“You may give that to me, and I will take care of it.”
What arguments were used to induce this breach of trust in the guardian of the Smatterton post-bag, is not stated, nor known, but conjectured. Muggins, when he had given the letter to his lordship, looked rather hesitatingly, and as if he wished to speak; his lordship interpreted his looks, and said, “Well, what are you waiting for?”
To this interrogation Muggins replied with a cunning simper, “Why, please, sir, my lord, on case of any questions being axed, perhaps your lordship, sir, will just-like get a poor boy off, you know, my lord.”
“Bah!” replied his lordship, “leave that to me.” And thereupon those arguments were used which had been of such great and decided efficacy in previous cases of the same nature. The undescribable rider of the undescribable beast then turned about and went homewards, and the heir of Smatterton soon rejoined his sporting companions.
Lord Spoonbill was now in possession of two letters more than did of right belong to him; and though he had taken great pains to become possessed of at least one of them, and though he was glad that he could prevent the information which they contained from reaching the destined point, still he was not altogether comfortable. Once or twice he determined that the letter designed for the parsonage of Smatterton should reach its destination, and then he as often changed his mind again. It may seem strange, and perhaps be thought not true, that an hereditary legislator should descend to such meanness as to intercept a letter. It is indeed strange, and but for its strangeness it would not be here recorded. But Lord Spoonbill was one of those decided characters that do not let trifles deter them from pursuing their schemes. He was rather proud of the dexterity and address with which he pursued any object on which he had fixed his mind, and he mistook, as many other prigs do, obstinacy for firmness. He had fully made up his mind to a certain end, and he was not choice as to the means. Yet he was a man of honor, a man of the nicest honor, a man of the most sensitive and susceptible honor. If any one had been capable of calling him mean, if any one so bold as to have expressed the slightest idea that his lordship was a contemptible fellow, with what indignation would he have heard and repelled the suspicion. His notions of honor must have been very curious and quite unique. We wish it were in our power to present to our readers an analysis of those views which Lord Spoonbill took of the principles of honor. We are not equal to a task so truly philosophical: we can only say that his lordship did descend to the meanness of intercepting a letter, and did call and think himself a man of honor. If any of our readers think that this is very paradoxical and altogether improbable, we congratulate them on their ignorance.
We cannot help at this part of our narrative shifting the scene for a little moment, just enough to shew our readers the effect produced in another quarter by the conduct of the above-named man of honor. From the sportsmen at Neverden we turn to the rectory of Smatterton and its inhabitants. Dr Greendale was in his study as usual, not kept away by any weariness of the preceding evening. Mrs Greendale felt more acutely the trouble of company departed than of company coming, and Mrs Greendale was not selfish in her sorrows, but communicated them to all about her. Penelope Primrose felt the full weight of her aunt’s troubles; and as the good lady of the rectory had been rather disappointed the preceding evening she was not in one of her best humours. Patiently as possible did Penelope bear with those ill humours, for her mind was buoyed up with hopes of pleasing intelligence from abroad. The hour arrived which usually brought the postman, but no postman arrived. It was possible the clocks at Smatterton were too fast. The hour was gone by, a full hour was past. It was not probable that the Smatterton clocks were an hour too fast. There was a little hope that Mr Darnley might be at Smatterton in the course of the morning; but the morning passed away and Mr Darnley did not come. But a messenger came from the rectory of Neverden with enquiries after Dr and Mrs Greendale. Penelope asked very particularly after the rector of Neverden and Mrs Darnley, and hoped that they arrived safely home, and that they had taken no cold, and—and—just as a matter of curiosity, had they heard from their son lately? The answer was, that a letter from Mr Robert Darnley had arrived the very hour before the messenger set out. Penelope turned pale, and then blushed most intemperately, because she felt how pale she looked; and then she thought—“Now I know he has forgotten me.” Immediately after however she thought again, and then it occurred to her that, as Robert Darnley was remarkable for his great filial affection, it was possible that he might have had no time to write by that conveyance more than one letter. But she still could not help thinking that he might have sent her one small letter: if it had been but short, it might have been a memorial of his thoughts still dwelling upon her. She felt hurt, but would not be angry; and hoped, very earnestly hoped, that she was not cherishing a foolish and fond passion for one who had relinquished all fondness for her. It was very strange and altogether unaccountable. It was so very much unlike the usual frankness and openness of mind for which Robert Darnley was so remarkable. These were painful thoughts, and the more painful because so very perplexing. It is somewhat wearying to exert the mind very diligently and perseveringly, even in solving problems and guessing riddles which are mere abstractions; but when, in addition to the perplexity, there is personal and deep interest and moral feeling, then the agitation and weariness of the mind is at the highest.
Penelope found her accustomed resource in trouble, and her consolation under life’s perplexities, in the kind and paternal attention of her uncle. She spent the greatest part of the afternoon of that day in Dr Greendale’s study, and listened with great pleasure to the fatherly exhortations of that most excellent man; and, as she was afterwards heard to observe, she thought that he spoke more like an angel than a man. She treasured up in her heart the hope that the morrow would bring tidings from the beloved one.
CHAPTER V.
Sir George Aimwell and his companions found but little sport in the field, and it was not unpleasant to Colonel Crop to hear that it was now high time to leave the birds and to adjourn to dinner. This was a relief also to the baronet himself; for though he was a keen sportsman he never suffered the amusements of the field to interfere with the duties of the dinner table. Colonel Crop was aware of this laudable peculiarity in the manners of Sir George of Neverden, and therefore enjoyed a day’s sport with him far more than he would have done with another.
Those of our readers who know the worthy baronet need not be informed of the superior style of his culinary arrangements. It was very well for him that his table had this attraction, for it is very certain it had no other. His own conversation was by no means the most brilliant. Lady Aimwell might indeed be capable of conversing, but the guests of Sir George never heard her voice, excepting so far as it was absolutely necessary that some words must be uttered by the lady who presides at the head of a table.