After many interruptions, the wise and learned agriculturist found his way to Penelope Primrose; and in answer to her interrogations concerning what she thought she had seen in the papers of the morning, informed her that two or three of the Company’s ships had arrived, that in one of them there certainly was a passenger named Primrose. By Mr Kipperson’s answer to a few more interrogations, Penelope was nearly certain that this could be no other than her long lost father. The very possibility of such an event was agitating to her mind, and the increasing probability of it was too great for her weak spirits to bear. A thousand thoughts at once confusedly rushed into her mind. She knew not how to inform her father of her present situation. She was doubtful whether he was returning home dependent or independent. She supposed that he would in the first instance find his way to Smatterton, and then it must be some days before she could see him. These and many more like considerations entered into her mind, and their united influence was such as to harass and perplex her beyond measure. She was most happy when the evening party of the Countess had dispersed, and when she was left alone to meditation and to hope. Then she endeavoured to conjecture on the probability of being rescued from the publicity which so awfully and imminently threatened her, and with these thoughts others also entered the mind, and none of them were of a nature to soothe or compose.
Suffice it to say, that these various agitating feelings, and this new life into which Penelope was so unexpectedly and so painfully thrown, conspired together to produce a serious illness.
CHAPTER XIII.
There are few, perhaps, of our female readers who could have passed through what Penelope was compelled to suffer, without sinking under the weight of such an accumulation of distressing circumstances. The wonder is, that she bore up so long, rather than that she sunk at last.
It is with reluctance that we withdraw the attention of our readers from the bedside of the dependent sufferer. We can only state that the Countess was very assiduous in her attentions to her patient, that the best medical assistance was immediately procured, that Lord Spoonbill was very regular in his enquiries, and that the Earl of Smatterton desired that the young woman might not want for anything that was useful or that might contribute to her comfort and recovery. He said so every morning.
It is now absolutely necessary that we violate two of the unities, viz. of time and place. We must violate the unity of time, by doing what time itself with all its power cannot do; we must go backwards; and we must also violate the unity of place, by transporting our readers to the island of St Helena. Their expatriation will be but short.
About the beginning of November, in the year 18—, two of the Company’s ships touched at this island in their passage homeward. The crews and the passengers were not sorry to have such symptoms of home as this accidental meeting produced. Those of the passengers who were going to England for the last time, found in the word “last” a different charm from any which Dr Johnson attributes to it, in the last paper of the Rambler. It was a cheerful and animating feeling which pervaded their bosoms, a sentiment joyous even to tears. The first enquiries of all were for news from England, and the post-office was an object of general attraction. There were to be seen there cheerful and disappointed countenances, but every one was too much occupied with his own thoughts to take any notice of others.
There came out of the office a middle-aged stout gentleman, reading with great seriousness and emotion a letter which he held open in his hands, and there passed him and entered into the office a younger man, a fine tall handsome man, who would naturally have excited any one’s attention by the mere force of his appearance; but the middle-aged gentleman was too deeply engaged to notice him at the moment. In a few seconds the younger of the two came out of the office, not reading a letter, but holding one in his hand unopened; and looking upon that one more sadly than he would have done had it been accompanied with another. Presently he also opened his letter and read it, not cheerfully, not sorrowfully, but anxiously and enquiringly. The letter was finished and returned to his pocket; and he endeavoured to look more cheerfully, but his efforts failed. He quickened his pace, and presently he overtook the middle-aged gentleman; and, as they were passengers in different ships, they looked at each other rather earnestly, and the elder greeted the younger. The young man returned the greeting readily, and, as well as he could, cheerfully. The elder stranger said, that he was going to see the place where Bonaparte was buried; the younger was going to the same place, but he called it the tomb of Napoleon. The elder did not quarrel about the expression, but took the young man’s offered arm, and they walked very sociably together.
Very few words passed between them on their way to the place of their destination; and when they arrived there they both seemed to feel a little disappointment that there was not something more to gratify their curiosity, or to excite emotion. Place, considered in itself, has no charm. The imagination must make the mystery all for itself, and that it may do absent as well as present. Nebuchadnezzar was not unreasonable when he desired that his wise men should tell him his dream, as well as the interpretation thereof: for if they really had wisdom from heaven for one purpose, they would as likely have wisdom for the other. So it is with place connected with the memory of the distinguished sons of mortality. The imagination can as well form the place to the mind’s eye as it can fill the place when seen with these emotions and feelings, which we expect to be excited by such views.
The elder stranger turning to the younger, said, “What is your real opinion of Napoleon Bonaparte?”