PENELOPE:
OR,
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.

PENELOPE:
OR,
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.

A NOVEL.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

I.

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

1828.

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

PENELOPE:
OR,
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.

CHAPTER I.

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

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

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

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

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

“You have interrupted me, Mrs Greendale.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I know it is, but—but—”

“But what, my dear?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leaden look that loves the ground.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.

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

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

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

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

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