Penelope
Date: 2013-11-11T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Penelope

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Title: Penelope
or, Love's labour lost. A novel. Volume 2 (of 3)

Author: William Pitt Scargill

Release date: November 11, 2013 [eBook #44159]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Heather Clark, Joke Van Dorst and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)

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

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

PENELOPE:
OR,
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.

A NOVEL.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

II.

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.

Table of Contents

Chapter I.
Chapter II.
Chapter III.
Chapter IV.
Chapter V.
Chapter VI.
Chapter VII.
Chapter VIII.
Chapter IX.
Chapter X.
Chapter XI.
Chapter XII.
Chapter XIII.
Chapter XIV.
Chapter XV.
Chapter XVI.
Chapter XVII.
Chapter XVIII.
Chapter XIX.

CHAPTER I.

Lord Spoonbill was not less disappointed than the Countess of Smatterton, to hear that Penelope was in daily expectation of seeing her father. Hereditary legislators are sometimes perplexed, and in the present case the son of the Earl of Smatterton was in a state of grievous doubt and agitation.

His object in the first instance had been to take Penelope under his protection, and he supposed that if the correspondence between her and Robert Darnley could be broken off, there would be very little difficulty in inducing her to comply with his proposals. For it was his intention to make a most liberal settlement and to place her in a very handsome establishment. Living as he had always in splendour, and enjoying the luxuries and ostentation of wealth, though accustomed to them from his birth, he thought, that to one educated in such humble obscurity as Penelope had been, these fascinations would be irresistible. During the short time that he had been under the same roof with her, he had seen and observed more of the character of her mind, and he felt that it was not personal beauty alone that she possessed, but that her disposition was kind and her temper beautiful; and therefore he loved her with a much purer regard than ever he had before entertained for any one of the sex. He loved her so much, in fact, that he absolutely regretted that her rank in life was not nearer to his own.

It now also occurred to him, from what he had heard in the autumn, that it was very probable that Robert Darnley might be in England, and that through the intervention of Mr Primrose some explanation might bring the parties together again, and thus his lordship’s hopes would be disappointed and his schemes frustrated. Then there came into his lordship’s mind the thought of the intercepted letters, and with that thought the fear that a discovery might be made as to the manner in which, and the person by whom, they had been intercepted. But that fear was transient, for his lordship confidently said to himself, “It is absolutely impossible that Nick Muggins should betray me.” What could his lordship be thinking about when he uttered this soliloquy? Did the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill think that the principle of honor was stronger in the mind of Nick Muggins, the Smatterton post-boy, than it was in his own Right Honorable self? Wherein, did his lordship imagine, consisted the essential superiority of the high born above the sons of the peasantry? Did his lordship imagine that the only difference was in titles and soft white hands? It is not for us to know what lords may think, it is enough for us to gaze with wonderment on what they do.

Present circumstances and present feelings compelled Lord Spoonbill to enter into serious deliberation with himself as to what step he should pursue. He could not for a moment admit the possibility of making an honorable offer of his hand to the young lady; such a proposal would have been the death of the Earl of Smatterton. That offer, which his lordship gravely called the other proposal, required a little more circumlocution and management; for his lordship was not quite so simple as not to be aware that, if making the first proposal was condescension on his part, accepting the latter would be condescension on the part of the lady. There was required for this purpose a tolerably strong attachment to his lordship, which might not yet exist in the lady’s mind. And though Lord Spoonbill was not by any means a man of great understanding or extraordinary penetration, yet in those matters in which he was most conversant he was not altogether unskilful. In pursuits of a similar nature to the present, his lordship was by no means inexpert; but, in the present instance, he knew that the person in question was gifted with mental powers superior to those which had belonged to his previous victims, and his own regard for her was somewhat more tender and respectful.

These considerations on the one hand told his lordship that success would be endangered by precipitancy, while the fact that Mr Primrose, in the course of a day or two, would make his appearance, rendered it necessary that some immediate steps should be taken. It is a great pity that hereditary legislators, who are born to govern a nation, should in any case be incapable of legislating for themselves. Such a case now occurred. Lord Spoonbill thought of calling to his aid the counsel of a friend. For this purpose he forthwith ordered his horse for a morning ride; and, after an unmercifully rapid gallop of ten miles, he dismounted at the door of one of the prettiest little cottages within twenty miles of London.

This cottage was almost secluded from the sight of the world, but was yet within reach of life’s gaieties and luxuries. Its secludedness was owing partly to the immensely thick plantations by which it was hidden from the road, and partly to the narrow and almost imperceptible lane which led to it. The external appearance of the plantation was rugged and uncultivated and neglected; and this appearance was, on the part of the owner and occupier of the place, cunningly intentional. He was a man who loved seclusion, but who loved the world; but the world which he loved was not the miscellaneous world of promiscuous humanity; it was only the world of select and superfastidious fashion, of graceful gaiety and refined voluptuousness. He loved society not as society, but as the means of more intense and effective sensual gratification. Our readers, we trust, will excuse and accompany us if we describe with very particular minuteness this very singular character. He belonged not to any class, or tribe, or general description of men; for if he had, a few words of outline would suffice to state the class to which he belonged, and imagination or observation might supply the rest. But he was a perfect unique.

His personal appearance was striking, though not marked by any decided or obvious singularity. He was tall and well formed, finely proportioned and of graceful carriage. The top of his head was entirely and shiningly bald; his complexion was fair, and there was for the most part a look of good humour and easy gaiety in his countenance; but an attentive observer might occasionally perceive a transient cloudiness that looked like disappointment, and there were also visible traces of slight asperity and symptoms of sneer and contemptuousness. In his dress he was fastidiously accurate and expensively splendid. He regarded fashion no farther than as it gave him an opportunity of exhibiting himself to the greatest possible advantage.

Of the qualities of his mind it is difficult to speak intelligibly. He was intellectual, though sensual; his reading was remarkably limited, and his knowledge as remarkably extensive. He had received the rudiments of his education at Westminster, and had finished his studies at Cambridge, at which place he had become acquainted with Lord Spoonbill. But, notwithstanding all the opportunities which had been afforded him, he had not made what is called progress in literature. He was perfect in no species of knowledge or science which is derivable from books. He had learned Greek, Latin, French, Italian and German, but he was familiar with none of them. He had slightly attended to the exact sciences, but he had forgotten of them everything but their existence. He had read ancient and modern history; his recollection of them was little, but clear, and when he had any occasion to speak of any of their facts or their philosophies, he generally spoke with accuracy, and thereby acquired a reputation, which he had no wish or ambition to acquire, of being a well read man. Few people speak Greek or Latin, and therefore our gentleman, not being examined, passed for a scholar. Everybody who pretends to any degree of refinement or fashion, interslops his own native language with an ungrammatical nasal blattering, called quoting French; and our gentleman had picked up enough of that affected trumpery to pass well in the society which he occasionally frequented. With how small a portion of real literature and actual knowledge a man may pass muster in society, is only known to those who love the reputation of scholarship better than its toils.

The gentleman of whom we are speaking was too politic to trouble himself about politics. His politics, if the theory of such an indolent one may be called by that name, were Ascendancy politics. Those are the best subjects who never trouble their heads about politics: if we were king we should always encourage and patronize such people. The tame negroes in the West India islands do not trouble their heads about politics, nor do the subjects of the Emperor of Morocco, or the King of Persia, for if they did, their heads would soon cease to trouble them. The people of the United States do trouble their heads, but the time may come when there may be in that part of the world a great multitude who will not trouble their heads about politics; it will then be a much pleasanter thing to be king of America than it would now. But while we say that our gentleman was indifferent to politics, and therefore a good subject, we by no means wish it to be understood that he was a Tory, for Tories do trouble their heads about politics, and trouble other people’s heads too.

This person eschewed partisanship, because it would give him trouble to belong to a party. His principle was to possess and enjoy animally every luxury within his reach; but at the same time to avoid those excesses which are palpably and obviously ruinous to the constitution. He had made the experiment for very few years, but he began to find thus early that the experiment was not likely to succeed. For want of exertion and activity the keenness of his relish had already begun to abate; and by carefully extracting the bitter ingredients from life’s cup and casting them away, he found that its sweets were sickening and saturating. Whatever was annoying to mind or body, he endeavoured, and in most cases successfully, to avoid. But there was gradually and surely coming upon him the bitterest of all annoyances; that kind of mental suffering which is only describable in the language of paradox, and which we will set down for the purpose of giving the purblind puppies of criticism something to yelp at. He was then beginning to feel the bitterness of sweetness, the darkness of light, the discord of harmony, the solitude of society, the weariness of rest, the deformity of beauty; but he knew not how and from whence this annoyance was coming upon him. He had felt that sensibility was painful, and he had suppressed or neutralized it; he avoided the sight or thought of suffering, for he felt that sympathy with pain was painful. He had not exercised the powers of his mind, lest that exercise should interfere with that system of luxurious enjoyment which he had adopted. He had despised and derided the moral feeling, and had studiously guarded himself against all reproofs which conscience might administer to him. But with all this care he experienced feelings far more oppressive than those against which he guarded.

Now the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill was also a man of no mental exertion, but he was a man of no mental power; he also was sensual, but his was not a deliberate and studied sensuality, it was purely animal and instinctive. He was an Epicurean, but not an Epicurean philosopher. At Cambridge he had been acquainted with this Mr Erpingham, and he had admired the dextrous sophistry by which this gentleman had proved the worse to be the better cause. Mr Erpingham had also been proud of the acquaintance with nobility, though Lord Spoonbill was a younger man than he. And they had become the confidents and companions of each others profligacies.

In a difficulty therefore of that kind to which we have above alluded, it is not to be wondered at that his lordship should enter into consultation, or at least into conversation, concerning the subject with his good friend Erpingham.

We would not, however, have our readers imagine that Lord Spoonbill was quite such a ninny as to make it the subject of deliberate consultation and express enquiry, to learn what he ought to do on the present occasion; he merely meant to make a call upon his friend, and he was prompted to make that call by the circumstances in which he was then placed with regard to Penelope Primrose. His object was to talk the matter over, and he certainly could not have selected a properer person to take part in such conversation.

The two friends had not met for some time; the interview was agreeable therefore to both parties; for they had a great mutual respect for each other: Lord Spoonbill admired Mr Erpingham’s talents, and Mr Erpingham had a high respect for Lord Spoonbill’s title and high connexions.

CHAPTER II.

Lord Spoonbill was ushered into an apartment, the air of which was warm and fragrant: the warmth came from Newcastle, and the fragrancy from Bond street. At first entering the room his lordship saw not any one to whom his name could have been announced. The servant who had opened the door for him closed it immediately behind him, and he seemed to be in an empty apartment. By an instinct natural to an Englishman he advanced towards the fire-place, and there he presently saw on a sofa, the back of which was towards the door, his friend Erpingham reclining at full length, and having before him an open volume placed on a low table, which had been constructed and adapted for reading on a sofa. This was what Erpingham called “reading made easy.”

His lordship expressed by his looks some surprise that his friend should not rise from the sofa, and said, “Erpingham! are you unwell?”

“Ah! Spoonbill, is it you? Excuse my not rising to receive you; but the fact is, I have been trying for the last hour and a half to get into an easy position, and I have but just accomplished it, and if I move now I shall not be able to recover the position, and you know how wretched that sensation is. Well, how are the old materials?”

This last question referred to the health of the Earl and Countess of Smatterton; and it was a phrase which Erpingham had learned from Lord Spoonbill himself.

To this question Lord Spoonbill made the regular response, and continued, “How is it, Erpingham, that I never have the pleasure of seeing you unless I ride over to you?”

“Can’t say,” was the careless reply: “but,” continued the Epicurean, “I am not partial to mixed company. Now your house in town is too multitudinous for me.—But my Clarissa tells me that the Countess of Smatterton is going to astonish the whole world by introducing a new first-rate voice.”

For explanation, it may be enough to inform the reader that Clarissa held the same place in Mr Erpingham’s establishment as Lord Spoonbill wished Penelope to hold in his. His lordship therefore was not sorry that the subject should be thus introduced, and he replied:

“Exactly so. But we have our doubts whether the lady will, under present circumstances, assent to the arrangement: for when she came to London, it was as an orphan, but now her father has returned from India after a long, and, I suppose, a profitable absence. Mr Primrose, the father, is now on his way from Smatterton, and he has said in his letter to his daughter, that he is about to place her in a home of his own. So I fear we shall lose this star.”

Mr Erpingham did not lay anything very much to heart, and therefore he did not express any serious lamentation on this probable loss. He directed his remarks to other matters; and among other questions which he asked of Lord Spoonbill, alluding to the circumstances and events of his lordship’s life, he enquired: “And have you got rid of your dear little Ellen at last? You had a great deal of trouble with her, I think you told me some time ago.”

Lord Spoonbill was quite as profligate as his elegant friend, but he had not so successfully and completely neutralized all his feelings. Though his profligacy therefore was coarser than that of Erpingham, and though his lordship was not over gifted with sensibility, yet he was not so entirely and systematically heartless. To this question concerning poor Ellen he shook his head, and said:

“Why, yes; I was sorry for the poor thing too: she was very much in love with me at one time, I really believe.”

“Ay,” replied Erpingham, “that was bad. It is quite annoying to have a woman in love with one. I could not endure it. I make it a rule never to encourage anything of the kind. You were too much addicted to sentimentality when you were at Cambridge. I suspect now that you are more than half in love with this Miss Primrose. Is she pretty and silly?”

Lord Spoonbill frowned at the question, and did not answer it.

“Oh, well,” replied his friend, “I have no wish to be in your confidence. Pray don’t tell me any more of your secrets than you wish me to know. And if you are going to talk as much nonsense to me about Miss Primrose as you did two years ago about your ‘dear little Ellen,’ I must beg to be excused. Positively, Spoonbill, I have grown quite nervous of late.”

“I think,” replied his lordship, “you have grown quite provoking. I have no intention of boring your ears with any sentimentality, as you are pleased to call it.”

This being uttered in a petulant tone, and Erpingham not liking to take the trouble of replying in the same tone, contented himself with indolently saying:

“Well, well, don’t be angry. Say what you please. I will bear it very patiently.”

Lord Spoonbill having but little time to spare, and being very desirous of unburthening his mind to his friend, suffered this kind of careless half-apology to extract from him the secret of his attachment to Penelope. Erpingham listened as attentively as he could to the story, and when it was finished he yawned out, “Ah! sure! But what assistance can I give you?”

It was not very easy to answer that question. His lordship was more disposed indeed to ask questions than answer them, and therefore, instead of replying to the question of his friend, he said: “Now what would you advise me to do?”

“Make her an offer of a handsome establishment. I suppose she is violently in love with you.”

“I cannot be quite sure of that,” replied his lordship; “but I believe I am not quite disagreeable to her.”

“There is something in that,” replied Erpingham; “but not much. According to your account of this Miss Primrose, it should seem that she is of a good family, and perhaps the arrangement that you contemplate would not be acceded to.”

“That,” answered his lordship, “is what I most fear; and I will acknowledge to you that I am so far in love, that rather than lose her I would actually marry her.”

“Marry her,” exclaimed the Epicurean; “marry her! Impossible!” Saying this, Erpingham roused himself from his indolent lounging posture, and with much greater energy than he was accustomed to use, he said: “Spoonbill, I am not much in the habit of either giving or taking advice, but I will for once so far advise you as to say, that if you contemplate marrying Miss Primrose, you must not on any account whatever make her any other offer.”

“Why so?” replied his booby lordship, with a stare of awkward astonishment.

“Why so!” echoed his friend; “because, if the young lady has a proper sense of her own dignity, she will not accept an offer of marriage from one who has made her an offer of another description; and if she has not that sense of dignity, but merely makes a profitable market of your passion for her, she will despise you for a fond fool, and you, when your fondness is over, will look upon her as a cunning, artful baggage. I know nothing about Miss Primrose; but I am very sure that no woman is fit to be a wife who could ever forgive a proposal of a different description.”

The sagacious hereditary legislator could not understand this logic, and he stared at his friend as if he thought that he was crazy. “Bless my soul, Erpingham,” at length he said, “what nonsense you are talking. I really cannot understand you. What can be more natural and regular than to offer her marriage, if she will not accept me on any other terms. You talk about hating sentimentality; I am sure you are now talking as much sentimentality as any one need wish to hear.”

Erpingham had exerted himself so much by the two last speeches which he had made, as not to wish to continue the discussion, or to undergo any more blundering interrogations from his noble friend; he therefore began to resume his indolent attitude, and said, “Well, do as you like best, Spoonbill, only remember I did not refuse my advice when you asked it. Will you stop now and take your dinner with me?”

Lord Spoonbill was not any more disposed than his friend to carry on the discourse, and therefore declined the invitation to dine, and made the best of his way home again. As he rode homewards he attempted to think, but he found no small difficulty in that mental operation. There are some advertising schoolmasters who profess to teach their pupils to think; but as we were not educated in one of these thought-mongering seminaries, we cannot think how thinking can be taught. It may be possible, for the only impossibility in these days is to decide à priori that anything is impossible. But we do verily believe that, had Lord Spoonbill been at one of these establishments, he would have puzzled his preceptor as much as his preceptor would have puzzled him.

By the time that his lordship had arrived at home he had come to the conclusion of his thinking, and the result was, that he thought Erpingham to be quite an altered man; and he also thought that he would not follow the ridiculous advice which his friend had given him.

Penelope made her appearance at dinner, and looked, as Lord Spoonbill said, most divinely. How Lord Spoonbill should know what divine looks are, we cannot tell: perhaps he meant that Penelope looked like a parson. However Penelope might look at dinner, it is very certain that Lord Spoonbill looked very much at Penelope. But the young lady’s thoughts were so pleasingly and agreeably engaged, and her anticipations were so delightful, that everybody and everything appeared agreeable to her. It was very different with the Countess of Smatterton. Her anticipations were not very pleasant: her ladyship apprehended that the return of Mr Primrose to England would be the destruction of her prospects, as far as they related to Miss Primrose. Having already observed that the young lady had manifested some reluctance to the public exhibition of her musical talents, the Countess very naturally supposed that Mr Primrose would indulge an only child in whatever fancy she might take up.

It was unfortunate also for the Countess, that she could not easily suppress her feelings of displeasure or dissatisfaction when any of her favourite fancies were disappointed. Having already so far committed herself among her rival prodigy-fanciers as to make a kind of preliminary exhibition of her newly discovered wonder, her ladyship felt that it would be very mortifying indeed to make her appearance in town without fulfilling the high promises which she had made, and gratifying the expectations which she had raised.

It is mortifying to spend money for nothing; but it is infinitely more mortifying to be at the expense of a prodigious deal of condescension to answer at last no good or self-gratifying end. This was the loss and the mortification which the Countess of Smatterton now suffered, or at least anticipated. Instead therefore of the usual courteous manner which her ladyship had hitherto manifested towards the niece of the late rector of Smatterton, there was coldness, haughtiness, and silence. The Earl of Smatterton had not so quick a perception as the Countess, and he had not anticipated any disappointment in the return of Penelope’s father to England. His lordship still continued to sport the condescensions, and he did not take any notice whatever of her ladyship’s fit of ill-humour. When stupid men are henpecked they often receive more pity than they need, for they are very frequently insensible to many of the ill-humours of their mates.

Now, as the Countess was silent, an opportunity was offered for his lordship to talk. Happy would it be if all married people would talk only one at a time.

“And so, Miss Primrose,” thus spake the Earl of Smatterton, “I find that you expect shortly to see your father. It is a long while, I think, since you have seen him?”

“It is sixteen years, my lord,” answered Penelope.

“Sixteen years!” repeated his lordship: “you will hardly recollect him. The meeting, I dare say, will be very interesting. And may I ask, what time in the day you expect your father?”

“I fear it will be late in the day, my lord, for my father will not arrive in London till twelve or one o’clock. His letter tells me that he will call soon after that time at your lordship’s house in town, where he supposes I now am.”

“He will be disappointed at not finding you in town,” said Lord Smatterton.

There was much truth in this last remark of his lordship’s. The Earl was somewhat remarkable for the intense and unquestionable truth of many of his remarks. He was by no means given to what is called romancing. Indeed, so exquisitely and unquestionably true was this observation, that Penelope thought it needed not the corroboration of her assent, but that it must carry conviction to every mind. And so it did; and especially to the mind of the Countess, who immediately observed: “Perhaps it may be agreeable to Miss Primrose to go to town early to-morrow morning for the purpose of meeting her father.”

Her ladyship made this proposal because she had no desire to entertain Mr Primrose, and she thought that if Penelope was to be taken from her patronage at all, the sooner it was done the better. What prodigious lies patrons and patronesses do tell when they profess to have no other object in view than the welfare and happiness of those whom they patronise. The Countess of Smatterton had been pleasing herself with the thought that she should be the talk of the season, as producing and exhibiting such a prodigy as Miss Primrose; and her ladyship, who was very partial to thanks, had been enjoying the anticipation of Penelope’s overpowering gratitude for such distinguished and desirable patronage. But when all these pleasant and agreeable speculations seemed to burst like a bubble, then was her ladyship very angry and morose; and it was her wish to let Penelope know how deeply the disappointment was felt. There were no words however which her ladyship could use expressive of her feelings, and at the same time reproachful to Miss Primrose. It was not Penelope’s fault that her father, after an absence of sixteen years, was now returned to England; nor would it have been proper and just ground of rebuke that the young lady should be pleased at the thought of seeing her father again, and be ready to yield herself to his direction in preference to undergoing the precarious patronage of the great.

Lady Smatterton was not the less ill-humoured because she had no just ground on which she might utter the language of expostulation and reproof to Penelope, but on the contrary her anger was greater: for had there been an opportunity of indulging in language of reproach, that very circumstance would have been a relief and consolation. It was not therefore with a very agreeable intonation nor with the accompaniment of the most gracious of all possible looks that her ladyship proposed that Penelope should go to town to meet her father. But the poor girl being happy in her own thoughts, and unconscious of anything done or said by her that could be offensive to the Countess, was quite unobservant of the harshness of her ladyship’s manner, and thought only of the substantial kindness of the proposal. To the suggestion of the Countess Penelope therefore replied with grateful and pleasurable vivacity:

“Your ladyship is extremely kind; and, if it is not giving too much trouble, I should certainly be happy to take the earliest opportunity of meeting my father.”

“It will be giving no trouble,” hastily and sharply replied her ladyship; “there are coaches to town almost every hour. They will tell you in the housekeeper’s room what time the first coach goes.”

Some high-spirited young ladies would have been mightily indignant at a reference from a nobleman’s table to the housekeeper’s room and stage-coaches. But Penelope was not so high-spirited; she was so completely occupied with the thought of an early meeting with her father, that nothing else was able to obtain possession of her mind.

A momentary pause followed the last observation of the Countess; and then, in his own peculiarly majestic manner, the Earl of Smatterton said, “I am of opinion that it is not quite proper and suitable for a young lady to travel in a stage alone and unprotected.”

With exquisite, and as if premeditated, promptitude Lord Spoonbill replied, “Certainly not; but there will be no necessity for Miss Primrose going alone or in the stage-coach at all. I shall drive up to town tomorrow morning, and if the young lady will accept of a seat in my gig, I shall be most happy in her company.”

Hereupon a general family frowning took place. The Countess frowned at the Earl, his lordship frowned at Lord Spoonbill, and Lord Spoonbill frowned at the Countess; and if Penelope had not been too polite she would have laughed at all three. Lord Spoonbill, however, in spite of frowns, determined to have his own way, and seeing that Penelope was desirous of going to town, insisted on accompanying her.

The Countess was next puzzled how to part with Miss Primrose; whether as concluding that the young lady would not return to her and adopt the profession which had been recommended by her ladyship, or as admitting the probability that Mr Primrose would not object to the public employment of his daughter’s musical talents. For with all her ladyship’s alarm at the return of Mr Primrose to England, it had not yet appeared that his return would interfere with her ladyship’s schemes. The probability however was, that when there was no pecuniary necessity for the exercise of these talents, they would not be cultivated for public display.

Before the Countess parted from Penelope for the night, her ladyship said, “Miss Primrose, as I presume that your father may not object to the profession which I have chosen for you, may I ask when it will be convenient for you to take lessons previous to your public appearance: for it is now time to think of that matter? Of course you know that I have engaged a preceptor for you?”

The Countess of Smatterton had more fears than hopes on the subject, and as for Penelope herself, she had taken it for granted that the return of her father would of course release her from dependence on strangers, and consequently render all professional employment unnecessary. She was therefore startled at the question, but with tolerable promptitude and presence of mind, replied:

“I am grateful for your ladyship’s kindness. But, till I have seen my father, it is impossible to say when I can begin to apply myself to the instruction so kindly provided. I will return as soon as——”

The Countess understood this sentence, and answered with rather more asperity than became a kind and condescending patron: “You need not trouble yourself to return to me, Miss Primrose, unless you please to accept of the instruction that I have provided for you. If I confer favours I expect to choose what favours I shall confer.”

Penelope made no reply, for her heart was full, and she thought of Mrs Greendale; but, under all this, the joy at the thought of her father’s return kept her spirits from sinking.

CHAPTER III.

It was a very fine morning when Lord Spoonbill’s gig was brought to the door to convey Penelope to London. The young lady was joyful even to tears. Hers was a joy of such intoxicating and almost bewildering nature, that it became necessary for her to exercise some restraint over herself, lest she should make herself ridiculous by ungoverned prating. Lord Spoonbill was also pleased with the commission which he had given to himself, to conduct the young lady to town. But his pleasure was mingled with thoughtfulness, and alloyed by meditating and contriving. He not been inexperienced in the winning of female affection, but he was conscious that there was in the mind of Penelope something widely different from and far superior to those with whom his former intimacies had been.

Deeply and seriously did he endeavour to revolve in his mind the advice which he had received from his friend Erpingham. But his lordship’s mind was unfortunately too narrow and contracted to afford room for anything to turn round in it. He tried and tried, but all to no purpose, to understand what Erpingham could possibly mean, when he said that a woman is not fit for a wife who can forgive an offer of a different description. His lordship, on the contrary, thought that a woman is not fit for a wife who is of an unforgiving disposition.

So far indeed as his lordship’s own personal feelings were concerned he would have had no objection whatever to offer his hand to Miss Primrose; an offer which he thought of course could not possibly be rejected. But then again he thought of his dignity; and he remembered how very severely he had spoken, and how very contemptibly he had thought, of some titled individuals who had so far compromised their dignity as to marry from the lower orders. Yet there was something so elegant and so naturally noble in Penelope’s look, manner, expression, tone of voice, carriage and person, that nature itself seemed to have ennobled her. She seemed fitted for any station in society. This was all very true; but Lord Spoonbill could not for all this reconcile his mind to the thought of raising Miss Primrose to the exalted rank of the Spoonbill family. He was fearful too that the degradation would break his mother’s heart. All these thoughts, if thoughts they might be called, with myriads more of the same complexion and tendency, passed through the mind, if mind he had any, of the son and heir of the Right Honorable the Earl of Smatterton.

We have said it was a fine morning, and if two of the English nation can on such a morning travel together without talking about the fineness of the weather, when it is really fine, they are two that we have never seen, heard, or read of.

“We have a beautiful morning for our ride, Miss Primrose,” said Lord Spoonbill.

“Beautiful, indeed,” replied Penelope; and she said it with such energy, with such heart-bounding glee, as if the sun had never shewn her its cloudless face before. And never indeed had it shone so brightly before to her. There is something peculiarly and positively beautiful in a fine bright day in the midst of winter. The shortness of its light adds to its intensity and condenses its interest. But when there is sunshine within as well as without, and when the heart is young, pure, hopeful and buoyant, then is there felt a revelry of delight, a wantonness of happiness. So felt Penelope on this bright and brilliant winter’s morning. And when there was added to the joyous feeling within and to the effect of the spirit-stirring anticipation with which she set out on her journey, the bracing and sharpening of an almost frosty air, her fine countenance was suffused with as brilliant a hue as ever graced the human countenance. As far as life excels the art of the sculptor, so far did the countenance of Penelope on this morning’s journey excel in brightness and beauty its ordinary expression. “We are not stocks and stones.” So thought Lord Spoonbill when he gazed on the lovely one who sat beside him. He almost felt the majesty of loveliness, and was almost awed into reverence.

And did not the thought then occur to his lordship, that the scheme which he was meditating must of necessity destroy that peace, that happiness, that purity, which now formed so lovely and interesting a picture? Did not some recollection of beauty prematurely fading, of the burning blushes of self-reproach, of the convulsive throbbings of breaking hearts, of memory burdened and writhing under the agony of thoughts it cannot bear and cannot forget, come into the mind of the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill? Did he not recollect poor Ellen, lovely in her simplicity, happy in her innocence, the light of her home and the joy of her widowed mother’s heart? And did he not think of that same Ellen dropping the tears of agonizing penitence on that mother’s dying pillow, and wandering now, for aught he knew to the contrary, a houseless, shivering, desolate outcast?

No such thoughts entered his mind. Selfishness and sensuality predominated over, or excluded all other feelings. He used all the art of which he was master to render himself agreeable to his companion during their short journey. He also exerted all his power of observation to see whether any symptoms betrayed an interest in him on the part of Penelope. But in the brightness of her looks, and the joyousness of her features, no other emotions were visible and no other thoughts could be read. His lordship was convinced that he could not possibly live without her, and he resolved that at all events he would make known his admiration by words as well as by looks. Like all the rest of the world, preferring his own judgment to the advice of any other, he determined that the offer of marriage should be reserved till he should ascertain that no other was likely to succeed.

The journey was soon over. They arrived at the Earl of Smatterton’s town mansion full two hours before it was likely that Mr Primrose should be in town. Ten thousand thanks were given by the grateful Penelope for the kindness of his lordship, and unnumbered acknowledgments of the goodness and condescension of the Earl and Countess of Smatterton. Such were the joyous feelings of the young lady, that these thanks and acknowledgments were expressed with unusual earnestness and warmth of manner; and such was the modesty of Lord Spoonbill, that for himself and for his right honorable parents he disclaimed all right and title to such a profusion of thanks.

“I beg, Miss Primrose,” said his modest lordship, “that you will not so overwhelm us with your thanks. We are but too happy in having had it in our power to afford you any little accommodation.”

“Oh my lord, you are very kind, very kind. But I am almost afraid that I have said or done something to offend her ladyship, the Countess; for, when I took my leave last night, her ladyship spoke to me as in anger. I fear I did wrong in so readily accepting the offer to come to town to meet my father.”

To the ear of Lord Spoonbill there was something exceedingly graceful and musical in the tone with which this language was uttered. There is indeed an indescribable beauty in the accents of a grateful mind fearful of having offended its benefactor. His lordship was aware of his mother’s feelings on the subject of the probable loss of Penelope, and his lordship was himself also fearful of losing her. But he did not use the language of harshness under that apprehension, he sought rather to retain her by kindness of expression. Assuming therefore an unusual tenderness and considerateness of manner, he took the young lady’s hand, as if unconsciously, but in truth designedly, and holding the hand with sufficient firmness to prevent it being withdrawn, but not so as to excite suspicion or thought of intentional seriousness, he said:

“I am very sorry that anything which the Countess may have said, has given you uneasiness; but my mother has a peculiar earnestness and hastiness of manner, that you have mistaken for anger. No one can ever be offended with Miss Primrose.”

There was a little pause, during which Lord Spoonbill endeavoured to catch a glance of the expression of Penelope’s countenance, without appearing to make any particular observation; and, in this short pause, Penelope almost sighed. Lovers delight to hear sighs, and Lord Spoonbill was especially pleased at this symptom of emotion in Miss Primrose. Retaining her hand therefore, and softening his tone down to deeper tenderness, he continued:

“The Countess no doubt will be sorry to lose you, if the return of your father necessarily involves that condition. But let us hope that may not be the case.”

Having thus spoken, his lordship pressed the young lady’s hand more emphatically, and sighed. Now, by rights, Penelope should at this have started up, and suddenly withdrawing her hand, knitting her brows, advancing three steps backward and darting a look of indignation at his lordship, should have exclaimed, “Unhand me, my lord; what is the meaning of this language?” But Penelope neither did nor said anything of the kind. For the word ‘unhand’ was not in her dictionary, and she had been too long acquainted with Lord Spoonbill to expect that he should be able to explain the meaning of all he said. There was also another reason why the young lady did not thus express indignation and astonishment; namely, that having no suspicion of the views or intentions of his lordship, she did not observe or rightly interpret his language and his sigh. In addition to this, it may be also supposed that the expectation of her father’s arrival had some influence in rendering her unobservant of everything else.

Emboldened by the unresisting manner in which Penelope listened to his conversation, his lordship proceeded to speak less equivocally, and grasping with both his hands the still unremoved hand of Penelope, and assuming a look and tone of tenderness, he said:

“Pardon me, Miss Primrose, if I seize this first and perhaps last opportunity of avowing how dearly I do love you.”

His lordship was about to say much more on the same interesting topic, but Miss Primrose interrupted him. The manner in which the interruption was given was rather singular, and did not seem at all favorable to his lordship’s hopes. For, instead of looking serious and frowning and attitudinizing, the young lady merely withdrew her hand, and said with a smile:

“My lord, I hope you are only jesting; but my feelings are too much interested with the thought of presently meeting my father, to allow me now even to enter into the humour of a jest.”

Thereupon his lordship rose from his seat, laid his hand upon his heart, and directed to Miss Primrose a look, which would, on the stage, have called down deafening plaudits from the back of the one shilling gallery to the front row of the pit, and with indescribable earnestness exclaimed, “By heavens, Miss Primrose, I am serious!”

To that declaration the young lady replied seriously, “Then, my lord, I am very sorry to hear it.”

Thus speaking, Penelope went towards the window, leaving his lordship to think what he should say next. The enamoured hereditary legislator then, undaunted by the smiles or frowns of Miss Primrose, followed the young lady to the window, and in less impassioned but mildly persuasive tones continued his address, saying:

“Miss Primrose, may I request of you the favor to hear me?”

“Certainly, my lord,” replied Penelope, “if you will hear me first.”

“Most willingly,” replied his lordship.

“Then, my lord,” continued Penelope, “I must be permitted to say that I feel very much hurt and surprised at what you have already said. You have recalled to my mind thoughts that I would willingly have forgotten; this allusion will suffice to let your lordship understand the state of my feelings. I hope you will forbear the unpleasant discussion. Indeed”—here her voice was feebler, and her lip quivered, and the full tear was in her eyes, and her whole frame trembled, but she did not look the less lovely for this emotion; summoning an effort, she continued, “For mercy’s sake, my lord, let me meet my father as composedly as I possibly can. In less than an hour he will be here. Pray do not rob our meeting of its happiness.”

In saying this she threw herself into the nearest chair, and covering her face with her handkerchief she sobbed and wept, and in spite of herself thought of Robert Darnley. The Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill also sat down, and thought of Nick Muggins and the indescribable pony. But his lordship neither wept nor blushed. We record this fact rather for its truth than its beauty. It seems indeed an encouragement to such sparks as, in their transgressions, sometimes feel remorse; for it is as much as to say that, by practice, they will become so familiarized with meanness and cruelty as to cease to feel ashamed of them.

His lordship for a few minutes was silent. But as soon as Penelope was a little more composed, he said; “I am very much concerned, Miss Primrose, for the uneasiness which I have occasioned you, and so far from wishing to interrupt the happiness of your meeting with your father I will retire, that you may compose yourself. Only let me request that I may have the honor of being introduced to Mr Primrose after your first meeting is over.”

This was all very rational and proper, and the kind, considerate manner in which it was spoken pleased Penelope very much, and she made her acknowledgments for the kindness with so much grace as to fascinate his lordship more than ever. He thought he had never seen so lovely and interesting a creature in his life. He apologized for having introduced such a subject so inopportunely, and attributed it solely to the fear that the arrival of her father might preclude him from speaking on the subject at a future time.

When the poor girl was left alone, it was no easy matter for her to arrange her scattered thoughts and to bring herself back to that state of holiday extasy with which she had begun the day. Nor was much time afforded her for the purpose; for, not many minutes after the departure of Lord Spoonbill, the arrival of Mr Primrose was announced. There seemed to Penelope to be scarcely any interval between hearing a carriage stop at the door, and finding herself embraced in the arms of her long lost father.

Over a scene like this all modest dramatists would drop the curtain, knowing that imagination would be rather impeded than assisted by farther exhibition.

CHAPTER IV.

To continue that reference to the drama with which the preceding chapter was concluded, it may be remarked that, when the curtain has fallen thus abruptly on one scene, the spectators do not anticipate that, on its being drawn up again, the eye should be greeted with any continuation of that scene; but rather do they look for some great and decided transition. Our readers therefore will not now be surprised if we take them back again to Neverden and Smatterton. They are pleasant villages, and their inhabitants are for the most part unartificial people.

It is a fact worthy of notice, and we have no doubt that our observant readers have already remarked it, that all the personages in those two villages of whom we have yet spoken, have had that delectable and pleasing feeling of their own importance, by which they have considered that the world has been under infinite obligations to them. To have that feeling strongly and genuinely, is a real happiness; and if there has ever been any human being whom we have envied, it has been P. P., clerk of this parish, especially while he was writing his own memoirs. To endeavour to rob any one of this sense, is cruel, heart-rendingly cruel and barbarous; but fortunately for human happiness, this robbery cannot easily be effected.

But though the good people of these villages had this feeling in a very high and pure degree, yet it is not altogether confined to them; and if the Reverend Mr Darnley, in his vigintennial visits to London, has been rather angry and offended at the rude behaviour of the people in the streets who have jostled and driven against him, without having the grace to move their hats to him, that self-same Mr Darnley has in his turn inflicted upon a distinguished inhabitant of the great metropolis as serious a mortification as his reverence experienced from metropolitan neglect.

We have introduced to our readers the Rev. Charles Pringle; we have now to introduce that gentleman’s first-cousin, Zephaniah Pringle, Esq. This illustrious personage was not a native, but had long been an inhabitant, of the great metropolis, and, according to his own view of the matter, a great ornament to it. He was a literary man. He had been destined by his parents for agricultural pursuits, but his genius was above them. The circumstances, the trifling circumstances, which tend to develope the powers of the mind and to direct the energies into their proper channel, are always worthy of notice. Everybody knows the story of Sir Isaac Newton and the apple. But everybody does not know, but soon will know, the circumstances which made Zephaniah Pringle a critic.

When Zephaniah was about twelve years old he was taken to Smatterton by his father, who had to make a call of business on Mr Kipperson. While Mr Pringle and Mr Kipperson were engaged in looking at some cattle which the latter had to dispose of, young Pringle was gaping about in the library, and admiring with great veneration all its literary wonders; but that which most powerfully arrested his attention was a plaister bust of Dr Johnson. And when the agricultural gentlemen returned to the library, Zephaniah, pointing to the bust, said, “Father, was that there thick-headed man a heathen philosopher?”

Mr Kipperson, who was pleased with the young gentleman’s manifestation of a taste for literature and philosophy, kindly corrected the misapprehension of the youth, and said, “No, my lad, the heathen philosophers did not wear wigs. That is a bust of Dr Johnson, the celebrated critic and lexicographer.”

Zephaniah, with open mouth and expanded eyes, stared his thanks to Mr Kipperson, who immediately asked the young gentleman if he was fond of reading. To which he replied in the affirmative. Whereupon Mr Kipperson kindly lent the youth Boswell’s Life of Dr Johnson.

From that moment young Pringle felt an irresistible impulse to become a man of letters; and with a view to gratify that ambition, his father was kind enough to let him have another quarter’s Latin, in order to give him an opportunity to perfect himself in classical literature.

Thus qualified, the young man in due time went up to London. In the great metropolis he soon divested himself of the rusticity of his manners, and after some few failures in the first instance, for want of knowing the proper knack of writing, he soon acquired a tolerable facility, and absolutely once wrote something that was talked about. From that moment he never saw two people talking together in a bookseller’s shop, without fancying that they were talking about Zephaniah Pringle.

He took great pains to imitate Dr Johnson; but his literary companions detected him and laughed at him. He had but a slender frame and a slender voice; and when he attempted the oracular and the pompous style, it was like playing the Hallelujah Chorus on a fife. He could not adopt the doctor’s Jacobitism, but he took instead of that a double extra super-Eldon high Toryism. And in religion, not that he ever went to church, he was decidedly of opinion that all dissenters and Roman Catholics were convinced that the church of England was the only true church, but that they would not conform merely out of spite. It was his opinion that the Duke of Wellington would never have driven the French out of Spain, had he not always made a point of hearing all his soldiers every day say the church catechism.

He had a praiseworthy and prodigious horror of gymnastics; they came from Greece, and the ancient Greeks were republicans. In his notion of mechanics’ institutes he was exceedingly ungrateful to Mr Kipperson, who patronized him and them too; and when Mr Kipperson once proposed to establish a mechanics’ institute at Smatterton for the benefit of the agricultural operatives, this Zephaniah Pringle had the impudence to write him a long letter on the subject, accusing him of a design to subvert the established church, and convert England into a republic. Mr Kipperson gave up the scheme, not because of this letter, but because, when he assembled the people of the village in one of his barns to read them a lecture on hydrostatics, every soul of them fell fast asleep.

There was another subject on which Mr Zephaniah Pringle had very strong opinions,—viz. West India slavery. He very properly laughed at the absurdity of supposing that negroes have the slightest objection to be flogged to death; and he knew that the only object which the abolitionists had in view, was to overturn the established church.

Mr Zephaniah Pringle had a most exquisite conceit of his own superlative wisdom and penetration. This gentleman must have experienced therefore a sensation of great delight in taking his important self down to Smatterton to visit Mr Kipperson and surprise the natives. But how great must have been his astonishment, when introduced by Mr Kipperson at the rectory of Neverden, to find that Mr Darnley the elder had never heard of the name and fame of Zephaniah Pringle. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection, that many other names great as his own were equally unknown to this obscure village parson.

Finding that the young ladies of Mr Darnley’s family were addicted to reading, the critic kindly administered his gratuitous and unasked commentaries on divers modern and ancient authors. He astonished the daughters of the rector of Neverden by opinions hitherto unheard and unthought of. The confidence of his manner passed for wisdom and decided apprehension of the subjects on which he spoke; and as he took care to let it be thoroughly understood that all who differed from him were fools, and as literary young ladies do not like to be considered fools, they of course assented to Zephaniah Pringle’s opinions on literary topics.

In his conversation with Mr Darnley the younger he found that, by talking literature, he did not seem to magnify himself to his heart’s content; for Robert Darnley did not believe that critics were conjurors. The genius then had recourse to talk concerning those persons of high style and dignity with whom he had the honor to be acquainted. Among other great names, he mentioned that of Lord Smatterton, and the scarcely less illustrious name of Lord Spoonbill.

“You are acquainted then with Lord Spoonbill?” said Robert Darnley.

“Oh yes, perfectly well,” replied the critic.

“And pray what kind of man is this Lord Spoonbill? for, though the family resides in the next village, I am totally unacquainted with them.”

“Lord Spoonbill himself is the best creature in the world. The Earl of Smatterton is a proud, haughty man, like the rest of the Whig aristocracy.”

“Then Lord Spoonbill is not so very proud?”

“I cannot say that Lord Spoonbill is altogether without pride. He has very high notions; but his manner is not pompous like his father’s. And he can be very agreeable, though he is by no means a man of any great share of intellect.”

“I have heard him spoken of,” replied Robert Darnley, “as being a very profligate man.”

“I believe,” said the critic, “he is rather gay, but not more so than most young men of his rank. The finest joke in the world is, that his father, the Earl of Smatterton, thinks that he is one of the gravest and steadiest young men of the age, and quotes him as such accordingly. But the fact is, that his lordship has lately taken under his protection a lady, now received at Lord Smatterton’s table.”

Robert Darnley could not believe his own senses. The language which he now heard from Zephaniah Pringle seemed to allude plainly enough to Penelope, but it could not be possible, he thought, that a young lady of such high and pure spirit as Miss Primrose could ever submit to an arrangement so truly humiliating. Suppressing and concealing his agitation as well as he could, he endeavoured to ascertain from the man of letters what was really the fact concerning Lord Spoonbill and this, as yet unnamed, young lady.

“Surely, Mr Pringle, you do not mean to say that Lord Spoonbill has a lady in keeping, whom he introduces to his father’s table? This is really beyond all credence.”

“But indeed, sir, I do mean it,” replied Zephaniah the critic: “and, if you have never heard the story, I can tell you all the particulars.”

“It is no business of mine,” said Darnley, “but I do feel curious to know the particulars of so very singular a case, as a young man bringing a kept lady to his father’s own table.”

“It is not altogether so,” replied Mr Pringle; “but I will tell you exactly how the case stands; I know Spoonbill very intimately.”

This last expression was uttered as everybody would naturally suppose such an expression would be uttered by such a man. After thoroughly enjoying the high and refined satisfaction of having said, “I know Spoonbill very intimately,” the loyal and religious critic proceeded:

“You must remember old Greendale, the rector of Smatterton, who was my cousin’s predecessor in the living. He died a very short time before you returned from India. This old man had a very pretty niece, you know; you must remember her, for I understand that she lived with old Dr Greendale from her infancy.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Darnley, with much effort concealing the agitation which he felt; “I remember her very well, her name is Primrose; but you surely do not mean to say that Miss Primrose is living under the protection of Lord Spoonbill?”

Hereupon Mr Pringle did somewhat hesitate and say, “Why, why—I cannot exactly say that—that she is absolutely living under his protection. She is rather living under the protection of Lady Smatterton as yet. You perhaps may not know that Miss Primrose has a remarkably fine voice, and is in fact a first-rate vocalist: now Lady Smatterton is a great patroness of musical talent, and has taken a fancy to bring Miss Primrose out this season as a public singer, and Lord Spoonbill has made proposals, which I believe have been accepted by the lady; and she is to be under his lordship’s protection as soon as she leaves Lord Smatterton’s house, and that will be very soon. That is the true state of the case. I wonder you have never heard of it before; for though you have been from India a very short time, yet in country places intelligence flies very rapidly.”

“Well, you astonish me,” said Mr Darnley the younger; “I could not have thought that a young lady, brought up by such an exemplary and virtuous man as the late Dr Greendale, should ever condescend to live upon those terms with the first nobleman in the kingdom.”

“Oh, sir,” replied the knowing critic, “you do not understand the heart, especially the female heart. There is something in title and splendour so fascinating to the weaker sex, that few can resist its influence. I have observed and studied the human mind in all its various attitudes, and I have lived in the world long enough to cease to be astonished at anything I hear or see. In such an outlandish place as India you see nothing and learn nothing. London is the only place where the human character can be thoroughly and properly studied.”

Much more to the same purpose did the fluent cousin of the new rector of Smatterton say to the son of the rector of Neverden. But Robert Darnley heard him and heeded him not. Deeply did the intelligence concerning Penelope sink into his mind, and painfully did he revolve the idle gossip of the loyal and religious critic, who had properly and thoroughly studied human nature, in his lodgings in Fetter lane, Holborn.

CHAPTER V.

The day which followed immediately after the above-mentioned conversation, was destined for a grand dinner party at the mansion of Sir George Aimwell, Bart. Preparations were made for a splendid entertainment. It was not an easy matter to get together a large party in that neighbourhood without admitting to the table some individuals of dubious dignity. There was, for instance, the equivocal Mr Kipperson, at once landlord and tenant, gentleman and farmer; but then he was so zealous a friend to the interest of agriculture. He was so thoroughly enlightened on the corn question, that the great men of Smatterton and Neverden could not but respect him. Sir George Aimwell also liked Mr Kipperson, because he was a bad shot, and had so ardent a zeal against poachers.

This party was assembled, among other objects, for the purpose of welcoming to England the son of the rector of Neverden. But Robert Darnley was by no means in spirits for the enjoyment of festivity. He was sorry for what he had heard from Zephaniah Pringle, and he was angry that he was sorry, and then again sorry that he was angry.

It had been unfortunate for him that there had been such silence observed on the subject of his correspondence and acquaintance with Penelope. Scarcely any one but the parties concerned knew anything of the matter. Mr Kipperson suspected it, and the Smatterton family had been informed of it by Mr Darnley, because the reverend gentleman thought it but respectful to let them into the secret. As for Sir George Aimwell, he scarcely knew or thought of anything, except administering justice and killing birds. The Reverend Charles Pringle, rector of Smatterton, was also quite unaware of the existence of any correspondence between Robert Darnley and Penelope Primrose. No wonder then that, under the present awkward circumstances, and with the false account which Zephaniah, the critic, had brought from London, there should be in the hearing of Robert Darnley much conversation by no means agreeable to his feelings, or soothing to his mind.

When the party began to assemble they began also to talk: but at the first their talk was very desultory and common-place. The worthy baronet was congratulated by Mr Kipperson on having caught a poacher, and was condoled with by the same gentleman on having lost almost his whole brood of pheasants. It is astonishing that any one can be so simple as not to see that pheasants were obviously created to be shot by gentlemen and noblemen only, or their gamekeepers. There was also much talk about horses and dogs, and the poor-rates, and Mr Malthus, and parish settlements, and the agricultural interest.

It is very erroneously stated by many persons, both in writing and in speaking, that the period between the first arrival of the company and the serving up of the dinner is most weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. But as there is no spot of earth so barren as not to produce some curiosity to reward the toil and gratify the taste of the botanist, so there is no attitude or condition of our being which may not yield some fruit of instruction and amusement to the moral botanist. We deserve the thanks of our readers for much that we communicate in the way of information and amusement, but perhaps for nothing so much as for directing their attention to the great and valuable truth, that even the usually-considered dreary half hour before dinner is not absolutely barren and worthless. Peradventure also, by directing the attention to this matter, we may prevent many a dinner from being spoiled, because we thus present a strong inducement to an early arrival. He that arrives first is pretty certain that the rest of the company can have no opportunity of pulling his character to pieces behind his back. For when the host expresses to the rest of his party his wonder that Mr Smith is not come, then the good people who are hungry and impatient begin to talk about Mr Smith, and they use him ungently, treating his transgressions with no candour, and honoring his virtues with no encomium. There is also something very curious in observing the different effects which dining produces on different persons. Some will enter the drawing-room brimfull of intelligence, telling everybody everything that everybody knows, and nobody cares about. There are people who entertain the strange notion that tongues were made to talk about mere matters of fact; and when they have said their say, they are silent for the rest of the evening. There are again others who, before dinner, look as wise and as stupid as owls; who seem at a most painful loss what to do with their hands, or their feet, or their eyes; who having no motive to look at one object in the room more than at another, let their eyes roll unmeaningly and incessantly about as if they were endeavouring to keep them open without looking at anything. But when these apparently inanimate imitations of Chinese Mandarins have had their dinner, their looks are brightened and their tongues loosened, and as before dinner they seemed as if they were wishing most ardently for an opportunity to simper at something which might be said by another, they after dinner give forth that which interests and delights. The period before dinner is also one of great importance for the exhibition of personal decoration. Then, and then only, has dress its right display, and its full complement of observers. In this brief digression it is impossible to enter into one half, or one twentieth of the particulars which may interest and delight an observant mind. “Sermons in stones and good in everything,” is one of the most true and most valuable expressions which the pen of Shakspeare ever wrote. But to proceed.

There was, as we have said above, much miscellaneous talk before dinner at this “grand miscellaneous” entertainment, given by Sir George Aimwell. Mr Kipperson strutted about the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as wise as a conjuror and as pleased as Punch, saying something scientific or agricultural to every one there. The Reverend Charles Pringle made his appearance also time enough to show the company how possible it was to violate the decorum of clerical attire without actually transgressing the literal regulations. Lady Aimwell received much of that gentleman’s polite attention; and the daughters of Mr Darnley were also not unnoticed. The new rector of Smatterton was very clever at conundrums, some new ones of his own making were graciously communicated to the young ladies. Zephaniah Pringle, the critic, was pleased to look very important, and to feel his dignity and intellectuality mightily hurt, because the talk, such as it was, had no interest for him. He was much at a loss to think how it was possible for human beings to take an interest in such unintellectual things as corn, cattle, game and poor-laws; and he thought the people were great blockheads because they talked about what concerned themselves. Robert Darnley received the congratulations of his friends; but he received them coldly, for his mind was not at ease.

Now after much talk, miscellaneous and desultory, several of the party, while yet they were waiting for dinner, congregated together at one of the windows, and their talk was almost in whispers. Zephaniah Pringle was one of that select committee, and he was speaking very gravely and very knowingly, and Sir George Aimwell was looking as much as to say, “I am very sorry for it.” Mr Darnley the elder was also one of the whispering group, and looked as serious and solemn as any one of them; and every now and then he turned his eyes suspiciously and inquiringly towards his son. The young gentleman more than suspected what was the subject of their discourse; and as the rector of Neverden was the only one of the party who had any suspicion of the interest which Robert Darnley took in the person concerning whom the discussion was made, they did not very carefully subdue and suppress their voices, but they spoke loudly enough to be heard in their whispering, and the name of Primrose was heard by Robert Darnley, and in spite of his high spirit he felt sick at heart. And though he felt little appetite for dinner, he was glad of the announcement, which relieved him from hearing, or rather fancying that he heard, talk that told of the shame of Penelope.

Oh, that our pen could write strongly as our heart feels against those villanous, viper-souled, low-minded, merciless reptiles, who, from motives too grovelling and dirty to be analyzed, impertinently by their ill-digested calumnies, mutilate and mangle the fairest reputation, and sully the purest characters. Never can such vermin be sufficiently punished or adequately vituperated, for they are absolutely incapable of feeling such racking mental agonies as they inflict on others. What could such a heartless puppy as Zephaniah Pringle feel of mental and heart-rending agony, compared with that which Robert Darnley experienced, when he had reason to think that the high-minded, clear-souled Penelope, whom he had loved for her purity, her moral as well as personal beauty, had so far forgotten all good feelings and all high thoughts as to sink down into a character for which refined language has no name?

The baronet’s table was splendidly covered, and the guests were as well pleased in demolishing as the cook had been in constructing and compiling the various specimens of culinary art. Sir George Aimwell paid, as was proper, especial attention to Robert Darnley, and endeavoured to draw the young man into conversation, or, more properly speaking, to provoke him into narrative. To such questions as were asked he gave an ample and intelligent answer, but he proceeded no further; he did not seem desirous to obtrude himself upon the attention of the company.

Table-talk was by no means the forte of the worthy baronet; but when he had a party he generally exerted himself: and as he was very well aware that, in his own proper person, and from his own peculiar stores, he was by no means a man of talk, he very considerately endeavoured to set in motion other tongues than his own. On the present occasion he thought, that as Mr Robert Darnley had been long abroad, he would most likely be best able to entertain the guests. But when the hospitable host observed how very slowly and reluctantly the young man brought out the stores of his information, he next directed his attention to Zephaniah Pringle, who was not so reserved. He spoke fluently, and readily, and oracularly. Sir George, though not a man of letters, was ready enough to indulge his guests, or to suffer them, if they would, to indulge themselves, with literary conversation; and it was a great happiness to Zephaniah Pringle to let the inhabitants of Smatterton and Neverden know how great a man was in their company. Yet there was a little abatement from the purity and intensity of that enjoyment, in the observing how inapt they seemed to be in comprehending which were the first publications of the day, and which were productions of inferior note. Some of the party asked strange things about reviews and magazines, and Zephaniah was astonished that there should be in any part of Great Britain such complete, total darkness, and intellectual neglect, as that his own peculiar periodical should be altogether unknown even by name. He attributed their ignorance to mere spite, or thought that Lord Smatterton, being a Whig, had made it a point to conceal from his country neighbours the existence of that periodical, which, by the means of pastry-cooks and tobacconists, had an immense circulation in the metropolis. The daughters of Mr Darnley listened with much reverence to the oracles of Zephaniah the critic, and they thought him prodigiously wise, because he thought differently from everybody else. They asked his opinion of every book which they remembered having read: and they endeavoured to persuade themselves to entertain the same opinions as he did.

If our readers imagine that, from what we have said concerning the daughters of the rector of Neverden, these young ladies were superficial simpletons, we are desirous of removing such impression. They were not conceitedly confident in their own judgment; and, as they were not much in the way of seeing or hearing literary pretenders and intellectual quacks, they gave Zephaniah Pringle credit for all that he assumed. They did not think very highly of themselves, and therefore they readily yielded assent to the oracles of one who appeared so competent and able to give an opinion. Many others, besides the daughters of Mr Darnley, have been at a first, or even second interview with Zephaniah, very greatly deceived as to the height, the depth, and the breadth, of the critic’s understanding.

This part of our narrative, though not directly tending to the developement of the history, we could not consent to pass by unnoticed; for though it may not be very entertaining, it is instructive, and it affords us an opportunity of giving a valuable hint to our young readers. The hint to which we allude, is to caution them against too much modesty. Only suppose, for instance, that such an empty-headed coxcomb as Zephaniah Pringle had entertained a fair opinion of his own understanding, or that he had underrated his own intellectual powers and stores, who would ever have found out that he was superior to what he assumed? Who would have taken the trouble to urge him to assume a higher rank? Not one. But now that he set himself up for a great one, who was to detect the hollowness of his pretensions? Not above one in a hundred. And who would take the trouble to expose him? Not one in a thousand. And who would take notice of the exposure? Not one in ten thousand.

In our next edition we will cancel this last paragraph, if we find that modesty has ever made its owner rich or celebrated. Modesty is certainly very much to be praised, and if we were candidate for any situation of honor or emolument, or even for a good seat in a theatre, we should very much approve of the modesty of such as, having power to rival us, would meekly and quietly stand out of our way.

CHAPTER VI.

During the night which followed the grand dinner given by Sir George Aimwell, Robert Darnley scarcely slept a single hour. He retired to his apartment full of bitter and distracting thoughts, almost tempted to believe that there was truth in the foul libels that thoughtless blockheads have uttered and written concerning the gentler sex. He said to himself, “Frailty! thy name is woman.” He was so grieved, so pierced to the heart’s core, that he forgot for a while all that he had heard, read, or witnessed of woman’s devout affection, unwearied kindness, heroic attachment, and moral sublimity. And he thought not of the patience with which woman bears the peevishness of our infancy, the selfishness of our riper years, and the capricious fretfulness of our declining age. He was for a while angry and contemptuous, professing to himself an indifference which he did not feel, and fancying himself superior to that weakness under which he was writhing and labouring in bitter agony. Then there was a change in the complexion of his thoughts, and as the angry passions yielded to the approaching drowsiness which health must periodically experience, more tender and more gentle thoughts subdued him. The eyelids were scarcely closed, when imagination threw her rainbow light on past days, and there stood before him, not quite in a dream, the image of Penelope—lovely, bright, and living. The momentary vision melted him, and the effort to retain it banished it. Slowly his slumbers crept again upon him, and the vision was more distinct, and he could hear again that sweet voice with which he had been enraptured, and there was in his heart a repetition of that swell of feeling with which he had years ago taken his leave of her. So passed the night.

When morning came again, it found the young man unrefreshed and unrested. But in the family of the rector of Neverden there was great regularity and punctuality. Robert Darnley therefore made his appearance at breakfast at the usual hour. It was impossible not to see that his mind was painfully disturbed, and it was also equally impossible not to conjecture the cause of its agitation.

A very unpleasant restraint sat upon the whole party. Mr Darnley the elder would not speak on the subject of his son’s altered appearance, and Mrs Darnley and her daughters were reluctant to introduce any mention of the matter, unsanctioned by Mr Darnley. The hour of breakfast was usually to that family a season of social and cheerful talk, but on the present occasion there was silence and restraint; and as they abstained from addressing themselves to Robert, they also abstained from talking to one another. When breakfast was over Mr Darnley desired his son’s presence in the study.

Robert Darnley knew he was destined to undergo a lecture, and he braced himself up to bear it with filial resignation. The young man’s father prided himself on the fluency with which he could talk in the way of admonition, and we believe that he derived almost as much pleasure from these exhibitions as his auditors did profit. Sir George Aimwell used to say, that instead of sending poachers to gaol, it would be a better plan to send them to Mr Darnley to be talked to; for the worthy baronet thought that they would not readily expose themselves to the risk of a second infliction. Those of our readers who have never been talked to will not be able to sympathize with Robert Darnley; those who have, will pity him from the bottom of their hearts.

The young man promptly obeyed his father’s commands and delayed not to attend him in the study; for he naturally supposed that the sooner the lecture began the sooner it would be over. The father seated himself and desired his son to shut the door and seat himself too. These preliminary steps having been taken, and Mr Darnley having stirred and arranged the fire so amply as to preclude the necessity of any more attention to it for some time, thus began:

“Robert, my dear boy, I wish to have some little talk with you. I have not had much opportunity of speaking to you since you came home. Now, you know, I can have no other object in view than your welfare. I do not desire you to follow the advice I may give you, unless you are convinced of its propriety. You know of course what I am now alluding to—your unhappy attachment to that unfortunate young woman, Miss Primrose. For my part, I cannot say that I altogether approved of it in the first instance; but I said nothing. I knew the impetuosity of your character and the obstinacy of your disposition, and therefore I concluded that opposition might do more harm than good. I hoped that, in time, your own good sense would let you see that it was not a suitable connexion for you. I do not say indeed that I have ever observed anything absolutely improper in the conduct of Miss Primrose; but I must be permitted to say, that there was too much pride in her manner, considering her station and expectations. Of the young woman’s father I knew comparatively nothing, except that he had gambled away his property and broken his wife’s heart. Mr Primrose did call here, as you know; but I must confess to you I was not much pleased with his manners. I was under the disagreeable necessity of rebuking him for taking the name of the Lord in vain. As for the young woman herself, of course you must relinquish all thoughts of her after what you have heard from Mr Pringle. Now let me advise you to banish her from your mind at once. I am sorry to see that your thoughts are still too much dwelling upon her. You make your mother and your sisters and me very uncomfortable by these gloomy looks. Why can you not be cheerful as you used to be? What have you to regret? You ought rather to be grateful that you have been rescued from such a marriage, and that it cannot be said that the dissolution of the acquaintance arose from your own caprice. I think that the young woman did not manifest a very great sense of propriety when she so readily adopted the profession of a public singer. And what would the world say, should the report ever get abroad, that my son was desirous of marrying a public singer? I gave the young woman all the good advice I possibly could; but I fear it will be of no use to her. There were such very strong manifestations of her partiality for that profligate young man, Lord Spoonbill, that I am not at all surprised at what I hear from Mr Pringle. Now all that I can say is, that if after this you can retain any regard for Miss Primrose, you do not shew yourself a man of sense and prudence.”

Here Mr Darnley paused, not because he was out of breath, for he spoke very slowly and deliberately, but because he thought that he had said enough to induce his son to relinquish the thought of Penelope, and to make himself mightily happy under his disappointment. But it certainly is very provoking, after living three years or more in expectation of receiving the hand and heart of a lovely, amiable, and intelligent young lady, to find at last that all this bright anticipation is come to nought. It had been painful to Robert Darnley that several of his later communications had been unanswered; but he would not suffer that circumstance alone to weigh with him, considering it possible that the fault was in the irregular transmission of letters. When he came back to England and heard that Miss Primrose was in London with the Earl of Smatterton’s family, it appeared obvious enough that she had considered the correspondence as having ceased. But still it was not clear to the young man’s entire satisfaction that this had been a voluntary act on the part of Penelope. It was possible that his letters might not have reached their destination, and that Miss Primrose might be regarding him as the faithless one. Such was his spirit, that he would not rest under the imputation of such conduct, and he resolved to take the earliest opportunity of coming to an explanation. When, however, in addition to all that he had heard from his own family of the partiality manifested by Penelope for Lord Spoonbill, he heard also the tale told by Zephaniah Pringle, he wavered and hesitated. It was not probable, he thought, that such rumours could be totally unfounded, and it comported but too well with what Mr Darnley had already said.

The distress of mind which Robert Darnley suffered, and that gloominess of look which his father reprobated and lectured him upon, did not arise so much from the mere loss of Penelope, as from the harassing doubts to which he was exposed by the conflicting of external and internal evidence. It is a painful thing to doubt, because it is humiliating, and seems to question our discernment. It is also very perplexing to the mind when it sees evidence enough to prove that which it feels to be impossible, or very unlikely. In this dilemma Robert Darnley had been placed by what he had heard of Penelope Primrose. He knew, or at least very firmly believed her to be of decided character, good principle and high spirit. He felt it impossible that she should love a profligate or a blockhead, and he knew Lord Spoonbill to be both. But it was very clear that she was with Lord Smatterton’s family, and that she had certainly contemplated the public exercise of her musical talents.

To his fathers discourse therefore he listened with unresisting patience, and only replied when it was finished; “I can only say, sir, that if what Mr Pringle has said concerning Miss Primrose be true, I have been very much deceived in the estimate which I had formed of the young lady’s mind and character.”

“Certainly you were,” replied his father; “you are a young man and have seen but little of human nature. You are hasty, very hasty, in forming your judgment. You will grow wiser as you grow older. Now I was not deceived in Miss Primrose. I could see her real character. I always thought her very proud and vain and conceited. But she laboured under great disadvantages in her education. Her uncle was a worthy man, but he was a mere scholar, by no means a man of the world. And as for Mrs Greendale, she is a very weak woman.”

Robert Darnley knew his father too well to contradict him directly in anything which he might be pleased to assert; he therefore only ventured in a very circuitous way to insinuate the possibility that Mr Zephaniah Pringle might be erroneously informed, and that there might be some mistake or misapprehension. But the worthy rector of Neverden was not able to bear the slightest approach to contradiction or opposition. He had lived so long in absolute authority in his own house and parish, that he was perfectly sincere in believing that he could never be wrong and ought never to be contradicted. He therefore contributed very considerably to shorten the discussion, by saying:

“You are of age, and of course may do as you please; but, if you will condescend to take my advice, you will think no more of Miss Primrose. At all events, it is my particular request that I may hear no more of her.”

To this the young gentleman bowed respectfully. Now it does not appear to us that Mr Darnley adopted the best plan in the world to set his son’s heart at rest. Nor did Robert Darnley find any great alleviation in what his father had been pleased to say concerning Penelope’s actual situation and real character. It also occurred to the young gentleman’s mind, that his father had superfluously and unnecessarily quoted the fact of Mr Primrose having used irreverent and thoughtless language. It is not indeed, generally speaking, advisable to bring every possible accusation against an offending one; for by so doing we make known our own pettishness or malignity quite as much as we display the sins of the accused. If Miss Primrose had been in other respects a suitable wife for Robert Darnley, the fact that her father had spoken hastily and unadvisedly, would not have rendered her unsuitable. And if the situation of Penelope had been such as it had been represented by Mr Pringle, then there was quite enough to set Robert Darnley’s mind at rest upon the subject, without quoting Mr Primrose’s transgressions.

The disappointed lover had no sooner finished the task of hearing his father’s lecture, than he was destined to undergo a gabblement from his mother and sisters. Mrs Darnley was a worthy good creature as ever lived; but she would talk, and that not always consequentially. She always however meant well, though she might be clumsy in the manifestation of her well-meaning.

“Well, Robert,”—thus began Mrs Darnley,—“and so your father has been talking to you about poor Penelope Primrose. What a pity it is that such a nice young woman should turn out so. I really could hardly believe my senses when I first heard of it. Dear me, what a favorite she used to be here; your father used to think so highly of her.”

“I can’t say that I thought so very highly of her,” interrupted Miss Mary Darnley; “she was a great deal too haughty for my liking. Of course we were civil to her for Robert’s sake.”

Miss Mary was rude in thus interrupting her mother, but it was the general practice with the young ladies, and Mrs Darnley was so much in the habit of being interrupted, that she always expected it, and kept talking on till some one else of the party began. Now this remark of Miss Mary might be founded on truth, or it might be merely the result of an angry imagination. For there is in the human mind such a reluctance to acknowledge an error in judgment, that even when we have been really and palpably deceived in a human character, we generally find out or persuade ourselves that we “prophesied so,” though we never told any body.

The eldest Miss Darnley, however, had more candour. It was her opinion that, though Miss Primrose had not behaved exactly as she ought to do, yet she had too high a sense of propriety and decorum ever to transgress as was represented by Mr Pringle.

In this annunciation of opinions it was but right and regular that the youngest should speak in her turn; and notwithstanding the apparent deference which she had seemed on the previous day to yield to the oracular language of Zephaniah Pringle the critic, she said:

“I wonder who told Mr Pringle? I dare say Miss Primrose did not, and I should not think it likely that Lord Spoonbill did.”

“Oh dear,” replied Mary, “I dare say it is the general talk in London, and everbody knows it by this time.”

“Oh dear,” retorted Martha, “I dare say you know a great deal about London.”

“I know a great deal more about it than you do, Martha; I was there with papa nearly two months when we had lodgings in Wigmore street.”

Martha was inclined to be pert, and Mary to be pettish, and the two sisters would very likely have enjoyed a skirmish of tongues, had they not been stopped by the good humour of their brother, who was very happy to divert their tongues and thoughts to other topics. Robert Darnley therefore made an effort to suppress unpleasant feelings, and directed the conversation to affairs of a different description; and he amused his mother and sisters with anecdotes and narratives descriptive of the country from which he had recently arrived.

In assuming this composure, Robert Darnley was not a little aided by the suggestion thrown out by Martha. And he began to think it very possible that Mr Zephaniah Pringle might have been misinformed. He might have had wit enough to form that conjecture without the assistance of his youngest sister; but he was too much agitated to think calmly on the subject.

CHAPTER VII.

The preceding chapters, relative to affairs at Neverden, were rendered indispensable by the necessity under which we were placed to account for the non-appearance of Robert Darnley in London, to clear up the mystery and explain the cause of the interrupted correspondence. We are now most happy to revert to that part of our narrative which more immediately and directly concerns Penelope Primrose and her father. For this purpose therefore our history goes back a few days.

After the first passionate agitation of meeting had subsided, and Penelope was able to speak collectedly, and Mr Primrose was patient enough to listen to two successive sentences, the young lady explained to her father the situation in which she had been placed by the sudden decease of her uncle, and spoke of the kindness which she had experienced from the Earl and Countess of Smatterton, adding, that they had been so kind as to propose giving her the opportunity of meeting her father in London. She then informed her father that Lord Spoonbill was in the house, and would be happy to see him.

Mr Primrose was too happy at the meeting with his daughter to think anything of the awkward stories which he had heard of the young gentleman’s irregularities. He therefore expressed himself pleased with an opportunity of making his acknowledgments to any part of the family. The young lord therefore soon made his appearance. And such was the frank, gentlemanly aspect and bearing of Mr Primrose, that his lordship was quite delighted with him, and said with great sincerity much which he would otherwise have said with polite formality and hypocrisy.

Penelope exercised a considerable degree of self-command in introducing Lord Spoonbill so composedly to her father. And happy was it at this moment for Mr Primrose, that such was his cheerfulness and hilarity of feeling, that he was only sensible to that which was pleasant and agreeable.

“My Lord Spoonbill,” said he with one of his politest bows, and with the most agreeable intonation of voice that he could command, “I thank you most sincerely, and I beg that you will convey my most cordial and respectful thanks to the Earl and Countess of Smatterton for their kind and generous attention to my dear child.”

Even with similar politeness did Lord Spoonbill profess how truly happy the Earl and Countess had been in affording any accommodation to the neice of their late esteemed friend, the respected rector of Smatterton. By making mention of that good man, Lord Spoonbill brought tears into the eyes of Mr Primrose, who mournfully shook his head and replied:

“Ah, my lord, he was indeed a good man. I lament the loss of him most sincerely. So much kind feeling, blended with such strict integrity, and so high a degree of moral purity, I never have witnessed in any other. I have seen strictness of principle with severity of manners, and I have witnessed kindness of heart with moral carelessness; but the late Dr Greendale had the most finely attempered mind of any man I ever knew. He did, or desired to do, good to everybody, and that must have been a hard heart which he could not soften.”

It was well for Lord Spoonbill at this moment that he was not of so susceptible a temperament as Mr Primrose, or the remark last recorded would have distressed him. It was in another point of view ill for his lordship that he had not a little more sensibility, for if he had he might have been moved to contrition and reflection. His lordship very courteously assented to every compliment which Mr Primrose felt disposed to pay to the late Dr Greendale. And presently his lordship directed the talk to other matters; for though he had not sensibility to be moved, yet he had enough of that kind of feeling which rendered him awkward under reflections and recollections. The hereditary legislator was also especially desirous of knowing what was to be the immediate destination of Miss Primrose and her father; but found, after a long conversation and many indirect hints, that no arrangement of any determinate nature had entered the mind of Mr Primrose, who probably thought, that for the night ensuing, he might take up his abode at the town residence of Lord Smatterton.

At length, Lord Spoonbill, finding that it became time for him to return to dinner, and knowing that it would not be very agreeable to the Countess to take back with him father and daughter too, and suspecting also very strongly and very naturally that the two were not likely to be separated, began to make something like an apology to Mr Primrose for having brought him to an empty house, and offered such accommodation as the house might afford, expressing his great regret that he himself was under the necessity of returning to Lord Smatterton’s suburban villa.

These explanations and apologies roused Mr Primrose to his recollection, and he presently and promptly declined availing himself of his lordship’s kind offer, and expressed his intention of taking up his abode at a hotel, which he named.

Lord Spoonbill was satisfied. He now knew where to find Mr Primrose again; and so long as he was not at a loss where to seek Penelope, his lordship readily took his leave, with a promise that he would very shortly pay his respects again to his good friends.

Mr Primrose and his daughter then went to their hotel, and the overjoyed parent endeavoured to compose himself for the sobriety of narrative and interrogation. Many questions were asked, and multitudinous digressions and recommencements and interruptions rendered their discourse rather less instructive than entertaining. The father of Penelope walked restlessly about the room, and ever and anon would he stop and look with an indescribable earnestness on the face of his child, as if to fill his mind’s eye with her image, or to endeavour to trace her likeness to her departed mother. And from these momentary absorptions he would start into recollection, and utter such thrilling expressions of delight, that his poor child feared that the joy would be too much for him.

Some of the human species have suffered more from joy than from sorrow. Ecstacy has lifted the mind to that height and giddiness as to destroy its self-command, and to precipitate it into the depths and darkness of idiocy. Penelope entertained a fear of this kind for her father. For she had not been accustomed to witness or yield to any very strong emotions. Her uncle, with whom she had lived, had been a very quiet man; and, in his studious retirement, life had passed smoothly and placidly as the waveless current of a subterranean stream. Mrs Greendale had experienced and manifested occasional ebullitions, but they were merely culinary, domestic, common-place, and transitory. As for herself, poor girl, deep as her feelings might have been, and strongly, as in various instances, she might have been moved, these emotions were solitary and soon suppressed.

When therefore she saw her father in this state of agitation, much of her own joy was abated in thoughts and fears for him. But in time the violence of the emotion abated, and the father and daughter sat down together to dinner. This was a relief to them both. When the cloth was removed, Mr Primrose then bethought himself of Robert Darnley. Drawing closer to the fire, he said to Penelope; “Well, but, my dear child, I have not yet said a word about an old acquaintance of yours, whom report says you have not used handsomely. But I don’t mind what report says. Have you quite forgot your old neighbour Robert Darnley?”

Penelope sighed and shook her head, and replied, “Oh, no, my dear father; I have not forgotten him.”

“Then why did you not answer his letters?”

“I answered his letters, but he did not answer mine.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr Primrose; “do you say that he was the person who dropped the correspondence? You are wrong, my dear, you are wrong. Ay, ay, I see how it is—some letters have not been delivered. It is all a misunderstanding; but it will soon be set right. I have seen the young man. He is now at Neverden; and he tells me that you have not answered his letters. But we shall soon see him in town. He would have come with me, but he must needs stay to eat his Christmas dinner at the parsonage, just to please the old folks. That of course is right; and if children did but know how easily parents are pleased, and how happy they are when their children please them, there would not be so many undutiful children in the world.—And so, my dear Penelope, it is all a mere invention that you are attached to Lord Spoonbill?”

Recollecting what had that morning taken place, and from that also calling to mind what before she had not noticed, and what without that event she would have forgotten; thinking again how assiduously and politely attentive Lord Spoonbill had behaved towards her, she began to think that his lordship’s attentive behaviour had been seen and noticed by others when it had not been obvious to herself. And these thoughts confused and perplexed her. Therefore she did not immediately reply to her father’s interrogation. Her silence was observed by her anxious parent, and he hastily said:

“What then, is it true? But it is a great pity. Robert Darnley is a fine spirited young man; and I am sure he did not design to drop the correspondence. Well, well; you are like your father, you are very hasty. But never mind, it cannot be helped now. And what will you say to poor Darnley when he sees you again; for I fully expect him up in town as soon as Christmas is well over? I dare say he will be here in a week, or a little more. I told him that he would find us at this hotel. And has Lord Spoonbill really made proposals to you? And have you accepted his offer?”

The discovery which this talk of her father opened to the mind of Penelope moved her with feelings not describable. There was powerful and oppressive agitation, but whether painful or pleasurable she scarcely knew. Her heart was too full to speak, and her thoughts too hurried for utterance. The colour was in her cheeks, and the tears were silently falling, and presently the quick glancing eye of her father caught the expression of concern and deep feeling, and his impetuosity misinterpreted the emotion. With rapidity of utterance, and with kind tenderness of tone, he exclaimed, grasping her hand:

“Nay, nay, my dear Penelope, do not be so afflicted. You misunderstand me, indeed you do. I am not angry with you. If you are really attached to Lord Spoonbill, and if he has a regard for you, I would not for the world oppose your inclinations. If you are happy, I shall be so. I know comparatively very little of Robert Darnley. As to what I saw of his father, I certainly thought not favourably. The young man appeared not so proud and formal as the old gentleman. But Lord Spoonbill may be a very excellent man, and I am sure he would not be your choice if he were not so. I dare say that all these stories I have heard of his profligacies are not true.”

Hereat the young lady started; and she thought that she had some faint recollection of having heard some obscure hints on that subject; for these matters are not made the topic of explicit discourse in the presence of young ladies. And with this impression she hastened to undeceive her father as to the state of her affections, protesting very calmly and deliberately that there had not been any transfer of her attachment to Lord Spoonbill from Robert Darnley. And, as connectedly and circumstantially as she was able, she narrated the history of her life, from the decease of her worthy uncle to the moment of her meeting with her father.

Mr Primrose made his observations on these events, and expressed himself delighted in having arrived in England time enough to prevent his daughter from publicly exhibiting her musical talents. Now, in the course of Penelope’s narrative, mention had not been made, nor did it seem necessary to state the fact, of Lord Spoonbill’s declaration of devotedness, which his lordship had made that very morning. It was therefore unfortunate, though of no great consequence, that when the poor girl had finished her story, Mr Primrose said:

“And so then after all Lord Spoonbill has not said a word to you on the subject of attachment?”

It became necessary then to acknowledge what had passed in the morning; and the reluctance with which the acknowledgment was made very naturally excited some slight suspicion in the breast of Mr Primrose, that there was something more serious than had been acknowledged. A satisfactory explanation however was made, and all was right again.

This trifling incident would not have been mentioned, but for the illustration which it affords of the value of explicitness and candour, and for the proof which it presents that the purest and most upright mind may, from a false delicacy, involve itself in serious perplexity.

CHAPTER VIII.

At the hotel where Mr Primrose had taken up his residence, he remained with his daughter for two or three weeks. Penelope and her father were during this time in daily expectation of seeing or hearing from Robert Darnley, but there came no letter, there came no visitor. Mr Primrose grew impatient, and talked to his daughter about writing. That Penelope should write was quite out of the question, nor could the young lady bring herself readily to allow her father to write.

They both agreed that, if the young man was still seriously attached, he would find some way of communicating with them now all parties were together in England. And so he certainly would have done, had it not been for the false report carried to Neverden by the loyal and religious Zephaniah Pringle, and corroborated by the almost unanimous and universal talk of the people of that village. Influenced by this tale, he remained at Neverden spending day after day in most clumsily doing nothing at all. His father talked to him, his mother talked to him, and his sisters talked to him, but all their talk amounted to nothing. Disappointed affection is a painful feeling, and talking cannot heal it; nor was it ever known in the course of human experience, that calling a man a fool has been the means of making him wise.

Whatever were the feelings of Robert Darnley on this sad blight of his fair hopes, he was wise enough to keep them to himself; he was indeed dull and listless, but he did not annoy others any farther than thus negatively. On the other hand, the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill had no sooner accomplished the mighty feat of telling Miss Primrose how devoted he was to her, than he must needs again invade the luxurious and lounging solitude of his friend Erpingham in order again to talk over the subject. His lordship did not indeed on the very day after, but at as short an interval as possible consistent with other engagements, call upon his luxurious friend to enjoy the pleasure of talking about Miss Primrose.

Now Erpingham, as we have already intimated, was by no means a simpleton. He had wisdom enough to see through Lord Spoonbill, though his lordship was not always able to comprehend the logic of his old college companion. There is at Cambridge, as everybody knows, a species of animal called a tuft-hunter, that is, a plebeian man, who, for pence or pride, cultivates an acquaintance with the young green shoots of nobility that are sent to that place to learn horse-racing, card-playing, and mathematics, in order to make laws to preserve game and keep up the dignity of hereditary legislators. Now Erpingham was not one of that description. But there are, among the unfledged lordlings who honor that town and university with their superfine presence, some few individuals who, in order to enjoy a stronger sense and feeling of their own noble rank and exalted condition, seek for acquaintance among the untitled. Of this class was Lord Spoonbill, and his acquaintance thus and there formed, was Mr Erpingham.

To seek an acquaintance with any individual is generally felt, whether it be so considered or not, as an act of humiliation. It is at all events a homage paid to the acquaintance thus sought. He that voluntarily seeks after another, involuntarily pays that other a compliment. And frequently that compliment is taken by those who receive it for more than it is really worth. By this circumstance therefore that the acquaintance with Erpingham had been of Lord Spoonbill’s own seeking, the former did not quite so highly value and honor the young legislator as otherwise he might have done. And when once we can thoroughly and heartily take it into our heads that any man is a fool, it is no difficult matter to convince ourselves that he really is so. Plenty of illustrations are always at hand, if we be intimate with the person in question.

Now, in spite of all the reverence which Mr Erpingham felt for high rank, he could not help thinking that his lordship was no conjuror. Indeed it is no more to be wished than it is to be expected that the House of Lords should be all conjurors. As therefore Mr Erpingham thought but indifferently of the understanding of his right honorable friend, it is not to be wondered at that Lord Spoonbill should not always be treated with the most profound respect. At Cambridge, indeed, Erpingham thought it something of an honor to be acquainted with a nobleman; but by degrees, and especially after leaving the university, the gentleman thought otherwise, and diminished much of the homage which he had formerly paid to that right honorable hereditary pillar of the Protestant succession.

When therefore Lord Spoonbill made his appearance again, and threatened a tedious lack-a-daisical prating about love, Mr Erpingham almost laughed at him.

“Well, Spoonbill,” said the Epicurean, “and so you are coming to report progress. And what says this paragon of wit and beauty? I suppose you have made your arrangements: and am I to be honored by an introduction?”

Lord Spoonbill shook his head, and went on tediously to relate all the particulars of the journey to London and the introduction to Mr Primrose. To all this Mr Erpingham listened very attentively; and, when the narrative was concluded, he drawled out, “Well, Spoonbill, and what then?”

To that question the hereditary legislator made no direct or intelligible reply. His friend therefore repeated his question, adding: “Were you content with making a mere sentimental speech about your devotion to this young lady? And did not you give the slightest intimation of your designs?”

“How could I,” replied his lordship, “under these circumstances?”

“Then I will tell you, my good friend, that I have done more for you than you have done for yourself.”

Lord Spoonbill started and stared, and exclaimed: “Erpingham! what do you mean?”

“I mean what I say. Do you know Zephaniah Pringle, a literary prig, with whose vanity I sometimes amuse myself?”

“Certainly I do,” replied his lordship; “but what can he have to do with this matter?”

“A great deal,” replied Erpingham; “he is, as I suppose you know, an impertinent chatter-box, and whatever is trusted to him as a profound secret is sure to be known to all the world; so I communicated to him that Miss Primrose was in the high road to be placed under the protection of the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill, and by this time Smatterton and its adjoining village is already in possession of the important secret.”

On hearing this, Lord Spoonbill started, as if with a strong sense of moral indignation, and exclaimed: “Erpingham, are you mad? What could you mean by circulating such a report? Suppose I should intend to marry Miss Primrose!”

“Why, then you are less likely to have a rival.”

Although Lord Spoonbill was quite as profligate and unprincipled as Mr Erpingham, yet as his profligacy and want of principle were not managed and directed precisely after the model of the same vices in the conduct of his friend, his lordship took credit to himself that he could enjoy the pleasure of reproving the vicious principles of this Epicurean. But though he expressed a feeling of indignation at the cool, deliberate viciousness of this son of luxury and sensuality, he felt no little satisfaction in the thought that this report must infallibly reach the ears of Mr Robert Darnley, and thus prevent any further attempt on his part to renew the acquaintance with Penelope.

It may seem rather strange to some part of our readers, that a man who could descend to the meanness of intercepting letters, should lift up his voice and turn up his eyes at the sin of circulating false reports touching the character and situation of a young woman, and that this same man should deliberately meditate on schemes for placing that young woman in that situation which he professed to think so degrading. But there is a wonderful difference in the apprehension which men entertain of the same vices under different circumstances. There is also observable in the feelings of Lord Spoonbill, on the present occasion, the readiness and satisfaction with which a man will cheerfully avail himself of the benefits derivable from the vicious or unprincipled conduct of others.

The Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill seemed to think that his friend Erpingham had behaved very unhandsomely and disrespectfully to Penelope by causing such a rumour to get into circulation; but, when it occurred to him that some advantage might be taken of the said rumour, his indignation was abated, and all his reproof was softened down into merely saying:

“Really, Erpingham, you are too bad.”

Everybody who is worse than ourselves is too bad; everybody, whose vices differ from ours, is too bad. Lord Spoonbill was selfish, sensual, and unprincipled; but he endeavoured to conceal his character, and, from attempting to deceive others, had come at last to deceive himself; and he really did flatter himself that there was some good in his character, and some good feelings in his heart. But Erpingham, on the other hand, did not play the hypocrite either to himself or to others; he was definite and decided, and he took to himself some little credit for the unblushing honesty of his conduct and character. He smiled contemptuously at the meanness and littleness of his friend Spoonbill’s vices; but this meanness was essential to the very existence of his vices, he would have been frightened at himself had he seen his own moral features without a mask.

There was this difference in the character of these two friends, that had Erpingham had the same object in view as Lord Spoonbill, he would have pursued it unblushingly, unhesitatingly, and without remorse. He would have intercepted letters, but he would not have shuddered when he had them in his possession; nor would he have hesitated to open them, if that would have forwarded his schemes. There would have been no demur or doubt, but everything would have been rendered subservient to his villanous purposes. But Lord Spoonbill was not so straitforward in his roguery, he was a more pusillanimous profligate. The difference between the two is, that Erpingham was an object of indignation, and Lord Spoonbill of contempt.

Seeing therefore how matters now stood, the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill thought that he might as well pursue his first object with regard to Penelope, and not, at least for the present, think or say a word concerning marriage. And it was a great consolation to him in the course of his meditations to think how much more unprincipled Erpingham was than he.

From a long, and to the Epicurean a wearying discussion, Lord Spoonbill returned to his home; and on his return he found that the Countess was quite angry, and that her patience was exhausted in waiting for Penelope’s return. The young lady had indeed mentioned the subject to her father, but he did not think any further acknowledgments necessary than he had already personally made to the heir of the house of Smatterton. Nor could Mr Primrose persuade himself that any very high tribute of gratitude was due for that species of patronage which the Countess of Smatterton had proposed for his daughter. It was his feeling, that her ladyship had in view her own gratification quite as much as the welfare of Penelope.

When therefore Lord Spoonbill found that the Countess was still expecting either the return of Miss Primrose, or some grateful intimation that the proffered patronage was declined, he thought it an excellent opportunity to propose a call on Mr Primrose; and, after some of the usual prate about condescension and dignity, the young lord, on the following morning, rode up to town.

CHAPTER IX.

When a lady finds herself a second time alone with a gentleman who has once addressed her on an interesting topic, but whose address has not been altogether pleasant and agreeable, the lady’s situation is by no means enviable. It is more distressing still when, in the recollection of the young lady, there are yet lingering the faint relics of brighter and better hopes.

This was the situation of Penelope when Lord Spoonbill called upon her. Mr Primrose was not within: business demanded his attention in the City, and there he was likely to be detained some hours. The young lord, with well feigned seriousness, expressed his regret that he should be so unfortunate as not to meet with Mr Primrose, and he added that he would call again if Mr Primrose was likely soon to return. When however he heard that Penelope did not expect her father till dinner-time, he was more pleased with the information than he professed to be. Miss Primrose very respectfully enquired after the Earl and Countess of Smatterton; and, in replying to those enquiries, Lord Spoonbill took the opportunity of hinting that her ladyship felt somewhat anxious to know whether the return of Mr Primrose to England had induced Penelope to relinquish the thought of that profession which she had recently contemplated, and for which immediate preparation became otherwise necessary and important.

In reply to this enquiry, Penelope informed his lordship that her father had expressed himself decidedly of opinion that such pursuit would not be agreeable to himself or necessary for his daughter. Lord Spoonbill cared little for the disappointment, except that it would be in the way of his schemes, and render the arrangement which he meditated rather more difficult of execution. So far as expectation was concerned, he was prepared for this event; but he was not prepared with any plan that he might immediately pursue.

After the common-place talk was finished, his lordship thought that he ought to take his leave; but he was reluctant to go, and he did not know how to stay. Penelope also wished him gone, for she was afraid of a renewal of an unpleasant topic. The young lady also took no particular pains to conceal that wish, and his lordship was not quite so flat as not to discern that his presence was not very acceptable. In truth, his situation was grievously perplexing, and a wiser man than he would have been at a loss in such circumstances how to act. It was clear to him that Penelope had not quite forgotten Robert Darnley; it was also obvious that Lord Spoonbill was not yet essential to the happiness of Miss Primrose; he most earnestly desired to render himself agreeable to Miss Primrose, and he very well knew that nothing could be more agreeable than that he should take his leave; but that would not have been agreeable to himself; and greatly as he desired to do anything that might recommend him to the approbation of Miss Primrose, he was equally desirous of avoiding anything that might be disagreeable or unpleasant to himself.

Lord Spoonbill is not to be regarded in this instance as differing so very widely from the rest of the world. Other lovers frequently have the same ideas on the subject of the mutual accommodation of themselves and their adored ones. And if, after this observation, any individual of the gentler sex should be deceived by professions and protestations of disinterestedness, the fault will be hers and not ours.

In this embarrassing situation in which Lord Spoonbill was placed, it occurred to his most fertile imagination that it might greatly forward his designs upon Penelope, if, by any means, he could contrive to bring the young lady to think unhandsomely of Robert Darnley. It certainly would not do for his lordship to make any direct allusion to this young gentleman; for it was hardly supposed by Miss Primrose that there existed in the mind of his lordship any knowledge of the acquaintance between her and the son of the rector of Neverden; and such was his lordship’s clumsiness in the management of his irregularities, that he was even fearful of the most indirect allusion to Robert Darnley, lest, in making that allusion, he might betray himself.

At length it came into his lordship’s most sagacious head that, although it might be hazardous to make any allusion to Neverden, there could not be much risk incurred by enquiring after Mrs Greendale, therefore he ventured to ask, as if for want of something else to say, if Miss Primrose had lately heard from Smatterton, and in making this enquiry he endeavoured to watch the countenance of the young lady most narrowly, in order to observe whether the mention of Smatterton produced any deep emotion as connected with Neverden. Penelope answered with perfect composure, and informed the hereditary legislator that Mrs Greendale had not written to her since her departure from Smatterton.

After mentioning Mrs Greendale, his lordship proceeded to some more common talk, merely and obviously to delay his departure; and he manifested in this kind of talk that he had a great wish to recur to that topic which he had introduced on the morning of Mr Primrose’s meeting with his daughter. But if it was evident to Penelope that such was his lordship’s wish, it was quite as evident to his lordship that the young lady was equally uneasy under the apprehension, and dreaded the repetition of a discussion which at its first introduction had so distressed her thoughts.

And now it would have been absolutely and uncontrollably necessary for Lord Spoonbill to take his leave, and he must have taken his leave, not knowing when or how he might find Penelope again, had it not been for one of those unexpected and extraordinary accidents which often change the aspect of a whole life. This accident was neither more nor less than the sudden return of Mr Primrose to his hotel.

By the expression of Mr Primrose’s countenance, which seldom indeed concealed or belied the emotions of his mind, it was visible that some calamity had befallen him, or at least that something had occurred to discompose him. It might not be anything very serious; Penelope hoped it was not; for, during the short time that she had been with her father she had had abundant occasion of observing that such was the susceptibility of his feelings, that the expressions of joy and sorrow were soon excited, and that by a very slight and trifling occurrence.

But it was soon manifest that it was no trivial circumstance that oppressed the spirits of her father in the present instance. When he entered the apartment he scarcely noticed his daughter or Lord Spoonbill. He took the former by the hand, and to the latter he slightly bowed; and this was his only recognition of them, for he did not open his lips, and he scarcely directed his looks towards them. His lips were closely compressed, as if he feared that by opening them he should betray or give way to stronger expressions of grief than might well become him. He sat himself down upon a chair and looked listlessly out into the street, moving neither feature nor muscle, except that the vibration of his eyelids was more rapid than usual.

Lord Spoonbill was now at a loss whether to offer his sympathy or to take his departure. He could not, with any great propriety, leave the room without taking some notice of Mr Primrose; but such was the expression of the poor man’s countenance, that it seemed that merely to speak to him in the most common-place manner imaginable would be to distress his feelings, and to burst open that flood of grief which he seemed to endeavour to restrain. Directing therefore an enquiring look to Penelope, and again turning towards Mr Primrose, his lordship, by these looks and the movements which accompanied them, intimated an intention of departing, if his presence were a restraint. Seeing that Mr Primrose kept his position, and that no change was made in his features, his lordship was just whispering to Penelope that he was sorry to see her father under such depression, and that it might be agreeable that he should leave them, Mr Primrose hastily started up and said;

“I beg your pardon, Lord Spoonbill, for my rudeness, but I have met with a shock this morning that has completely subdued me.”

At this speech, Penelope caught her father’s hand with tender eagerness, and asked, as well as her feelings would allow, what was the nature of the misfortune that he had met with. Most tenderly, and with a tone which reached even the heart of Lord Spoonbill, Mr Primrose said;

“My dear, dear child, you are a dependent again, and God knows how soon you may be an orphan indeed.”

Before Penelope could speak, and indeed before she well comprehended her father’s meaning, the distressed man directed his speech to Lord Spoonbill, saying;

“Could you believe it possible, my lord, that such deliberate villains should exist in a Christian country, as to take from a man the little property which he had been toiling for years to accumulate, to take what they knew they never could restore. Those villains suffered me, but ten days ago, to deposit my all in their hands, and now they have stopped payment; and from all that I can hear in the City, I am not likely to receive above one shilling in the pound, and I may wait months, or perhaps years, for that.”

It may be in the recollection of the reader, that Lord Spoonbill was described in an early part of this narrative as being unduly and indecently pleased to hear of the illness of Dr Greendale, as exulting in the thought that the decease of that worthy, kind-hearted man would afford his lordship a more convenient opportunity of pursuing his schemes against the peace and innocence of Penelope Primrose. It will not therefore appear very surprizing if that same hereditary legislator should regard the present calamity of Mr Primrose as an agreeable circumstance to himself, and as greatly favouring his designs. There was however, in the contemplation of this misfortune of the father of Penelope, a desire also on the part of his lordship to contribute towards its alleviation. Lord Spoonbill was a profligate, and he was a mean, contemptible fellow; but he was not a devil incarnate, delighting in mischief or wickedness purely for its own sake. He wished Mr Primrose no ill, he had no desire to inflict any injuries or to give pain to any one, but he loved himself, and he pursued his own plans for his own pleasure, and he was pleased with whatever gave him promise or hope of success, even though that very circumstance should be the death or injury of another.

Seeing, therefore, that in the present circumstances there was something which afforded him promise, he was pleased, and being pleased he very kindly sympathised with Mr Primrose, and expressed a wish that matters might not be quite so bad as was expected.

Mr Primrose took his lordship’s sympathy very kindly, and his mind was soothed by it; and with rather more self-possession than might have been expected, he replied; “For myself, I care but little; but it is mortifying, after so long an absence from my native land, and after so much toil and perseverance for the sake of my own and only child, to find that all the fruit of that toil is swept away at once.”

Penelope, who had been overwhelmed by the suddenness of the intelligence, had scarcely spoken; but now assuming with great success a calmness and resolvedness of manner, said to her father:

“If that be all the calamity, my dear father, it is easily remedied. The Countess of Smatterton has been kind enough to promise me her high patronage, and to facilitate my efforts towards providing an independency, and Lord Spoonbill has but this moment, just before you returned, been enquiring whether or not I design to continue my preparation for that pursuit.”

“No, no, my Penelope, that is an occupation which I am sure can never suit your taste. I will not on any account consent to that. How can I bear to think of my own child exerting and wasting her strength to amuse the public, and to see her standing before a promiscuous and unfeeling multitude, exposed to the rudeness and insolence of loudly expressed disapprobation and extempore criticism?”

“Nay, my good sir,” said Lord Spoonbill in his pleasantest manner; “there is no danger, and there need be no fear, that Miss Primrose will ever incur disapprobation; whatever loud expressions there may be, will be expressions of applause and delight.”

“And that,” rejoined Mr Primrose, “is almost as bad. To stand up before a multitude and beg for their applause, even if the applause be gained, is to my feelings humiliating. To a female it is more painful still. I cannot brook the idea of being dependent on a multitude, a capricious mass of, perhaps, gross and indiscriminating individuals.”

Lord Spoonbill was so much delighted with the probability of Miss Primrose’s return to the condescending and discriminating patronage of the Countess of Smatterton, that the anticipation made him more than usually eloquent and logical; and there was something also in the manner of Mr Primrose that excited the hereditary legislator to use his utmost powers of persuasion. He therefore thus pursued the subject:

“But, sir, it is not merely in that profession which Miss Primrose contemplates, that the public takes the liberty of expressing its opinion. The highest personage in the kingdom is not exempt from expressions of public censure or public applause; and when a nobleman in the House of Peers, or a gentleman in the House of Commons, rises and expresses his sentiments on any question of policy, the public takes the liberty to express, and sometimes very loudly and rudely, an opinion of the merits or demerits of such speech.”

“Yes, my lord, you are talking very plausibly; but you must feel that there is a wide difference between the two cases. You cannot by such arguments cheat me out of my feelings. I thought it a calamity when I heard that my child meditated that profession, and I was delighted that it was in my power to save her from such a painful publicity.”

It was not perhaps quite consistent with the strictest veracity when Penelope, interrupting her father, said: “Indeed, my dear father, you quite misunderstand me, if you think that I should feel any unpleasant sensations in that publicity.”

Mr Primrose saw clearly enough the motive of that speech; and he began to wish that this discussion had not taken place in the presence of a third person; and Lord Spoonbill saw that this feeling oppressed the poor man. With a degree of propriety and delicacy therefore, which he could readily assume when it suited his purpose, he concluded his visit by saying:

“Well, Mr Primrose, I will not intrude upon you any longer for the present; and I can only say, that I hope you will not find the affairs of your banker quite so bad as you expect; but if you should, then I will venture to say that the Earl of Smatterton will not forget a near relative of the late respected Dr Greendale. Our family will be in town in a few days, and I shall be most happy then to repeat my call. And should Miss Primrose still persist in wishing to adopt the musical profession, a patroness and every possible assistance will not be wanting.”

In this there was much kindness, and Mr Primrose was accordingly pleased with the young lord, and forgot for a moment that he had ever heard any stories to his discredit. And, when the father and daughter were left alone, they entered into long and serious talk concerning their respective prospects.

Mr Primrose was not left absolutely pennyless by the stopping of his banker; but the greater part of his property was gone if, as report stated, the house should be only able to pay one shilling in the pound. Indeed, upon the supposition of a much larger dividend, the property, which would then remain to Mr Primrose, would be but a very narrow and scanty independence. He had not made so very large a fortune in India as some persons are said to have accumulated; but, as soon as he had acquired what he thought a respectable competence, he returned to England to have as much as possible the enjoyment of his daughter’s company, and those pleasures which none but a native land is capable of affording.

When he had stated to Penelope as accurately and fully as possible the various particulars relative to his property, and mentioned the sources from whence the rumours came concerning the incompetency of his banker, the young lady very composedly expressed her readiness to avail herself of the proffered patronage of the Countess of Smatterton. There appeared so much sincerity and cheerfulness in the proposal, that Mr Primrose felt himself considerably relieved: and not only did there appear sincerity in the language used by Penelope, but there really was what there appeared to be. For reluctant as she might have been to engage in such a profession merely for the gratification of a patroness, she felt very differently when she thought that she might thereby be an assistance to her father.

Hurt as Mr Primrose’s feelings, or pride, might have been at the thought of receiving assistance from his own daughter, whom he had hoped to place in a state of independence, and mortified as he might be at the prospect of the young lady making a public appearance, yet he had but little to say to the repeated enquiry which Penelope made in answer to all his objections; for invariably his remarks were followed by the question—“What else can be done?”

It was too late for Mr Primrose to return to India; and the patronage or interest which once had favoured him now existed for him no longer. He had not been brought up to any profession whereby he might gain a livelihood in England, and he had been accustomed to a style of living which rendered daily bread a more expensive article to him than to those of humbler prospects.

A very distressing and heart-rending scene may be drawn of human suffering from the lowest and most abject of the children of penury and destitution. But we have our doubts whether the bitterest and keenest sense of suffering is really in that class. The poor gentleman suffers mentally, and while the beggar who lives on casual charity has an occasional luxury in a full meal, he, whose poverty must be hidden but cannot be unknown, is labouring under an unremitting and incessant pressure; and it is this that wastes away the body to a mere shadow and bows down the spirit to the earth. They are cruel and unfeeling indeed, who mock such misery as this. We envy not the talent which can draw mirth from a source so painful.

CHAPTER X.

Another morning dawned, and with its opening light there came to the father of Penelope a feeling of his comparatively destitute situation. His heart swelled as he thought of it, and he had some difficulty to preserve composure enough to meet his child. There was however one drop of consolation in the cup of his affliction, for it was not by his own fault or folly that his present loss was occasioned. But even this consolation afflicted him, for it brought to his recollection his past folly, and reminded him of the patient endurance with which the mother of his Penelope had borne up, as long as possible, against her sufferings. He recollected how gradually and slowly she sunk, and how to the very last moment of life her looks were to him all tenderness and forgiveness. And he thought that he could also discern in his child those same moral features which had been the grace and glory of her departed mother.

Commanding his feelings as well as he could, he commenced the talk concerning the calamity of the preceding day. His heart was touched by the cheerful manner in which Penelope referred to the proposal of the Countess of Smatterton, and he smiled through his tears to hear how sanguinely the poor girl talked of the certainty of high success. But as yet all was in uncertainty.

His banker, in whose hands he had placed the greater part of his property, had certainly stopped payment; but it could not yet be ascertained when his affairs would be put into a train for settlement, nor was it likely that one so little acquainted with the City as Mr Primrose should be able to form any idea of the dividend which might be paid. He certainly had heard it said that no greater dividend would be forthcoming, than one shilling in the pound. But people in the City sometimes tells lies not knowing them to be lies, and sometimes even do they go so far as to tell lies knowing them to be so.

Mr Primrose was a very hasty man, catching up whatever he heard, and taking it for granted that all he heard was true. He never thought of enquiring what was the political party to which his banker belonged, nor did he know to what party those persons attached themselves who told him the melancholy story of that banker’s inability to pay more than one shilling in the pound. As for Mr Primrose himself, he, poor man, knew nothing about party; he was not aware that England contained two classes of men, one of which is all that is good, and the other all that is bad. He simply knew that the banker had stopped payment, and that two very respectable-looking gentlemen had declared it as their opinion that there would not be a dividend of more than one shilling in the pound. That story he believed, and on that presumption was proceeding. His daughter of course could know nothing about the matter; and as for the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill, he was such a superfine sort of a gentleman that he hardly knew that there was such a place as the City; and if he had ever heard of such an animal as a City Alderman, he took it for some such a creature as the Bonassus.

Now this melancholy intelligence, which Mr Primrose had brought with him from the City, put a stop of course to those employments in which he would otherwise have been engaged. He was preparing to look out for some residence, either in town or country; and for that purpose he had every morning read with great attention all the advertisements of desirable residences to be sold or let. It was not very pleasant to turn from these thoughts to study painfully the means of again acquiring a maintenance.

It was more especially distressing to him to observe how anxiously his poor child now supplicated as a favour to be permitted to engage in an occupation, from which he knew that, under other circumstances, she would have timidly shrunk. He was afflicted to hear such solicitations; but he had so much pleasure in his daughter’s society, and so little occasion to go out, that he remained in his hotel the greater part of the morning, or more properly speaking the day. Towards evening however it occurred to him, and to any one else it would have occurred much earlier, that it might be the means of setting his mind a little at rest, and of giving him some little ground of hope, if he should go once more into the City and enquire of his agent into the probability of a settlement or arrangement of his banker’s affairs.

While Mr Primrose was gone into the City Penelope was left mournfully alone. It is indeed very dull to spend a long solitary evening in a strange place without occupation, and with nothing to think upon but painful recollections and fearful anticipations.

The room in which the poor girl was left was large and well furnished, but there were no books in it, and the pictures were but indifferent engravings in splendid frames. There was a newspaper, but that was soon exhausted. There were many persons in the house, but Penelope knew none of them, and none of them cared about her.

It had been very different at Smatterton, and at Neverden; in those two villages everybody knew her, and everybody loved her more or less; and there she never felt herself alone, for she knew that her good uncle was near her, and there is some pleasure in knowing that a good friend is near us. There, when she heard footsteps and voices, they were familiar voices and the footsteps of friends; but in the large hotel, where she sat alone waiting for her father, she heard only the voices of strangers. And when for the sake of a little variety she drew aside the drapery of the long windows and looked down upon the lamp illuminated street, there was something quite melancholy in the dim appearance and the monotonous sounds. Carriage-wheels seemed to roll incessantly, and their passing lights were miserably reflected from myriads of little puddles coldly shining amidst the uneven pavement.

There was a specimen or two to be heard of the London cries; but there was no music in them, and they fell upon the ear with a strangely unpleasant effect, intermingled with the occasional sound of a street organ. Penelope strained her attention to listen to the music, and it was pleasant to her, though the images which it raised in her mind were those only of sad regrets. There is more effect produced by those street organs than people in general are aware of. Shall we be pardoned the strangeness of the expression, if we say that they sometimes give a wholesome agitation to the stagnation of the moral atmosphere? And shall we be still farther pardoned if we digress, for the sake of illustrating by an anecdote the above singular expression? By such a digression we are not interrupting our narrative, which is now indeed, like its pensive heroine, standing still.

A father had lost an affectionate and promising child, over whose long lingering illness he had watched anxiously but hopelessly. The poor child had suffered patiently, but had experienced some intervals of ease, and some sensations even of delight. A popular melody had caught his fancy, and when the wandering organist of that neighbourhood played his favourite air, the little sufferer’s eyes would brighten, and his pale transparent hand would beat the time as knowingly as an amateur. That was a scene for a parent to recollect. And the poor little one died, and the father, when he had seen the grave closed upon the child’s remains, returned to his home in a state of apathy: feeling seemed to have perished in him. The organist made his accustomed round, played the favourite air; the bereaved father was awakened to the agony of remembrance, and those tears flowed freely and spontaneously, which told that feeling had not departed.

By the itinerant musicians the feelings of Penelope were awakened; but she could not help observing how much less emotion she experienced than formerly, when these well-known melodies brought to her mind thoughts of the absent and the distant. Her mind was otherwise engaged and her thoughts otherwise directed. Little did she imagine, when she had been anxiously expecting and joyfully anticipating her father’s return to England, that so dark a cloud would obscure the first dawn of her happiness. While she was thus wearing away the slowly moving hours, the door of the apartment was opened and Lord Spoonbill made his appearance.

It is a great evil that virtuous men should ever make themselves disagreeable, and it is also a great evil that vicious men should make themselves agreeable; but the latter is quite as common as the former, and perhaps more so. He that exercises no reflection, and never turns his thoughts within, has so much the more attention to give to the external of manner and address. And so much had Lord Spoonbill cultivated manner, that although Penelope had reason to suppose him to be no conjuror, and though she had also reason to think that his morals were not the most pure, yet he was not altogether offensive and disagreeable to her. She could not but feel almost grateful to him for having so readily abstained from urging the topic which he had mentioned on the day of her meeting with her father. It also appeared to her highly flattering and complimentary, that a person of his lordship’s rank should deign to pay court to one of inferior station; for there was not in her mind the slightest or remotest suspicion that Lord Spoonbill had any other than the most honourable intention in making a profession of attachment.

When his lordship made his appearance, he was received cordially and as cheerfully as circumstances would permit. Penelope had now fully made up her mind to adopt the profession recommended by the Countess of Smatterton, and as Lord Spoonbill had on the previous day, in conversation with Mr Primrose, used arguments rather recommendatory of that step, the young lady could not of course imagine that there remained in his lordship’s mind any intention whatever of pursuing the subject of his attachment, or renewing any mention of his love and devotedness.

This thought gave to her manner a much greater ease, and being also blended with the pensiveness of her present feelings, presented her to the eye of Lord Spoonbill as more interesting and lovely than ever. His lordship was a vain man; and to possess so lovely a creature as Penelope, would be the means of gratifying his vanity. He was cunning enough however to see that Miss Primrose was quite unsuspicious of his designs, and that she did not anticipate a revival of that discourse to which her earnest supplications had put a stop. He felt therefore that it would not be prudent hastily to recommence a conversation of that nature, but to endeavour to render himself more agreeable, and to try to ascertain how far there yet remained in her recollection any tender thoughts of Robert Darnley.

Such were his lordship’s intentions, but they were frustrated by the manner in which Penelope spoke, and by the decision with which she proposed to cast herself on the patronage of the Countess, and to adopt the profession so earnestly recommended by her ladyship. Lord Spoonbill to this proposal replied, that the Countess would be most happy to afford Miss Primrose all the assistance in her power; and his lordship was also pleased to say, that this resolution would contribute very essentially to increase the attractions of Lady Smatterton’s parties.

Penelope sighed and almost shuddered at the thought; but, as the effort was made for the sake of her father, she subdued or concealed her reluctance. It was of course understood by his lordship, that this resolution of the young lady arose from the loss which her father had experienced; it was therefore very natural that some expressions of sympathy and concern should be used on the occasion by the hereditary legislator. These expressions were gratefully received by Penelope, though her language of acknowledgment was only the language of looks and imperfectly suppressed tears.

Lord Spoonbill interpreted this emotion as an omen in his favour; and he was tempted by his evil genius to say something farther in allusion to the prohibited topic. He was greatly and agreeably surprised to hear no express and hasty interruption; and fearful lest this silence should proceed only from abstraction of mind, he went on to speak more decidedly and less equivocally concerning his attachment to the young lady. Penelope gave symptoms of understanding his lordship, but shewed no decided or obvious marks of disapprobation. There seemed to be, and there certainly was, a strong conflict in her mind. She had not, indeed, ceased to think tenderly and affectionately of Robert Darnley; but she had nearly, if not altogether, ceased to hope. The conflict in her mind was between her affection for her father and her indifference to Lord Spoonbill. We will not say that her vanity was not flattered by the apparent offer of so splendid an alliance. It perhaps influenced her as little as it would influence any one; but when the mind is just recovering from the pains and mortifications of a first disappointment, it is mightily indifferent to matters of sentiment. The very loss of a first love is of itself so great an affliction, that it appears as if no condition of being could render the affliction greater.

Finding that Penelope returned no answer to his protestations of attachment, and that she did not withdraw her hand from his grasp, his lordship proceeded to urge his suit in the common language adapted for such occasions as the present, and used by such persons as his lordship. Penelope, fancying that she was about to give her consent to become Lady Spoonbill, prefaced that consent by expressing her fears that the Earl and Countess of Smatterton would look down, with disapprobation at least, on one so humble and portionless. To obviate this objection his lordship, who did not, or who would not see the misapprehension of the young lady, observed that the Earl and Countess need not know anything of the arrangement.

“But how is that possible?” inquired Penelope in the simplicity of her heart.

In explaining that possibility his lordship also explained the object which he had in view in making a declaration of his attachment. Now Penelope, who had been brought up under the roof and instruction of Dr Greendale, and who knew no more of the world than the world knew of her, was not able immediately and readily to comprehend his lordship’s meaning, and when she did comprehend it, she was shocked and astonished at it; her pride also, of which she possessed constitutionally an abundant share, took alarm at the indignity, and she would, but for the utter depression of her spirits, have resented the insult loudly and contemptuously. As it was, her only resource was in a copious flood of silent tears, and when her paroxysm of anguish was somewhat abated, so that she could find utterance for words, she said:

“My Lord Spoonbill, let me request you to leave me. My father will soon return, and if he should learn what has passed, I cannot answer for the consequences.”

The Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill began to discern symptoms of a horsewhipping, and having acted dishonorably, he looked foolishly. It was not generous to attempt to take advantage of the misfortunes of Mr Primrose, and the destitute condition of Penelope. But there was in his lordship’s heart so great a regard for Penelope, that he resolved at all events to make her his own, and that if marriage was the only condition, he would offer her marriage. With this view he stammered out something which he intended as an apology, and endeavoured, as well as he could, to unsay all that he had said concerning the humiliating arrangement which he had at first proposed; but Penelope heard him not, or if hearing, heeded him not.

Hereupon his lordship became more earnest in his solicitations, and made such clumsy attempts to explain away his first proposal, that the young lady began to think more contemptuously of him than she had ever thought before. And now his lordship saw that there was some truth and justice in the observations which had been thrown out by his friend Erpingham. Seeing the lady so resolute and obdurate, he thought it would be the wisest step that he could take to leave her for the present, in hope that hereafter her indignation might somewhat abate.

When he was gone, the poor, perplexed, and almost desolate one, felt in some measure relieved by his absence; but, when she began to reflect, she found that her hopes of the patronage of Lady Smatterton were now gone; for it would be absolutely impossible for her to place herself again in a situation where she might be exposed to the importunities of Lord Spoonbill. And when at a late hour in the evening her father returned from the City, it was too much for her to receive him cheerfully, and she could no longer speak sanguinely and with confidence concerning her prospects under the patronage of Lady Smatterton.

As for Mr Primrose, no brighter prospect seemed to shine before him; for he had gained no intelligence. He had found, as he might have expected, the office of his agent closed, and there was no one in the house who could give him the slightest information. He was astonished at the world’s apathy; no one seemed to sympathise with him. Everybody was wrapped up in their own concerns, and the thoughts of all seemed to be centred in themselves. This is indeed not much to be wondered at. It is the way of the world, and always has been, and always will, until some change takes place which we cannot yet anticipate or conjecture. It was pleasantly observed by a sentimental jockey, who lost by a considerable length the first race he ever rode, “I’ll never ride another race as long as I live. The riders are the most selfish, narrow-minded creatures on the face of the earth. They kept riding and galloping as fast as they could, and never had once the kindness or civility to stop for me.”

In some such state of mind as this was Mr Primrose when he returned from his fruitless excursion in the City. All the inquiries which he had made about his agent, as to where he was, and how long the office had been shut, and what time it would be open tomorrow, and ten thousand other matters, had been answered with a toil-saving brevity and a coldness, which intimated that the persons answering the questions had not so great an interest in them as the person asking them.

CHAPTER XI.

Many days had now passed away since Mr Primrose had left Neverden and Smatterton, and since Robert Darnley had expressed his resolution to make prompt inquiry into the cause of the interruption of the correspondence between Penelope and himself. There had arrived no intelligence from the young gentleman: but Mr Primrose began now to think that he himself had not done right in listening and yielding to the delicate scruples of his daughter. The father of Penelope was of that complexion of mind that, under similar circumstances, he would have thanked any one for removing any misunderstanding, even had it been the lady herself.

He knew that Robert Darnley had not been the wilful cause of breaking off the correspondence, and he knew also that his own daughter had not neglected to answer the letters which she had received. He knew that the parties were attached to each other, and he had learned from Penelope herself that there was no foundation for the story of her attachment to Lord Spoonbill. Now what should prevent him from writing to Neverden to inform the young gentleman of this fact? He thought that it would be an act of kindness to both parties. Nevertheless, it should be observed, that Mr Primrose was not one of those terribly kind people who force their kindness upon one, whether we like it or not, as the man who beat his wife and said, “It is all for your good, my dear.”

When therefore he was fully satisfied that it would be but an act of kindness to his daughter to remove the mystery from the mind of Robert Darnley, he did not take this step without first consulting her for whose benefit such step was to be taken. At breakfast he said to Penelope:

“So, my dear, my excursion into the City was to no purpose last night. I find that I must make an earlier visit, and therefore I shall go again to-day. I hope and trust I may find matters not quite so bad as I first anticipated. And I think that you need not be in a very great hurry to engage in this profession. I cannot say I like patronage. But why should not we take some steps to let Robert Darnley know that the breaking off the correspondence was not your act? I think I ought to write to him. Indeed I almost promised that I would. Very likely he may be waiting till he hears from me.”

“My dear father,” exclaimed Penelope, “you surely would not think of such a step as that. It would be exceedingly indelicate, and might expose me to contempt. Mr Darnley knows that I am in London, and if he were at all disposed to renew the correspondence, or to have an explanation of the cause of its interruption, he would either have written or have made his appearance in town. Knowing that I was at Lord Smatterton’s, it was no difficult matter to write to me; for the letter would be sure to find me, if directed under cover to his lordship.”

“But, my dear child,” interrupted Mr Primrose, “I think he expects to hear from me; for I recollect now having said something to that effect.”

“But after this long interval, if Mr Darnley were really anxious, and at all concerned about me, he would have written to press you to the performance of your promise.”

“He might have done so to be sure,” said her father, slowly and thoughtfully, and then, as if recollecting himself, he continued in a livelier and quicker tone; “but perhaps, as he has not heard from me, he takes it for granted that you really were desirous of dropping the correspondence; and so after all you will appear to him as the person by whose act and deed the acquaintance has ceased.”

“And what will he, or can he think,” rejoined Penelope, “if, under present circumstances, there should be on my part an effort made to renew the acquaintance? No, no; let the matter rest. Even if you did promise to write first, you may be sure that he would not have waited patiently all this while in expectation of hearing from you. He might naturally enough suppose that I should object to having overtures made as from me; and if he had a real regard for me, we should have heard from him by this time. My attachment to Mr Darnley was founded on the qualities and endowments of the mind, and if I were deceived as to them, that attachment will soon die away.”

“Upon my word, child,” said Mr Primrose, “I really do not think you have any regard for Mr Darnley. You are certainly captivated by this Lord Spoonbill.”

This was said by Mr Primrose not angrily, but with a tone of mock reproach. Penelope shuddered at the allusion to Lord Spoonbill; but she endeavoured to conceal her emotion as much as possible, lest she should be under the necessity of informing her father of the proposal which his lordship had made her the day before.

While this conversation was passing between Mr Primrose and his daughter, another scene was passing at the town mansion of the Earl of Smatterton, where his lordship and family had arrived on the preceding day. Parliament was about to meet after the prorogation. On such occasions his lordship’s magnificence swelled out to most extraordinary dimensions. Then did he bethink himself that he was one of those who held in his hand the destiny of the British empire; and, when the postman brought letters from divers parts of the kingdom, his lordship felt himself to be the centre to which many minds were directing their most anxious thoughts. The letters were handed to his lordship on a silver tray. The servant who brought them swelled with importance, and even the silver tray shone with unusual brightness beneath its important burden.

“It is very fatiguing,” his lordship would sometimes say, “to have anything to do with public business. I often envy the obscurity of humble station. There is peace and quietness in the lowly valley.”

This, together with much more pompous sentimentality of the same kind, his lordship would utter when an unusual number of letters were brought to him. On the morning to which we now refer the number of letters was great, and they were spread on the table by his important lordship’s own right honorable hands. The contents of some he anticipated, and of others he uttered his conjectures.

“Oh! here are two from Smatterton,” exclaimed his lordship: “one, I see, is from Kipperson: that Kipperson is really a man of some talent; he has very just views of things. This letter from Kipperson is of course on private business, which must be postponed to the more important affairs which concern the destiny of the empire. But from whom can this other letter come? I have no other correspondent there, except my cousin Letitia, and this is not her writing.”

Then his lordship looked very knowingly at the letter again. But all this speechification was perfectly needless; for if he wished to know from whom the letter came, he had nothing to do but to open it; and till he did open it he was not likely to know anything about it. After a full share of idle wonderment, his lordship took the envelope off the mysterious letter, and found that it was addressed to Mr Primrose. Thereat his lordship was angry, and expressed great astonishment at the liberty thus taken with his right honorable name. On looking again at the cover he discerned a few lines of apology, bearing the signature of Robert Darnley, and stating that the liberty had been taken because the writer did not know the gentleman’s address, and because he also understood that Mr Primrose’s daughter was under his lordship’s roof.

“And how am I to know the gentleman’s address?” exclaimed his lordship with a most magnificent air.

But the Countess, who had been informed by Lord Spoonbill that Penelope had the intention of returning to undergo her ladyship’s patronage, did not feel quite so angry as her lord, but suggested that the young lord had seen Mr Primrose, and knew the name of the hotel where he lodged.

“Certainly,” said Lord Spoonbill, “I will take care of it.” And he forthwith laid hands upon the letter. Lord Smatterton then added, “I beg that Mr Primrose may be immediately recommended to make known his address to Mr Darnley, that this liberty may not be taken again.”

When Lord Spoonbill had possession of this letter he forthwith began to think how he should dispose of it. He was not quite sure, though it came from Robert Darnley to Mr Primrose, that it must of necessity discourse concerning love and Penelope. When his lordship therefore in his own apartment sat muttering over the letter, and wondering what it could contain, there was some little more reason for his doubts and wonderments than for those of Lord Smatterton over the unopened cover addressed to himself. The letter in possession of Lord Spoonbill was not addressed to himself, and therefore he had no right to open it, however deeply he might feel interested in its contents.

He took up the letter, and looked at the direction and at the seal; and he endeavoured to conjecture on what other subject than that of Penelope Mr Darnley could write to Mr Primrose. Then did his lordship poke his right honorable finger and thumb into the open sides of the letter, endeavouring to catch a glimpse of a word or two that might help him over the difficulties of conjecture. But the letter was so very ingeniously folded that not a single word could be seen. Hereupon, incredible as it may appear, his lordship was in a very great wrath, and was offended with the insolence of Robert Darnley, who had taken such pains to fold his letter, as if he had a suspicion that any individual of Lord Smatterton’s family should have the meanness to look into it. This curious mode of folding the letter induced his lordship to make another and another attempt to read a line or a word. But nothing could be seen. Now, in the progress of these repeated efforts at investigation, the letter was so much disfigured that his lordship, with all his ingenuity, could not make it look like itself again.

Another difficulty now arose: for his lordship was ashamed to send it in so questionable a shape; and should he send or make any apology, he must tell something very much like a lie, and perhaps by his clumsiness in apologizing create a suspicion of the real fact. Perplexed and undecided, he thrust the letter into his pocket and walked out.

Lord Spoonbill must have been very much attached to Miss Primrose to take all this trouble, and to expose himself to so many annoyances on her account; and the worst of the matter was that he could not, in making his visit to the young lady, quote all these instances of mortification and self-denial as illustrations and proofs of his devotedness to her. He could not tell her that, for her sake, he had stooped to meannesses of which any other man would have been ashamed. He could not tell her that, in order to place her in the enviable rank of nobility, he had intercepted her letters and had corrupted the integrity of Nick Muggins, the Smatterton post-boy. By the way we cannot help remarking, that Muggins was much to blame for accepting a bribe to betray his trust. But the love of gold is an universal passion, it is not confined to any one class or condition of human life; it influences the high and the low, the rich and the poor, the learned and the unlearned;

“In peace it tunes the shepherd’s reed,
In war it mounts the warrior’s steed,
In halls in gay attire ’tis seen,
In hamlets dances on the green;
It rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below and gentlemen above.”

But to return to our enamoured hereditary legislator. He was walking, he scarcely knew whither, with Robert Darnley’s letter in his pocket; and he was meditating most perplexedly on the various events of human life, on those at least which concerned himself, and he thought that he had been acting very much like a fool, and he felt very much inclined to make a mighty effort to act like a wise man. But wisdom is not an extemporaneous production of a fool’s head. It required something more than a volition to change the whole tenor of the conduct.

In his resolution to act more wisely, the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill made with himself this stipulation, namely, that at all events, and by any means honorable, or dishonorable, he must have Miss Primrose; for it was absolutely impossible that he could live without her. It was therefore no easy matter for his lordship so to manage matters as to gain Miss Primrose at all events, and yet to act as a man of honor. For here was in his pocket a letter, which, as a man of honor, he ought immediately to hand over to Mr Primrose; and yet he very strongly suspected, that if the said letter should come into the possession of the person to whom it was addressed, it would be most probably the means of placing an insuperable objection in the way of his lordship’s designs. It also entered into the mind of the meditating young gentleman that, if the acquaintance between Miss Primrose and Robert Darnley should be renewed, there might be some talk about the letters which had not reached their destination, and there might be made some enquiries. And what if, after all, Nick Muggins should turn traitor! Who could tell what influences fear or hope might exercise over the uncivilized post-boy of Smatterton?

Instruction being a much more important object than amusement, we feel ourselves bound to direct the attention of our readers to the instruction which may be derived from the fact here alluded to. Here is political instruction and personal instruction. We do not believe a word of the idle prating that some political greenhorns make about secret service money; but we do believe that many of those politicians, and they are not a few, who mistake cunning for wisdom, frequently become entangled in nets of their own weaving, and fall into pits of their own digging. To play the rogue with perfect success, is a perfection almost beyond the reach of ordinary humanity: for they, who have talent and power to do so, are generally too wise to possess the inclination, and they who are weak enough to possess the inclination, are in nine cases out of ten too clumsy to carry it on with perfect success. And the worst of it is, that they must make use of tools which are either too strong to be managed, or too weak to be depended on.

This is also a lesson of instruction to persons in private life, especially to those who have nothing to do but to live on the fruits of their grandfather’s industry, or their great grandfather’s roguery; for it teaches them that, if they will pursue those ends which are dishonorable, they must also make use of dishonorable means; and they will very frequently be placed in very uncomfortable and mortifying situations.

Now, however willing Lord Spoonbill might have been to suffer the letter in his possession to reach its proper destination, he found that he could not send it without exposing his former meanness to the risk of detection, and in all probability defeating the end which he had in view in intercepting the letters which were passing between Miss Primrose and Robert Darnley. In such perplexity, his lordship walked from one street to another till he found himself at a very considerable distance from Mr Primrose’s hotel.

CHAPTER XII.

Lord Spoonbill was not like Cato. For history records of the latter that he preferred being good to seeming so: Lord Spoonbill had no great objection to being a rogue, but did not like to be thought one. It was therefore not very pleasant for him to be placed in that dilemma, of which we made mention in the last chapter. He saw, or at least had good reason to think that he saw, that Mr Darnley was bent on renewing the acquaintance with Miss Primrose; and he also feared that Penelope had not sufficiently forgotten her first lover.

There also occurred to his mind the thought that it was possible for Mr Darnley to make a journey to London for a personal explanation, if the letter to Mr Primrose should not be answered. This consideration suggested to his lordship the necessity of taking prompt and decided measures. He saw that no chance remained for him but in the way of matrimony. He certainly dreaded the encounter with his right honorable parents; but, if he could not live without Penelope, it was absolutely necessary that he should take steps to live with her.

This is a very proper place wherein to make a digression concerning the omnipotence of love; and here we ought to be extremely pathetic, shewing and demonstrating with heart-rending eloquence, how irresistible is this universal passion: and perhaps some of our readers, not many we hope, may think that we ought to make a very sentimental defence of Lord Spoonbill, as some of our predecessors in the history of lovers have made of those idle cubs who have shewn their refinement and sensibility by seducing engaged or betrothed affections. But we do not believe in the omnipotence of love; and we do not think Lord Spoonbill at all deserving of pity. Falling in love with Penelope was on his part perfectly voluntary, deliberate, wilful, and intentional. It is all very possible and very plausible for an inexperienced and thoughtless youth to find himself mightily attached to a young woman before he is aware almost of the existence of the passion; but this was not the case with Lord Spoonbill. When he saw Miss Primrose he admired her; when he became more acquainted with her, he liked her; and, from pursuing, he loved her. But he knew from the first that she was otherwise engaged; and his designs towards her had been degrading.

We have dwelt long, and perhaps tediously, on Lord Spoonbill’s embarrassment; we have done so intentionally, because that embarrassment dwelt tediously on his mind, and it was necessary, for the sake of accuracy in the picture, to represent the case not transiently, but copiously.

The result of the right honorable hereditary legislator’s meditation was, that as it was not possible for him to live without Penelope, and as delay might expose him to the danger of being compelled to do that which he knew to be impossible, he would take the earliest opportunity of making regular and deliberate overtures of marriage. And he felt satisfied that the fascination of title and the splendour of opulence would be too much for a female heart to withstand. There was also another thought on which he grounded his hopes: he considered that the affection which Penelope had for her father would induce her more readily to accept an offer which would provide her with the means of assisting him.

With this resolution he returned home; as he thought that it might be more advisable to communicate his intention to the parties concerned by letter than by word of mouth. Probably his lordship might imagine that, if thus Mr Primrose were made acquainted with the magnificent offer that awaited his daughter’s acceptance, paternal pride would be gratified, and paternal authority might be added to other motives, inducing the young lady’s compliance. Lord Spoonbill was by no means fastidious as to the manner in which he gained his object, provided that the object was gained.

His lordship dined that day at home. During dinner he was silent, and looked almost sulky. The Earl and Countess inferred from these looks that their hopeful son was on the eve of saying or doing something not very agreeable to his parents; for he most usually prefaced an act of opposition to their will by putting himself into an ill-humour. This is a refined piece of domestic tactics. None however but spoiled children can use it with proper dexterity and complete success. When a wife wishes to persuade her husband out of his senses, or to guide him against his better judgment, her prelude is generally an extraordinary degree of sweetness, and her preface is made of witching smiles; and then the husband thinks that it would be cruel to convert such smiles into tears, and he passively yields to the power of the silent logic of the laughing eye. But the policy of a great overgrown booby is different. The spoiled blockhead knows that no art of his can give extra loveliness to his looks in the eyes of his fond parents. His own precious numskull is to them the ne plus ultra of human excellence. But if that sweet face is darkened by a frown, and if the dear pet is sulky, cross-grained, and ill-humoured, then anything and everything must be conceded to bring him back to his good-humour again.

“Spoonbill, are you unwell?” said Lord Smatterton.

“No,” replied Spoonbill in a style of sulky abruptness, which Tony Lumpkin himself might have envied.

“You seem to be quite out of spirits to-day:” said the Countess, in one of her most agreeable and winning tones.

“One cannot be always laughing and talking,” was the uncourteous and ungrateful reply.

Then followed a long pause. The Earl and Countess scarcely dared to speak to each other, and Lord Spoonbill pertinaciously held his peace. Now such a state of things cannot last long; it is absolutely unbearable. Very soon after the servants had left the room, as the young man’s silence and sulkiness yet continued, Lord Smatterton, who thought himself a bit of a politician, gave her ladyship a hint to indulge them with her absence.

When they were alone, the Earl of Smatterton thus addressed his hopeful son: “Spoonbill, I fear that something is preying upon your mind. May I be permitted to know what it is that disturbs you?”

Lord Spoonbill did not make any reply to this consolatory interrogation: for he felt very well satisfied that the communication of the cause of his concern would not be very likely to remove it. He therefore thought it best to contrive, if it could be so managed, to let the truth come out gradually, and to bring his father to guess, than to tell abruptly, the cause of his oppression.

“You are silent,” said the Earl of Smatterton. Lord Spoonbill knew that without requiring to be told of it. The Earl then continued:

“Why should you conceal from me anything that concerns and interests you? I am only desirous of promoting your welfare; and, if in any matter I can serve you, command me.”

It is quite contrary to our notions of propriety that sons should command their parents; it was also contrary to Lord Smatterton’s ideas of his own dignity that any one should dictate to him; but in the present instance he adopted the courtier’s language. As his son did not seem disposed to command him, the father felt very much inclined to command his son, and to insist with mighty dignity on knowing the cause of this strange behaviour. But Lord Spoonbill was rather too old to be treated like a boy. His lordship would not be snubbed; but he could not always escape a lecturing.

There is this difference between the rational and irrational part of the creation; that, among the irrational animals, the parents are in haste to give their offspring a hint of their independence; but among rational beings, the young ones are more in haste to throw off their dependence than parents to renounce their authority or withdraw their protection. One reason perhaps for this arrangement is, that rational youngsters are not quite so well able to guide and to take care of themselves as irrational animals are.

The feeling of which we are here speaking operated very powerfully in the minds of Lord Smatterton and his son. The father was especially fond of authority, and the son as fond of independence: but the father held the purse, and there lay the great secret of his power. Lord Spoonbill knew that he could not marry Miss Primrose without the consent of more parties than himself and the young lady; he knew that the means of an establishment must be contributed by his own right honorable father; and therefore his consideration was, how to obtain that consent, and how to reconcile his father’s well-known horror of plebeianism with his own marriage, with the daughter of a man who had originally sprung from the City. To have made the proposal flatly and plainly, would have put the Earl into a most tremendous passion. It was therefore necessary to have recourse to management.

Finding that the Earl was slow in uttering conjectures, Lord Spoonbill was compelled to give broader hints; and for that purpose he rose from his seat and walked to the fire-place, and put his elbow on the chimney-piece, and his hand upon his forehead, and sighed—oh, how he did sigh! He would have been a fine subject for Chantrey; but neither Chantrey nor any one else could have immortalized that magnificent sigh.

At this movement the Earl started, and exclaimed: “Are you in love, Spoonbill?”

“Suppose I am, sir;” replied the son of the patrician, “and what then?”

“What then!” echoed Lord Smatterton; “that very much depends on the person who has engaged your affections. If it be a suitable connexion, I shall throw no impediment in your way.”

“But, perhaps, what may appear a suitable connexion to me may not appear in the same light to you.”

“Of course you will not think of marrying a woman of no understanding.”

“Certainly not,” replied Lord Spoonbill cheerfully and confidently; “I could not bear to live with a wife who was not a person of intellect.”

Some of our readers might not have expected this remark from Lord Smatterton, or this reply from Lord Spoonbill; but let those readers look out among their acquaintance for a great blockhead, and let them talk to him about intellect, and they will not wonder that Lord Spoonbill had a fancy for an intellectual wife. There is, now a-days, a great demand for intellect, and a demand will always create a supply of some sort or other.

“And I think,” continued the Earl of Smatterton, “that I know your opinions on that subject too well to suppose that you would ever degrade yourself so far as to marry a person of low birth.”

Lord Spoonbill bit his lips; and said, “I would never marry a woman of vulgar manners, whatever might be her birth.”

“You are right,” said the Earl; “but why can you not tell me at once, without all this circumlocution, who is the lady that is destined to the honor of becoming Lady Spoonbill?”

Here the young man hesitated and demurred, and endeavoured to say something that should amount to nothing. But the Earl was not content to be put off evasively, and pressed so hard, that at length the secret was extorted. Then was the Lord of Smatterton exceedingly astonished and grieved, and he groaned and shook his head most solemnly, and in a tone of great anguish of mind, said;

“Oh, Spoonbill! Spoonbill! That you should ever have come to this! And have you made the young woman an offer of your hand?”

“I have,” replied the son, who thought that the readiest way of bringing the matter to a conclusion would be to avow it at once.

But, when the Earl farther enquired whether the offer had been accepted or not, the young lord was under the necessity of acknowledging that it had not been exactly accepted, but that he had no doubt it would be. This was a curious piece of refinement in the art of lying. Lord Spoonbill was too scrupulous to commit himself by a downright palpable falsehood, which might be detected, but instead of that he had recourse to one of those lies, which are not so easy of detection, but which answer quite as well the purpose of deceit. It was quite as much a lie to say that he had no doubt that his offer would be accepted, as it would have been to say that it had already been accepted. But the one lie might have been detected, the other could not. He had doubts of his acceptance, and serious doubts too; but he thought that if the young lady and her father found that the match was countenanced by the Earl, and, if proposals could be fairly and fully made before Mr Darnley should have an opportunity of holding any intercourse with Miss Primrose or her father, there was a possibility of success.

This information was indeed melancholy news to Lord Smatterton, who had enjoyed and pleased himself with the thought that he had to boast of true patrician blood, and who looked forward to see his only son uphold the dignity of his house. There is a pleasure in greatness which none but great ones know. It had been the pride of the Earl of Smatterton to look down with contempt on such noble families as had degraded themselves by admixture with plebeian blood. Now all his sneers and sarcasms, he thought, would be turned against himself, and it pained him to think that it might be said of him, “that is Lord Smatterton, whose son married a woman from the City.”

His lordship knew that his son was obstinate and headstrong, and he saw that there was no mode of preventing the catastrophe, if the young man had set his mind upon it. But notwithstanding he knew that opposition must be fruitless, he could not help speaking in his own peculiarly emphatic manner against the proposed match.

“Spoonbill,” said the Earl, “marry Miss Primrose if you please; but remember”—here his lordship made a most magnificent pause—“remember that your establishment must be from the fortune of your destined bride. From me you have nothing.”

Had circumstances been otherwise than they were, and not requiring such despatch, Lord Spoonbill would not have heeded this speech. He would have known that ultimately he should succeed with his magnificent father; but his object was to come to a speedy decision; he wished to be able at once to make a decided proposal. At this remark of his father Lord Spoonbill was angry and sulky, and he pettishly replied; “I think I have a right to marry as I please.”

“And I also have a right to use my property as I please; and I will never consent to appropriate any part of it to the purpose of introducing a woman of low birth into my family.”

It may be very well supposed by our readers, that the discussion on this interesting topic between Lord Smatterton and his son did not end here; and we shall not be blamed for omitting the remainder of the angry discussion between father and son on this very interesting and delicate topic. It may be very easily imagined that the son went on grumbling, and that the father went on prosing, for a considerable length of time, and that they did not arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.

It may be also very easily imagined that when the melancholy intelligence was communicated to Lady Smatterton, her ladyship must have suffered very acutely when she found that her beloved and only child had so far forgotten the pure and high principles in which he had been nourished, as to think of bringing misery and disgrace into a noble family, by letting down the Spoonbills to an alliance with the Primroses.

It is a pity that in these days of invention and ingenuity no contrivance can be hit upon for preventing such miserable and heart-breaking casualties, as patrician youths falling in love with plebeian damsels. The “order” of hereditary legislators has been in many instances most cruelly and mercilessly invaded by impertinent, instrusive plebeians. Sometimes love and sometimes necessity have compelled an union between the high and low; and yet, notwithstanding these painful and melancholy admixtures, patricianism has kept up a very pretty spirit of distinctness, and does yet contain some choice specimens of the finer sorts of humanity. How much more magnificent and sublime patricianism might have been but for these admixtures, it is impossible to say.

It is enough however for our present purpose to observe that, with all the power which Lord Spoonbill, as an only one and a spoiled child, possessed over his parents, he was not able, even with the additional force of his sulkiness and ill-humour, to bring them to assent to the ill-assorted union which he contemplated. The Earl and Countess of Smatterton could not give their consent to such a humiliating and degrading connexion. They did not indeed know who or what Mr Primrose was, but they did know who and what he was not. They knew that he was not of their set; that he was not a man of family or title, and that whatever property he might possess, he had acquired it by his own diligence or wit. Now that was an abomination, an indelible disgrace, a reproach not easily to be wiped away. They took it for granted, indeed, that Mr Primrose had some property; but if they had known that even the little property which he had was placed in jeopardy, their indignation would have been greater still at the folly of their own and only precious pet essaying to unite himself with a young woman who had nothing to recommend her but the possession of almost every virtue that can adorn the female character, united with a strong and masculine understanding, and embellished with gracefulness of manners, gentleness of deportment, and a moral dignity, which was high enough to look down with indifference on the accidental distinctions of society.

All that Lord Spoonbill could gain from his inexorable and right honorable parents, was a promise that they would think about it.

CHAPTER XIII.

It is a sad thing to be the most unfortunate creature in the world; and the only consolation under such calamity, is the thought that it is by no means uncommon. Almost every body is in this condition at some period or other of his life. This calamity befel Lord Spoonbill at the juncture of which we are now writing. It happened under the following circumstances.

We have related that Mr Primrose, after hearing of the stoppage of his banker, went into the City to his agent at a preposterously late hour of the day, and that in so doing he lost his labour. We have also related that, during the absence of Mr Primrose from his hotel, the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill called and made overtures to Miss Primrose. We have also related that Lord Spoonbill, finding that it was absolutely impossible to live without Penelope, and finding also that, without an establishment, it would be as impossible to live with her, had made known to his respected parents his intention to lead that same young lady to the altar, or, in plain English, to marry her. Leading a lady to the altar is merely a newspaper phrase, and sounds heathenish; we ought rather to say, leading her to the communion table. But, not to use superfluous words, let us proceed.

We have narrated that the right honorable parents of Lord Spoonbill were indignant at the proposal of their son, and we have also stated that despatch was to the young gentleman an object of the greatest importance. The reason why he was in so much haste has also been stated.

Now it so happened, that on the very day on which the letter of Robert Darnley was intercepted at the house of Lord Smatterton, and by the meanness of Lord Spoonbill, Mr Primrose went again into the City and called on his agent, and made enquiries concerning the probabilities or chances of his bankers paying a good dividend. In these enquiries he found himself most agreeably surprised, by ascertaining two very important points: one was, that only part, and that no very great part of his property had been paid into the hands of the said banker; and another was, that what had been already paid there would, in all probability, be soon forthcoming again, very little, if at all, diminished by the untoward circumstances that compelled a stoppage.

While therefore Lord Spoonbill was sulking and pouting to his papa and mama about Penelope Primrose, that young lady was enjoying the agreeable and pleasant intelligence which her father had brought from the City. The brief discussion which passed between the father and daughter concerning the propriety of writing to Robert Darnley, we have already narrated. This took place on the morning of the day on which Mr Primrose, going into the City, found his affairs in so much better order than he had anticipated.

On the evening of that day the subject was renewed, though but faintly and indirectly. But in the course of conversation Mr Primrose alluded to the offer which Mr Pringle, the new rector of Smatterton, had made of accommodating Mr Primrose with the parsonage-house, provided he should choose to take up his residence at Smatterton. Now Penelope loved Smatterton for many reasons. There had she first learned to know and feel what was real kindness of heart. With that village were blended all her early associations and recollections. She loved the village church, and there was to her ear music in its abrupt little ring of six small bells. The very air of the village was wholesome to her, morally as well as physically. The great booby boys and the freckled girls of the village were her intimates; not her companions indeed, but she could sympathize with them, although they could not always sympathize with her. She also knew the cows and the dogs and the horses. She knew the names of a great many of them; and very often, during her short sojourn in the great city, she had called to mind with a starting tear the recollection of the monotonous, drawling, daily tone, with which the farmers’ men talked to these animals.

When therefore her father proposed taking up his abode at Smatterton, and hiring for that purpose the parsonage-house, she altogether forgot its vicinity to Neverden and its association with the name of Darnley, and she was delighted with the prospect of going back again to those scenes with which her mind connected images of pleasure and recollections of peace.

It was with ready and delightful acquiescence that Penelope assented to the proposal; and as Mr Primrose saw that his child was pleased with the thought of going to reside at Smatterton, he hastened to put his intentions into execution; and at the very time that Lord Spoonbill was grumbling about his right to marry whomsoever he pleased, Mr Primrose was making arrangements to leave London.

The father of Penelope was not slow in his movements, and he was not in the habit of giving his purposes time to cool. He wrote by that evening’s post to Smatterton, and at an early hour on the following morning he and his daughter commenced their journey. So that when Lord Spoonbill, who heeded not his father’s long lecture on the subject of dignity, called again at Mr Primrose’s hotel, and heard that the gentleman and his daughter were gone, and that they were gone to Smatterton, then his lordship was grieved beyond measure, and his perplexity was serious, and his fears rose within him: for he took it for granted that there must soon be an interview and an explanation, and then he distrusted Nick Muggins, and there rose up before his mind’s eye the phantom of that ungainly cub and his clumsy pony: that image which, in the recollection of most who had seen it, would excite a smile at its uncouthness, was to the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill productive of very painful emotions and disagreeable apprehensions. So his lordship thought himself the most unfortunate creature in the world.

Then again there was in his lordship’s possession the letter from Robert Darnley to Mr Primrose, and his lordship hardly knew what to do with that. He thought that the secret of his having already detained it for a whole day must inevitably transpire. Whether he should send it or detain it would be equally ruinous to his schemes. He looked very thoughtfully at the letter, and at length resolved to send it with an explanation to Mr Primrose at Smatterton. He thought that, if there should be on the letter any symptoms of curious or prying fingers, it might be attributed to any one rather than to his lordship; and he thought that, at the worst, no one would explicitly charge him with an attempt to penetrate into its secresy. The letter was therefore despatched with an apology for its detention as much like a lie as anything that a lord could write.

There was nothing now left for Lord Spoonbill to do but to sigh over his calamitous loss as deeply as he could, and to explain to his father, as ingeniously as might be, the singular event of the sudden departure of Mr Primrose and his daughter from London, at the very moment when a right honorable suitor for the young lady’s hand had started up in the person of Lord Spoonbill. The son said it was very strange, and the father also thought it was very strange, and he recommended his son not to have any farther correspondence with persons who could behave thus disrespectfully. But the young gentleman was too much enamoured to listen to such advice, and he exercised most heartily all his little wits to devise means of carrying on his suit to Penelope.

For the present we must leave his loving lordship in London, enjoying all the luxuries and splendors which gas, fog, smoke, foolery, wax candles, painted faces, late hours, French cookery, Italian music, prosy dancing, Whig politics, and patrician scandal, could afford him. It is far more to our taste to follow Mr Primrose and his daughter into the country than to remain with Lord Spoonbill in London. If any of our readers wish to know what Lord Spoonbill did with himself in London, they may form a tolerably correct idea from ascertaining how the rest of that tribe occupy their time. He was a very fashionable man, he knew all the common-places perfectly, and with his own set he was quite at home. There let us leave him.

Mr Primrose and Penelope travelled to Smatterton in perfect safety; and the father congratulated himself and his daughter upon their safe arrival, observing that had they ventured to use the stage-coach instead of post-chaises, they would certainly have had their necks broken at the bottom of some steep hill.

Their reception at Smatterton parsonage was most cordial and highly courteous. Nothing could exceed the happiness of the young rector in receiving under his roof so respected a friend as Mr Primrose. Preparations had been made according to the best of the young clergyman’s ability; and, as Mr Primrose’s letter mentioned the day and the hour of his arrival, Mr Pringle thought that he could not do otherwise than make a party to meet the gentleman at dinner.

Since the departure of Mrs Greendale from Smatterton, the establishment of Mr Pringle had continued the same, but his domestics had not had a very bustling life; and they ventured to contradict the popular theory which represents man as a creature of habit. For during the reign of Mrs Greendale they had been accustomed to fly about the house with unceasing bustle and activity, but since her departure they had become almost as lazy as their master. The domestics were two female servants, one about sixty and the other about forty. They were clumsy and uncouth, but their clumsiness was hardly visible in the time of Mrs Greendale; for under her administration they had been habituated to move about with most marvellous celerity, and now that the old lady was departed they seemed glad to take breath, and they took it very leisurely. It was a great mercy that they were not absolutely broken-winded.

There was also remaining in the establishment a man servant, an amphibious animal as it were, not because he lived partly on land and partly in water, but as living partly in the house and partly out of it. He was a mighty pluralist, and filled, or rather occupied, many places; and from the universality of his genius he might, had he been in higher station, have aspired to be prime minister, commander-in-chief, lord chancellor, and archbishop of Canterbury. As it was, his occupations were quite as multitudinous and heterogeneous. His great skill was in gardening, and finding that he was successful in cultivating cabbages, he ventured also to undertake the cavalry department in the late Dr Greendale’s service. His duties here were not many or oppressive, seeing that the late doctor kept but one horse, and that was very quiet and gentle. This universal genius acted also as butler and footman. In this last capacity he did not shine. He did not want for head, he had enough of that, and more than enough. As for figure, it is difficult to say what that was, it was so exceedingly indefinite. It was considerate of the late Dr Greendale that he did not task the poor man very hardly as to his department of footman. But the new rector loved state, and it was his pride to keep a livery servant, and he would also insist upon the attendance of this man at table. And though the footman was not himself a great adept in waiting at table, he soon brought his master to wait.

With this ungainly establishment, the Reverend Charles Pringle took it into his head to give a dinner to as many as he could collect, in order to pay a compliment to Mr Primrose, and to pay court to Miss Primrose. Unfortunately for Mr Pringle it did not answer.

It would be wearying to our readers to have the particulars and the failures of a clumsy mockery of an elegant dinner set forth at full length. Let it be supposed that there was expense, inelegance, constraint, anxiety, mortification. As we are not writing for cooks, we pass over the minutenesses of a spoiled dinner; the greatest evil of which was, that the party was in some degree silent during the progress of dinner, for they had not much opportunity of talking gastronomically.

The English people can talk, but they must have something to begin with. If they meet out of doors, they must begin talking about the weather, and within doors, especially at dinner time, they must begin talking about eatables and drinkables. From such beginnings they can go on to any subject; but they must of necessity have a common-place beginning.

After the cloth was removed, and the spoiled or ill-arranged dishes were forgotten, the party felt themselves more at liberty. We have not yet named the persons who composed the party; and when we say that Mr Kipperson, Mr Zephaniah Pringle, and five or six of lesser note were present, our readers may well suppose that there was no lack of inclination to discourse, especially on the part of those two gentlemen whom we have named.

Now it has been stated, that Zephaniah the critic had carried down to Smatterton an awkward rumour concerning Penelope Primrose. The source from whence the said critic had gathered the information has been also stated. But as soon as the intelligence of Mr Primrose’s intention to reside with his daughter at Smatterton reached the new rector, and was by him communicated to his brother and to Mr Kipperson, a virtual contradiction was given to the ill report; and then all three of the gentlemen found out that they had never believed it.

To render themselves as agreeable as possible to Mr Primrose, the three whom we have named talked great abundance of nonsense and magnificence. Their first concern immediately after dinner was to consult on the best means of saving the nation. Mr Kipperson was well satisfied that nothing would or could do the nation the slightest service, so long as the agricultural interest was neglected. There were two serious evils which were growing worse and worse, the increase of the population, and the importation of foreign grain. The ingenious agriculturist proved that the farmer was eaten up by the increasing population, and that the quantity of grain in the country was so large that it could not find consumers.

Zephaniah Pringle agreed with Mr Kipperson in the grand principle that there were too many consumers for the corn, and too much corn for the consumers. There was the great evil, he thought, in these two troubles existing at once; were they in existence separately they might soon be got rid of. The consumers might consume an extra quantity, and soon settle matters in that way, or the want of corn might thin the consumers, and soon settle matters that way. But, while the two evils operated together, they were dreadful calamities.

Those of our readers who are not agriculturists, or political economists, cannot understand this reasoning, or, more properly speaking, they will not; they are blinded by their own interested feelings; they have prejudices which agriculturists have not.

But though Zephaniah Pringle agreed with Mr Kipperson, that the people were starving because there was too much corn, and that the corn could not find consumers because there were so many people to eat it, yet he thought that there were more serious evils in the country yet. He thought that those obscure seditious newspapers and vile trumpery publications, which nobody reads and which everybody despises, which are published by a set of needy miscreants, who spare no expense in circulating them all over the kingdom, had corrupted the minds of all the people in this once happy land. He thought that the nation was in a most prosperous condition, and that nothing was wanting to render it more prosperous, than an additional number of bishops, and an increase in the numbers of the yeomanry cavalry.

Mr Primrose listened with polite and pleased attention to these dextrous and acute politicians, and he thought that his Majesty need never be at a loss for a prime minister, or for two, if he wanted them, while Zephaniah Pringle and Mr Kipperson should live. But, as Mr Primrose was neither an agriculturist, nor a political economist, he felt himself a little puzzled to reconcile the apparent contradiction which was contained in Mr Kipperson’s statement of the agricultural grievances. Mr Kipperson was very properly angry with Mr Primrose for expressing a doubt on the subject; and the scientific agriculturist immediately and satisfactorily explained that all the superfluous population was pennyless, and could not pay for the corn which they would like to consume. Whereupon Mr Primrose understood that in the good old times people were born with money in their pockets.

Zephaniah Pringle almost feared that Mr Primrose was a radical, at least he thought he was in the high road to become so, unless he should resist that foolish propensity of wishing to understand what he talked about.

There might have been at the table of Mr Pringle, rector of Smatterton, some diversity of political opinion, as there certainly was, seeing that Mr Kipperson was a Whig, and Zephaniah Pringle a Tory; but the corn question most cordially united them. How far these gentlemen differed in some other points, we have seen already in the matter of mechanics’ institutes. On this subject Mr Kipperson’s hopes were rather too sanguine; and perhaps Zephaniah the critic was too nervously susceptible, on the other hand, of apprehensions of danger to the Protestant succession; for, to his mind, the mechanics’ institutes had no other ultimate object in view than transubstantiation and republicanism.

Concerning gymnastics, the gentlemen also differed. Zephaniah condemned them in toto, and so did the rector of Smatterton, in spite of his whiggism. Mr Kipperson spoke very learnedly about muscles and tension, and proved that bodily exercise was essential to intellectual vigour; but he had the candour to acknowledge that he could never persuade his men to take gymnastic exercises when their day’s work was over; and he attributed their ignorance of science to their neglect of gymnastics.

The whole of the conversation, to which we have above alluded, did not take place in the hearing of Miss Primrose, nor indeed did one tenth part of it; for the fatigue of the journey, together with the agitation of her spirits, led her to make an early retreat from the dining-room. And the old female servant, who had known Penelope from childhood, was delighted in the opportunity of again attending upon her. Fluent was the old gentlewoman’s speech, and mightily communicative was she touching the various changes which had taken place in Smatterton and Neverden since the decease of the good Dr Greendale. The kind-hearted woman also expressed herself delighted at the return of Miss Primrose to Smatterton, inasmuch as there was one person who would be so happy to see her again, and that person was Mr Robert Darnley. Penelope begged that his name might never be mentioned again in her hearing, and thereupon the poor old domestic began to fear that there was some truth in the stories that had been talked about in the village concerning Miss Primrose and Lord Spoonbill. And when the old servant found that she could not talk to her late young mistress concerning love-matters, she hastily finished her discourse and left the young lady to retire quietly to rest.

CHAPTER XIV.

The news of Mr Primrose’s arrival at Smatterton soon reached the rectory at Neverden. Had it not found its way there sooner, Mr Zephaniah Pringle would have been the first to communicate the intelligence on the following morning. The arrival having been announced, was of course expected. And there was much anxiety felt on the subject by all the parties concerned: of course more especially by Robert Darnley. For in consequence of his letter having been unanswered, he had fully determined, in spite of all domestic opposition and paternal expostulation, to make a journey to London for the purpose of explanation.

The elder Mr Darnley was mightily displeased to hear of the purpose which Mr Primrose had in view in coming to Smatterton. To the fastidious mind of the rector of Neverden it appeared very indelicate for Miss Primrose, after what had taken place, to throw herself in the way of Mr Robert Darnley: for in no other light could the rector of Neverden regard the meditated settlement of Mr Primrose at Smatterton.

It is a great pity that such a man as Mr Darnley, who had for the most part a good understanding and good feelings, should be so obstinate in his prejudices and so immoveable in his fancies. He had, for some reason or other, taken it into his head that Miss Primrose was proud and fantastical and unfeeling; and nothing could bring him to think favourably of her. He saw everything that she did or said through the deceptive medium of his erroneous apprehension of her character. It was a vain attempt to turn him from his humour. He had thoroughly believed at the first the calumnious report brought from London by Zephaniah Pringle. He had also believed that it was Penelope’s own wish, purpose, and desire, to adopt the musical profession; and though he had felt satisfied that the cessation of the correspondence between his son and the young lady had sprung altogether from the caprice of the latter, yet he considered that this meditated residence in Smatterton was, on the part of Penelope, with a desire of meeting again with Robert Darnley.

We have already acknowledged, nor do we wish to retract the acknowledgment, that the rector of Neverden was a very conscientious, attentive, and upright parish priest; we will give him credit for great zeal and activity in the discharge of his pastoral duties; but, notwithstanding all this, he was grievously deficient in one part of the Christian character, seeing that he had very little of that “charity which thinketh no evil.” We have seen other good people, besides the rector of Neverden, who, fancying themselves models of all that is right, and patterns for the rest of the world, have exercised a perverse ingenuity in discovering, and an unholy pleasure in displaying and condemning, their neighbours’ faults, real or imaginary. These people imagine that they cannot show a dislike of what is wrong without exhibiting a degree of malignity against such as transgress. Now the late Dr Greendale, though a man of great purity and integrity, had no such feeling as this. He was as candid as he was pure, and his gentleness was equal to his integrity. And the people of his parish liked him very much for his goodness and gentleness, and so his character had a very powerful influence upon them. But Mr Darnley was a different kind of man.

When Zephaniah Pringle therefore made his appearance at Neverden, and repeated the information which had already been conveyed to the rectory, as touching the arrival of Mr and Miss Primrose at Smatterton, the Rev. Mr Darnley expressed himself astonished at the indecorum and want of feeling which Miss Primrose manifested.

“Mr Pringle, I am quite surprized at this intelligence. Your relative at Smatterton has certainly a right to let the parsonage-house if he pleases; but I must say that I could wish, for the sake of public morals, that it had a more respectable tenant.”

Now as Penelope had appeared most truly respectable, and not a little fascinating in the eyes of Zephaniah the critic, and as he was not quite certain that the rumour which he had been the means of circulating was quite founded on fact, and as his doubts were stronger after he had seen Penelope and her father, he wished to unsay or to soften down what he had said. He therefore replied to the above exclamation:

“Why really, sir, I must say that I think Miss Primrose a respectable young lady, and it is probable that the report which I heard in town may not be perfectly correct. And indeed, as the lady is about to reside with her father, it is certainly not true to its full extent.”

Mr Darnley was not much in the habit of changing his opinion on matters of fact any more than on matters of speculation; and having once felt himself persuaded that Miss Primrose had acted improperly, it was no easy matter for Mr Pringle to bring him to change the view which he had entertained of the young lady’s character. Reasoning may be a very fine thing, and logic may be a very fine thing, and facts may be very stubborn things; but neither reasoning nor logic can make a man change his opinion, if he does not like to do so; and there are no facts in the world so stubborn as a conceited man’s own stubborn will. Mr Darnley took it for granted that whatever he took for granted must be most incontestably true; and Mr Darnley had taken it for granted that Miss Primrose had not demeaned herself aright, and nothing could convince him to the contrary. He adhered to the general thought, though beaten out of all its particulars. We would not recommend any one who has exalted notions of the power of reasoning and the force of evidence, to endeavour to convince another of any fact or speculation, till that other has shewn symptoms of an inclination to believe such fact or to adopt such theory.

It was all in vain that Zephaniah Pringle contended that Miss Primrose could not possibly be living dishonorably with Lord Spoonbill in London, while she was living quietly and reputably with her father at Smatterton. Mr Darnley had made up his mind, and nothing could shake his conclusions. Of some heads it is observed, that you can get nothing into them; of others it may with as much truth be said, that you can get nothing out of them. In this latter predicament was placed the head of the rector of Neverden.

When therefore Zephaniah found that no impression was to be made on Mr Darnley, he gave up the discussion, not a little regretting that he himself had, for the sake of gratifying a little vanity in talking about his own intimacy with Lord Spoonbill, done an injury which he could not undo. He began also to fear lest he should be detected and exposed; and under that apprehension he found himself uneasy at Smatterton, and wished that his visit was finished. This served him perfectly right. He had made public talk of what had been told to him in confidence, and as a secret, and he had circulated a calumnious report, careless whether it were true or false, and heedless what injury it might inflict upon innocence, or what misery it might occasion to those concerned.

Yet this prodigiously conceited puppy could and did in his critical lucubrations write himself down as being most zealously devoted to the service of religion, and he would make a mighty noise about those most execrable and abominable caitiffs, who presume to question one iota of the faith according to Queen Elizabeth.

It is hard, very hard, that religion should have to bear the reproach of the whims, vagaries, bigotry, and fanaticism of many, who are sincere in their profession and honest in their intemperate zeal; but it is doubly hard that a set of coxcomical greenhorns, who scarcely know the difference between the Bible and the Koran, who cannot tell why they believe, and who do not care what they believe, who never enter a church, and who never doubt because they never think, it is doubly hard that all their impertinent arrogance should be laid to the charge of a religion which has never influenced one action of their lives, or one thought of their hearts.

Finding that Mr Darnley the elder would not listen to or be influenced by any recantation of his calumny, the critic next sought for the young gentleman to whom he made known the fact of the arrival of Mr Primrose at Smatterton.

During the visit, which the loyal and religious Zephaniah Pringle paid at Smatterton, there had been comparatively little intercourse between him and Robert Darnley. This was owing to two causes: in the first place, Robert Darnley was in low spirits, and had not much intercourse with any one; and, in the second place, he had a contempt for puppyism, and Zephaniah had wit enough to see that he had.

In the present instance it was an object with Mr Pringle to correct any erroneous notion which he might have conveyed to the mind of Mr Robert Darnley; he therefore began the conversation.

“I think I must have been in an error when I informed you, as you may remember, that Miss Primrose was living with Lord Spoonbill.”

“Very likely you were, sir,” replied Mr Robert Darnley, somewhat abruptly; “but did you not insinuate to me that you had the information from Lord Spoonbill himself?”

This question was perplexing to the critic. He had insinuated as much, but he had not absolutely said so. Therefore he could not promptly reply in the negative, but was forced to make use of a little circumlocution, saying:

“Why not exactly so; I did not say that Lord Spoonbill himself told me in so many words: I merely—I said—-that is—a very intimate friend of Spoonbill said, that he thought—that is, he understood that—I believe he said that he had reason to suspect that some arrangement was likely to be made—”

Thereupon the explanation tapered off into an indistinct muttering that was sufficient, if for no other purpose, at least to show that Mr Zephaniah Pringle was a sneaking, shuffling, contemptible fellow. Robert Darnley was not in the habit of flying into a violent passion when he felt contempt for any meanness of character or conduct; if such had been his temperament, the present was an occasion, all circumstances being considered, strong enough to tempt him to knock a fool’s head and the wall together. He contented himself with coolly saying:

“It is a great pity, sir, that you should have circulated a report of that nature before you were quite certain that it was true.”

“I am very sorry indeed,” replied Zephaniah, “that I was led into such an error.”

“Well, well,” said Robert Darnley, “I dare say it will not be productive of any very serious consequence. Nobody who was at all acquainted with Miss Primrose could possibly believe the report.”

Zephaniah Pringle thought it but poor consolation to be told that he was not likely to be believed. He felt himself indeed so thoroughly humbled, that he was heartily glad to bring his conference with Robert Darnley to a close. The critic very soon said, “Good morning,” and Robert Darnley returned his “Good morning” in such a tone, and with such an air, as to make Zephaniah experience the sensation of being looked down upon.

It was a great refreshment and relief to the mind of the younger Darnley, to hear that Penelope and her father had arrived at Smatterton. He had never believed the calumnious tale of the loyal and religious critic, but he certainly did entertain some apprehension that assiduous attentions from a person of high rank and large estate might produce in time an effect even upon the mind of Penelope. As now Mr Primrose had come down expressly to take up his residence at Smatterton, and as this was not a time of year for such families as that of the Earl of Smatterton to take up their abode in the country, there was some ground to hope that, if the young nobleman had even made endeavours to gain the affection of Penelope, he had not succeeded.

It was the blessing of Robert Darnley’s mind that he had a disposition to look on the most favorable aspect of events, and it was not in his nature to yield himself up to a slight misunderstanding or misapprehension. Many miseries might be avoided if mankind possessed in general a little more of that kind of considerateness; but the evil is, that they too often take up with any idle tale, and are led by the merest and slightest apprehensions into quarrels, coldnesses, and loss of friendships: inasmuch, that a quarrel is courteously called a misunderstanding, much to the reproach indeed of the misunderstanders; for it is thereby intimated that the parties quarrel merely for the want of taking the pains to understand one another, or sometimes perhaps to understand themselves.

Under the circumstances which belong to this narration, it would have been very possible for two simpletons to have made themselves completely wretched. And as some people are very glad to be miserable for the sake of the pathos and sentimentality thereof, we will tell these people, though perhaps they could find it out without our assistance, how they might make themselves truly wretched under similar circumstances.

To gain this desirable end, the gentleman and the lady should have despaired of meeting each other again, and should have carefully avoided everything that might lead to an explanation, and they should, while very much in love with each other, have made all possible haste to give their hands to another. They ought to have married, as it were, out of spite, and then after marriage they ought to have met by accident, and to have explained; and then they ought to have compared notes, and to have made it out that one had the worst husband, and the other the worst wife, in the world; and then they would have had nothing more to do than to have made a very pretty tragical conclusion of the business, either giving employment to, what the newspapers call, the gentlemen of the long robe, or, more seriously still, causing the calling together of a coroner’s jury.

It was well for Robert Darnley that such was not his disposition. He thought it much the best to ascertain, if he possibly could, what were Penelope’s real sentiments; and for that purpose he had already spoken to her father, and, as no result had come from speaking, he had written; and if his letter had not been soon answered, or if Mr Primrose had not arrived at Smatterton, he would have visited the party in London.

CHAPTER XV.

The arrival of Mr Primrose and Penelope at Smatterton gave trouble and disturbance to many minds there, and at Neverden. We shall be fortunate if, without tediousness, we can explain this.

Zephaniah Pringle was troubled, because he laboured under the apprehension that some kind friend or other might communicate to the father what had been said of the daughter. And Zephaniah very naturally thought that the young lady’s father would resent the insult very much to the inconvenience, bodily or mental, of the said loyal and religious critic.

The elder Mr Darnley was troubled, as we have already intimated, lest this arrival should again unsettle the mind of his son. Mrs Darnley also thought it was a pity, now Robert had so nearly recovered his spirits, that there should be any probability of his being again disturbed. Miss Mary Darnley, who, by frequent literary and scientific discussions with the learned and scientific Mr Kipperson, had become a great admirer of the gentleman, was jealous of the presence of Miss Primrose again in the country. The two other young ladies, who did not like to hear their father preach, except in the pulpit, were troubled with the apprehension of long lectures on the impropriety of being improperly in love.

Mr Kipperson also had his troubles; for though it would have given him great pleasure to have gained the heart of Miss Primrose, he thought he saw several formidable rivals among gentlemen of more suitable age. But Mr Kipperson had too much self-love to suffer much from love of any other description. Robert Darnley was troubled and perplexed, though very much pleased. He now saw that he should have an opportunity of ascertaining the truth: but in either case there was an evil. For if Penelope still retained a regard for him, there was yet to be dreaded the opposition of his father; and if she did not, the change would be painful to him.

But the greatest trouble was at Neverden Hall. There was residing under the roof of Sir George Aimwell a young lady, who had been consigned to the care of the worthy baronet. The name of this lady was Arabella Glossop. She had very recently been sent to Neverden by her careful father, in order that time, absence, and change of scene, might eradicate from her mind an unfortunate attachment which she had formed for a pennyless lieutenant.

Here we cannot but suggest to our legislators an improvement, which might and ought to be made in our military code. It is melancholy to think how many instances have occurred of men of low family and no fortune winning the hearts of young ladies of high birth, of respectable connexions, and of good fortune. This might be prevented by a law, making it felony for a military officer without fortune to fall in love with a lady of good family.

Miss Glossop was not indeed of high family; but she was the daughter of a gentleman whose family had with great diligence been pushing itself up into consideration and importance. The mortification of anything like a humiliating connexion was so much the greater. Mr Glossop, the young lady’s father, was an eminent solicitor in a small but genteel town, and had married a distant relation of Sir George Aimwell. Of this connexion Mr Glossop was naturally proud; and he made the most of it.

In the town where he lived was a theatre; and the company which performed there was pronounced by such London performers as occasionally lent their mighty selves for provincial exhibition, to be one of the best provincial companies they had ever performed with. When an actor from London made his appearance on the stage, Miss Glossop honored the theatre with her presence. Greatly did the young lady surprize the natives by her studied inattention to what was passing on the stage. It was to her a mighty amusement to laugh and talk aloud, especially during those passages of the performance which were most interesting to the rest of the audience. By such means did Miss Glossop manifest her own importance and superiority. This kind of public rudeness passed with the ignorant people in the country for elegance and fashion.

The young lady was in error in this respect. But not only was she wrong in her calculations in this point. Many other blunders did she make. For being very pretty, she thought herself handsome; and being tall, she thought herself elegant; and being acquainted with many books, she thought herself learned; and having a full, clear, comprehensive voice, she thought herself a beautiful singer; and being able to perform at sight very complicated pieces of music, she apprehended that she was an excellent musician; and being rude and blunt in her manner of speaking, she thought herself a person of great intellectual superiority; and from being very much stared at, she took it for granted that she was very much admired.

Now this lady did not apprehend that there was any individual in the compass of her provincial acquaintance worthy to aspire to the honor of her hand; and she was in the habit of giving herself such arrogant and domineering airs at the country balls, that a facetiously inclined young gentleman once actually contrived in the advertisement announcing these balls, to have the name of Arabella Glossop, Esq., printed as one of the stewards. The circumstance caused a great deal of talk at the time; but it is now totally forgotten, or at least very seldom alluded to. The printer of the paper was forced to tell a great many lies to save himself from serious inconvenience.

At one of these country balls there happened to be a lieutenant who was quartered in that neighbourhood, and was a person of exceedingly good address, and also of good understanding, except that he was so very desirous of obtaining a fortune, that, for the sake of money, he would willingly have married Miss Glossop. He had heard reports of the lady’s fortune, and these reports were of course exaggerated. He paid the usual attentions, and was so far successful that, had it not been for some untoward accident, Mr Glossop’s ambition of matching his daughter with some gentleman of fortune and consideration in the county, would have been frustrated by a poor lieutenant.

As soon as the unfortunate attachment was made known to the father, he put himself with all suitable speed into a most towering passion; he banged all the doors, thumped all the tables, kicked all the chairs, and, but for the interference of Mrs Glossop, would have broken all the crockery in the house, because his daughter would not listen to reason. The young lady was locked up; but the young lady grew sulky, and thought that her dear lieutenant was the most charming creature in the world, because her father was in a violent passion. And the more angry was Mr Glossop, the more deeply in love was Miss Glossop.

We have said that the young lady was locked up. Now Arabella did not like this discipline, and she seriously threatened her inexorable paa, that if she was not suffered to have her own way, she would either starve herself to death, or go mad. This last idea was no doubt suggested by a pathetic passage in one of Oliver Goldsmith’s poems, wherein he says:

“The dog to gain his private ends
Went mad.”——

Whatever apprehensions Mr Glossop might entertain concerning his daughter’s madness, he certainly had some slight idea that he himself might be driven mad by the young lady’s perverseness and obstinacy. Therefore he adopted the very wise and prudent precaution, in such cases made and provided, of sending the lovely and loving Arabella to his worthy friend and relative, Sir George Aimwell, Bart.

Mr Glossop wisely thought that absence and change of scene might produce a beneficial change in his daughter’s mind. The worthy baronet was pleased with the charge; for as the shooting season was nearly over, and as he had suffered very bitterly from the encroachments of the poachers, and as the transgressing ones had made their escape, he was glad of anything that promised him a little amusement. Arabella had always been a favorite with the baronet on account of her high spirit, and when he heard of the nature of the complaint which rendered change of air desirable, he very readily undertook the charge, thinking that a better remedy was within reach, and that Robert Darnley might very probably banish from the mind of his young kinswoman all thoughts of the poor lieutenant.

Nor did the baronet judge unwisely. For, as soon as the lady had taken up her abode at Neverden Hall, her spirits revived, and her wit and humour were all alive again, and her love of admiration was as strong as ever, and she very soon pronounced Robert Darnley to be a charming young fellow. The worthy baronet was pleased with such good symptoms, and had written word to her father accordingly. To a match of this nature Mr Glossop had no very great objection. The Darnleys were of good family, and the young man was likely to have a good property. Perhaps, Mr Glossop would have preferred an union with the family of the Earl of Smatterton; but at all events the Darnleys were better than poor lieutenants.

The circumstance of Arabella Glossop being placed under the care of Sir George Aimwell, had rendered the intercourse between the hall and the rectory rather more frequent than usual; and the baronet had of course been made acquainted with the fact of Robert Darnley’s former engagement to Miss Primrose. When, therefore, Penelope and her father made their appearance at Smatterton again, and thus gave a virtual contradiction to the calumnious report which Mr Zephaniah Pringle had circulated, Sir George began to be apprehensive that his schemes with regard to the son of the rector of Neverden were very likely to fail.

We have now explained according to the best of our ability, and in as few words as distinctness would permit us to use, the varied perplexities occasioned by the apparently simple fact of Mr Primrose and his daughter taking up their abode at Smatterton rectory. Oh! how complicated are the interests of humanity, and what mighty changes are made in the history of the world and the destiny of nations by movements apparently trifling and of no moment. Common people do not observe these things; it is only such wise people, gentle reader, as you and I and Tacitus, that can take a philosophical and comprehensive view of the history of man. But we must economise our wisdom, or it will not hold out. Therefore let us proceed with our history.

The letter which Robert Darnley had written to Mr Primrose, and which the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill had fruitlessly fumbled and tumbled to ascertain the contents thereof, found its way at last into the hands for which it was by its writer originally destined. It was brought to Smatterton, as usual, by Nick Muggins.

Nick was a poor lad and a somewhat simple one, though not altogether lacking craftiness. He was not so rich as an archdeacon, but he had not quite determined that he was too poor to keep a conscience; therefore he had not entirely given it up for a bad job. He kept a pony—he was almost forced to do so—but he kept his pony very scantily and worked it hardly, and the beast was at best but a queer kind of animal. It would have been a riddle to Buffon, and a treasure to Sir Joseph Banks. Nick’s conscience was kept about as scurvily as his pony, and was much such another nondescript; but, like his pony, it answered his purpose as well as a better; it was kicked, cuffed, and buffeted about, but still it was a conscience.

Now this conscience, such as it was, smote poor Muggins right heartily when he delivered into the fair hands of Penelope Primrose a letter for her father. The poor lad recollected that he had, at Lord Spoonbill’s expense, drunk several more quarts of strong beer and glasses of gin than would otherwise have fallen to his lot, and that he had obtained these extra luxuries by putting into the hands of his lordship those letters which he ought to have delivered to Penelope Primrose.

When Penelope left Smatterton, and was residing in London, Nick thought little or nothing concerning his treachery. But now she had returned to the country again, and he had seen her, and she had spoken to him kindly and civilly, and had condescended to make enquiries after his poor old mother, his heart melted within him, and he could hardly speak to her. It was very kind of her to come out and speak to him, there was not one young lady in a hundred who would have condescended so much. Poor Muggins could not think what had bewitched him to play the traitor to so beautiful, so elegant, and so sweet-tempered a young lady as Miss Primrose; for Nick had a notion of elegance and beauty, though, to look at himself and his pony, one would hardly have imagined it.

That was a curious refinement in Nick’s conscience, that he should reproach himself so much the more bitterly for his transgression, because the person whom he had injured was beautiful and sweet-tempered. Perhaps he would have thought less of the matter had Miss Primrose been a little, under-sized, snub-nosed, cross-grained old maid. But that is a very dangerous and wicked mode of reasoning, and wiser people than Nick Muggins are guilty of it; let such persons be told that under-sized, snub-nosed, cross-grained old maids have as much feeling as the rest of the world, and are as much entitled to the advantages and protection of the laws of humanity as the young, and the lovely, and the amiable.

Be this as it may, still the ungainly post-boy felt rather awkwardly and looked foolishly when he thus encountered the unexpected appearance and condescension of Penelope Primrose. And when he returned home to his mother’s cottage, he could not help acknowledging to her his transgressions, and speaking of the remorse that he felt.

The old woman however thought and said, that what was done could not be undone, and that he had better be more cautious another time, and that mayhap it might not be a matter of much consequence; just a love affair like, or some sich stuff; and she concluded by telling him never to take money out of letters for fear of being hanged.

“But I am so sorry, mother,” said Nick, “you can’t think what a nice, kind young lady Miss Primrose is.”

“Ay, ay,” said Mrs Muggins, in reply, “and so is my Lord Spoonbill a very nice young gentleman. Never mind now, only don’t do so again. And what’s the use of your telling Miss Primrose anything about it?”

“Oh why, because somehow I think it was such a pity like. She is so pretty.”

“Nonsense, boy; Lord Spoonbill is a person of much greater consequence than a dozen pretty Miss Primroses. I am sure he is as nice a man as ever lived.”

Nick muttered something about Lord Spoonbill’s large whiskers, and the colloquy ceased; but Nick was fidgetty still.

The Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill suffered much uneasiness, and would, had he known what was passing in the mind of Nick Muggins, have suffered much more. But our business is now with the good people at Smatterton and Neverden, and we must therefore leave his lordship to bear his troubles by himself as well as he can.

CHAPTER XVI.

On the Sunday after their arrival, Mr Primrose and his daughter made their appearance at church, and the people of the village stared at them of course. The rector of Smatterton preached one of his best sermons, and in his best style. The eloquence was lost upon all his audience, except Mr Primrose and his daughter; they attended to the preacher, and the rest of the congregation attended to them.

When the service was over, Penelope took her father to look at the monument which had been raised in the churchyard to the memory of Dr Greendale. It was a very handsome monument, and had been put up at the expense of the Earl of Smatterton. There was a very long and elaborate eulogium on the deceased, which had been drawn up, it is supposed, by Mr Darnley, but subsequently corrected and altered by the Earl of Smatterton in the first instance, and in the next by the stone-mason.

Mr Primrose had been so long out of England that, for aught he knew to the contrary, it might be the fashion now to write nonsense on grave stones. There was however a kind intention, and Mr Primrose was pleased with it. While the father and daughter were thus mournfully enjoying the contemplation of this memorial of their deceased relative’s virtues, the great boys and girls of the village who had been in the habit of bowing and curtseying to Penelope, and who remembered that their homage had been graciously received while she lived there under her uncle’s roof, now thronged almost rudely round them, as if with a view of attracting the lady’s notice.

For a little while Penelope was too much taken up to notice them; but when her curiosity had been gratified, and her feelings had been indulged by a few gentle and stainless tears shed to the memory of her departed benefactor, she turned round and took particular notice of such as she remembered. She asked them such questions as occurred to her concerning their respective families and occupations, and she heard many an old story repeated concerning the aged and infirm. Enquiries were made by Penelope after grandfathers and grandmothers, and in one or two instances of great grandmothers. These enquiries were copiously or sheepishly answered, according to the several tastes and habits of the persons answering them.

There was one little girl in the group whose face Penelope did not recollect. The child looked very earnestly at her, and seemed several times as if about to make an effort to speak, but awe held her back. With her, and as if urging her on to speak, was another and greater girl. And the greater girl moved the little one towards Miss Primrose, and the poor little girl coloured up to the eyes; but she had gone too far to retract, and she was emboldened at last by Penelope’s kind looks to make a very pretty curtsey and say, “Please Miss—”

The poor thing could get no farther, till Penelope relieved her embarrassment by taking hold of her hand and saying, “Well, my dear, what have you to say to me? I have no recollection that I have ever seen you before. How long have you lived at Smatterton?”

Then the little one was emboldened to speak, and she told Penelope that she had but recently come there, and that she had taken the liberty to speak, because she had some few weeks ago picked up a letter directed to Miss Primrose.

Hereupon the girl drew from her pocket a handkerchief which was carefully folded up, and when with great ceremony the handkerchief was unfolded, a letter made its appearance, which did not seem to have required much careful enveloping to keep it clean. It was miserably dirty, and the direction was barely visible. Penelope wondered indeed that the child had been able to make out the inscription, so far as to ascertain to whom it was addressed; but the hand-writing was so manifestly Robert Darnley’s, that the young lady felt too much emotion and too eager a curiosity to wait to ask any farther particulars of the mode, place and time in which the letter was found. Only waiting to ask the child her name and place of abode, and to make such acknowledgment as is expected in such cases, Penelope hastened home full of contending and harassing thoughts, unable to form the slightest conjecture of a satisfactory nature concerning this strange occurrence.

Now this letter, together with that which Robert Darnley had written to Mr Primrose, and which Mr Primrose gave to his daughter for her perusal, set the question completely at rest in the mind of Penelope, and assured her that the young gentleman had not by any neglect designed to break off the correspondence.

But when one difficulty was removed, another started up in its place. There was something very remarkable in a letter being dropped out of the bag; but though it was barely possible that such mishap might have befallen one letter, it was by no means a supposable case that several letters in succession passing between the same persons should all have met with the same accident. In the interruption of these letters there was clearly design and intention; but what was the design, or who was the designer, Penelope could not conjecture. Her suspicions could not find an object to rest upon; she was not aware of having any enemies, and of course she could not imagine that any one but an enemy could have behaved so cruelly. She concluded, therefore, as far as in such a case any conclusion could be made, that the interruption of the correspondence must have been effected by some enemy of Robert Darnley.

It was not very pleasant to have the idea of some concealed and unascertained enemy, but there was something gratifying to Penelope in having discovered that verily the cessation of the correspondence had not been voluntary on the part of her lover. Therefore, as it appeared from the letter which had been picked up that the young gentleman had not ceased to write, even after he had some ground to fear that the correspondence was discontinued by the young lady, and as it was also manifest from the letter addressed to Mr Primrose, that Robert Darnley was still desirous of an explanation of the young lady’s silence, Penelope could not any longer resist her father’s proposal that he should write to the young gentleman.

The answer was accordingly sent to Robert Darnley, and the explanation which he sought was amply and fully given. He was also as much puzzled as the young lady was at the circumstance of the letter being picked up, and his conjectures found no resting place. His immediate impulse was to make direct enquiry of the post-boy, and to extort from him, if possible, some account of the very remarkable fact of a correspondence actually suppressed by the failure of three letters in succession.

But there was a more interesting matter yet to attend to, and that was the meeting with Penelope after a long absence and an interrupted correspondence. Robert Darnley knew his father’s temperament, and felt a difficulty in mentioning the subject to him, but still he could not think of renewing the acquaintance with a view to marriage, without explicitly informing his father of the intention.

Mr Primrose and his daughter had now been at Smatterton a few days, and as the two villages were so remarkably intimate with each other, it was impossible for anything to take place in the one without its being known in the other. The arrival of the parties had been made known, as we have seen, at the rectory of Neverden, and apprehensions were entertained by the daughters of Mr Darnley that their father would be grievously liberal of his wise exhortations to his yet enamoured son. And when two or three days had passed away, and not a word of public notice had been taken of the fact in the family of the rector, the young ladies began to please themselves with the hope that no notice would be taken of the matter, and they trusted that some circumstance or other might remove Penelope again, and finally, from Smatterton; or, as they thought it not unlikely, their brother might soon fix his affections elsewhere.

It was very clear to the young ladies that Miss Glossop, notwithstanding her recent disappointment, was something of an admirer of their brother; and it was obvious that Sir George Aimwell was desirous of cultivating an acquaintance between the parties. The worthy baronet was unusually eloquent in praising Miss Glossop, and mightily ingenious in discovering innumerable, and to other eyes undiscernible, good qualities in his fair kinswoman. But though Sir George was a magistrate and a game preserver, he was no conjurer. He was not aware that there could exist any diversities of taste; but he seemed to imagine that those qualities which were agreeable to himself must be agreeable to everybody else; and when he was descanting on the multitudinous excellences of Miss Glossop, and describing her to Robert Darnley as possessing every possible and impossible virtue, he did not see that the young man’s mind was of a complexion widely different from his own. It was not therefore to this young lady that the daughters of the rector of Neverden looked forward as the person likely to liberate them from Miss Primrose.

Their hope was altogether of an undefined nature. They merely hoped and trusted that something would occur to relieve them from their present uncomfortable condition. This undefined hope is, perhaps, after all the best that we can entertain. It may appear not very rational, but we have a notion that in serious truth it is a great deal more rational than that hope which seems to have a foundation in something probable: for it is in the very nature and condition of earthly events, that they almost invariably disappoint expectation and miserably mock our sagacity. If therefore our hopes be of something definite, they will be almost assuredly disappointed; but if we only hope generally and indefinitely that something, we know not what, may occur to remove the cause of our troubles, we may have a much better chance that we shall not be disappointed. The chances in our favor are thus indefinitely multiplied.

The hope of the young ladies, that nothing would be said about Miss Primrose because nothing had been said about her for several days, was disappointed on the very morning that Mr Primrose sent his answer to Robert Darnley, explaining the cause of the suspension of the correspondence. The note from Mr Primrose was brought to Neverden by the trusty servant and universal genius who performed at Smatterton rectory the various duties of footman, groom, gardener, butler, stable-boy, and porter.

Mr Darnley, whose eyes were ever vigilant, no sooner saw the messenger than he conjectured what was the object of his coming; that is, he so far conjectured as to form an idea that the note was with reference to Miss Primrose. When therefore the reverend gentleman heard that a note was actually brought from Smatterton rectory, and addressed to Mr Robert Darnley, the feeling of curiosity was strongly excited to know what was the object of the said note. But, to say nothing of curiosity, the elder Mr Darnley felt that it was his duty to be acquainted with all correspondence carried on with persons under his roof, especially with members of his own family.

Impelled then by a double motive—the power of curiosity and a sense of duty—the rector of Neverden very peremptorily commanded the attendance of his son in the study. The command was as promptly obeyed as it had been authoritatively given.

“You have had a note from Smatterton this morning?” said the father.

“I have, sir,” replied the son steadily, but respectfully.

“And may I be permitted to know the contents of that communication?”

“Most assuredly, sir,” replied the young gentleman: “I intended to acquaint you with its contents as soon as I had read it.”

Robert Darnley then handed the paper to his father, who perused it with eager haste and anxious excitement. Rapidly however as the rector read the communication, he discerned two facts which made him angry, and, as he said, astonished. We have observed that the astonishment rests upon the testimony only of Mr Darnley’s own saying; and we have made that observation, because we think that Mr Darnley was not strictly correct in his assertion: we do not believe that Mr Darnley was at all astonished at those facts. He was no doubt angry when he discovered that his son had written to Mr Primrose; and there is nothing incredible in the idea that he was angry at the anticipation of a renewal of the acquaintance between his son and Miss Primrose. But he was not astonished at these things, and he ought not to have said that he was. It is however a very common practice, for the sake of giving pathos and effect to moral exhortation or expostulation, to express an astonishment which is not felt. This is a species of lying, and Mrs Opie would certainly set it down as such.

Mr Darnley not only said that he was astonished, but absolutely affected to look astonished. But that dramatic species of visual rebuke was by no means adapted to produce an impression on Mr Darnley the younger; and had the trick been played off by any one else than a parent, the young gentleman would certainly have laughed. It has been often observed, that children are much more knowing than is generally supposed, and the same observation may be applied to children of a larger growth. But parents cannot well help considering their children as always children.

“And so,” said the rector of Neverden, “you have actually had the folly to write to Mr Primrose, and to endeavour to renew an acquaintance which was clearly and positively broken off by Miss Primrose herself?”

“I think, sir,” responded with much gentleness the rector’s son, “that, if you read this note attentively, you will see that Miss Primrose did not positively break the acquaintance, but that by some means, as yet unknown, the letters which should have passed between us were intercepted. Proof of that is given in the singular circumstance, that the last letter which I wrote to Smatterton from India was the other day picked up by a child.”

Mr Darnley smiled a smile of incredulity and compassionate condescension.

“Foolish boy,” said he, “and can you suffer yourself to be so easily deceived as to believe this story?”

“Surely you will not go so far as to say that Miss Primrose would descend to the meanness of asserting an untruth.”

“I am asserting nothing concerning Miss Primrose. This note is not her’s, it is her father’s; and I do know that Mr Primrose can use profane language; I have heard him. And would such a man hesitate at untruth for the sake of an establishment for his daughter? Besides what can be more clear than that, now the negotiation with Lord Spoonbill is broken off, they are very willing to apply to you again.”

There is great power in imagination. Mr Darnley had taken it into his head that Penelope had really been simple enough to admire Lord Spoonbill, and vain enough to aspire to title on the strength of personal beauty. She was what is commonly called a fine young woman, and there was in her deportment, especially in the season of health and spirits, while her uncle lived, a certain constitutional magnificence of manner which might easily bear the name of pride and haughtiness. Now as Mr Darnley was himself a proud man, he did not like pride; and there is nothing at all paradoxical or inconsistent in this. It is perfectly natural that those who feel a pleasure in looking down on others and being looked up to, should not be pleased with such as indulge them not in their favourite occupation.

There had not indeed ever been in the behaviour of Penelope towards Mr Darnley anything actually disrespectful; but Mr Darnley could see that her spirit was high and essentially unsubmissive. He had therefore always called her proud; and as soon as any suspicion arose of the withdrawing of her affections from Robert Darnley, immediately the father concluded that this change was owing to the young lady’s pride aspiring to the hand of Lord Spoonbill; and when she went to London to the Countess, then his suspicion seemed corroborated; and when she returned to Smatterton, and when Mr Primrose sent the note in question to Neverden, then did Mr Darnley feel himself assured that the young lady had been disappointed in her calculations concerning Lord Spoonbill, and that now she repented her folly in renouncing the hand of Robert Darnley, and wished to recall the affection which she had spurned.

Under such persuasion, from which not all the logic in the world could move him, he smiled at the credulity and the weakness of the young man, while the young man was equally astonished and grieved at the immovable obstinacy of his father. Such cases sometimes occur, and perplexing are they when they do occur, in which a son bearing all possible respect towards a father feels himself yet justified in the court of his own conscience in acting contrary to his father’s will. Thus situated was the son of the rector of Neverden. He found that it would be in vain to use any arguments, and he was firm in his intention of taking the earliest opportunity of acknowledging the receipt of Mr Primrose’s letter, and of expressing his full determination to renew the acquaintance with Penelope. So far was the young man from participating in his father’s suspicions, that the very arguments which the father had used, and the particulars which he had stated, did but strengthen his own opinion of the purity and correctness of the young lady’s conduct; and when he considered the circumstances under which she had been placed, he felt a degree of pity for her, and he pitied her also that she laboured under those untoward and unfounded suspicions which had been excited by the idle tongue of Zephaniah Pringle.

It became in fact to Robert Darnley a matter of conscience to rectify all misunderstandings as early as possible. Without therefore affecting to enter into any elaborate discussion with his father, he merely replied to what had been said: “I cannot say that I view this affair in the same light that you do, sir; and I am satisfied that if you had a knowledge of all the facts, you would not have reason to blame Miss Primrose. I will not pretend to argue with you, or to presume to put my knowledge of the world in competition with yours. But I must take the liberty to say firmly, though respectfully, that it is my intention to see Mr and Miss Primrose, and if I find that Penelope is still the same amiable and pure-minded young woman as she was when I first made her an offer of my hand, I will repeat that offer; and I am convinced your prejudice will wear off, if not by my arguments, at least they will give way to the young lady’s real excellence of character.”

Mr Darnley was not accustomed to be contradicted. Neither his wife nor his daughters ever disputed his will, or affected to oppose their logic to his determinations. Of his son’s obedience and gentleness of disposition he had always entertained the highest opinion, and with reason: but he forgot that everything has its limits, and there is a point beyond which compliance and obedience cannot go. If Mr Darnley had said at the close of his son’s last speech, “I am astonished,” he would have spoken truly. He was indeed astonished, but he was not frightened out of his propriety; he was rather frightened into propriety.

For a few seconds he was absolutely speechless and almost breathless. But soon respiration returned, and the power of speech returned with it; and his momentary gasp of astonishment gave him time for consideration. He considered in that brief interval that he had no more power over his son than his son chose to give him, and he thought it a pity to endanger his influence by attempting to retain his authority. Subduing himself, he replied:

“If you will be obstinate there is no help for it. But I could wish that you would listen to reason.”

Thus speaking, Mr Darnley left the apartment, angry but endeavouring to keep himself calm.

CHAPTER XVII.

Mr Darnley’s study overlooked the avenue which led to the house. For a study it was not well situated, inasmuch as it was next to impossible for any one but a person of great powers of abstraction to keep himself free from interruption. The situation however was very well adapted to the humour of the rector of Neverden; for thus he could observe every one who approached the house, and exercise a continual superintendance over his establishment, seeing that no one could enter or leave the house without his knowledge.

At the study window Robert Darnley took his station, looking listlessly towards the road that passed the end of the avenue and led towards the village of Smatterton. Turning a little towards the left hand he could see at a very short distance the magnificent towers of Smatterton castle and the smart gilt weathercock of Smatterton church. The young man was beginning to grow sentimental and melancholy; but soon his thoughts were diverted from sentimentality by the appearance of Nick Muggins and his pony fumbling their clumsy entrance at the great white gate that opened into the road. Better riders than Nick are sometimes puzzled at opening a heavy swing gate on horseback; but Nick would always manage it without dismounting, if he had to make twenty efforts for it.

Nick was certainly a picturesque, though by no means a poetical object; and his appearance dispersed the gathering cloud of lackadaisicalness which was just threatening Robert Darnley with a fit of melancholy. Other thoughts, though bearing on the same object, now took possession of him; and as he was very straitforward and prompt in whatever occurred to him, he immediately resolved to question the boy concerning the lost letters.

For this purpose, without waiting for the arrival of the letter-carrier at the house-door, Robert Darnley went partly down the avenue to meet him. Nick made one of his best bows, and grinned his compliments to the young gentleman on his arrival in England; for this was the first meeting of the parties since the rector’s son arrived at home. Robert Darnley was not a man of compliments; he proceeded directly to business. Producing from his pocket the letter which had been picked up by the little girl, he held it out to the lad, saying:

“Muggins, can you give any account of this letter; it was picked up in the road the other day; do you ever drop the letters out of the bag?”

Muggins, who was as cunning a rogue as many of his betters, concealed his conviction and shame as well as might be, and took the letter into his hand with much simplicity of look, and gazed upon it for a while with “lack-lustre eye;” not that he had any great need to examine the letter in order to answer the question, but thereby he gained time to meditate a lie of some kind or other. After looking at it for a few moments he handed it back to Robert Darnley, and said:

“Please, sir, I can’t make out the ’rection of it.”

That might be true, but it was not much of an answer to the question which was proposed to him.

“The direction of the letter,” answered Darnley, “is to Miss Primrose at Smatterton. Now do you remember ever losing a letter that should have been delivered at the rectory at Smatterton?”

Nick Muggins, we have related, was so melted by the condescending kindness of Penelope Primrose, that his heart smote him sorely for his unfaithfulness to his trust, and he was on the very verge of a confession of his iniquity; but then Penelope was not likely to horsewhip him, whereas there did appear to the sagacious mind of the treacherous letter-carrier some possibility of such operation being performed by the more vigorous arm of Robert Darnley; and as such a catastrophe must be exceedingly unpleasant to a man of any feeling, Nick resolved to use his utmost sagacity to avoid it. The question therefore, which was last proposed, he answered thus:

“I’ve took a great many letters to Smatterton parsonage, sir, and I don’t never remember losen none as I took there.”

Here again was an equivocation worthy of the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill himself. Robert Darnley thought that Nick Muggins was a fool, but Nick was not such a fool as he looked. He had prodigiously fine diplomatic talents, but ‘Full many a flower, &c.’ as the poet says.

All the questions and cross-questionings of the son of the rector of Neverden could not extort from the carrier of the Smatterton and Neverden letter-bags any information leading to the discovery of the circumstances to which the interruption of the correspondence might be attributed. In despair of ascertaining anything, Robert Darnley ceased his interrogations, and the uncouth rider of the indescribable beast then handed to his interrogator his share of the contents of the letter-bag. It was only one letter, and the superscription was in an unknown hand.

The young gentleman opened the letter with great eagerness of curiosity, and looking to the end of it he found that it was anonymous. He endeavoured to read and comprehend the whole by one glance, but it did not betray its meaning so obviously; he was therefore under the necessity of reading it regularly line by line. We are not much in the habit of printing letters—we think it a breach of confidence; but, as the present is anonymous, we venture to give it:

“A sincere well-wisher to Mr Robert Darnley, though a total stranger, or nearly so, wishes to caution an unsuspicious and generous mind against a deep-laid plot, which has for its object to entrap Mr D. into a marriage, which will bring with it poverty and disgrace. It may not be altogether unknown to Mr D. that a certain gentleman, who shall be nameless, once ruined a handsome fortune by gaming. This gentleman now professes to have repaired his shattered fortunes, and to have forsaken entirely his vicious habit. But this is mere pretence. Nearly the whole of that which he acquired abroad, he has in a short time lost by gambling at home; and now he gives out that his loss arises from the stoppage of a banking-house in town. Concerning the character of a young lady nearly related to the gentleman above alluded to, Mr D. would do well to make the strictest inquiry before he ventures on the irretrievable step of marriage. Mr D. ought to ascertain why Smatterton is chosen for her residence. The —— family is not residing at the castle, but it is possible that an individual of that family may find a pretence for an incognito visit there. A word to the wise is enough.”

A letter such as this was almost too much for Robert Darnley. He was honest, candid, and unsuspicious; but even in such minds as his jealousy may be excited, and the above letter very nearly answered the purpose.

Instead of going directly to Smatterton, according to his first intention, he returned to the house, and read over and over again this mysterious and anonymous epistle. But there was nothing in it which could afford him the slightest information as to the source from whence it came, or the motive with which it could have been written.

It was peculiarly mortifying, after the magnanimous, prompt, and decided avowal which he had made to his father, of his intention of renewing his acquaintance with Miss Primrose, that he should meet with this painful and perplexing interruption. He began to wish that he had not been quite so positive. He supposed that of course his father took it for granted that the threatened visit to Smatterton would be paid that very morning. And he had dreaded meeting the family at dinner, should the visit have been paid; but still greater would be his mortification to meet his father again and be forced to acknowledge that he had not been to Smatterton. It would be but natural to ask if he had been there, and quite as natural to ask why he had not.

The answer to these enquiries would involve the young gentleman in a dilemma, to extricate himself from which would require the talents of a Muggins, or a Spoonbill. But Robert Darnley was not cut out for shuffling and equivocating. His only consideration was, how far it might be prudent to inform his father of the receipt of the anonymous letter.

For the purpose of giving himself time for uninterrupted meditation, he sauntered out from the house, and, as it were unconsciously, turned his steps towards the village of Smatterton. And he thought, as he walked along, that it would take several days at least, if not some weeks, to ascertain the truth or falsehood of the insinuations. He knew not where to seek for information, or how to gain evidence either on one side or the other. If he should not very soon make a visit to Mr Primrose, it would seem manifest that his intention was not to renew the acquaintance with Penelope; and very mortifying indeed would it be to him, if, after making enquiries and finding that the insinuations of the anonymous letter were unfounded, malicious and mischievous, he should, by his tardiness or mean suspicions, have forfeited the good will of the young lady.

Fortunate for him was it, that while he was thinking on the subject of this anonymous communication, and putting the case that it might be the work of some malicious and ill-designing one, there occurred also to his recollection the lost letter which had been picked up by a stranger. With the recollection of that came also again to his mind the image and tone and look of the crafty letter-carrier, and the shuffling evasive answers which the cunning dog had given to his interrogatories.

Wise and penetrating reader, who can’st dive most deeply into human motives, and read the movements of the human heart, we beseech thee not to impute it to stupidity or obtuseness in our friend Robert Darnley, that he could not sooner see the probability of the existence in some quarter or other of a spirit of treachery at work against him. His own mind was of a very unsuspicious cast, and he was not in the habit of looking for deeply-laid schemes, but he gave general credit to appearances and ordinary assertions. He was not unaware of the existence of roguery, or of the circulation of unfounded reports, but he did not look very commonly and cunningly for tricks and falsehood in the everyday movements of human life. But when he once had ground for suspicion, he had sagacity enough to pursue the investigation, and prudence enough not to be deceived when once put on his guard.

He thought again of the anonymous letter, and he knew that there was no individual residing in London sufficiently acquainted with him to have written this letter for his sake. He thought of the intercepted letters, and of the allusion to Lord Spoonbill, and he thought of none so likely to have intercepted those letters as Lord Spoonbill himself. An apprehension of something near the truth now came firmly and distinctly upon his mind.

Under the impression of this thought, he moved somewhat more rapidly and decidedly towards Smatterton, almost resolving that he would actually call at once on Mr Primrose, and renew his acquaintance with Penelope. He thought that he possessed penetration enough to discover if there were in the young lady’s deportment and carriage any symptoms of a diminished or impaired moral feeling.

It would not be much out of his way to go through the park, and as there was a footpath passing very closely by the castle, he designed to take that route, that, if meeting any one of the domestics, he might be able to ascertain whether or not Lord Spoonbill was expected at Smatterton.

Not many steps had he taken with this intention before he had the satisfaction of meeting the unfaithful Nick Muggins, shuffling back from having delivered up his charge. Nick saw the young gentleman, and would gladly have avoided the meeting; but there was no way of escape, except by going back again to Smatterton, and that was quite out of the question, for at the public-house of that village he had spent his last allowable minute. Finding that the encounter must take place, Nick whistled himself up to his highest pitch of moral fortitude, and put spurs to his beast. He might as well have struck his spurs against a brick wall. The rough-coated quadruped had been too long in the service of government to be put out of his usual pace by Nick’s spurs, and these said spurs had been long enough in the service of Muggins to have lost their virtue.

Nick’s next resource was to give Mr Robert Darnley the cut indirect, and to ride on without seeing him. But that was no easy matter in a narrow unfrequented road. Before the rogue could resolve what to do, the parties were together, and Robert Darnley, advancing into the middle of the road, gave command to the lad to stop. Disobedience of course was not to be thought of; and though the consciousness of guilt and the suspicion of accusation made him tremble, yet the necessity of concealment rendered him very cautious of betraying any emotion.

The appearance of Robert Darnley’s countenance was at this interview very different from what it had been an hour or two ago. For, in the first instance, he had been merely making an unsuspicious enquiry, and his interrogations had been more for the purpose of gaining information than for fixing an accusation. Now, he felt as if he were examining a criminal, and he directed a stern enquiring look towards the uncouth varlet, who blinked like an owl in the sunshine and seemed to be looking about for something to look at; for he was ashamed to look at Robert Darnley, and afraid to fix his eyes elsewhere.

“Muggins, have the goodness to dismount,” said the young gentleman; “I wish to have a little talk with you.”

That was a movement by no means agreeable to Mr Muggins, who would thereby be brought into closer and more perilous contact with an ugly ill-looking elastic knotted cane, which was bending under the pressure of Mr Darnley’s hand. Muggins therefore, in answer to this command, said with all the coolness he could muster:

“Please, sir, I maan’t stay long.”

“Nonsense,” replied Darnley; “dismount, I tell you.”

Now Muggins thought that if he was destined to receive a caning for a violation of his trust, he need not add to his troubles by provoking Mr Darnley to administer an extra application to him for refusing to dismount. Down therefore came Nick, and at the word of command fastened his horse to a gate-post.

“Now, Muggins,” said Robert Darnley, “if you don’t tell me the truth, I will cane you as long as I can stand.”

“Sir?” said Muggins, in a tone of well-feigned astonishment, and with the accent of interrogation.

“Will you tell me the truth, sir?” repeated the interrogator.

“What about, sir?” asked Muggins.

That question does by no means redound to the credit of Muggins; for had he been a truly honest lad, he would have been ready to tell the truth on any subject.

“What about!” echoed Darnley; “about those letters, to be sure, which you ought to have delivered at the rectory at Smatterton. Tell me what you did with them, this moment.”

A threatening aspect accompanied, and a threatening attitude followed this speech. Muggins gave himself up for lost. If he called out “murder,” there was none to assist him; running away was an absolute impossibility; resistance would be vain; and shuffling would no longer answer the purpose. It is astonishing how powerfully present considerations overwhelm and command the mind. If Muggins could have mustered up sufficient energy of purpose to resist the threats of the son of the rector of Neverden, he might afterwards have laid his case before the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill, by whose interest he might have gained promotion, or by whose liberality he might have been handsomely rewarded. But all other thoughts and considerations were lost and absorbed in the elastic cane, which seemed vibrating with anxious eagerness for a close acquaintance with his shoulders.

Cowering and trembling, the guilty one, whose craftiness would no longer avail him, dropped abjectly upon his knees and blubberingly implored for mercy, on consideration of revealing the whole truth. Darnley, who thought more of the happiness of renewing his acquaintance with Penelope than of the pleasure of caning a graceless varlet, readily promised mercy upon confession. And so great was Nick’s gratitude for the mercy promised, that he told the whole truth, and gave up the character of Lord Spoonbill to contempt.

CHAPTER XVIII.

When the interview recorded in the last chapter had concluded, both parties were pleased; but the pleasure of the one was far more durable than that of the other. Nick Muggins enjoyed but a negative delight in having escaped an imminent and threatening peril. But afterwards he began to reflect; for he could think, seeing that he had nothing else to do.

It is worth notice, that many apparently stupid, ignorant and obtuse cubs, whose employment is monotonous and mechanical, possess a certain degree of shrewdness, and exhibit occasionally symptoms of reflection and observation to which more cultivated and educated minds are strangers. Curious it is also to see the gaping wonderment with which those, whose wisdom is from books, regard those who happen to have any power or capacity of thought without the assistance of books. Gentle reader, when you are next requested to write some wise sentence in a lady’s album, write the following: “books are more indebted to wisdom, than wisdom is to books.”

Nick, we have said, began to think; and the farther he was removed from Robert Darnley’s cane with the less delight did he contemplate his escape. It came also into his mind that, although this young gentleman had withheld the threatened infliction, yet there were other troubles awaiting him, and other dangers threatening him. Drowning mariners, it has been said, seldom calculate upon the consequence of their vows. Nor did Muggins calculate upon the probable consequences of the confession which he had made to escape an impending castigation.

He had escaped the cane of Robert Darnley, but he had thereby exposed himself to the danger of a similar visitation from the hand of Lord Spoonbill. There was also some probability, and no slight one, that he might in addition to other calamities suffer the loss of his place. People in office do not like to lose their places, for it makes them very ill-humoured and provokes them to all manner of absurdities. Nick also thought that if his place should be taken from him in consequence of this his unfaithfulness, Lord Spoonbill would be also exposed, and Lord Spoonbill being exposed would be mightily angry with Nick, and, being angry with him, would not make him any remuneration for his loss. Moreover Nick thought that Lord Spoonbill would call him a fool for having divulged the secret, and Nick did not like to be called a fool. Who does? So, in order to avoid being called a fool, Nick meditated playing the rogue.

We by no means approve of this conduct, and we record it not as an example, but as a caution; and we would seriously recommend all persons in public offices to be as honest as they possibly can; or if this political morality appears too rigid and savours of puritanical strictness, we would advise them to be as honest as they conveniently can.

The scheme of roguery which the letter-carrier devised, was destined to be effected by means of epistolary correspondence with the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill; but fortunately for the rogue, as even rogues are sometimes fortunate, the trouble of writing was saved him by the personal appearance of Lord Spoonbill himself at the town of M——, where Nick Muggins dwelt, and from which he carried the letters to Smatterton and Neverden. It was a great pleasure to Muggins to be saved the trouble of writing, for that operation was attended with much labour and difficulty to him, seeing that he had many doubts as to the shapes of letters and the meaning of words.

Muggins had not been at home many minutes before Lord Spoonbill presented himself to the astonished eyes of the unfaithful letter-carrier. His lordship was wonderfully condescending to honor so humble a roof by his presence; but it was not the first time that he had paid a visit to Mr Muggins in his own house. The object, or more properly speaking the nature of the object, of his visit was guessed at, and the spirit of Nick’s knavery was kindled within him, and he was prepared to say or do aught that his lordship might dictate or propose, for the purpose of furthering the hereditary legislator’s right honorable pursuit.

Nick’s residence is not indeed a matter of much importance to the world, nor does its locality or aspect bear powerfully on the development of our catastrophe, or greatly assist the progress of our narrative. But we describe it, because we may thereby give our readers a more complete and impressive idea of the great condescension of Lord Spoonbill in visiting so obscure an abode.

The town of M—— was situated on the banks of a river. The streets were long and narrow, and the houses high and dingy. The ground on which the town was built was uneven, and the materials with which it was paved were execrable. This is spoken of the best parts of the town, of those streets which stood on the higher ground. The inferior part was not paved at all, and was approachable only by an almost abrupt descent through a lane or narrow street, in which the houses nearly met at the top. The ground on which a passenger must walk was of a nature so miscellaneous as almost to defy description, and quite to puzzle analysis. Black mud, as everlasting as the perennial snows which rest on the summits of inaccessible mountains, decayed vegetables of every season of the year, refuse fish, unpicked bones of every conceivable variety of animals, deceased cats and dogs and rats in every possible degree of decomposition, broken bricks and tiles, and shreds of earthen vessels of all variety of domestic application, sticks, stones, old shoes, tin kettles and superannuated old saucepans, formed the dead stock of the street. And the live stock was by no means calculated to give to the spectator a high idea of the dignity of human nature. The fair sex in these regions appeared by no means to any great advantage; nature had done little for them and art less. In their voices there was less melody than loudness, and in their language more energy than elegance. They expressed their feelings without circumlocution, and resented indignities with hand as well as tongue. In the air which they breathed there might be enough to discompose and irritate, for the decomposition of sprats is by no means fragrant; and when an atmosphere is constantly burdened with the effluvia of soap, tallow, and train oil, it is not calculated to soothe the irritated nerves.

To pass through such a region as this could not have been mightily agreeable to the refined senses of Lord Spoonbill. But not only did he pass through it, but he sought out in one of its meanest habitations the carrier of the Smatterton and Neverden letter-bags. All this however he did patiently undergo for love of Penelope Primrose.

“Muggins,” said his lordship, “have you left a letter at Neverden within this day or two for Mr Darnley?”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the carrier.

“And did you see Mr Darnley when you delivered the letter?”

“Oh, yes, my lord, I see Mr Robert himself. And please, my lord, I am almost afraid that you and I will be found out.”

“Found out, you rascal! what do you mean?”

“Why, I means, my lord, please your lordship, that one of them letters as I give your lordship is been picked up, and Mr Robert Darnley showed it to me and axed whether I knowed nothing about it. And he said he’d kill me if I did not tell him, and so I told him that I didn’t know nothing where it come from. And so, my lord, I’m quite afeard to go again to Neverden, only I don’t know what to do just to get a bit of bread.”

At this information the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill was perplexed.

“Why, Muggins, if that is the case,” said his lordship, “you had better get away.”

“Yes, my lord, but what will become of me if I give up my place?”

“Oh, leave that to me!” said his lordship, “and I will take care you shall be no loser.”

This was the point to which the crafty one wished to bring his right honorable friend. Suffice it then to say that Lord Spoonbill, fancying that he should place discovery out of the reach of probability, made the rogue a very handsome present, and gave him letters whereby he might find employment in London, which would more than compensate for the loss of his place in the country.

Then did Lord Spoonbill under cover of night’s darkness find his way to Smatterton castle, pleasing himself with the thought that his well-formed scheme was now likely to take effect, and that Mr Robert Darnley, after the warning of the anonymous letter, would not be very hasty to renew his acquaintance with Miss Primrose. It was of course supposed by our readers, and intended to be so supposed, that the anonymous letter above alluded to was sent, if not by Lord Spoonbill himself, at least by his instigation, and for the purpose of forwarding his designs. And, that the merit of the communication may not be ascribed to a wrong personage, it is right to inform the world that the writer of the same letter was Colonel Crop. By this gallant officer Lord Spoonbill was now accompanied to Smatterton castle.

Colonel Crop was an excellent travelling companion, for he never disturbed the train of his fellow-traveller’s thoughts by any impertinent prating. The dexterous economy which the colonel exercised over his words and actions was quite surprising. He could make a little go a great way. If for instance any friend, and many such there were, invited the gallant colonel to dinner, it would seem that thereby an occupation were afforded him for an hour or two previously for the purpose of dressing. But the ingenious time-consumer managed to make a whole morning’s work of it. Equally economical was he of words. For if his Right Honorable friend Lord Spoonbill should talk to him for a whole hour together, the colonel would think it quite sufficient to reply to the long harangue by simply saying: “’Pon honor! you don’t say so.”

With this lively companion did Lord Spoonbill journey towards Smatterton; and as his lordship wished to be left to his own thoughts, his friend was not unwilling to indulge him; and thus did the hereditary legislator enjoy the pleasure of silently congratulating himself on the dexterity with which he had managed this affair; and more especially was he delighted at the fortunate circumstance of having removed Nick Muggins far away from the danger of being tempted or terrified into confession of his unfaithfulness.

It did not enter, nor was it likely to enter into the mind of Lord Spoonbill, that Nick Muggins had already impeached, and that Robert Darnley was in possession of all the facts of the case. There was something else also in the transactions of that day unknown to and unsuspected by his lordship. That other matter to which we here allude, was the visit which Robert Darnley had paid to Mr and Miss Primrose.

At the close of the preceding chapter we related that Mr Darnley and the letter-carrier parted after their interview, and we have accompanied Nick back to his home, and have narrated what took place there. We may now therefore return to Robert Darnley, and accompany him also in his visit to Smatterton.

After he had ascertained from Muggins the truth of the matter concerning the suppressed letter, he no longer heeded the anonymous communication which he had received; and instead of passing through the park as he had designed, he proceeded immediately to the rectory.

He was most happy in the thought that now all doubts and perplexities were removed from his mind, and he was much better able and far more willing to believe that Penelope still remained pure, honorable, and affectionate, than to give credence to the foul calumnies which had been circulated concerning her. There are individuals in the world of whom it is, ordinarily speaking, almost impossible to think ill. Such was the character of Penelope Primrose to those well acquainted with her. But the elder Mr Darnley being a mightily pompous and grand sort of man, looked at almost every one from an awful distance. Discrimination of character was by no means his forte. He thought that the whole mass of mankind was divisible into two classes, the good and the bad. He considered that the good must do as he did, and think as he thought; and that the bad were those that opposed him. It was his notion that it required only a simple volition for the good to become bad and for the bad to become good. And when he heard that Miss Primrose had transgressed, he forthwith believed the tale and renounced her.

But to say nothing of the affection which the younger Darnley entertained for the lady, and the pleasing hopes with which for so long a period he had been accustomed to think of her, he could not think it possible for a mind like hers ever to descend to the meanness with which she had been charged. He did think it possible that, in consequence of a supposed neglect on his part, and by means of ingenious assiduities on the part of another, that her regards might be transferred from him; but even that he would not believe without positive evidence. Many a faithful heart had been broken, and many an honest man has been hanged, by circumstantial evidence.

The meeting of the lovers was silent. They might have been previously studying speeches; but these were forgotten on both sides. And in their silence their looks explained to each other how much they had respectively suffered from the villany of him who had interrupted their correspondence. After a long and silent embrace, and gazing again and again at those features which he had so loved to think of at a mighty distance, Darnley at length was able to speak, and he said: “And you have not forgotten me!” How cold these words do look on paper. But from the living lips which spoke them, and from the energetic tenderness with which they were uttered, and from the thought of that mental suffering and that withering of heart which had been occasioned by the fear of forgetfulness, and above all from the circumstance that these were the first words which Penelope had heard from those lips for so long, so very long a period, they came to her ear and heart with a thrilling power, and awakened her from her silent trance to the expression of that feeling which had almost subdued her.

“Forget!” she was attempting to echo her lover’s words, but emotion was too strong for the utterance of words, and she finished her answer by falling on his neck and weeping audibly.

Might it not have done Lord Spoonbill good to have witnessed this scene? Surely it might have taught him how little prospect there was of the success of his designs; and he might, had he possessed the ordinary feelings of humanity, have thought that the coronet must be brilliant indeed which could tempt Penelope to renounce her lover.

But Lord Spoonbill saw it not, and suspected it not; if he had, it certainly would have saved him a great deal of trouble.

The lovers, when they did recover themselves sufficiently to speak composedly and collectedly, had volumes of talk for each other, and Darnley was interested and moved by the narrative of Penelope’s excursion to London, and the narrow escape which she had from a profession so ill adapted to the character and complexion of her mind. But in all the conversation Darnley did not mention to Penelope the anonymous letter which he had that morning received, nor did he say a word concerning the confession of the letter-carrier. As to the anonymous letter, he would not insult her even by alluding to the existence of evil reports; and as to the suppressed letters, he feared lest the impetuosity of the young lady’s father might be productive of mischief. He thought it at all events most desirable, at least so long as they might remain in the neighbourhood of Smatterton castle, to let Penelope suppose that the loss of the letters was accidental.

There may be some persons who think that under present circumstances it was the duty of Robert Darnley to send Lord Spoonbill a challenge, or to bestow upon his lordship that chastisement with which Nick Muggins had been threatened. That Lord Spoonbill deserved a bodily castigation, we will readily concede; but as to duelling, we conceive it to be a very silly and useless practice, and we are not sorry that we are not compelled to relate of the younger Darnley that his inclination prompted him to adopt that very equivocal mode of demonstrating himself to be a gentleman, or man of courage.

Very pleasantly passed the two or three hours which Robert Darnley allowed himself to spend at Smatterton parsonage; very awkwardly passed the dinner hour on his return to Neverden parsonage; for the Rev. Mr Darnley would not speak to his son, and poor Mrs Darnley and the young ladies were afraid to speak when the rector was silent.

CHAPTER XIX.

At a late hour in the evening Lord Spoonbill, accompanied by his worthy friend Colonel Crop, arrived at Smatterton castle. The domestics were instructed not to make the arrival public, for his lordship was not desirous of being interrupted by any invasions of callers. His object professed to be the making some arrangements, and laying down some plans for alterations and improvements.

Colonel Crop was an excellent counsellor. He was one of those admirable advisers, whose suggestions are always taken, and whose advice is always welcome, for he never gave any advice except that which was dictated to him by the person whose counsellor he was. He would have made an excellent prime minister for any sovereign who might not like to be contradicted. His reverence for lords was very great, and far greater of course would have been his reverence for kings. He would no more think of reasoning with or contradicting a lord, than a common soldier would think of refusing to march or halt at the word of his commander.

Now when this worthy couple had finished a late dinner, and Colonel Crop had assented to and echoed all that Lord Spoonbill had been pleased to affirm as touching the excellence or the reverse of the various meats and drinks composing their dinner, the hereditary legislator began the work of consultation.

“Well, Crop, it is a good thing that I have sent that rascally letter-carrier away.”

“Very,” replied the colonel.

“It would have been quite shocking if he had been terrified or bribed out of his secret.”

“Quite,” replied the colonel.

“Now I have been thinking,” continued his lordship, “that you may be of great service to me in this affair.”

“You may command me,” replied the colonel.

That was true enough, and so might any one who would feed him. Young men of weak minds and vicious habits are very much to be pitied when they have such friends and companions as Colonel Crop.

“You know Miss Primrose by sight, colonel?” said his lordship.

“Can’t say I do,” replied the colonel; “I have seen her once, but I took very little notice.”

“I must introduce you then. Now you remember the trouble I had with the old ones about this affair, and you know that I was fool enough, as I told you, to go so far as actually to make Miss Primrose an offer of marriage.”

The colonel gave his assent to this proposition also; for he seemed to think it an act of rudeness to contradict a lord, even when he called himself a fool. And so perhaps it really is; for a lord ought to know whether he is a fool or not, and he would not say it if he did not believe it; and there is also a degree of wisdom in the discovery that one has been a fool, for thereby it is intimated that the season of folly is over. Whosoever therefore actually says that he was a fool formerly, virtually says that he is not a fool now. So no doubt did the colonel interpret the assertion of Lord Spoonbill, and with this interpretation he said, “Exactly so.”

“But I think now,” proceeded his lordship, “I may have the young lady on my own terms. But the difficulty is how to manage the business without alarming her, and perhaps bringing down some deadly vengeance from that father of her’s, for he is as fierce as a tiger.”

That which is a difficulty to an hereditary legislator and heir to a title and large estate, must of course be a difficulty also to a half-pay colonel, who loves to depend upon occasional dinners, and, like a hospital, to be supported by voluntary contributions. Therefore the colonel said:

“Ay, that is the difficulty.”

“If by any means we could contrive to get the father out of the way, we might perhaps get rid of some obstacle. Crop, can you hit upon any scheme to separate them?”

“Can’t, ’pon honor,” replied the colonel, who probably thought that it was not becoming in him to be more ingenious than his feeder. The colonel indeed was willing to do whatever he might be bid, to say whatever might be put into his mouth, to write whatever might be dictated to him, and to go wherever he might be sent. But he was by no means a self-acting machine. He would do anything for any body, but he required to be told explicitly what to do.

After a pause of some minutes, Lord Spoonbill observed; “Perhaps some use might be made of the stoppage of Mr Primrose’s banker. I forget the name; have you any recollection of it?”

“Can’t say I have, ’pon honor;” replied the colonel.

To proceed much farther in narrating this lively dialogue which took place between the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill and Colonel Crop, as to the most likely means of forwarding the designs which his lordship meditated against Miss Primrose, would contribute more to the reader’s weariness than to his amusement or edification. It will be enough in the present state of affairs to say, that this notable colloquy terminated in the determination on the part of his lordship to take no immediate steps in the affair till he had ascertained what effect the anonymous letter had produced upon Robert Darnley. For this purpose, Colonel Crop might render himself useful. Instructions were therefore given him accordingly, and he was ordered to ride over to Neverden Hall, where he might be most likely to gain some information.

Early therefore, on the following morning, the gallant colonel found his way to the mansion of the worthy baronet and able magistrate, Sir George Aimwell. The unpaid one was mightily well pleased at the visit, and he shook the hand of the half-paid one till his fingers ached.

“Well, Colonel, I am glad to see you. So you are tired of the gaieties of London already, and you are coming to relieve our dullness in the country. How are our noble neighbours?”

“Quite well, I thank you,” replied the colonel, who felt himself one of great importance in being able to speak so readily and assuredly concerning nobility.

And here we will take the opportunity, and a very fit one it is, of observing on a very curious fact, namely, that the reverence for nobility and high rank is not felt so acutely and powerfully by simple and unmixed plebeians, as it is by those who have some remote affinity to nobility, or who fancy themselves to be a shadow or two of a caste above the mere plebeian. Colonel Crop was not of noble family, but he was the last of a mighty puissant race of insignificant attenuated gentry in a country town; and as nobility was a scarce article in the neighbourhood where he was born and brought up, he was mightily proud of his intimacy with the noble family of the Spoonbills. But to proceed.

“Now, colonel, as you are here,” said the worthy baronet, “I hope you will stay and spend the day with me.”

We are always popping in our remarks upon everything that is done and said; and here again we cannot help remarking that Sir George Aimwell might have had the grace to say “with us,” as well as “with me;” but he thought so much of his own magisterial self, that he had no consideration of any one else.

To the invitation thus given the gallant colonel scarcely knew what to say, for his commission, though very definite as to purpose, was not definite as to time. Now the colonel, though a man of family, was somewhat obtuse, and by some people would have been called stupid; and he scarcely knew whether or not he should communicate to the amiable magistrate at Neverden Hall, the fact of Lord Spoonbill’s incognito presence at Smatterton castle. And as it was not possible for him to send back to the castle for further orders, he thought that the most prudent step that he could take would be to leave the matter of dining undecided, and go back in person to Smatterton for full directions.

He gave therefore an undecided answer to the baronet’s invitation, saying that he had some “little matters” to attend to at Smatterton, and that, if he possibly could return to Neverden in the evening, he should be most happy to take his dinner with the worthy baronet.

Back therefore to Smatterton trotted the convenient colonel, in order to report progress and ask leave to sit at the baronet’s table. Now we “guess” that some of our readers are sneering most contemptuously at this convenient colonel, and admiring the placid facility with which he is moved about from place to place at the nod of an hereditary legislator, and obeying all the commands of a tadpole senator. Yet why should any one think that he is unworthily or degradingly employed. Only let us imagine for a moment that the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill is a most gracious, or a most Christian majesty, and that his negociations are for precisely the same purpose as they are at present; or that from negociations of this nature there may have arisen between two mighty and puissant nations a just and necessary war—such things have been—then would the said Colonel Crop, in his capacity of negociator, be regarded with profound admiration by all his majesty’s most faithful and loyal subjects; and morning and evening papers would be proud of putting forth second editions to immortalize his diplomatic movements. But, as it is, ours is the only record of these matters.

When Colonel Crop therefore returned to Smatterton castle, and informed his right honorable employer of what had passed at Neverden, Lord Spoonbill thought, though he did not say, that Colonel Crop was a great booby.

“Why, colonel,” said his lordship, “by all means go back and take your dinner with Sir George; you may find out something about Darnley; I am in no hurry for your return, only let me know all that you can collect concerning this young lady; and above all endeavour to find out whether Mr Robert Darnley is spoken of as her future husband, or whether the acquaintance between them is broken off. That is all I wish to ascertain at present. I shall then know how to act. For don’t you see that, if Darnley keeps at a distance in consequence of the present reports, I am more likely to have her on my own terms. There is no heart so easy to win as that of a disappointed lover.”

With his instructions back went the colonel to Neverden. And as we have not the opportunity of giving verbal or senatorial advice to mighty and puissant princes, we will here do all we can for the good of our country, and of all countries into the language of which this history may be translated, by advising and most earnestly recommending that blockheads, however valorous or gallant, like our friend Colonel Crop, be not employed in diplomatic offices. There is a very great difference between the vigorous arm that can break a man’s head, and the ingenious dexterity which can bend a man’s heart. And, generally speaking, those people can have but little regard for brains, whose business it is to knock them out.

For want of a dexterous diplomatist, Lord Spoonbill, as we shall see hereafter, was exposed to great inconvenience, and suffered mighty and serious disappointment.

Colonel Crop was not sorry that leave was granted him to dine at Sir George Aimwell’s. For the baronet had an excellent cook, and the cook had an excellent place, and few are the instances in which there exists so good an understanding between master and servant, as in the present case there did between the worthy magistrate and his as worthy cook.

Whether Colonel Crop did or did not possess the organ of hope strongly developed in his skull, we cannot tell, for the gallant colonel has not yet been hanged; if he had, we might have found any organs we pleased; but we may suppose that he had the organ of anticipativeness, for his thoughts dwelt so seriously and intently upon the good dinner that he was likely to enjoy at Sir George Aimwell’s table, that he did actually and truly forget a great part of his errand. Oh, how selfish is mortal man!

The colonel, however, with all his propensity to oblivion, had sufficient memory to recollect that his business was to ascertain whether Mr Darnley, son of the rector of Neverden, still continued his acquaintance with a young lady or not. At the table of Sir George Aimwell there was introduced a young lady, Miss Glossop. The name of Glossop bears no very marked affinity to that of Primrose, but by some strange fatality or fatuity, the gallant colonel confounded them. The young lady, by a certain dashing style of behaviour, passed off with the colonel as a remarkably fine young woman; and when Sir George Aimwell spoke banteringly to her concerning Robert Darnley, then the gallant negociator was sure that this was the lady in question.

There was a still farther corroboration in the circumstance that this lady was gifted with remarkable vocal powers. The colonel was no great judge of music, but he could see that she played very rapidly, and he could hear that she sung very loud; and therefore he entertained the same notion of her musical talents which she herself did.

The musical exhibition took place after tea. Lady Aimwell cared little about music or anything else, and in the presence of her husband’s visitors she generally shewed her dignity by looking sulky. But Colonel Crop was so vastly polite, that her ladyship was generally more civil and courteous to him than to any other guests who were attracted to Neverden Hall by the fame of the baronet’s cook.

And while Miss Glossop was amusing herself with melodious vociferations, and singing and playing so loud that the poor magistrate could hardly keep his eyes shut, Colonel Crop and Lady Aimwell were engaged in a whispering or muttering conversation, all about nothing at all. They both agreed that it was remarkable weather, neither of them had remembered it so mild for many years. Lady Aimwell was very well pleased to hear Colonel Crop’s common-place nothings which he had brought from London, and her ladyship related all that had taken place at Neverden since the colonel was there last.

Her ladyship was not especially partial to Miss Glossop. There was some little jealousy in the heart of Lady Aimwell that this stranger, as it were, should occupy so much of the baronet’s attention. Disagreeable people are generally the most jealous. Her ladyship noticed the music.

“I wonder,” muttered the fretful one to Colonel Crop, “that Sir George can bear to hear such a constant noise. I am sure he knows nothing of music. There is a great deal of talk about her fine voice and her rapid execution; her voice sounds to my ear very much like the voice of a peacock.”

Saying this her ladyship smiled, because it was almost witty, and the colonel also smiled, for he too thought it was witty.

“But I beg your pardon, colonel,” said her ladyship; “perhaps you may be partial to music?”

“By no means,” replied the colonel, “and I was not aware that Sir George was partial to it. Our friends at the castle are very musical.”

It was pleasant for the colonel to be able to talk about our friends at the castle; but Lady Aimwell, though not very ambitious of publicity in the gay world, was rather jealous of the Smatterton great ones, and thought herself treated with too much haughtiness and distance by the Earl and Countess.

“I wish that all that noise and affectation were at the castle, instead of tormenting me.”

Thus spoke Lady Aimwell. Now, thought Colonel Crop, there was a fine opportunity for introducing his diplomacy; and for that purpose the gallant negociator said, in a very knowing accent:

“But I think I have heard that this young lady is likely to give her hand to a Mr —— Mr —— bless me, I forget names.”

“Do you mean Mr Darnley,” said her ladyship, “the son of our rector?”

“Yes, yes,” replied the colonel, “I believe that is the name; Darnley, Darnley, ay, ay, that is the name. This lady is going to be married to Mr Darnley, I have heard.”

“Oh no!” replied her ladyship, “I don’t believe it. I can hardly think it probable. Indeed—but I hope it will go no further”—

Here her ladyship spoke in a still lower key and more subdued tone, and the gallant colonel listened with profound attention, and with great delight did he hear her ladyship thus speak:

“There has, I believe, been some talk about such an affair, and Robert Darnley has met her here once or twice. But the truth is, he seems to know her character and disposition too well. And if there were any such thoughts on his part, I am sure he has given up all such idea by this time. Indeed, I do not think that there ever was much regard on either side.”

This was grand intelligence for the colonel. He felt himself mightily important. He soon ceased the conversation, and took his leave of the family at Neverden Hall, and he reported all that he had heard and seen according to the best of his ability.

“Well, my lord, I have seen your Arabella.”

“Penelope, you mean;” interrupted his lordship.

“Ay, ay, Penelope; bless me, how soon I forget names. So I have seen her and heard her.”

“She plays and sings delightfully,” said Lord Spoonbill.

“Wonderfully,” replied the colonel, who was more than usually eloquent in consequence of the good success of his diplomacy: “to be sure I do not understand music, but I never saw so rapid an execution in my life.”

“But,” interrupted his impatient lordship, “did you hear anything about that Darnley?”

“Yes,” replied the colonel, with mighty pomp and energy of manner. “Lady Aimwell told me, in confidence, that Darnley knew her character too well to think of marrying her. These were her ladyship’s own words.”

“Now, Crop, you have done me a service indeed. Now I think the day is our own.”

When the good friends parted for the night, his delighted lordship was so occupied with his own sweet thoughts that he was quite intoxicated with joy. He would, had he been able, have sung a Te Deum; and it would be very well if Te Deum had never been sung on occasions quite as unworthy as, if not infinitely more so than the present.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

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

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

Original spelling has been retained, unless it’s clearly a printer’s error.

The following corrections have been made in the text:

Page | Original text | Corrected text
34 | Smattertno | Smatterton
59 | too verturn | to overturn
111 | gird | girl
231 | enoug | enough

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Table of Contents

- PENELOPE: OR, LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.

- Table of Contents

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- CHAPTER XIX.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE