Penelope
Date: 2024-01-08T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Penelope

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

Author: William Pitt Scargill

Release date: January 8, 2024 [eBook #72660]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hunt & Clarke

Credits: Lisa Corcoran, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

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

PENELOPE:
OR,
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.

PENELOPE:
OR,
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.

A NOVEL.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

III.

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

1828.

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

PENELOPE:
OR,
LOVES LABOUR LOST.

CHAPTER I.

Whether Miss Glossop had been fascinated by the charms of Colonel Crop’s conversation, and therefore was desirous of meeting the gentleman again, or whether the young lady had learned from any source of information that Lord Spoonbill was at the castle, and she was anxious to obtain a sight of so great an ornament to the British peerage, we cannot tell. But it so happened, that on the morning after Colonel Crop had dined at Neverden Hall, this young lady felt herself disposed to take a stroll, and she wandered in her strolling as far as the gates of Smatterton park.

The gates stood half open, and there seemed to be every symptom of a thoroughfare. At least, she thought, that it would be no mighty trespass to walk into the park and to catch a glimpse of the magnificent castle. The castle, though very splendid, and furnished in very costly style, was not much of a show house. It was not open to the public on any set days; but when the family was absent the housekeeper, or the old butler, or occasionally some inferior servant of the establishment, put a trifle into their pockets by gratifying the curiosity of strangers.

Miss Glossop admired most prodigiously the picturesque disposition of the plantations in the park, and when at a bend in the path the mighty castle shewed its gorgeous and turreted front, the lady could not resist the impulse of curiosity and admiration, to advance nearer and nearer still. We are not quite sure that, as she approached nearer to the grand patrician structure, she did not assume and display mightily graceful airs. But at all events it is a fact, that the heir of the Smatterton title and estate espied from his dressing-room window the fair stranger, and his lordship actually had the vanity to imagine that it could be no other than Penelope Primrose.

Under this impression he hastened down to meet and greet the fair one. Most happy was his lordship when, as he knew that he must be seen approaching the lady, he did not observe that she made any shew of retreating, or displayed any symptoms of aversion. But his lordship was very near-sighted, and great was his surprise on drawing near, so near as to be within reach of speaking, to find that he had miscalculated.

Miss Glossop had never seen Lord Spoonbill before, and though his lordship did not announce himself, the young lady took it for granted that it could be no other. Assuming a most ridiculous air, and speaking with the utmost affectation of tone and cadence, the lady, as they met, and explained that the meeting was a mistake, expressed a hope that she had not intruded by walking into the park.

“By no means, madam,” replied the courteous Lord Spoonbill.

“I took the liberty of entering the park,” said Miss Glossop, “as I understood that the family was not in the country at this time.”

“The family is not down at present,” said Lord Spoonbill.

The young lady was at a loss to know who it was that addressed her; and equally at a loss was his lordship to know the name and quality of the lady whom he addressed. But as she was rather pretty, his lordship was politely attentive, and carried his courtesy so far as to offer to conduct her through the state apartments of the castle. The offer was in every respect too gratifying to be refused. Miss Glossop had a taste for splendor, and that taste was amply gratified by the furniture, decorations, and dimensions of the state apartments.

Come, gentle reader, you may be worse employed than in accompanying Miss Glossop and Lord Spoonbill round the grand and magnificent apartments of Smatterton castle. They ascended a broad and lofty flight of steps, and passed through a pair of enormously broad and high folding mahogany doors, studded apparently with large iron square-headed nails. Above the door was a great black wooden portcullis.

The great hall, into which this mighty entrance admitted the visitor, was appropriately decorated with suits of armour, made on purpose, banners of the most splendid silk that Spitalfields could weave, and on these banners the Spoonbill arms were in various modes and parts displayed.

But as the hall would have been incomplete as to its decorations without a proper supply of family portraits, these also in great abundance decorated the walls and filled up the spaces between the suits of armour. This ancestral collection of portraits was not made with the best judgment; for according to the account given by the butler, when he exhibited the wonders of Smatterton castle, the Right Honorable the Earl of Smatterton had a larger number of grandfathers and great grandfathers than usually falls to the lot of one individual, however great his dignity or however high his rank.

One violation of propriety must however be noticed in this magnificent hall, and that is, that the variegated and comprehensive taste of the noble owner had seen fit to add to its other decorations a collection of busts, vases, and statues, of divers degrees and gradations of sculptural merit, and bringing together manifold incongruities of association. Yet it must be confessed that, in the eyes and to the taste of Miss Glossop, the whole scene was truly magnificent, and the white alabaster vases were, by their brightness, a fine relief to the old brown family pictures, and the sable dinginess of the various suits of armour.

After gazing about on the grand scene which surrounded her, and by various exclamations of admiration expressing her sense of the great magnificence of the apartment, Miss Glossop summed up the result of all the particular and individual emotions of admiration by assuming an affected attitude, lifting up her eyes and hands and voice, saying, “How truly superb!”

For such a compliment, and from such lips, and accompanied with such an attitude, and uttered in such a tone, the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill could not, of course, be ungrateful. His lordship therefore expressed himself pleased that the lady could see anything worthy of admiration. Lord Spoonbill however was not quite so great a simpleton as not to discern that the lady to whom he was exhibiting the wonders of Smatterton castle, was very silly and very affected; and as his lordship, in acknowledging the politeness of the lady in expressing so heartily her commendation of the taste displayed in the decorations of the great hall, betrayed himself to be one of the Spoonbill family, and no other than the very heir to the title and estate; and as the lady on this discovery, or more properly speaking on this corroboration of her suspicions, did set herself forth to display still finer graces and more ridiculous airs, his lordship thought it no little amusement to provoke and observe the silly one’s affectations.

From the great hall they proceeded to the saloon, which for variety’s sake was decorated in a fashion not the same as the hall, but almost as different as possible. The hall was dark, and the saloon was light, and its furniture and decorations were in the most modern taste. The pictures were numerous, but the splendor of their frames was sufficient to eclipse the glories of the canvass, and as the chairs and the mouldings of the room were also profusely covered with gold, the apartment looked very much like the shop of a carver and gilder and picture-frame-maker.

The wicked libellers of the gentler sex have, in some of their satirical descriptions, represented the female heart as being strongly smitten with the love of gold. Be this true or not, it is very certain that the young lady shewed symptoms of being quite thunderstruck at the splendor of this grand saloon.

“This is superb, indeed!” exclaimed Miss Glossop; “and these pictures, my lord, I presume, are all originals by the very first masters.”

“Not all originals,” modestly replied his lordship.

“But by the first masters, no doubt,” responded Miss Glossop.

To this remark his lordship made no reply. And the young lady, though feeling a great respect for his lordship, was not struck dumb with awe at being in the presence of Lord Spoonbill; but rather on the contrary, her eloquence was rather greater than usual. Then did she launch forth into a very knowing discussion on the subject of painting and drawing, and all that sort of thing. But, as all her information on that head had been derived from a country drawing master, who taught flower and shell painting, not much was said by the young lady which need to be recorded, and indeed nothing that can throw much light on the history of painting, or on the graphic art in general.

The saloon opened into the library. Books cannot bear quite so much gold as pictures, but as much as they could decently bear, and perhaps rather more, was lavished on the bindings in Lord Smatterton’s library. Again, the eloquence of Miss Glossop was excited, and literature was her theme.

“What an inexhaustible treasure, my lord,” exclaimed the astonished lady, “your lordship must have in so extensive a library!”

“Very,” replied his lordship, who had never thought of attempting to exhaust a treasure of this kind.

The remarks which Miss Glossop made on books, were no doubt very sensible remarks; for they were for the most part such as had stood the test of ages, and such as had been uttered by tongues innumerable, and assented to by nods as innumerable. Our readers are requested to excuse us if we, for brevity’s sake, take the liberty to omit the judgment which Miss Glossop was pleased to pass on Milton, Shakspeare, Byron, Scott, and Moore, and many others. They will find this judgment elsewhere recorded.

The library opened into the music room. This apartment was well filled with musical instruments of various descriptions. There stood at one end a grand pianoforte, and at the other a still grander organ. Now will it be believed that Miss Glossop actually wished to give his lordship proof of her musical talents, not merely by talking on the subject, as she did most fluently, but also by an express display of her own performance! His lordship fancied that he saw symptoms of such a wish, and he gave a suggestion accordingly; observing that in his opinion the horizontal pianoforte was best adapted to large apartments. To this opinion Miss Glossop gave of course an unqualified assent, and in giving this assent approached the instrument as if accidentally.

“Perhaps,” said his lordship, “you would like to try the effect of that piano; I believe it is one of very singular power?”

The instrument was partly open. Miss Glossop, without taking off her glove, rattled the keys as if to ascertain the power. The young lady took care to make this accidental touch as complete a manifestation as possible of the facility and taste with which her fingers could scramble over the keys.

His lordship remarked that the young lady seemed to be quite mistress of the art, and observed that there were books of almost every description of music, and he went so far as to request that she would favour him with a specimen of the tone and compass of the instrument, for he was exceedingly partial to music, and had not yet had the pleasure of hearing any regular performance on that pianoforte since it had been brought down to Smatterton.

Miss Glossop blushed deeply at the request, and begged to be excused; but his lordship would take no refusal; and Miss Glossop, thinking that, as the request came from a lord, there could not be so much impropriety in complying with it as if it had been from a stranger of inferior rank, forthwith yielded to the pressing importunity, and sat down.

His lordship was not a little amused with the ridiculous airs which the performer assumed, and seeing that there was much vanity and weakness in the constitution of the lady’s mind, he did most wickedly and cruelly encourage her to proceed. Now by the compliments which his lordship paid to the performance, the affectation of the performer was encreased. Then Lord Spoonbill proceeded to intimate a wish that the fair stranger would also add to the beauty of the music by her vocal powers. Thereupon rose another blush, and thereupon followed another refusal. But it is not decorous to refuse the requests of lords so very pertinaciously, and Miss Glossop thought that the music-room was so excellently well constructed for the display of a fine voice, that it would be cruel to herself to deny herself as well as his lordship the gratification of hearing that voice. After therefore as much refusal as she thought due to her dignity, she complied with this request too, and Miss Glossop strained her throat very much to her own admiration and to Lord Spoonbill’s amusement.

Lord Spoonbill was certainly not a considerate man; that our readers have already discovered, or they must be obtuse indeed. It was by no means becoming in an hereditary legislator thus to amuse himself at the expense of a vain and weak young woman. But it does sometimes happen, that young men of high rank and of selfish habits think nothing of the pain and mortification which they occasion to others in the pursuit of their own pleasures and amusements. The simple circumstance of preferring one’s own interest to that of another deserves not perhaps so great vituperation as it sometimes receives; but to inflict pain and mortification upon another merely for a transient and slight amusement is base and unfeeling.

We have made the above remarks because we are unwilling by any omission to incur the reproach of being insensible to the feelings of our fellow-creatures. It is very true that Miss Glossop was vain, weak, and affected; it may also be very true that fools ought to take the consequences of their own folly. But it is cruel, mean, and illiberal, to make sport of a weak mind merely because it is weak; and none but such a puppy as Lord Spoonbill would have acted thus.

Of the progress of the young lady and his lordship through the other apartments of the castle, we have nothing particular to record. Our readers will very naturally suppose that the dining and drawing rooms were decorated as profusely as the other rooms; and that as much approbation and delight were expressed by Miss Glossop in surveying them, as she had lavished on those apartments which she had passed through before.

Many acknowledgments of his lordship’s politeness were made by the young lady when she took her leave of the castle, and very politely did his lordship express his high gratification that there had been anything in the castle worth her notice.

With light and cheerful step did Miss Glossop return to Neverden, proud of the honor of her interview with Lord Spoonbill. Speedily but carefully did her recollection run over all that she had said to his lordship and all that his lordship had said to her. And her thoughts exulted in the anticipation of the pleasure which she should experience in quoting hereafter the opinion of Lord Spoonbill on various topics connected with the fine arts and literature.

She was desirous of recollecting the subjects of as many of the pictures as she possibly could; but the specimens of the graphic art in Smatterton castle were so numerous, that it was not easy to recollect any great proportion of them. It was rather mortifying however that she could not call to mind any of the very greatest masters of the art; she had merely a confused recollection that the house was full of pictures done by some of the first masters. It was firmly fixed in her memory that the house was very splendid, and that the grand saloon, especially, looked like a blaze of gold. It was to her eye a scene of complete enchantment.

On her return to Neverden, Miss Glossop communicated to Sir George Aimwell the particulars of her visit to Smatterton, and the worthy baronet was pleased with the politeness which Lord Spoonbill had displayed; and he said, “Spoonbill’s a good fellow.”

Moreover, after dinner as well as at dinner, Miss Glossop descanted on the glories of Smatterton castle, and the fine taste of the heir to the Smatterton title and estate. And so fluent was the young lady’s eloquence, that she talked the worthy baronet to sleep ten minutes before his usual time.

Lady Aimwell did not think with the baronet that Spoonbill was a good fellow. Her ladyship was by no means pleased with Miss Glossop’s visit to the castle, and took no pains to conceal her dissatisfaction from the young lady. So that poor Arabella was in a great measure deprived of the pleasure which she would otherwise have enjoyed of talking of Lord Spoonbill’s politeness and good sense.

But when the young lady was alone, her thoughts were most pleasingly occupied with a recollection of the gorgeous splendors of the great house. And so delightful had been the courteous and elegant politeness of Lord Spoonbill, that Mr Darnley the younger was eclipsed by the superior accomplishments of the son of the Earl of Smatterton. While Miss Glossop was wide awake, it was absolutely impossible for her to think of having captivated Lord Spoonbill; but when she was asleep, she dreamed of gorgeous palaces, and Spoonbills, and ladyships, and all that can raise the ambitious and aspiring hopes of a lover of magnificence and an admirer of rank.

While Miss Glossop was wondering what Lord Spoonbill thought of her musical performances, his lordship was also wondering who the lady could be that had shewn off such ridiculously affected airs. But he soon forgot the matter, and the scene passed away from his mind’s eye, and he cared not who it might be. For his thoughts were occupied with other considerations, and his attention was directed towards Penelope Primrose.

He staid within hour after hour, uncertain and unresolved what to do and how to proceed. He was fearful of presenting himself at the rectory at Smatterton, as he had doubts of the state of Penelope’s mind towards him; and he was unwilling to expose himself to a second refusal. He wished, if it could be accomplished, to learn the state of her affections by the intervention of a third person.

Courting by proxy is not a good plan. Lord Spoonbill, however, was not the wisest man in the world, or he would not have adopted it. Colonel Crop was the second adviser and counsellor that he had chosen. He was not pleased with the counsel of his friend Erpingham, for that gentleman behaved rather too cavalierly to his lordship. But Colonel Crop was a much more humble and diffident man; and he only gave that advice which his lordship wished and desired him to give. Now though the colonel was a more agreeable counsellor than Erpingham, inasmuch as the colonel was more supple and complaisant, yet he was a stupid man withal and mightily clumsy, and he was by no means fit for any employment or occupation that needed a head. He was willing certainly, very willing to do anything that he might be ordered to do, but it was necessary for him to have his orders worded with great explicitness and fullness; for his own judgment or imagination could supply no deficiencies.

We have heard of an impatient and angry master, whose servant had acted contrary to orders, and had apologised, by saying that he thought he was doing right, and the master hastily interrupted the apology by exclaiming, “You thought! What business had you to think?” If this gentleman had employed such a servant as Colonel Crop, he would have no cause to make any such complaint.

It must have been an instance of very great forgetfulness or inattention in the colonel, to make such a blunder as to take Miss Glossop for Miss Primrose. For he certainly must have heard the name of Primrose often enough; though it must be confessed that Lord Spoonbill was generally in the habit of speaking of her only as the young lady; occasionally indeed he used the name of Penelope, and that might, with so careless a man as Colonel Crop, be easily confounded with Arabella.

It was a pity that the colonel was not at the castle when Miss Glossop was admiring and surveying its beauties, for then the misunderstanding might have been corrected; but the gallant officer was strolling about the fields with Lord Smatterton’s gamekeeper.

CHAPTER II.

When the colonel came back from his morning’s walk, and was about to prepare to dress for dinner, letters were put into his hand, and among them was one from the Earl of Smatterton to Lord Spoonbill. This of course the gallant officer handed to his lordship, and his lordship eagerly and anxiously broke the seal, and very soon possessed himself of the contents of the letter. And when he had read it he was in a most vehement and lordly passion; he tore it into what romance writers would call a thousand pieces; that is to say, he tore it across and across; and he used unprintable language, and he stamped violently and walked about the room in a violent passion, and almost frightened the poor colonel out of his wits.

It was so very near dinner time that the colonel was quite concerned to see Lord Spoonbill so discomposed; and when the paroxysm of his lordship’s anger was a little abated, and his looks assumed a more “questionable shape,” the colonel ventured in his quiet, placid way, to say “I hope nothing is amiss, my lord?”

“Oh, Crop, Crop!” said his lordship, almost melted to tears by the colonel’s kind sympathy, “I am the most miserable dog that ever lived.”

It hurt the colonel’s feelings most keenly to hear his lordship call himself a dog, and a miserable dog too; and the gallant officer very kindly and tenderly answered, “I hope not, my lord.”

Then his lordship being somewhat consoled, and his grief a little subsiding, went into the particulars of that which caused him so intemperately and thoughtlessly to call himself a miserable dog. “This letter,” said Lord Spoonbill, “is from my father, insisting on my immediate return to London, and ordering me off a hundred miles in another direction, to be elected for a newly-purchased borough.”

Then his lordship spoke so violently and disrespectfully concerning boroughs and parliament, that the colonel, who was a very loyal man, was quite shocked. His lordship expressed also such wishes concerning these valuable articles, as none but the veriest radical would think of expressing in his sober senses.

“I wish I could go for you,” replied the courteous colonel.

“I wish you could,” answered his lordship; but both parties knew that such wish was vain, and so no more was said on that topic. The agitated lover then with restless and uneasy step paced up and down the apartment bewailing, in various established and authorized phrases used on such occasions, his very hard lot. The colonel listened most patiently to these lamentations, and ever and anon he besought his lordship to compose himself. But his lordship listened not to the consoling language of his friend Crop; and it is impossible to say how long this melancholy scene might have continued, had it not been for an interruption arising from the announcement of dinner.

At this sound the colonel aroused himself, and with unusual energy of persuasion besought his lordship to suspend his grief a little while. His lordship was not quite so distressed by the dreadful calamity which had visited him in the shape of a letter from London, as to have lost all appetite for dinner, and he therefore yielded to the friendly persuasions of the gallant colonel, and the two friends were seated at the dinner table.

Colonel Crop was not at any time much addicted to loquacity, but at dinner time he was as mute as a fish; and Lord Spoonbill was not quite so far lost to all consideration as to suffer himself to talk about his sorrows before the servants. But when the cloth was removed and the servants withdrawn, and the gentlemen left to their own talk, the refreshing effects of the dinner were felt by both parties; his lordship became more composed and the colonel more animated. Then the subject was copiously and amply discussed, and many schemes were proposed, to all of which in succession the colonel gave his assent. But this gallant officer was by no means very attentive to the various particulars suggested by the enamoured hereditary legislator. For as the colonel was always assentient to everything which might be said, thought, or done by any of his right honorable feeders, he was not attentive to statements, as if they required any consideration.

After much had been said by Lord Spoonbill as to the most probable means of obtaining possession of the lovely one, and when his lordship’s ingenuity in devising seem to be exhausted, and when Colonel Crop seemed to think that it was necessary that he should say something, then did he in his usual abrupt style of eloquence say: “Perhaps, my lord, I had better bring the lady up to London with me?”

Here we must explain, though it is a great pity that circumstances compel us to state the fact, that this said gallant colonel had previously been employed in that service by other right honorable gentlemen, and therefore he regarded the matter lightly, and thought that he had nothing else to do than state the terms and establishment. But Lord Spoonbill did not apprehend that the lady in question would be so lightly won.

“Ah, Crop!” said his lordship, “you don’t know the lady. She is almost a prude; but I love her the more for her very obstinacy.”

The colonel had some notion of what was meant by a prude; but, according to the best of his recollection, the young lady whom he had seen at Neverden Hall was not mightily prudish in her manners. And then the military man smiled, and replied to his lordship’s observation: “Trust me, if you make an offer of a handsome establishment, I will bring her up to town in a very short time.”

Lord Spoonbill was encouraged greatly by the smile which he saw upon the colonel’s countenance, and began to think that his friend Crop had really some reason for what he had said. And then in the fullness of his heart his lordship went on to say:—

“Crop, my dear friend, you know that, situated as I am now, I can do nothing for you; but it is my full intention, if I can get leave of my father to go over to the other side, and then if Penelope is mine, mine on any terms, you shall be promoted immediately, take my word for it.”

It might have been supposed that the mention of the name of Penelope would have been the means of bringing the colonel to suspect that there was some error in his apprehension; but the truth is, that he paid no very particular attention to the name, and not having the slightest suspicion of the possibility of an error, he never thought of investigating the matter.

The right honorable lover, and his kind friend Crop, had not made a late dinner, and it occurred to Lord Spoonbill that, as it would be a pity to have travelled so many miles without even seeing the young lady, he would pay a visit to the rectory in the evening. His lordship very naturally thought that if it were true, as the colonel brought word from his visit at Neverden, that Mr Darnley had actually and notoriously declined the acquaintance with Penelope, the young lady would by this time have ascertained that fact, and might not be quite so difficult as heretofore. Still, however, his lordship could not quite make up his mind whether to urge his suit merely as at first, or whether he would deliberately offer her his hand and fortune.

As his mind was not able to arrive at a complete decision on that point, he resolved to be governed by circumstances. That was a wise resolution, and most of the species are governed by circumstances, plebeians as well as patricians. We hardly know how it can be avoided.

While his lordship was gone to the rectory, Colonel Crop was occupied at the castle in preparing for his lordship’s journey, which was destined, in obedience to the commands of Lord Smatterton, to take place on the following morning.

Now when Lord Spoonbill drew nigh to the rectory, he could not help recollecting that there had lived such a man as Dr Greendale, and he could not but call to mind the pure and virtuous character of that good man. There came again to the recollection of Lord Spoonbill, the kind and gently-spoken admonitions of that departed friend; and the feelings of his lordship were roused at the remembrance of the solemn scene which he had witnessed, when he saw that good man breathe his last. In these emotions there was enough to disturb his lordship in his pursuit, but not enough to divert him from it.

It was generally allowed by every one who knew him that Mr Darnley, the rector of Neverden, was a very good and a conscientious man, and that as a parish priest he was most exemplary and active in the discharge of his duties. But there still was in his character a dryness, a hardness, a coldness, a distance, or a something, that rendered virtue not so amiable and contagious in him as in the late Doctor Greendale. Mr Darnley preached most unexceptionable sermons, sound in doctrine, honest in application, always suited to the times, and most admirably adapted to the capacity and comprehension of his hearers. He never talked learnedly in his pulpit to gratify the taste of the great man of his parish, to the neglect of the instruction of the poorer part of his audience. In that, to be sure, there was not much merit, for neither the literature nor the capacity of Sir George Aimwell was much above the level of the farmers and their labourers. In Doctor Greendale however there was something more than a merely unexceptionable style of preaching. It is true indeed, that in consequence of the peculiar employment in which so much of his life was spent, and the theological controversies to which so much of his attention was directed, he did occasionally introduce into the pulpit controversial and abstract discussions, which were not very intelligible even to himself. But then there was something so morally beautiful and kindly impressive in his whole manner, tone, and deportment, that his hearers used to observe that they always felt themselves the better for hearing him preach, though they could not always understand what he said, or divine the object of his arguments. And let no one despise this feeling; for if good impulses are given to the heart, why should we think slightingly and disrespectfully of the means?

We hardly apologize for the above digression, knowing that those of our readers who are most worth pleasing are gratified and delighted at looking back upon the virtues and amiableness of the late worthy rector of Smatterton. This digression also is serviceable for the purpose of illustrating and explaining the state of mind in which Lord Spoonbill was when he approached the rectory.

The impression produced upon the hereditary legislator was such, that he almost resolved to offer marriage at once, formally and decidedly, thinking that he should thereby cancel all his former transgressions. But when arrived at the rectory, and finding that Mr Primrose was not within, and that Penelope was alone, his lordship, who was rather proud of his own sweet self, began to entertain less respectful thoughts towards the young lady, and to imagine that she must love him for himself alone.

Penelope, at sight of Lord Spoonbill at Smatterton—when she thought, if she thought of him at all, that he was in London—expressed great surprise, which his lordship presently removed by saying, that his visit to the castle was with a view to some alterations and improvements.

As the acquaintance between Robert Darnley and Miss Primrose was now renewed, and as great part of the source of her uneasiness was removed, the vivacity and cheerfulness which in former days had been so becoming an ornament to her, had now returned; therefore did she seem in the eyes of Lord Spoonbill more lovely than ever. Considering herself now as clearly engaged to Mr Darnley, she no longer regarded Lord Spoonbill as a suitor, and her manner towards him was therefore the less reserved and constrained. All this change in the young lady’s manner was by Lord Spoonbill considered as being a corroboration of the report which Colonel Crop had brought from Neverden.

And now his lordship would have saved himself a great deal of trouble, mortification, and expense, had he renewed, as fifty times in a minute he designed, his suit for the honor of the lady’s hand. For such was Penelope’s simplicity and plainness of spirit that, had his lordship renewed that subject, she would have told him explicitly how insuperable an obstacle was in the way of his hopes. But he thought that there was a possibility and a probability of the speedy return of Mr Primrose, who would of course interrupt the discussion; and he also thought if it were possible to possess himself of the young lady without the encumbering ceremony of marriage, it would be so much the better.

His lordship therefore, instead of affecting the sheepishness and sighing of a sentimental lover, endeavoured to make himself agreeable by the fascination of his fluent gabble, and he poured forth a variety of idle prate, which we cannot repeat without the charge of plagiarism. Had a third person been witness of this interview, he might have thought them to be the best friends in the world.

Before Lord Spoonbill had taken his leave, Mr Primrose returned; he had merely been gossipping with his neighbour Kipperson, and the learned Zephaniah Pringle. Mr Primrose, knowing nothing of his lordship’s intentions, and being as unsuspicious as Penelope that he was the person by whose means the correspondence had been interrupted, greeted the hereditary legislator with the utmost cordiality and respect. The father expressed the same surprise as the daughter had, at the presence of Lord Spoonbill at Smatterton, and received the same lying explanation, and was equally well satisfied with it.

Even had there sprung up in the mind of Mr Primrose any suspicion whatever that his lordship’s visit to Smatterton had any reference to Penelope, that thought would have been immediately removed by Lord Spoonbill saying; “My visit to Smatterton is very short, I arrived yesterday, and I return tomorrow morning.”

“Then we feel ourselves the more honored by this call;” replied Mr Primrose.

His lordship smilingly returned for answer; “You may indeed, Mr Primrose. I have been occupied at the castle all the morning, and you are the only person in the country that I have called upon. I have not even seen my good neighbour, Sir George Aimwell. But I shall leave my friend Colonel Crop at the castle, and he must apologize for me.”

Then after a short pause, with a little hesitation and a slight change of tone, his lordship continued—“Perhaps you will excuse me, Mr Primrose, if I take the liberty to enquire whether you have had any more favourable account of the affairs of your banker, than you had when I had the honor to see you in London?”

Lord Spoonbill asked this question with a tone of voice that indicated great compassion, and seemed to express a hope and earnest wish that the answer might be of a favorable complexion; but it would have been most pleasing to his lordship to hear a long drawn sigh and a lamentable tale of unfortunate losses and painful disappointments. Instead however of a melancholy shake of the head and a dismal story, Mr Primrose said, in reply, “I thank your lordship for your kind enquiries, but I am most happy to inform you that I had taken alarm too soon. I know nothing about the affairs of my banker, and I care but little; for, upon farther examination, I found that my agent had not consigned any very large amount to the banker’s keeping.”

“I am exceedingly happy to hear it,” replied his lordship.

That was a lie, and his lordship knew it to be a lie. And his lordship was also perplexed for want of some device by means of which he might carry on his designs against Penelope. There appeared not to be any very definite indications, either favorable or otherwise, if we except, as above mentioned, that there was greater ease and cheerfulness in the young lady’s manner than had been recently manifested. All this his lordship’s vanity placed to his own account; and he took his leave of Mr Primrose and Penelope with great courtesy and remarkable self-satisfaction.

CHAPTER III.

The Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill we will leave to travel to London and a hundred miles farther, even down to the newly-purchased borough, where we will leave him to make his insulting and hypocritical bows to the poor, mean-spirited, bought and sold, place-hunting, booby-praising, supple, transferable, soulless dolts, who, being taught to fetch and carry, to stand on their hind legs, and feed out of a great man’s trough, and to yelp loyalty or sedition, as the case may be and their purchasers may dictate, suffer themselves to be called “free and independent” without having spirit enough to kick the right honorable cubs that call them so.

Colonel Crop remained at Smatterton, under a strict charge from Lord Spoonbill to keep an eye on the young lady, and to use his best endeavours to forward the designs of his lordship. This gallant officer undertook his commission with great hopes of success, and with perfect confidence in his own wisdom; and, in pursuance of his precious scheme, made an early call on Sir George Aimwell on the morning on which Lord Spoonbill took his departure from town.

Sir George and the colonel were very good friends. They had many points of sympathy. They were both of them great admirers of good cookery. They had both a great abhorrence of unnecessary trouble. They both thought that the only use for a gentleman to make of books was to stick them on a shelf, or lock them in a closet. They both thought that the common people were very vulgar, insolent, low-lived creatures, and almost wondered that nature had not formed them to go on four legs. With many other sympathies of this nature the gallant colonel and the worthy magistrate were mightily well pleased with each other.

When therefore the colonel made his second visit to Neverden, the baronet was delighted with the attention, and anticipated with much satisfaction sufficient talk to keep him awake till dinner time.

“So, colonel,” said the unpaid one, “you have the compassion to come and see me now the shooting season is quite over. This I call really an act of friendship. But did you actually know that yesterday was the last day of the season?”

“’Pon honor, Sir George,” replied the half-paid one, “I never thought about it; but if I had it would have made no difference.”

“You are very polite, colonel, and honest withal, and that cannot be said of every one.”

The baronet having thus spoken laughed, and the colonel, to shew his politeness, laughed too, but he did not know why, unless it were for sympathy.

“But, colonel,” continued the gratuitous dispenser of hedge and ditch and steel-trap and spring-gun justice, “what is the meaning of this almost flying visit which my Lord Spoonbill has just now paid to Smatterton? My people told me this morning that the young gentleman was off by daybreak, posting back again to town.”

Colonel Crop looked wise, or screwed his features into that kind of expression which he was pleased to think wise; and with that kind of tone which almost asks for incredulity, and intimates that at least only part of the truth is told, he replied: “His lordship came down to give orders about some improvements to be made at the castle.”

This expression answered the purpose, and the curious baronet, being from the nature of his office accustomed to the interrogative system, proceeded with a sceptical smile to ask: “Ah, colonel, are you sure that is all? Is not there some sly amour going on? His lordship is a wild young dog, I have heard.”

Thereat the baronet chuckled, and the colonel smiled so gently and so silently that Lord Chesterfield himself would not have pronounced him vulgar or ill bred. And the two worthy ones looked at each other very knowingly; and thus the colonel let out the secret without speaking a word. Some persons may imagine that the mode in which the baronet spoke of the amatory transgressions of Lord Spoonbill was rather too flippant for a magistrate; and those persons may perhaps be right; but let us not omit to tell those persons, that this same magistrate, when engaged in the discharge of his magisterial duties, and when sitting on the bench, looked as wise and as grave and as demure as any magistrate need to look, and gave to transgressors a goodly word of exhortation, and dwelt with copious and convincing eloquence on the wickedness of violating our most excellent laws.

Everybody in that neighbourhood remembers the impressive admonition which he gave to an old man who was convicted at the quarter sessions of having a bit of string in his pocket, and therefore strongly suspected of a design of a malicious nature against the game.

“John Carter,” said the worthy baronet, “let me address to you a few words on the sin of poaching. Poaching, John Carter—is—is a sin of which too many are guilty, owing to the lenity of our most excellent laws. I think that if everybody thought, as I think, of the moral heinousness of this offence, nobody would be guilty of it. Poaching is not yet made felony; but there is no saying how soon it may be made so, if the crime be persisted in. It is a moral offence of the greatest enormity, and is one of those crying, national sins, which may one day or other bring down the vengeance of heaven on our guilty country. Now, John Carter, if you go to gaol for six months, I hope the tread-mill and the chaplain will work a thorough reformation in your morals.”

Much more to the same purpose did the worthy magistrate say to John Carter; but it did, we fear, very little good, for John Carter and the baronet’s last pheasant were missing on one and the same morning:

This digression we have made for the purpose of shewing how truly eloquent and morally impressive the baronet could be when the enormity of the offence demanded an adequate severity of reprehension. His worship would have thought the epithet “wild young dog” a designation by far too lenient for a poacher. But the crime of seduction, especially in an hereditary legislator, looked in the sight of the unpaid one as comparatively a slight offence, scarcely an offence at all.

More than suspecting, from Colonel Crop’s look and manner, that a pursuit of this nature had brought the heir of Smatterton down to the venerable seat of his ancestors, the worthy baronet proceeded to enquire of the young lord’s convenient friend more particularly concerning the person whose charms had fascinated the young lord. Now the gallant colonel was not quite certain that it would be proper and becoming for him to communicate to the worthy magistrate the whole truth, at least what he thought to be the truth; he therefore hesitated and looked knowing: but he had no great tact or dexterity in keeping secrets; so, after a few ineffectual attempts to hold his peace and keep his counsel, he gave the worthy baronet to understand that the lady with whom he had the pleasure of dining at Neverden Hall, was the person on whom the hereditary legislator had cast the eyes of affection.

“What!” exclaimed the astonished baronet, “Do I hear aright? Do you mean to tell me that Lord Spoonbill has employed you to make dishonorable proposals to a lady under my roof, a relation too of my own?”

Colonel Crop was thunderstruck at the mode in which the magistrate received the information; and was still more astonished to hear that the lady was related to the baronet. And the colonel himself was almost angry with Lord Spoonbill, for thinking of proposing such an arrangement with a lady so respectably connected. But when the colonel proceeded to state that his commission was to obtain the lady on any terms, and when the baronet understood that his lordship was so enamoured as to meditate matrimony, that mightily altered the case.

Then the magistrate gave full and free permission to the colonel to have access to the lady, and state with as much eloquence as he pleased, the proposals which he might have to make. It is indeed true, that Sir George could not help thinking, that if Lord Spoonbill had been disposed to make an offer of his hand to Miss Glossop, it would have been rather more respectful to “apply personally, or by letter post paid,” than to use the intervention of a gentleman whose services had been employed in negociations of no very reputable nature. The baronet however conceded, that there might be on the part of Lord Spoonbill a more than usual degree of want of ceremony allowed, in consequence of the difference of rank between the parties.

The very possibility of making a relation of his a countess, reconciled the unpaid one to the negociation of the half-paid one. The end sanctified the means.

Now occurred again to the baronet’s recollection the visit which Miss Glossop had paid to Smatterton castle, and he concluded of course that it was at this visit that the charms of Arabella’s voice and person had taken captive the heart of Lord Spoonbill. At the contemplation of the possibility that his high-spirited relative should make a match with so great a man as the eldest son of an earl, the worthy magistrate felt mightily gratified.

It is somewhat admirable that Sir George Aimwell should regard with any great satisfaction a probable marriage commenced by negociations of so equivocal a nature. But there is something in dignity and in high rank so fascinating and overwhelming, that what would be insolence in others is condescension in men of title and rank. And it is also a truth that Sir George, though himself a baronet or lordling, and bearing the same relation to nobility as velveteen bears to velvet, yet looked upon nobility with greater reverence and admiration than persons more remote from that high rank regard the possessors of titles.

When Colonel Crop had thus commenced his great negociation, by informing the magistrate of the business for which Lord Spoonbill had employed him, the gallant officer betook himself to the quiet seclusion of the great house, and amused himself with looking at fine pictures, reading the backs of books, lugging up his shirt collar, combing out his whiskers, listening to the creaking of his boots, picking his teeth, rattling his watch-chain, looking at himself in the glass, wondering what was going on in London, together with a multitude of other pretty little amusements of the same description.

The half-paid hero was not sorry that his negociation received such a direction as it did, from the discovery that the young lady in question was related to Sir George Aimwell; and it occurred to the negociator, that he might very soon write to his honorable employer and inform him of the progress which had been made in this important and momentous business. And with the exercise of a little ingenuity, which nobody knew so well how to use as the gallant colonel, the occupation of writing a letter might employ a whole morning. But as the colonel’s present employment is merely meditation seasoned and garnished with sundries of these little amusements which we have recorded above, we need not detain our readers for the present at Smatterton castle, but we will introduce them to another mansion at Smatterton, where they will meet with the personages mentioned in this narrative, engaged in the highly honorable and delightful occupation of paying a tea visit to Honoria Letitia Spoonbill.

Miss Spoonbill kept very little company; she had but one party in the year, and that was a tea-party, which assembled precisely at six and departed as precisely at ten; and, we may add, sat still and stared at each other as precisely for the whole period of their visit.

In this visit to the spinster of noble family most of the distinguished persons of Smatterton were engaged. And there was something peculiarly interesting in this visit, seeing that Mr Primrose was at the party for the first time, and Mr Zephaniah Pringle was paying his last visit in Smatterton. The lady of the house was particularly active to render herself agreeable to her party; and, in order to produce as much as possible of that kind of stuff which the people who write newspapers call “the feast of reason and the flow of soul,” Miss Spoonbill directed very much of her conversation to Mr Primrose, that from him she might gather something concerning the manners, customs, religion, literature, cookery, and politics of the Hindoos; and to Mr Zephaniah Pringle the lady was also interrogatively attentive, that from his exhaustless store of reading and reflection something might be brought out for the edification and instruction of her guests. So that poor Mr Kipperson had not any opportunity of putting forth his agricultural erudition, and was also compelled to be painfully mute on the subject of science. But he had the happiness of meditation and thought, and not all the Spoonbills in the universe could deprive him of that. And he could not help pitying from the bottom of his heart the darkness, stupidity, grossness, and delusion of all those persons who had no ambition after pantology. But he consoled himself with the thought, that truth is great and must prevail; and he knew that pantology was true, and he was sure it would prevail, and all the world would be enlightened ultimately, and every man would be his own Encyclopedia, and instead of seeing here and there inscribed on the monumental marble of an individual or two, a record of “Here lies the celebrated and learned,” we should soon have the happiness of seeing in every church-yard in the kingdom one general inscription of “Here lie ten thousand pantologists.”

We thought it our duty to mention all this, because, wherever Mr Kipperson gave the honor of his presence, he always looked important and felt himself to be so, even if circumstances sentenced him to silence.

Miss Primrose was also of the party, and happy was it for her that she was innocent of all suspicion of those idle tales which the people of Smatterton had amused themselves with concerning herself. Miss Spoonbill indeed had slightly heard mention of the rumour, but could not believe it; for she was sure that she must have heard it from better authority, if it had been true; supposing no doubt that her right honorable relative Lord Spoonbill would not have kept her in ignorance on such a matter as this.

As Mr Primrose by his lucid, ready, and intelligent answers to Miss Spoonbill’s multitudinous questions concerning Oriental affairs gave great satisfaction to the lady, she felt grateful to the new inhabitant of Smatterton for the information which had been given; and, in order to shew her gratitude, was pleased to administer to Mr Primrose a large quantity of gratuitous advice, touching the destiny and disposal of his only child.

It was distinctly and strongly in Miss Spoonbill’s recollection that there had been a time, and that not far back, when it was thought desirable by the friends of Miss Primrose to seek out for her some occupation or employment. Now Miss Spoonbill had no knowledge whatever of the circumstances under which Mr Primrose had returned to England, nor had she any thought whatever on the subject, but she took it for granted that the father could not be less anxious to dispose of the young lady in some situation than the uncle and aunt had been, therefore with most considerate condescension did Miss Spoonbill discourse to Mr Primrose on the importance of giving the young lady an occupation. But this conversation was not audible to the whole party, and unfortunately the part which Mr Primrose took in it was not audible even to Miss Spoonbill herself; for the lady’s hearing was not very good, and Mr Primrose had such an awkward and confused manner of whispering that he was hardly intelligible. And such was the fertility of Miss Spoonbill’s imagination, that it supplied all the deficiencies hearing or apprehension.

“And so, Mr Primrose,” gently and lowly said Miss Spoonbill, “you have not found a situation for your daughter yet?”

“I thank you, madam,” replied Mr Primrose, “but there is no occasion for it.”

“Oh yes, certainly,” said Miss Spoonbill, “I think you were perfectly right. I by no means approve of the profession of a public singer. But I am sure my cousin Lord Smatterton, or his amiable Countess, might find some more suitable employment. I will write to them myself. They are very benevolent people, but they need to be reminded now and then.”

“I beg, madam,” returned Mr Primrose, “that you will not by any means think of giving yourself that trouble; I have it in my power to provide for my daughter.”

“Say nothing about the trouble, Mr Primrose,” continued Miss Spoonbill; “I insist upon writing myself, and I think I have some influence with the Earl and Countess. I assure you, Mr Primrose, I entertain a very great regard for your daughter.”

Mr Primrose took all the pains he could to make the lady understand him, but it was not pleasant for him to speak out loud in the audience of all the party, and therefore he let the subject drop as quietly as he could, resolving to take the first opportunity of explaining himself more distinctly and audibly than he could when within hearing of his daughter and many others.

CHAPTER IV.

On the following morning, Miss Honoria put her threat in execution, or, according to her own view of the matter, fulfilled her promise of writing to her noble relatives, exhorting them to use their best diligence to provide some occupation for Miss Primrose, better suited to her retired habits and education than the profession of a public singer. The letter was written and sent off early, and on the same morning another letter was written by Colonel Crop, addressed to Lord Spoonbill, informing his lordship of the progress which had been made in the negociation. The colonel’s letter was but short. It ran thus:—

“My lord,”

“I have the honor to inform your lordship, that there seems to be no chance of obtaining the lady, but by marriage. I have conversed about the matter with Sir George Aimwell, and he would not hear of any other arrangement.”

“I have the honor to be, &c. &c.”

With the result of these letters, our readers will be acquainted in due course. In the meantime the worthy baronet found it inconvenient to keep from her ladyship the knowledge which he had acquired from Colonel Crop, concerning the imagined attachment of Lord Spoonbill to Arabella. The baronet’s anxiety to communicate the secret to Lady Aimwell did not arise from any desire to gratify her ladyship, but from a wish to mortify her. For she had never regarded Arabella with any great degree of kindness, or behaved towards her with much consideration and politeness. It seemed to be the domestic system of Neverden Hall for Sir George and her ladyship always to be diametrically opposed to each other in their likes and dislikes. In fact, the only thing in which they seemed to agree, was in a determination to disagree in everything.

The worthy magistrate was not in the best of all possible humours when the shooting season was over, and her ladyship, who made it a frequent subject of sneering complaint that she had so little of her husband’s company, was generally most out of humour when she had most of his company. Lady Aimwell usually employed her time in reading; and her favorite books were Stackhouse’s History of the Bible, and Richardson’s Novels, and when employed in this pursuit, she was very partial to an empty apartment or a silent companion. But her most amiable lord and master did not always indulge his better half with this desired luxury. So it came to pass that the neighbours used in the plenitude of their wisdom, and in the impertinence of their criticism, to remark that Sir George and Lady Aimwell did not live happily together. But they who made that remark were very superficial and unreflecting observers. It is not to be called a strange notion, because it is a very common and almost universal notion, that nobody can be happy who does not live according to our own notions of happiness. To be sure they did not know how happy they were, and while they were grumbling and growling at each other they possessed a satisfaction in, and derived a pleasure from, that growling and grumbling which they professed to regard as a calamity. And we cannot think it possible that any beings in possession of their senses would voluntarily and repeatedly do that which afforded them no pleasure. Sir George and his lady grumbled at one another, and they liked grumbling, and they were happy in grumbling.

One morning, very soon after Colonel Crop had revealed to Sir George the object which detained him at Smatterton, the baronet introduced himself, unasked, into the drawing-room, where her ladyship was sitting with her favorite folio displayed before her. And her ladyship lifted up her eyes and saw the worthy baronet, and spoke not to him, but continued her reading. The baronet also looked at her ladyship and was also silent. The baronet walked up and down the room with heavy monotonous tread, and ever and anon her ladyship looked at him as if wishing that he would have the goodness to take himself off. But the baronet would not take himself off; and then her ladyship frowned and sighed; and in that sigh there was nothing of tenderness; but its tone, if a sigh can have a tone, was indicative of sulkiness and mortification. The baronet heard the sigh and saw the frowns, but would not take any notice of them. When the baronet was tired of pacing up and down the room, he threw himself upon a sofa; and then her ladyship looked at the baronet’s boots, and the boots bore evident symptoms of having been in the stable, and as they came into seriously close contact with the fine chintz cover of the sofa, her ladyship grew more sulky, and from the thick smoke of her sulkiness there broke forth at length the fire of angry words; and her ladyship said:

“I think dirty boots are hardly fit ornaments for sofas.”

“But suppose I think they are, my lady?” replied the baronet.

To that supposition her ladyship made no reply, and indeed there was little that could be said on the subject. Passing on from the dirty boots to other grievances, her ladyship said:

“And pray, Sir George Aimwell, may I be permitted to ask how long we are to have the pleasure of Miss Glossop’s company?”

“Till she is married, my lady;” responded the worthy baronet.

“Till she is married!” echoed the astonished lady; “and when is that to be? I never heard of any prospect of that event.”

“Then, if it will afford your ladyship any pleasure, I will tell you,” replied the baronet.

“Indeed,” replied Lady Aimwell, “I have no wish to know anything about the young lady’s affairs. I will venture to say, that Mr Robert Darnley knows better than to make any proposal to her.”

“Very likely, my lady,” replied the magistrate, “but somebody else may not know better. What think you of Lord Spoonbill as a husband for this favorite young lady of yours?”

“Lord Spoonbill! Nonsense,” said her ladyship in a tone of most exquisite contempt. “I never took his lordship for a conjuror, but he is hardly fool enough for that.”

“I am not aware of your ladyship’s notion of conjurors,” replied the baronet, “but I can tell you for a fact, that I had it from Colonel Crop that Lord Spoonbill has it in his intention to offer marriage to your favorite young friend, and the colonel is here to negociate.”

Thereupon her ladyship was angry, and assuming an almost theatrical attitude, and pushing aside Stackhouse’s History of the Bible, exclaimed, “Ridiculous! Contemptible! Colonel Crop is only laughing at you, and endeavouring to make a fool of the silly girl. But she has vanity enough to believe anything.”

It was only on very extraordinary occasions that Lady Aimwell expressed herself with so much energy. And though the language here recorded does not bear the semblance of mighty vehemence or overpowering and impassioned eloquence, yet it was very vehement and very eloquent compared to her usual mode of expression; and her ladyship was almost exhausted by the energy with which she spoke, and the baronet, whom in this sentence we can hardly call worthy, felt no compassion for her ladyship’s sufferings under the exhaustion of her eloquence; but on the contrary, coolly smiled at her agitation, and sneeringly said:

“Let me beg of your ladyship not to fatigue yourself by such great exertions. You had better compose yourself. Shall I bring you a smelling bottle?”

Thus did the baronet make a mockery at her ladyship’s nervousness; and having made that rude speech he forthwith quitted the apartment, leaving the discussion unfinished and the particulars untold.

His place in the drawing-room was soon supplied by Miss Arabella Glossop; and this second intruder was scarcely more welcome than the first. Her ladyship, however, was so far disturbed from her reading, that now the great volume was closed. And it was very polite and considerate in Miss Glossop not to suffer her ladyship to replace the heavy book on the table where it usually lay, but her ladyship silently and frowningly resisted Miss Glossop’s politeness, so that the young lady was under the necessity of almost forcibly taking the ponderous volume from the feeble hands that held it. But there was no rudeness in the violence, it was rather the earnestness of friendly officiousness.

There are however some tempers and some states of mind which convert almost everything into an affront; and even civilities themselves, offered with all the considerateness and circumspection imaginable or devisable, are wilfully and cruelly tortured into a wrong meaning. This dexterity of misinterpretation Lady Aimwell possessed in a degree not becoming her rank as the lady of a baronet and a magistrate.

It must indeed be acknowledged, that there was some little more excuse for Lady Aimwell than for Mrs Greendale, whose temper, our readers will recollect, was of a similar description. But there was a great and wide difference between the manners of Miss Primrose and the general stile and manner of Miss Glossop. The former was gentle, quiet and unobtrusive; the latter was noisy, vulgar and affected. And there was also a mighty difference between Sir George Aimwell and the late Dr Greendale. The baronet was coarse, unfeeling and inconsiderate; while the doctor was meek, polite, and generally attentive and considerate. It is not to be wondered at that Lady Aimwell was occasionally morose and pettish. And above all there was this difference in the lot of the two ladies, namely, that Mrs Greendale was, with very few exceptions indeed, master and mistress too, while poor Lady Aimwell was neither one nor the other; her ladyship might well enough read Stackhouse and be sulky.

Miss Glossop, observing the unusual moroseness of her ladyship, and not wishing to give offence directly or indirectly, thought it was but a piece of civility to ask whether her ladyship was unwell. To this courteous interrogation, her ladyship thought not fit to give a direct and immediate answer; but being thus compelled to speak, she did break out with mighty vehemence against poor Miss Glossop.

“I do not know, Miss Glossop,” exclaimed Lady Aimwell, “what may be your ideas of propriety; but I know that, when I was young, if any one had acted as you did at the castle the other day, it would have been considered a very great breach of decorum.”

To this very abrupt and indefinite accusation Miss Glossop pleaded not guilty, saying, “I do not know what your ladyship alludes to. I certainly did look over the castle in company with Lord Spoonbill, but I can see no impropriety in that.”

“I dare say not,” replied her ladyship; “but I can see a very great impropriety in a young woman’s strolling about by herself and throwing herself in the way of profligate young men.”

Such an accusation or insinuation as this would have been too much for a meeker spirit than that of Miss Glossop to bear with patience; and the young lady accordingly felt violently indignant, and coloured deeply; and with quivering lip and agitated voice replied, “Lady Aimwell, I don’t understand such insinuations. My father did not send me here to be insulted.”

What the climax of this speech might have been, is unknown. It was manifest, by the intonation of the young lady’s voice, that she had not arrived at the conclusion of the sentence, but her agitation and indignation suffered her not to proceed farther with verbal reply or expostulation, and she found relief in a shower of tears; and in a true tragedy passion she threw herself upon the sofa, where Sir George Aimwell had a few minutes before been lounging in his dirty boots. But neither the young lady’s eloquence nor her tears could soften the heart of Lady Aimwell, who, instead of diminishing the asperity of her rebukes, continued her reproaches, and observed:

“You may put yourself into as great a passion as you please, Miss Glossop, but give me leave to tell you that, while you are under this roof, I consider myself responsible for your conduct. And if you cannot behave yourself properly here, you must be sent home and put into safer custody. A pretty story indeed Sir George has been amusing me with! and Colonel Crop too is to have the honour of negociating with Miss Glossop, and offering to her acceptance the hand of Lord Spoonbill. And can you really be so weak as to imagine that his lordship would think of making a proposal of this nature to you; the very mode of making the offer is insulting.”

This was rather a long speech for Lady Aimwell to make, and for Miss Glossop to hear without interrupting it. But her ladyship took breath and proceeded deliberately, while Miss Glossop was sobbing and sighing in the speechless bitterness of her heart. As soon, however, as she recovered the power of speech, Arabella did use her tongue most actively and angrily, protesting that there was not a word of truth in the whole story, and that she had not even seen Colonel Crop since her accidentally meeting with Lord Spoonbill.

The young lady, however, though denying the truth of the accusation, did not seem to regard the matter, supposing it might be true, as anything very heinous; nor did she think that, if Colonel Crop should actually state to her in so many words that Lord Spoonbill was in love with her, she should treat the information with foul scorn.

After having thoroughly discussed the subject with Lady Aimwell, and having denied all intention of purposely placing herself in Lord Spoonbill’s way, Arabella Glossop retired to meditate with herself on this discovery. For though she had endeavoured to make herself agreeable to Lord Spoonbill, and though she had played off her magnificent and affected airs, it certainly had not been with any deliberate and settled design to win his lordship’s heart, but simply and purely to gratify her own vanity in playing off fine airs in the presence of a lord. There is a something in a lord so fascinating, so enchanting, no anatomist has ever yet discovered it, but it makes fools of wise men, and bends the knee in adoration, even when the understanding and the nobler powers of the mind cry “Fudge.” People make a fuss about the haughtiness and distance of nobility; but what would become of lords and right honorables, and all that sort of thing, if they were not to keep themselves most gorgeously select. They would be persecuted, baited, how-d’ye-do’d, and arm-in-armed even to suffocation, were it not that they kept the common people at an inordinate distance. If it were not for the principle of exclusiveness, lords would be in the same condition as Pidcock’s wild beasts, if open gratuitously to public curiosity. Very likely in both cases curiosity might soon be gratified, and the spectators might proclaim that there was nothing very wonderful after all. But Pidcock will never exhibit gratuitously, and lords will never associate with plebeians.

Miss Glossop, as has been said above, retired to meditate on what she had heard. And though she had been in a violent passion, and had cried most bitterly in consequence of what Lady Aimwell had said to her, yet she could not help thinking that there might be some truth and some importance in what had been said. It was possible that Lord Spoonbill might have been fascinated with her very graceful manners, or have been charmed with her exquisitely beautiful musical execution, or have been delighted with the symptoms of good taste which she had displayed in her unequivocal and unqualified admiration of the magnificence and finery of Smatterton castle.

From thence the young lady proceeded to think, and in whispers to herself to say, that few persons had such a true and proper sentiment of the sublime and beautiful as she had, and that the peculiarity which separated the higher from the lower classes was not merely hereditary claim or distinguished and extraordinary opulence, but rather a sort of a kind of a superfine, elegant, nobody knows what, which Miss Glossop possessed, according to her own notion of that matter, most superabundantly. And while Miss Glossop meditated, Miss Glossop became in her own mind a countess, a marchioness, a duchess. This was indeed but a proper and suitable compensation for the annoyance which she had experienced from the wise, virtuous, censorious, and disinterested prating of Lady Aimwell.

CHAPTER V.

All as yet had been silence at Neverden rectory. Mr Darnley the elder, and Mrs Darnley and the young ladies, all knew as well as could be that Robert had renewed his acquaintance with Miss Primrose; but the father was wilfully and perversely silent on the subject, and the rest of the family felt themselves in duty bound to be silent also.

There is something curious and awkward in a kind of family—not quarrel, but coldness, when the family is not habituated to anything of that nature. Some families always have a species of domestic sparring, or are periodically visited with a fit of family sulks, and then it passes off very glibly and quietly, and makes no more alteration in, or impression upon, the ordinary family features, than does the light cloud that passes over the moon.

It was not so with the Darnleys. They had always been an united, harmonious, sensible, well conducted family. Mrs Darnley thought her husband to be little short of a conjuror, sure proof that she was none. The young ladies, though they had read Locke’s Essay, De Lolme on the Constitution, and Mitford’s History of Greece, yet thought that their father knew every thing that an honest man ought to know. But the females of the family had of late years begun to divide their intellectual allegiance between the father and son; for Robert had written such “very pretty” letters, and had conveyed to them so much information, that they could not but regard him as a very superior kind of personage. Seeing that the young gentleman had been abroad, it became natural to his mother and sisters to imagine that he must know much more than those who had not been abroad; but neither mother nor sisters, with all the advantages which they had derived from the wisdom of the rector of Neverden, had ever found out or even suspected the difference between knowing more and knowing better.

Therefore, when it came to pass that Robert Darnley, contrary to the will and wish of his father, had renewed the acquaintance with Miss Primrose, the ladies knew not which side to take, and so they wisely took neither. What a bustle would be saved at elections, and how quiet would be the House of Commons, if nobody voted but those who knew why they voted.

As the Darnley family was not habituated to coolness or quarrelling, the present fit of silence was very inconvenient. And every day when the family met at breakfast and dinner, they looked at one another most imploringly, as if begging for something beyond the ordinary common-place, unavoidable speaking, which must of necessity take place at every table. Mrs Darnley was quite in the fidgets. She tried over and over again, but all to no purpose, to compel her reverend spouse to say something about Smatterton; and fifty times at least, within the space of a very few days, did she almost begin to introduce the discussion by main force, but as often did she retire from the attempt damped and dispirited.

The worthy rector kept up his stately reserve; and every morning did Robert Darnley walk over to Smatterton, and every afternoon did he as regularly return to dine with his family; and though his father knew, or at least strongly conjectured where he had been, yet no mention was made of it.

People who know nothing more about Christianity than what they read in the New Testament, might imagine that a minister of that religion would, in the discharge of his official duties, have met with some sentiment or expression that might have aroused the feelings of consideration and forgiveness in his bosom, and have reminded him that silent sulkiness was not one of the Christian graces. But it is far easier to accommodate religion to our caprices, than to regulate our conduct by religion. And Mr Darnley had been so long accustomed to utter a set of words, that he forgot that any meaning was attached to them.

It was not by Mr Darnley the elder, nor by the impatient Mrs Darnley, nor by the knowing Miss Darnleys, that the painful family silence was at last broken; but it was by the plain, straightforward conduct of the young gentleman himself, who became impatient of the miserable restraint which his father’s obstinate humour had imposed upon the family.

One morning at breakfast, when nothing had been said by any one of the family, except about tea and eggs and bread and butter, Robert Darnley said very deliberately and respectfully to his father:

“If you are not engaged this morning, Sir, I shall be glad to have a little conversation with you.”

Mr Darnley the elder anticipated in a moment what was to be the nature of the conversation; but as no intimation to that effect was given by the young gentleman, the father could only say in reply, that he was quite at liberty to hear anything that his son might have to say to him.

Oh, how anxious were the ladies of the family to hear the result of this important meeting! The first congress of the sovereigns composing the holy alliance or spiritual conspiracy, did not excite a greater sensation in the hearts of European subjects or abjects, than did this meditated meeting in the study of Neverden rectory, between father and son, excite in the bosoms of Mrs and the Miss Darnleys.

The meeting took place. The young man had the advantage of self-possession, a clear and definite object, and a fearlessness in the avowal and statement of it. The father had changed his mind repeatedly between the time of proposing the interview, and that of meeting his son. The rector of Neverden had previously made up his mind to silence; but not anticipating that the young man would break the silence, was not prepared with any set mode of conduct, or any definite reply to anything that might be said. The father had already perceived that the young man was resolute and decisive, therefore it was no easy matter to meet the resoluteness of actual power by the pompousness of an empty and bygone authority. Mr Darnley knew that his son would have his own way; and with all the austerity which the rector of Neverden could possibly assume, he entered upon the conference.

The young gentleman very unaffectedly and calmly entered upon the subject, and respectfully said to his father: “It gives me great uneasiness, Sir, to observe that my acquaintance with Miss Primrose, which formerly was so pleasant and acceptable, should now be the means of throwing a damp over the spirits of all the family.”

Mr Robert Darnley was in hopes that to this introduction his father would make some reply, explanatory of his reasons for having so pertinaciously frowned his disapprobation. But the rector was silent, and turned away his face and looked out at the window, as much as to intimate that he was perfectly indifferent to anything which the young gentleman might be pleased to say upon that topic. But this kind of procedure was not only disrespectful and unhandsome towards his son, but was not consistent with the respect which the reverend gentleman owed to himself. And Robert Darnley was now at an age to be treated like a rational and reflecting being, and it was by no means proper and decorous to behave towards him in this cavalier style.

It is a great pity that many very good and virtuous men do sometimes so far forget themselves, as to yield more readily to the impulses of caprice, than to the sober dictates of judgment. And when in anything like a quarrel, dispute, or diversity of opinion, an elder gives way to improper feelings, he thereby loses so much of the natural dignity and advantage which age would otherwise have given him, and sinks to, or even below, the level of the younger.

So situated was the elder Darnley on this occasion; and his situation was truly lamentable. He had set up an opposition to his son’s inclinations, and he had not the power to carry forward the opposition triumphantly and successfully, nor had he the wisdom and discretion to make a speedy and prudent retreat. There would have been a great saving of painful feeling if, when he saw that his opposition was and must be fruitless, he had gently given way. He now felt the awkwardness of the position in which he had obstinately placed himself, and the young man also felt that he had an advantage over his father, which advantage he could not but use, yet he used it gently and gracefully.

Modulating his voice to its mildest tone, and taking by gentle force his father’s hand, the young man said:

“If, sir, you will not speak to me, will you hear me?”

The father’s eyelids moved rapidly and his lips were compressed, and he said with something of an effort, “Certainly.”

“Then, sir,” replied the young man, “I must say that, while I am grieved that you should regard Miss Primrose with such altered feelings, since I feel myself satisfied that her conduct has been perfectly correct, and that her mind is pure, I consider that I am so much bound by the engagement which was made some years ago, as if our correspondence had never been interrupted. I am convinced by the most unequivocal testimony that Miss Primrose did not decline the correspondence, and that her situation in London, under the patronage of the Countess of Smatterton, was altogether involuntary and painful. The reports which have been circulated here concerning the young lady, are not only absolutely false, but they have not even the shadow of a foundation. They are altogether a malicious invention, and that for the vilest of purposes.”

Mr Darnley the elder here shook his head, and directed to his son a look of compassion, and a smile of incredulity, and said; “Foolish boy! How easily those artful people can impose upon your ignorance and simplicity.”

Robert Darnley returned the smile of incredulity and said; “But I have other evidence than that of Miss Primrose or her father.”

The father impatiently interrupted his son, and with pomposity replied; “Young man, have I not eyes to see, ears to hear, and understanding to discern? I speak of what I know. My objection against this young woman is not from hearsay. I offered her an asylum in this house, an asylum of comfort and of respectability. She was graceless enough to refuse it. She preferred to throw herself upon the patronage of the Countess of Smatterton, and to adopt the profession of a public singer, a proceeding against which her most worthy uncle the late Dr Greendale so seriously and repeatedly cautioned her. That was not well done. It was not reputable; it was not treating that good man’s memory with proper respect. It was explicitly renouncing all connexion with my family; for she could not imagine that, after such conduct, any of us should be weak enough to take notice of her again.”

“But, my dear father,” mildly interrupted Robert Darnley, “as our correspondence was intercepted, might not Miss Primrose imagine that I had ceased to regard her with affection, and might she not suppose that the intention of renouncing was on my part, and how then could she with any propriety accept of the asylum which you were kind enough to offer her? Indeed, sir, I am well acquainted with all the circumstances, and I am sure that if you would make enquiries, you would find that Miss Primrose has uniformly and invariably behaved with the utmost propriety.”

The young man was young indeed, to imagine that such logic as this could have any influence on his father’s mind, or lead to the slightest change in his feelings and views. This gentleness of expostulation had a tendency rather to render the rector’s prejudice more inveterate; and this the young gentleman perceived when he heard his father reply:

“I beg, child, that you would not talk so ridiculously. Do you think I am weak enough to be imposed upon as you have been, and to be persuaded out of my senses? I tell you plainly and positively that I will never give my consent or approbation to your marriage with Miss Primrose; but you may do as you please, you are of age.”

The young man at this speech felt that logic was superfluous, and that no evidence could convince a wilfully-closed eye. Therefore seeing that nothing was left him but the most positive and decided obstinacy, he as conclusively replied:

“Then, sir, I am very sorry that I must express my determination under such unpleasant circumstances; but, since you will not be persuaded, I must say that it is my fixed determination to marry Miss Primrose very shortly; the day is not absolutely fixed, but it will not be at any great distance of time.”

Then the rector trembled and turned pale, and he endeavoured to fix his eyes sternly and reproachfully on his son, but the agitation of his mind was too great to leave him any power or command over his muscles, or even to suffer him to speak. And instead of fixing a look of sternness on his son, he looked at him wildly and unmeaningly, and his lips moved, but they uttered no articulate sound. And the young man was grieved and terrified at these hideous symptoms of ungovernable and overwhelming anger. He rose therefore hastily from his seat and again grasped his father’s hand, not gently and persuasively as before, but with an agitation almost as great as that which he was desirous of subduing. The movement a little recalled the consciousness of the agitated parent, and when Robert Darnley was just about to speak, his father hastily and loudly exclaimed; “Peace, boy, peace! not another word, unless you wish to break your father’s heart!”

The young man was wise enough to keep his lips closed. But he was painfully distressed at the visible effect which had been produced upon his father. He therefore sat down again watching the countenance of his angry parent, and almost wishing that he had not been so positive. After a few minutes had elapsed the elder Darnley regained his self-possession, and expressed to his son a wish to be left alone.

Robert Darnley obeyed the intimation and retired. He did not dare say a word more on the subject of their interview, and he was greatly perplexed as to what steps he should take. For it had been his decided intention to go over to Smatterton on this very morning, for the purpose of making a final arrangement. He had never before seen his father, or indeed any one else, under the influence of such powerful feelings. He thought that if he should go to Smatterton now, such an overt act of rebellion would be too much for his father’s agitated nerves to bear, and might be productive of serious consequences. Instead therefore of going to Smatterton, he sought his mother and sisters, and gratified their curiosity by informing them of all the particulars of his interview with his father.

Now, though the ladies of the family were not most amicably disposed towards Miss Primrose, they more easily yielded to the logic and eloquence of Robert Darnley than his father had done. They were pleased that their lips were set at liberty to speak on the subject; for it is very unpleasant when in a family there is a forced silence, or a prohibition to speak on any particular subject. They listened very attentively to the history which the young gentleman gave them of the treachery of the letter-carrier, and they one and all lifted up their hands and eyes in mute astonishment at the wickedness of Lord Spoonbill.

But when Robert Darnley gave them an account of what poor Penelope had suffered, and how reluctantly she had been dragged up to London, and how destitute and friendless she had felt herself before she had given her consent to the favorite scheme of the Countess of Smatterton, then did they pity her, and they began to blame themselves that they had ever thought unworthily of her. And then they did all express the most sincere and hearty wishes and hopes that Mr Darnley the elder would soon be reconciled, and they thought and said how happy they should be to renew the acquaintance with Penelope.

Mrs Darnley went so far as to say that she would take the earliest opportunity of calling upon Miss Primrose; but it was presently suggested by the rest of the party, that such a measure would not be most advisable in present circumstances.

“Or, at all events,” said Robert Darnley, “if you were to call, it would be desirable that you should let Mr Primrose and Penelope understand that your visit is made without my father’s knowledge.”

This remark the young gentleman made, because he knew that Penelope would expect him, inasmuch as he had at his last visit to Smatterton confidently said, that he so well knew his father’s temper that he was satisfied that all objection would disappear very speedily when the real state of the case should be made known. The young man however had not rightly calculated on the power of prejudice and the force of obstinate and wilful blindness.

Now, though Mrs Darnley was the best tempered woman in the world, and was disposed to do any one a service, yet she had in a very high degree the gift of clumsiness, and was quite as likely to do harm as good, notwithstanding her very best and sincerest intentions. The young ladies therefore dissuaded their mother from her proposal; but when they understood that their brother was especially anxious just at this time to see Penelope, or at least to send some message to her, and that it would be exceedingly hazardous that he should go at the present juncture, they proposed that they would take a walk to Smatterton, and endeavour as it were, by accident, to fall in with Penelope. The young gentleman was pleased with the offer and accepted it.

CHAPTER VI.

That the daughters of the rector of Neverden should all three walk out together on a fine morning was by no means remarkable, for it was their constant practice; and that they should turn towards Smatterton when they went out at the great gate, was not at all wonderful, for had they turned the other way they would have had no walk but on the narrow straightforward road. So that when Mr Darnley the elder saw them from his study window, he had not the remotest suspicion of the object of their excursion.

As the young ladies walked together they also talked together, and it would be easier to count their steps than to recount their words. They all loved their brother very sincerely, and they had once sincerely and dearly loved Penelope; and they were very happy to love her again. And as their pity had been roused by the story of her sufferings, they almost reproached themselves that they had ever thought unkindly of her, or spoken coolly to her; and they now resolved that, if they should meet with her, they would overwhelm her with kindness. They talked also much and loudly concerning the unaccountable opposition which their father was making to a reconciliation and renewal of the acquaintance. Manifold and incessant too was the talk as to the most likely means of falling in with Penelope, without actually going to the house.

In this chorus kind of deliberation, when every individual of the council is speaking at once, there is an inconvenience, and for the most part an entire frustration of the object of conjoint consultation. The collective wisdom becomes neutralized by the collective and contemporaneous gabble, and the speakers, all speaking at once, hear and know nothing but their own individual opinion, which they might know quite as well without making so much noise about it.

Through much and fruitless talking they arrived within the village of Smatterton, and they turned their faces in every direction, and almost rudely looked into the cottages, in hopes of catching a sight of Penelope; for that young lady had, during the life of Doctor Greendale, been very much in the habit of visiting the poor people: for though the worthy doctor was a very benevolent and kind-hearted man, his theological studies did not leave him much time for visiting and talking with his flock; and as for poor Mrs Greendale, nobody that knew how incessant and laborious was the attention that she paid to domestic affairs, could for a moment suppose it possible that any of her valuable time could be spared from home. Penelope therefore undertook the duty of visiting such as were sick, and administering to their necessities according to the means and liberality of her worthy uncle.

In looking into these cottages, the young ladies as they passed were under the necessity of speaking to some of the inhabitants, and when the poor people heard what was the object of their search, they broke forth very eloquently in praise of Penelope, and they expressed themselves very greatly delighted that the good young lady had come to reside amongst them again. This commendatory language was very acceptable and agreeable to the daughters of the rector of Neverden, and therefore they listened to it very cordially and attentively. And they enquired whether Penelope was still in the habit of visiting the cottages as before, and the poor people gratefully and pleasedly acknowledged that she was, and that her liberality was greater than ever. But the recipients of voluntary bounties are sometimes inclined to be jealous, and especially of any new invader of what they almost think to be their right. While therefore they spoke in praise of Miss Primrose, they could not help speaking rather censoriously of what they called “a strange creter as nobody knows,” who had recently taken up his abode at Smatterton, having been passed there to his parish. And they said that Miss Primrose was quite as good to that old man as to any of the poor who had lived all their life in Smatterton. They added also, that very likely Miss Primrose might be found there, for she generally called at that cottage every day. At this information the young ladies hastened to the place to which they were directed.

“Cottage” is a very pretty word; it sounds very well, makes a charming picture, and presents to a fertile and creative imagination many pleasing associations and images. And perhaps to some fancies it might be more delectable to dwell in a cottage than in a castle. But the cottage of an absolutely poor and destitute family—the cottage into which the overseers of a country parish put the dependents on the parish rates—is not altogether the most pleasing object either to its inmates or to the casual spectator. To a cottage of this description the young ladies now approached.

The building—if such a term be applicable to so miserable a composition of sticks, stones, and mud—had but two apartments; one below, which was entered by three descending steps; and another above, which was accessible by means of nine or ten steep, black, broken, creaking, and tottering stairs. The door was not fastened, and it yielded to a gentle pressure of the hand; it seemed indeed not capable of being fastened; the three worm-eaten planks of which it was composed were far apart, and the long rusty hinges were almost unequal to the duty of supporting its weight. The young ladies cautiously and quietly, one by one, entered the lower apartment, and they simultaneously shuddered at the sight of such destitution and wretchedness as appeared in the miserable hovel. They had been walking in the broad sunshine, and their eyes so felt the sudden transition from light to darkness, that they could not at first discern whether or not there was any one in the room. There was indeed a window, but its absent glass was so supplied by patches of dingy paper and stuffings of old dirty fragments of woollen wearing apparel, and the deep black thatch, of which the roof was composed, projected so far over the aperture of the window, which was also near the ground, that little light could reach it and less could pass through it. When the eye was so far reconciled to the degree of light which was within the cottage as to be able to see the extent and contents of the room, the young ladies thought they were in an unoccupied apartment. For they could see very little that bore any resemblance to furniture. There was neither chair, nor table, nor bedstead. There was a large fire-place, having no grate, but two thin little bars of iron which contained the ashes of some recently expired fire, and there stood by the fire-place an earthen pipkin, black and empty. In one corner of the room, the most remote from the window and the door, was a heap of straw, very dirty and partly covered with an old rug of no shape or colour.

And when they lifted up their eyes in astonishment, they perceived that the room had no ceiling, and the boards which served as the floor of the upper room were widely apart, letting in light through the crevices. And they heard the sound of a feeble voice and the faint moanings of sickness. And as they were hesitating whether they should venture to ascend to the room above, they heard a footstep quickly moving, and presently from the top of the stairs they heard one calling out, “Who’s there?”

They immediately knew the voice to be that of Penelope; they therefore directly and promptly answered her, and they called her cheerfully by name, and she with fluttering agitation descended as rapidly as the crazy stairs would allow her. They all three held out their hands to her, and the meeting, though in so miserable a place, was delightful to both parties. To Penelope it was most especially agreeable, for it was an indication to her mind of returning good-will on the part of the elder Mr Darnley.

All the young ladies talked together rapidly and cheerfully, till Penelope recollected that there was a sick one in the room above who might be disturbed by the tumult below. And therefore she recommended that they should leave the cottage, and she proposed that the young ladies should accompany her back to the parsonage. But, as they stepped out into the open air, there was an insuperable objection started against an adjournment to Penelope’s home.

At hearing this objection the poor girl’s spirit sunk again. It was grievous to her to hear that Mr Darnley still persevered in his morose opposition; for Robert Darnley had with very great confidence asserted, that he had not the slightest doubt that he should, by speaking positively and acting decidedly, bring his father to give his consent and approbation. The young lady had expressed to Robert Darnley that she would not, without this consent and approbation, give him her hand; it was therefore a painful shock to her spirit, when she heard from his sisters that the father was so much moved at the proposal, that the young gentleman did not think it advisable even to pay a visit to Smatterton.

Penelope made a great effort to conceal her emotion from the sisters of Robert Darnley, but it was not an easy task to hide those feelings which were so powerful. The young ladies were sorry to see that Miss Primrose suffered so much from the unpleasant intelligence, and they really felt a deep compassion for her; and as they had in time past been angry with her, and had suppressed all kindly feelings, they now made up for former coldness or ill-humour by a super-abundant measure of sympathy and affection. And they spoke words of encouragement to her, and told her of their brother’s firmness and constancy. For their kindness Penelope was truly grateful, and though a tear was visibly starting, she assumed as well as could be an aspect of cheerfulness, and she thanked them for their kindness.

They were standing together in an attitude of hesitation near the wretched cottage from which they had just emerged. And Penelope, as if to divert her thoughts from her own sorrows, and to make her lot look bright by contemplating one that was much darker, said to the Miss Darnleys: “I have just been witnessing in this miserable dwelling a scene of such heart-rending distress, as I could scarcely have imagined it possible for human nature to endure or human guilt to deserve.”

To such an exordium as this the young ladies listened with the most serious and interested attention. It is not that there is any pleasure derived from the consideration of the sufferings of our fellow creatures, that we love to dwell upon tales of woe; but our Creator has furnished sympathy with an indescribable attractiveness, which forbids us to withdraw our attention even from that which is painful. So the young ladies were desirous of hearing from Penelope some particulars of the sorrows to which she alluded; and they, thinking that there was no calamity in the houses of the poor but that which the purses of the wealthy might remove, were all ready to offer their contributions; and they expressed their concern that there should be human beings living in such a miserable unfurnished hovel, and they talked about blankets and old clothes which should be immediately sent from Neverden.

“I thank you,” replied Miss Primrose, “for your kind offers, but they are not needed. The poor creatures are near the end of their sufferings, and such alleviation as could be afforded them they have received.”

The young ladies then enquired, “Who are they? Are they very old people?”

And Penelope replied, “One of them is very old, and the other is very young. The old man belongs to this parish, and has been very lately passed here from the place where he has been living, for the overseers of Smatterton would not otherwise make him any allowance. The younger sufferer is the old man’s grand-daughter, and she is in the last stage of a consumption, and suffering more from remorse than from bodily pain.”

“From remorse!” exclaimed the young ladies.

Then Penelope explained to them that, by the profligate Lord Spoonbill, this simple girl had been led from the paths of innocence. That by her transgression she had broken the heart of her widowed mother. That she had been kindly received by an aunt, who by labour and self-denial supported the old man her father, and this poor desolate outcast. Penelope then went on to say that this aunt had recently died, and that the old man had no other resource than the parish; and that the poor misguided one would have worked for him, but her strength was gone. So they, being feeble, helpless and destitute, and both of them broken-hearted, sought for a place to die in, and the parish of Smatterton gave them that cottage and allowed them a few shillings weekly.

“And when I heard,” continued Penelope, “that there was a couple of such sufferers I went to see them, and I was sick at heart when I witnessed their misery and destitution. I then desired my father to speak to the overseers, that a larger allowance might be made them; but I was informed that only the old man belonged to Smatterton, and the grand-daughter, having been born elsewhere, had no claim on Smatterton; but that she might, if she would, be taken into the poor-house of her own parish. The poor girl however could not bear to leave her grand-father; and the old man being now quite helpless could not part with his only remaining one. And we have contrived to give the poor creatures such comforts as their situation required; and the poor girl’s gratitude is painful to me and distressing to herself. She is continually reproaching herself and expressing her sense of her unworthiness of every comfort she enjoys. It was but this morning that she told me the whole of her history, and she had just concluded her story when I heard your voices in the cottage. She was at that moment saying, “Tell Lord Spoonbill that Ellen Fitzpatrick forgives him.”

Now, when the ladies heard the name of Fitzpatrick mentioned, they looked enquiringly one at another, and the elder sister said, “Fitzpatrick! I wonder whether that is the man that my father used to talk about.”

Then turning to Penelope, she said; “Do you know, Miss Primrose, whether this poor man was ever gamekeeper to the late Lord Smatterton?”

After a moment’s hesitation, and a look of effort to recollect, Penelope replied, “Yes, I think I heard him say that, in his younger days, he was in the late Lord Smatterton’s service.”

The young ladies were convinced that it must be the same, and they then told Penelope that this poor old man had many years ago saved their father’s life, or at least had saved him from very imminent danger, by plunging into a mill-stream and dragging him out when he was much nearer to danger than he apprehended. And they were very sure, from the manner in which their father had often spoke of the poor man’s services, that his kindness was not forgotten.

Penelope, who had no wish to see Mr Darnley the elder at Smatterton, observed, that it would be quite superfluous to trouble him, for whatever the situations of the poor creatures required, was abundantly supplied them, and they could not long stand in any need of assistance.

Thus they parted. The Miss Darnleys having delivered their message, returned back to Neverden, and Penelope, whose mind was in a frame to delight rather in what was sorrowful than in what was cheerful, went back again into the poor man’s cottage, and lost sight of her own griefs in endeavouring to alleviate the sorrows of another.

CHAPTER VII.

After Mr Darnley the elder had finished his unpleasant colloquy with his son, and had seen his daughters walk out together; though at the time he had not any suspicion of their intentions, yet he began to be suspicious that some intercourse might be carried on thus clandestinely with the prohibited fair one of Smatterton. He then sought for his son, whom he found in the dining-room with a book spread open before him, but apparently little occupied with the contents of the volume. With a dry and careless air, the father addressed the young man:

“Where are your sisters, Robert?”

“They are gone out to take their morning’s walk, sir,” replied the son.

“And where are they gone?” said the elder gentleman, with greater emphasis and asperity than was usual with him.

To an interrogation thus suspiciously addressed to him, the young gentleman did not feel inclined to give a very explicit and satisfactory answer. There is frequently a great difficulty in managing replies to some questions, which force, as it were, an unpleasant answer, or an untruth. It is hard and ungenerous to ask such questions, and when people of any delicacy of feeling find that they have by any unintentional impertinence proposed a question of this nature, they will immediately, and with as good a grace as possible, waive pressing for an answer. But in the present case, the question was put for the very express purpose of extorting reluctant information. And the younger Darnley did not feel himself at all inclined to give an answer, or to tell a falsehood. He therefore remained silent and looked again upon his book, considering that the recent discussion between himself and his father was sufficient to account for a little sulkiness and gloom.

The father became now more suspicious, and he repeated his question with greater earnestness, and he said in an angry tone, “I ask you, Sir, where your sisters are gone. Why do you not answer me?”

Then the young man was angry in his turn, and he replied, “I am not in the habit, Sir, of interrogating my sisters as to the direction in which they may please to walk.”

Now as Mr Darnley the elder was not quite so much aware of the angriness of his own tones as he was of the sharpness of the answer, his suspicions were still farther corroborated, and he said, “You know that they are gone to Smatterton.”

Robert Darnley was again silent, and though his father repeated the assertion in a variety of modes, he gave no answer to it. Mr Darnley the elder, then in a most angry mood, set out to walk to Smatterton, that he might convince himself of the truth of his suspicions.

In the course of his walk, Mr Darnley was interrupted and delayed by meeting with Sir George Aimwell and Colonel Crop. People who are not mightily gifted with any great flow of words are sometimes as tedious as professed and notorious praters. For though they do not convey much information, and do not utter any great quantity of words, yet if they have not much to do, and are at a loss for the passing of their time, they will sometimes stand dribbling out monosyllables for half an hour together and more too. Thus did the two troublesome ones above named most mercilessly and remorselessly pounce on the rector of Neverden.

The baronet and the colonel were on foot, walking slowly in a direction opposite to that in which the rector was walking. When the clergyman saw the two gentlemen, he felt himself necessitated to lay aside the frowning look of the angry father, and to assume a more gracious and courtier-like smile. And when the two distinguished characters met the reverend gentleman bearing smiles upon his countenance, which smiles were manifestly designed to signify how great was the delight which he felt in meeting the said gentlemen, they could not of course for a moment imagine that he should be very glad to part with those whom he appeared so happy to meet.

Therefore the unpaid and the half-paid made at the rector, what is called a dead set. They fairly and completely stopped him; stopped him as completely as a couple of footpads, one on one side of him and the other on the other. They did not indeed demand his money or threaten his life, but they demanded his time, which was to him at that moment as valuable as his money, and they put in danger his politeness, which was as dear to him as life.

The first salutations were soon paid, acknowledged, and returned. Then the interrupters stood still looking at Mr Darnley and at each other; and then Mr Darnley having nothing more to say, and fancying that his friends by their silence were similarly situated, made a slight movement, as if indicating an intention of taking leave. But his good friends were not disposed to give him leave; and the worthy baronet then began a short speech by saying, “Oh, Mr Darnley, have you had your newspaper this morning?”

Mr Darnley replied very politely, “I have, Sir George.”

Then the baronet asked: “Is there anything new?”

Then Mr Darnley said, “Nothing, Sir George.”

And then Sir George was silent again; and then Mr Darnley, after a little interval, made another move. Then Colonel Crop took up the tale and said, “The papers are very dull now.”

To which Mr Darnley suitably and assentingly replied; “Very:”—thinking perhaps at the same time that Colonel Crop was as dull as any of them.

Once more Mr Darnley was in hopes of getting away from his tormenting detainers; but the excellent magistrate thinking that it was now his turn to speak, directed himself again to the impatient rector, saying, “What remarkably mild weather it is for the time of year.”

“Remarkably mild;” replied Mr Darnley.

Thus did the cruel ones, unmindful of the inconvenience to which they put the poor man, detain him a most unreasonable length of time with an unconnected and uninteresting succession of idle common-places, interlarded with long intervals of insipid silence. So long as he stood still silently looking at them, so long did they hold their tongues, but whenever the poor man shewed symptoms of moving, they stopped him by some unmeaning gabble. So does a wantonly cruel cat play with a poor innocent mouse which she suffers for a moment to escape from her claws, and leaves unmolested while it is motionless; but, as soon as it moves a limb in signal of departure, down comes her merciless paw upon it again.

At length however when the worthy baronet and his friend were tired of their own laziness, they suffered the persecuted divine to escape from them; for after having detained him an unreasonable length of time, and that for no purpose whatever, the considerate baronet very coolly said: “Well, Mr Darnley, perhaps we are detaining you: good morning.”

“Good morning,” said Colonel Crop; and so also said Mr Darnley.

It was now absolutely impossible for the rector of Neverden to overtake his daughters before they should arrive at Smatterton parsonage, if that were the object of their excursion, and nothing remained for him but the prospect of meeting them on their return, and the satisfaction which he might have in reproving them for their implied disobedience.

The delay which he had experienced by no means softened his asperity or abated his anger; and when at a little distance before him, just at the entrance of the village of Smatterton, he saw his three daughters in deep and apparently interesting conversation approaching him, and not perceiving him in consequence of the interest which they seemed to take in the subject of their conversation, he concluded of course that they had been at the rectory at Smatterton contrary to his known will and inclination.

They were within reach of his voice before they saw him; and when they heard him address them, they lifted up their faces and were astonished into silence, and surprised into apparent confusion. It was merely the unexpectedness of the meeting that confused them, but the rector thought their silence was from the conviction of their guilt.

“And so, young ladies, you have, in despite of your father’s authority, been paying a visit to Smatterton rectory! And pray let me ask you, what is your motive for this act of rebellion?”

Now the young ladies mentally pleaded not guilty to the accusation, and they gave voice also to the plea, saying: “Indeed, Sir, we have not been at the rectory.”

“But have you not seen Miss Primrose?”

“We have,” replied the eldest. “We have seen Miss Primrose, but we have not been paying her a visit. Our meeting was accidental.”

The young lady did not say that there was intention in the accident; and if there be a fault in that omission, we are humbly of opinion that at least one half of the blame rests upon Mr Darnley himself, for assuming such magnificent airs and playing the great bashaw in his family. We could write a long dissertation on this subject, but whether such dissertation would be read is doubtful.

As when the above reply was given to Mr Darnley by his daughter he stood in mute astonishment for a while, an opportunity was thus afforded for the young lady to continue, and to endeavour to divert for a moment her father’s thoughts from Penelope, and to direct them to poor Fitzpatrick. Miss Darnley therefore said:

“And we met Miss Primrose, Sir, as she was coming from a visit of consolation to a poor old man, of whom we have often heard you speak?”

Mr Darnley in an instant understood to whom the allusion was made, and he exclaimed: “Bless me! Is poor old Fitzpatrick living still, and in Smatterton?”

Seeing how completely and pleasantly the current of her father’s thoughts was changed by this recollection, Miss Darnley proceeded to give a full and abundant relation of all the particulars of the poor man’s case, and the illness of the grand-daughter.

Mr Darnley was moved at the narration, and he said, “I will go and see the poor man and his grand-child.”

Miss Darnley then directed her father to the cottage, and with her sisters returned to Neverden. They were all three much pleased that their father’s attention was thus directed, and they entertained some hopes that good might result from his accidental meeting with Penelope, which they anticipated, as they had not many minutes back parted with her at the door of the poor man’s cottage. And when they arrived at Neverden, they told their brother all that had passed, and he also was pleased, and he anticipated favourable results from the meeting.

In the mean time, Mr Darnley the elder found his way to Fitzpatrick’s cottage; and as he entered the wretched abode, his feelings were shocked at the sight of such miserable destitution as appeared in the lower apartment. Scarcely could he believe that such a place could be the abode of human beings; and he could not help thinking, that though there was not in Neverden so splendid a building at Smatterton castle, yet at the same time there was not a hovel so miserable as that in which he was then standing. He felt compassion for the poor man who was destined to close his life in so desolate an abode, and he thought of the service which that poor man had rendered to him.

As Mr Darnley had entered the cottage with gentle step, as fearing to disturb the sick, those who were above were not aware of his presence till he entered the upper room. And when he was there, though Miss Primrose herself was before him, and though his anger had been strongly excited against her, he thought not of the offence or the offender. His attention was first arrested by the sight of the poor old man, who was standing by his grand-daughter’s bed side, and trembling with age and infirmity. There was not in the countenance of the poor man any expression of grief or sympathy; his eye, expressive of no emotion or even consciousness, rested coldly on his grand-daughter; and as Mr Darnley entered the room, the old man just turned his face towards the visitor, and no otherwise altered his position or expressed any sense of a stranger’s presence.

Penelope was leaning over the bed on which the sick girl lay, and was endeavouring to soothe her with kind words, and to persuade her to take some slight nourishment. And when the patient saw Mr Darnley, she started with astonishment, which led Miss Primrose to look towards the door of the apartment. Penelope was the only one of the three who at that moment knew Mr Darnley; for the old man had forgotten him, and the poor girl had never known him.

The young lady was much moved at the sight of Mr Darnley; and she was preparing to rise to pay her respects to the gentleman. She could not rise very quickly, for her left arm was supporting the sick girl’s head, and Penelope was unwilling to withdraw that support hastily. Mr Darnley saw this, and signified by the moving of his hand, and by a gentle whisper, that he would not have the sick one disturbed. Then he came near and took the old man’s hand, which was yielded placidly and wonderingly. But when Mr Darnley spoke to him and called him by name, the old man’s recollection returned, and the light of intelligence came into his looks.

“Have you no recollection of me, Fitzpatrick?” said Mr Darnley.

“Oh yes, Sir,” replied the old man; “I do recollect you now. But it is a long time since I have seen you, Sir.”

Then Fitzpatrick pointed to the poor girl, and said to Mr Darnley: “There’s a sight, Sir, for an old man. You remember my boy; he was at one time likely to do well in the world; but he was carried off by a fever in the prime of life, and there lies his only child.”

The old man was going to say more, but his feelings prevented his utterance. And Mr Darnley spoke kindly to him, and gave him assurance that he should not want, but that every comfort should be given him to cheer his declining days.

“You are good, Sir, very good; but I shall not long stand in need of any comforts. This good young lady, Sir, has been very kind to us both.”

By this time Penelope had gently and gradually disengaged her arm from supporting the head of the poor girl; and Mr Darnley addressed himself to the exhausted and almost expiring patient. But she was unable to make any audible reply to Mr Darnley’s enquiries, but her lips moved and there was a hectic flush which lasted only for a moment, and was succeeded by a paleness more livid than before. She turned her eyes tearfully and gratefully towards Penelope, and thus corroborated by her looks what the old man had said of the kindness of their gentle benefactor.

Mr Darnley now felt himself compelled to speak to Miss Primrose; and, considering the habitual haughtiness of his manner and the unfriendly feelings which he had entertained towards her, he spoke with great gentleness. He enquired how long the poor people had been in that miserable abode, and he asked if there was anything which he could do for their assistance. And Penelope thanked him with as much grateful energy of expression as though the kindness were offered to herself, and she added:

“It is but little, Sir, that they want, and that little we can easily supply them with. But I wish I could as easily soothe the poor girl’s mind. She reproaches herself so bitterly, and will hear no consolation.”

Penelope said this in a low and gentle tone. She was hardly aware that the patient heard her, till poor Ellen’s voice interrupted her, and the sick one spoke audibly and distinctly, and said, “I am happy now.”

At hearing this, Mr Darnley and Penelope turned hastily round, and they caught a glimpse of an expiring smile, and they heard the unchecked breath rush through the pale lips of the sufferer, and then poor Ellen’s earthly sorrows were at an end.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was mentioned in the preceding chapter, that Sir George Aimwell and Colonel Crop most inopportunely met and detained Mr Darnley. This worthy couple, after leaving the rector of Neverden to pursue his walk, lounged lazily towards Neverden Hall, and entered into wise and knowing consultation concerning the commission with which the colonel fancied himself entrusted, as relating to Miss Glossop.

The worthy baronet thought and said, that if Lord Spoonbill had any serious intention of marrying Miss Glossop, it would be far more suitable that his lordship should make his personal appearance, and offer his hand regularly and orderly.

“Certainly,” said the colonel, “certainly; but you know that his lordship is peculiarly situated.”

Whether the colonel had any meaning, when he said that Lord Spoonbill was peculiarly situated, we cannot say, but there is in general a very great and comprehensive meaning in that phrase. If, for instance, a man is looking for a piece of preferment, or is in any way dependent on the powers that be, or the powers that may be, and if he is requested to give a vote on any occasion according to his own views or opinions, he is very ready to say that he wishes well to that person or object for whom the vote is solicited, but that it is not in his power to vote as he wishes, because he is peculiarly situated. In short, wherever a man’s interest interferes with his duty or conscience, and the principle of selfish interest is stronger than duty or conscience, then it is that he is peculiarly situated.

Now the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill was a man of title and high rank, and his associates were of a select and superfine description; if therefore he fixed his affections on a lady in a humbler sphere, or less distinguished society, he could not make advances regularly and honorably, because he was peculiarly situated.

To the remark of Colonel Crop, that Lord Spoonbill was peculiarly situated, the worthy magistrate of Neverden Hall considerately replied:

“Clearly so, I am perfectly aware of it: but still you must acknowledge that it would have been more correct if his lordship had communicated his intentions to Arabella without the intervention of a third person. However, I will not say or do anything that shall be the means of preventing the poor girl from having a good establishment in life. I know that these high people have very peculiar notions.”

Then the gallant colonel launched forth right liberally in praise of Lord Spoonbill, and well he might, seeing that not only was he indebted to his lordship for access to a most excellent table, but he was also under obligation to him for the distinction and consideration derived from such noble patronage and countenance.

“I suppose,” continued the baronet, “that it must be a private marriage?”

“No doubt,” replied the colonel; “for his lordship is entirely dependent on the Earl his father, and it would be a serious affair to act in direct and open opposition to his will.”

“Exactly so,” answered the magistrate; “but when the marriage has taken place, and the Earl sees that opposition must be fruitless, and especially when he is introduced to the young lady, then he will think more calmly on the subject. Well, it will be a fine match for Arabella. Her father little thought when he sent her to Neverden what good luck was in store for her. I think I will not write to her father about the affair, but let him be taken by surprise.”

At this step in the consultation the interruption of the dinner-bell put a stop to the discussion, and the two gentlemen soon found themselves pleasantly engaged in paying an unequivocal and practical homage to the culinary talents of the baronet’s cook. Colonel Crop was unusually attentive to Miss Glossop, and the young lady in return was most politely attentive to Colonel Crop. But Lady Aimwell was not so very polite to Colonel Crop as was her general custom; for her ladyship had been mightily displeased with the announcement which she had recently received from her right worshipful lord and master. In proportion, however, to Lady Aimwell’s lack of courtesy, was the redundance and superabundance of Miss Glossop’s politeness and vivacity; so that ere the cloth was removed, her ladyship was in a complete fit of the sullens, and took it into her head to have the head-ache, and expressed her intention of retiring immediately.

Miss Glossop, as in duty bound, attended her discourteous relative, and was in full expectation of hearing a long dismal lecture all about propriety and all that sort of thing. There are two sorts of people that do not like to be lectured—those that do not understand the subject on which they are lectured, and those that do understand it. For such as know all that can be said, do not mightily desire to hear it all over again; and such as know nothing about it, care nothing about it; and if there be a few in an intermediate class who know a little about the matter, they do not in general desire to have their little knowledge increased by lecturing. When Mr Martin’s Act about cruelty to animals was passed, not a word was said about lecturing. This was a great omission.

But fortunately for Arabella Glossop, it so happened that Lady Aimwell was too far gone in ill humour even to administer a lecturing to her high-minded relative. Her ladyship merely, in a pettish tone, said, “I beg, madam, that I may not detain you from more agreeable company.”

Miss Glossop, who knew that time would be lost if she should enter upon any discussion, readily took her aunt at her word, and politely wishing her good night, returned to the company more agreeable to herself.

It is not known by what arguments, or with what eloquence, the gallant colonel convinced and assured Miss Glossop of the supposed fact of Lord Spoonbill’s tender affection and high regard for her; nor is there any record of the readiness or reluctance with which the young lady believed it all; it is only known that in the absence of Lady Aimwell, which gave the colonel an opportunity of executing his commission, Miss Glossop was put in possession of the important information, and that she was delighted at the thought of marrying the son of an Earl, especially such a charming man as Lord Spoonbill.

It should however be mentioned, that Miss Glossop never heard, or even suspected, that Colonel Crop was commissioned with any more humiliating proposals. And though there might be something suspicious, and not altogether accurate, in this proxy courtship, yet the young lady pardoned it all under the consideration that Lord Spoonbill was peculiarly situated.

Very pleasing were the anticipations of Miss Glossop in looking forward to the possession of a mansion so splendid as Smatterton Castle. Very readily did Miss Glossop dismiss from her mind all thoughts of tenderness for the poor lieutenant, and very readily did she renounce all design on the heart of Robert Darnley, leaving that in the undisturbed possession of Miss Primrose.

Colonel Crop had no sooner fulfilled his commission, than he immediately betook himself to the gratifying employment of communicating his success to Lord Spoonbill, in the full expectation of receiving his lordship’s most hearty thanks for the pains that he had taken, and the dexterity with which he had conducted the negociation.

It was too great a task for the gallant colonel to write a whole letter on the very evening of his return from Neverden Hall to Smatterton Castle; he therefore began the letter in the evening, resolving to finish it on the morning of the following day.

Just as the gallant officer had concluded the writing of his despatches, and was preparing to fold and seal his important communication, the successor of the crafty Nick Muggins brought letters to Smatterton Castle. One of these letters concerned Colonel Crop and the business of which he had just been writing. The colonel, seeing the hand-writing of his respected patron and employer, had sense and sagacity enough to open and read that letter before he sealed and sent off his own.

It is astonishing to observe what wonderful sagacity some people possess, who are by no means regarded by the rest of the world as conjurors. Colonel Crop, to an ordinary observer, would have appeared a very stupid kind of man, and by no means addicted to the exercise of the reasoning powers. But notwithstanding this his habitual and constitutional obtuseness, he had the wisdom to reason so far as to conclude that he might as well read Lord Spoonbill’s letter to him before he sent off his letter to Lord Spoonbill.

The letter, which Colonel Crop now opened, was as follows:

“Dear Crop,

“I find by a letter from my old maiden cousin addressed to the Countess, that the young lady’s father is not in such flourishing circumstances as he represents himself, and if Darnley has deserted her also, I think that I may now have her on my own terms. However, if Aimwell makes a fuss about the matter, let the negociation go on as if for marriage. Only of course you will represent that it is absolutely indispensable that the marriage must be private, and must be kept a secret for some time. Bring her up to town with you as soon as possible, giving me a day’s notice of your journey.

“Yours ever,
Spoonbill.”

Now the conduct which Lord Spoonbill recommended Colonel Crop to pursue on this occasion, was villanous, mean, and treacherous. But the right honorable one knew that the gallant officer would not disoblige a good friend; and the colonel himself, though he might perhaps have had some slight objection to be used as an instrument of treachery, was peculiarly situated. For he knew not where else he should find so good a table and such superb claret, at so slight a cost as at the houses of Lord Smatterton. Besides, it was not (he reasoned) his fault, if Lord Spoonbill should deceive the young lady.

It is very likely that Colonel Crop, under other circumstances, would not have lent himself to negociations of this nature; but as it was, he could not well help himself. It is also very probable that, if Lord Spoonbill had not been dependent on his father, he would not have used such indirect and circuitous negociation, and he might perhaps have made honorable proposals instead of making those which were dishonorable. The Society for the Suppression of Vice is perfectly aware that narrowness of circumstances is the great cause of most of the sins of which mortals are guilty; and therefore that venerable society wisely directs its attention and investigations to the poorer classes. The nobility never sell apples on Sunday, the nobility never shave for a penny on Sunday morning. And all those countless abominations, at which that excellent society lifts up its pious eyes, are the sins arising from narrowness of circumstances and dependence of situation.

When Colonel Crop had read Lord Spoonbill’s letter, he forthwith proceeded to make such additions to his own letter as the circumstances of the case required; and if the colonel had not been an indolent man, and desirous of affecting a very laconic species of writing, he most surely would, in the letter which he wrote on this occasion, have led his right honorable employer to suspect an error of apprehension, and a mistake in the person.

Lord Spoonbill very readily accounted for what appeared to him as the ready compliance of Penelope, by referring it to the circumstances of the desertion of Robert Darnley, and the perplexed condition of her father’s affairs. His lordship also took it into his head that Mr Primrose had designedly misrepresented the condition of his property, and therefore his lordship affected to be mightily angry with him, and to think that it would be but a proper and suitable retaliation to deceive the unwary daughter.

This was a curious mode of reasoning, but a very slight shadow of apology will serve to satisfy a gentleman of such habits and pursuits as the heir apparent to the earldom of Smatterton. Besides, if a man is resolved on an act of treachery and meanness at all events, what signifies the strength or weakness of the apology which he makes to himself? The most logical apology is no excuse to the world, and the most illogical is a very good one to himself.

CHAPTER IX.

When a lady of such temperament as Lady Aimwell takes upon herself the trouble of going into a fit of the sullens, though she may in the first instance be speechless and even resolve not to open her lips upon the subject of her wrath, or to utter any expressions of anger against the object of her indignation, yet she finds at the last that there is no other mode of getting rid of the oppressive burden than by throwing it off in words. In like manner, also, when two gentlemen quarrel about any subject, whether it be geology, or theology, and they cannot convince one another, then they are angry and sulky, and they treat one another with what they call silent contempt, and yet they make a mighty noise and a great trumpeting about the silence of their contempt. So again, when an author who has written the best possible book on any subject, and another author reviews that same book and proves by most ingenious argument that it is utterly worthless, the writer of the book runs about among the circle of his acquaintance foaming at the mouth to shew how cool he is, and dinning every one’s ears with the noise that he makes in proclaiming his silent contempt of the scrub who has criticized him. And what else can he do? Who is to know anything of the existence of silent contempt unless it be advertized? We have heard the phrase, “proclaiming silence;” it has its origin perhaps in this silence of contempt, which by the way seems to be rather a contempt of silence.

If the reader does not by this time understand the state of mind in which Lady Aimwell was, on the occasion referred to, he must be obtuse; if he does not pity Arabella Glossop, he must be inhuman and unfeeling.

On the morning which followed Colonel Crop’s last mentioned visit to Neverden Hall, Lady Aimwell took her seat in the drawing-room as usual, and spread before her eyes the accustomed Stackhouse. But her ladyship found it difficult to command her attention, and to find room in her mind for any other thoughts than those which related to Arabella Glossop. And the young lady as usual made her appearance. At her entering the apartment Lady Aimwell lifted her eyes and fixed them frowningly on the young lady.

It is not pleasant to be frowned at, even though it be but by an automaton. There is in the human mind, especially in the minds of the young, a love of cheerfulness, and this principle was exceedingly strong in Arabella Glossop.

Lady Aimwell had never been very courteous to this gay-spirited young woman, and yet her ladyship expected, or seemed to expect, that Miss Glossop ought to be most especially courteous to her. Lady Aimwell made herself as repulsive as she possibly could to Miss Glossop, and then with a most diverting simplicity expressed her wonderment that the young lady should seem so readily to avoid her company. Lady Aimwell had certain obsolete notions of decorum, and divers crotchets about propriety which she had learned from her grandmother’s sampler, and curiously did she profess herself astonished that the hoydenish daughter of a successful attorney should not have the same starched notions and the same precise formality.

It has been said that Lady Aimwell looked frowningly upon Miss Glossop, as soon as the young lady entered the drawing-room. But Miss Glossop, with all her rudeness and vulgarity, was not so rude or vulgar as to return the frown. On the contrary, she very kindly asked her ladyship if she had recovered from her yesterday’s indisposition. The question was asked very civilly, and with the most conciliating intonation of voice; but it was answered with great incivility and with a most sneering cadence.

“You care much about my health,” replied Lady Aimwell.

To this no reply was made; and Miss Glossop, seeing that her ladyship was in an ill-humour, thought it best to let that humour take its course. But as the young lady had no very great desire to undergo a dissertation on propriety, she was preparing to leave the room. Thereupon Lady Aimwell was roused to greater volubility; and, closing the great book with a great noise, she said, “It is very unaccountable, Miss Glossop, that you have so great a dislike to me that you take every opportunity to avoid me.”

At hearing this Miss Glossop returned, and would have made something of a reply, but Lady Aimwell prevented her by continuing the oration.

“I cannot imagine what I can have done or said to make you dislike me so much. I have never said anything to you but for your good. But young people now-a-days think themselves so prodigiously wise, that they will not condescend to be advised. I know that when I was a young woman, if any one had taken so much pains with me as I have with you, I should have been grateful for it, instead of turning my back upon my best friends.”

All this was what is called too bad. It was villanously tedious and generally untrue. Lady Aimwell could very well imagine what it was rendered her company unacceptable to Miss Glossop; nor could her ladyship think it very likely that all which she had been pleased to say for the good of the young lady, should be considered by her as really pleasant and agreeable. And in good truth we really believe that, though what had been said by Lady Aimwell might, by a little ingenuity, be interpreted as being said for the young lady’s good, yet the principal motive which urged her ladyship to say all this, was the gratification of her own ill humour and the indulgence of her own spleen. And when the wife of the exemplary magistrate of Neverden Hall said, that had any one in her younger days so administered the tediousness of snarling exhortation, she should have been grateful for it, we are of opinion that imagination had usurped the throne of memory, or that invention had taken the place of veracity. For, unless Lady Aimwell had greatly changed since the days of her youth, or unless we have grossly misapprehended the character of her mind, we are of opinion that she would not have borne so patiently, as Miss Glossop did, the tediousness of prosy exhortation.

To all that Lady Aimwell was pleased to remark as touching the ingratitude of Miss Glossop and the degeneracy of the present generation of juvenile spinsters, the belectured young lady only replied, and that most meekly, “I am sure, Lady Aimwell, I never had the slightest intention of treating you disrespectfully. As you were unwell last night, and as I thought you did not seem quite recovered this morning, I could not do otherwise than enquire after your health.”

“Not quite recovered!” echoed Lady Aimwell, with great briskness of tone and peculiar sharpness of manner—“Not quite recovered! So, I suppose you mean to insinuate that I was out of humour? Yes, yes, I understand what you mean by not quite recovered.”

At this remark, Miss Glossop smiled inwardly, but she took especial care not to manifest any outward and visible signs of mirth, lest she might provoke her ladyship to exercise some inconvenient mode of retaliation. Nor, on the other hand, could the young lady so far attempt the mask of hypocrisy as expressly and explicitly to disavow all thought and suspicion of ill-humour on the part of Lady Aimwell. Being however somewhat indignant at the pertinacity with which her ladyship kept up the hostility, and thinking that a little semblance of opposition would be better than a placid and unyielding acquiescence in the gratuitous accusations and assumptions of her ladyship, Miss Glossop, with some degree of her natural tartness, replied:

“I think, Lady Aimwell, that you are treating me very ill to put an unfavourable construction on everything I say or do; I am sure I have not the slightest wish to behave disrespectfully to you; but you will not give me leave to pay you ordinary civilities without misinterpreting them.”

Now her ladyship knew that there was truth in this, therefore, fearing that she might be worsted in a regular argument, she thought it advisable to change the mode of attack, and, instead of continuing the discussion in that line, Lady Aimwell replied, “You may talk as long as you please, Miss Glossop, but nobody can make me believe that your conduct towards Lord Spoonbill the other day was at all becoming, or even decent.”

This was a repetition of a former attack, and as in the first instance this attack had driven the young lady to passionate weeping, Lady Aimwell was in expectation that a renewal of it would produce a renewal of the young lady’s sobs and tears. But in this calculation the baronet’s lady reckoned wrong. The conversation which Miss Glossop had had the preceding evening with Colonel Crop, and the bright prospects which lay before her, of rank and opulence and luxury and homage, rendered an allusion of this nature rather agreeable than otherwise. Instead therefore of yielding, as before, to the down-rushing tear and the passionate sobbing, the possible countess replied with spirit and vivacity, “Lord Spoonbill is as well qualified to judge of propriety as any one. And if I said or did anything disrespectful to his lordship, it is his concern.”

In this reply we by no means vindicate Miss Glossop; we rather think that she was much to blame; for young men are not such good judges of propriety as old ladies; and it is not to be supposed, that if a pretty-looking young woman, as Miss Glossop certainly was, should behave with impertinent forwardness towards so gay and gallant a young gentleman as Lord Spoonbill, that his lordship would reprove her, and administer a wholesome lesson on the subject of decorum.

Lady Aimwell was precisely of our opinion on this point, and answered accordingly, “Miss Glossop, are you a downright simpleton? Or what do you mean by such language? Nothing could be better amusement for Lord Spoonbill, than to see you make a fool of yourself.”

Here Lady Aimwell had clearly the advantage of Miss Glossop. It was indeed true, that Lord Spoonbill had been mightily amused with seeing the ridiculous and fantastic airs which the young lady shewed off at the castle. But though Lady Aimwell was right, the young lady thought she was wrong. And from what Miss Glossop had heard on the preceding evening from Colonel Crop, there was not in her mind the remotest suspicion that Lord Spoonbill had regarded her demeanour with any other feeling than that of approbation.

Several times was Miss Glossop on the very brink of exultingly avowing to her ladyship what had been said by Colonel Crop concerning the approbation which that discriminating judge of propriety Lord Spoonbill had been pleased to express of herself. But as frequently she checked herself, since she thought that the mode in which Lord Spoonbill had conveyed to her his approbation and admiration were not quite according to the etiquette of Lady Aimwell’s grandmother’s sampler.

The inward consciousness however that Lord Spoonbill was graciously disposed towards her, gave her unusual calmness and composure, so that she could patiently bear much of the rebuke that was addressed to her by Lady Aimwell.

But at last came the grand, decisive, interrogatory, which referred to Colonel Crop’s negociation. Now we cannot approve Lady Aimwell’s conduct in leaving her young friend exposed to such negociation; for it was very obvious, that on the preceding evening her ladyship had retired early, because she was displeased with the visible symptoms of Colonel Crop’s extraordinary attention to the young lady. With an exulting and almost triumphing confidence did Lady Aimwell say, “Now, pray, Miss Glossop, may I take the liberty to ask, did your friend Colonel Crop deliver any message to you from your favorite Lord Spoonbill?”

There was a sneer in the phraseology of this question, there was also a still stronger expression of contempt in the tone and cadence of it. And thereat Miss Glossop coloured, not blushed merely with maiden diffidence and modesty, but coloured with mighty and puissant indignation at the question, at the language in which it was conveyed, and at the tone in which it was uttered. The consciousness that she was destined to a high rank in society, and that she was honored with the approbation of so great a man as Lord Spoonbill, gave her an additional confidence, and increased her natural pertness, and she replied, “If your ladyship must know, I can tell you that Colonel Crop did deliver a message to me from Lord Spoonbill. What that message was, your ladyship may know hereafter.”

At this reply Lady Aimwell was struck with tenfold astonishment. And we will here do her ladyship the justice to acknowledge, that whatever might be the spirit of her endeavours, they were certainly directed with a view to the young lady’s good. For Lady Aimwell, though not the brightest woman in the world, could easily see that a negociation of this kind was not very likely to terminate in making Miss Glossop a countess. Therefore, when this acknowledgment had been thus extorted from the young lady, her more sagacious relative replied with a very natural expression of astonishment, mingled also with an indication of pity and a slight tincture of contempt:

“Surely, Miss Glossop, you will not suffer yourself to be led away by such idle and foolish stories! Do you, can you for a moment, imagine that if Lord Spoonbill had any serious and honorable intentions, he would send messages to you by a third person. I must insist upon it that you will not give Colonel Crop any farther encouragement to talk such nonsense. What would your father say to us if he knew that such folly, such wickedness I may say, was encouraged under our roof?”

Lady Aimwell’s intention was good, but it was not duly appreciated by the young lady in whose behalf it was manifested. And, instead of gratefully acknowledging her ladyship’s kindness, and humbly promising to follow her ladyship’s good advice, Miss Glossop, with a most arrogant air, rejected the good counsel and said, “I think I know how to govern myself without your ladyship’s assistance. You make pretty pretensions enough to what you say is all for my good. The plain fact is, you are merely mortified at my good fortune.”

There was something so outrageously insulting in this last speech, that Lady Aimwell was absolutely unable to make an immediate reply, and the contending parties looked at each other for a few moments in perfect silence, and with flushed and angry countenances. Lady Aimwell after a while, as soon as she could recover from her overwhelming astonishment, replied, “Very pretty language, Miss Glossop; very grateful and respectful, indeed! However, I will take care that I shall not be so insulted again; and perhaps if I cannot persuade you, I may find some one who can.”

So saying Lady Aimwell left the apartment, and Miss Glossop remained alone to think over the meaning and interpretation of her ladyship’s threat. Not long did the young lady exercise her conjectures; for it was very clear to her that Lady Aimwell designed to write to Mr Glossop, of whom Miss Arabella stood more in awe than of any other human being. But as she knew that her father’s views for her were of the aspiring and ambitious cast, and as she had no other thought concerning the negociation of Colonel Crop, than that her own sweet person and graceful manners and accomplishments had won the affection of Lord Spoonbill, she felt very much at ease even under Lady Aimwell’s threat, and had no fears that her father would throw any obstacle in the way of her marriage with a person of such high rank and consideration.

CHAPTER X.

Wise kings choose wise ministers. Lord Spoonbill little thought what a clumsy negociator he had selected in the person of Colonel Crop. His lordship had not discernment enough to see that the Colonel was a prodigious blockhead, and even when, as above recorded, the gallant officer substituted in his narration the name of Arabella for that of Penelope, neither the employed nor the employer had any suspicion that there might be any error in the apprehension, or any mistake as to the person sought.

It might also appear to some persons strange, that so great and so sudden an alteration should have taken place in the mind of Miss Primrose. But Lord Spoonbill had never rightly appreciated that young lady’s character and disposition. For notwithstanding that Penelope was a person of high spirit and great constitutional vivacity, there was nothing in the temperament of her mind bordering on what is called the satirical. She was not one of those half knowing ones, who are ambitious of shewing their understanding by ridiculing the rest of the world as fools. Indeed, whenever she did encounter a blockhead, and that was not unfrequent, she made it rather a rule to treat him with much consideration and tenderness of manner, knowing that no man would voluntarily choose to be a booby.

Lord Spoonbill was somewhat of a blockhead, but he was not totally and altogether obtuse. He had a considerable degree of pertness and a certain coxcomical air, whereby he passed with himself and his dependent intimates as a man of some understanding. Now, though Miss Primrose could and did see that notwithstanding all his fine airs he was but a very weak young man, yet she always behaved and spoke to him most respectfully, and even diffidently. So that his lordship thought himself a clever fellow in the sight of Miss Primrose.

Inasmuch, also, as Lord Spoonbill thought that Miss Primrose had rejected his first overtures because, and only because, she had anticipated a renewal of the acquaintance with Robert Darnley; now his lordship apprehended that, as, according to the information which he had received, this acquaintance was altogether at an end, Penelope would be more disposed to accept of his offers.

His lordship therefore suffered the negociation to proceed according to the proposal of Sir George Aimwell, imagining that, if Colonel Crop could persuade Penelope to accompany him to London, there would be very little difficulty in making any arrangement which his lordship might then see proper to suggest. Upon these very agreeable reflections and anticipations, Lord Spoonbill was proud that he could triumph over the assumed wisdom and sagacity of his friend Erpingham. And, as soon as his lordship returned from his important excursion to his newly purchased borough, he called on his worthy Epicurean friend.

Erpingham was miserably changed in aspect and in manner since Lord Spoonbill had seen him last. There had not been between this and the previous visit an interval of many months; but in the short period which had passed there had been a mighty change. The brightness of his look was dimmed, the confidence of his manner was abated, and the general air of his apartment seemed changed from comfort to negligence.

When Lord Spoonbill entered the apartment, he found his friend as usual with a book before him; but he did not appear to be much occupied with the book. There also lay on his table a newspaper, which was an unusual sight, for Erpingham had been accustomed to avoid everything which might in any degree awake unpleasant sympathies, and he used to observe that newspapers were the repository of most disgusting and distressing information. There was another manifest symptom of alteration in the Epicurean’s habits and feelings, and that was a phial containing laudanum. Now Erpingham had always expressed an abhorrence of all manner of drugs, and had carefully avoided artificial stimulants, fancying that they tended to greater evil by the lassitude which followed their effects, than good by the temporary excitement which they produced.

One alteration however in Erpingham’s manner appeared to Lord Spoonbill as an alteration for the better, and that was the greater cordiality with which the visit was received. It had been the practice of Erpingham to receive such as called upon him with cold indifference, and even occasionally to seem to look upon them as unwelcome intruders. The reader may recollect the careless lounging manner in which Erpingham received his friend Lord Spoonbill on a former occasion. His lordship, as recorded, did not like such manner of reception. But on the present occasion there was an improvement. The Epicurean’s countenance brightened up for a moment when the name of his visitor was announced; and, instead of sitting or lounging unmoveably, Erpingham rose up and went to meet him, and with his own hand reached him a chair.

Lord Spoonbill was astonished at the change; but he was also astonished at the manifest depression of the poor man’s spirits. For the smile with which he received his friend soon vanished, and left the dull symptoms of permanent and deep depression.

Erpingham closed his book, and in the midst of a suppressed yawn made the usual enquiries and uttered the ordinary common-places, more after the manner of the rest of the world than had formerly been his custom. And when Lord Spoonbill had given the expected answers, he went on to speak concerning Penelope Primrose.

“Oh yes, I recollect hearing you mention that name,” said Erpingham; “and have you made your arrangements yet?”

“Not quite,” replied his lordship, “but I believe I soon may on my own terms. You pretended to be mightily wise and discerning when you uttered your oracles about ladies’ hearts and affections; but I think I shall demonstrate that I understand the female heart as well as you do.”

“Very likely,” replied Erpingham; “I don’t make pretensions to any great share of understanding on any subject.”

There was so much carelessness and coldness in the tone of this reply, that Lord Spoonbill thought that his friend had been visited by some calamity, or was labouring under some illness; and this apprehension was strengthened by the sight of the phial of laudanum on the table. Looking however again and more observingly at his friend’s countenance, Lord Spoonbill fancied that he discerned symptoms rather of mental than of bodily suffering. And with more considerateness than might have been expected from him, his lordship did not abruptly ask if any misfortune had happened to his friend, but turned the conversation to general topics, and in doing this was much assisted by the newspaper which was lying on the table. He thought that if Erpingham had met with any misfortune and sought for sympathy, he would mention his sorrows unasked.

As Lord Spoonbill had taken up the newspaper for the purpose of finding some topic of common and meaningless talk, he held it in his hand some time, uttering his occasional comments on its infinitely various contents. Erpingham in the mean time made brief and sometimes inapplicable replies to the observations, and by degrees this desultory conversation grew less and less, and then ceased.

His lordship continued reading the paper silently, and Erpingham amused himself by looking at the fire. Ever and anon did Lord Spoonbill slily and cautiously lift up his eyes from the paper, endeavouring to catch a furtive glance at his friend’s countenance in order to form, if he possibly could, some conjecture as to what might be passing in his mind. His lordship however was not by nature or habit well fitted for reading the mind through the face.

After this unpleasant, and, to Lord Spoonbill unaccountable, silence had continued for some few minutes, Erpingham took the phial of laudanum, and pouring without any accurate admeasurement an apparently large quantity into a glass of cold water, deliberately drank, to the great astonishment of his lordship, a dose that indicated desperation or long practice.

The right honorable one threw down the paper which he had been reading, and uttering almost a scream of astonishment, exclaimed, “Good God, Erpingham, are you mad?”

The Epicurean received and answered the exclamation with a start, a frown, a laugh, and a sneer, which seemed almost simultaneous.

“Mad!” echoed he; “yes, I believe I am mad.” Then with greater composure, and the manner of one in the perfect and sober possession of his senses and judgment, and as if the dose just taken had produced no effect whatever, he continued, “I believe I take rather too much; but in the use of such stimulants it is difficult to observe moderation. It is quite contrary to my theory to indulge in such a habit; but necessity has no law.”

“And pray how long,” said Lord Spoonbill, “have you been accustomed to this habit? You appear to be quite a veteran.”

“Not so much of a veteran as you seem to imagine,” replied Erpingham: “I have made a very rapid proficiency.”

“But don’t you think it is very injurious?” asked Lord Spoonbill.

“To be sure I do,” replied the Epicurean; “but who is guided in his conduct by what he thinks? I know it injures my health, I know that it must shorten my life, I know that it makes me wretched, but I must take it.”

Lord Spoonbill could not understand that logic; and Erpingham had too great a contempt for his lordship’s understanding to explain it. We have too great a respect for the understanding of our readers to think that they need an explanation.

Erpingham, being now relieved from the vapour which had oppressed him, began to talk freely and even cheerfully to his puzzled friend Lord Spoonbill. The hereditary legislator could not by any means, or by any effort of judgment, or any struggle of penetration, divine what could have produced so great and so melancholy a change in his formerly cheerful and light-hearted friend. There had not been one individual in all Lord Spoonbill’s extensive range of acquaintance who seemed to be so happily independent and so independently happy as Erpingham. Now, if Colonel Crop had taken to drinking laudanum, Lord Spoonbill would not have been very greatly surprised; for the colonel did appear to require a stimulus, seeing that he was for the most part grievously dull and prodigiously flat. But Erpingham was a man of judgment and reflection, of humour and knowledge; and he had to all appearance studied so thoroughly the art of happiness and enjoyment, that sometimes Lord Spoonbill almost envied him. And he must have been a very happy and a very obviously happy man for Lord Spoonbill to envy him; for Lord Spoonbill had a very considerable opinion of himself, of his own greatness both in possession and reversion. Lord Spoonbill also regarded with peculiar and unspeakable delight the circumstance of his being born of a noble family, and being destined to bear the title of Earl of Smatterton; he thought that to be noble was to be the envy and admiration of mankind. It must therefore have been something very extraordinary that could lead his lordship to regard any one with a feeling at all approaching to envy. With such feeling, however, he certainly had regarded his friend Erpingham; and now to see that same man sunk, from no apparent or assignable cause whatever, into a state of miserable dejection, and depending for temporary excitement on an artificial stimulant, puzzled and perplexed his lordship beyond measure.

Under this impression Lord Spoonbill could not avoid expressing his feeling of astonishment: “Upon my word, Erpingham, you quite surprise me. I always used to think you one of the happiest men living.”

“I have been too happy,” replied Erpingham.

Lord Spoonbill was puzzled again, and thought that his friend was absolutely mad. His lordship shewed symptoms of his suspicion, and Erpingham divined his thoughts.

“You think me more than half mad, and perhaps I am. I am not mad however by the excitement of my daily dose of laudanum. It is that which brings me to my senses, and I only know that I am not mad because I am sure that I am so.”

Lord Spoonbill did not look the less surprised at this last speech than he had at what he had heard and seen before. Erpingham, who was amused at the bewilderment of his noble friend, went on to add to the poor man’s perplexity by indulging himself with a long and unconnected rhapsody of paradoxical prate, which sometimes sounded to his lordship’s ear like the wisdom of an oracle, and sometimes like the ravings of a madman. But there was nothing in Erpingham’s manner of speaking that was expressive of wildness. His tone was gentle and his utterance calm, and his appearance collected; and he shewed every symptom of self-possession, except that his notions were so strange.

While Lord Spoonbill was listening in silent wonderment to this strange talk, there was announced, very much to his lordship’s relief, a new visitor; no less a personage than Zephaniah Pringle. And now the mystery began to be in part unfolded, and Lord Spoonbill soon discerned by the direction which the conversation took between Erpingham and the critic, that if his friend’s understanding had not been impaired by the use of laudanum, his taste had been corrupted by his literary acquaintance with Zephaniah Pringle.

This gentleman has been already introduced to our readers, and it is superfluous to say more in this place touching the critic’s peculiarities, than that his ambition for distinction and notoriety was very powerful; but as his actual ability was not equal to his ambitious desires, and as he despaired of attaining distinction by excellence, he sought to gain notoriety by eccentricities. Therefore he sought out paradoxical modes of expressing common-place thoughts, and as in some of his expressions he was intelligible, he was considered to be ingenious in all. So it came to pass that his society was sought by those who would never have noticed him for the sake of what his mind contained, had it not been that he used a most singular and curious mode of giving utterance to the contents of his mind and the results of his meditation.

Mr Erpingham, who from weariness of spirit and from a satiety of sensual luxury, was glad of everything that excited him, felt himself mightily amused with Zephaniah’s paradoxes. And these two gentlemen often amused themselves with most ingenious discussions on all discussable subjects. Erpingham had by nature powers of discernment, and understanding reasonably good, but he had by his own moral indolence suffered those powers to lie dormant, and that understanding to remain uncultivated. When by this neglect he had become nervous, fanciful, and depressed, he was amused with any fooleries that presented themselves, and so he was much entertained by Zephaniah Pringle.

Zephaniah was a crafty one. He carried his wits to market. There is no great harm in that. But finding that with this stock he was but scantily provided, he had thrust into the panniers also his conscience and his moral principles, and he mystified his sense of right and wrong, and made people stare. And he made himself very useful to his party; but though he could write most eloquently about loyalty and religion, he could eat most heartily and talk most sycophantically at the tables of those who had not much religion or loyalty to make a boast of. Erpingham was amused to find how very ingeniously a man could write in defence of the church without entertaining any regard whatever for its doctrines or worship.

As Erpingham was himself very much pleased with Zephaniah, he introduced him most triumphantly to Lord Spoonbill; and herein was another illustration of the unsound state of Erpingham’s mind; for Lord Spoonbill recollected that formerly his friend had spoken very disrespectfully of the mental character of Zephaniah the critic.

As his lordship was not particularly partial to condescending when no obvious and express advantage was derivable from so doing, he prepared to depart on the arrival of Mr Pringle, thinking it a good opportunity afforded him for taking his leave.

“Are you in a hurry?” said Erpingham.

“Yes,” replied his lordship, after a moment’s hesitation; “I am going to look out for a snug little cottage in the neighbourhood of town for a particular friend of mine.”

“Suppose I sell you mine?” said Erpingham.

Lord Spoonbill smiled, for he saw that Erpingham knew who the particular friend was for whom the cottage was sought. His lordship then replied; “Your’s, Erpingham! Surely you are not serious? How can you think of parting with the place after having been at so much pains and expense to render it so truly delightful?”

“I wish to part with it,” said Erpingham, “merely because it is delightful; and it ceases to interest me because I cannot do anything more to improve it; every alteration will make it less beautiful.”

“Now I wish,” replied his lordship, “that you would speak seriously. Do you really intend to part with the cottage? Because, if you do, I should be glad to purchase it.”

“I seriously do,” said Erpingham; “for I have an intention of spending a little time on the Continent, in order, if possible, to get rid of these vapours and blue devils.”

Zephaniah Pringle was then beginning with a mighty parade of pomposity to say something very wise and oracular on the subject of blue devils or the Continent, but Lord Spoonbill most unceremoniously cut the critic short, and directed his conversation and attention all to Erpingham, as if no one else were in the room.

It might have been rude for Zephaniah to speak at this juncture, and a great piece of presumption in him to imagine that a lord and a gentleman should admit, unasked, into their colloquy a low-born plebeian critic; but still we cannot altogether acquit Lord Spoonbill of rudeness for purposely and broadly repressing the poor man, and treating the man of genius like a mere common man.

Zephaniah felt the indignity most deeply, and resented it mentally, fully purposing to have his revenge in some form or other. There seemed however very slight prospect of an opportunity of retaliating, for Lord Spoonbill did not shew symptoms of book-making. The critic remained during the conference between Lord Spoonbill and Mr Erpingham in profound silence; and the conference ended at last in the promise and overture of serious negotiation for the sale of the cottage to Lord Spoonbill.

CHAPTER XI.

It is now necessary to return to Smatterton. As soon as Penelope had closed the eyes of the poor sufferer, and had heard from the lips of the elder Mr Darnley those compliments which his politeness and good feeling led him to pay her on the ground of her attention to the sick and the desolate, she returned to her father at the rectory, and related to him all the occurrences of that eventful morning. He listened with patient attention, for he loved to hear his daughter’s voice. But he expressed some feeling of impatience at what he was pleased to call the coxcomical pride of Mr Darnley, the rector of Neverden.

We live in a strange world; for certainly it does seem strange to apply to a reverend divine of sixty years of age such an epithet as that of coxcomb. Yet after all there may be some truth and propriety in its application; for where the principle of conceitedness is very strong and belongs essentially to the character, age cannot remove it; years may make some difference in the mode of its display and the peculiarity of its development, but the principle remains the same. The reason why young people have the almost exclusive reproach of coxcombry and conceit is, that they have had as yet but little opportunity of comparing themselves with the rest of the world. When youth is over, and the conflicts and agitations of life have brought the mind much into contact with other minds, then the relative strength of the character is felt and appreciated, then the man knows himself to be what he is, and necessarily ceases to conceit himself to be what he is not. But when, as was the case with Mr Darnley the elder, it happens that a man during the course of his life has but little intercourse with the world, and when that little has no portion or part whatever of rivalry, contradiction, or opposition, then the delusions of conceit and vanity may endure to the last. Now Mr Darnley was not only constitutionally a coxcomb, but his situation was also peculiarly favorable for the cultivation and strengthening of this habit of mind. Yet with all this, and notwithstanding even his occasional moroseness, he was not by any means void of feeling, or without a susceptibility of kind emotions. The scene which he had witnessed in the poor man’s cottage made an impression on his mind, and that impression certainly was in favour of Penelope. But he did not suffer that impression to make any immediate alteration in his general thoughts and deportment towards her. He had therefore parted with her at the cottage coldly, formally, and politely.

It has been seen that Mr Primrose was altogether and most widely different from Mr Darnley; it is not at all wonderful therefore that these two gentlemen should not understand each other. On the part of the rector of Neverden there might have been much pedantry and incomprehensiveness, seeing that he had lived uncontrolled and uncontradicted, and his intercourse had been for the most part with such as, by submission to his judgment, paid deference to his wisdom, or such as by the humble and obsequious bow acknowledged his high rank as a clergyman, and his wealth as a gentleman. So it came to pass that he could not understand the movements of such a mind as that of Mr Primrose.

There might be also some degree of incomprehensiveness on the part of Mr Primrose. He had lived in the world much and intimately, he had conversed with multitudes, and had experienced collision of minds; and his associates had changed, and he had not dwelt closely and meditatively on any peculiar class or set of men; there had passed before him many individuals, but they had not made much impression upon him, or excited in him much thought. He therefore could no more make allowance for Mr Darnley’s peculiarities, than Mr Darnley could make for his. One great point of difference between the two was, that Mr Primrose was of great facility of mind, and the other most preposterously obstinate.

Now Mr Primrose thought and said, that Mr Darnley was a very haughty and ill-humoured man, since, being so near to Smatterton parsonage, he had not condescended to call. And Mr Primrose also said to his daughter, “If it were not that I thought you really attached to Robert Darnley, I should almost wish that I might never hear the name mentioned again. I cannot imagine what Mr Darnley means by such ridiculous behaviour; does he think that we are to pay homage to him?”

Penelope could not find it in her heart to be angry with any one that bore the name of Darnley. She had seen that there had been a misunderstanding cleared up, as concerned the young gentleman, and she therefore hoped and trusted that in time the misunderstanding on the part of the father would be cleared up also. She also recollected how very kindly all the family at Neverden had formerly behaved to her, and she could not think that the present alienation should last long. She also considered that the sisters of Robert Darnley had, from motives of pure kindness to her, risked the anger of their father, and she knew that once they too had been cold and distant.

Therefore, when her father spoke hastily and sharply concerning Mr Darnley’s strange behaviour, Penelope did not corroborate what he said, by echoing the same sentiment; but she soothingly and quietly replied; “I think that what appears so strange in Mr Darnley’s conduct, arises altogether from some misunderstanding; and I have no doubt that it will by some means or other be soon set to rights. No one could behave with greater friendship and cordiality to me than Mr Darnley and his family used to do; and now this very morning when I saw the young ladies again, they were as friendly as they had formerly been.”

“Well, child, you are more patient than I should be,” replied the father; “I cannot at all understand such conduct. That Mr Darnley must be a very narrow-minded man. But, if you make up your mind to accept Robert Darnley, I cannot see why you should wait for the formality of the father’s consent. You are both independent of him.”

“But still it would be very unpleasant to begin life with ready-made family quarrels,” replied Penelope; “though I will not be so obstinate as to say that I will make Mr Darnley’s consent an indispensable condition, if that consent is withheld from mere caprice.”

“Ay, ay,” replied Mr Primrose, “you are very considerate; but I do not see why we should study the whims and humours of those who have no regard for our welfare. You shall do, however, just as you think best. For my own part I have a very good opinion of Robert Darnley, and if I had never seen him I should have thought well of him for your sake.”

And upon this the desultory talk went on between the father and daughter; and though the conversation might have been, from the unanimity of the parties, agreeable to themselves, the repetition of it could not be interesting to the world, seeing that it was insipid and common-place; but still the allusion to it ought not to be withheld, inasmuch as it gives an opportunity of presenting the pleasant sight of a father and daughter in perfect harmony, discussing the question of the matrimony of the latter.

But while we take occasion to remark on this harmony, we may also gratify some readers by suggesting to them the thought, that perhaps Mr Primrose was too easy and indifferent, and that he was not sufficiently anxious concerning his daughter. It is a practice with some superlatively wise fathers to annoy their children with every species of persecution for their good. These very excellent and clever parents will plunge a poor, panting, terrified baby every morning into a tub of cold water, and suffer the infant to be exposed to the chilling air, under the conceit of hardening the young one. Then, when little master is able to articulate a few words, the miserable one is brutally chained to a book, and is thumped, cuffed, kicked, snubbed and half-starved into the learning, which, at a very little later period, the poor child might have taken quietly and calmly enough. And so on, as long as the power remains the tyranny continues, and the persecuted ones are expected to bless their stars that they had been placed under such excellent management. And if by any accident the young Solomon turns out at last to be no conjuror, the wise papa is full of wonderment at the untoward event, and is surprised that his labour should have been all in vain; “For nobody,” quoth he, “could take more pains with a child than I did with mine.”

In like manner and with like wisdom do these wise parents conduct themselves towards their daughters in the affair of marriage, breaking their hearts to make them happy, and keeping them single by way of establishing them well in the world.

This is wisdom not to our taste. This was not the mode in which Mr Primrose manifested his affection for his daughter. But as he knew the good qualities, and could confide in the judgment of his late brother-in-law, and as he was satisfied that Dr Greendale would never have given his approbation to the acquaintance between Penelope and Robert Darnley, but on the best and soundest discretion, Mr Primrose considered that all security was thereby afforded that the acquaintance was suitable and proper. It is, indeed, possible that Mr Primrose might have found some points of objection even in Robert Darnley; but Mr Primrose was not affectedly fastidious. He recollected the candour and the virtues of his deceased relative, and he knew that there was no decisive proof either of wisdom or virtue in finding fault with everybody and everything.

It seems very hard upon poor Penelope, that without any deviation from the path of duty, without any act of indiscretion or unsound judgment on her own part, she should be exposed to these successive and irritating annoyances. But fortunately for her the very circumstance that she had not brought her troubles upon herself by her own folly rendered these troubles comparatively innocuous. So she had much more fortitude and patience than might, under other circumstances, have fallen to her lot.

Many days passed over and no intercourse was had with any of Mr Darnley’s family; and almost every day Mr Primrose expressed his own impatience, and wondered at his daughter’s patience. There were however occasionally a few notes from the rectory of Neverden, just enough to let Penelope know that she was not forgotten by him in whose memory she most anxiously wished to dwell.

In the mean time the hours at Neverden passed heavily, and the family looked constrainedly and awkwardly one at another. Mr Darnley had, upon his return from Smatterton, and from visiting the poor man and his afflicted daughter, said very little upon the subject. The young ladies, hoping to find that he had met Penelope, asked him very particularly concerning poor old Fitzpatrick. And Mr Darnley replied very briefly; but we must do the gentleman the justice to say, that he spoke very respectfully of Miss Primrose; and the young ladies were delighted to hear him speak of her at all.

Yet, notwithstanding all this, no progress was made; for though Mr Darnley was very liberal in his praises of the young lady, he still continued towards his son the same unaccountable reserve on the subject of matrimony. The young gentleman certainly did intend in the first instance to lead Penelope to the altar in spite of all that his father in the violence of his opposition might say to the contrary. But when Robert Darnley had seen the strong and violent objection which his father made, his confidence was a little abated and his resolution failed him.

Poor Mrs Darnley suffered perhaps as much as any of the party, for she was mightily fond of talking, and that more especially when the stable topic was trifling and indifferent. She was a very worthy and good sort of woman, but her taste was not for anything remarkably grave and serious; disputed points, she always avoided most carefully and conscientiously, knowing that she must of course have the worst of the argument. As for argument, it was a matter altogether strange and foreign to her. Her early youth had not been accustomed to it; and when she married Mr Darnley, one great inducement to the union was the consideration of his prodigious wisdom. Mrs Darnley would therefore as soon think of turning the church weathercock by her own breath, as moving the mind of her reverend lord and master by her own arguments. It was therefore a grievous annoyance to her that this unpleasant affair clouded the aspect of her venerable husband; for when there is in a family a common-place mind like that of Mrs Darnley, it is impossible for that mind to speak at all if there be in the whole compass of its knowledge any prohibited topic. There is always a nervous apprehension that, by some unintentional awkwardness, a blunder may be made, and that the tongue may let itself loose upon the forbidden theme. So felt poor Mrs Darnley.

The sisters of the young gentleman were situated as awkwardly. They could only talk about books, and they could only talk to one another. For Mrs Darnley was not bookishly inclined, and Mr Darnley and his son were also more deeply interested in other matters. Thus it came to pass that, by the ungainly crotchets of the reverend rector of Neverden, the hours passed unpleasantly both at Smatterton and Neverden.

CHAPTER XII.

It is a curious question which no mortal can answer, “If this world had not been created what would have been created instead of it?” This question is ridiculous enough; but very wise men have asked questions quite as ridiculous, if not more so. And perhaps we ourselves with all our wisdom, which is only equalled by that of our readers, might be disposed to ask—If the event hereinafter detailed had not interrupted the unpleasant and painful silence at Neverden rectory, what would?

When the miserable and perplexing stagnation of family prate had lasted some few days, and when Mr Robert Darnley and his sisters had begun to despair that the ice would ever be broken, an unexpected event gave a new turn to all their thoughts, and set their tongues at liberty like a general thaw.

The narration of this event will require many words. But as these words may be lucidly arranged, and as there may be in them a fullness of interest and a copious course of reflection and wise meditation, the reader will more than excuse their multitude.

It cannot be forgotten that when Lord Spoonbill paid his last recorded visit to his epicurean friend Erpingham, the interview between the two worthies was interrupted, or to all appearance shortened, by the intrusion of Zephaniah Pringle. Nor can it be forgotten that Zephaniah the critic was most grievously offended and mortified by the cavalier manner in which he was treated by Lord Spoonbill. It is a sad thing that lords will be so rude to critics; but they will, and there is no help for it; and even if a bill were brought into Parliament to correct the evil, we have our doubts whether it would pass the House of Lords, that hospital of incurables.

Zephaniah, we have said, was very angry, and very justly was he so. Who would not be angry to be treated with disrespect by a lord? For, in proportion to the honor and praise and glory redounding from being able to quote and repeat a lord’s condescending sayings, must be the mortification to recollect that a lord has treated us with contempt. Now Zephaniah, after the insolence which he had experienced at the hands, or more properly speaking at the eyes, of Lord Spoonbill, for his lordship merely stared at him, went home in high dudgeon and took up his pen and wrote a most violent philippic against the Whigs, and especially against Whig lords; and he fully intended to print this paper in his own periodical, which we shall not name, seeing that we hold it to be a sin to advertise Tory books. And Zephaniah would certainly have printed his violent and eloquent philippic, had he not seen that those same animals were much more scandalously vituperated in another periodical from the north.

Thus it came to pass that poor Zephaniah was doubly distressed. He was mortified that he had been cut by a lord, and he was more miserably mortified still to find that his venom and malignity were exceeded by what he had the impudence to call a rival publication; a rival, forsooth! One is no more a rival of the other than the d—— is a rival of one of his own imps.

We cannot help observing by the way, as mere lovers of justice, how cruel it is to abuse and calumniate the Whigs. We simply ask, what have they done? If they had done any mischief, they might have been abused by the good; and if they had done any good, they might have been abused by the wicked. But what have they done? They have stood in the middle of the political see-saw; they have lightened the darkness and clouded the daylight. But we hate politics.

Zephaniah was angry, and Zephaniah was desirous of giving vent to his indignation; and being disappointed in his public expression he sought to give voice to his wrath by a private medium. He therefore sat down and wrote a long letter to his reverend cousin, the young rector of Smatterton. In this letter he did set forth how that he was now well assured that Lord Spoonbill had certainly made a dishonorable arrangement with Miss Primrose, and had entered into a negotiation with Mr Erpingham for the purchase of a villa in which the young lady was to reside. Herein also did Zephaniah state that he had not only the authority of a vague report from Mr Erpingham, but the evidence of his own eyes and ears, inasmuch as he had seen and heard Lord Spoonbill himself negotiating upon the subject. Then did Zephaniah proceed to express his great and utter abomination and detestation of such wicked practices; and he did also express his great sorrow that so sweet, lovely, interesting, and amiable a young lady as Miss Primrose should be a victim to the vile arts of so worthless a man as Lord Spoonbill. In conclusion, the writer exhorted his reverend cousin to use all the means in his power to prevent this great abomination.

When the rector of Smatterton received this letter, he was at first delighted that it gave him some employment or semblance of employment; for the Reverend Charles Pringle, though prodigiously fond of doing nothing at all, yet liked to have some plausible excuse for doing nothing; so that the semblance of employment was agreeable to him. But when the young gentleman reflected more closely, it occurred to him that it might not be altogether favorable to his views of preferment to do or say anything in hostility and opposition to a right honorable patron. And though Mr Pringle was the rector of the parish, he possessed but little influence over the minds of his parishioners. Moreover, the reverend one was also fearful of offending Mr Primrose, if by any accident it should chance to be discovered that Zephaniah’s eyes and ears might have been deceived; for Zephaniah’s eyes and ears were not absolutely infallible, seeing that the said superlatively sagacious critic had once already circulated a story of this nature, and had found it expedient to retract his assertions.

Perplexed with his commission, the reverend rector of Smatterton sought for aid in the wise counsels of Peter Kipperson. There is a great inconvenience in being wiser than all the rest of the world. This inconvenience Peter Kipperson experienced, and he used to talk very much of the trouble that he gave himself in the affairs of others. But then, poor man, what could he do? His mind was naturally benevolent and humane, and how could he be so unfeeling as to withhold from the world the benefit of that wisdom without which everything would be at sixes and sevens.

When therefore Mr Pringle made his visit of consultation to Mr Kipperson, the learned and sagacious agriculturist received him with condescending cordiality; for by this time Peter the clever had begun to entertain a higher opinion of Mr Pringle than he had upon their first acquaintance. The truth of the matter is, that Mr Kipperson was not excessively partial to those gentlemen who had received their education at either of the English Universities, because he knew that they knew nothing, and he thought that they thought that they knew everything. But Mr Pringle really did know nothing, and was very sure that he did know nothing; and he used to flatter Mr Kipperson as being so very knowing. So Mr Kipperson used to say of Mr Pringle, that he had not been at all injured by his University education.

Mr Pringle, after making a suitable preface, and expressing himself somewhat incredulous concerning the statement of his cousin’s letter, handed the said letter to Mr Kipperson, that he might read and judge for himself, and give such advice as he in his wisdom should think most to the purpose.

Peter took the letter and read it, and looked wondrously wise while he was reading it; and he screwed up his features into various grotesque forms, and then handed the letter back to Mr Pringle, saying, “Well, Mr Pringle, what do you intend to do in this matter?”

It was not much to the purpose to ask this question, for it did not answer the rector’s purpose, nor meet the rector’s question; therefore, Mr Pringle said, “I rather wished, sir, to be favored with your advice how to act in the business. For it puts me into a very awkward situation.”

That was very true, and Mr Kipperson knew it, and he did not propose his question, expecting it to be answered explicitly, but that Mr Pringle, by being thus reminded of his own lack of wisdom, might more effectually be impressed with the sagacity and penetration of Peter Kipperson. The question therefore was something like that of the man in the play, “Do ye give it up?”

So when Mr Pringle threw himself on the mercy of Mr Kipperson’s wisdom, the knowing agriculturist rubbed his hands with great satisfaction, and said, “Well, Mr Pringle, this is really an unpleasant business. I scarcely know how to advise you, for I am peculiarly situated, you know, as being a tenant of Lord Smatterton; not that I feel myself at all dependent on Lord Smatterton or Lord anybody; but still I am acquainted with his lordship, and I should not like to be seen in anything that might look unfriendly towards his lordship.”

Then Mr Kipperson paused, and then Mr Pringle replied, “Certainly not. But I think that if Mr Primrose does not know the intention of his daughter, he ought by some means to be informed of it. And indeed it would not be desirable that you or I should be very actively engaged against Lord Spoonbill. The question therefore is, how shall we let Mr Primrose know, without any risk of being suspected by Lord Spoonbill? But perhaps my cousin may be deceived, after all: you know he mentioned some such report when he was here a little while ago, and he afterwards found that he had been misled.”

At this Mr Kipperson shook his wise head, and replied with a knowing smile, “No, no, Mr Pringle, I am pretty sure that your cousin is not deceived. I know it for a fact that Colonel Crop has been at the castle with Lord Spoonbill, and that very lately; and I believe that the colonel is there still; and I have heard some remarks made by some of Lord Smatterton’s people, by which I am convinced that your cousin’s information is well founded.”

It has been said that Mr Pringle was an admirer of Miss Primrose; the same also has been said of Mr Kipperson. But when Robert Darnley renewed his acquaintance with the young lady, faint were the hopes of these two gentlemen. Mr Pringle however had not totally despaired, seeing that he was aware of the opposition of Mr Darnley the elder; and, in hopes that there might yet be some chance for him, he had paid very frequent visits and very close attention. The contents of his cousin’s letter did therefore disturb him a little; but when Mr Kipperson seemed to corroborate the information contained in that letter, the reverend rector was disturbed much more, and he was quite shocked to think that a young lady of such apparent purity of mind and of such high feeling and general correctness of deportment, should so far compromise her dignity as voluntarily to submit to such an arrangement as that which was stated in Zephaniah’s letter.

The reverend divine, then, being concerned and grieved for Miss Primrose, began to cast about in his mind by what means so melancholy a catastrophe might be prevented. Mr Kipperson did not seem likely to afford him any valuable assistance in the way of counsel or advice; but at length the sagacious agriculturist bethought himself of another corroborating fact that seemed to prove the truth of Mr Zephaniah Pringle’s letter, and he gave utterance to the thought which had occurred to him: “Have you not observed of late, Mr Pringle, that Mr Robert Darnley has discontinued his visits to Smatterton?”

“That I have indeed,” replied the rector of Smatterton; “and I suppose that the Darnleys are already aware of the arrangement.”

“No doubt of it,” answered Mr Kipperson.

“But is it not very strange,” said Mr Pringle, “that so strictly moral and religious a man as Mr Darnley the elder, should not do all in his power to prevent such an affair? It is very astonishing to me, that if he knows it he should not inform Mr Primrose of it.”

“Well, then,” said Mr Kipperson, who looked as if he had suddenly made a wonderful discovery, “would it not be best that you should consult with Mr Darnley yourself, and that you, as a clergyman, should give your brother clergyman some hint upon the matter?”

“That is a good thought,” said Mr Pringle; “and if Mr Darnley really does know anything of the affair for a certainty, he is the best person to communicate the information to Mr Primrose.”

With the result of this consultation, Mr Kipperson and Mr Pringle were both equally pleased, for a hint was thereby suggested to them how they might both get rid of the trouble. So Mr Kipperson, without any great mental exertion, or any risk of compromising his reputation for sagacity, appeared, as he always wished to appear, as an adviser and sagacious counsellor.

CHAPTER XIII.

The rector of Smatterton now betook himself to the parsonage-house at Neverden, in order that he might administer to his brother clergyman a word or two of admonition, or, more reverentially speaking, suggestion. This was an exploit by no means disagreeable to Mr Pringle, for it gave him an opportunity to thrust himself more closely in Mr Darnley’s way. The two rectors had not been on such very intimate terms as two clerical neighbours ought to be. And Mr Pringle was very desirous of increasing the intimacy, and of subduing his neighbour’s haughtiness and coolness. It has been already acknowledged and stated that Mr Darnley, with all his good qualities, his conscientious discharge of his duties, and his strict attention to the morals of his parishioners, was still a proud man. He laid mighty stress on rank, and gave great honor to the great because they were great, and he looked down upon Mr Pringle as a man of no family. He was very civil to Mr Pringle, but he had not yet admitted the young rector to an equality of intimacy. Indeed Mr Darnley had frequently deplored that such great facility of access was given to the church by means of exhibitions at the Universities, so that the sons of very inferior tradesmen might raise themselves, by adopting the clerical profession, into the rank of gentlemen. Yet this same Mr Darnley made it not an unfrequent subject of boasting, when speaking of the unspeakable excellences of the British constitution, that the highest offices in church and state were open to all classes of British subjects. But there is a wide difference between declamation and real feeling. It would be very amusing to have the use of Ithuriel’s spear, and to carry it into some public assemblies, and to touch with it some very eloquent speakers, and perhaps the same spear would afford some little entertainment in a great library; it would be very pretty to see what havoc it would make among dedications and protestations, and all that sort of thing. It is very certain however, by way of bringing back our digression to the point from which it started, that Mr Darnley, under the influence of that revealer of secrets, would be found vituperating that very feature in the British constitution which he so very often professed to admire.

Mr Pringle was received by Mr Darnley with great politeness. Mr Darnley was polite to everybody. Those people do not know how to be proud who manifest their pride by rudeness and ill-humour; for repulsive as vulgar haughtiness may be, it can never keep encroachment so effectually at a distance as cold politeness and graceful formality.

Mr Pringle was desirous of imitating Mr Darnley’s politeness, but he felt that the imitation looked like imitation; and he was therefore more desirous of inducing the rector of Neverden to dismiss his repulsive reserve, and to admit his brother clergyman to an equality of intimacy. But this was not so easily effected as Mr Pringle wished. For Mr Darnley, at this very interview of which we are now speaking, shewed symptoms that he regarded Mr Pringle’s call as a matter of business rather than of compliment. There is a mode of looking upon a caller which seems to ask what is his business, and yet in that look there is nothing unpolite or positively rude. So did the rector of Neverden look upon the rector of Smatterton, who felt himself much mortified that, after all the pains that he had taken to become an indolent gentleman, he could not thoroughly enjoy the pleasures either of indolence or gentility.

This look and manner on the part of Mr Darnley considerably repressed the fluency with which Mr Pringle would otherwise have talked on common-place matters, and thereby compelled him, sooner than he had designed, to intimate that he had some matter of importance to communicate. The two clergymen thereupon adjourned to the library.

Then Mr Pringle looked important; but with all his efforts he could not look quite so magnificent as Mr Darnley. And taking out of his pocket a letter, the reverend rector of Smatterton addressed himself solemnly and gravely to the reverend rector of Neverden.

“I have called upon you, Mr Darnley, on a very unpleasant business, and indeed I hardly know how I can with any propriety ask your assistance in the affair, for it concerns a parishioner of mine; but it is one with whom you have been longer acquainted than I have.”

Here Mr Pringle paused, hoping and expecting that Mr Darnley would anticipate by conjecture; but the rector of Neverden merely bowed and said; “And what is the affair to which you allude?”

“I believe, sir,” resumed Mr Pringle, “you are acquainted with Mr Primrose, who is now residing at the rectory at Smatterton?”

“I do know that there is such a person,” replied Mr Darnley, “but I can hardly be said to have the honor of an acquaintance with Mr Primrose. It does not suit my habits to extend my acquaintance, or to form new intimacies.”

This last remark looked something like a hint to Mr Pringle that he should not presume to anticipate an intimacy with his brother clergyman. But still it was uttered with no uncourteous tone, and Mr Pringle was not compelled to apply and take it to himself. He went on and said; “But you formerly, I believe, were acquainted with that gentleman’s daughter?”

“Formerly, I was,” said Mr Darnley, without any change of tone, or any visible symptom of resentment or relenting.

And then Mr Pringle proceeded: “But, surely, sir, though you may have now no acquaintance with Mr Primrose and his daughter, you would not refuse to do anything in your power to save a respectable young lady from destruction?”

“I do not know, Mr Pringle,” said the rector of Neverden, “to what you may be now alluding; but I am sorry to say that the young lady of whom you are speaking has already refused my advice, and I am not in the habit of forcing my admonitions on those who despise them. You may not be acquainted with all the facts of the case to which I refer, but the time was when I would have been a real friend and benefactor to Miss Primrose; but the fascinations and gaieties of the metropolis, and the empty patronage of high rank, led her to despise my kind offers. Still however if, as you say, I can save the young lady from destruction, I shall most willingly give my assistance, for I bear no resentment; only let me add, that I will have no farther acquaintance with Mr Primrose or his daughter. I wish them well and would do them any service in my power, but I cannot have any acquaintance with them.”

That was not a very good kind of well-wishing; but such kind of feeling is very prevalent, and passes with multitudes as mightily generous. At least we suppose that it so passes, otherwise professions of that nature would not be so frequently made nor so pompously uttered. To our thought it does not seem exactly to come up to the spirit of Christian forgiveness. It is however mightily convenient for those who wish to enjoy the pleasures of resentment, and the reputation of generosity, that they can thus easily persuade themselves that they possess a virtue which they have not, and that they have subdued a resentment which they spitefully cherish.

Mr Pringle, who was desirous of rendering himself agreeable to Mr Darnley, assented very readily to what that gentleman said, and acknowledged, not exactly in so many words, but in language to that purpose, that it was indeed a most unpardonable sin to refuse to listen to the good advice of so good an adviser as Mr Darnley.

The rector of Neverden, to whom homage was agreeable both from constitution and habit, was by this concession of Mr Pringle more softened towards his visitor than he had ever been before. For Mr Darnley had regarded his neighbour of Smatterton, with something of a jealous look, as an unwarrantable encroacher on the clerical dignity and family consequence of the rector of Neverden, who considered himself as a man of family. But now when Mr Pringle paid homage to Mr Darnley’s wisdom and flattered his vanity, the reverend man of family was softened and subdued, and he exercised a more gracious spirit of condescension towards his reverend neighbour of Smatterton. And, in order to exhibit this condescension, Mr Darnley entered most copiously and fully into a narrative of all the particulars of the history of Miss Primrose. To this narrative Mr Pringle listened very attentively, and at the close of it made exactly such comments as Mr Darnley would be most pleased to hear.

“And after this,” added the rector of Neverden, “with what propriety can I hold any intercourse with the family of Mr Primrose?”

“Most undoubtedly, sir,” replied Mr Pringle, “you have been treated with very great disrespect and inattention, and I am not at all surprised at your reluctance to hold any intercourse with Mr Primrose. But as I had received from my relative in London a letter making a communication of this nature, and urging me as a clergyman to use all means in my power to prevent such a disgraceful step on the part of one of my parishioners, and as being a very young man, and being peculiarly situated with respect to Lord Smatterton’s family, I wished if possible that Mr Primrose should be warned of the danger to which his daughter is exposed through some other channel; and I thought no one so proper as yourself for that task, as any expostulation or information would come with more weight from you than from any one else.”

“Very true, Mr Pringle, very true,” replied the rector of Neverden, “I must confess you are right; and the time has been when Mr Primrose might, or Miss Primrose might, have listened to my advice, but I fear that time is gone. But what would you have me to do, Mr Pringle?”

“Merely, sir,” replied Mr Pringle, “to inform Mr Primrose by any means you may be pleased to use, that such a negociation is carrying on between Lord Spoonbill and his daughter, and that the lady is deceived by the promise of a private marriage, when no marriage at all is intended.”

“Why, if the young woman is deceived, she ought to be undeceived.”

This last remark, being uttered with a peculiarly magnificent and oracular tone, received from that tone a degree of importance with which letters cannot easily invest it. And seeing that it was an unanswerable truth, Mr Pringle did not reply to it; and Mr Darnley thereupon having hopes that, by the evidence which the rector of Smatterton possessed, Mr Robert Darnley might see the folly of his conduct, went on to say to Mr Pringle; “Now, sir, if it is not asking too much, may I request of you the favor that you will let my son see, or at least hear the letter which you hold in your hand. I think I can pledge my word that Lord Spoonbill shall know nothing of the matter from him.”

To be able to confer a favor on Mr Darnley was a temptation too strong for Mr Pringle to resist; but he took care to let it be understood that the communication was indeed a particular favour. This scrupulousness was not repulsive to Mr Darnley’s taste, for he was much in the habit of making everything a matter of pomp and ceremony.

After much farcical parade therefore, Mr Robert Darnley was sent for into the study. The scene formed by his entrance into the apartment was truly picturesque; but, in the absence of graphic and dramatic power, we must leave it to the reader’s imagination to form the picture for itself.

Let the reader then imagine Mr Darnley the elder, a full-sized, good-looking, pompous, elderly gentleman, in clerical attire the most marked and definite, powdered with great profusion, and yet with exquisite accuracy, looking as venerable as a whole bench of bishops, as wise as the twelve judges, and as awful as Homer’s Jupiter Olympus when he frowned;—let the reader imagine on the other hand a smart, little, dapper, pale-faced shred of humanity, slender as a twig, meaningless as a gate-post, perked out with all the dandyism that the clerical garb will allow, screwing its unintellectual little features with mighty and painful effort into what it imagines to be a look of importance;—to these two personages there enters a third,

‘Of goodlie shape, erect and tall,’

with brow unclouded, with careless but not ungraceful gait, and directing a smile of interrogation to the two important ones.

“Robert,” said the elder one with great solemnity, “this gentleman has in his possession a letter, which he will have the goodness to shew you, and which I hope and trust will set your mind at rest on a subject which has of late very much disturbed us all.”

The smile on the young man’s countenance waxed fainter, and he anticipated and dreaded another fit of prosing. He turned towards Mr Pringle, who very politely handing the letter to him, said, “I received this letter, sir, from a relative in town, and I thought it my duty to communicate it to Mr Darnley. But as I am peculiarly situated, I do not wish to have it imagined by Lord Spoonbill that the information contained in this letter had transpired by my means.”

“You may make yourself perfectly easy on that subject,” replied Robert Darnley. So saying, the young gentleman took the letter, and with a smile of incredulity and a look of anticipation—for he guessed very nearly the subject of it—he perused it with a forced attention, and returning it to Mr Pringle, directed his conversation to his father.

“I presume, sir, you have read this letter yourself?”

“I have,” replied Mr Darnley; “and have you any doubts on your mind now? Does not this corroborate all that I have said to you?”

“It certainly would corroborate what you have said,” replied the young gentleman, “if it were true, but I do not believe a word of it.”

Quickly turning round to Mr Pringle, the son of the rector of Neverden said by way of apology, “I have not the most distant idea, sir, of questioning the veracity of your relative, but I am perfectly satisfied that there is a mistake somewhere; but, how the mistake has originated, I cannot divine.”

“My relative,” said Mr Pringle in reply, “says in this letter that he heard it from Lord Spoonbill himself.”

“I have no doubt of that, sir,” answered Robert Darnley; “but I can tell you that I would not believe it if I heard it from Lord Spoonbill himself.”

The young rector of Neverden was puzzled, not more at the assertions than at the very calm and confident manner in which they were uttered. And he was beginning to think whether he ought not to be angry that any one should presume to suspect that Zephaniah Pringle could by any chance whatever be deceived.

While Mr Pringle was hesitating whether he should be offended or not, Mr Darnley started up in one of his magnificent airs, saying to his son, “Boy, you are infatuated.”

This angry and loud speech made poor Mr Pringle feel rather awkward, and he wished himself away. It is not by any means a proof of good taste to suffer domestic differences to be exhibited before strangers. We should have thought that Mr Darnley had known better; but with all his wisdom he had not discretion enough to govern himself in that respect. The young gentleman his son did not wish to have the name of Miss Primrose and her history angrily bandied about in the presence of Mr Pringle, therefore, when the father made the remark above noticed, the young man did not make any reply to it.

Mr Darnley the elder was by his son’s silence and by his expressive looks recalled to reflection. Making then an apology for having detained Mr Pringle so long, the rector of Neverden concluded by saying, that he would take some steps to cause Mr Primrose to be informed of the danger to which his daughter was exposed. On this, Mr Pringle took the hint and departed, not best pleased with his visit; for Mr Darnley had behaved with great formality, and had moreover taken the liberty to give his visitor a hint about departing, thereby displaying too strong a sense of superiority. All the consolation that Mr Pringle had under these sorrows was, that he could think within himself that he was in every respect Mr Darnley’s equal.

CHAPTER XIV.

Mr Darnley and his son were now left to themselves; and the young gentleman was wishing that Mr Pringle had kept his cousin’s foolish letter to himself; and Mr Darnley the elder was just beginning an elaborate and serious lecture on his son’s folly and pertinacity, when the discourse was suddenly interrupted and stopped by the appearance of Sir George Aimwell’s carriage driving up the avenue in much quicker time than it was ordinarily accustomed to. And presently Lady Aimwell was seen alighting from the carriage in great haste; and presently afterwards a loud talking was heard, inasmuch as five female voices were in full cry at their very topmost pitch, and there were heard gabblings and exclamations and almost shriekings. Mr Darnley and his son must have been the veriest stoics that ever lived had they not been anxious and curious to know the meaning of all this clatter.

If the female sex be curious, let not this be said of them reproachfully; for they are as anxious to gratify the curiosity of others as they are to have their own curiosity gratified. Not long were the rector of Neverden and his son kept in suspense, touching the cause of the clamour above alluded to; for there rushed into the study with most irreverent haste and unceremonious abruptness, three young ladies almost out of breath, but all speaking at once, and with such eager impetuosity, that they were forced to tell their story three times over before it could be understood. One of the three could have delivered the message in one-third of the time.

Mr Darnley and his son at length understood that the family at Neverden Hall were in the utmost consternation at the loss of Miss Glossop, who was missing, and nowhere to be found. The gentlemen then quitted the study, and hastened to contribute their share of condolence and conjectures to the distressed Lady Aimwell.

“Oh, Mr Darnley!” exclaimed her ladyship, in a tone so pathetic that we would not venture to describe it if we were able—“only think of that ungrateful and wicked creature Arabella Glossop, after all the kindness she had experienced at the hall, to leave us in this disgraceful manner!”

“Disgraceful manner, my lady!” said Mr Darnley; “to what do you allude?”

“I mean, sir,” answered her ladyship, “that there is every reason to believe that Arabella is gone off with Colonel Crop.”

“With Colonel Crop!” repeated the rector, sceptically and magnificently; “the colonel is old enough to be Miss Glossop’s father. And why was any elopement thought necessary? The colonel is a man of family and consideration; and I should not suppose that Mr Glossop could object to such a match for his daughter.”

“Oh, but Mr Darnley!” replied her ladyship, “you do not understand me.”

This had a very singular sound to the rector of Neverden, to be told that there was anything which he did not understand. Then the reverend gentleman replied, “I perfectly understand your ladyship to say that Miss Glossop has eloped with Colonel Crop.”

“Yes, sir,” replied her ladyship; “but not to be married to Colonel Crop.”

Thereat Mr Darnley the elder lifted up his eyes, opening them widely, and he spread out his hands, lifting them up also, and he stood for a moment with open lips, and then with prodigious energy he exclaimed, “Not to be married!”

“No, sir,” answered Lady Aimwell, “not to be married to Colonel Crop. But the poor simpleton has suffered herself to be persuaded by that unprincipled man, that Lord Spoonbill is so much attached to her that he is desirous of marrying her privately; and everybody knows what a profligate man Lord Spoonbill is.”

This information made the whole party start with astonishment, except Mr Robert Darnley; for it immediately occurred to him that herein was a solution of Zephaniah Pringle’s letter. He could not for a moment suppose it possible that Miss Primrose could, under any circumstances whatever, have consented to any negociation with Lord Spoonbill; but it was by no means improbable that Miss Glossop might have been deceived by his lordship’s plausibilities.

To the elder Mr Darnley, however, there arose a difficulty, as he was not aware that Miss Glossop had ever had an opportunity of being in Lord Spoonbill’s company. But a solution of this difficulty was immediately given by Lady Aimwell, who informed the reverend gentleman that he had recently been at Smatterton. “And,” her ladyship added, “Arabella was continually going to the castle, and taking every opportunity of throwing herself in Lord Spoonbill’s way.”

In this part of her ladyship’s narrative there was an inaccuracy of statement amounting to a falsehood. It was a lie too of that nature which even Dr Paley would not allow. There are some falsehoods to which that dexterous moralist extends his mercy. He says, for instance; “There are falsehoods which are not lies, that is, which are not criminal—as, where no one is deceived.” This, we presume, is the principle, though not avowedly so, on which the ingenious moralist vindicates his latitudinarian doctrine on the subject of subscription to the Thirty-nine articles. For that subscription does not deceive any one. But Lady Aimwell had not read Paley, or if she had, she thought that she had as great a right to extend the latitude as the moralist had to make it. Thus, laws are like crockery; one servant cracks them, and another breaks them, and both find their own excuse.

The long and the short of the matter is, that Lady Aimwell’s assertion that Miss Glossop was in the habit of visiting the castle, and throwing herself in the way of Lord Spoonbill, was absolutely incorrect. But without some such assertion there was no making a good story of it. And as written and printed biography generally contains about fifty per cent lies of compliment and flattery, so, spoken biography, or gossip, contains as generally about fifty per cent lies of scandal and calumny.

When Mr Darnley the elder heard this melancholy narrative, and when Lady Aimwell, through much speaking, was totally exhausted and reduced to compulsory silence, the worthy clergyman addressed himself in the language of consolation to her ladyship, and as her ladyship was too much exhausted to speak, she was under the necessity of listening. And then Mr Darnley went on to say much concerning the obstinacy of young women, thinking perhaps at the same time quite as much of the obstinacy of young men. When, gentle reader, when will that happy day arrive, in which young men and young women will act, think, dress, talk, and fall in love, just exactly as old men and old women wish them to do?

The next consideration was to take such steps as might be thought necessary to bring back the fugitive. And then the consultation went on very gravely, and then Robert Darnley ventured, and not till then, to say that no doubt this was the lady alluded to in Mr Zephaniah Pringle’s letter.

Mr Darnley the elder could not gainsay this, for the evidence was so very strong; and thereupon the rector of Neverden began to waver in his opinion concerning Miss Primrose, for it was very clear that Miss Primrose was not the person who had eloped with Colonel Crop.

Addressing himself again to Lady Aimwell, who was beginning to recover from her fatigue, Mr Darnley asked more particularly concerning the eloped one. And in answer to the rector’s enquiries, Lady Aimwell informed him that Miss Glossop had actually acknowledged having received proposals from Lord Spoonbill through Colonel Crop, and that the young lady had also avowed her readiness to consent to a private marriage. Her ladyship also proceeded to inform Mr Darnley that, in consequence of this avowal, she had written to inform the young lady’s father, and that Mr Glossop had sent an answer to the communication, requesting that Arabella might be sent home immediately. This letter was shewn to Miss Glossop, who professed her readiness to return home; and preparations were accordingly made for her departure from Neverden Hall; but, on this very morning on which she should have returned home, she was missing. Lady Aimwell then informed Mr Darnley that enquiry was made among the servants, and that the old gardener had seen Miss Glossop as early as six in the morning walking towards Smatterton; and that when messengers were sent to the castle, word was brought back that Colonel Crop and a young lady had set off in a post-chaise with four horses at a little after six.

But at length came the worst part of the story, and that was that Sir George Aimwell treated the whole affair with levity and indifference: he said that Lord Spoonbill was a man of honor, and that Miss Glossop was in very good hands. “Lord Spoonbill,” continued her ladyship, “may be a man of honor, but he is a very profligate and unprincipled man for all that.”

That was a strange assertion for Lady Aimwell to make, but she was very much agitated, and she hardly knew what she said.

“But after all, Lady Aimwell,” said Mr Darnley the elder, “what is to be done?”

That is a question more easily and more frequently asked than satisfactorily answered. It was altogether unanswerable in the present case. Sir George Aimwell was not at all disposed to pursue the fugitives, and such a pursuit was not a fit excursion for Lady Aimwell. As for sending domestic servants after so fierce and gallant a man as Colonel Crop, that was quite out of the question. The baronet’s whole establishment would be insufficient to cope with the powerful arm of the gallant colonel.

While they were yet talking and meditating on various plans which might be adopted if they possessed the means, an important addition was made to the party, by the unexpected entrance of Mr Glossop himself. For the anxious father, thinking that his daughter would be safest in his own keeping, had made a journey to Neverden for the purpose of accompanying the young lady on her return home.

Now here we are very sorry that some of our readers must necessarily be grievously disappointed, inasmuch as at the announcement of Mr Glossop’s appearance they have made up their minds to find the worthy gentleman in a most tremendous passion, and raving and roaring without mercy. But he really was much more cool than might have been expected. He had received his information of the particulars of the young lady’s departure from Sir George Aimwell, and the baronet had so represented the case, and so spoken of Lord Spoonbill, that Mr Glossop was of the baronet’s opinion, that his lordship only meditated a private marriage, and that the elopement was for that object. Mr Glossop had so great a reverence for nobility, that he was content to suffer his fair daughter to creep up to the dignity of nobility by means of the undignified step of elopement.

The presence of this gentleman made an alteration in the discussions, and gave them something of a more definite direction. Now, it is very strange, though as very true, that Lady Aimwell had been full of concern under the apprehension of Mr Glossop’s possible and highly probable indignation; and one source of her grief was the thought of the gentleman’s violent anger; but when the gentleman made his appearance and was perfectly, or at least comparatively cool, then did her ladyship feel very much shocked, and even offended that he was not in a passion. It is absolutely impossible to please some people.

When Lady Aimwell found that Mr Glossop’s calmness arose from the conversation which he had had with the worthy baronet, her ladyship launched out into most eloquent vituperation of Lord Spoonbill, as a gay deceiver and a most profligate young man; and so far did her ladyship’s indignation transport her that she did all but explicitly assert that no marriage, public or private, was contemplated, either by Lord Spoonbill or the young lady.

This was of course enough to rouse Mr Glossop from his composure, and at all events to prompt him to pursue the fugitives with as much speed as possible. For the purpose of this pursuit he very speedily took leave of the party at Neverden rectory, and was preparing to set out on his journey for London, when the rector of Smatterton returned to Neverden, and in great haste begged to speak to Mr Darnley.

Mr Pringle, it appeared, had on his return to Smatterton been greeted with the information of Miss Glossop’s elopement with Colonel Crop, and though no daily newspaper was published at Smatterton, stories, tales, and calumnies were circulated with great rapidity, and everybody knew everything about everybody. By the story of this elopement, the reverend divine was puzzled. Had he heard that Miss Primrose had fled with the colonel, he would not have been astonished; and nothing could persuade him that he had not been misinformed, till he saw Miss Primrose herself.

Hereupon, the young divine was under the necessity of hastening back to Neverden, in order to unsay all that he had said concerning Penelope. And when he found Mr Glossop there, and heard from Lady Aimwell a brief narrative of the elopement, he forthwith corroborated, by means of the information which he had received from his cousin, the suspicions which Lady Aimwell had excited in the mind of Mr Glossop.

The father of Arabella then became more serious, for this was a matter of grief rather than violent anger. He questioned Mr Pringle very minutely, and Mr Pringle found it necessary to state all that he knew; and it certainly did appear, from the account of the talk between Lord Spoonbill and Mr Erpingham, that the profligate young lord had an intention of deceiving and betraying some confiding one. Mr Pringle was however very anxious that Mr Glossop should not let Lord Spoonbill know from what source he had received his information.

“My good sir,” said the agitated father, “assist me in recovering my child, and I will promise you anything.”

“I have told you, sir,” replied Mr Pringle, “all that I know; and if on your arrival in London you will call on my relative, he will no doubt be able to direct you where to find Lord Spoonbill.”

For this information Mr Glossop was grateful, and he forthwith departed. And they that remained at Neverden rectory began to talk about the strange event, and they all found out that though at first they had been mightily surprised, yet they could not much wonder at it. Then they all made their several but not very various comments on Miss Glossop’s conduct and demeanour. They all agreed that there was a degree of pertness about her which rendered her very disagreeable; and then they found out that she was exactly such a person as would be likely to attract the notice of Lord Spoonbill. So, from beginning with expressions of great astonishment at the elopement, they concluded that they were almost astonished that the young lady had not taken her departure sooner.

CHAPTER XV.

It is of course taken for granted that the elopement of Miss Glossop was the only subject of conversation all the rest of the day at Neverden and Smatterton; and everybody was mightily shocked at it, save and except the worthy magistrate of Neverden Hall. Sir George Aimwell laughed at his lady’s fears, and Lady Aimwell scowled indignation at her lord and master for his flippant manner of treating so serious a subject. Sir George was very well satisfied that his young kinswoman was in the way to become a countess, and Lady Aimwell was indignant at the disgrace brought upon Neverden Hall by such irregular proceedings.

Indeed the truth is, that no turn of affairs whatever could give satisfaction to Lady Aimwell. For even on the supposition that a marriage should take place, and that Miss Glossop should become Lady Spoonbill, that success on the part of the young lady would be a mortifying mode of disappointing Lady Aimwell’s predictions; and any other termination would be reproachful to Sir George.

This mortification, which was so deeply felt by her ladyship, was greatly increased if not altogether occasioned by the confident manner in which she herself had spoken of her own ability to manage young people and to subdue the rebellious. It was not however quite so easy as her ladyship had imagined. And very probably Lady Aimwell is not the first person who has been so disappointed, and very probably Lady Aimwell will not be the last person to be so disappointed. So far will we venture to carry our assertion on this topic, that we do verily believe, that were it possible to collect together into one comprehensive mass the experience of all individuals in every age of the world, from the creation down to the present hour, and were it possible to convey to such a mind as that of Lady Aimwell a knowledge of all the disappointments experienced by those who have thought themselves wiser than the rest of the world, that knowledge would produce no effect whatever in abating conceit or diminishing confidence. Let us leave Sir George and Lady Aimwell to grumble at each other till they are tired.

The effect produced on the feelings of Mr Darnley by the elopement of Miss Glossop, is of more importance to our narrative than the disagreements and grumblements at Neverden Hall. After the departure of Mr Glossop and the other visitors whom the elopement had brought to the rectory, Mr Darnley retired to his study for the purpose of meditation. Now when a very obstinate and positive mind is really shaken in its obstinacy and moved from its perverseness, that movement is a mighty and effectual movement. And when, combined with obstinacy, there is a high degree of pride, then the resolution or change of mind is magnificent and highly thought of. And when, in addition to pride and obstinacy, there is a conscientious and moral feeling, and no admixture of essential ill-humour and malignity, then the change of views and revolution of thought is acknowledged with candour and almost with penitence.

To some such state of mind as this was Mr Darnley the elder brought by reflecting on the events of the morning, and by recollecting and comparing the several observations and remarks which had been made on the elopement of Miss Glossop. There came into his mind in the very first statement of the affair a thought of the very wide difference between the characters of Miss Glossop and Miss Primrose. The recollection of Penelope’s early life came back to him again with the thought of those pleasing manners which he had so much admired when she was too young to think of artifice or concealment. He recollected the time when he had thought most highly of her, and had regarded her as giving promise of many virtues, and indicating a development of strong features of moral beauty and integrity. Then also did he recollect how very plain and simple an explanation his son had given of those passages in the young lady’s history, by which the first feelings of alienation were roused. He thought also of the good understanding and good feelings of his own beloved and only son; and he could not upon serious reflection and cool deliberation think it very likely that Robert Darnley was altogether deceived. He knew that his son had discernment, and principles of decided integrity; he therefore became more willing to think that the young man’s attachment was not infatuation.

Thus thinking, and thus experiencing a total revolution in his feelings towards Penelope Primrose, the reverend rector of Neverden next bethought himself that it was an act of duty on his part to avow this change of thought and feeling. Nine hundred and ninety-nine men in a thousand would have wriggled and shuffled out of this difficulty by some mean, roundabout, underhand, contemptible artifice; they would almost, if not altogether, have told many lies and have made many trumpery excuses, to avoid the acknowledgment that they had been wrong. But Mr Darnley was too proud for anything of that kind. So long as he thought that he was right, he was proudly and firmly stubborn; but when he found that he had been in an error, he was willing to retract. He thought it no degradation to acknowledge it, even to his own son.

Mr Darnley therefore sent for the young man into the study, and began by saying, though with much pomp of manner and dignity of bearing, “Robert, this is a strange affair of Miss Glossop’s elopement. Had you any suspicion of any acquaintance between this young woman and Lord Spoonbill?”

“I had merely heard,” replied the young man, “that Miss Glossop had been at the castle, and had met Lord Spoonbill, and that his lordship was very much struck with her beauty and accomplishments.”

There was something ironical in the tone with which this sentence was uttered, and the dignified rector himself smiled and said: “Beauty and accomplishments! And may I ask you to whom you were indebted for this information concerning Lord Spoonbill’s admiration of Miss Glossop’s beauty and accomplishments?”

“My informant, sir,” replied the young gentleman, “was Sir George Aimwell.”

The rector of Neverden smiled again, and said, “As good a judge of beauty and accomplishments as Lord Spoonbill himself.”

Assuming then a more serious look and a graver tone of voice, the reverend divine continued—“Robert, I fear that I have acted unjustly towards an excellent young woman.”

There was a symptom of a tear in the eye of the father when the young gentleman, who immediately understood the full meaning of the sentence, hastily and warmly grasped his father’s hand, and said, “No, sir, you never act unjustly; you may have been misinformed.”

“You are generous in putting the most liberal construction on the fact; but I shall not be satisfied till I have made a suitable recantation of my error. I have certainly inflicted pain, but my intentions were not evil.”

“I beg, sir,” interrupted the young gentleman, “that you will not distress me by such concessions. If your opinion of Miss Primrose has experienced a favorable change, the knowledge of that fact will abundantly counterbalance all the unpleasantness that is past.”

“But,” replied Mr Darnley the elder, “I must see Miss Primrose herself as soon as possible, and must ask her forgiveness of my erroneous apprehensions.”

To this proposal also the young gentleman made objection as before. But it was part of the reverend gentleman’s pride to acknowledge himself in an error, when he found that he had been misled. It was a pleasure to him to be able to contemplate with complacent approbation the condescension of his acknowledgments. That, indeed, is the genuine enjoyment of pride, that it can find peculiar gratification even in the exercise of humility.

And though the day was then too far advanced for Mr Darnley to go to Smatterton, he resolved upon paying an early visit on the following morning to Mr Primrose and his daughter. In this resolution the rector of Neverden felt himself composed and happy, and as a burden was thereby removed from his mind, he was cheerful, and then the restraint which had chained up the tongues of his family was broken, and they talked—oh, how they did talk!

The breaking up of a long, long frost, the first blossomings of spring, and the revelling song of the birds, the traveller’s home and fire-side, and wife, and children, after a weary journey, and a long anxious absence, are all very delightful in their way, yet they are faint images of the joy that fluttered and danced on the lightened bosoms and enlightened countenances of the family of the rector of Neverden.

Ever since the return of Robert Darnley from India, there had been an unpleasant and awkward restraint in the family, by the virtual prohibition of all mention of that topic which formerly had been the most agreeable and delightful of all topics. They had all been very partial to Penelope, and had admired and loved her cordially, till that wicked and profligate young hereditary legislator had so cruelly interrupted the correspondence between Robert Darnley and his young friend. And then all the family, except Robert Darnley himself, began to think unkindly and unjustly of the young woman; and then they began to find out defects and imperfections which they had never seen, thought of, or suspected before.

That is a curious faculty which some persons possess of finding the virtues and vices in clusters. So that, in an individual whom they regard with a favorable eye, they can see nothing but what is good, and if by any one single change whatever, a revolution of feeling takes place in the mind, then all that was good becomes bad. The family at Neverden had been habituated to admire everything that Penelope Primrose said or did; but when they regarded her as having renounced her connexion and intimacy with the family, then were they greatly indignant and mightily censorious, and everything that she did, or thought, or said, became altogether stark naught.

But who shall blame them? Is not this the almost universal feeling; of mankind? It is in this country most especially and peculiarly so. Every man’s own sect or party contains all that is wise and virtuous, while folly and vice are the lot of the rest of mankind. What does the Quarterly Review mean by “the wise and the good,” but Tories and high churchmen? When Cobbett wrote Peter Porcupine, he was one of the wise and good, and if he would become Peter Porcupine again, he would be again one of the wise and good.

We will not however dwell very copiously upon the recollection of the unfriendly feelings which they of Neverden rectory once entertained towards Miss Primrose. They themselves have forgotten those feelings and have recanted their unkind expressions; and as for Penelope herself, there was too much joy in her heart to admit of a moment’s hesitation to forgive and forget. This is pleasant. And very pleasantly did the day pass and close at Neverden rectory; but it did not close quite so early as it had been wont to do. For, in consequence of the long suspension of social and pleasing family chat, there was an arrear of prate to be paid off; and every individual of the family had something new or extraordinary to say.

But most of all was Robert Darnley himself full of talk, because he was the personage on whose account the long wearisome silence had been inflicted upon the family. And though he had much to say concerning India, his mother and sisters were ready to pass that over, and reserve it for a future occasion, so that they might hear from him an account of his visits to Smatterton rectory, and a narration of the particulars which led to the cessation of the correspondence, and caused the unpleasant misunderstanding. Something of this the young ladies had already heard from Penelope herself, but it was only Robert Darnley who could inform them of the confession of Nick Muggins and the full measure of Lord Spoonbill’s iniquity. And they were all astonished at what they heard; and they knew not which to admire most, the virtues of their brother or the wickedness of Lord Spoonbill.

Mr Darnley the elder also, when he heard with a proper temper and a patient ear the narrative which his son gave of the events of the few preceding months, and when he recollected how much of this he had heard before, and that without paying due regard or attention to it, then was he indeed and truly sorry. He did most sincerely regret that he had wilfully and obstinately closed his mind to evidence. In this recollection he did not feel the pride of humility, but the real and actual self-abasement of humiliation. How strange it is and yet how true, that a man, not wanting in understanding, whose business it has been for twenty, thirty, or perhaps forty years, to give advice and direction to others, should, in the evening of his days and in that season when the judgment is most cool, stand in need of lessons himself! So it was in the present case, and Mr Darnley felt it so, and he resolved silently and internally that he would not again so give way to moroseness and ill-humour.

This reflection however, which occupied for a while the mind of Mr Darnley, did not abate or diminish the pleasantness of the evening at Neverden rectory.

CHAPTER XVI.

Early on the following morning Mr Darnley the elder, accompanied by his son, proceeded to the rectory of Smatterton. And considering that the excursion on which the rector was going was one of humility, retractation, and penance, his aspect was cheerful and gay. But he felt confident of a welcome reception, and had an inward consciousness that he should be rather regarded as conferring a favour than as soliciting forgiveness.

His anticipations of a most cordial and welcome reception were presently realized. There was a freedom and openness of manner about Mr Primrose that finely contrasted with the reserve and pompous artificialness of Mr Darnley. The hand of greeting was held out, and the whole demeanour of Mr Primrose was such as to exclude any very regular and set apology from the lips of the rector of Neverden.

But unless Mr Darnley had said something by way of acknowledgment, he felt that he should lose the reputation and praise and glory of confessing himself to have been in the wrong. Therefore he began with mighty earnestness of manner to say; “Mr Primrose, you probably did not expect this visit from me, but——”

Then Mr Primrose hastily and cheerfully interrupted him, saying, “My good friend, I am most happy to see you. We will have no apologies; we are very sure that you have been only misinformed. I am glad to shake hands with you, and so will be Penelope.”

At these words Penelope made her appearance, and Mr Darnley formally and graciously advanced to meet her. And he held out his hand to meet her with an unusual degree of condescension, and with that dignified kind of smile that looked rather more like granting than asking pardon. But in such matters Penelope was not fastidious, and she took the proffered hand as graciously and cordially as it was offered; and she made a lowly, reverential, and graceful curtsey. And though this was the usual mode in which Penelope greeted those whom she respected, yet there appeared to Mr Darnley a more than usual degree of humility and gracefulness in the young lady’s manner on the present occasion. And this thought touched him deeply, and he extended his other hand as if to prohibit and prevent such an undeserved homage; and he was beginning to speak, and there was in the tone of his voice that which reminded Penelope of former days and of the great agitations of mind through which she had passed, and there came before the eye of her memory the form of her deceased benefactor Doctor Greendale; and there was also great joy rushing into her spirit at the thought of reconciliation to old acquaintances and the revival of friendships, and thus trembling, she needed support, and she would have fallen to the ground, but Mr Darnley caught her in his arms, and she wept gently but audibly, and Mr Darnley found no power to speak.

The heart of the rector of Neverden was deeply affected at this interview, and most unexpectedly so, for he had not anticipated such purely kind and graceful feeling. He had supposed that his errors would be pleasingly and readily pardoned, but he had not expected that he should meet with such powerful and contagious emotion. So he felt self-reproach more keenly than he expressed it; and his studied condescension availed him not, and his set speeches were dispersed. And it does not unfrequently happen that, when there is a studied preparation or deliberate anticipation of what shall be said and how it shall be spoken, all this preparation comes to nought, and the anticipation is disappointed, if not totally reversed.

We think it not impossible or unlikely that many a young gentleman, ambitious of fame as a public speaker, has heard with comparative contempt the efforts of others, and has anticipated with what greater eloquence he himself will speak when it shall come to his turn; and yet when it has come to his turn, he has made sad work of it, and has forgotten his rhetoric and mislaid his figures, and has turned his metaphors the wrong end upwards.

It is very certain that Mr Darnley found himself disappointed. Yet his disappointment was not altogether of an unpleasant nature; for, though he felt upon reflection a greater degree of regret than he had anticipated, he also experienced in the mode of his reception at Smatterton a greater pleasure than he had expected.

The more powerful emotions of the first meeting soon subsided, and they were succeeded by miscellaneous talk of divers kinds; but the more prominent topic was the elopement of Miss Glossop. The rumour of course had soon been spread through the village of Smatterton, and as Mr Pringle had now no longer need of secresy, he had also talked with Mr Primrose concerning the information received from Zephaniah the critic. And they were all amazed at the wickedness of Lord Spoonbill. When also Mr Darnley understood from the narration which he had received from his son, the pains which Lord Spoonbill had taken to withdraw the affections of Penelope from him on whom they had been so worthily fixed, he could not refrain from strong expressions of indignation and contempt.

And though Mr Darnley had been in the first instance disappointed in the expression and utterance of all that he would have said, he could not but take an opportunity of apologizing to Miss Primrose for having ever suspected her of an attachment to a person of such principles, or want of principle, as Lord Spoonbill.

Penelope very readily replied; “I must not hear anything from you, sir, like apology. It was not at all surprizing, considering all the circumstances, that you should entertain an unfavorable opinion of me. And if that had been true, which appeared to be so, it was not to be expected that you should have acted otherwise.” Speeches of this nature were peculiarly agreeable and acceptable to Mr Darnley; and though he did love homage and compliment most fervently, yet he was always grateful for the incense, and he thoroughly and heartily enjoyed it.

To throw away compliments and fine speeches upon those who do not regard and value them, is mortifying; but nothing of this kind was thrown away upon Mr Darnley, the rector of Neverden. So he began to see fresh beauties and hitherto undiscerned excellences in the mind of Penelope Primrose, and he repeated again and again the expression of his deep and sincere regret at the misunderstanding which had suspended his acquaintance with so worthy and excellent a person.

All these regrets Penelope endeavoured to abate or disperse, by proving to Mr Darnley’s very great satisfaction that he had not been at all deserving of blame, but that under all the circumstances he had acted with the profoundest wisdom and according to the strictest and purest moral principles.

How pleasant a thing is penitence, and how agreeable is confession when, upon the acknowledgment that we have done wrong, we have the satisfaction to hear that what we considered wrong proves to be altogether right and good, and when, instead of meeting with rebukes and reluctant forgiveness, apologies are furnished for our transgressions with a sophistry more ingenious than our own self-love can form them withal.

So greatly delighted was Mr Darnley with his reception at Smatterton, so many new beauties did he discover in Penelope, and so many unsuspected good qualities did he discern in Mr Primrose, that in the ardour of his reconciliation he would insist upon it that an early day should be fixed for a festive meeting at Neverden rectory; and he was so impatient, that he would have the following day appointed for that purpose, without once considering whether or not it might be convenient to Mrs Darnley to provide an entertainment for a party at so short a notice.

Having made this engagement, Mr Darnley and his son took their departure from Smatterton, and it occurred to the elder gentleman that it would be proper for him to make a call of sympathy and condolence on Lady Aimwell. And if Sir George Aimwell had not been the great man of the parish, it would also have occurred to the reverend gentleman that it would be proper to give the magistrate a gentle rebuke for having so neglected the charge committed to him, as to suffer the young lady to elope from his house. But to a mind so susceptible of impression from the majesty of rank and the dignity of high birth and large fortune, it appeared altogether a species of high treason to admonish roughly or reproachfully an opulent baronet and an unpaid magistrate.

We cannot think of unpaid magistrates without reverence and gratitude; for, when we think how dear is law and how expensive the protection of property, it is quite delightful to know that we may have some sort of law for nothing. As to the quality of that gratuitous law, we cannot say much; all the beauty of it is, the fact that it is gratuitous—it costs nothing!

When Mr Darnley reached Neverden Hall, he found Lady Aimwell reading Stackhouse’s History of the Bible, and the worthy baronet amusing himself with a volume of the Newgate Calendar. For, though the magistrate was not what is called a great reader, he used now and then, when it was not shooting season, to amuse himself with a book. As Mr Darnley entered the room, the baronet laid down his book, and her ladyship lifted up her head. And the baronet spoke first, saying;

“Good morning, Mr Darnley, I am glad to see you. So you find us both at our books—one at law, and the other at gospel. By the way, did you ever read the Newgate Calendar? It is the most entertaining book I ever read.”

Mr Darnley did not make a full and immediate reply to all that the worthy baronet said; but merely returned his greeting, and then addressed himself to Lady Aimwell, and expressed a hope that her ladyship was not the worse for her alarm on the preceding day.

This hope thus expressed, and this allusion to the transgression of Miss Glossop, was designed by Mr Darnley as a very, very gentle hint to Sir George Aimwell. For the worthy rector of Neverden could not think of going farther in the way of reproof than merely by an indefinite hint, which the great man might or might not apply, according as might suit his convenience or taste.

The baronet however, whether regarding it as a rebuke or not, immediately directed his conversation to Mr Darnley on that topic, and said, “Ay, this is an unpleasant affair, this elopement; it would have been better and more regular if Lord Spoonbill had proceeded in the ordinary mode of courtship and arrangement; but his lordship, you know, is peculiarly situated. I mentioned the subject to Colonel Crop, and he satisfied me that it was absolutely impossible, under existing circumstances, that any other steps could be taken.”

“But are you quite sure, Sir George, that Lord Spoonbill will marry the young woman? Has not Miss Glossop placed herself in a very awkward situation by this proceeding?”

“Marry her!” replied the baronet; “to be sure he will. I told the colonel that I would have no negociations on any other ground.”

At this information Mr Darnley started, and was actually astonished beyond his ordinary powers of self-government; and forgetting for a moment the dignity of baronet and magistrate, he directed a look of a reproachful character towards the unpaid one, and exclaimed, “Surely, Sir George, you would never suffer Colonel Crop to enter your house a second time after suggesting in your hearing any other ground of negociation?”

“I believe,” said the baronet with very great composure, “that the colonel was not aware that there was any relationship in the case between my family and that of the young lady.”

The virtuous indignation of Mr Darnley was more strongly excited; but his recollection came to his aid, and he subdued his anger as well as he could; but was most heartily disgusted with the low-mindedness of the magistrate, when he replied in answer to some more observations, “Ay, ay, you gentlemen of the cloth have nicer notions of morality than men of the world.”

In this conversation Lady Aimwell took little or no part; but her ladyship was very well pleased that Mr Darnley had been so bold as to give the baronet a little rebuke, and the baronet was not altogether satisfied with himself that he had suffered the silly girl to listen to Colonel Crop, and to receive messages from Lord Spoonbill under such circumstances. It is superfluous to say, that the unpaid magistrate had not a very nice perception of propriety to suffer such proceedings, especially since he knew, or might have known, the weakness of the young lady’s character.

CHAPTER XVII.

It is the character of history to pass over in silence years of peace, and to dwell copiously on seasons of war or scenes of discord. Seeing then that our friends at Neverden and Smatterton are now peacefully reconciled, and all is proceeding with them smoothly and calmly, we will turn our attention to the fugitives, and follow the gallant one and the lovely one on their perilous and ill-advised excursion.

It will however be necessary to present our readers with two letters, one from Colonel Crop to Lord Spoonbill, and one from Lord Spoonbill to Colonel Crop; and we beg to caution all editors, publishers, and proprietors of “Polite Letter-writers,” against pirating these letters for the purpose of enriching and rendering more attractive their said books on the subject of letter-writing. The first letter of the two is as follows:

“My Lord,

“Your lordship’s letter came to hand. In answer to which I have the honor to say, that the lady is disposed to accompany me to town, whenever it shall please your lordship.

“I have the honor to be,
My Lord,
Your Lordship’s most obedient, &c.”

In answer to this his lordship replied:

“My dear Crop,

“You are the best fellow in the world. Take it for granted that your fortune is made. Come as soon as you can. Bring the dear angel to Erpingham’s cottage, and send me word immediately on your arrival.

“Yours, ever faithfully,
Spoonbill.”

This last letter arrived the very day before that on which Miss Glossop was destined to return home. Happy therefore was the gallant colonel when, by means of a stolen interview with the young lady, he learned from her that she was prepared to take her flight as early as possible on the following morning. Preparations were accordingly made; and at six o’clock in the morning, as already recorded, the young lady, accompanied by her military guardian, forsook the beautiful plains of Neverden and the splendid towers of Smatterton.

A journey is pleasant and animating. There is something in rapidity of movement quite inspiring. It cheers the dejected spirits. It enlivens the stupid, and clears away the vapours from the stagnant soul. It decidedly brightens the wits. Hence we find that jockies are so very keen and knowing; the rapidity with which they are carried along is the cause of their shrewdness. Hackney-coachmen are stupid people, and waggoners are stupider still. As slow movements are unfavourable to the wits, so are they also depressing to the spirits. And we think that it was an additional punishment to the rogues that were formerly hung at Tyburn, that they were condemned to be slowly dragged through the streets. For though no man is ever in a great hurry to be hanged, yet, to have been galloped over the stones at a good round pace would not have been half so dismal as to crawl along at a snail’s pace. Furthermore it may be remarked, that whenever gentlemen ride or drive furiously, it is a symptom that they are either melancholy or stupid, and that by worrying horses to death they are endeavouring to cheer their own spirits or to brighten their wits. And once more it is also worthy of remark, how prodigiously stupid some men are, seeing that though they frequently travel most rapidly, and ride and drive most furiously, and leap over hedges and ditches, floundering, galloping, roaring, tearing and shrieking after hares and foxes; yet, after all, they remain as stupid as hackney-coachmen, who have never moved more rapidly than at the rate of five miles in an hour. This paragraph may be omitted in the reading if the reader thinks it too profound.

The rapidity of movement produced an agreeable effect on the travellers of whom we are speaking. For Miss Glossop was in remarkably high spirits, and the colonel was so animated as to talk incessantly for the first five minutes of the journey, and, when he had finished, Miss Glossop talked incessantly all the rest of the way.

There is something so peculiarly pathetic in the phrase, “Ah! little did he think,” &c., that we cannot pass by the suitable occasion here afforded for the introduction of such phraseology. Though by the way it is not perhaps any great addition to a calamity that a man does not long beforehand anticipate it, and thereby suffer from anticipation more pain perhaps than he endures from the reality. To proceed however with our pathetics.

Ah! little did Lord Spoonbill think, while he was looking forward to a rapturous meeting with his adored and beloved and angelic Penelope, whom he loved as dearly as Werter loved his Charlotte; little did his lordship think what an insufferable blockhead was Colonel Crop not to remember Penelope Primrose, or not to distinguish between her and Arabella Glossop. And little did his lordship think what a pert, forward hussey was this said Arabella, that from so slight an acquaintance and with so great facility she should throw herself into the arms of a comparative stranger!

To change the scene again. Ah! little did Arabella Glossop think, when journeying up to London, delighted in her escape from the tyranny of Lady Aimwell, and pleased to have eluded the vigilance of her father, while she was gabbling and chattering with all the boisterous impertinence of high spirits, and looking forward to a proudly blushing meeting with her superfine hereditary legislative admirer—little did she think, poor creature, that she was not the young lady that his lordship expected! And now we are on the subject of little thinking, we may as well add that Colonel Crop thought as little as either Miss Glossop or the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill.

The journey was performed in safety, and the precious couple of fugitives arrived in London two hours before Mr Glossop. According to direction, the gallant colonel conducted his charge immediately to the cottage which Lord Spoonbill had purchased of his fantastic friend Erpingham. The time of their arrival at this beautiful and secluded retreat, was about noonday. The day was brilliantly fine and the scene was beautiful. But the young lady was rather surprized to find herself in so very small a villa; and she expressed her surprize to her gallant conductor, who informed her that the nobility frequently occupied such cottage-like retreats in the vicinity of London, and that it was absolutely necessary that the marriage should be perfectly private; and that therefore his lordship had chosen this secluded retirement. And much more to the same purpose did the gallant colonel say to the young lady in explanation of the comparatively humble abode to which he had brought her.

Now Miss Glossop was a great blockhead for making any such remarks, seeing that she had been informed that Lord Spoonbill was so peculiarly situated that he could not at present publicly avow his marriage, and therefore if he did marry it must be private, and that a splendid mansion was not consistent with privacy. But the fact is that, enamoured as Miss Glossop might have been with Lord Spoonbill’s own sweet self, there was some little addition to the tender passion by means of the splendor and magnificence with which lordships are generally surrounded.

Lord Spoonbill was presently informed of the interesting fact of the young lady’s arrival, and his lordship lost no time in hastening to greet his beloved one. All the way that he rode he was meditating sweet speeches and fascinating looks, and he was wondering to himself how the lovely one would look, and whether she would meekly and gracefully, as was her usual mode of meeting those whom she respected, bend with a humble curtesy and wait the encouraging voice of her right honorable lover, before she should raise her fine dark eyes and greet her enamoured admirer, or whether tenderness would gain the advantage over reverence, and she should throw herself gently into her lover’s arms.

Ah! little did he think, we might say again. But the anticipation which he enjoyed through means of his ignorance, was a pleasure far beyond any which a knowledge of the truth could have afforded him.

And should any kindred spirit here sympathize with his lordship, and feel a trembling anxiety on account of the miserable disappointment which he is now doomed to suffer, let such an one think how blest he was in ignorance. And should such kindred spirit burn with indignation against the prince of blunderers, that paragon of boobies, that climax of nincompoops, the gallant and convenient Colonel Crop, let such indignation coolly subside at the thought, that but for the said colonel’s stupidity the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill would not have enjoyed these delightful day-dreams, this rapturous revelling of hope. For, had the colonel addressed his message to Penelope Primrose instead of to Arabella Glossop, he would have found that his prospect of success was so infinitely little, that he must have retired without hope and have resigned his commission.

As Lord Spoonbill approached the house, his agitation increased and his thoughts were in greater confusion. He was blessing Colonel Crop as one of the most valuable officers in the army, and he was fully resolving that the gallant colonel should ere long rise to higher dignity.

With these delightful anticipations his lordship drew nigh to that secret retreat where he expected to find his heart’s dearest treasure. And while his lordship was enjoying his thoughts in the rapturous revelling of hope, Miss Glossop was putting on and practising her finest airs and graces, and was in most delectable doubt as to the precise mode in which she should meet the enamoured one. She rehearsed her part in various modes and was pleased with all, but could not tell which she was most pleased with.

At length they met, but not exactly as either of them anticipated. Miss Glossop was reclining on a sofa, but as soon as the door of the apartment was opened, she hastily rose to meet his lordship. Lord Spoonbill did not at the first glance immediately recognize the young lady, for of course he had not the slightest doubt whatever that it was Penelope. But at the very moment when he was holding out his hand to the fair one, and just opening his lips to say something soft and sweet, his eye caught the recollected features of the fantastical miss who had afforded him so much amusement by her airs and graces when looking over Smatterton castle.

Forthwith there rushed into the mind of the hereditary legislator a thousand conflicting thoughts. It is astonishing that he could find room for so many. Suddenly his hand dropped to his side, and his mouth, that was half-opened ready to speak, was fixed in that unpicturesque position, and the poor man was fastened to the spot in mute astonishment. On the other hand, the fair Arabella, who had been anticipating raptures and ladyships, and routs and feathers, and all manner of foolery, was as petrified as his lordship when she saw how petrified his lordship was, and she wondered what his lordship meant. But his lordship could not have told her had he been so disposed. And then there rushed into Miss Glossop’s mind as many contending thoughts as had rushed into the mind of Lord Spoonbill. This was a very unpleasant position for both parties. It was manifest to both that there was “something wrong,” as it is said when a steam-engine blows up or a tunnel lets in the water.

Of the state of the nation, and especially of the national debt, it is sometimes observed that matters cannot go on so long. The same remark is applicable to the awkward situation of Lord Spoonbill and Miss Glossop; but the difficulty was, who should speak first. Never was Lord Eldon, our late worthy chancellor, so completely in suspense as was Lord Spoonbill on this melancholy and posing occasion. If he had been completely and altogether disappointed, and if Colonel Crop had deceived him with the pretence of having brought up Penelope when he had not done so, that would have been bad enough as a mere negative misfortune; but instead of the lovely and graceful and gentle Penelope, to see the inelegant, vulgar and affected Miss Glossop, who had been once, and that the only time he had ever seen her, more of a laughing-stock than an object of admiration—oh, it was most abominable!

Now the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill was, in his way, a very polite man, and he could not think of deliberately and coolly saying to Miss Glossop, “Pray, how came you here?” And on the other hand, Miss Glossop, though perfectly well disposed to throw herself into his lordship’s arms, could not possibly think of so doing without the slightest indication on the part of his lordship that such a step would be agreeable to him.

After a few seconds of most indescribable embarrassment, his lordship said in a voice and tone as indescribable as the embarrassment, “The lady, I believe, whom I had the honor of seeing at Smatterton castle a few months ago?”

Arabella trembled and blushed, and replied very softly and with downcast eyes, “The same, my lord.”

Having said this, though in speaking she nearly fainted, she felt herself somewhat relieved, and began to think that now the ice was broken. But what was her astonishment when his lordship merely replied, “Will you be so good as to be seated?”

In obedience to his lordship’s commands the lady took a seat, and his lordship did not, as she expected he would, take a seat at her side, but he abruptly left the room. What can be the meaning of this, thought Miss Glossop; is his lordship so overcome that he cannot speak to me? And then Miss Glossop, being left alone, meditated most perplexedly.

In the mean time Lord Spoonbill went to look after his hopeful negociator, his prince of fine fellows, that ornament to the army, Colonel Crop. And when he found the gallant colonel he was not so mute with astonishment as when he met Miss Glossop; but as soon as he caught sight of the officer, he spoke with hurried agitation and right honorable wrath. His language was not the most decorous and respectful, it was such in fact as could not with propriety make its appearance in print before so fastidious a public as we are now blessed with. Suffice it to say, that his lordship did swear most violently, and did call Colonel Crop by several very unhandsome names. So that the colonel, if he had been given to be very angry and resentful, would have been as angry as his lordship. But the colonel was a good-tempered and quietly-disposed man, and he was seldom angry, especially with a lord, and especially with a lord who kept such an excellent table as Lord Spoonbill. And therefore, in reply to all that torrent of wrath which was too bad to be printed, he merely replied with opened eyes and mouth, and blank-looking expression of countenance; “Why, what is the matter, my lord?”

“Matter!” bawled his lordship; “Who is this young woman you have brought here?”

Then the colonel was indeed astonished, and began to think that his lordship was not quite in his right senses. And the gallant one fixed his eyes enquiringly upon his feeder, and as gently as he could speak, for fear of exciting the paroxysm, he said, “Why—why—is not this the lady you mentioned to me?”

Lord Spoonbill was for a moment or two speechless from vexation; at length his words broke forth with more heat than discretion, and he exclaimed, “Crop, are you a fool?”

This is what is called a delicate question, though, according to our notion of matters in general, we think it an indelicate question. The colonel did not give an immediate reply to it, thinking that it neither needed nor deserved reply. According to the laws of honor, the gallant colonel should have demanded an apology or satisfaction for the insult, but he knew full well that apologies are but lies, and that he was very sure of obtaining satisfaction in a more digestible form than in that of a pistol ball. So the gallant one did not put himself into a passion, or bristle up with fierce resentment, but he merely said, “’Pon honor, I thought it was the lady that you meant.”

Seeing that Colonel Crop was so very patient under the irritating language which his lordship used, Lord Spoonbill somewhat abated the violence of his wrath; and having been, by the colonel, brought into a difficulty, he now looked to the same valuable officer to bring him out of the difficulty.

“Well, colonel,” said his lordship, “as you have been foolish enough to bring the lady here, you must be wise enough to take her back again.”

“But how can I manage?” said the colonel; “what must I say to her to explain the affair?”

“Oh, that is your concern,” replied his lordship; “but you may tell her, if you please, that Lord Smatterton has heard of my intention of marrying, and that he resolves to prevent it.”

“But, won’t that be a lie?” replied the colonel.

“Nonsense,” replied his lordship.

We are very much of his lordship’s opinion. It was truly ridiculous for this unprincipled tool to make a scruple about a falsehood, after the line of conduct in which he had been engaged.

While Colonel Crop, Lord Spoonbill, and Miss Glossop, were engaged, as mentioned above, Mr Glossop had called upon Zephaniah Pringle the critic, in order to learn from him the place of his lordship’s retreat, and to hear more particulars concerning his lordship’s probable designs towards Arabella. Zephaniah was at home, in all his glory, in a dressing gown and slippers, having a table covered with books and papers, playing the great solo farce of “We,” and thinking that all the world was thinking about nothing but himself.

Mr Glossop introduced himself to the critic, by means of a letter from Charles Pringle, the rector of Smatterton. Mr Glossop looked like a person of some consequence. He had a mighty important air, and was indeed, in his own town and neighbourhood, a very important personage. Zephaniah received him graciously, gracefully, and politely. Zephaniah opened and read his cousin’s letter, shook his head, and looked very important and serious.

“I am very sorry, sir,” said the critic, “for the unpleasant affair which brings you up to town, and I should be most happy to give you any assistance in my power towards recovering your daughter.”

Zephaniah spoke rather slowly and with a drawling affectation, and that did not exactly suit the agitated feelings of Mr Glossop. Therefore the father interrupted the critic and begged to be told, in as few words as possible, what was the nature of the conversation which he had heard passing between Lord Spoonbill and Mr Erpingham, concerning the design of the former in bringing a young lady up to town.

Mr Pringle then related all that he had heard as far as he could recollect it, and as he was generally very fond of talking about what he had heard lords say, his recollection was tolerably correct from practice. What wonderful creatures lords are! It is a pity that Pidcock does not add a few to his collection; for they are not too cunning to be caught, and now and then it is said that they may be purchased for a trifle. But to proceed.

When Mr Glossop heard the account of the talk that passed between Lord Spoonbill and Mr Erpingham, it appeared to the father of Arabella that his daughter was in most imminent danger, and though he had generally a good opinion of the young lady’s understanding, he could not help distrusting it when she was placed in a difficult situation. Asking and receiving from Zephaniah Pringle a direction to Mr Erpingham’s cottage, he hastened there with all due expedition, and arrived at the very moment when the gallant colonel and his right honorable employer were discussing the difficult question of the disposal of this ill-caught bird.

Mr Glossop was soon introduced into the presence of Lord Spoonbill and the colonel. And the attorney, who was skilled in discerning great men by sight of their majestic physiognomy and commanding air, immediately addressed himself to Lord Spoonbill.

“I believe I have the honor of addressing Lord Spoonbill?”

“My name is Spoonbill,” replied his lordship; “and may I ask who is the gentleman addressing me?”

“My name, my lord, is Glossop,” said the father of Arabella, with violent wrath.

“What of that! Mr Glossop,” replied his lordship, with most insulting coolness.

“What of that!” echoed Mr Glossop—and the echo was louder than the words echoed—“What of that! You have my poor misguided child in this house. Restore her to me this moment, or by all that’s sacred you shall feel the weight of my arm.”

Lord Spoonbill was not sorry that one difficulty was thus removed. There was no more perplexity as to the disposal of the young lady; but Lord Spoonbill did not like to be bullied, and he therefore did not very cautiously reply to the enraged parent. Alas! the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill did not know Mr Glossop, and did not consider how serious is the wrath of an injured parent. The father of Arabella could not bear to be trifled with, and in a moment of intense irritation he raised his vindictive arm, and Lord Spoonbill felt his vengeance. We do not wish everybody to know it, but we cannot refrain from telling our particular friends that Lord Spoonbill received a severe horse-whipping.

To heal the wounds which his honor and shoulders had sustained, his lordship retired awhile to the continent, and, in Paris, had soon the pleasure of reading in the English newspapers, the marriage of Robert Darnley of Neverden, to Miss Primrose of Smatterton.

THE END.

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

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation errors have been corrected.

Page 96: “narrow straitforward road” changed to “narrow straightforward road”

Page 118: “To whcih” changed to “To which”

Page 206: “he afterwads” changed to “he afterwards”

Page 242: “found it necessnry” changed to “found it necessary”

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Table of Contents

- PENELOPE: OR, LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- Transcriber’s Notes

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE