late as it is, if I thought it would do
him any good. I shall hear what my physician says.”

“If you will give me leave, sir, I will walk down to the rectory, and
bring you word how the doctor is. That will save you the necessity of
going out so late.”

“Very good, very good, do so, I am anxious to hear some more particular
account.”

Lord Spoonbill then departed for the rectory. And, when having heard
what was the nature of the rector’s illness, he had reason to apprehend
that the hand of death was upon him, the young lord was more deeply
moved. He really did make anxious haste to the parsonage. It is a great
pity that he did not pay more attention to these frequent admonitions
which he received as it were from his better genius, and by which he
was reminded that good principles were not altogether foreign to his
nature; but he resisted them--he felt “a dread of shame among the
spirits beneath.”




                              CHAPTER VI.


When his lordship arrived at the rectory, he found the door standing
open, and the lower apartments of the house deserted. While he was
hesitating whether he should seek his way to the doctor’s apartment,
one of the domestics made her appearance, and his lordship very
earnestly inquired after the afflicted pastor. With deep and unaffected
feeling she replied, that her dear master was very, very ill, and with
increased emotion continued--

“Oh, my lord, if you will see him, perhaps he may know you--he may try
to speak.”

“Certainly I will see him. How long is it since he was taken?”

“Only two hours, my lord. He was quite well this afternoon at five
o’clock, and then he went into his study, where he always goes about
that time, and we heard nothing of him till about two hours since; his
bell rang, and I went, your lordship, to see what my master wanted, and
there I saw him sitting in his great chair quite speechless.”

The poor woman was overcome with her own emotion, and Lord Spoonbill
hastened to the room into which the patient had been removed. When he
entered the apartment, he saw by the light of one dim candle, and a
recently kindled fire, the figure of Dr Greendale sitting in an easy
chair, in a state of apparent insensibility, and on one side of him sat
Mrs Greendale, grasping his hand with convulsive eagerness, and looking
anxiously on his still and frozen features: how like and how unlike
what he was! On the other side Penelope was kneeling, holding him also
by the hand, and hiding her face, that its expression of deep feeling
might not needlessly distress her aunt. Gentle sobbings were heard,
and the hard breathings of the death-stricken man. His lordship stood
for a few seconds as if rivetted to the spot where his eye first caught
the sight of the melancholy group. Mrs Greendale first noticed the
presence of a stranger, and recognised his lordship, who then advanced
with slow and gentle step towards the sick man, and silently took the
hand of Mrs Greendale, whose tears then flowed afresh, as with louder
sobbings she exclaimed--

“Oh, my lord, what a sight is here! Those dear eyes have been fixed as
they are now for hours. He was a good man, my lord; such a heart! such
tenderness! Oh, he cannot, he cannot continue long! Oh, that I should
live to see this!”

As Mrs Greendale spoke, Penelope rose from her kneeling posture, and
turning round, then first saw that Lord Spoonbill was in the room. His
lordship intreated Mrs Greendale to compose herself, and then turning
again towards the sick man’s chair, he held out his hand to Penelope,
who resigned to his lordship the hand the dying man, which she had been
holding. Lord Spoonbill took the offered hand, and kneeling on one knee
pressed the hand to his lips, and looked with searching earnestness
to the face of the patient, as if endeavouring to rouse him into
consciousness and recollection. The eyes were fixed and motionless, and
their brightness was passing away. After a few moments there appeared
a convulsive movement of the lips, and there seemed to be a gleam of
consciousness in the eye, and the hand which Lord Spoonbill had been
holding was lifted up and placed on his lordship’s head, from whence
it fell in a moment, and the breathing, after one long sigh, died away
and was heard no more. At the instant of the change, Mrs Greendale
uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless to the floor. Penelope,
as if unconscious of the distress of her aunt and the presence of Lord
Spoonbill, knelt gently down, and lifting up her hands and her eyes,
murmured a prayer, which relieved for a moment her bursting heart; for
tears came copiously to her aid, and her presence of mind was soon
restored, and she assisted the domestics in removing Mrs Greendale into
another apartment.

Lord Spoonbill then took his leave, and as he quitted the house of
mourning he felt as he had never felt before. He had seen life in
many of its varieties, but death had been to his eye and thoughts a
stranger. He had now witnessed such a scene as he never had before. His
mind was deeply and powerfully moved. But yesterday, and he had seen
Dr Greendale in the fullness of strength and the vigour of health, and
life was bright about him, and he was in its enjoyments and sympathies.
One day, one little day, produced an awful change. The music of the
tongue was mute, the benevolence of the look had fled, the animation
of the intellect had vanished, and the beatings of the kind heart had
ceased. Then did the young lord call to mind many kind expressions
which the good man had used towards him. He thought of the day when he
went at the desire of the Earl his father, rather than by any prompting
of his own inclination, to call at the rectory and take leave of the
doctor, previously to setting out on his journey to Cambridge, when he
first entered the University. He recollected that on that occasion he
had been received in the doctor’s study, and the good man carefully
laid aside his books, and drew his chair round and conversed with him
most cheerfully and most wisely; and he remembered how very tenderly
he hinted at the possibility of juvenile follies, and how like a
friend and companion he endeavoured to guard his mind against the
fascinations of vice. He remembered also the fervent prayer which the
good man uttered at parting, and the words seemed to live again, and he
heard afresh the pious rector pray, “May God bless you, my dear young
friend, and keep you from the evil that is in the world, and make you
an ornament to that station which you are destined to fill.” Then came
to his mind the sad neglect of all the kind precepts which the holy man
had given him, and he felt that as yet the pastor’s prayer had not been
answered by the event. Now, had these feelings been followed by that
sobriety and steadiness of thought which should be the natural fruit
of such emotions, it had been well for him; but unfortunately he had
so much satisfaction in these emotions, and looked upon them as being
virtue, and not merely the means of virtue, so that they failed to
produce any lasting effect upon his mind, or to cause any change in his
conduct. He was proud of his remorse and pleased with his regrets, and
so the virtue which had its birth in a tear, evaporated when that tear
was dry.

Before Lord Spoonbill had left the rectory many minutes, he met the
medical gentleman on his way to the house. He stopped the physician and
told him that all was over.

With due solemnity, and professional solemnity is very solemn indeed,
the medical attendant of the Earl of Smatterton shook his head and
replied--

“Indeed! Aye, I thought I should find it so, from the account which the
messenger gave me. However, my lord, as I am thus far, I may as well
just look in. There is a possibility, perhaps, that even yet the use of
the lancet may not be too late.”

Lord Spoonbill did not oppose the physician’s wish, though he had no
expectation of any benefit to be derived from it. He therefore returned
and waited the report. The man of medicine soon rejoined his lordship,
and pronounced the patient beyond the reach of professional skill.

“The spirit, my lord, has left the body,” continued he, “according to
the vulgar expression.”

No man could more heartily enjoy the reprobation of vulgar phraseology
than could Lord Spoonbill, generally speaking; but at this moment he
was not disposed to be critical, and he answered the medical man rather
pettishly. He was not for his own part able so quickly to make the
transition from the grave to the gay as persons more accustomed to
such scenes. It is also not very uncommon for the imperfectly virtuous
to be exceedingly morose when under the impression of serious or
religious feelings. The physician was very much surprised at the manner
in which his lordship received the above-quoted speech; for it is a
great absurdity in these enlightened days to imagine that there is any
such thing as a soul. If there had been any such thing, the medical
gentlemen, who have very minutely dissected the human body, certainly
must have found it. But as they have not seen it, clearly it has no
existence, and that which we take for the soul is only a sort of a kind
of a something that is not a soul, but is only a word of four letters.
Many of the Newmarket students indeed had discovered this fact before
the dissectors had revealed it.

When the medical philosopher observed that Lord Spoonbill did not
express any approbation of the phraseology whereby a doubt of the
existence of a soul was intimated, he did not consider that the
disapprobation might be more from feeling than from opinion, and
therefore he proceeded to the discussion of the subject in a regular
and systematic method. His lordship was, however, not at all disposed
to listen to his arguments, and the two walked side by side in silence
to the castle.

When the Earl saw his medical oracle, he directed his inquiries first
to him--

“Doctor, you will be seated,” having been uttered with its usual
majesty of condescension, the Earl then proceeded to ask--

“And now, doctor, what report do you bring of our worthy rector?”

“Dr Greendale, my lord, is no more. Life was extinct before I could
reach him; and I am of opinion that nothing could have saved him.”

“Indeed! you don’t say so! It is a sad loss. The doctor was a most
excellent man. I had a very high opinion of him. I gave him the living
purely for his moral worth. He had nothing else to recommend him. I
always make it an invariable rule to distribute the church preferment
which is in my power, purely on the ground of merit. I am never
influenced by any political feeling.”

“Your lordship,” replied the physician, who understood his lordship’s
mind as well as his body, and perhaps better; “your lordship is
remarkable for the good judgment which you always exercise in these
matters, and indeed in everything else where the public good is
concerned. It would be well for the country if the distribution of
public and responsible offices were in such good hands. We should not
hear so much the language of dissatisfaction.”

“Doctor, you are disposed to compliment. But it is not very easy
to prevent the language of dissatisfaction. It is too common and
too indiscriminate. It is not proper that the common people should
acquire a habit of carping at all the acts of the government. The
multitude cannot understand these things. Now I have studied the
science of government with great and close attention, and I think I
do know something which even the ministers themselves do not rightly
understand. They are engaged in the dry details of office, and they
have been brought up in the trammels of prejudice. For my part I
have no prejudice. I do not take a detailed but comprehensive and
philosophical view of things.”

Much more to the same purpose did his lordship condescend to utter in
the hearing and for the instruction of the medical philosopher. The sum
and substance of the harangue was to inculcate that truly philosophical
view of government which recommends that the multitude should leave
the work of opposition to the old aristocracy of the country, and only
now and then, as that aristocracy may dictate, present petitions to
parliament to countenance and support the measures proposed by his
majesty’s opposition. The man of medicine was convinced of the truth
and justice of every sentiment which the Earl of Smatterton was
pleased in the profundity of his wisdom to advance: for though his
lordship was in opposition he did not like to be opposed: and who does?
His lordship then offered some refreshment to his medical friend, and
the subject of the decease of the rector was renewed.

“I am very much afraid,” said his lordship, “that the poor widow is not
left in very comfortable circumstances. But I will see that something
shall be done for her.”

After his lordship had received from the physician his meed of praise
for his liberality of intention towards the destitute widow, he
proceeded to speak of his own good intentions:

“I am very sorry that I did not see poor Greendale before his death. I
had no idea he was in such immediate danger. I certainly should have
gone down to the rectory in person, late as it was, had I been aware
that the good man was so near his end. However, I did all I could; I
sent for the best advice that was to be had.”

This was a very considerate and proper speech. Thus did the Earl of
Smatterton liberally repay the compliments which he had received from
his medical friend and adviser. It should also be remarked, that the
expression which his lordship has used more than once is rather a
singularity. He dwelt very much upon the lateness of the hour. Now it
was notorious, that in London there was scarcely a single house where
night was turned into day and day into night so entirely as in Lord
Smatterton’s: but in the country his lordship set a most excellent
example of early hours. For, as he very wisely observed, agricultural
pursuits require daylight; the poor people in the country cannot bear
the expense of candles, and therefore it is highly proper to set
them the example of early hours. This was certainly very considerate
of his lordship; and for this considerateness he was duly praised
by his physician. It is truly astonishing that anybody should ever
be censorious, for there is much more to be got by praising than by
blaming one’s fellow-creatures.

The physician took a handsome fee and a polite leave; and Colonel Crop
just at that moment entered the saloon, having finished his evening’s
entertainment at Neverden Hall. To him also was communicated the
intelligence of the sudden decease of the worthy rector of Smatterton.
And as soon as he heard the information, he said:

“Poor man, I am sorry for him: has he left a family?”

He had not left a family, or, if he had, Colonel Crop would have been
very sorry for them too. The hour of rest was arrived, and more than
arrived. But Lord Spoonbill enjoyed not the sweets of repose. His mind
was torn by conflicting thoughts, and harassed by bitter reflections
and self-reproaches. He thought of the mean transaction of the morning
and the solemn scene of the evening. For awhile he had a fancy that
the principle of virtue was the ascendant feeling of his soul, and he
thought that he would not pursue the scheme which he had commenced.
He looked at the letter which he had intercepted, and had some faint
notions that he should cause it to reach its destination. At all
events, he would not be so mean as to open the letter; that was an
offence of which he had never been guilty. He consigned the letter
to the flames. He thought of Dr Greendale, and he was all virtue and
penitence. He thought of Penelope, and considered that it would be a
pity for so amiable, and intelligent, and affectionate a creature to be
sacrificed to such a dull, plodding, commercial man as Robert Darnley.
At length, wearied by a multitude of thoughts, he fell asleep. But ever
and anon his rest was broken by painful and frightful dreams. He was
grasping the hand of a lovely and interesting one, and was using the
language of passion and persuasion, and he looked up to catch the smile
of beauty and the languishing look of love--and there were before him
the glassy eye, and the quivering lip, and the ghastly looks of death.
He felt upon his head the hand of blessing, and then there rung in his
ears the horrid language of execration. He saw the mild and venerable
form of the pious friend of his early youth, and he heard from his lips
the sentiments of devotion and the promises of hope; and then the face
was distorted by pain, and the voice was all the harshness of reproach
and the keenness of condemnation. Gradually this agitation of the
spirits subsided, and the wearied frame sunk into calmer rest; and when
the day-light shone into his apartment, and the morning sun awakened
the song of the birds, the darkness and gloom of the night were
forgotten, and the mind of the young patrician recovered its wonted
insensibility and apathy to all that is good and generous. The emotions
of the past night were ridiculed, and thus the character received an
additional impetus to that which is bad.




                             CHAPTER VII.


On the following morning the news of Dr Greendale’s sudden death
reached the neighbouring village of Neverden. Mr Darnley was deeply
concerned at the intelligence, and prepared to pay an immediate visit
to the afflicted widow to offer such consolation and assistance as
circumstances might require. On his way from home he went through
Neverden park, and called at the hall to acquaint his patron baronet
of the dismal intelligence just received. Sir George met Mr Darnley
at the door of the house, and thus the rector was saved the trouble
of alighting. Another trouble was also saved him, namely, that of
communicating the news to the baronet: for as soon as the worshipful
magistrate saw Mr Darnley, he bawled out at the top of his voice:

“Good morning, Darnley, good morning. Bad news from Smatterton; poor
Greendale’s dead. What will become of the poor widow and his pretty
niece? Very sudden indeed. I always thought he would go off so. Will
you alight? I suppose you are going over to Smatterton. Do you know who
is to have the living? It is a pretty good thing, I believe.”

This was a mode of address not at all in unison with the feelings of
Mr Darnley, though quite in keeping with the character and habits of
Sir George Aimwell. Not that Sir George was by any means destitute of
feeling. It is very likely he might have been as much concerned at the
loss, as others who might express themselves more pathetically; but, as
the proverbial expression has it, it was his way. This expression is
an apology for anything, and for everything, and more especially for
all breaches of decorum and violations of propriety. It is quite enough
to say, “he means no harm, it is his way.” It was a way however which
Mr Darnley did not approve and dared not rebuke; for he had so high a
respect for rank, as one of the glorious blessings of our constitution,
that he could never violate its sacredness by making it the subject of
reproof, otherwise than by indirect and general hints. Mr Darnley was
a strict, but not a sturdy moralist. To the questions of Sir George he
returned such answers as he was able to give, and, bowing politely, was
about to continue his ride, when the baronet called out to him again:

“Well, but I am sorry for the doctor, poor fellow. I was going to
send him some game this morning, though we had but a bad day’s sport
yesterday. I shall send you a brace or two of birds, Darnley.”

Mr Darnley made his acknowledgments for the baronet’s liberality, and
pursued his journey, meditating on the various subjects and thoughts
which such events as these usually excite in such minds as his. When
he arrived at Smatterton, at the very entrance of the village he saw
symptoms of a general calamity. The old men were standing in little
groups, and looking serious, and talking with great earnestness on
the subject of their loss: and when they saw Mr Darnley ride past
they drew aside and made more serious reverence than usual; and,
while they uncovered their silvery heads and bowed to the clergyman,
there was in their looks an expression which seemed to ask for some
more acknowledgment of their homage than the return bend of the head;
they seemed to implore him to address them. And, as he was a man of
discernment and observation, he stopt his horse and spoke to an old,
a very old man, who was leaning on a stick which trembled under his
pressure, and said:

“So, my good friend, I am concerned to hear that you have lost your
worthy rector.”

“Yes, sir, it is God’s will. I am sure I did not think that I should
live to see that day. Please your reverence, it was but yesterday
morning that I was speaking to my children about putting me into the
ground; and I told them that I should die contented if I thought that
they would continue to attend to the good doctor’s instructions. And I
thought that I should have that good man to read at my grave. Ah! sir,
these are mysteries in providence; here am I spared year after year
merely to cumber the ground, while our dear rector is cut off in the
midst of his days and usefulness.”

“You are rather advanced in years, I believe; I have not seen you for
some time. Have you been unwell?”

“Yes, sir, I am nearly ninety, and at my time of life I cannot expect
anything else than illness and infirmity. I have not been out of my
doors for many months, but I could not help hobbling out a little way
just to hear some particulars about our worthy rector. Alack, sir, I
had need give him a good word. He was my best friend, so kind----”

The old man wept audibly; and Mr Darnley, who had been affected by the
very aspect of the village as he entered it, felt himself unable to
make any reply, and rode on. When he reached the rectory, and enquired
for Mrs Greendale, the domestic announced that her mistress was too
ill to be seen, but that Miss Primrose would make her appearance
immediately. Happy was it for Penelope that there was on the present
occasion a division of interests and an opposing set of feelings. Her
troubles had come thickly upon her; but the very meeting together of
these sorrows tended to soften them, or, what was equivalent to that,
to excite and compel her to an unusual exertion of moral fortitude; and
the very circumstance of Mrs Greendale’s acute and severe feeling was
also the means of exciting and rousing Penelope.

When therefore she met Mr Darnley, it was with great composure
and steadiness of countenance, and she was able to narrate, with
consistency and intelligibility, the particulars of her uncle’s
decease. She mentioned the visit of Lord Spoonbill, and spoke very
highly of the great propriety of his behaviour and the manifestation
which he gave of good feeling. Mr Darnley was pleased to hear so good
an account, and hoped that so solemn and impressive a scene might be
instrumental in producing some good effect on the young lord’s conduct.
As Penelope was always regarded by the family at Neverden as possessing
a steadiness of judgment beyond her years, Mr Darnley, after the
ordinary talk on such occasions, ventured to extend his inquiries as to
the probable disposition of the widow and Penelope after they should
leave the rectory, which must of course be resigned to the doctor’s
successor.

The young lady professed herself quite at a loss to know what
arrangements might be contemplated by Mrs Greendale; but as to herself
she expressed her determination to take, as soon as possible, a
situation as governess in a private family, and said that she was sure
that the Countess of Smatterton would give every assistance in her
power.

Mr Darnley expressed himself somewhat astonished at this decision,
under what he called present circumstances. Now here it may be proper
and necessary to explain. We have narrated, or at least very strongly
intimated, that there subsisted between the niece of the late Dr
Greendale and the only son of Mr Darnley an engagement, sanctioned
by the parents of the latter. We have also said, that Lord Spoonbill
had cast the eyes of affection on Penelope Primrose, and that in
order to wean her affections from him to whom she was engaged, he had
intercepted more than once letters sent from Mr Robert Darnley to her.
We have stated also, that the apparent cessation of the correspondence
on the part of the young gentleman had disturbed and distressed the
mind of Penelope. Her spirit, however, was above naming or hinting
the matter to the parents of her absent friend. We have also informed
our readers that, only on the very day of Dr Greendale’s decease, a
letter had been intercepted and destroyed by Lord Spoonbill, and that
a letter had reached the rectory of Neverden from the young gentleman.
In this letter Mr Robert Darnley had apprised his parents and sisters
that they might expect him in England in about six weeks after the
arrival of that communication: he had also informed them that he had
written to Penelope by the same conveyance, informing her of the same
fact. He had also, in one part of that letter which he had sent to
Neverden, addressed a line or two to his sister Ann, requesting her to
observe if there were in Penelope Primrose any symptoms of alienated
affection, or any manifest partiality to any other person. This last
enquiry was thought merely the effect of that fanciful jealousy which
is, in some peculiarly-constructed minds, the effect and concomitant of
love: and the general impression at the rectory of Neverden was, that
Robert Darnley would be in England in six weeks, and that, as soon as
conveniently it could be arranged after his return, he would be married
to Penelope. It was therefore with no small share of astonishment that
Mr Darnley heard the young lady make such a declaration as that above
recorded.

“But, my young friend, why have recourse to such a step as that?
It would be much better that you should take up your abode with us
at Neverden. Indeed, I must almost insist upon it, if you will not
otherwise be induced to comply. Under any other circumstances I should
not perhaps recommend such a step, but now that you are so situated
that you must soon leave Smatterton, I think you cannot with propriety
do otherwise.”

To this language of Mr Darnley Penelope only replied with great
composure, indeed almost with apathy: “I must beg, sir, that you will
not press that subject. You will, no doubt, be ultimately convinced
that I am acting more properly in submitting myself to the direction
and advice of Lady Smatterton.”

At this speech of the young lady there came into the mind of Mr
Darnley a suspicion that the jealousy expressed in his son’s letter
was not altogether unfounded. Not that he could have supposed that
Penelope Primrose should deliberately prefer a lover like Lord
Spoonbill to a young man of sense and good conduct like Mr Robert
Darnley; but he was well aware of the fascinations of rank and the
allurements of fashionable splendour, and he also knew that it was
very possible for worthless and ignorant men, by means of the mockery
and mummery of conventional politeness, to render themselves not only
not disagreeable, but absolutely engaging and interesting to the young
and unpractised. He recollected the very handsome manner in which
Penelope had spoken of Lord Spoonbill, and he also bethought himself
of the unusual event of the heir of Smatterton honoring the party of
Mrs Greendale with his company. Then there came to his remembrance
that, during the whole, or nearly the whole evening, Penelope was
engaged at the pianoforte, and that she joined Lord Spoonbill in
several duets: and there was also a recollection that his lordship, as
soon as he entered the room at the rectory, took a seat on a sofa by
the side of Miss Primrose, and directed his conversation for awhile
almost exclusively to her. Mr Darnley, having compared all these
circumstances, began to wonder at himself that he should ever have been
so dull as not to observe that the affections of Penelope Primrose
belonged more to Lord Spoonbill than to Robert Darnley.

Having made this discovery, and having silently reproached himself
for his stupidity that he had not made it before, he did not hint the
least word of his suspicion to Miss Primrose; but simply abstained from
farther urging the matter about her residence at Neverden. Mr Darnley
was too proud a man to stoop to any expostulations or reproofs, or
to show anything like resentment upon the occasion. For he did not
consider that Penelope had inflicted an injury on his family, but had
merely declined a proffered honor.

He continued therefore his conversation upon other topics connected
with the doctor’s decease, and, leaving a message of sympathy for Mrs
Greendale, politely, rather more politely than usual, took his leave
of Penelope. She observed indeed a change in his manner, but ascribed
it to the unusually serious impression produced on his mind by the loss
of a friend and acquaintance.

From the rectory Mr Darnley proceeded to the castle, to make a call
of homage on the Earl of Smatterton. His lordship received the homage
graciously, and said, as was usual with him on all such occasions, “Mr
Darnley, I beg you will be seated.”

Mr Darnley accordingly took a seat, and Lord Smatterton accordingly
began to speak forth his own praises of his own most mighty
condescension and benevolence.

“You have been at the rectory this morning, Mr Darnley? It was very
proper and suitable that your’s should be the first visit to the house
of mourning. You found the poor woman well, I hope; that is, as well as
may be under present circumstances?”

Mr Darnley informed his lordship of the particulars of his visit to the
rectory, not forgetting to mention his own offer to give an asylum to
the doctor’s niece.

“Mr Darnley,” replied his lordship, “I very much approve of your
liberality. I can assure you that I shall take care that neither the
widow nor the niece shall be destitute. I have always entertained a
very high opinion of Dr Greendale. He was truly an excellent man. As
soon as I heard of his illness I sent for my own physician to attend
him, and had it not been so very late in the evening I should have gone
down to see him myself. And indeed, notwithstanding it was so late, I
certainly should have gone had I been aware of the danger in which he
was. However I did everything in my power, and I shall also have an
eye to the well-being of those who are by his death left destitute;
for I think I have understood that the doctor had no property of any
consideration independently of his living. But pray, Mr Darnley,
what think you of the propriety of giving to the world a volume or
two of the doctor’s sermons? They contain much good sense and sound
doctrine. They are not indeed so sublime as Irving’s, or so beautiful
as Alison’s, nor was it necessary that they should be; for the common
people cannot understand the sublime and beautiful. What think you, I
say, Mr Darnley, of the propriety and eligibility of publishing some of
Dr Greendale’s sermons?”

“With all due deference to your lordship’s superior judgment in such
matters, I am humbly of opinion,” replied Mr Darnley, “that good
sense and sound doctrine are no great recommendation of sermons, at
least they do not ensure popularity so effectually as sublimity and
beauty. But I believe, my lord, that Dr Greendale was engaged on a
very important controversial work. Now I have heard that controversial
theology has a much better sale than practical divinity, and that
sermons hardly ever go off, unless there be some peculiar interest
attached to the person who wrote them, or to the circumstances under
which they were preached. If, therefore, your lordship is disposed to
assist in the publication of any of the late doctor’s writings, I
should humbly apprehend that his great controversial treatise would be
most profitable to his widow, and bring more fame to his memory.”

“That may be very true, Mr Darnley, but I do not like controversy;
it unsettles people’s minds. I never knew any good come of it. But
while there are sectarians there must, to be sure, be refutations of
their errors, and the best way to oppose sectarianism is by means of
argument; for I am a decided advocate for religious liberty, only
I do not like to have the minds of the common people disturbed and
unsettled. These matters, Mr Darnley, I shall leave to you as a friend
of the late doctor; and if you are disposed to publish any of his
writings, they cannot come out under better auspices. At all events I
shall subscribe for a certain number of copies.”

“Your lordship is very generous; and I hope you will not find in the
writings of the worthy rector anything that shall tend to unsettle the
minds of the people, but rather the reverse. For I understand that the
object of the treatise which I have mentioned to your lordship, is to
put an end to controversy. I recollect hearing my worthy friend say,
that he had answered and refuted every objection that had ever been
urged against the established church, and that there was not a single
sect which he had not opposed and confuted.”

“Well, well, if the work is of such a comprehensive nature, I think it
important that it should be published. It is a great pity, however,
that it did not make its appearance during the doctor’s life-time, it
might have procured him a bishopric; but really, Mr Darnley, I don’t
know how it is, but I have observed that ministers are not sufficiently
attentive to men of merit. They give away their preferment merely for
the purpose of parliamentary influence. Now, for my part, I never do
anything of the kind--I always patronize merit. I gave the living of
Smatterton to Dr Greendale, purely on account of his merit. I wish
that this consideration weighed more than it does with those whose
patronage is more extensive and important than mine.”

Mr Darnley had a better opinion of his majesty’s ministers than the
Earl of Smatterton had expressed, and therefore he did not very readily
echo the last speech which his lordship made. He took however especial
care not to say anything that might impeach his lordship’s judgment
and sagacity. The peer and the clergyman parted on very good terms.
The first was delighted that he had enjoyed an opportunity of speaking
in laudatory terms of his own benevolence and wisdom; and the last
was very well satisfied that while he had paid due reverence to rank,
he had not compromised his loyalty to his majesty’s ministers, by
complimenting at their expense a member of his majesty’s opposition.




                             CHAPTER VIII.


The day for Dr Greendale’s funeral arrived. It was Sunday. This
arrangement was made in order to give opportunity for the poor and the
labouring classes to attend, and pay their last tribute of respect to
their benefactor and friend. It was a very fine day, such as often
happens in the middle of September; and the day seemed like a holiday.
For, such is the nature of the human mind that the attending on any
ceremony seems more a matter of amusement than of sorrow. Joy, it
appears, cannot be solitary, and sorrow can hardly be social. When
a multitude assembles, be the purpose what it may for which the
assembling takes place, it wears generally the aspect of amusement or
pleasure. This is particularly the case at funerals, and much more so
in other countries than our own.

The village of Smatterton was unusually full. Many came from a
distance, some to visit their friends, some for a little extraordinary
amusement for the Sunday, and some probably with a desire to pay a
tribute of respect to the late rector; for the name of Dr Greendale
was celebrated beyond the narrow limits of his own parish. There
were visitors at almost every house in the village, and the little
public-houses, which on Sunday were ordinarily closed, now were
indulged with the privilege of being open, Indeed the indulgence was
absolutely necessary. The funeral procession was very long, and many of
the mourners were mourners indeed. They had a great regard for the late
doctor, not for any very profuse generosity which he had exhibited,
for that was not in his power; not for any unbounded hospitality, for
in that respect he was limited in his circumstances, and confined as
to his time; not because he was a very eloquent and entertaining
preacher, for his sermons were plainness itself; not because he was a
sturdy politician, either demagogue or sycophant, for it was absolutely
impossible for any one to conjecture with plausibility to which party
he belonged; not because he indulged and flattered the vices of either
the great or the little, for he was not unsparing in his rebukes of
wickedness whenever he met with it; but they loved and respected
him for the steadiness and respectability of his character, for the
integrity, purity, simplicity, and sincerity of his life. Therefore
they mourned at his grave, and wept tears of real sorrow at the loss of
him.

The very persons who paid tithes were sorry that he was departed from
them, for they did not think it likely that any other could be put
in his place to whom they would more cheerfully make such payments.
The funeral service was impressively read by Mr Darnley, and in the
afternoon the same gentleman took the duty at the church, in order to
deliver a funeral sermon for his late friend and neighbour.

While the rites of sepulture were being performed at the church, the
daughters of Mr Darnley were, by their presence and kind sympathy,
endeavouring to console the sorrowing widow, and the doubly orphaned
niece, at the rectory house. Miss Darnley had heard at the beginning
of the week from her father the suspicion which he entertained of the
unsteadiness of Penelope’s affections; and though the present was not
a proper time to make any direct enquiries, or to use any obvious
diligence to discover the secret, yet she could not help showing her
attention a little alive to aught which might seem to promise any clue
for the discovery of the young lady’s state of mind to her brother.
And as Mr Darnley had given a hint that Penelope Primrose seemed to
regard Lord Spoonbill with very great approbation, and to throw herself
entirely on the patronage of the Countess, Miss Darnley endeavoured to
let a word or two fall which might either corroborate or remove the
suspicions which had been entertained on that head.

It was very easy to direct the conversation to their noble friends at
the castle. Mrs Greendale and Penelope both expressed great gratitude
for the kind sympathy which they had experienced from the earl and
countess. Penelope also praised the very humane and feeling conduct
of Lord Spoonbill; but the language which she used, and the manner
in which she spoke of his lordship, gave no light upon the subject
of suspicion. It was not indeed probable that the son of so proud a
nobleman as the Earl of Smatterton should think of allying himself by
marriage with the niece of a clergyman, portionless and unconnected.
Nor indeed was it likely that a young woman of such excellent
understanding as Miss Primrose should be weak enough to imagine an
attachment where none existed. Suffice it to say, that notwithstanding
all the pains which Miss Darnley used for the purpose, she could
not ascertain whether or not there existed such an attachment. Her
conclusion rather inclined to the opinion that her brother’s suspicions
were but a little emanation of constitutional jealousy.

We have said that Mr Darnley was engaged to perform the service of the
church in the afternoon. On this occasion the multitude assembled was
very great. The church was crowded to suffocation, and besides the
great mass of people within, there were also many without; many young
persons who loved rather to idle about the churchyard than to take
pains to press their way in. They loitered about in groups, and they
amused themselves with reading the monumental inscriptions, and some
perhaps were then and there reminded of pious and amiable parents,
of intimate friends and companions. They did not loiter altogether
unprofitably, if feelings of a kind and tender nature were excited in
their breasts by recollections of the departed.

But there was one who seemed to have no companion there, or friend
among the living or the dead. There was a young female in deep
mourning, walking sorrowfully up and down the broad gravel-walk which
led from the road to the church-door. She looked not at those that
passed her, and she did not seem to regard the monumental inscriptions
with any interest. Her form was graceful, but her figure was small.
There was a paleness on her cheeks which looked like the paleness of
sorrow and privation; but amidst that paleness might be discerned
much beauty. There had been brightness in those eyes, and dimples on
those cheeks, and wreathed smiles upon those lips; but these were now
departed, and instead thereof was the

    “Leaden look that loves the ground.”

She seemed to be heedless of all that was around her. The young beaux
and coquettes of the village attracted not her attention, and all the
change of look that was seen was an occasional and earnest direction
of her eyes towards the door of the church when any footsteps were
heard near it. There were no tears in the eyes, but there was an
expression of countenance, which told that tears had been, and there
was a stillness of sorrow which intimated that tears had done their
utmost, and could no longer relieve.

The young are ever prone to pity, and they most deeply and feelingly
commiserate such as seem to be least importunate for sympathy; for
despair is the sublimity of grief, and its very unobtrusiveness rivets
the attention. An image of sorrow like this is not easily shaken from
the mind. We may pass by it, and seem not to heed it; but it comes
upon us again in our recollections; and our thoughts revert to it
without effort, or even against effort. Thus did this vision fascinate
and enchain the minds of those who in the indolence of their sabbath
holiday were strolling about the churchyard. By degrees their idle talk
was suspended or subdued. Their own little interests were forgotten,
and they one and all wondered who it could be. And they were saying one
to another, “How beautiful she looks!”--“How very pale she is!”--“She
looks as if she were very ill.” Many such remarks were made, but they
were uttered in a low tone, and with an endeavour not to appear to take
particular notice of the melancholy stranger.

At length the service in the church was over, and the multitude was
pouring out. Then the beautiful mourner took her station at the porch,
and watched with earnestness every face that passed by; and over her
pale countenance there came a hectic flush, as the numbers increased
and as the expected one seemed to be nearer. The numbers diminished and
the paleness returned.

A sound of carriage-wheels was heard at a little distance, and the
stranger, moving from the porch at which she had stationed herself, saw
in another direction a narrow path, leading from a different door, and
on that path were walking three persons, who, before she could reach
them, were seated in the carriage and had vanished from her sight.

To explain these appearances as far as it is at present necessary, we
must turn our attention awhile from the newly-introduced fair one, and
accompany the Earl and Countess, with their hopeful son, back again to
the castle.

Scarcely had the Earl alighted from the carriage when he was informed
that, during his absence, a young person in deep mourning had been at
the castle nearly an hour ago, and had been very importunate for an
audience with his lordship. To the very natural enquiries of name,
description, and business, the only answer which could be given was,
that the stranger refused to state her name or business, and that her
appearance was that of a very respectable and rather pretty young
woman; and that though she had expressed great anxiety to see his
lordship, yet there was nothing in her manner obtrusive or troublesome.

While this information was being conveyed to the Earl, the Countess had
passed on to her own apartment; but Lord Spoonbill attended to what was
said, and that with no small share of interest. His recollection and
conscience interpreted the mystery, and his ingenuity was now taxed to
evade an exposure, which he dreaded. Assuming an air of indifference,
he said:

“Perhaps, sir, it may be a daughter of one of your Yorkshire tenants.
She is described as being in mourning, and if I recollect rightly,
we heard of the death of one of them very lately. It is however very
unsuitable to come here on a Sunday on matters of business. I am about
to walk down into the village, and if I can meet with the young person
I will save you the trouble of attending to her.”

“Do so, Spoonbill, do so: I do not approve of being interrupted on a
Sunday; it is a bad example to the people in the country: it does not
so much signify in London.”

It was fortunate, or, more properly speaking unfortunate, for the young
lord that the Earl his father was very easy to be imposed upon; and
perhaps the more so from the very high opinion which he entertained of
his own wisdom and sagacity. But such was his confidence in the good
conduct and good disposition of his son, that he would not easily have
been brought to give credence to any story of a disgraceful nature told
against him. The young man took advantage of this, and so he always
passed for a very prudent and steady person: and it was not unfrequent
that the Earl himself would commend the steadiness and sobriety of his
son, and propose him as an example to those who were companions of his
irregularities.

After the conversation above recorded, the young lord made the best of
his way through the park towards that gate which led into the village;
carefully at the same time observing that his victim did not escape
him and return by another path to the castle.

He met her not in the park; and when he arrived at the gate he was at a
loss which way to turn. It would have been a miserable exposure of his
conduct had the stranger found her way back to the castle and obtained
an interview with the Earl. Still worse in the mind of Lord Spoonbill
would it have been that the Countess should become acquainted with that
part of his character and conduct which might be communicated to her by
the mysterious stranger; for, with all his irregularity of demeanour,
and amidst conduct which manifested a most serious want of good feeling
and good principle, he felt a regard for his mother, and an anxiety for
her comfort and composure of mind: he disguised himself to his father
from fear, and to his mother from love.

Agitated by distracting thoughts, he stood at the park gate, gazing
alternately in different directions; and by the intensity of his
feelings was at last rivetted in an almost unconscious state of mind
to the spot on which he was standing. Suddenly his pulse beat quicker,
and his heart seemed to swell within him, when at a little distance he
saw the dreaded one approaching him. Had he seen her anywhere else his
first impulse would have been to avoid her; but here his truest and
best policy was to submit to an interview, however painful. Shall he
meet her with kindness?--shall he meet her with reproaches?--shall he
meet her with coldness? These were enquiries rapidly passing through
his mind as she drew nearer and nearer. It was difficult for him to
decide between cruelty and hypocrisy: but the last was most natural to
him, so far as custom is a second nature.

The afflicted one moved slowly with her eyes fixed on the ground, and
she saw not her enemy till so near to him, that on lifting up her face
and recognizing his well-known features, the sudden shock produced a
slight hysteric shriek.

Lord Spoonbill was not so lost to all feeling of humanity as to be
insensible to the anguish of mind which she now suffered, who had
once regarded him as a friend, and had loved him, “not wisely, but
too well.” He held out his hand to her with an unpremeditated look
of kindness and affection; and which, being unpremeditated, bore the
aspect of sincerity. The stranger at first hesitated, and seemed not
disposed to accept the offered hand; but she looked up in his face, and
the blood mounted to her cheeks and the tears stood in her eyes, and
she gave him her hand, and covered her face and wept bitterly.

There are moments in which shameless profligates look foolish and feel
that they are contemptible. This was such a moment to Lord Spoonbill.
He was moved, and he was mortified that he was moved; and there was a
general feeling of confusion and perplexity in his mind. What could
he say? or how could he act? He began to stammer out something like
gentleness, and something like reproof. But she who stood before him
was as an accusing spirit, to whom apology was mockery, and repentance
too late. At length, when the first emotion began to abate, he said:

“Ellen, what brings you here? Surely this is not a proper day for a
visit like this. What could induce you too to endeavour to see the
Earl? If you once mention the affair to him you are irretrievably
ruined; I can do nothing for you.”

A reproachful look, a deep sigh, and the withdrawing her hand from his,
were the only answer which the above speech received. She attempted to
speak, but words were wanting; and after a little more appearance of
confusion on the part of his lordship, he seemed for the first time to
notice her mourning dress, and with real tenderness of manner asked
her what peculiar loss or misfortune had brought her to Smatterton.
Assuming then a steadiness of tone and greater composure of manner, she
at last spoke out:

“My lord, it is indeed a deep affliction which has brought me to
appeal to your pity. You took me from a widowed mother; you deserted
me with promises unfulfilled. I returned to that dwelling which was
destined to be my home no more. I have closed my mother’s eyes, which
did indeed look a forgiveness which she could not speak. I am now an
outcast, unless I can find the means of reaching a distant relative,
who will give me a home. I have made frequent application by letter to
your lordship and to the Earl, and I was fearful that my letters had
not reached you; and I had no resource but to come here to speak for
myself.”

Lord Spoonbill had received these letters; not only those addressed
to himself, but those designed for his father. He had paid but little
attention to them; for the name of Ellen Fitzpatrick had ceased to
be interesting to him. He had in former days made small pecuniary
remittances; but had latterly declined them. But now seeing before him
one whom he had deeply injured, and beholding her as a suppliant in
the most humble attitude, and hearing that it was possible that an
arrangement might be made, whereby he should no longer be troubled with
her visits or letters, he felt his mind greatly relieved, and he was
disposed to be generous. He therefore promptly supplied her with the
means of reaching her friend, and enjoined, with no little earnestness,
that she should leave Smatterton immediately, and that without even
returning again to the village.

What account the hopeful hereditary legislator gave to the Earl we
shall not state; suffice it to say, that he told his own story, that
the Earl believed it, that it answered the purpose for which it was
invented. And it came to pass that, on the day following, when there
was mention made of the young person in deep mourning who was seen
in the churchyard on Sunday, it was confidently stated, and easily
believed, that it was a young lady out of her mind who had escaped from
her keepers.




                              CHAPTER IX.


We have spoken favorably of the Countess. She was for the most part a
considerate as well as a benevolent woman: we say for the most part,
because we must make some slight exception. And if our readers be angry
with us for not indulging them with perfect characters, we can only say
we are sorry for it, and will promise that as soon as we meet with a
faultless character we will give the history thereof to the world. In
the meantime we must take what we find, and make the best of it. The
Countess of Smatterton then was, as we have said, possessed of many
good qualities, but was not perfect. There was occasionally a want
of considerateness in her very benevolence; and most people indeed,
who do any good at all to their fellow-creatures, prefer doing it in
their own way. There is perhaps some benefit in this; for otherwise
the opulent and powerful would be too much importuned, and the number
of the dependent be most awfully increased. To proceed then: we have
observed that the Countess was not uniformly considerate. She could,
and for the most part did, bestow her favors with great grace and
urbanity of manner; but occasionally she was rather forgetful of the
proprieties; she did not always consider that what might be suitable in
one person or station might not be suitable in another. This feeling
was manifested in the interview with which her grace was pleased to
honor Miss Primrose, soon after the decease of her valuable friend and
relative, Dr Greendale.

The Countess very kindly invited the ladies to the castle. Her ladyship
received the widow and her niece in her own apartment. No one knew
so well as the Countess how to manage the language and address of
consolation. Mrs Greendale was charmed with the delicate and feeling
manner in which she was received; and her ladyship was happy that any
attention of hers could gratify and soothe the afflicted.

With an exquisite dexterity of address the Countess contrived to
introduce an allusion to the situation of Penelope Primrose; and as
neither the young lady nor her aunt was in full possession of the
circumstances in which Mr Primrose was at that time, they both had the
impression on their minds that there was no other immediate prospect
for his daughter than the exertion of her own talents and acquirements
to provide her with the means of support. The worthy rector had not as
yet been long enough in the grave to give Penelope an opportunity of
feeling the difference of Mrs Greendale’s manner towards her; but she
had penetration enough to foresee what must be her situation so long as
she remained under the same roof as her aunt. With the utmost readiness
did she therefore listen to the Countess, when speaking of the various
employments to which a young person situated as she was might turn her
attention.

“Lord Smatterton,” said the Countess, “has frequently mentioned the
subject to me, and he recommends a situation in a private family.
There are certainly some advantages and some disadvantages in such a
situation: very much depends upon the temper and disposition of almost
every individual in the family. It is possible that you may meet with
a family consisting of reasonable beings, but it is more than probable
that you may have to encounter arrogance or ignorance; these are not
excluded from any rank.”

This language seemed to Penelope as an intimation that a school
would be a more desirable sphere in which to make profitable use
of her acquisitions. It was not for her to oppose any objections
to the implied recommendations of so good and so great a friend as
her ladyship; but she felt considerable reluctance to that kind of
employment, which she fancied had been suggested. Her reply was
embarrassed but respectful, intimating that she was ready to adopt any
mode of employment which the Countess might be pleased to suggest. Her
ladyship gave a smile of approbation to the acquiescent disposition
which the young lady manifested, and added:

“If Miss Primrose could conquer a little feeling of timidity, which
might naturally enough be experienced by one so retired in her habits,
it would be possible for her, with her great vocal powers and musical
talent, not only to find means of maintenance, but to arrive at a
competent independence, by adopting the musical profession. Then she
would also enjoy the pleasure of good society. If such arrangement
be agreeable, I will most willingly charge myself with providing the
preparatory instruction under a distinguished professor. What does my
young friend think of such occupation?”

Had sincerity been the readiest road to the patronage and friendship
of the great, this question might have been very readily and easily
answered. But Penelope knew better than to suppose that any advantage
could arise from a direct opposition to the wishes of a patron.
Repugnant as she was to the proposal, she dared not to whisper the
least syllable of contradiction, on the ground of dislike, to the
profession; but after a blush of mortification, which the Countess
mistook for a symptom of diffidence, she replied:

“I fear that your ladyship is disposed to estimate rather too highly
the humble talents I may possess, and that I shall not answer the
expectations which so distinguished patronage might raise.”

The Countess was not altogether pleased with this shadow of an
objection; for it seemed to call in question her own discernment. She
therefore replied with some quickness:

“I beg your pardon, Miss Primrose: I have usually been considered
as something of a judge in these matters; and, if I do not greatly
mistake, you are peculiarly qualified for the profession; and, if you
would condescend to adopt my recommendation, I will be answerable for
its success.”

The Countess, with all her kindness and considerateness, had not the
slightest idea that there could be in a young person, situated as
Penelope, any feeling of pride or thought of degradation. But pride was
in being before titles were invented; and even republics, which, in
the arrogance of equality, may repel from their political vocabulary
all distinctions of fellow citizens, cannot eradicate pride from the
human heart. In a civilized country there is not perhaps an individual
to be found who is incapable of the sensation of degradation. Miss
Primrose thought it degrading to become a public singer; she felt that
it would be publishing to the world that she was not independent. The
world cares little about such matters. Right or wrong, however, this
feeling took possession of the young lady’s mind; and as pride does not
enter the mind by means of reasoning, it will not be expelled by any
process of ratiocination. For all this, however, the worthy Countess
could make no allowance; and it appeared to her that if a young person
were under the necessity of serving her superiors in rank for the sake
of maintenance, it signified very little what mode of servitude were
applied to.

There was also another consideration which weighed not a little with
the Countess, in almost insisting upon Miss Primrose’s adopting the
musical profession. Her ladyship was a distinguished patroness, and a
most excellent judge of musical talent; and there was a rival patroness
who had never yet been able to produce, under her auspices, anything at
all equal to Penelope Primrose. The mortification or defeat of a rival
is a matter of great moment to minds of every description. Whenever
there is the weakness of rivalry there must be of necessity also the
vanity of triumph, and to that occasionally much will be sacrificed.

Mrs Greendale, who was present at this discussion, sided most cordially
with the Countess; but had the proposal come from any other quarter,
in all human probability it would have been resented as an indignity.
Penelope was also well aware that it was absolutely necessary that
she should leave the asylum in which so many of her few days had
been spent, and she therefore, with as good a grace as her feelings
permitted, gave assent to the proposal which the Countess had made. And
thereby her generous patroness was softened.

The discussion of this question occupied no inconsiderable portion of
time, though we have not thought it necessary to repeat at length the
very common-place dialogue which passed on the subject. Our readers
must have very languid imaginations if they cannot supply the omission
for themselves. Suffice it to say, that the arguments used by the
Countess of Smatterton were much stronger than the objections which
arose in the mind of Penelope Primrose; and the consideration of these
arguments, backed by the reflection that she had no other immediately
available resource, determined the dependent one to acquiesce in that
which her soul abhorred. It was all very true, as the amiable Countess
observed, that an occupation which introduced the person so employed
to the notice and into the saloons of the nobility, could not be
essentially degrading; it was also very true that there could be no
moral objection to a profession which had been ornamented by some of
the purest and most virtuous characters. All this was very true; but
notwithstanding this and much more than this which was urged by the
Countess, still Penelope did not like it. There is no accounting for
tastes.

Some young ladies there are who think that, if they should be situated
as Penelope was, they would not suffer any inducement to lead them
to a compliance with such a proposal. They imagine that no earthly
consideration whatever should compel them to that which they abhorred
or disapproved. They cannot think that Penelope deserved the title of
heroine, if she could thus easily surrender her judgment and bend her
will to the dictation of a patroness. But let these young ladies be
informed, that in this compliance lay no small portion of the heroism
of Penelope’s character. She gained a victory over herself; she did not
gratify a pert self-will at the expense of propriety and decorum, and
she had no inclination to play the part of a Quixote.

It is an easy thing for a young man to set himself up as independent.
The world with all its various occupations is before him. He may engage
in as many freaks as suit his fancy; he may dwell and live where
and how he pleases; but the case is widely different with a young
woman delicately brought up, respectably connected, and desirous of
retaining a respectable condition and the countenance of her friends.
She is truly dependent, and must oftentimes sacrifice her judgment and
feelings to avoid more serious and important sacrifices.

Penelope used to talk about dependence while under the roof of her
benevolent and kind-hearted relative, now no more. But she felt it not
then, as she felt it when her uncle had departed from life. Then it was
merely a name, now it became a reality.

When the Countess had prevailed upon Penelope to give her assent to
the proposal of publicly displaying her musical talents, her ladyship
was in exceeding good humour; and when a lady of high rank is in
good humour, her condescension, her affability, her wit, her wisdom,
and whatever she pleases to assume or affect of the agreeable and
praiseworthy, are infinitely above all language of commendation to such
a person as Mrs Greendale. The widow therefore was quite charmed with
the exquisitely lady-like manners of the Countess, astonished at her
great good sense; and, had the Countess requested it, Mrs Greendale
herself would have become a public singer.

While this negociation was going on at the castle at Smatterton,
another discussion concerning Penelope was passing at the rectory at
Neverden.

“Well, papa,” said Miss Darnley, “I took particular notice of Penelope
Primrose yesterday, and purposely mentioned the name of Lord Spoonbill,
to see whether it would produce any emotion, and I did not observe
anything that led me to suppose what you suspect.”

“Very likely, my child, you could not discern it. That was not a
time for the expression of any such feelings. Her thoughts were then
otherwise engaged. But I can say that, from what I have observed, I
have no reason whatever to doubt that her affections are not as they
were with respect to your brother. You know that Robert wrote to her
by the same conveyance which brought us a letter, and although I gave
every opportunity and hint I could to that purpose, Miss Primrose did
not mention having heard.”

“But, my dear papa,” replied Miss Darnley, still unwilling to think
unfavourably of so valued a friend as Penelope, “might not her
thoughts be otherwise engaged at the time, when you visited her; for
you recollect that your call was much sooner after Dr Greendale’s death
than our’s was.”

Mr Darnley smiled with a look of incredulity, and said, “You are very
charitable in your judgment, my dear, but I think in this instance you
extend your candour rather too far. I did not only observe symptoms
of alienation, but had, I tell you, almost a proof of the fact. I
went so far as to allude to her engagement and to offer our house as
an asylum; and her reply was, that she would be at the direction of
Lady Smatterton. Whether she be vain and conceited enough to aspire to
Lord Spoonbill’s hand, I will not pretend to say, but I am abundantly
convinced that she does not regard your brother with the same affection
that she did some time ago; and there certainly have been symptoms to
that effect in the course of her correspondence, or Robert would never
have used such language, or made such enquiries as he has in his last
letter. And I think it would be but an act of kindness, or even of
justice, to let your brother know what are our suspicions.”

Now Mary Darnley, who was rather inclined to be blue-stockingish,
and had of course, a mighty admiration for wisdom, and learning, and
science, thought it not unlikely that if Penelope had changed her mind,
and transferred her affections to another, that other was more likely
to be Mr Kipperson than Lord Spoonbill. For, she reasoned, it was not
probable that a young woman so brought up as Penelope had been, should
be at all pleased with a character so profligate as Lord Spoonbill
was generally supposed to be. Then Mr Kipperson, though he was double
Penelope’s age, yet was a very agreeable man, and far superior to the
common run of farmers; and he was a man of very extensive information
and of great reading. The reasoning then went on very consequentially
to prove, that as Penelope loved reading, and as Mr Kipperson loved
reading, therefore Penelope must love Mr Kipperson. This perhaps was
not the best kind of reasoning in the world, yet it might do in default
of a better to support a theory.

The truth of the matter is, that Miss Mary Darnley herself was a
little disposed to admire Mr Kipperson, in virtue of his literary and
scientific character; and the truth also is, that Mr Kipperson had
really manifested symptoms of admiration towards Penelope Primrose;
and last, but not least, is the truth, that Miss Mary Darnley was
somewhat inclined to be jealous of the attention which the literary and
scientific Mr Kipperson had recently paid to Miss Primrose.

This theory of Miss Mary Darnley seemed the most plausible, and it
was therefore adopted by her mother and sisters, and by them it was
unanimously concluded that Penelope was not unfavourable to the suit of
Mr Kipperson; and then they thought that the young lady had behaved,
or was behaving very ill to their brother; and then they thought that
their brother might do much better for himself; and then they thought
that Mr Kipperson was at least fifty, though till then it had been the
common opinion that he was but forty; and then they thought that no
dependence could be placed on any one; and then they made many wise
remarks on the unexpectedness of human events, not considering that the
experience of millions, and the events of centuries, have conspired to
shew that events take any other direction than that which is expected.
Ann Darnley was sorry for it, Martha laughed at it, and Mary was angry
with it.

As for Mr Darnley himself, he was not much moved; but he could not
admit of the idea that he was wrong in his conjecture that Miss
Primrose was partial to Lord Spoonbill, therefore he could not see
the force of the reasoning which went to prove, that the transfer of
Penelope’s affections was not from Robert Darnley to Lord Spoonbill,
but to Mr Kipperson.

“Beside,” said Mr Darnley, “is it likely that a young woman of such
high notions as Miss Primrose should think of accepting an offer from
Mr Kipperson, who, though he is a man of property and of literary
taste, is still but a farmer, or agriculturist. It is far more likely
that the vanity of the young lady should fix her hopes on Lord
Spoonbill, especially if his lordship has paid her, as is not unlikely,
very marked attentions.”

Although in the family at the rectory of Neverden there was diversity
of opinion as to the person on whom Miss Primrose had placed her
affections, there was at least unanimity in the feeling and expression
of disapprobation. And, in pursuance of this feeling, there was a
diminution, and indeed nearly a cessation of intercourse between the
parties. Many days passed away, and no message and no visitor from
Neverden arrived at Smatterton.

This was deeply and painfully felt by Penelope, and the more so as it
was absolutely impossible for her to ask an explanation. Indeed, she
concluded that no explanation was wanting; the fact that no letter
had been received for so long time, and the circumstance of the
coldness and change in the manners of the young ladies at Neverden,
were sufficient manifestations to Penelope that, for some cause or
other, there was a change in the mind of Robert Darnley towards her.
Then in addition to these things was the reflection, that she had
allowed herself to be persuaded contrary to her own judgment to adopt
the profession of music as a public singer, or at least as a hired
performer. Thus, in a very short time, she was plunged from the height
of hope to the depth of despair. A little while ago she had been
taught to entertain expectations of her father’s return to England in
a state of independence; she had also reason to hope that, the lapse
of a few months, there might come from a distant land one for whom she
did entertain a high esteem, and who should become her guardian, and
guide, and companion through life. A little while ago also, she had
in the society and sympathy of her worthy and benevolent uncle, Dr
Greendale, a refuge from the storms of life, and some consolation to
enable her to bear up aright under the pressure of life’s evils, its
doubts and its fears. All these hopes were now vanished and dispersed,
and she left to the mercy of a rude world. Her best benefactor was
in his grave, and those very agreeable and pleasant companions in
whom he confided as in relatives, and more than sisters, they also
had deserted her. It required a great effort of mind to bear up under
these calamities. Her mind however had been habituated to exertion,
and it had gained strength from the efforts which it had formerly
made; but still her constitution was not stoical; she had strong and
deep feelings. It was with some considerable effort that she did not
yield so far to the pressure of present circumstances as to lose all
elasticity of mind and to relinquish all love of life. And pity itself
need not seek and cannot find an object more worthy of its tears than
one living, who has lost all relish for life, and ceased to enjoy its
brightness or to dread its darkness.




                              CHAPTER X.


Some few weeks after Penelope had given her consent to the arrangement
suggested by the Countess of Smatterton, the family at the castle took
their departure for London. Her ladyship did not forget her promise of
providing Miss Primrose with the means of cultivating and improving
her natural talents; but, in a very few days after arriving in town,
negociations were entered into and concluded with an eminent professor
to take under his tuition a young lady patronized by the Countess of
Smatterton.

Great compliments of course were paid to the judgment of the Countess,
and high expectations were raised of the skill and power of this new
vocal prodigy; for countesses never patronize anything but prodigies,
and if the objects of their patronage be not prodigies by nature, they
are very soon made so by art and fashion.

Now the Countess of Smatterton was really a good judge of musical
excellence; her taste was natural, not acquired or affected as a medium
of notoriety, or a stimulus for languid interest in life’s movements.
And when her ladyship had a musical party, which was indeed not
unfrequently, there was not one individual of the whole assemblage more
really and truly delighted with the performances than herself, and few
perhaps were better able to appreciate their excellence.

At this time but few families were in town, and the winter assortment
of lions, and prodigies, and rages, was not formed or arranged.
Lady Smatterton would have been best pleased to have burst upon the
assembled and astonished world at once with her new human toy. But
the good lady was impatient. She wished to enjoy as soon as possible
the pleasure of exhibiting to her friends and neighbours and rivals
the wonderful talents of Penelope Primrose. As soon therefore as
arrangements could be made with the professor who was destined to be
the instructor of Miss Primrose, a letter was despatched to Smatterton,
desiring the young lady to make as much haste as possible to town.

This was indeed a sad and painful trial to Penelope. Little did she
think that the plan was so soon to be put in force to which she had
given her reluctant assent. It seemed inconsiderate in her ladyship to
remove Penelope from Mrs Greendale so very soon; not that the young
lady had any very great reluctance to part from Mrs Greendale; but as
she had some reluctance to make the journey to London for the object
which was in view, she felt rather more than otherwise she would have
done the inconvenience to which it necessarily put her aunt. Having
therefore shewn Lady Smatterton’s letter to the widow, she expressed
her concern that the Countess should be so very hasty in removing her,
and said, that if her aunt wished it she would take the liberty of
writing to her ladyship, requesting a little longer indulgence, that
she might render any assistance which might be needed under present
circumstances.

Some persons there are who never will and who never can be pleased:
Mrs Greendale was one of them. Instead of thanking Penelope for her
considerate and kind proposal, her answer was:

“Indeed, Miss Primrose, I think you would be acting very improperly
to question Lady Smatterton’s commands. I know not who is to provide
for you, if you thus turn your back upon your best friends. I can
assure you I have no great need of any of your assistance, which I dare
say you would not be so ready to offer if it did not suit your own
convenience.”

To repeat much such language as this would be wearisome. Suffice it to
say, that there was no form of expression which Penelope could use,
nor any line of conduct which she could propose, which Mrs Greendale
was not ingenious enough to carp at and object to. It may then be
easily imagined that the situation of our heroine was not much to be
envied; nor will it be supposed that she felt any great reluctance
to leave such a companion and friend as this. With the best grace
imaginable, therefore, did Penelope prepare for yielding obedience to
Lady Smatterton’s commands; but it was still with a heavy heart that
she made preparation for her journey.

Before her departure it was absolutely and indispensably necessary that
she should go through the ceremony of taking leave of her friends. Of
several persons, whose names are not here recorded, Penelope Primrose
took leave, with expressions of mutual regret. There was however no
embarrassment and no difficulty in these cases. When, however, she
prepared to take leave of her friends at Neverden, the case was widely
different. Then arose much perplexity, and then her heart felt such a
bitter pang. It was probable that this would be a final leave. The
Darnleys never visited London, or at least not above once in twenty
years. They had recently looked coldly upon her, and had partially
neglected her. It was contrary to their general practice to act
capriciously; there certainly must be a motive for their behaviour,
and what could that motive be but a change in the intentions of Robert
Darnley with respect to herself. The ground of that change she was at a
loss to determine. At all events she must call and take leave of them.

In pursuance of this determination, Penelope Primrose took, not the
earliest, but the latest opportunity of calling upon Mr Darnley and
the family at Neverden rectory; for it would not be very pleasant
to remain any time in the neighbourhood after a cool and unfriendly
separation from those with whom so many of her pleasantest hours had
been spent, and with whose idea so many of her hopes had been blended.
When she called, the whole family was at home. Her reception was by
no means decidedly unkind, or artificially polite. There was always
indeed a degree of stateliness in the manner of Mr Darnley, and that
stateliness did not appear any less than usual, nor did it appear quite
so tolerable as on former days and on former occasions.

In the young ladies, notwithstanding their general good sense and most
excellent education, there was towards Penelope that kind of look,
tone, and address, which is so frequently adopted towards those who
once were equals, and whom misfortune has made inferiors. Those of our
readers who cannot understand us here we sincerely congratulate.

It had been made known to Mr Darnley for what purpose Miss Primrose was
making preparations for a journey to London. But, though the fact had
been communicated, the reason for that step had not been mentioned;
not a word had been said concerning the pressing importunity of the
Countess; nor was there any notice taken to him of the reluctance
with which Penelope had consented to this arrangement. It appeared
therefore to Mr Darnley that the measure was quite in unison with
the young lady’s own wishes; nor did he see how incongruous such a
movement as this must be with his suspicions of the aspiring views of
his late friend’s niece. At all events, this proceeding on the part
of Miss Primrose appeared to him, and very naturally so, as a tacit
relinquishment of the engagement with his son: as it was impossible
for her not to know how repugnant it must be to the feelings and taste
of Mr Robert Darnley. But as the elder Mr Darnley held the clerical
office, of the sanctity and dignity of which he had very high ideas,
he thought it but part of his duty to administer a word or two of
exhortation to the young lady about to embark in a concern of such a
peculiar nature.

Now to render exhortation palatable, or even tolerable, requires a
very considerable share of address and dexterity, more indeed than
usually falls to the lot of clerical or of laical gentry. It is easy
enough to utter most majestically and authoritatively a mass of common
places concerning the dangers to which young people are exposed in the
world. It is easy to say, “Now let me advise you always to be upon your
guard against the allurements of the world, and to conduct yourself
circumspectly, and be very, very attentive to all the proper decorums
and duties of your station.” Such talk as this anybody may utter; and
when young people commence life, they expect to hear such talk; and
for the most part, to say the best of it, it produces no effect, good,
bad, or indifferent. It is also easy to render exhortation painful and
distressing, by making it assume the form of something humiliating
and reproachful; and when it has also a reference to some departed
friend, or to circumstances once bright, but now gloomy, and when
these references are founded on injustice, and when this injustice
cannot be refuted or rectified without some explanation or explanations
more painful still, then it is that exhortation is doubly painful
and distressing. So fell upon the ear and heart of poor Penelope the
exhorting language of Mr Darnley.

When Penelope had first entered the apartment she had announced the
purpose of her call, and had, by the assistance of the Darnleys, stated
the views with which she was going to London: for so reluctant was she
to mention the fact, that its annunciation was almost extorted from her
by those who knew beforehand what were her intentions. After a very
little and very cold common-place talk, uttered merely from a feeling
of the necessity of saying something, the conversation dropped, and the
parties looked awkwardly at one another. Then did Mr Darnley, assuming
a right reverend look, address himself to Miss Primrose.

“Now, Miss Primrose, before we part, let me as your friend, and as a
friend of your late uncle, give you a little parting advice. I am sorry
that you have determined on taking this step, and had you condescended
to consult me on the subject, I certainly should have dissuaded you
from the undertaking. But, however, that is past. Though I rather am
surprised, I must acknowledge that, recollecting as you must, how
strongly your late worthy uncle used to speak against this pursuit, you
should so soon after his decease resolve to engage in it. But, however,
you are perfectly independent, and have a right to do as you please.
I do not say that in this pursuit there is anything inconsistent with
religion and morality. I would by no means be so uncharitable. But I
should have thought, Miss Primrose, that, considering your high spirit,
you would hardly have condescended to such an employment; for I may
call it condescension, when I consider the prospects to which you were
born: but those, I am sorry to say, are gone. As you have then fully
resolved upon thus making a public display of your musical talents,
which, for anything I know to the contrary, may be of the highest
order--for I do not understand music myself--you will perhaps excuse
me if, as a friend of your late uncle, and really a well-wisher to
yourself, I just take the liberty to caution you against the snares
by which you are surrounded. Beware of the intoxications of flattery,
and do not be unduly distressed if you should occasionally in the
public journals be made the subject of ill-natured criticism. For I
understand there are many young and inexperienced writers who almost
regularly assail by severe criticism public performers of every kind;
and they make use of very authoritative language. Now this kind of
criticism would be very offensive to a person who was not aware that it
is the production of ignorant, conceited boys. I was once acquainted
with a young man who made acknowledgments to me that have given me a
very different view of the critical art from that which I formerly
entertained. But, my good young lady, there are severer trials which
await you than these: you will be very much exposed to the society of
the vicious and dissipated. You will have need of all your caution and
circumspection to take care that your religious and moral principles
be not weakened or impaired. I do not say, indeed, that your profession
is to be esteemed irreligious or immoral; but it certainly is exposed
to many snares, and does require an unusual share of attention. I hope
you will not neglect to attend church regularly and punctually. It will
assuredly be noticed if you neglect this duty. Many will keep you in
countenance should you be disposed to slight the public ordinances of
religion; but there are also not a few who patronize public musical
performances, and who also attend on religious worship: it is desirable
therefore to let these persons see that you are also attentive to the
duties of religion, I must add, Miss Primrose, that I am concerned
to find you so bent upon this scheme. It would have given me great
pleasure, had all things proceeded rightly, to afford you an asylum in
this house till the return of your father, or till any other change had
rendered such accommodation no longer necessary. But, as circumstances
now are, this cannot be.”

It is easy to conceive what effect such language as this must have had
on the sensitive mind and almost broken heart of Penelope Primrose. It
is very true that, in this address to her, Mr Darnley had no malicious
or cruel intention, though every sentence which he uttered grieved her
to the very soul. Well was it for Penelope that she was partly prepared
for something of this kind, and that her sorrows had crept upon her
gradually. Therefore she bore all this with a most enduring patience,
and never attempted to make any explanation or apology otherwise than
by meekly and calmly replying to the elaborate harangue of Mr Darnley:

“I thank you, sir, for your advice; I hope and trust I shall attend to
it; but I wish you to understand that I am not acting purely according
to my own inclinations in adopting this employment. I am sorry that I
am under the necessity--”

The sentence was unfinished, and the tone in which it was uttered
excited Mr Darnley’s compassion: but he thought it very strange
that Miss Primrose should express any reluctance to engage in a
pursuit which, according to all appearance, she had voluntarily and
unnecessarily adopted. The young ladies also were very sorry for her,
but still they could not help blaming her mentally for her fickleness
towards their brother; for they were sure that he was attached to
her, and they plainly saw, or at least thought they saw, that she
had withdrawn her affections from him. Penelope also was very well
convinced, by this interview with the family, that all her hopes of
Robert Darnley were gone.

To avoid any farther unpleasantness, she then took leave of her late
friends, and, with a very heavy heart, returned to Smatterton to make
immediate preparation for her journey to London. Alas! poor girl, she
was not in a frame of mind favourable to the purposes of festivity
or the notes of gladness. She, in whose heart was no gladness, was
expected to be the means of delighting others. Thus does it happen,
that the tears of one are the smiles of another, and the pleasures of
mankind are founded in each others pains. Never do the burning words
and breathing thoughts of poetry spring with such powerful energy and
sympathy-commanding force, as when they come from a heart that has felt
the bitterness of grief, and that has been agitated even unto bursting.

Our heroine would then have appeared to the greatest advantage, and
would then have commanded the deepest sympathy in those moments of
solitude, which intervened between the last leave-taking and her
departure for a metropolis of which she had seen nothing, heard much,
and thought little. But now her mind was on the rack of thought, and
so deeply and painfully was it impressed, that her feeling was of
the absolute impossibility of effectually answering the designs and
intentions of her friend the Countess. She could not bear to look back
to the days that were past--she felt an indescribable reluctance to
look forward, but her mind was of necessity forced in that direction.
All that spirit of independence and feeling of almost pride, which
formed no small part of her character, seemed now to have taken flight,
and to have left her a humble, destitute, helpless creature. It was a
pretty conceit that came into her head, and though it was sorrowful she
smiled at it; for she thought that her end would be swanlike, and that
her first song would be her last, with which she should expire while
its notes were trembling on her lips.




                              CHAPTER XI.


It was not very considerate of the Countess of Smatterton to let a
young lady like Penelope Primrose take a long and solitary journey of
two hundred miles in a stage-coach without any guide, companion, or
protector. The Earl had a very ample supply of travelling apparatus,
and it would have been quite as easy to have found room for Penelope in
one of the carriages when the family travelled up to town. But they who
do not suffer inconveniences themselves, can hardly be brought to think
that others may. Penelope felt rather mortified at this neglect, and it
was well for her that she did, as it was the means of taking away her
attention from more serious but remoter evil. It was also productive
of another advantage; for it gave Mr Kipperson an opportunity of
exhibiting his gallantry and politeness. For, the very morning before
Penelope was to leave Smatterton, Mr Kipperson called in person on
the young lady, and stated that imperious business would compel him
to visit the metropolis, and he should have infinite pleasure in
accompanying Miss Primrose on her journey, and perhaps that might be
more agreeable to her than travelling alone or with total strangers.
Penelope could not but acknowledge herself highly obliged by Mr
Kipperson’s politeness, nor did she, with any affectation or foolery,
decline what she might perhaps be compelled to accept. On the following
morning, therefore, Miss Primrose, escorted by Mr Kipperson, left the
sweet village of Smatterton. That place had been a home to Penelope
from almost her earliest recollections, and all her associations and
thoughts were connected with that place, and with its little neighbour
Neverden. Two hundred miles travelling in a stage-coach is a serious
business to one who has hardly ever travelled but about as many yards.
It is also a very tedious affair even to those who are accustomed to
long journies by such conveyance. In the present instance, however,
the journey did not appear too long to either of our travellers. For
Penelope had looked forward to the commencement of her journey with too
much repugnance to have any very great desire for its completion, and
Mr Kipperson was too happy in the company of Miss Primrose to wish the
wheels of time, or of the coach, to put themselves to the inconvenience
of rolling more rapidly than usual on his account. It was also an
additional happiness to Mr Kipperson that there were in the coach
with him two fellow travellers who had long heard of his fame, but
had never before seen his person; and when they discovered that they
were in company with the great agriculturist, and the great universal
knowledge promoter, Mr Kipperson, they manifested no small symptoms of
satisfaction and admiration.

Now the mind of the scientific agriculturist was so constructed as to
experience peculiar pleasure and delight at aught which came to his
ear in the form of compliment and admiration. And, when Mr Kipperson
was pleased, he was in general very eloquent and communicative; and he
informed his fellow travellers that he was now hastening up to London
on business of the utmost importance. He had received despatches from
town, calling him up to attend the House of Commons, and to consult
with, or rather to advise, certain committees connected with the
agricultural interest. And he, the said Mr Kipperson, certainly could
not decline any call which the deeply vital interests of agriculture
might make upon him. Thereupon he proceeded to shew that there was
no one individual in the kingdom uniting in himself those rare
combinations of talent, which were the blessing and distinction of
the celebrated Mr Kipperson of Smatterton; and that if he should not
pay attention to the bill then before the House, or at least likely
to be before the House, by the time he should arrive in London, the
agricultural interest must be completely ruined; there could be no
remunerating price, and then the farmers would throw up their farms
and leave the country, taking with them all their implements, skill,
forethought, and penetration; and then all the land would be out
of cultivation, and the kingdom would be but one vast common, only
maintaining, and that very scantily, donkeys and geese.

When the safety of a nation depends upon one individual, that
individual feels himself very naturally of great importance. But
perhaps this is a circumstance not happening quite so often as is
imagined. Strange indeed must it be that, if out of a population of
ten or twelve millions, only one or two can be found on whose wisdom
the state can rely, or from whose councils it can receive benefit. But
as the pleasure of imagining one’s self to be of importance is very
great, that pleasure is very liberally indulged in. And thus the number
of those rarities, called “the only men in the world,” is considerably
increased. Now Mr Kipperson was the only man in the world who had
sagacity and penetration enough to know wherein consisted the true
interest of agriculture; and he was most happy in giving his time and
talents to the sacred cause of high prices. Enough of this: we do not
like to be panegyrical, and it is very probable that our readers will
not be much disappointed if we protest that it is not our intention to
enter very deeply into the subject of political economy. Indeed were
we to enter very deeply into the subject with which Mr Kipperson was
intimate, we should be under the necessity of making an encyclopedia,
or of plundering those already made, beyond the forbearance of their
proprietors.

That must be an exceedingly pleasant mode of travelling which does
not once, during a very long journey, provoke the traveller to wish
himself at his journey’s end. Pleased as was Mr Kipperson at the
opportunity afforded him of behaving politely to Miss Primrose, and
gratified as he was by the respectful veneration with which his two
other fellow travellers received the enunciations of his oracular
wisdom; fearful as was Penelope that her new life would be the death
of her, and mourning as she was under the actual loss of one most
excellent friend, and contemplating the possible loss of others, still
both were pleased to be at their journey’s end.

It would have given Mr Kipperson great pleasure to accompany Miss
Primrose to the Earl of Smatterton’s town residence; but it gave
him much greater pleasure to be able to apologize for this apparent
neglect, by saying that business of a most important nature demanded
his immediate attendance in the city, and from thence to the House
of Commons; but that he should have great pleasure in calling on the
following morning to make enquiries after his fellow traveller, and
to pay his respects to his worthy and right honorable neighbour, Lord
Smatterton. For although my Lord Smatterton was what the world calls
a proud man, yet he did admit of freedom and a species of familiarity
from some sort of people; and a little freedom with a great man goes a
great way with a little man. Now Mr Kipperson was one of those persons
to whom the Earl of Smatterton was most graciously condescending, and
with good reason was he condescending; for this said Mr Kipperson,
wishing to keep up the respectability of the farming profession,
and though being much of a tenant, and a little of a landlord, but
hoping in due time to be more of a landlord through an anticipated
inheritance, he gave all his mind to impress upon his agricultural
neighbours the importance of keeping up prices, and he paid no small
sum for the farm which he tenanted under the Earl of Smatterton. It may
be indeed said with some degree of truth, that he paid Lord Smatterton
exceedingly well for his condescension; and as his lordship was not
much exposed to Mr Kipperson’s invasions in London, he bore them with
great resignation and address when they did happen. The Countess also
was condescending to Mr Kipperson, being very sensible of his value to
the Smatterton estate; so that the great and scientific agriculturist
appeared to visit this noble family on terms of equality; and it is a
fact that he thought himself quite equal, if not rather superior, to
the Smatterton nobleman. It was a pleasure to Mr Kipperson to enjoy
this conceit; and it did no one any injury, and it is a pity that he
should be disturbed in the possession of the fancy.

The nobility do not act judiciously when they admit of any other token
of distinction than actual rank. When once they adopt any fanciful
distinction from fashion, or _ton_, or impudence, for they are nearly
the same, the benefit of the civil distinction is at once renounced,
and there is no established immoveable barrier against innovation. A
merchant, or the son of a merchant, may by means of an imperturbable
self-conceit, or by force of commanding impudence, push himself up
into the highest walks of life, and look down upon nobility. Though
the biographer of a deceased statesman may express his lament that
nobility does not admit talent _ad eundem_, yet there is danger lest
nobility should hold its hereditary honors with too light a hand. Lord
Smatterton indeed was not guilty of neglecting to preserve upon his own
mind, or endeavouring to impress on the minds of others, a due and full
sense of his own importance. Even to Mr Kipperson his familiarity was
obviously condescension, though not so felt or regarded by Mr Kipperson
himself. We will leave this gentleman for awhile to go and transact
important business in the city, and we will attend upon Miss Primrose.

As soon as the poor girl had found her way to the residence of the
Countess of Smatterton, she was received by her ladyship with the
greatest kindness.

“Now, my dear Miss Primrose, this is very good of you to come up to
town so soon. But how did you come--you did not come all the way by
yourself. Surely you did not travel by the stage coach?”

Penelope informed her ladyship concerning her fellow traveller, and
expressed herself perfectly well satisfied with the mode of travelling
which she had adopted.

“Well, that was fortunate; but really, if I had thought of it in time,
you might have come with our family when we travelled up. But I am very
glad you are come. You will be quite indispensable to us to-morrow
evening. I am happy to see you looking so well, and how did you leave
Mrs Greendale? Poor woman! Her loss is very great!”

Fortunately for Penelope, the Countess was not one of those
unreasonable persons who ask questions for the sake of answers, but
one of those, who are not a small number, who ask questions purely
for the sake of asking them, and by way of shewing their own very
great condescension in deigning to ask so particularly concerning what
interests their inferiors. It is however not good policy that the
models of politeness should, in their manifest heedlessness of answers
to their questions, so decidedly testify to their own insincerity and
heartlessness.

Penelope was glad to be liberated from the interview with her ladyship,
and to enjoy for a while the solitude which her apartment afforded. An
apartment had been provided for her reception in the town residence
of the Earl of Smatterton; and though the ascent to it was rather
laborious, yet it had the blessed comfort of affording to the troubled
one an opportunity of sitting alone, and shedding a few tears, and
communing with her own heart. There are some states of mind in which
the sufferer feels most and greatest consolation in being left to the
thoughts of solitude. There was however even in solitude nothing
pleasing for Penelope to meditate upon: but hope is an artist that
draws its finest scenes upon the darkest ground. Amidst all the losses
which she had experienced, and the pains which she had suffered, and
the dreaded anticipations of evils yet to come, still Penelope could
think that her father was yet living, and might perhaps soon make his
appearance in England, and fulfil those promises of which she had
often indirectly heard. It was painful to her that she could not form
any idea of her father. She had always regarded him as an object of
compassion; for her uncle in the candour of his heart never uttered
words of reproach against Mr Primrose; but, when he spoke of him,
called him his poor brother, his unfortunate kinsman, and he always
seemed to regard him as a victim to others’ vices and not to his own.
Penelope could not form an idea of a being more fatherly than Dr
Greendale had always been to her; and whenever her young ears caught
the sound of sympathy or sorrow for her lot as a poor fatherless
child, she denied in her own heart the applicability of such language
to herself. She knew that she had a father living abroad, but she felt
that a father had died at home. When, however, upon this absent living
father Penelope knew that her only hope and dependence could rest, then
did she with more fixedness of mind direct her thoughts and prayers
thitherward. It was some consolation to her that some little time must
elapse before she could by any possibility make her appearance in
public; this would be some alleviation, and might perhaps produce some
change. The language however which the Countess had used respecting
to-morrow, seemed to indicate that some commencement of publicity was
destined for her even at that early date. And this thought was a dark
spot in the picture of hope. So all the bright expectations which
mortals cherish, have in their foreground something harshly real and
coarsely literal. Many hours however the poor deserted one did not
meditate upon melancholy, or on brighter scenes. The weariness which
had resulted from her long journey, and the agitation of spirits which
she had suffered, were too much for her strength, and she soon sank
to the silence of repose. Happy was it for her that the outlines of
her destiny were but faintly traced; she scarcely knew for what mode
of public display her patroness had designed her; but she could and
did hope for the best. In all her thoughts the image of Robert Darnley
was not in her mind’s eye for any length of time; it frequently made
its appearance, and as frequently it was dismissed; not in anger--not,
or scarcely, in sorrow, but in resignation and philosophy. She had
endeavoured to wean her mind from the thought of a fickle lover,
without having recourse to hatred, reproach or resentment. She
exercised great diligence to cultivate a degree of indifference, and
she so far deceived herself as to fancy that she had succeeded. Youth
never so thoroughly deceives itself as when it says, “I don’t care.”




                             CHAPTER XII.


Another day dawned upon the multitudinous interests and emotions of
humanity. To the mind which can spare time from the intensity of its
own feelings, and the selfishness of its own concerns, to think of
others--to think, not merely to talk morality and sentiment about them,
but to realise the emotions and agitations of thoughts which harass the
human breast, there is in the thought of a day dawning in a great city
a deep and serious fulness of interest. The sun’s first blush upon the
mountains and woods and streams and spangled meadows, is poetical and
pretty enough, but the same light beaming on the condensed and crowded
habitations of men, brings to the mind far other thoughts, and excites
widely different emotions. It awakens misery from its dreams of bliss,
and guilt from its dreams of innocence, poverty from its dreams of
wealth, and despair from its dreams of hope. Anxiety begins anew its
busy work in the breast of the needy parent, and gnawing hunger oft
reminds the sufferer of the opening of another day. Bitter are the
feelings which morning ofttimes brings to the sons and daughters of
poverty; but not to them alone are confined the agonizing throbs of the
heart. There is among the inmates of those proud mansions which seemed
built for festivity alone, and tenanted by luxury and repose, many,
many a bitter pang. There is the thought of keener anguish than any
mere physical privation or suffering can inflict, there are pangs of
heart for which language has no words, and fancy no figures, there are
fears and dreads of which the humbler sufferers of life’s ills have no
conception. Not enviable were the feelings of our heroine on the first
morning in which she woke in the great city.

Then did she feel her truly desolate and destitute condition. She had
been as a beauteous flower hanging on a slender film over the current
of a river, that film had broken, and the flower had dropped upon the
stream at the mercy of its waves. With the opening day there had been
accustomed to enter into her mind thoughts of devotion and gratitude.
These thoughts came, but not as usual. It seemed to her as though she
had not been sufficiently thankful to her Creator for his blessings,
and that they had been withheld. She would have prayed but she dared
not, she would have wept but she could not. Her bodily fatigue was
gone, but the weariness of mind was felt more strongly. She endeavoured
to compose her scattered thoughts, but that was a task of no small
difficulty. One of the greatest concerns of all, however, was, that by
this new arrangement she was placed out of all communication with her
father; for the late Dr Greendale was the only person in England with
whom Mr Primrose had any correspondence. It was even doubtful whether
Mrs Greendale herself knew his address. These circumstances, therefore,
though they might not break off his communication with England, would
naturally produce a long and serious interruption to it. For her own
part, it was out of her power to convey to her father any knowledge
of her situation, so as to be able by his intervention to avoid that
publicity which she so much dreaded.

Not long had her mind been thus painfully occupied, before she received
a visit in her apartment from her friend Lady Smatterton: and as
she was now totally dependent on her ladyship, she was desirous of
conciliating her regards as much as possible; nor indeed was that
a very difficult task. A little sense of humility and feeling of
obligation and submission to her ladyship’s superior wisdom, would
always ensure the Countess of Smatterton’s good will. When, therefore,
Penelope with great humility, and a look of gratification, expressed
her thanks to her ladyship for her very kind attentions, the Countess
being pleased to see that her condescension had made its impression,
was in very high spirits, and became more gracious and condescending
still.

“My dear Miss Primrose, you look quite charmingly this morning. I am
delighted to find that you have not experienced any inconvenience from
the fatigue of your journey. I think you will be in most excellent
voice this evening. Now, I expect a few select friends to-night; and
some of them are amateurs, and I assure you I have promised them a
treat, in which I know they will not be disappointed. I have all your
favourite songs and duets, so you may make your selection in the
course of the morning; and I have a new harp which I wish you to try. I
think you will like it.”

With a very great effort to suppress a very deep sigh, Penelope
replied: “I shall be most happy to use my best exertions to gratify
your ladyship, but I fear that before so many persons who are total
strangers to me, and without any previous scientific instruction, I may
disappoint the expectations which your ladyship’s kindness has excited.”

“Oh dear no, my dear, I beg you will not entertain any such notion;
we shall have a very small party indeed, and of the amateurs, I can
assure you that there is not one that is half so well acquainted with
the science of music as you are. It will be time enough for you to take
lessons previously to your performance in public, and that not because
you need musical instruction, but there are certain peculiarities which
it is necessary that public performers should know.”

Miss Primrose, knowing how much the Countess disliked objections to
any of her own arrangements, submitted as resignedly as she could; but
with a feeling that neither her bodily nor mental strength were equal
to the task which awaited her. The visit of the Countess concluded
with requesting Penelope to take her breakfast with the family, unless
she preferred being quite alone. But Penelope found little pleasure
in solitude, and therefore very readily accepted the invitation to
take breakfast at the family table, where she very soon after made her
appearance.

At this table there sat down the Earl and Countess of Smatterton and
Lord Spoonbill. This was the usual party, and Penelope was received
by them all three with so much kindness, and such genuine politeness
of manner, that she felt herself no stranger. And they all asked very
kindly after Mrs Greendale, and they all hoped that Miss Primrose
had not suffered from the fatigue of the journey; and when Lord
Spoonbill asked how Miss Primrose had travelled, and when he heard that
she had travelled by the stage-coach in company with Mr Kipperson,
he was astonished and grieved; and he thought it a great pity that
arrangements had not been previously made for accommodating the young
lady in one of their carriages. The Earl also expressed himself much
concerned at the same neglect. Alas, thought Penelope, what a multitude
of words on trifles. How she had travelled was now nothing to her, but
it was something to her when she thought for what purpose that journey
had been made.

Lord Spoonbill, after a proper interval, and with a very becoming
seriousness of manner, gently adverted to the death of Dr Greendale,
and perceiving that it was a subject on which Penelope loved to dwell,
notwithstanding the melancholy and painful associations connected
with it, he proceeded to extol the virtues of her deceased relative,
and to express his own great obligations to the good man for the
many valuable pieces of advice he had received from the late rector
of Smatterton; he thought that it was a great pity that some of the
doctor’s sermons should not be given to the public, for they would
undoubtedly be productive of good. Penelope was very well pleased,
and indeed quite interested by the manner in which Lord Spoonbill
condescended to speak of her departed relative; and she began to think
that his lordship was not quite so great a coxcomb as she had once
taken him to be. Gradually her mind recovered a little of its natural
vivacity, and her looks resumed part of their wonted cheerfulness.
She was comparatively easy and composed. Then did the young nobleman
ingeniously, and without forced transition, turn the conversation
to other topics, and he spoke much of the metropolis and its many
magnificences; but with peculiar delicacy avoided saying anything of
public concerts. Penelope felt grateful for such kind and considerate
attentions, and began to think that in the manners of the higher ranks
there was something peculiarly fascinating which could render such a
man as Lord Spoonbill not only tolerable but really agreeable. The Earl
of Smatterton was also very courteous and kind to his guest, though
he could not well avoid majestic manifestations of his kindness. He
condescended to hope that Miss Primrose would find herself happy in
the metropolis, and dwelt with much complacency on the opportunity
she would enjoy of introduction to society; and he spake largely of
the patronizing propensities of the Countess; he also mentioned other
titled ladies, to whose saloons the young dependent might be admitted;
and concluded a long harangue by saying, that on proper occasions she
would be a welcome guest at his own house.

Now it happened that on the breakfast table there was lying a
newspaper, which was occasionally taken up and laid down by one
or other of the noble family of Smatterton. Penelope was not a
politician, but seeing the words “Ship News” printed in distinct and
distantly visible characters, she felt some curiosity to read that same
news, for she thought it possible that there might be in that article
something deeply interesting to herself. It appeared however to her
that it would be making herself rather too much at home to take up the
paper; she endeavoured therefore as it lay to catch a glimpse of the
intelligence. Lord Spoonbill observed the direction of her eyes, and
very politely offered her the paper, which she thankfully accepted.
Just as she was in the act of directing her eyes towards that part
of the paper which contained the intelligence most important to her,
something addressed to her by Lord Smatterton called her away from
the page almost in the very moment that the name of Primrose caught
her eye. And as Penelope laid down the paper on being spoken to by
his lordship, Lord Spoonbill took it up again, and by some means or
other it was no longer visible. What she had seen was enough to
excite strong feelings and to raise her hopes. She had a recollection
of the word “arrived,” and the name of “Primrose” among the list of
passengers; at least so it seemed to her from the hasty glance which
she had taken of the paper. This of course was quite sufficient to
fill her mind with the most pleasing visions for the rest of the day:
and hearing that Mr Kipperson might very probably be one of the party
in the evening, and knowing that this gentleman was deeply versed in
matters of business, it occurred to her that he might bring her some
pleasing intelligence from the city touching the arrival of vessels
from the East Indies, and the names of passengers. It is true, there
might be one of the name of Primrose and still no relation of hers. But
she might at least enjoy the hope as long as possible; and it would
cheer her spirit amidst the darkness of reality.

The evening came, and with it the few select friends of the Countess of
Smatterton, who were to compose her party. There were not many persons
in town at this time; but Penelope had never before seen anything
bearing the slightest resemblance to a fashionable party, for she had
never been at the Easter ball at the Mansion house, or at Bartholomew
fair; to her therefore this very small select party looked like a very
tumultuous and promiscuous multitude. Every face was strange to her,
and as the apartments were splendidly lighted up, the drawing and music
rooms opening into each other, and displaying by means of mirrors a
deceiving appearance as to their real dimensions. Thus magnified and
multiplied, they looked to her unpractised eye as awfully public as a
great theatre. Part of the company was assembled before Penelope made
her appearance. When therefore she entered the middle drawing-room,
which was the apartment most usually occupied by the family, she was
surprised at the sight of lighted apartments on both sides of this,
and these apartments to her eye filled with elegant company. She was
still more surprised at entering the room to find that no one took the
slightest notice of her in the way of courtesy, but that three or four
young gentlemen who were standing together near a fire-place absolutely
and immovably stared at her: and then, as soon as she caught sight of
the Countess of Smatterton, she observed that her ladyship was engaged
in conversation with a great, broad, coarse, overdressed female, who
was talking very loud and looking very majestically. This stranger
appeared like a very vulgar woman to our unfashionable heroine, but was
in reality no less a personage than the Duchess of Steeple Bumstead.
Her Grace put her glass to her eye, and contemplated by its means the
face and figure of Penelope. The poor girl felt very uncomfortable and
ill at ease being thus gazed at so unmercifully. As soon as her Grace
had satisfied her curiosity she dropt her glass, and wheeled round
and sailed away in another direction. The Countess of Smatterton then
approached the confused and embarrassed dependent, and after giving her
a good-humoured rebuke for making her appearance in such very sable
attire, told her that the Duchess of Steeple Bumstead was very desirous
of hearing her sing.

Penelope saw by the nearest mirror that the aspect of her attire was
dark indeed, but dark as it was it could not express the mourning which
she felt for her great loss. She was by no means in a proper frame of
mind for the enjoyment of society, or at all fit for anything that
wore the aspect of festivity. She suffered herself to be led into the
music-room by the Countess, and she made a most respectful curtesy
to the Duchess of Steeple Bumstead, when she had the honor of being
introduced to a personage of such elevated rank. But still Penelope
could not help thinking that fashionable manners were not agreeable:
for she recollected that her late uncle used to define politeness as
being that kind of behaviour which was least calculated to give pain
to others; and yet Penelope felt more pain from the behaviour of the
Duchess of Steeple Bumstead, and that of some of the whiskered boys in
Lady Smatterton’s drawing room, than she would have felt from persons
not so high in rank and so fashionable in manners. All that arose from
her ignorance of ways of the world. Why did she take the opinion of
her uncle as oracular in those matters of which he could not possibly
know anything at all? A country clergyman, who studies books all his
life-time, can know nothing of the world.

The Duchess was pleased to question Penelope on the subject of music,
and was pleased to express her approbation of the good taste which the
young lady displayed. By degrees the manners of her Grace appeared
less repulsive, and Penelope felt herself more at her ease. There
was standing by the pianoforte a young lady of mild, pleasing, and
prepossessing countenance, to whom the Duchess addressed herself:

“My dear Jemima, you will perhaps have the goodness to accompany Miss
Primrose on the pianoforte to some song, if there be one there that our
friend would like to sing.”

The young lady expressed great readiness to oblige the Duchess--and the
leaves of many books were turned over. It was not difficult to find a
song that Penelope was familiar with, but it was difficult to find one
which did not bring by its language or its expression some association
painful and distressing to her mind. The Duchess was very patient
during the search, and at length a piece was selected. Miss Primrose
had a style of singing peculiarly her own. It was not marked by any
very strong singularity, but its decided character was expression: and
she shone most in those songs which admit of what may be called the
rhetoric of music. There was also a very considerable degree of emotion
in her musical expression, and it required a skilful hand to accompany
her. That requisite she now had. As her voice was full and deep, it was
also searching, and those who were within its reach felt themselves
as it were addressed by the singer. This style was truly commanding
and attractive. The company gradually surrounded the performer, and
well for her she knew not till the song was finished, that any one
was attending to her besides the Duchess of Steeple Bumstead and the
Countess of Smatterton.

Very abundant and very sincere applause followed the music’s close. But
the music or the applause was too much for our heroine, and she nearly
fainted; kind and prompt assistance soon recovered her, and thus she
was saved from an immediate repetition of that which her hearers would
gladly have heard again. There was much talk in the room as to, who is
she? But few could answer the question. One impertinent coxcomb said
“She looks too modest to be a woman of great fashion.”

Just at this moment who should enter the room but Peter Kipperson,
Esq.! Peter was in all his glory. He had been occupied during the whole
of the day in business of the utmost importance. He had been consulted
and had given his advice, and his advice had been taken. He now
presented himself to Lady Smatterton’s party, in which were several
members of parliament, and as these were mostly men of business, Peter
was personally known to most of them, and he received and returned
their salutations with great self-satisfaction. Peter was an active
little man, and he was nimbly moving about the apartments in search of
Miss Primrose; but before he could meet with her he encountered the
Earl of Smatterton.

“Mr Kipperson,” said his lordship, “I am most happy to see you. Have
you met your committee to-day in the city? Have you taken any farther
steps in that business, of which you were speaking to me the other
day at Smatterton? Really, Mr Kipperson, something must be done, it
is becoming a very serious affair. Those merchants are very crafty,
selfish people. We must put a stop to their encroachments before it is
too late.”

“My lord,” replied Mr Kipperson, “I am very happy to have it in my
power to assure you that the resolution which I suggested is adopted.
I was forced to use all my powers of persuasion. I said to them in so
many words, ‘Gentlemen,’ says I, ‘Gentlemen, if you do not adopt this
resolution, the nation is ruined, we shall have the country deluged
with corn, and we shall of course be all starved.’”

“That was excellent, Mr Kipperson; you have saved the nation. I see you
have right views of the matter.”

Several members also of the lower house, who were present, expressed
themselves to the same effect; and it was very satisfactory to Mr
Kipperson to think that he had so timely and wisely interfered with his
prodigious wisdom to save the nation from being starved.

After many interruptions, the wise and learned agriculturist found
his way to Penelope Primrose; and in answer to her interrogations
concerning what she thought she had seen in the papers of the morning,
informed her that two or three of the Company’s ships had arrived,
that in one of them there certainly was a passenger named Primrose.
By Mr Kipperson’s answer to a few more interrogations, Penelope was
nearly certain that this could be no other than her long lost father.
The very possibility of such an event was agitating to her mind, and
the increasing probability of it was too great for her weak spirits
to bear. A thousand thoughts at once confusedly rushed into her mind.
She knew not how to inform her father of her present situation. She
was doubtful whether he was returning home dependent or independent.
She supposed that he would in the first instance find his way to
Smatterton, and then it must be some days before she could see him.
These and many more like considerations entered into her mind, and
their united influence was such as to harass and perplex her beyond
measure. She was most happy when the evening party of the Countess had
dispersed, and when she was left alone to meditation and to hope. Then
she endeavoured to conjecture on the probability of being rescued from
the publicity which so awfully and imminently threatened her, and with
these thoughts others also entered the mind, and none of them were of a
nature to soothe or compose.

Suffice it to say, that these various agitating feelings, and this new
life into which Penelope was so unexpectedly and so painfully thrown,
conspired together to produce a serious illness.




                             CHAPTER XIII.


There are few, perhaps, of our female readers who could have passed
through what Penelope was compelled to suffer, without sinking under
the weight of such an accumulation of distressing circumstances. The
wonder is, that she bore up so long, rather than that she sunk at last.

It is with reluctance that we withdraw the attention of our readers
from the bedside of the dependent sufferer. We can only state that the
Countess was very assiduous in her attentions to her patient, that the
best medical assistance was immediately procured, that Lord Spoonbill
was very regular in his enquiries, and that the Earl of Smatterton
desired that the young woman might not want for anything that was
useful or that might contribute to her comfort and recovery. He said so
every morning.

It is now absolutely necessary that we violate two of the unities, viz.
of time and place. We must violate the unity of time, by doing what
time itself with all its power cannot do; we must go backwards; and we
must also violate the unity of place, by transporting our readers to
the island of St Helena. Their expatriation will be but short.

About the beginning of November, in the year 18--, two of the Company’s
ships touched at this island in their passage homeward. The crews and
the passengers were not sorry to have such symptoms of home as this
accidental meeting produced. Those of the passengers who were going
to England for the last time, found in the word “last” a different
charm from any which Dr Johnson attributes to it, in the last paper of
the Rambler. It was a cheerful and animating feeling which pervaded
their bosoms, a sentiment joyous even to tears. The first enquiries
of all were for news from England, and the post-office was an object
of general attraction. There were to be seen there cheerful and
disappointed countenances, but every one was too much occupied with his
own thoughts to take any notice of others.

There came out of the office a middle-aged stout gentleman, reading
with great seriousness and emotion a letter which he held open in his
hands, and there passed him and entered into the office a younger man,
a fine tall handsome man, who would naturally have excited any one’s
attention by the mere force of his appearance; but the middle-aged
gentleman was too deeply engaged to notice him at the moment. In a few
seconds the younger of the two came out of the office, not reading
a letter, but holding one in his hand unopened; and looking upon
that one more sadly than he would have done had it been accompanied
with another. Presently he also opened his letter and read it, not
cheerfully, not sorrowfully, but anxiously and enquiringly. The
letter was finished and returned to his pocket; and he endeavoured to
look more cheerfully, but his efforts failed. He quickened his pace,
and presently he overtook the middle-aged gentleman; and, as they
were passengers in different ships, they looked at each other rather
earnestly, and the elder greeted the younger. The young man returned
the greeting readily, and, as well as he could, cheerfully. The elder
stranger said, that he was going to see the place where Bonaparte was
buried; the younger was going to the same place, but he called it the
tomb of Napoleon. The elder did not quarrel about the expression,
but took the young man’s offered arm, and they walked very sociably
together.

Very few words passed between them on their way to the place of their
destination; and when they arrived there they both seemed to feel a
little disappointment that there was not something more to gratify
their curiosity, or to excite emotion. Place, considered in itself,
has no charm. The imagination must make the mystery all for itself,
and that it may do absent as well as present. Nebuchadnezzar was not
unreasonable when he desired that his wise men should tell him his
dream, as well as the interpretation thereof: for if they really had
wisdom from heaven for one purpose, they would as likely have wisdom
for the other. So it is with place connected with the memory of the
distinguished sons of mortality. The imagination can as well form the
place to the mind’s eye as it can fill the place when seen with these
emotions and feelings, which we expect to be excited by such views.

The elder stranger turning to the younger, said, “What is your real
opinion of Napoleon Bonaparte?”

“He was certainly a great man,” was the safe and quiet answer. The
elder did not make any immediate reply to this enunciation of opinion
on the part of his young companion. The other therefore supposed, and
very naturally, that the answer which he had given was not altogether
satisfactory. He proceeded, therefore, but still cautiously:--“He was
a man of great ambition; and he was also a disappointed man.” All this
seemed but the echo of everybody’s opinion, let their view of the man’s
character otherwise be what it may. The elder stranger then spoke again:

“I do not think he was a great man. The word great is an epithet
too comprehensive to be applicable to a disappointed man. To be a
great man, it is necessary that there should be in the mind those
powers and that forethought which will guard against frustration and
disappointment. Greatness is not in place and in name, it is purely
in the mind. I will grant you that Napoleon Bonaparte had great
military powers--great legislative powers--great discernment of human
character; but he was not great over himself: he wanted power to guide
his power. And let a man have all other powers and all other talent,
if he have not the power of power and the talent of talent, he may
be a distinguished, he may be a notorious man, he may produce grand
effects; but he will not be a great man. True greatness is calm; for it
feels and guides its own power.”

The young man listened to this, and to more than this; for the elder
one was more voluble than we have represented him. He perhaps loved
paradox; many persons do; and some love to listen to paradox, if it be
agreeably uttered, and be not too obviously a determined contradiction
of the common feelings and opinions of mankind. The young man then
replied:

“But Napoleon produced great changes in men’s minds, and great effects
on the frame of civil society, and he has left many monuments of his
wisdom.”

“True,” replied the elder one: “Napoleon, as you call him, has done
much in the world, and perhaps more than any other individual in whose
ambitious steps he seems to have trodden. But he was raised up by a
wise Providence to teach humanity that it may grasp at what is beyond
its power. Alexander was a lesson merely to warriors; Cæsar to men of
intrigue and aspiring talent; Bonaparte to men of consummate talent of
almost every description; and if the world be not pestered with a hero
till there shall rise a man of greater talents than Napoleon Bonaparte,
it may rest in peace for many centuries.”

“I never took that view of the subject,” replied the young man. “There
is however something in what you say. Still I cannot but think that
Napoleon was a great man.”

“According to your opinions of greatness, no doubt he was. But I have
told you my ideas of greatness, and according to those he was not.
Greatness requires consistency and uniformity; and it is not in a man
of disappointed ambition that we look for those characters. It seems to
be the ordinance of heaven, that all its blessings should not centre
in one individual among created beings. Where it bestows wit, it does
not always grant wisdom to direct it; where it gives power, it does not
always bestow discretion to use that power, of whatever quality it may
be, according to the best possible principles. True greatness implies
wisdom, and wisdom in man makes the most of and does the best with its
means. Now I have at this moment a letter in my pocket from England,
bringing me an account of a good, and, I think, great man. But he was
nothing more than the humble rector of a small parish in the country.
He was by no means a man of great genius; nor was he a man of great
eloquence; but he was a man of great moral power. I will venture to
affirm that, whatever were the moral capabilities of the parish over
which he presided as pastor, he would call them forth to the utmost. It
is owing to that man that I am now living, and comparatively happy. It
is owing to me, perhaps,”----

Here the voice of the speaker was interrupted by the swelling of his
bosom, and he passed his hand convulsively on his forehead and gave
way to an agony of tears and sobs, which it would have been painful to
witness in a younger person, but which was quite distressing to see
in one of such appearance and at such an age; for he seemed full fifty
years of age, and had the appearance of a man of good understanding and
gentlemanly manners. The young man took him by the hand and faintly
uttered a few words of consolation, that he might a little abate a
sorrow which he could not wholly stay.

When the violence of the emotion had a little subsided, and the
sufferer had regained the power of speech, he first asked pardon for
his weakness, and apologised for having given way to his feelings.
“For,” continued he, “I have lost a benefactor just at a moment when
I was flattering myself that I should be able to thank him for his
kindness, and to gratify him by letting him know that his kindness had
not been in vain, and that his friendly admonitions had not all been
lost. I will not so far encroach upon your patience as to tell you my
history; but I cannot forbear from indulging in the pleasure which
I mention--the conduct of this most excellent man towards me and my
family.”

“I shall have great pleasure, sir,” replied the young man, “in
listening to any particulars with which you may be pleased to favour
me. The history of the human mind is always interesting and always
instructive.”

With this encouragement the elder stranger proceeded: “This most
excellent man, of whose death I have been speaking, was a clergyman,
whose unfortunate sister I married more than twenty years ago. I
respected and honored him when I first knew him for the purity and
simplicity of his manners. He was of a respectable family, but not
wealthy: his living was nearly his whole maintenance. I could never
induce him to spend a week with us in town. He always pleaded his
parochial duties as demanding his whole attention. It was in vain for
me, or for any one else, to suggest any hint respecting preferment
or bettering his circumstances by the ordinary means of professional
advancement. During the whole of the time I resided in England after
my marriage, I saw nothing of my respected brother-in-law. We had, it
is true, several letters from him, and letters of a most interesting
description. Well would it have been for me, and well for my dear
child, and well for my beloved companion, had I regarded these
letters as something more than models of epistolary correspondence;
had I attended to those kind paternal hints which they contained.
They gave me admonition without assuming airs of superiority or the
affectations of a would-be hermit. He wrote to me in the world, and as
from the world, making allowances for all the temptations with which
I was surrounded, and speaking of them as if he had not learned their
existence or ascertained their nature merely by the means of books or
talk. I was content with admiring the good man’s virtues. I did not
seek to imitate them. I suffered one scoundrel after another to creep
into an intimacy with me, and in a very few years my patrimony was
wasted, and all my inheritance was melted away at the gaming-table.”

There was again, at these words, a pause of passionate and deep
feeling, but it passed away, and the emotion subsided, and the narrator
went on to say:

“Then, sir, I became a widower. My beloved partner left me an only
child, a daughter, for whom I resolved to live, or, more properly
speaking, for whose sake I endeavoured to preserve and support life,
which without this stimulus would have been a burden too heavy to be
borne. I took my poor little innocent child to this venerable and
amiable clergyman. I found even then nothing like reproach. The good
man pitied me, and he pitied my child. His pity touched me more sorely
and more deeply than any reproaches which human language could have
uttered. I felt my heart melt within me. I dared not say a word of
exculpation. I stood self-condemned. I proposed to leave my native
land, and to seek elsewhere the means of maintenance for myself and my
child. He offered to take my little girl and be a father to her: and
he has been so.

She, poor innocent, hardly knows that she has any other father. I am to
her but as a name; but I do long most ardently once more to see her. I
think years have not so altered her that I shall not recognize her. I
have pleased myself during my long exile of sixteen years with forming
to myself an image of my dear child growing up to woman’s estate; and
the miniature likeness of her dear mother assists my imagination now
in forming an idea of my daughter. She is now expecting my return; and
the last letter which I received of my most excellent brother-in-law,
informed me that the poor girl had bestowed her affections, and would
with my approbation bestow her hand, on a worthy and respectable man.
I left all these matters to my relative in England. I was sure that
he would act towards my child as a parent, and as a wiser and more
truly kind parent than I have been. I was happy till this hour in the
thought that I was hastening home to England to return my thanks to my
benefactor, to see my dear child, and receive her at his hands--and now
alas this happy, this blessed, prospect is blighted by the melancholy
intelligence of this good man’s death, and would to heaven that this
were the worst--but the most painful intelligence is yet to be added.
I am informed from the best authority that my poor dear child has been
simple enough to be captivated by a young man of high rank, who is
too vain to love any one but himself, and too proud to marry beneath
his own rank. I am, therefore, likely to be greeted with sorrows and
perplexities on my very return to England.”

The elder stranger sighed calmly; and as it were resignedly, when he
had finished speaking. The younger one looked thoughtful and sighed
also. A pause of some minutes’ silence followed, and the young man said:

“You must hope better things, sir; a long absence from home should
indeed always prepare us for something of change and calamity; we must
look for those fluctuations of humanity: but still we may be permitted
to hope, and to enjoy pleasing thoughts as long as possible.”

“Yes, sir, your remarks are very true, but they are not so easily
applied. Hope does not come and go at the command of reason, and
the spirits do not rise and fall according to the dictates of the
understanding, or by any force of ratiocination. I ought to apologise
for troubling you, a stranger, with my sorrows; they cannot be
interesting to you; but it is not easy when the heart is full to
prevent it from overflowing.”

“No apology, sir, is necessary: or, if it were, I might adopt the
language of your apology, and use it as a preface to my tale of sorrow
and disappointment awaiting me also at my return to my native land. I
have also cause for grief.”

“Indeed, one so young as you appear to be! But yours, young man, are
the sorrows, perhaps, of a youthful lover. Yours are not so deeply
rooted as mine.”

These words led to an explanation which told the two strangers that
their concerns were more nearly allied than they had been aware. Our
readers of course need not be informed that the elder of the two was
Mr Primrose, and the younger Mr Robert Darnley. They were happy,
however, in the midst of their sorrows, to have become thus acquainted
at a distance from home. They only regretted that the distance between
their respective situations in India had formed an insuperable barrier
against an acquaintance and intimacy there. The fact is that, so long
as Dr Greendale considered the return of Mr Primrose as a matter of
uncertainty, he had been very cautious of exciting his daughter’s
expectations. He had ventured to consider his own approbation quite
sufficient to allow of the correspondence between his niece and Mr
Robert Darnley, and had in his letters to Mr Primrose simply mentioned
the fact without stating particulars, thinking that it would be time
enough hereafter, should the mutual affection of the young persons for
each other continue and strengthen. Mr Primrose had, in reply to that
information, left Dr Greendale quite at liberty to make such disposal
of Penelope as he might think proper; for the father was well aware
that the uncle was, both by discretion and affection, well qualified
for the guardianship of his child.

The vessels in which the two gentlemen sailed soon weighed anchor and
put to sea again. So the friends were parted for a time; nor did they
hold any farther communication on the course of their voyage, for they
had not left St Helena many days before the ship parted company in a
gale of wind. That vessel in which Mr Primrose sailed first arrived in
England, as we have already intimated.




                             CHAPTER XIV.


England appeared to Mr Primrose quite a new world. He had sixteen
years ago sailed down the river Thames, which presented on its banks
at that time quite as much picturesque beauty as now. But he did not
then observe these beauties. His heart was full of other thoughts, and
his mind was moved by widely different feelings. There had not been in
his soul the sentiment of moral beauty, nor was there in his heart that
repose of pleasure which could admit of enjoying the external world in
its manifestations of beauty or sublimity. But on his return homewards
his thoughts were far different. He had left England in forlorn hope,
but he was returning under brighter auspices. He had sailed from his
native land, bearing a deeply felt burden of self-reproach; and though
he could not forget or forgive his former self, and though still there
were painful scenes to be witnessed, and melancholy information to be
received, yet the aspect of things was widely different from what it
had been at his departure. And he expressed himself delighted with all
that he saw. The little boats and the lighter craft upon the river
spoke of bustle and activity, and of human interest; and in them he saw
the flutterings of business and prosperity. Though it was winter, and
the trees on the rising grounds were leafless, and the fields had lost
their greenness, yet the very pattern and outline of what the scene
had been in summer, and of what it would be again in spring, were all
very charming to his eye, then active with imagination. His own bright
thoughts gave verdure to the trees and greenness to the fields; and
he thought that England indeed was a blessed land. And as the vessel
made her way up the river, and as at a distance a dense black cloud
was seen, he knew that that was a manifestation of their vicinity to
the great city, and that dark mass of floating smoke, which rustic
eloquence so glibly reprobates, was to his soul a great refreshment and
a most pleasing sight.

As soon as he disembarked, he first directed his steps to the office of
his agent in the city, to make enquiry respecting the speediest mode of
arriving at Smatterton: for he knew not that his daughter’s residence
was now in London. There is a great contrast between the appearance of
the banks of the Thames and the inside of a city counting-house; but
they are both very pleasant sights to those who are glad to see them.
Mr Primrose was indeed very glad to see his native land, and to walk
the streets of its busy metropolis; and with very great cordiality did
he shake hands with the principal in the office, and very politely did
the principal congratulate him on his return to England. Mr Primrose
did not notice the great contrast between his own joy-expanded face
and the business-looking aspect of the agent; but he thought that
all London looked as glad to see him as he was to see London. After
transacting at the office of his agent such business as was immediately
important, and without waiting to observe what changes and improvements
had taken place in the great city since he had left it sixteen years
ago, he made enquiry after the readiest and quickest mode of reaching
Smatterton, and finding that the stage-coach was the most rapid
conveyance, he immediately directed his steps thitherward.

There are in the course of human life many strange and singular
coincidences. Now it happened that the very day on which Mr Primrose
was preparing to start for Smatterton, Mr Kipperson also was going
to travel the same road, and by the same conveyance. Little did the
former imagine that he was going away from his daughter; little did
he think that, in his way to the White Horse cellar in Piccadilly, he
had actually passed the house in which his beloved child and only
hope lay sick and ill. The days in December are very short; and it was
nearly dark when, at four o’clock in the afternoon, Mr Primrose and Mr
Kipperson, unknown to each other, took their seats in the coach. They
had the inside of the coach to themselves.

Mr Primrose, as we have said, was in good spirits. He certainly had
some cause for grief, and some source of concern; but the feeling
of satisfaction was most prominent. He had shed tears to the memory
of Dr Greendale, and he hoped that the worthy man had so instructed
the dependent one committed to his care, that no permanent cause
of uneasiness would be found in her. The intelligence which he had
received respecting her alleged and supposed fickleness came from
Mr Darnley, and the father, therefore, knowing Mr Darnley to be a
very severe and rigid kind of man, and withal mighty positive, hoped
that a premature judgment had been formed, and trusted that, when
all was explained, all would be right. We must indeed do the father
of Penelope the justice to say that, with all his failings, he was
sincere, candid, and downright. He never suffered any misunderstanding
to exist where it could possibly be cleared up. He was plain and direct
in all his conduct.

We need not say that Mr Kipperson was in good spirits. He always was
so. He was so very happy that by this last journey to London he had
saved the nation from being starved to death by a superabundance of
corn. What a fine thing it is to be the cleverest man in the kingdom!
What would become of us all were it not for such men as Mr Kipperson
starting up about once in a century, or twice a-week, to rectify all
the errors of all the rest of the world? And what is the use of all the
world beside, but to admire the wisdom of such men as Mr Kipperson? Our
only fear is that we may have too many such profoundly wise men; and
the consequence of an over supply of wisdom would be to ruin the nation
by folly.

Whether Mr Kipperson addressed Mr Primrose, or Mr Primrose addressed
Mr Kipperson, we know not; but in a very short time they became mighty
good friends. To some observation of Mr Primrose, his fellow traveller
replied:

“You have been abroad I suppose, sir?”

“I have, sir,” said Mr Primrose; “and that for a long while: it is now
upwards of sixteen years since I left England, and I am most happy to
return to it. Many changes have taken place since I went abroad, and
some, I hope, for the better.”

“Many improvements have indeed been made in the course of that time. We
have improved, for instance, in the rapidity with which we travel; our
roads are as smooth as a bowling-green. But our greatest improvements
of all are our intellectual improvements. We have made wonderful
strides in the march of intellect. England is now the first country in
the world for all that relates to science and art. The cultivation of
the understanding has advanced most astonishingly.

“I remember noticing when I was in India,” said Mr Primrose, “that the
number of publications seemed much increased. But many of them appeared
to be merely light reading.”

“Very likely, sir; but we have not merely light reading; we have a most
abundant supply of scientific publications: and these are read with
the utmost avidity by all classes of people, especially by the lower
classes. You have no doubt heard of the formation of the mechanics’
institutes?”

“I have, sir,” replied Mr Primrose; “but I am not quite aware of the
precise nature of their constitution, or the object at which they aim.
Perhaps you can inform me?”

“That I can, sir,” said Mr Kipperson; “and I shall have great pleasure
in so doing; for to tell you the truth I am a very zealous promoter
of these institutions. The object of these institutions is to give an
opportunity to artisans, who are employed all day in manual labour, to
acquire a scientific knowledge, not only of the art by which he lives
and at which he works, but of everything else which can possibly be
known or become a subject of human inquiry or interest.”

“But surely,” interrupted Mr Primrose, “it is not designed to convert
mechanical into scientific men. That seems to my view rather a
contradiction to the general order of things.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied the other; “you are repeating, I perceive,
exploded objections. Is it possible, do you think, that a man should do
his work worse for understanding something of the philosophy of it? Is
it not far better, where it is practicable, that a man should act as a
rational reflecting creature, than as a piece of mere machinery?”

“Very true, certainly, sir; you are right. Ay, ay, now I see: you
instruct all artisans in the philosophy of their several employments.
Most excellent. Then, I suppose, you teach architecture and read
lectures on Vitruvius to journey-men bricklayers?”

“Nay, nay, sir,” replied Mr Kipperson, “we do not carry it quite so far
as that.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” replied Mr Primrose, “I had not the slightest
idea that this was carrying your system too far. It might, perhaps,
be a little refinement on the scheme to suppose that you would teach
tailors anatomy; but after all I do not see why you should start at
carrying a matter of this kind too far. The poet says, ‘a little
knowledge is a dangerous thing;’ and, for my own part, I can see no
great liberality in this parsimonious and stinted mode of dealing out
knowledge; for unless you teach the lower classes all that is to be
taught, you make, or more properly speaking keep up, the distinction.”

Mr Kipperson was not best pleased with these remarks; he saw that his
fellow-traveller was one of those narrow-minded aristocratic people,
who are desirous of keeping the mass of the people in gross ignorance,
in order that they may be the more easily governed and imposed upon.
Though in good truth it has been said, that the ignorant are not
so easily governed as the enlightened. The ingenious and learned Mr
Kipperson then replied:

“You may say what you please, sir, in disparagement of the system of
enlightening the public mind; but surely you must allow that it is
far better for a poor industrious mechanic to attend some lecture on
a subject of science or philosophy, than to spend his evenings in
drunkenness and intemperance.”

“Indeed, sir, I have no wish to disparage the system of enlightening
the public mind; and I am quite of your opinion, that it is much more
desirable that a labouring man”----

“Operative, if you please,” said Mr Kipperson; “we have no labouring
men.”

“Well,” pursued Mr Primrose, “operative; the term used to be labouring
or working when I was last in England: I will agree with you, sir,
that it is really better that an operative should study philosophy,
than that he should drink an inordinate quantity of beer. But do you
find, sir, that your system does absolutely and actually produce such
effects?”

“Do we?” exclaimed Mr Kipperson triumphantly: “That we certainly and
clearly do: it is clear to demonstration; for, since the establishment
of mechanics’ institutes, the excise has fallen off very considerably.
And what can that deficiency be owing to, if it be not to the fact
which I have stated, that the operatives find philosophy a far more
agreeable recreation after labour than drinking strong beer?”

“You may be right, sir, and I have no doubt you are; but, as I have
been so long out of England, it is not to be wondered at that my ideas
have not been able to keep pace with the rapid strides which education
has made in England during that time. I am very far from wishing to
throw any objection or obstacle in the way of human improvement. You
call these establishments ‘mechanics’ institutions:’ but pray, sir,
do you not allow any but mechanics to enjoy the benefit of them? Now
there is a very numerous class of men, and women too--for I should
think that so enlightened an age would not exclude women from the
acquisition of knowledge;--there is, I say, a very numerous class of
men and women who have much leisure and little learning--I mean the
servants of the nobility and gentry at the west end of the town. It
would be charitable to instruct them also in the sciences. How pleasant
it must be now for the coachman and footman, who are waiting at the
door of a house for their master and mistress, at or after midnight,
instead of sleeping on the carriage, or swearing and blaspheming as
they too frequently do, to have a knowledge of astronomy, and study the
movements of the planets. Is there no provision made for these poor
people?”

“Certainly there is,” said Mr Kipperson. “There are cheap publications
which treat of all the arts and sciences, so that for the small charge
of sixpence, a gentleman’s coachman may, in the course of a fortnight,
become acquainted with all the Newtonian theory.”

Mr Primrose was delighted and astonished at what Mr Kipperson told him;
he could hardly believe his senses; he began to imagine that he must
himself be the most ignorant and uninformed person in his majesty’s
dominions.

“But tell me, sir,” continued he, “if those persons, whose time
and attention is of necessity so much occupied, are become so well
informed; do others, who have greater leisure, keep pace with them;
or, I should say, do they keep as much in the advance as their leisure
and opportunity allow them? For, according to your account, the very
poorest of the community are better instructed now than were the gentry
when I lived in England.”

“Education, sir,” answered Mr Kipperson, with the tone of an oracle,
“is altogether upon the advance. The science of instruction has
reached a point of perfection, which was never anticipated; nay, I
may say, we are astonished at ourselves. The time is now arrived when
the only ignorant and uninformed persons are those who have had the
misfortune to be educated at our public schools and universities: for
in them there is no improvement. I have myself been witness of the
most shocking and egregious ignorance in those men who call themselves
masters of arts. They know nothing in the world about agriculture,
architecture, botany, ship building, navigation, ornithology, political
economy, icthyology, zoology, or any of the ten thousand sciences with
which all the rest of the world is intimate. I have actually heard an
Oxford student, as he called himself, when looking over a manufactory
at Birmingham, ask such questions as shewed that he was totally
ignorant even of the very first rudiments of button-making.”

“Astonishing ignorance,” exclaimed Mr Primrose, who was rather sleepy;
“I dare say they make it a rule to teach nothing but ignorance at the
two universities.”

“I believe you are right, sir,” said Mr Kipperson, rubbing his hands
with cold and extacy; “those universities have been a dead weight on
the country for centuries, but their inanity and weakness will be
exposed, and the whole system exploded. There is not a common boys’
school in the kingdom which does not teach ten times more useful
knowledge than both the universities put together, and all the public
schools into the bargain. Why, sir, if you send a boy to school now,
he does not spend, as he did formerly, ten or twelve years in learning
the Latin grammar, but now he learns Latin and Greek, and French,
German, Spanish, Italian, dancing, drawing, music, mapping, the use
of the globes, chemistry, history, botany, mechanics, hydrostatics,
hydraulics, hydrodynamics, astronomy, geology, gymnastics,
architecture, engineering, ballooning, and many more useful and
indispensable arts and sciences, so that he is fitted for any station
in life, from a prime minister down to a shoe-black.”

Before this speech was finished, Mr Primrose was fast asleep; but
short is the sleep in a coach that travels by night. The coach stopped
and woke our foreigner from a frightful dream. We do not wish to
terrify our readers, but we must relate the dream in consequence of
its singularity. He dreamed then, that he was in the island of Laputa,
and that having provoked the indignation of some of the learned
professors by expressing a doubt as to the practicability of some of
their schemes, he was sentenced to be buried alive under a pyramid of
encyclopedias. Just as the cruel people were putting the sentence into
execution, he woke and found his coat-collar almost in his mouth, and
heard the word ‘ology’ from the lips of his fellow traveller. He was
very glad to find that matters were no worse.




                              CHAPTER XV.


Few indeed are the adventures now to be met with in travelling by a
stage coach, and few also, comparatively speaking, the accidents. But
our travellers were destined to meet both with accident and adventure.
The coach, as our observant readers have noticed, must necessarily have
travelled all night. The nights in December are long and dark; and
not unfrequently, during the long cold silence of a December night,
there gently falls upon the dank surface of the earth a protecting
and embellishing fleece of flaky snow. And the morning snow as yet
untrodden has a brilliant and even cheerful look beneath a blue and
brightly frosty sky; and when a wide expanse of country variegated with
venerably-aged trees, and new enclosures and old open meadow lands, and
adorned with here and there a mansion surrounded with its appurtenances
of larch, pine, and poplar, and divided into unequal but gracefully
undulating sections by means of a quiet stream--when a scene like this
bursts upon the morning eye of a winter traveller, and shows itself
set off and adorned with a mantle of virgin snow, it is indeed a sight
well worth looking at. Mr Primrose had not seen snow for sixteen years,
and the very sight of it warmed his heart; for it was so much like
home. It was one of those natural peculiarities which distinguished
the land of his birth from the land of his exile. He expressed to his
fellow traveller the delight which he felt at the sight. Mr Kipperson
coincided with him that the view was fine, and proposed that, as they
were both well clad, and as the scenery was very magnificent, they
should by way of a little variety seat themselves on the outside of
the coach. The proposal was readily embraced, and they mounted the roof.

The carriage was proceeding at a tolerably rapid pace on high but level
ground; and the travellers enjoyed the brightness of the morning, and
the beauty of the valley which lay on their left hand. Shortly they
arrived at a steep descent which led into the valley beneath, and
there was no slacking of pace or locking of wheels, which had been
customary in going down hill when Mr Primrose was last in England. He
expressed, therefore, his surprise at the boldness or carelessness of
the coachman, and hinted that he was fearful lest some accident might
happen. But Mr Kipperson immediately dissipated his fears, by telling
him that this was the usual practice now, and that the construction of
stage-coaches, and the art of driving, were so much improved, that it
was now considered a far safer and better plan to proceed in the usual
pace down hill as well as upon level ground. Mr Kipperson, in short,
had just proved to a demonstration that it was impossible that any
accident could happen, when down fell one of the horses, and presently
after down fell coach and all its company together.

Happily no lives were lost by the accident. But if Mr Kipperson’s neck
was not broken by the fall, his heart was almost broken by the flat
contradiction which the prostrate carriage gave to his theory, and he
lay as one bereft of life. Equally still and silent lay Mr Primrose;
for he was under the awkward difficulty of either denying his fellow
traveller’s correctness or doubting the testimony of his own senses.
The catastrophe took place near to a turnpike house; so that those of
the passengers, who had experienced any injury from the overturning of
the coach, could be speedily accommodated with all needful assistance.
All the passengers, however, except Mr Primrose, were perfectly able,
when the coach was put to rights again, to resume their journey. Mr
Primrose, as soon as he recovered from the first shock of his fall,
was very glad to take refuge in the turnpike house, and he soon became
sensible that it would not be prudent for him then to pursue his
journey. He had indeed received a severe shock from the accident, and
though he had no bones broken he had suffered a violent concussion
which might be doctored into an illness.

As soon as possible medical assistance was procured. The surgeon
examined and interrogated the overturned gentleman with great diligence
and sagacity. From the examination, it appeared not unlikely that the
patient might promise himself the pleasure of a speedy removal. The
truth of the matter was, that the poor gentleman was more frightened
than hurt. Some cases there are, and this was one of them, in which
no time should be lost in sending for the doctor, seeing that, if
the doctor be not sent for immediately, he may not be wanted at all.
This is one of the reasons why physicians keep carriages, and have
their horses always in readiness; for by using great expedition they
frequently manage to arrive before the patient recovers.

The surgeon who attended Mr Primrose thought proper to take some blood
from his patient, and to supply the place of the same by as many
draughts as could be conveniently taken, or be reasonably given in the
time. It was also recommended that the gentleman should be put to bed.

The dwellings attached to turnpike gates are seldom so roomy and so
abundantly provided with accommodation as to admit of an accidental
visitor: but in the present case it so happened that there was an
apartment unoccupied and not unfurnished. The gatekeeper’s wife, who
was a notable and motherly kind of woman, said, that if the gentleman
could put up with a very small apartment, and a coarse but clean bed,
he might be accommodated, and he need not fear that the bed was damp,
for it had been occupied for the last month, and had only been vacated
the day before. Mr Primrose readily accepted the offer, not being very
particular as to appearance.

“I suppose,” said he, “you keep a spare bed for the accommodation of
those who may be overturned in coming down this hill? Your surgeon, I
find, does not live far off. That is a good contrivance. Pray can you
tell me, within a dozen or two, how many broken bones the stage coach
supplies him with in the course of the year?”

At this speech the good woman laughed, for it was uttered in such a
tone as intimated that the gentleman wished it to be laughed at; and as
he was a respectable looking man, and carried in his aspect a promise
to pay, the worthy wife of the gate-keeper laughed with right good will.

“Oh dear no, sir,” said she, “there is not an accident happens here
hardly ever. The coachman what overturned you this morning, is one
of the most carefullest men in the world, only he had a new horse as
didn’t know the road.”

“A very great comfort is that,” said Mr Primrose, and he smiled, and
the gate-keeper’s wife smiled, and she thought Mr Primrose a very
funny man, that he should be able to joke when under the doctor’s
hands. There are some people who are very facetious when they are sick,
provided the sickness be not very acute; for it looks like heroism to
laugh amidst pain and trouble.

Mr Primrose then proceeded; “So you will assure me that the person who
occupied your spare bed last, was not an overturned coach passenger?”

The poor woman did not smile at this observation, but on the contrary
looked very grave, and her eyes seemed to be filling with tears, when
she compressed her lips and shook her head mournfully. With some
effort, after a momentary silence, she said:

“No, sir, it was not any one that was overturned; but it was a coach
passenger. It was a young lady, poor dear soul! that seemed almost
dying of a broken heart. But had not you better go to bed, sir? The
doctor said you wanted rest.”

Mr Primrose was a nervous man, and tales of sorrow inartificially
told frequently depressed him, and excited his sympathy with greater
force than was consistent with poetical enjoyment. He therefore took
the considerate advice which the good woman gave him, and retired
to rest. To a person of such temperament as Mr Primrose, the very
mention of a young lady almost dying of a broken heart was quite
sufficient to set his imagination most painfully at work. Rapidly did
his thoughts run over the various causes of broken hearts. Very angry
did he become with those hardened ones, by whose follies and vices so
many of the gentler sex suffer the acutest pangs of the spirit. He
thought of his own dear and only child, and he almost wrought himself
up to a fever by the imagination that some villanous coxcomb might
have trifled with her affections, and have left her to the mockery
of the world. He then thought of the mother of his Penelope, and
that she had died of a broken heart, and that his follies had brought
her to an untimely grave. Then came there into his mind thoughts of
retributive justice, and there was an indescribable apprehension in
his soul that the sorrows which he had occasioned to another might
fall also to his own lot. He wondered that there should be in the
world so much cruelty, and such a wanton sporting with each others’
sufferings. The powerful emotions which had been raised in his mind
from the first hour that he embarked for England, were of a nature so
mingled, and in their movements so rapid, that he hardly knew whether
they were pleasurable or painful. There was so much pleasure in the
pain, and so much pain in the pleasure, that his mind was rendered
quite unsteady by a constant whirl and vortex of emotions. He felt a
kind of childish vivacity and womanly sensibility. His tears and his
smiles were equally involuntary; he had no power over them, and he had
scarcely notice of their approach. Something of this was natural to
him; but present circumstances more strongly and powerfully developed
this characteristic. The accident, from which he had received so sudden
a shock, tended still farther to increase the excitability of his mind.
When therefore he retired for the purpose of gaining a little rest,
his solitude opened a wider door to imagination and recollection; and
thereupon a confused multitude of images of the past, and of fancies
for the future, came rushing in upon him, and his mind was like a
feather in a storm.

The surgeon was very attentive to his patient, for he made a second
visit not above four hours after the first. The people at the
turnpike-house told him that the gentleman had, in pursuance of the
advice given him, retired to take a little rest. The medical man
commended that movement; but being desirous to see how his patient
rested, he opened the door of the apartment very gently, and Mr
Primrose, who was wide awake, and happy to see any one to whom he
could talk, called aloud to the surgeon to walk in.

“I am not asleep, sir; you may come in; I am very glad to see you; I
have felt very much relieved by the bleeding. I think I shall be quite
well enough to proceed to-morrow. Pray, sir, can you inform me how far
it is to Smatterton from this place?”

“About sixty miles,” replied the surgeon.

“Sixty miles!” echoed Mr Primrose; “at what a prodigious rate then we
must have travelled.” Thereupon the patient raised himself up in the
bed, and began, or attempted to begin, a long conversation with his
doctor. “Why, sir, when I was in England last, the coach used to be
nearly twice as long on the road. Is this the usual rate of travelling?”

The medical man smiled, and said, “The coach by which you travelled, is
by no means a quick one, some coaches on this road travel much faster.”

“And pray, sir, do these coaches ever arrive safely at their journey’s
end?”

The surgeon smiled again and said, “Oh yes, sir, accidents are very
rare.”

“Then I wish,” replied Mr Primrose; “that they had not indulged me with
so great a rarity just on my arrival in England. I have been in the
East Indies for the last sixteen or seventeen years, and during that
time--”

Few medical men whose business is worth following, have time to listen
to the history of a man’s life and adventures for sixteen or seventeen
years. Hindoostan is certainly a very interesting country, but there
is no country on the face of the earth so interesting as a man’s own
cupboard. The doctor therefore cut off his patient’s speech, not in the
midst, but at the very beginning; saying unto him, with a smile, for
there is much meaning in a smile; “Yes sir, certainly sir, there is no
doubt of it--very true; but, sir, I think it will be better for you at
present to be kept quiet; and if you can get a little sleep it will
be better for you. I think, sir, to-morrow, or the next day, you may
venture to proceed on your journey. I will send you a composing draught
as soon as I return home, and will see you again to-morrow, early in
the morning. But I would not recommend you to travel by the stage
coach.”

“Ay, ay, thank you for that recommendation, and you may take my word I
will follow it.”

The doctor very quickly took his leave, and Mr Primrose thought him a
very unmannerly cub, because he would not stop to talk. “A composing
draught!” thus soliloquized the patient; “a composing draught! a
composing fiddlestick! What does the fellow mean by keeping me thus in
bed and sending me in his villanous compounds. Why, I think I am almost
able to walk to Smatterton. I won’t take his composing draught; I’ll
leave it here for the next coach passenger that may be overturned at
the foot of this hill. I dare to say it will not spoil with keeping.”

The word “coach-passenger” brought to Mr Primrose’s recollection the
melancholy look and sorrowful tone of the poor woman who mentioned the
young lady who seemed almost dying of a broken heart. His curiosity
was roused, his nerves were agitated. He kept thinking of his poor
Penelope. He recollected with an almost painful vividness the features
and voice of the pretty little innocent he had left behind him when
he quitted England. He recollected and painted with imagination’s
strongest lines and most glowing colours that distracting and
heart-rending scene, when after listening with tearful silence to the
kind admonitions of his brother-in-law, he snatched up in his arms his
dear little laughing Penelope, and he saw again as pungently as in
reality, the little arms that clasped him with an eagerness of joy,
and he recollected how his poor dear child in the simplicity of her
heart mistook the agitations and tremblings of grief for the frolicsome
wantonness of joy, and he saw again that indescribably exquisite
expression with which she first caught sight of his tears; and then
there came over his mind the impression produced by the artless manner
in which the poor thing said, “Good night, papa, perhaps you won’t cry
to-morrow.”

Now he thought of that Penelope as grown up to woman’s estate, and he
felt that he should be proud of his daughter: but oh what fears and
misgivings came upon him, and he kept muttering to himself the words
of the woman who had talked of the young lady almost dying of a broken
heart. It was well for the patient that the doctor soon fulfilled
his word and sent a composing draught. But the very moment that his
attentive nurse gently tapped at the door of his room, he called out:

“Come in, come in, I am not asleep. Oh, what you have brought me
a composing draught! Nonsense, nonsense, keep it for the next
coach-passenger that is overturned, and give it to him with my
compliments. Well, but I say, good woman, you were telling me something
about a poor young lady who was almost dying with a broken heart. Who
is she? Where is she? What is her name? Where is she gone to? Where did
she come from? Who broke her heart? Was she married, or was she single?
Now tell me all about her.”

“Oh dear, sir, I am sure you had better take this physic what the
doctor has sent you, that will do you more good than a mallancolly
story. Indeed you’d better, sir; shall I pour it out into a cup?”

“Ay, ay, pour it out. But I say, good woman, tell me where did this
poor young lady come from?”

“Lord, sir, I never saw such a curious gentleman in my life. Why, then
if you must know, she came from a long way off, from a village of the
name of Smatterton, a little village where my Lord Smatterton has a
fine castle.”

While the good woman was speaking she kept her eyes fixed upon the cup
into which she was slowly pouring the medicine, and therefore she did
not perceive the effect produced upon the patient by the mention of
Smatterton; for, as soon as he heard the name he started, turned pale,
and was breathless and speechless for a moment; and then recovering the
use of his speech, he exclaimed, “Smatterton! Smatterton! Good woman,
are you in your senses? What do you mean?”

Now it was very well for Mr Primrose and his composing draught that
the wife of the gate-keeper was not nervous; for had she been nervous,
that sudden and almost ridiculous exclamation, uttered as it was, in a
very high key, and with a very loud voice, would certainly have upset
the cup together with its contents. If ever a composing draught was
necessary, it clearly was so on this occasion. The good woman however
did not let the cup fall, but with the utmost composure looked at the
patient and said:

“Lawk-a-mercy, sir, don’t be in such a taking. I durst to say the poor
cretter wasn’t nobody as you know. She was a kind of a poor young lady
like. There now, sir, pray do take your physic, ’cause you’ll never get
well if you don’t.”

Mr Primrose was still in great agitation, and that more from
imagination than apprehension. His nervous sensibility had been
excited, and everything that at all touched his feelings did most
deeply move him. He therefore answered the poor woman in a hurried
manner:

“Come, come, good woman, I will swallow the medicine, if you will have
the goodness to tell me all you know about this poor young lady.”

Now, as it was very little that the good woman did know, she thought
it might be for the patient’s advantage if he would take the medicine
even upon those terms. For she had so much respect for the skill of
the doctor, that it was her firm opinion that the draught would have
more power in composing, than her slender narrative in disturbing, the
gentleman’s mind. She very calmly then handed the cup and said: “Well,
sir, then if you will but take the physic, I will tell you all I know
about the matter.”

Mr Primrose complied with the condition, and took the medicine with so
much eagerness, that he seemed as if he were about to swallow cup and
all.

“There, sir,” said the good woman, mightily pleased at her own
management; “now I hope you will soon get better.”

“Well, now I have taken my medicine; so tell me all you know about this
young lady.”

“Why, sir, ’tisn’t much as I know: only, about two months ago, that
coach what you came by was going up to town, and it stopped, as it
always does, at our gate, and the coachman says to my husband, says he,
‘Here’s a poor young lady in the coach so ill that she cannot travel
any farther; can you take her in for a day or two?’ And so I went and
handed the poor thing out of the coach, and I put her to bed; and
sure enough, poor thing, she was very ill. Then, sir, I sent for the
doctor; but, dear me, he could do her no good: and so then I used to go
and talk to the poor cretter, and all she would say to me was, ‘Pray,
let me die.’ But in a few days she grew a little better, and began to
talk about continuing her journey, and I found out, sir, that the poor
dear lady was broken-hearted.”

Here the narrator paused. But hitherto no definite information had been
conveyed to Mr Primrose, and he almost repented that he had taken the
trouble to swallow the medicine for such a meagre narrative.

“And is that all you know, good woman? Did not you learn her name?”

“Yes,” replied the informant: “her name was Fitzpatrick: and after she
was gone, I asked the coachman who brought her, and he told me that
that wicked young nobleman, Lord Spoonbill, had taken the poor thing
away from her friends, and had promised to make a fine lady of her,
but afterwards deserted her and sent her about her business. And all
because my lord was mighty sweet upon another young lady what lives at
Smatterton.”

Now came the truth into Mr Primrose’s mind, and he readily knew that
this other young lady was his Penelope. This corroborated the letter
which Mr Darnley had written to him on the decease of Dr Greendale.
Happy was it for the father of Penelope that he had no suspicion of
unworthy intentions towards his daughter on the part of Lord Spoonbill;
and well was it for the traveller that he had swallowed the composing
draught. He received the information with tolerable calmness, and
thanking the poor woman for indulging his curiosity, he very quietly
dismissed her. And as soon as she was gone he muttered to himself:

“My child shall never marry a villain, though he may be a nobleman.”




                             CHAPTER XVI.


Whether it was that the medicine which Mr Primrose had taken possessed
extraordinary composing powers, or whether his mind had been quieted
by its own outrageous agitations, we cannot say; but to whatever cause
it might be owing, it is a fact that, on the following morning he was
much more composed, and the medical attendant pronounced that he might
without any danger proceed on his journey.

He was not slow in availing himself of this permission, and he also
followed the suggestion of his medical attendant in not travelling by
the stage-coach. After astonishing the gate-keeper and his wife, and
also the doctor, by his liberality for their attention to him, he
started in a post-chaise for Smatterton. No accident or interruption
impeded his progress, and at a late hour he arrived at Neverden,
intending to pay his first visit to Mr Darnley, and designing through
him to communicate to Penelope the knowledge of his arrival, and
prepare her for the meeting.

It was necessary for Mr Primrose to introduce himself to Mr Darnley.
The stately rector of Neverden was in his study. He was not much of
a reading man, he never had been; but still it was necessary that
he should keep up appearances, and therefore he occasionally shut
himself up in that room which he called his study; and there he would
read for an hour or two some papers of the Spectator, or some old
numbers of the Gentleman’s Magazine, or Blackstone’s Commentaries, or
any other book of equal reputation for sound principles. There is a
great advantage in reading those books that everybody talks about and
nobody reads. It was also very proper that, if any of the parishioners
called on the rector, it might be necessary to send for him “out of
the study.” Sometimes also Mr Darnley gave audiences in his study,
and then the unlearned agriculturists thought him a most wonderful
man to have so many books, and so many large books too; some of them
looking as big as the great bible in the church. Mr Darnley was not
at all displeased to see the eyes of his humble parishioners, when
they made their appearance in that apartment, wandering curiously and
modestly round the room, and leering at the great glass bookcases and
the eighteen-inch globes with as much wonderment as the gulls of two
centuries back used to look at the dried alligators in a conjuror’s
garret. How delicious is the sensation of superiority.

When the name of Primrose was mentioned, Mr Darnley thought for
a moment only of Penelope, and he screwed up his lips and looked
wondrously wise. Mr Primrose entered the room with a light and lively
step, and with a bright and cheerful countenance, taking it for
granted that everybody in England must be as glad to see him as he was
to see his native land again. Mr Darnley rose with great stateliness,
and advanced a step or two towards the door.

“Ah! Mr Darnley, your most humble servant; my name is Primrose, I
received a letter from you about six weeks ago, which you did me the
honor to write to me concerning the death of my poor brother Greendale.”

At the end of the sentence Mr Primrose spoke in a more subdued tone, as
became him when speaking of the death of a dear friend. But as he spoke
he offered his hand to the rector of Neverden, who in return offered
his, but it was by no means an equivalent; for the reverend divine gave
his hand so formally and indifferently, that it was to Mr Primrose
as cold and flabby as a duck’s foot. And he said, “Mr Primrose, I am
happy to see you. You are welcome to England.” But though he said he
was happy, he did not look so, unless it be true, as some philosophers
have averred, that happiness is the most serious thing in the world.
The rector of Neverden also said, “I beg you will be seated, sir.” He
had learned that from the Right Honorable the Earl of Smatterton; for
no man is so great a simpleton that nothing can be learned from him.

There was nothing uncivil or rude in this reception, what could be more
proper or polite than to welcome Mr Primrose to England, and ask him to
be seated? But Mr Primrose felt a chill at this reception. However, he
sat down; and then the polite rector, when his visitor was seated, sat
down also. Then he snuffed the candles, and carefully closed the book
that he had been reading, and pushed it some distance from him, even
so far as his arm could reach, and then he turned himself in his chair
from the table, and towards Mr Primrose, and looked at him as much as
to say, “What do you want with me?”

Mr Primrose interpreted the look, and said “I have never had the
pleasure of seeing you before Mr Darnley, except for a very few
minutes, and at some distance of time; but as you wrote to me an
account of my dear brother’s death, and as I have now returned to
England, and am expecting presently the happiness of a meeting with my
dear child, I thought it might be advisable to call first on you, that
some message may be sent to Penelope, that the surprise may not be too
much for her.”

“Miss Primrose,” said the imperturbable rector of Neverden, “is not at
present in this part of the country.”

The effect of the composing draught was completely gone off, and Mr
Primrose started up from the chair to which he had been so politely
invited, and exclaimed with great impetuosity, “Good God! Mr Darnley,
you don’t say so.”

Mr Darnley was not so much agitated as Mr Primrose, and therefore he
compressed his lips and knitted his brows, and then opened his mouth
and said very composedly: “Mr Primrose, I beg that you would recollect
that I am a clergyman, and therefore that it is not becoming and
correct, that in my presence, you should take the name of the Lord in
vain.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr Primrose, with tears in his eyes, “but
consider, sir, I am a father, and--”

“I also am a father,” interrupted the rector, “and have more children
than you have.”

“Oh, but tell me, tell me, sir, is my child living?”

“To the best of my knowledge Miss Primrose is living.”

“But where is she? Why has she left Smatterton?”

“I believe, sir, that Miss Primrose is in London, that is all that
I know of her, except--” Here the rector hesitated, as if reluctant
and fearful to say all that he knew. If composure of manner be at
all contagious, Mr Primrose was the last person in the world to catch
the contagion; for at this dry hesitation he became more violent, and
exclaimed with great earnestness:

“Mr Darnley, you are a man, and must have the feelings of humanity. I
implore and conjure you by all that is sacred to put me out of this
dreadful state of suspense, and tell me at once all you know of my poor
child; something you must know and you ought to know.”

There was an energy of utterance and a heart-reaching tone in this last
sentence, which staggered Mr Darnley’s cold formality and discomposed
his stateliness. The almost awful emphasis which Mr Primrose gave to
the expression, “you ought to know,” reminded Mr Darnley that he had
but imperfectly performed his duty to the niece of his old friend Dr
Greendale; and the strong feeling thus expressed compelled the pompous
man to something of more kindly thought and language. He rose from his
seat, and took Mr Primrose by the hand, and said to him:

“My good sir, pray compose yourself, be seated, and I will give you
all the information in my power. Your daughter is living, and is,
I believe, in health. You know, I presume, that there formerly was
something of an acquaintance between Miss Primrose and my son, and you
also know, as I learn by a letter from my son, who had the honor of
meeting you at St Helena, that this acquaintance has ceased.”

“I know it, Mr Darnley, and I am sorry for it, very sorry for it
indeed, especially from what I have since heard of that young gentleman
who is said to be paying attention to her.”

Mr Darnley here shook his head, and then proceeded.

“After the decease of my good friend and neighbour Dr Greendale,
before I knew that the correspondence had ceased between the young
folks, I offered Miss Primrose an asylum in my house.”

Here Mr Darnley paused for a compliment; he had learned that of the
Right Honorable the Earl of Smatterton. Mr Primrose paid him the proper
compliment on his liberality, and the worthy rector continued his
narrative.

“Miss Primrose was pleased to decline the offer on the ground that the
Countess of Smatterton had taken upon herself to provide for her. And
it is not many days since Miss Primrose left Smatterton for London,
where she now is, in the house of Lord Smatterton, and she honored us
with a call before her departure, and I took the liberty of giving
her the best advice in my power, to guard her against the snares and
dangers to which she might be exposed in that profession which she is
about to adopt.”

“Profession she is about to adopt! Mr Darnley. And may I ask what that
profession is?”

“The musical profession, Mr Primrose.”

The father of Penelope was indignant, and he replied contemptuously:
“Impossible! Can the patronage of the Countess do nothing better for my
child than make her a teacher of music. But there will be no necessity
now--”

Before Mr Primrose could finish the sentence, Mr Darnley corrected the
misapprehension and said: “Not a teacher of music, sir, but a public
singer.”

This made the matter worse, and the poor man was just ready to burst
out into violent exclamations again, but recollecting that it was in
his power now to place his child in a situation of independence, and
considering that the time of her departure from Smatterton had been
too recent to render it likely that she had yet appeared in public,
he contented himself with saying, “I am astonished that the Countess
should think of such a profession for a young woman brought up as my
child has been. If my poor brother-in-law had lived he would never have
suffered it.”

“I was also astonished,” said Mr Darnley, “that Miss Primrose should
give her consent to such a proposal; for my friend Dr Greendale used
to express himself very strongly on that subject, and endeavour to
dissuade Miss Primrose from adopting such a profession. It has long
been the wish of the Countess of Smatterton, but her ladyship did not
succeed in the proposal during the lifetime of Dr Greendale.”

Much more to the same purpose did Mr Darnley say on the subject, not
much to the satisfaction of Mr Primrose. It is not pleasant for a
father to hear anything to the discredit of a child, but fortunately
parents do not always believe such stories, or they find excuses which
nobody else can. So Mr Primrose did not, could not, and would not
believe the insinuation that Mr Darnley threw out against Penelope,
as if she had waited only for Dr Greendale’s decease to adopt a
profession against which he had serious objections; and Mr Primrose
thought it most probable that the Countess of Smatterton had used great
importunity, or that Penelope had complied, to relieve Mrs Greendale
of a burden. There was indeed some difficulty in his mind to reconcile
this story of Mr Darnley with the insinuation thrown out in his letter,
and corroborated by the poor woman at the turnpike-gate, concerning
the son of the Earl of Smatterton having withdrawn the affections of
Penelope from Robert Darnley to himself. But Mr Primrose had been out
of England many years; and fashions had changed since he left his
native land. It was perhaps now quite elegant and fashionable to appear
on the stage. He recollected that when he was at school, he had read of
Nero, the Roman emperor, appearing on the stage as a public performer,
and for aught that could be known to Mr Primrose, the progress of
refinement in England might have pointed out dramatic or musical
exhibition as a fit introduction to the honor of an alliance with
nobility.

At all events, whatever were his notions or apprehensions he was by
this time considerably more calm and composed. He had the satisfaction
of knowing that his daughter was alive and well, and he had the
pleasing prospect of speedily seeing her again. Of her moral and mental
qualities, and of her intellectual improvement, he had been in the
constant habit of receiving flattering and agreeable accounts, and he
was not unwilling to believe them. There was some little mortification,
that he had travelled so far and all to no purpose. But he had no other
means of ascertaining where his daughter was.

It was a conceit of his own, (though partly aided by his late
brother-in-law,) not to keep any direct correspondence with his
daughter. His motive was, that as there was a possibility that he
might never return to England, and that he might not ever have it in
his power to provide for her according to his former means, therefore
he thought it best not to excite any expectations which might be
frustrated, or to excite in her mind any interest concerning himself,
which might ultimately be productive of only pain and uneasiness. He
wished his poor child to consider herself an orphan, thinking it better
to surprise her with a living parent than to inflict grief on her mind
at the thoughts of one deceased.

This scheme did not entirely succeed. The worthy and benevolent rector
of Smatterton could not help now and then saying a favourable word
or two concerning his poor brother Primrose; and as Dr Greendale’s
was the charity that hopeth all things and believeth all things, he
was not distrustful of his brother’s promises, but was nearly, if not
altogether, as sanguine as Mr Primrose himself. By degrees Penelope
came to have an interest in her absent parent; and well it was for her
that Dr Greendale had thus accustomed her to think of her father: for
when the good rector departed this life he did not leave his niece
quite so orphaned as if she had had no knowledge or thought of her
absent father. But to proceed with our story.

We have said that it was late in the evening when Mr Primrose arrived
at Neverden. It was no great distance indeed to Smatterton; but why
should he go there in any hurry, seeing that his daughter was not
there? This consideration induced Mr Darnley to offer to the traveller
the accommodation of a bed: for Mr Darnley was not a churlish man; he
was only very cold, and very formal, and very pompous. The offer was
readily accepted, and the rector of Neverden then conducted Mr Primrose
from the study to the apartment in which the family was sitting. Great
curiosity was excited as soon as Mr Darnley announced the name of his
late arrived guest. The young ladies felt particularly interested in
looking at the father of Penelope; but they did not make themselves, as
they thought, quite so agreeable as they should have done had matters
been proceeding in proper order with respect to their brother and
Penelope. The absence of that species of agreeableness to which we
allude, was no great inconvenience to Mr Primrose; for he was weary
with travelling, and exhausted by manifold agitations, and it would not
have been very agreeable to him with all this exhaustion to undergo a
cheerful volley of everlasting interrogations; and Miss Mary Darnley
would to a certainty have extorted from him a civil, ecclesiastical,
statistical, botanical, and zoological, history of British India, to
say nothing of Persia, China, Japan, and the million isles of the
Eastern ocean.

But though the young ladies were not disposed to apply the question to
Mr Primrose, their mother, who was as ready to forgive as she was apt
to forget, talked to him as cordially and cheerfully as if the day had
been fixed for the marriage of Robert Darnley and Penelope Primrose.
Her talk, however, was not wearying, because there was no affectation
in it, and because there was much good feeling in it. Her talk was
concerning her dear boy; and Mr Primrose, who had a parent’s heart,
enjoyed such talk.

“And so, Mr Primrose, you have seen my dear Robert? And how did he
look? He is dying to return to Neverden. We expect him next week, for
the ship is now in the Downs. Did you think, sir, he seemed in good
health?”

“In perfect health, madam: in fact I never saw a young man who had been
so long in India look so well as your son.”

“There was no yellowness in his look?” asked Mrs Darnley.

“Not the slightest, I can assure Mrs Darnley.”

“And was he not much sun-burnt?”

Mr Primrose smiled, and said, “Not any more, madam, than a young man
ought to be; and though I never had the pleasure of seeing the young
gentleman before, I do really believe that whatever darkness may have
been added to his complexion is rather an improvement to his appearance
than otherwise.”

“I am ashamed, Mr Primrose, to be so troublesome; but did you go
aboard his ship when you were at St Helena? Do you know what sort of
accommodations he had?”

“I certainly did not, madam, but I have every reason to suppose that he
had every comfort that could be expected.”

“Why, yes, no doubt. But still it must be a great confinement. It is a
very long voyage. Had you any storms, sir, as you came home?”

“Upon my word, Mrs Darnley, I really forget what kind of weather we
had; but we had nothing very serious, or I should have remembered it.”

With many such-like questions and answers was the evening beguiled, and
it was late before Mr Primrose retired to rest.

The young ladies took some part in the conversation, though but little;
and Mr Darnley himself also now and then joined in the discourse,
especially when Mrs Darnley, in the simplicity of her heart, asked
questions which indicated a sinful ignorance of geography or history.
In such cases Mr Darnley took especial care to manifest how much wiser
he was than his wife. Positively it is a great shame, and altogether
unreasonable to expect that people who have been from school thirty
years or more should be as wise and learned as those who have just
finished their education, or as those who have a study where they can
sit and read and grow learned every hour in the day.

When the young ladies were alone they made amends for their previous
silence. They all talked together to one another concerning Mr
Primrose, and all three gave their opinions of him. By the way, it
is great nonsense to talk about giving an opinion. It is almost as
bad as giving advice; for neither one nor the other is ever taken,
and how can any one give that which nobody takes? There was, however,
this unanimity among the Miss Darnleys; they all concurred in saying
and thinking that he was a very agreeable and interesting man, and a
very lively man. They would indeed have thought him lively had they
witnessed the energy of his manner in the study with Mr Darnley. But
before the discussion closed, Miss Mary Darnley could not help saying:
“What strange questions mamma did ask! I wonder what Mr Primrose
thought of her?”




                             CHAPTER XVII.


Without the assistance of a composing draught Mr Primrose slept soundly
and woke calmly. But, being naturally impetuous and hasty, he could not
help uttering a few monosyllables of impatience at the thought that he
had travelled two hundred miles from his daughter, and had incurred the
risk of breaking his neck in making a journey to the place where his
daughter was not.

As, however, he was so near Smatterton, he would not of course return
to London without seeing Mrs Greendale, and thanking her for the kind
attention which she had paid to Penelope. He was not aware that the
good lady had plagued and worried the poor girl almost out of her
life. Dr Greendale had never, in his communications to Mr Primrose,
said anything about the annoying fidgettiness of Mrs Greendale; and he
himself, by virtue of his close and constant application to study, had
not felt much inconvenience from her temper, excepting so far as an
occasional interruption, which was soon forgotten. But poor Penelope
did not study controversial theology, and therefore she had felt all
the inconvenience of Mrs Greendale’s humours and caprices. Of all this
Mr Primrose knew nothing; he therefore resolved to call and pay his
respects to the widow.

Having learned a lesson of forethought from his long fruitless journey,
he did not proceed to Smatterton before he had enquired of Mr Darnley
if Mrs Greendale yet resided there. By this enquiry he learned that the
living had been disposed of, and that as the new rector was a young and
single man, and though he had taken possession of the rectory-house,
he had been kind enough to accommodate Mrs Greendale with a residence
there till it might suit her to change the place of her abode. “That is
very kind of the young man,” said Mr Primrose; “I like him for it: and
pray what is his name and where does he come from?”

Mr Darnley at these questions put on one of his stately professional
looks, and said: “His name, sir, is Pringle, he comes from the
university of Oxford, he is a son of Lord Smatterton’s steward. At
present I have but little acquaintance with him.”

There seemed, from Mr Darnley’s manner of speaking, to be on his part
no great desire to increase the acquaintance. Of this, however, Mr
Primrose took no notice; in fact, he hardly understood it, for his own
manner was straitforward and downright, he did not accustom himself to
innuendos and insinuations. Thanking the rector of Neverden for his
attention and hospitality, Mr Primrose proceeded immediately after
breakfast to the village of Smatterton. Mrs Greendale was within, and
she received Mr Primrose with the utmost cordiality and cheerfulness:
but when she began to allude to her poor dear husband then the tears
came into her eyes. Mr Primrose sympathized with her, and they both
talked of old times; and as the subject was changed the tears were
dried up. It was very right that Mrs Greendale should most cordially
receive Mr Primrose, for all persons who come home from the East
Indies in good spirits are supposed to come home rich, and there is to
some minds something very agreeable in the sight of a rich man. Let
sentimentality-people prose as much as they please about the homage
that is paid to wealth; it would be much worse if that homage were paid
to poverty. The conversation then turned to Penelope, and many and
sincere were the thanks that Mr Primrose returned to Mrs Greendale for
her very kind attentions to the poor girl; and then Mrs Greendale, in
spite of all the severe and sneering rebukes, which in former days she
had lavished upon her niece, began to launch out into commendations of
the young lady’s beauty, wit, and accomplishments.

“But what a pity it is, Mr Primrose, that you did not know that
Penelope was in London. Well, you will have such a treat in seeing
her again, she is so grown and so improved. She is a favorite with
everybody. A day or two before my poor dear husband died, we had a
party, and Lord Spoonbill, and Colonel Crop, and Miss Spoonbill were
all here; and Lord Spoonbill was so attentive, you can’t think. Then my
Lady Smatterton has taken such a fancy to her, that she insists upon
having her in London.”

“Ay, but Mrs Greendale, I don’t understand the condition on which my
child is thus taken up to London; and to tell you the truth, I do
not altogether approve the plan which Mr Darnley informed me was in
contemplation. It is not very agreeable to my feelings that my daughter
should be made a public performer.”

“Oh dear no, certainly; but I dare say the Countess of Smatterton would
not recommend anything improper.”

“I don’t know what may be Lady Smatterton’s notions of propriety, but
I shall take care that my daughter does not adopt that or any other
profession.”

While they were talking, the arrival of Nick Muggins with the
letter-bag reminded Mr Primrose that it might be desirable to apprize
Penelope of his being in England and of his intention of immediately
seeing her. He therefore dispatched a note to his daughter, under cover
to the Right Honorable the Earl of Smatterton, and thus he made wise
provision against further accidents preventing their meeting.

As Mr Primrose had experienced the inconvenience of one overturn by the
stage-coach, he determined not to trust himself again so soon to the
same mode of conveyance; and as he intended to travel post, and as he
was not about to set out immediately, he amused himself with strolling
about the village to admire its beauties; for everybody said that
Smatterton was a very pretty village. In the month of December English
scenery seldom appears to great advantage; and while Mr Primrose was
looking for, rather than at, the beauties of Smatterton, who should he
meet but the very identical Mr Kipperson with whom he had travelled
in the stage-coach? The parties recognized each other immediately,
and they presently entered into chat. Mr Kipperson expressed great
concern for the accident, but was exceedingly rejoiced to find that his
fellow-traveller was not seriously hurt. “For indeed, sir,” said he, “I
almost thought that you were killed.”

“So did I,” replied Mr Primrose: “but what can be the use of travelling
at that unreasonably rapid rate? When I was in England, sixteen years
ago, the stage-coaches used to go at a very reasonable and moderate
pace.”

“Yes, yes, I remember it,” said Mr Kipperson; “but we should never be
able to get on with business were it not for this quick travelling.
I will tell you, sir, an instance of its utility: the other day I
received a letter from my friend the Earl of Smatterton, informing me
of an important debate which was just coming on, and it was a matter
of infinite moment that I should be in town in order to attend some
meetings that were to be held, and to give my opinion concerning some
clauses which were likely to be introduced greatly affecting the
agricultural interest. I received the letter just in time to take
advantage of the coach, and, by means of quick travelling, I arrived in
town time enough to give my views of the subject, and to prevent the
passing of some most destructive measures.”

“You are a member of parliament, I presume?” said Mr Primrose.

“No, sir,” said Mr Kipperson, with that sort of air that seemed to
indicate that he did not at all desire that honor, and that he was a
person of greater importance; “but now and then parliament is pleased
to do me the honor of consulting me on some topics connected with the
interests of agriculture.”

Though Mr Primrose was what in ordinary language is called an
independent man, yet he could not but feel reverence for greatness; and
finding that the gentleman with whom he was conversing was a person
of some consequence, he was desirous of knowing who it was. This
desire was but slightly hinted, and immediately the great agricultural
luminary gratified Mr Primrose’s laudable thirst after knowledge by
saying: “My name, sir, is Kipperson. Kipperson, sir, of Smatterton.”

It was very excusable that Mr Primrose, who had been so many years out
of England, should not be familiar with the name, and should not be
aware that he was addressing the celebrated agriculturist, Kipperson of
Smatterton. Mr Kipperson himself was so modest a man that he did not
choose to say that he was the celebrated one of that name, but he took
especial care to let it be understood indirectly and circuitously that
he was a person of some importance in the world.

And now it was very natural that the great agriculturist should be
desirous of knowing the name and designation of his fellow traveller,
and to ascertain that was also no great difficulty. As soon as he
found that he was conversing with the father of Penelope Primrose, he
broke out into the most eloquent panegyrics on the character, moral,
intellectual, and professional, of the late rector of the parish, and
congratulated Mr Primrose in having had the good fortune to confide his
daughter to the care of so superlatively excellent a man. “But, sir,”
as suddenly recollecting himself, “perhaps you will do me the honor
to walk in and sit down under my humble roof; for I can give you the
latest information concerning Miss Primrose. It is very singular that
I should have travelled up to London with the daughter and down from
London with the father.”

At that singularity, or at his own penetration in discovering the
curious coincidence, Mr Kipperson smiled. Mr Primrose accepted the
invitation and walked into Mr Kipperson’s house, which was near
the place where they had met. It was a piece of affectation in Mr
Kipperson to call his place of abode a humble roof. True, it was not so
magnificent as Smatterton castle, but its owner had been at great pains
and expense to make it look quite the reverse of humble. That which had
been a productive little garden was converted into a lawn. Those barns,
piggeries, and outhouses, in which was deposited no small part of the
owner’s wealth, had been gracefully, but ungratefully, planted out.
French windows supplied the place of old-fashioned casements, and green
verandahs gave Peter Kipperson’s farm-house as much as possible the air
of an Oriental palace.

Mr Primrose was surprised, as Peter hoped and designed, at the very
learned air of the library, to say nothing of the numerous busts and
casts which in the narrow entrance occupied that room which would have
been much more usefully devoted to cloak-pegs. When they were seated in
the library Mr Kipperson commenced his narrative, telling Mr Primrose
what the reader is already acquainted with. But still the father of
Penelope was not reconciled even to the attempt or proposal to make
his daughter a public singer. Mr Kipperson however assured him, that
nothing could be more respectable than the manner in which the Countess
of Smatterton designed to bring out Miss Primrose.

“I was present at an evening party,” said the agriculturist, “given
by my friend the Countess of Smatterton, for the express purpose of
introducing Miss Primrose to some of the best society in town. There
were several persons of rank there, and among the rest the celebrated
Duchess of Steeple Bumstead; and her Grace was quite enraptured with
Miss Primrose.”

“Well,” said the father of Penelope with some shortness and dryness
of manner, “I don’t understand these matters. I have been so long out
of England that I almost forget the customs of my native land; but I
do not approve of this kind of association with persons of so much
higher rank and fortune. The Countess of Smatterton cannot consider my
daughter as an equal, and therefore she is tolerated for the amusement
she can afford. I don’t like it, sir, I don’t like it. But, Mr
Kipperson, can you tell me what kind of a man is Lord Spoonbill?”

Mr Kipperson promptly replied: “A man of no intellect whatever.”

“A fig for intellect,” replied Mr Primrose; “but is he a man of good
character?”

“Indeed sir,” responded the great agriculturist of Smatterton, “I am
sorry to say he is not. The Earl himself is a very respectable man, so
far as moral conduct is concerned, though he is a man of no mind; and
he is a proud man, very distant and pompous, and quite an exclusive.”

“An exclusive!” echoed Mr Primrose; “what is meant by an exclusive?”

“By exclusive, sir, I mean that the Earl is not easily led to associate
with those whom he considers of an inferior rank to himself; he is one
of a set, as it were.”

“Oh, is that all!” exclaimed Mr Primrose; “why at that rate all the
world is exclusive. This is no new character though it may be a new
name.”

“Very true, indeed, very true, there has always been too much pride
among persons of high rank.”

“And not too little among persons of low rank, I presume,” replied Mr
Primrose; “and I suppose as you have a set of people in England, called
exclusives, you have most likely another set called intrusives. For my
part I like a little pride, or at least what the world calls pride; I
have so much myself, that I dislike the situation in which I find my
daughter is placed, and I shall make all haste to remove her from it. I
am most happy that I have arrived in England time enough to prevent her
from making a public display of her musical talents.”

The wise and scientific Mr Kipperson was not sorry to hear that the
father of Penelope Primrose could talk thus boldly and definitely
concerning his daughter’s independence. It was also not unpleasant to
him to hear that it was the intention of the young lady’s father to
remove her from the house and patronage of the Earl of Smatterton. It
has been already hinted that Mr Kipperson was an admirer of the young
lady, and it was not likely that his admiration should be less when
he found that her father had returned to England in possession, most
probably, of ample means of securing his daughter’s independence. This
consideration inspired the agriculturist with an earnest desire of
making himself more agreeable than usual; and as there was a great
deal of freedom of manner and candour of feeling about Mr Primrose, he
very readily and sociably conversed with Mr Kipperson on any and every
topic that could be started. In the fullness of his heart the admirer
of Penelope urged the young lady’s father to partake of a humble
dinner, quite in a social friendly way. This invitation however was of
necessity declined, it being the intention of Mr Primrose to pass the
remainder of the day at the rectory.

The mention of the rectory led Mr Kipperson to speak of the new rector,
the Rev. Charles Pringle. “You will of course meet this gentleman at
dinner. He is a very different man from our late rector; as yet we know
little of him. I have conversed with him occasionally; he seems to have
very just notions on the subject of the interests of agriculture; but
his mind does not appear to be comprehensive and philosophical; he does
not read much, I think; indeed, he has scarcely any books of his own,
and though I have offered him the use of my library he does not avail
himself of it. But you will see him at the rectory at dinner, and then
you may form your own opinion of him.”

It was very kind and liberal of Mr Kipperson to give Mr Primrose leave
to form his own opinion of the new rector. What opinion Mr Primrose
did form of the new rector we cannot say, for he was not very free in
expressing his opinion of those with whom he had no common interest
or sympathies, nor was he particularly and curiously observant to
ascertain whether those with whom he conversed occasionally were
persons of comprehensive and philosophical minds or not. He was not
quite sure that he knew what was meant by the term _comprehensive_, as
applied to the mind; and as to _philosophical_, if that meant loving
wisdom, he himself was philosophical enough in all conscience, for
he liked wise men much better than fools. In a word, the father of
Penelope had quite as good an understanding as multitudes who make a
great deal of prating about intellect, but he was not a man of much
reading, and did not value pedantry of any kind, whether literary,
scientific, fashionable or philosophical.




                            CHAPTER XVIII.


Even as Mr Kipperson predicted so it came to pass; Mr Primrose met at
dinner the new rector of Smatterton.

The great difference which there is between an old man and a young one,
is one cause of the general common-place notion of the deterioration of
the human species. It seemed a very great transition from Dr Greendale
to Mr Pringle. The doctor used to be grave, sedate, yet cheerful, very
placid and gentle in his manner, and towards his parishioners he wore
the aspect of a father. His dress too was so venerable. He used to wear
a long single-breasted coat, and he had such fine broad old-fashioned
silver buckles at his knees and on his shoes; his hat too was just
such a hat as a clergyman ought to wear. And when he walked out into
the village he always carried under his arm an old gold-headed walking
cane; for he seldom leant upon it. He walked slowly and demurely,
and when the little boys and girls who met him planted themselves,
according to their clumsy but sincere politeness, directly before him
to make their bow or curtesy, he patted them on the head, and they
felt themselves as much honoured and pleased as the alderman of some
provincial borough when the king places the sword on his shoulder. And
when the old people met him he talked to them, and, even more than
that, he listened to their talk; he could not always understand it,
but he paid attention to it and it pleased them. Sometimes he would be
in a gayer and livelier mood than usual, especially if in his morning
studies he had been successful in detecting, or eloquent in pointing,
some irrefragable argument against the sectarians. And then, if he met
any young woman of pretty and smiling looks, for there were many such
in Smatterton, he would ask her when she was going to be married, and
then she would laugh and try to blush, and she would go home and tell
her mother what a funny man Dr Greendale was.

Now whatever might be the virtues, moral or professional, of the Rev.
Charles Pringle, it is very clear that he could not find the way to
the hearts of his parishioners by the same means as his predecessor.
A slightly built youth of five-and-twenty would look anything but
venerable, if dressed in attire of the same form, cut and complexion as
that which Dr Greendale wore. The gold-headed cane, the looped hat, the
slow and stately walk, would not at all answer with a young man; and
had he asked any young woman when she was going to be married, it would
have been thought quite indecorous. The old women too would not think
of telling a young man round-about stories concerning their sufferings
with the _rheumatiz_, or other ills that “flesh,” or more properly
skin and bone, may be “heir to.”

It was therefore essential and unavoidable that there should be a
difference between the old and the new rector. It will however be
supposed by our readers, who remember that we have described the
Earl of Smatterton as boasting that he always bestowed his livings
according to merit,--it will be supposed, that the Rev. Charles
Pringle had merit, though not precisely of the same nature as the
merit of Dr Greendale. The merit for which his lordship bestowed the
living of Smatterton on Mr Pringle, was not his own merit but that of
his father. For the young rector was, as already noticed, the son of
Lord Smatterton’s house-steward. This steward had been faithful in
his office, and was a great favorite with his lordship; but though
he was faithful he had saved a little money, and was desirous of
setting his son forward in life. The father was of opinion that the
legal profession would suit the young man very well, seeing he was
so very clever. The son also was perfectly well aware of his own
cleverness; but as the confinement of an attorney’s office did not
suit his inclinations, he excused himself from that pursuit. On the
same or similar ground he declined the medical profession, inasmuch as
it was contrary to his notions of comfort to be called from his bed
at midnight, or to be interrupted at his meals. The church seemed to
be the only comfortable profession, and on that the young gentleman
fixed his choice. Moreover it gratified his vanity to go to college.
He might have had ambition, but he did not like trouble; and being, as
we have said, a clever young man, he shewed his cleverness by studying
only just so much as might save him from being plucked. He obtained his
degree and that was all. With equal dexterity and cleverness did he
manage that reading which was necessary preparatory to taking orders.
The examining chaplain who passed him, observed that he was a clever
man, for he had most ingeniously hit upon the exact _minimum_ of
information which would enable him to pass. There is a proverb, which
says that lazy folks take the most pains; and in many cases Mr Pringle
illustrated this proverb, for nobody could take more pains than he did
to avoid labour.

We cannot see how the Earl of Smatterton was to blame for appointing
this young gentleman to the living of Smatterton. It is not to be
supposed that his lordship should take the trouble to examine the
youth; and as the father was a faithful servant the Earl was rewarding
merit by providing for the son.

More remains to be said concerning the new rector. He was a man of
good temper and very harmless disposition. He was not at all given to
quarrelling, for he did not like the trouble; and he was very easy to
deal with in fixing the composition for his tithes. The farmers thought
him rather proud; for he took very little notice of any of them except
Mr Kipperson, who kept an excellent table. He paid great attention to
Miss Spoonbill, though his only recompense for that attention was an
occasional cup of tea, and that by no means strong: but it was handed
to him on a large silver waiter, and presented by a servant who wore a
very splendid livery. There was much courtesy of manner in Mr Pringle;
he was, according to the best of his ability, a perfect gentleman, and
whenever he observed any article of dress, or mode of expression or
pronunciation, or any species of action peculiar to persons in high
life, he copied it most faithfully as far as his profession would
allow. His courtesy was very great, for he had the sagacity to know
that, if he was too lazy to provide for himself, he must persuade some
one else to provide for him.

One word more, and that concerning the young man’s politics. The world
does not much care about Mr Pringle’s politics, but still the politics
of a clergyman looking for preferment are to himself matters of great
moment. Before Mr Charles Pringle went to Oxford, he was what is called
liberal in his politics; at Oxford he found it more genteel to be a
Tory; but under the patronage of a great Whig lord, it was a matter of
course that he should regard the Whig aristocracy with reverence and
approbation.

We should not have said so much of Mr Pringle, had it not been that he
had once seen Penelope Primrose and greatly admired her, and had it not
also been that the return of Mr Primrose to England rendered it a very
promising speculation for the young gentleman to think seriously of
paying his addresses to her.

When Mr Primrose first called at the rectory the reverend divine was
not visible, for he had not finished the duties of the toilet. But
hearing that Mr Primrose was in England and at Smatterton, he felt
most happy in an opportunity of paying his respects. And such was
the candour of Mr Primrose, that he thought the new rector a very
agreeable sensible man. The two gentlemen at dinner-time talked with
great fluency on a variety of topics which neither of them understood
or cared about. Now Mr Primrose was at this time in that state of mind
which prepared and disposed him to be easily pleased, and therefore
the efforts of Mr Pringle to make himself agreeable succeeded to
admiration. Quite delighted was the rector of Smatterton to hear the
father of Penelope express himself so well pleased with that village
as to be desirous of taking up his residence there. Very politely did
the reverend gentleman remark that there was no house in the village
fit for Mr Primrose’s reception. Mr Primrose however observed that he
was by no means particular, and that a mere cottage would answer his
purpose. Mr Pringle thought that he should have no objection to giving
up the parsonage and finding a residence for himself, and there was
some little talk to that purpose, but nothing was definitely agreed
upon.

As the two gentlemen were engaged in chat about everything and nothing,
a very unexpected interruption was given to their conversation by the
entrance of Robert Darnley. He had arrived at Neverden much sooner than
he had been expected, and hearing that Mr Primrose had been there on
the preceding day, and was now in all probability at Smatterton, he
determined, notwithstanding all persuasions to the contrary, to ride
over and see the father of Penelope. The young gentleman’s sisters
were unanimous in expressing their disapprobation of such a step; and
Mr Darnley the elder would have interfered with the pompousness of
authority to prevent it, had he not been sagacious enough to know that
such interference would be ineffectual, and wise enough to consider
that it is very impolitic to endanger one’s dignity by uttering
commands which will with impunity be disobeyed. He could not however
help giving his opinion. He was surprised, he said, that a young man
of such good sense and independent spirit as Robert Darnley should let
himself down so far as to turn suppliant. The young lady, he observed,
had already given abundant manifestation of the change of her mind and
the indifferency of her feelings on the subject, it would therefore be
worse than useless to attempt to renew the acquaintance, it would be
absolutely humiliating, and there never could subsist a right feeling
of cordiality between them.

All this talk, however, had no influence on Robert Darnley: he was
not sure that there had been so pointed a manifestation of change of
mind; he had too good an opinion of Penelope’s understanding to believe
that she should have capriciously changed her mind; he thought it
very probable that there might have been some miscarriage of letters;
and he resolved that he would not suffer the matter to rest in the
present dubious and mysterious twilight of information. For he very
thoughtfully remarked, that it was possible there might be, through
the irregular transmission of letters, some errors which might lead
Miss Primrose to consider him as the person dropping the acquaintance.
At all events, as he had never had any difference with Mr Primrose,
but, on the contrary, had been very civilly and politely treated when
they met at St Helena on their voyage home, it would be but an act of
common civility to pay his respects to the father of Penelope now that
he was in the immediate neighbourhood.

There is something pleasant and refreshing in the contemplation of
that wholesome state of mind in which Robert Darnley shewed himself to
be on the present occasion. People sometimes make a great blustering
and a noisy parade about demanding an explanation; but they generally
set about this demanding an explanation in such a hot-headed, bullying
style, as to render explanation almost impossible, and make that which
is perplexed still more perplexed. It was not so with the younger
Darnley. He was no miracle either of wisdom or virtue; but he had good
sense and good feeling; and he also had a tolerable good opinion of
his own discernment, and he could not easily bring himself to believe,
notwithstanding all that had been said by his father and his sisters,
that he had misapprehended or overrated the character of Penelope
Primrose.

These feelings, which were habitual and constitutional to Robert
Darnley, gave him a natural and easy cheerfulness of look and manner.
When therefore he was announced at the rectory of Smatterton as
enquiring for Mr Primrose, the announcement was received with great
satisfaction.

“My good friend,” exclaimed Mr Primrose, with much cordiality, “I am
most happy to see you. So you are just arrived in England. But you must
have made very great haste to arrive here from the Downs in little more
than four and twenty hours.”

“I have not travelled quite so rapidly as that, sir,” replied Mr Robert
Darnley, “but you may suppose I lost no time: and I am happy that I am
here soon enough to pay my respects to you before your return. It would
also have given me pleasure could I have met Miss Primrose.”

“Would it indeed? What! after she has jilted you? You are a young man
of very forgiving disposition.”

“I must first of all know for a certainty that the lady has, as you
say, jilted me, before I feel resentment. The correspondence was
interrupted, but that might be accidental. I must have an explanation,
then it will be time enough to be angry.”

“Well said, young man; I like your notions. But from what I hear,
both at Neverden and Smatterton, I fear that my young lady has been
fascinated by a sounding title. I hear a great deal that I cannot well
understand. If travellers see strange things abroad, they also hear
strange things when they come home again.”

Mr Primrose ceased speaking. Robert Darnley looked thoughtful; and
the parties looked at each other with some feeling of perplexity. The
father of Penelope, as being the most impetuous, though by far the
oldest of the two, after a short interval continued: “But what do you
propose to do? Or what must I say or do for you? Will you set off with
me to London tomorrow morning?”

Robert Darnley looked serious at that proposal, and replied: “So early
as tomorrow morning, under present circumstances, I think hardly
praticable. I do not know what would be the consequence to my poor
mother, if, after so long an absence from home, I should omit, just at
my return, to eat my Christmas dinner with her.”

“Well, I shall go to town,” said Mr Primrose, “and I will endeavour to
ascertain the truth of the matter; and if there has been any accidental
loss of letters, it will be a great pity to make that the cause of
breaking off an old acquaintance.”

“I simply wish it, sir, to be understood by Miss Primrose, that the
cessation of the correspondence has not been my act and deed. But that
I wrote three letters to her from Calcutta, to none of which I have
ever received any answer. If the acquaintance is to be discontinued, it
shall not rest on me, as arising from any fickleness on my part.”

“Good, sir, very good. You are a comparative stranger to me, it is
true; but I commend your spirit, that you are not hasty in resentment
before you know for what. And this I can tell you,” continued he, in
a more slow and serious tone, “such was my thorough confidence in the
good sense and discernment of my poor brother Greendale, that I cannot
but feel respect for any one whom he respected; and I know that he
respected you most sincerely.”

Thereupon the two gentlemen, with cordial grasp and tearful eyes, shook
each other by the hand most heartily, and parted very well pleased with
each other.




                             CHAPTER XIX.


Mr Primrose on the following morning set off for London in a
post-chaise, being unwilling to risk his neck a second time in a
stage-coach; for he had taken it into his head that a stage-coach
must be overturned at the bottom of a steep hill. He travelled alone;
and we will for the present leave him alone; though it might be very
entertaining to observe how pettishly he brooked the tediousness of
that mode of travelling, and how teasing he was to the post-boys,
sometimes urging them to drive fast, and then rebuking them for using
their horses so cruelly. What the poor man could find to amuse himself
with for the long journey, which occupied him nearly three days, we
cannot tell. In the meantime, we find it necessary to return to that
part of our narrative in which we related that the partial exhibition
to which Penelope had been exposed at the Countess of Smatterton’s
select little party, had produced an almost serious illness.

Nothing could exceed the kind attentions of the Countess. Every hour
was she making enquiries, and all that could possibly be said or done
by way of alleviation or consolation did her ladyship say and do for
her heart-broken patient. It never for one single moment entered the
mind of Lady Smatterton that Miss Primrose could feel the slightest
repugnance in the world to the profession which had been chosen for
her; nor could her ladyship think that any sorrow or deep feeling was
on the mind of Penelope for the death of her uncle, or that there was
any harassing anxiety on her spirits at the thought of her father’s
probable arrival in England. The Countess of Smatterton might have been
a woman of very great feeling; but, from difference of situation, she
could not by any means sympathize with Penelope. There is an infinite
difference between five hundred acquaintances and an only dear friend.
The pleasures of Penelope were not of the same nature as those of the
Countess of Smatterton, nor was there much similarity in their pains.

There were also other considerations by which it may be accounted
for, that the sympathy of her ladyship was not exactly adapted to the
feelings of Penelope. The Countess was a patron, Penelope a dependent.
The Countess had but the mere vanity of rank, Penelope a natural and
essential pride of spirit; and it not unfrequently happens, that
persons in the higher walks of society regard the rest of the world as
made to be subservient to their caprices and the instruments of their
will. This last consideration, however, is not altogether the fault of
the higher classes; much of it, perhaps most of it, is owing to the
hungry venal sycophancy of their inferiors,--but there never will be
an act of parliament passed against servility, and therefore we need
not waste our time in declaiming against it, for nothing but an act of
parliament can thoroughly cure it.

Penelope was not sufficiently ill to keep her apartment for any
great length of time. The medical attendant thought it desirable
that the patient should be amused as much as possible; the air also
was recommended, and, if possible, a little change of scene. To all
these suggestions prompt and immediate attention was paid. It was
fortunate that the Earl of Smatterton had a residence in the immediate
vicinity of London, and it was the intention of the family to spend
the Christmas holidays there. It would therefore be very opportune to
afford the young lady a change of air and scene: for from her childhood
Penelope had never wandered beyond the two villages of Smatterton and
Neverden. The proposal was made to her to accompany the family, and the
proposal was made so kindly, she could not possibly refuse it, even
had it not been agreeable.

There was something perplexing to the inartificial and unsophisticated
mind of Penelope Primrose, in the wonderful difference between
fashionable manners under different circumstances. She had not the
slightest doubt that Lord Smatterton and her ladyship were people of
high fashion, nor could she have the least hesitation in concluding
that the Duchess of Steeple Bumstead was also a woman of high fashion;
but she recollected how rudely the Duchess had stared at her, and she
had also a general feeling that many more persons of fashion at the
select party had appeared, both in their manner towards her, and their
deportment towards each other, absolutely disagreeable, unfeeling,
and insolent. There also occurred to her recollection, amidst other
thoughts of a similar nature, the impertinent and conceited airs
which Lord Spoonbill had exhibited when she had formerly met him by
accident; and she compared, with some degree of astonishment, his
present very agreeable with his past very disagreeable manners.

The day on which Lord Smatterton and his family removed to their
suburban villa was the very day that saw Mr Primrose depart from
Smatterton on his way to London. And if on this occasion we should,
by way of being very sentimental and pathetic, say, “Little did they
think, the one that the father was coming to town, and the other
that the daughter was leaving it,”--we should be only saying what
our readers might very readily conjecture to be the case without any
assistance from us: but we should not be perhaps exceeding the limits
of truth. For, in truth, it was a thought which actually did enter the
mind of Mr Primrose just as he set out on his journey: feeling somewhat
angry at the disappointment which he had experienced, he actually
said to himself at the very moment that he entered the chaise: “Now I
suppose, when I get to town, Lord Smatterton and his family will be
gone out of town again.”

It was all very well for the medical attendant to talk about change of
air and change of scene: men of science know very well that persons
in a certain rank will do what they will, and so it is not amiss that
they should be told how very suitable and right it is. Change of scene
is pretty enough and wholesome enough for baby minds that want new
playthings; but no local changes can reach the affliction and sorrow of
heart which sits brooding within. Penelope found that his lordship’s
suburban villa, though built in the present taste, furnished with the
greatest magnificence, and situated in one of the most delightful of
those ten thousand beauteous pieces of scenery which surround the
metropolis, was still unable to disperse the gloom that hung upon her
mind, and to reconcile her to that profession which the imperious
kindness of the Countess of Smatterton had destined for her.

Lord Spoonbill took infinite pains to render the change of scene
agreeable to the young lady. The weather was, for the time of year,
cheerful and bright, and though cold, not intensely so: and in spite
of the numerous hints which the Earl gave him of the impropriety of
such excessive condescension, the heir of Smatterton would accompany
the plebeian dependent in the chariot, and point out to her the
various beauties of the surrounding scenery. A person who can see has
a great advantage over one that is blind. Such advantage had Lord
Spoonbill over Penelope Primrose. In her mind there did not exist the
slightest or most distant apprehension whatever of the design which his
lordship had in these attentions. Had there been such apprehension,
or such suspicion, vain would have been all his lordship’s endeavours
to render himself agreeable to the young lady. As it was, however,
Penelope certainly began to entertain a much higher opinion of his
lordship’s good qualities than she had before. He did not indeed talk
like a philosopher, or utter oracles, but he manifested kind feelings
and generous sentiments. On many subjects he talked fluently, though
his talk was common-place; and he perhaps might adapt himself to the
supposed limited information of his companion. The young lady was also
pleased with the apparent indifference which in his conversation he
manifested to the distinctions of rank. And as Penelope was pleased
with the young nobleman’s attentions, and grateful for the considerate
and almost unexpected kindness which she experienced from the
Smatterton family, her manner became less constrained, and, even though
unwell, she was cheerful, and the gracefulness of gratitude gave to her
natural beauty a charm which heightened and embellished it. Thus, the
beauty by which Lord Spoonbill’s attention had been first attracted,
appeared to him infinitely more fascinating when connected with such
mental and moral charms: so that, to use an expression which has no
meaning, but which is generally understood, his lordship had fairly
lost his heart.

The day after the family had departed from town, the letter which Mr
Primrose had sent to his daughter was, with several others, put into
the magnificent hands of the Right Honorable the Earl of Smatterton.
His lordship did everything with a grace peculiar to himself; even the
opening of letters was to him a matter of importance; and his friends
have often smiled at the serious and self-satisfied air with which he
was accustomed to take up the letters one by one, reading aloud the
address before he broke the seal. There seemed to be something pleasant
to his ear in the sound of the words, “The Right Honorable the Earl
of Smatterton.” His lordship used generally to open his letters in
the presence of his family; and as it frequently happened that, under
cover to his lordship, there came letters addressed to members of his
establishment, he used to make a great ceremony in reading aloud their
address also. It was curious, we have been told, to hear the different
intonation with which his lordship uttered the names of his domestics
from that which he used when speaking of his own great self.

On the present occasion there was only Lord Spoonbill present when the
letters were opened. And when his lordship had first pompously read
aloud “The Right Honorable the Earl of Smatterton,” he afterwards, in a
lower and quicker tone, read--“Miss Primrose.” His lordship then handed
the letter to his son, saying, “Charles, this letter, I perceive, is
addressed to Miss Primrose; cause it immediately to be delivered to the
young woman. At the same time let me give you a caution. Condescension
to our inferiors is very becoming, and is one of the brightest jewels
in a nobleman’s coronet: but, Charles, while we condescend to our
inferiors, we should always recollect, and let them also know, that
they are our inferiors. We should always treat our inferiors with
kindness, and we may behave to them, when we admit them to our table,
with courteous politeness. But we must not, and ought not, by way of
shewing our condescension, to let down and forget our dignity.”

Lord Spoonbill thought more of Miss Primrose’s pretty face than he
did of his own dignity, and was therefore beginning to grow weary of
this right honorable prosing, and to shew symptoms of fidgettiness.
But when the Earl of Smatterton had once taken it into his head to
administer the word of exhortation to any of his family, he was not
easily diverted from his purpose by any expressions or indications of
uneasiness on the part of the patient: therefore he proceeded.

“Now, Spoonbill, let me as a friend advise you. I waive my authority
and speak to you purely and simply as a friend. Our title is a mere
empty sound, unless the dignity of it is properly kept up. You are
disposed to be very condescending, and at home it is all well enough;
but what I disapprove of is your condescension in public. Yesterday you
accompanied this young woman in the chariot, and it is impossible to
say who may have seen you thus familiarly associating with a person of
inferior rank. There are too many encroachments already upon the higher
classes, and we ought not to invite and encourage more. I have done.”

Lord Spoonbill was glad to hear that. But the disobedient one, as if
his only object in listening to a sermon had been that he might act
directly contrary to its advice, forthwith, instead of causing the
letter to be delivered, did himself, with his own right honorable
hands, in person present the letter to Penelope.

“Who should write to me?” thought the dependent, as she received
the letter with a smile of gratitude and gracefulness from the
condescending son of the dignified Earl of Smatterton. Lord Spoonbill
thought that Penelope had never before looked so graceful and so
beautiful as at that moment. There are some countenances in which
peculiar and transient emotions light up a most fascinating expression
of loveliness. This peculiarity belonged to Penelope; and that look
of loveliness rewarded Lord Spoonbill for his condescension, and made
a much deeper impression on his heart than the discourse of the Earl
had made on his understanding. So impressive was it that it almost
enchained him to the spot, so as to prevent Penelope from immediately
gratifying her curiosity by perusing the letter. His lordship, as if to
find reason, or to make cause for prolonging his stay, said:

“If this letter requires an answer by return of post, my father will be
happy to give you a frank; but the post closes at three, and it is now
past twelve.”

“I thank you, my lord,” replied the young lady, looking at the letter
and half opening it; “I do not know from whence it comes.”

In a few seconds the letter was opened, and the quick glancing eye of
Penelope saw the name of Primrose, and the whole truth rushed into her
mind with overpowering violence; and the intense feeling of delight at
the thought of being saved from dependence and rescued from a dreaded
profession, was too much for her weakened spirits to bear composedly,
and exclaiming, with hysteric shriek, “My father, my father!” she would
have sunk on the floor had not Lord Spoonbill caught her in his arms
and placed her on a sofa. His lordship rang violently for assistance,
which was promptly and successfully rendered; and as his presence was
no farther necessary, he thought it best to inform the Countess of the
situation of Miss Primrose, and of the event which had produced this
sudden burst of feeling.

Now, generally speaking, the Countess of Smatterton was a lady of great
humanity and considerateness; but when anything occurred to interfere
with or interrupt a favourite scheme, her natural tenderness was
much abated. It presently came into her mind that the arrival of Mr
Primrose in England would prevent the purposed exhibition of Penelope’s
musical talents, and this thought afflicted her and made her almost
angry. Nevertheless, her ladyship immediately went to Miss Primrose and
offered her congratulations on the happy event. These congratulations
the young lady, in the simplicity of her heart, believed to be
sincere, and she made her acknowledgments accordingly; but she was
very much surprised at the manner in which the Countess received these
acknowledgments.

Penelope, when left alone, read over her father’s letter with more
composed and settled delight, and it was an unspeakable relief to her
mind that now, from the language of this communication, she had reason
to be satisfied that there was no danger that she should be urged into
that dreaded publicity from which she had so timidly but so vainly
shrunk. This letter produced a much more powerful and healing effect
than any change of air or variation of scenery could accomplish. Now
was she full of joy and full of hope, and almost forgot the tears she
had shed for her uncle, and the sighs she had heaved for her lover.


                       END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.


                                LONDON:
        PRINTED BY C. H. REYNELL, BROAD STREET, GOLDEN SQUARE.




                          Transcriber’s Notes

Page 63: “divers discusssions” changed to “divers discussions”

Page 212: “be isappointed” changed to “be disappointed”

Page 353: “shew symtoms” changed to “shew symptoms”





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