PENELOPE:
OR,
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.
PENELOPE:
OR,
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.
A NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR HUNT AND CLARKE,
YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
1828.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY C. H. REYNELL. BROAD STREET, GOLDEN SQUARE.
PENELOPE:
OR,
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST.
CHAPTER I.
Six days out of seven, and nine hours out of twenty-four, the reverend
and learned Dr Gregory Greendale sat surrounded with open volumes,
and immersed in profound thoughts, which ever and anon he committed
to writing. For twenty years had this been his regular practice, and
to this dull monotony of being nothing could have reconciled him but
a strong sense of duty, seasoned with a little spice of theological
ambition. But his ambition was not for worldly honour or for filthy
lucre. His aspirings were not after mitres, stalls, and deaneries, nor
was his anticipated recompense compounded, in his mind, of pounds,
shillings, and pence. Far purer and sublimer motives prompted his
diligence and filled his hopes. It was his ambition to occupy a
distinguished station among the defenders of the faith, and to be
hereafter celebrated in the records of ecclesiastical history as the
most irrefragable polemic that ever wrote or reasoned. It was his
opinion, that the church established by law was the best and purest
in Christendom; and that if its tenets were fully and clearly stated,
accompanied with such refutation of sectarian errors as he in his
wisdom and logic could furnish, all sects would be converted, and all
heresies expire for ever.
In this most laudable pursuit the doctor was not altogether free from
obstacles, disappointments, and interruptions. Frequently when he
thought that he had only to sail quietly and smoothly into harbour,
a fresh breeze of controversy sprung up, driving him out again into
the unfathomable ocean. Oftentimes when, after a long, tedious, and
multifarious series of references and quotations, he fancied that his
argument had been completed, and the key-stone of his logic immoveably
fixed, he found that some very unaccountable oversight, some trifling
neglect, let the whole fabric sink down in confusion. And very, very
many times, was the thread of his argument snapped asunder by the
intrusion of the bustling, active, clever, managing, contriving,
economical Mrs Greendale. With one of these interruptions our history
commences.
As the study door opened, the doctor laid down his pen, pushed up
his spectacles and lifted up his eyes, and Mrs Greendale entered
courteously, and gracefully smiling and saying--
“My dear, I don’t wish to interrupt you, but--”
To which unfinished apologetic introduction the worthy doctor in a more
rapid manner, and with greater asperity of tone than became a learned
divine and an affectionate husband, replied--
“You _have_ interrupted me, Mrs Greendale.”
“There now, my dear, you are always so impatient, you will never let me
speak.”
Mrs Greendale was wrong; the doctor was not always so impatient. But
Mrs Greendale was one of that countless myriad of persons who, in their
intense feeling of the present, too hastily draw general inferences
from particular facts.
“Well, well,” said the doctor, “what is it, my dear, that you wish to
say to me?”
This was spoken in a more conciliating tone; for the worthy polemic
knew that the more gently and quietly such interruptions were received,
the more likely they were soon to terminate. And Mrs Greendale having
now permission to speak, was accordingly well pleased.
“Why, my dear, I was wishing to consult you and to ask your advice on a
subject of which you must be a far better judge than I am.”
This was certainly a concession on the part of Mrs Greendale; but
unfortunately the concession was not so highly estimated by the
receiver as the giver; and that is often the case with concessions
of this kind. The doctor was silent, waiting for Mrs Greendale’s
own enunciation of her own story; for he well knew that impatient
questionings rather retard than accelerate the progress of a narrative.
Mrs Greendale then proceeded.
“I have been thinking a great deal about Penelope. Now, you know, we
have of late heard very little of her father, and there really does not
seem to be any prospect that he will ever fulfil the fine promises he
has made. And we are not doing justice to the poor girl by bringing her
up with expectations that are not likely to be realised; we are giving
her an education which is only justifiable under the idea that she
should apply that education to the purpose of supporting herself.”
“Certainly, Mrs Greendale, it is with that view, you know, that we have
given her the kind of instruction of which you speak.”
“Yes, I know it is, but--but--”
“But what, my dear?”
“Why I was going to say, that though it may be very proper that
Penelope should have these accomplishments, yet it may not be
altogether right that she should be introduced into the society of
persons of rank, on terms of equality and intimacy.”
“Persons of rank, my dear--what do you mean? What persons of rank are
we likely to introduce her to? Surely we are not in the way of doing
her any injury in this respect.”
“I don’t know that, my dear; for you know that we are to have a party
to-morrow evening, and Miss Spoonbill and Colonel Crop have consented
to come.”
The doctor did not laugh aloud; nor did he visibly smile at this
last speech of his active, bustling, managing partner. And it would
have been indeed excusable had the reverend divine at least relaxed
his features into a smile, at the dexterity with which Mrs Greendale
converted the above-named lady and gentleman into persons of rank. As
these names have been mentioned, it is proper that our readers should
know something of the parties.
Honoria Letitia Spoonbill was a maiden lady of some forty, fifty,
sixty, or seventy years old; but in whose cranium the organ of number
was so slightly developed, that she could not say which of the
above numbers came nearest to the truth. In person not fascinating,
in manners not commanding, in wealth not abounding, in temper not
prepossessing, in understanding not profound; but in pride and vanity
almost more than superabounding. Her rank not the deepest herald could
ascertain, but it was very true that for many years she had been
accustomed to claim kindred with the lord of Smatterton Castle, always
speaking of and addressing the Earl of Smatterton as her cousin.
Colonel Crop was only Colonel Crop; he enjoyed the rank of colonel,
and that was all the rank that he could boast; he was tolerated at
the castle; he dined occasionally with his lordship; and occasionally
partook of the pleasure of shooting the birds which were cultivated on
his lordship’s estate. In town, he patronised the Countess’s routs,
and in the country he was a companion for the Earl, when not otherwise
engaged. He was proud of the Earl’s acquaintance, though he was not
weak enough to suppose that he was more than tolerated. The haughtiest
of the great do sometimes pick up such acquaintances as Colonel Crop,
and they cannot easily get rid of them. At the village of Smatterton,
of which Dr Greendale was rector, Colonel Crop was only known as the
intimate friend of my lord; but the doctor knowing the humble rank
which the colonel held in his lordship’s estimation, was amused at the
gravity with which Mrs Greendale spoke of this gentleman and Miss
Spoonbill, as persons of rank, and as too magnificent for the society
of Penelope Primrose. With a slightly ironical expression he therefore
said--
“I quite agree with you, Mrs Greendale, that it would not be very
desirable to have our niece intimate with such persons of rank as Miss
Spoonbill and Colonel Crop.”
“Well, I am glad you think as I do, my dear; but how shall we manage
about the party to-morrow? How can we best get rid of Penelope? For
really I cannot help observing that, notwithstanding her dependent
situation, she begins to assume the airs of a lady.”
Mrs Greendale was going on with all the fluency of which she was
capable, and that was no trifle, to recommend the exclusion of the
young lady from the impending party which threatened on the morrow to
grace the rectory-house of the village of Smatterton; but suddenly
the loudness of her tones abated, and the words came slower, and her
countenance looked blank with an expression of interrogation; for, as
she was speaking, the worthy rector drew himself up to full sitting
length, opened his eyes unusually wide, compressed his lips unusually
close, and placing his hands in the arms of his chair, before his
spouse had ceased speaking, he exclaimed--
“My good woman, what are you talking about?”
“Mrs Greendale certainly thought herself a very good woman, but she did
not like to be so called. She was therefore somewhat confounded, and
she replied with an expression of confusion--
“But, my dear, did not you say yourself that you did not wish your
niece to be introduced to persons of such high rank as Miss Spoonbill
and Colonel Crop?”
Speaking more slowly, and in a tone of expostulation, the good man
replied--
“I did say, Mrs Greendale, that I had no wish to introduce my niece to
an intimacy with such persons of rank as Miss Spoonbill and Colonel
Crop. It is not to their rank I object, but I am of opinion that from
such an intimacy Penelope would not derive any benefit, nor add to her
respectability; I look upon her as above them, and not upon them as
above her.”
Mrs Greendale was angry; and surely it was enough to provoke a saint
to hear such disrespectful language applied to those persons of whose
acquaintance the worthy lady was especially and peculiarly proud.
Bridling up therefore, and assuming in her turn a high tone, she
replied--
“Well, my dear, if you think it beneath your niece’s dignity to meet
such persons, you had perhaps better send word to say that you do not
wish to have their company: I dare say they will not require much
persuasion to stay away.”
“I wish, my dear, you would not talk such nonsense. Penelope will
not become very intimate with these people of rank by meeting them
in a party. Have your party quietly, and let the poor girl enjoy it,
if she can; it will be time enough for her to feel the bitterness of
servitude when she is actually in that condition; while she is under
my roof she shall be treated as if she were my own.”
There was in this last speech a tone of authority and decision to which
Mrs Greendale was in the habit of submitting without an audible murmur
or expostulation. She therefore left the doctor’s apartment, merely
muttering to herself, “I don’t think you would indulge a child of your
own as you indulge this pert conceited creature. I am very glad she is
no niece of mine.”
The doctor returned to his studies, and Mrs Greendale to her domestic
occupations. The doctor soon forgot what was past, losing himself
amidst the perplexities and intricacies of theological discussions and
doctrinal controversies. But Mrs Greendale brooded over the obstinacy
of her spouse, and the pride of her niece, and the mortifications of
her own pride. She could not imagine what her husband could mean by
speaking so disrespectfully of persons of such high consideration as
Miss Spoonbill and Colonel Crop. Ever since the high-born spinster had
taken up her residence at Smatterton, for the sake of living near to
her cousin the Earl, Mrs Greendale had been paying homage to her for
the purpose of obtaining her illustrious notice and patronage. It was
a concern of the utmost moment to have the honour of Miss Spoonbill’s
company at the rectory; for the wife of the rector of Smatterton
was very jealous of the superior glory of the wife of the rector of
Neverden, whose parties were graced by the presence of the great man
of the parish, Sir George Aimwell, Bart. Mrs Darnley, the lady alluded
to, was not indeed quite so much gratified by the distinction as Mrs
Greendale was mortified by it. Now it was some pleasure to the latter
that the great man in her husband’s parish was an Earl, whereas the
great man in Mr Darnley’s parish was only a commoner; for Mrs Greendale
always caused it to be understood, that baronet was not a title of
nobility. Still, however, it was a mortification that the Earl would
not condescend to visit at the rectory. But when Miss Spoonbill and
Colonel Crop had accepted an invitation to Mrs Greendale’s party, it
was a matter of high exultation to her; it was therefore not very
agreeable to her to hear these distinguished personages spoken of so
slightingly by her reverend spouse. But Dr Greendale was an odd sort of
man, that everybody allowed; and he used to say the strangest things
imaginable. Being so studious a man, was quite enough to account for
his oddities.
It may be proper now to give some account of Miss Penelope Primrose,
and to state how she was brought into a state of dependence upon her
uncle, Dr Greendale. This young lady was an only child of Mr Primrose,
who had married a sister of the rector of Smatterton. When he married
he was possessed of a very decent independent fortune, which though
not ample enough to introduce him to the highest walk of fashion, was
quite sufficient to introduce him to the notice of some part of the
fashionable world, and to bring him acquainted with several gentlemen
of the strictest honor; or to say the least, gentlemen who made great
talk about their honor. With the acquaintance with these gentlemen he
was exceedingly flattered, and with their truly elegant manners he was
highly pleased. As some of them bore titles, their condescension was so
much the greater, in not only tolerating, but even in almost seeking
his acquaintance; and he found that there did not exist in the higher
ranks so much of that pride of birth and family as some of his earlier
friends had often talked about. For as Mr Primrose was the son of a
merchant, some of his city intimates, and his father’s old companions,
had represented to him that if he should assume the character of a
man of fashion, he would only be ridiculed and despised by the higher
ranks. He found, however, that these censorious citizens were quite in
an error; instead of experiencing contempt and neglect, he found that
his society was actually courted; he was a frequent guest at splendid
entertainments, and his own invitations were not refused. He observed,
that although Mrs Primrose was a beautiful and accomplished woman, it
was not so much on her account as his own that he was so much noticed.
The parties to which he was most frequently invited, were gentlemen’s
dinner parties; and it was very likely that his company was agreeable,
for he had great powers of conversation, and was a man of ready wit.
It was very pleasant to have his good sayings applauded by men of
fashion and of honor, and he thought that the exquisitely courteous and
graceful demeanour of the higher ranks was the very perfection of human
excellence. In the course of five years, or rather less, he found that
his style of living was rather too expensive for his means, and upon
looking into his affairs he also discovered that he was in possession
of nothing that he could call his own, but that when his debts should
be paid, his coffers must be emptied and his house unfurnished. He
was quite astonished at the discovery, and for awhile dreaded to
communicate the painful intelligence to his wife; but she had foreseen
it, and the anticipation had affected her deeply and irretrievably; she
sunk under the pressure, and left Mr Primrose a widower with an only
child. By this calamity he was roused to recollection, and he called
to mind that he had occasionally played at cards with some of his
honorable friends, and that he must certainly have been a greater loser
than he had imagined at the time. He had at one sitting won upwards of
three thousand pounds, and he never afterwards sat down to the table
without being reminded of his good luck; but it so happened, that when
he went into an examination of his affairs, he found that his many
smaller losses had more, much more, than counterbalanced his once great
winnings. Now was the time for reflection, and so his friends thought,
and they left him to reflection. The result was, that he committed the
motherless and portionless Penelope to the care of his brother-in-law,
Dr Greendale, and betook himself to commercial diligence in a foreign
country, with the hope of at least providing for himself, if not of
retrieving his losses.
Fourteen years had Penelope spent under the roof of the worthy and
benevolent rector of Smatterton. To her uncle she had ever looked up
as to a father. Of her own father she knew but little; and in all the
thoughts she entertained concerning him, there was mingled a feeling
of pity. It was highly creditable to Dr Greendale, that his manner
of speaking of Mr Primrose should have produced this impression on
his daughter’s mind. There certainly was in the conduct of Penelope’s
father enough of the blameable to justify the doctor in declaiming
against him as a profligate and thoughtless man, who had brought ruin
upon himself and family. But censoriousness was not by any means the
doctor’s forte. He was rather a moral physician than a moral quack,
and he had found in his own parish that the gentleness of fatherly
admonition was more effectual than the indignant eloquence of angry
rebuke.
Penelope naturally possessed high and buoyant spirits; and had her
situation been any other than that of dependence, it is probable that
this vivacity might have degenerated into pertness. It was however
softened, though not subdued by the thought of her father in voluntary
exile, and the language in which Dr Greendale was accustomed to
speak of his “poor brother Primrose.” Her spirit also was humbled,
though not broken, by the stepmother-like behaviour of Mrs Greendale.
Penelope could never do or say anything to please her aunt. When she
was cheerful, she was reproved for her pertness; when serious, she was
rebuked for being sulky. At her books, she was proud of her learning;
at her pianoforte, she was puffed up with useless accomplishments. Out
of the kitchen she was too proud for domestic occupation, in it her
assistance was not wanted. In her dishabille she was slovenly, when
dressed she was a fine lady. By long experience she grew accustomed to
this studied annoyance, and it ceased to have a very powerful effect
upon her mind; and it might perhaps be the means of doing her good,
though its intention was anything but kindness.
As the mind and feelings of Penelope Primrose were impelled in
different directions by her natural constitution, and by her accidental
situation, a greater degree of interest was thus attached to her
character. There is in our nature a feeling, from whatever source
arising, which loves not monotony, but delights in contrast. The tear
which is always flowing moves not our sympathy so strongly as that
which struggles through a smile; and the sun never shines so sweetly as
when it gleams through the drops of an April shower.
To introduce a female character without some description of person,
is almost unprecedented, though it might not be injudicious; seeing
that then the imagination of the reader might fill the vacant niche
with whatever outward, visible form might be best calculated to rouse
his attention, to fix his sympathies, and to please his recollections.
But we are not of sufficient authority to make precedents. Let it be
explicitly said, that Penelope Primrose exceeded the middle stature,
that her dark blue eyes were shaded by a deep and graceful fringe,
that her complexion was somewhat too pale for beauty, but that its
paleness was not perceptible as a defect whenever a smile illumined her
countenance, and developed the dimples that lurked in her cheek and
under-lip. Her features were regular, her gait exceedingly graceful,
and her voice musical in the highest degree. Seldom, indeed, would
she indulge in the pleasure of vocal music, but when she did, as was
sometimes the case to please the Countess of Smatterton, her ladyship,
who was a most excellent judge, used invariably to pronounce Miss
Primrose as the finest and purest singer that she had ever heard. More
than once indeed the Countess had recommended Penelope to adopt the
musical profession as a sure and ready means of acquiring independence;
but the young lady had scruples, and so had her uncle.