CHAPTER XII.
Another day dawned upon the multitudinous interests and emotions of humanity. To the mind which can spare time from the intensity of its own feelings, and the selfishness of its own concerns, to think of others—to think, not merely to talk morality and sentiment about them, but to realise the emotions and agitations of thoughts which harass the human breast, there is in the thought of a day dawning in a great city a deep and serious fulness of interest. The sun’s first blush upon the mountains and woods and streams and spangled meadows, is poetical and pretty enough, but the same light beaming on the condensed and crowded habitations of men, brings to the mind far other thoughts, and excites widely different emotions. It awakens misery from its dreams of bliss, and guilt from its dreams of innocence, poverty from its dreams of wealth, and despair from its dreams of hope. Anxiety begins anew its busy work in the breast of the needy parent, and gnawing hunger oft reminds the sufferer of the opening of another day. Bitter are the feelings which morning ofttimes brings to the sons and daughters of poverty; but not to them alone are confined the agonizing throbs of the heart. There is among the inmates of those proud mansions which seemed built for festivity alone, and tenanted by luxury and repose, many, many a bitter pang. There is the thought of keener anguish than any mere physical privation or suffering can inflict, there are pangs of heart for which language has no words, and fancy no figures, there are fears and dreads of which the humbler sufferers of life’s ills have no conception. Not enviable were the feelings of our heroine on the first morning in which she woke in the great city.
Then did she feel her truly desolate and destitute condition. She had been as a beauteous flower hanging on a slender film over the current of a river, that film had broken, and the flower had dropped upon the stream at the mercy of its waves. With the opening day there had been accustomed to enter into her mind thoughts of devotion and gratitude. These thoughts came, but not as usual. It seemed to her as though she had not been sufficiently thankful to her Creator for his blessings, and that they had been withheld. She would have prayed but she dared not, she would have wept but she could not. Her bodily fatigue was gone, but the weariness of mind was felt more strongly. She endeavoured to compose her scattered thoughts, but that was a task of no small difficulty. One of the greatest concerns of all, however, was, that by this new arrangement she was placed out of all communication with her father; for the late Dr Greendale was the only person in England with whom Mr Primrose had any correspondence. It was even doubtful whether Mrs Greendale herself knew his address. These circumstances, therefore, though they might not break off his communication with England, would naturally produce a long and serious interruption to it. For her own part, it was out of her power to convey to her father any knowledge of her situation, so as to be able by his intervention to avoid that publicity which she so much dreaded.
Not long had her mind been thus painfully occupied, before she received a visit in her apartment from her friend Lady Smatterton: and as she was now totally dependent on her ladyship, she was desirous of conciliating her regards as much as possible; nor indeed was that a very difficult task. A little sense of humility and feeling of obligation and submission to her ladyship’s superior wisdom, would always ensure the Countess of Smatterton’s good will. When, therefore, Penelope with great humility, and a look of gratification, expressed her thanks to her ladyship for her very kind attentions, the Countess being pleased to see that her condescension had made its impression, was in very high spirits, and became more gracious and condescending still.
“My dear Miss Primrose, you look quite charmingly this morning. I am delighted to find that you have not experienced any inconvenience from the fatigue of your journey. I think you will be in most excellent voice this evening. Now, I expect a few select friends to-night; and some of them are amateurs, and I assure you I have promised them a treat, in which I know they will not be disappointed. I have all your favourite songs and duets, so you may make your selection in the course of the morning; and I have a new harp which I wish you to try. I think you will like it.”
With a very great effort to suppress a very deep sigh, Penelope replied: “I shall be most happy to use my best exertions to gratify your ladyship, but I fear that before so many persons who are total strangers to me, and without any previous scientific instruction, I may disappoint the expectations which your ladyship’s kindness has excited.”
“Oh dear no, my dear, I beg you will not entertain any such notion; we shall have a very small party indeed, and of the amateurs, I can assure you that there is not one that is half so well acquainted with the science of music as you are. It will be time enough for you to take lessons previously to your performance in public, and that not because you need musical instruction, but there are certain peculiarities which it is necessary that public performers should know.”
Miss Primrose, knowing how much the Countess disliked objections to any of her own arrangements, submitted as resignedly as she could; but with a feeling that neither her bodily nor mental strength were equal to the task which awaited her. The visit of the Countess concluded with requesting Penelope to take her breakfast with the family, unless she preferred being quite alone. But Penelope found little pleasure in solitude, and therefore very readily accepted the invitation to take breakfast at the family table, where she very soon after made her appearance.
At this table there sat down the Earl and Countess of Smatterton and Lord Spoonbill. This was the usual party, and Penelope was received by them all three with so much kindness, and such genuine politeness of manner, that she felt herself no stranger. And they all asked very kindly after Mrs Greendale, and they all hoped that Miss Primrose had not suffered from the fatigue of the journey; and when Lord Spoonbill asked how Miss Primrose had travelled, and when he heard that she had travelled by the stage-coach in company with Mr Kipperson, he was astonished and grieved; and he thought it a great pity that arrangements had not been previously made for accommodating the young lady in one of their carriages. The Earl also expressed himself much concerned at the same neglect. Alas, thought Penelope, what a multitude of words on trifles. How she had travelled was now nothing to her, but it was something to her when she thought for what purpose that journey had been made.
Lord Spoonbill, after a proper interval, and with a very becoming seriousness of manner, gently adverted to the death of Dr Greendale, and perceiving that it was a subject on which Penelope loved to dwell, notwithstanding the melancholy and painful associations connected with it, he proceeded to extol the virtues of her deceased relative, and to express his own great obligations to the good man for the many valuable pieces of advice he had received from the late rector of Smatterton; he thought that it was a great pity that some of the doctor’s sermons should not be given to the public, for they would undoubtedly be productive of good. Penelope was very well pleased, and indeed quite interested by the manner in which Lord Spoonbill condescended to speak of her departed relative; and she began to think that his lordship was not quite so great a coxcomb as she had once taken him to be. Gradually her mind recovered a little of its natural vivacity, and her looks resumed part of their wonted cheerfulness. She was comparatively easy and composed. Then did the young nobleman ingeniously, and without forced transition, turn the conversation to other topics, and he spoke much of the metropolis and its many magnificences; but with peculiar delicacy avoided saying anything of public concerts. Penelope felt grateful for such kind and considerate attentions, and began to think that in the manners of the higher ranks there was something peculiarly fascinating which could render such a man as Lord Spoonbill not only tolerable but really agreeable. The Earl of Smatterton was also very courteous and kind to his guest, though he could not well avoid majestic manifestations of his kindness. He condescended to hope that Miss Primrose would find herself happy in the metropolis, and dwelt with much complacency on the opportunity she would enjoy of introduction to society; and he spake largely of the patronizing propensities of the Countess; he also mentioned other titled ladies, to whose saloons the young dependent might be admitted; and concluded a long harangue by saying, that on proper occasions she would be a welcome guest at his own house.
Now it happened that on the breakfast table there was lying a newspaper, which was occasionally taken up and laid down by one or other of the noble family of Smatterton. Penelope was not a politician, but seeing the words “Ship News” printed in distinct and distantly visible characters, she felt some curiosity to read that same news, for she thought it possible that there might be in that article something deeply interesting to herself. It appeared however to her that it would be making herself rather too much at home to take up the paper; she endeavoured therefore as it lay to catch a glimpse of the intelligence. Lord Spoonbill observed the direction of her eyes, and very politely offered her the paper, which she thankfully accepted. Just as she was in the act of directing her eyes towards that part of the paper which contained the intelligence most important to her, something addressed to her by Lord Smatterton called her away from the page almost in the very moment that the name of Primrose caught her eye. And as Penelope laid down the paper on being spoken to by his lordship, Lord Spoonbill took it up again, and by some means or other it was no longer visible. What she had seen was enough to excite strong feelings and to raise her hopes. She had a recollection of the word “arrived,” and the name of “Primrose” among the list of passengers; at least so it seemed to her from the hasty glance which she had taken of the paper. This of course was quite sufficient to fill her mind with the most pleasing visions for the rest of the day: and hearing that Mr Kipperson might very probably be one of the party in the evening, and knowing that this gentleman was deeply versed in matters of business, it occurred to her that he might bring her some pleasing intelligence from the city touching the arrival of vessels from the East Indies, and the names of passengers. It is true, there might be one of the name of Primrose and still no relation of hers. But she might at least enjoy the hope as long as possible; and it would cheer her spirit amidst the darkness of reality.
The evening came, and with it the few select friends of the Countess of Smatterton, who were to compose her party. There were not many persons in town at this time; but Penelope had never before seen anything bearing the slightest resemblance to a fashionable party, for she had never been at the Easter ball at the Mansion house, or at Bartholomew fair; to her therefore this very small select party looked like a very tumultuous and promiscuous multitude. Every face was strange to her, and as the apartments were splendidly lighted up, the drawing and music rooms opening into each other, and displaying by means of mirrors a deceiving appearance as to their real dimensions. Thus magnified and multiplied, they looked to her unpractised eye as awfully public as a great theatre. Part of the company was assembled before Penelope made her appearance. When therefore she entered the middle drawing-room, which was the apartment most usually occupied by the family, she was surprised at the sight of lighted apartments on both sides of this, and these apartments to her eye filled with elegant company. She was still more surprised at entering the room to find that no one took the slightest notice of her in the way of courtesy, but that three or four young gentlemen who were standing together near a fire-place absolutely and immovably stared at her: and then, as soon as she caught sight of the Countess of Smatterton, she observed that her ladyship was engaged in conversation with a great, broad, coarse, overdressed female, who was talking very loud and looking very majestically. This stranger appeared like a very vulgar woman to our unfashionable heroine, but was in reality no less a personage than the Duchess of Steeple Bumstead. Her Grace put her glass to her eye, and contemplated by its means the face and figure of Penelope. The poor girl felt very uncomfortable and ill at ease being thus gazed at so unmercifully. As soon as her Grace had satisfied her curiosity she dropt her glass, and wheeled round and sailed away in another direction. The Countess of Smatterton then approached the confused and embarrassed dependent, and after giving her a good-humoured rebuke for making her appearance in such very sable attire, told her that the Duchess of Steeple Bumstead was very desirous of hearing her sing.
Penelope saw by the nearest mirror that the aspect of her attire was dark indeed, but dark as it was it could not express the mourning which she felt for her great loss. She was by no means in a proper frame of mind for the enjoyment of society, or at all fit for anything that wore the aspect of festivity. She suffered herself to be led into the music-room by the Countess, and she made a most respectful curtesy to the Duchess of Steeple Bumstead, when she had the honor of being introduced to a personage of such elevated rank. But still Penelope could not help thinking that fashionable manners were not agreeable: for she recollected that her late uncle used to define politeness as being that kind of behaviour which was least calculated to give pain to others; and yet Penelope felt more pain from the behaviour of the Duchess of Steeple Bumstead, and that of some of the whiskered boys in Lady Smatterton’s drawing room, than she would have felt from persons not so high in rank and so fashionable in manners. All that arose from her ignorance of ways of the world. Why did she take the opinion of her uncle as oracular in those matters of which he could not possibly know anything at all? A country clergyman, who studies books all his life-time, can know nothing of the world.
The Duchess was pleased to question Penelope on the subject of music, and was pleased to express her approbation of the good taste which the young lady displayed. By degrees the manners of her Grace appeared less repulsive, and Penelope felt herself more at her ease. There was standing by the pianoforte a young lady of mild, pleasing, and prepossessing countenance, to whom the Duchess addressed herself:
“My dear Jemima, you will perhaps have the goodness to accompany Miss Primrose on the pianoforte to some song, if there be one there that our friend would like to sing.”
The young lady expressed great readiness to oblige the Duchess—and the leaves of many books were turned over. It was not difficult to find a song that Penelope was familiar with, but it was difficult to find one which did not bring by its language or its expression some association painful and distressing to her mind. The Duchess was very patient during the search, and at length a piece was selected. Miss Primrose had a style of singing peculiarly her own. It was not marked by any very strong singularity, but its decided character was expression: and she shone most in those songs which admit of what may be called the rhetoric of music. There was also a very considerable degree of emotion in her musical expression, and it required a skilful hand to accompany her. That requisite she now had. As her voice was full and deep, it was also searching, and those who were within its reach felt themselves as it were addressed by the singer. This style was truly commanding and attractive. The company gradually surrounded the performer, and well for her she knew not till the song was finished, that any one was attending to her besides the Duchess of Steeple Bumstead and the Countess of Smatterton.
Very abundant and very sincere applause followed the music’s close. But the music or the applause was too much for our heroine, and she nearly fainted; kind and prompt assistance soon recovered her, and thus she was saved from an immediate repetition of that which her hearers would gladly have heard again. There was much talk in the room as to, who is she? But few could answer the question. One impertinent coxcomb said “She looks too modest to be a woman of great fashion.”
Just at this moment who should enter the room but Peter Kipperson, Esq.! Peter was in all his glory. He had been occupied during the whole of the day in business of the utmost importance. He had been consulted and had given his advice, and his advice had been taken. He now presented himself to Lady Smatterton’s party, in which were several members of parliament, and as these were mostly men of business, Peter was personally known to most of them, and he received and returned their salutations with great self-satisfaction. Peter was an active little man, and he was nimbly moving about the apartments in search of Miss Primrose; but before he could meet with her he encountered the Earl of Smatterton.
“Mr Kipperson,” said his lordship, “I am most happy to see you. Have you met your committee to-day in the city? Have you taken any farther steps in that business, of which you were speaking to me the other day at Smatterton? Really, Mr Kipperson, something must be done, it is becoming a very serious affair. Those merchants are very crafty, selfish people. We must put a stop to their encroachments before it is too late.”
“My lord,” replied Mr Kipperson, “I am very happy to have it in my power to assure you that the resolution which I suggested is adopted. I was forced to use all my powers of persuasion. I said to them in so many words, ‘Gentlemen,’ says I, ‘Gentlemen, if you do not adopt this resolution, the nation is ruined, we shall have the country deluged with corn, and we shall of course be all starved.’”
“That was excellent, Mr Kipperson; you have saved the nation. I see you have right views of the matter.”
Several members also of the lower house, who were present, expressed themselves to the same effect; and it was very satisfactory to Mr Kipperson to think that he had so timely and wisely interfered with his prodigious wisdom to save the nation from being starved.
After many interruptions, the wise and learned agriculturist found his way to Penelope Primrose; and in answer to her interrogations concerning what she thought she had seen in the papers of the morning, informed her that two or three of the Company’s ships had arrived, that in one of them there certainly was a passenger named Primrose. By Mr Kipperson’s answer to a few more interrogations, Penelope was nearly certain that this could be no other than her long lost father. The very possibility of such an event was agitating to her mind, and the increasing probability of it was too great for her weak spirits to bear. A thousand thoughts at once confusedly rushed into her mind. She knew not how to inform her father of her present situation. She was doubtful whether he was returning home dependent or independent. She supposed that he would in the first instance find his way to Smatterton, and then it must be some days before she could see him. These and many more like considerations entered into her mind, and their united influence was such as to harass and perplex her beyond measure. She was most happy when the evening party of the Countess had dispersed, and when she was left alone to meditation and to hope. Then she endeavoured to conjecture on the probability of being rescued from the publicity which so awfully and imminently threatened her, and with these thoughts others also entered the mind, and none of them were of a nature to soothe or compose.
Suffice it to say, that these various agitating feelings, and this new life into which Penelope was so unexpectedly and so painfully thrown, conspired together to produce a serious illness.