Some few weeks after Penelope had given her consent to the arrangement
suggested by the Countess of Smatterton, the family at the castle took
their departure for London. Her ladyship did not forget her promise of
providing Miss Primrose with the means of cultivating and improving
her natural talents; but, in a very few days after arriving in town,
negociations were entered into and concluded with an eminent professor
to take under his tuition a young lady patronized by the Countess of
Smatterton.
Great compliments of course were paid to the judgment of the Countess,
and high expectations were raised of the skill and power of this new
vocal prodigy; for countesses never patronize anything but prodigies,
and if the objects of their patronage be not prodigies by nature, they
are very soon made so by art and fashion.
Now the Countess of Smatterton was really a good judge of musical
excellence; her taste was natural, not acquired or affected as a medium
of notoriety, or a stimulus for languid interest in life’s movements.
And when her ladyship had a musical party, which was indeed not
unfrequently, there was not one individual of the whole assemblage more
really and truly delighted with the performances than herself, and few
perhaps were better able to appreciate their excellence.
At this time but few families were in town, and the winter assortment
of lions, and prodigies, and rages, was not formed or arranged.
Lady Smatterton would have been best pleased to have burst upon the
assembled and astonished world at once with her new human toy. But
the good lady was impatient. She wished to enjoy as soon as possible
the pleasure of exhibiting to her friends and neighbours and rivals
the wonderful talents of Penelope Primrose. As soon therefore as
arrangements could be made with the professor who was destined to be
the instructor of Miss Primrose, a letter was despatched to Smatterton,
desiring the young lady to make as much haste as possible to town.
This was indeed a sad and painful trial to Penelope. Little did she
think that the plan was so soon to be put in force to which she had
given her reluctant assent. It seemed inconsiderate in her ladyship to
remove Penelope from Mrs Greendale so very soon; not that the young
lady had any very great reluctance to part from Mrs Greendale; but as
she had some reluctance to make the journey to London for the object
which was in view, she felt rather more than otherwise she would have
done the inconvenience to which it necessarily put her aunt. Having
therefore shewn Lady Smatterton’s letter to the widow, she expressed
her concern that the Countess should be so very hasty in removing her,
and said, that if her aunt wished it she would take the liberty of
writing to her ladyship, requesting a little longer indulgence, that
she might render any assistance which might be needed under present
circumstances.
Some persons there are who never will and who never can be pleased:
Mrs Greendale was one of them. Instead of thanking Penelope for her
considerate and kind proposal, her answer was:
“Indeed, Miss Primrose, I think you would be acting very improperly
to question Lady Smatterton’s commands. I know not who is to provide
for you, if you thus turn your back upon your best friends. I can
assure you I have no great need of any of your assistance, which I dare
say you would not be so ready to offer if it did not suit your own
convenience.”
To repeat much such language as this would be wearisome. Suffice it to
say, that there was no form of expression which Penelope could use,
nor any line of conduct which she could propose, which Mrs Greendale
was not ingenious enough to carp at and object to. It may then be
easily imagined that the situation of our heroine was not much to be
envied; nor will it be supposed that she felt any great reluctance
to leave such a companion and friend as this. With the best grace
imaginable, therefore, did Penelope prepare for yielding obedience to
Lady Smatterton’s commands; but it was still with a heavy heart that
she made preparation for her journey.
Before her departure it was absolutely and indispensably necessary that
she should go through the ceremony of taking leave of her friends. Of
several persons, whose names are not here recorded, Penelope Primrose
took leave, with expressions of mutual regret. There was however no
embarrassment and no difficulty in these cases. When, however, she
prepared to take leave of her friends at Neverden, the case was widely
different. Then arose much perplexity, and then her heart felt such a
bitter pang. It was probable that this would be a final leave. The
Darnleys never visited London, or at least not above once in twenty
years. They had recently looked coldly upon her, and had partially
neglected her. It was contrary to their general practice to act
capriciously; there certainly must be a motive for their behaviour,
and what could that motive be but a change in the intentions of Robert
Darnley with respect to herself. The ground of that change she was at a
loss to determine. At all events she must call and take leave of them.
In pursuance of this determination, Penelope Primrose took, not the
earliest, but the latest opportunity of calling upon Mr Darnley and
the family at Neverden rectory; for it would not be very pleasant
to remain any time in the neighbourhood after a cool and unfriendly
separation from those with whom so many of her pleasantest hours had
been spent, and with whose idea so many of her hopes had been blended.
When she called, the whole family was at home. Her reception was by
no means decidedly unkind, or artificially polite. There was always
indeed a degree of stateliness in the manner of Mr Darnley, and that
stateliness did not appear any less than usual, nor did it appear quite
so tolerable as on former days and on former occasions.
In the young ladies, notwithstanding their general good sense and most
excellent education, there was towards Penelope that kind of look,
tone, and address, which is so frequently adopted towards those who
once were equals, and whom misfortune has made inferiors. Those of our
readers who cannot understand us here we sincerely congratulate.
It had been made known to Mr Darnley for what purpose Miss Primrose was
making preparations for a journey to London. But, though the fact had
been communicated, the reason for that step had not been mentioned;
not a word had been said concerning the pressing importunity of the
Countess; nor was there any notice taken to him of the reluctance
with which Penelope had consented to this arrangement. It appeared
therefore to Mr Darnley that the measure was quite in unison with
the young lady’s own wishes; nor did he see how incongruous such a
movement as this must be with his suspicions of the aspiring views of
his late friend’s niece. At all events, this proceeding on the part
of Miss Primrose appeared to him, and very naturally so, as a tacit
relinquishment of the engagement with his son: as it was impossible
for her not to know how repugnant it must be to the feelings and taste
of Mr Robert Darnley. But as the elder Mr Darnley held the clerical
office, of the sanctity and dignity of which he had very high ideas,
he thought it but part of his duty to administer a word or two of
exhortation to the young lady about to embark in a concern of such a
peculiar nature.
Now to render exhortation palatable, or even tolerable, requires a
very considerable share of address and dexterity, more indeed than
usually falls to the lot of clerical or of laical gentry. It is easy
enough to utter most majestically and authoritatively a mass of common
places concerning the dangers to which young people are exposed in the
world. It is easy to say, “Now let me advise you always to be upon your
guard against the allurements of the world, and to conduct yourself
circumspectly, and be very, very attentive to all the proper decorums
and duties of your station.” Such talk as this anybody may utter; and
when young people commence life, they expect to hear such talk; and
for the most part, to say the best of it, it produces no effect, good,
bad, or indifferent. It is also easy to render exhortation painful and
distressing, by making it assume the form of something humiliating
and reproachful; and when it has also a reference to some departed
friend, or to circumstances once bright, but now gloomy, and when
these references are founded on injustice, and when this injustice
cannot be refuted or rectified without some explanation or explanations
more painful still, then it is that exhortation is doubly painful
and distressing. So fell upon the ear and heart of poor Penelope the
exhorting language of Mr Darnley.
When Penelope had first entered the apartment she had announced the
purpose of her call, and had, by the assistance of the Darnleys, stated
the views with which she was going to London: for so reluctant was she
to mention the fact, that its annunciation was almost extorted from her
by those who knew beforehand what were her intentions. After a very
little and very cold common-place talk, uttered merely from a feeling
of the necessity of saying something, the conversation dropped, and the
parties looked awkwardly at one another. Then did Mr Darnley, assuming
a right reverend look, address himself to Miss Primrose.
“Now, Miss Primrose, before we part, let me as your friend, and as a
friend of your late uncle, give you a little parting advice. I am sorry
that you have determined on taking this step, and had you condescended
to consult me on the subject, I certainly should have dissuaded you
from the undertaking. But, however, that is past. Though I rather am
surprised, I must acknowledge that, recollecting as you must, how
strongly your late worthy uncle used to speak against this pursuit, you
should so soon after his decease resolve to engage in it. But, however,
you are perfectly independent, and have a right to do as you please.
I do not say that in this pursuit there is anything inconsistent with
religion and morality. I would by no means be so uncharitable. But I
should have thought, Miss Primrose, that, considering your high spirit,
you would hardly have condescended to such an employment; for I may
call it condescension, when I consider the prospects to which you were
born: but those, I am sorry to say, are gone. As you have then fully
resolved upon thus making a public display of your musical talents,
which, for anything I know to the contrary, may be of the highest
order--for I do not understand music myself--you will perhaps excuse
me if, as a friend of your late uncle, and really a well-wisher to
yourself, I just take the liberty to caution you against the snares
by which you are surrounded. Beware of the intoxications of flattery,
and do not be unduly distressed if you should occasionally in the
public journals be made the subject of ill-natured criticism. For I
understand there are many young and inexperienced writers who almost
regularly assail by severe criticism public performers of every kind;
and they make use of very authoritative language. Now this kind of
criticism would be very offensive to a person who was not aware that it
is the production of ignorant, conceited boys. I was once acquainted
with a young man who made acknowledgments to me that have given me a
very different view of the critical art from that which I formerly
entertained. But, my good young lady, there are severer trials which
await you than these: you will be very much exposed to the society of
the vicious and dissipated. You will have need of all your caution and
circumspection to take care that your religious and moral principles
be not weakened or impaired. I do not say, indeed, that your profession
is to be esteemed irreligious or immoral; but it certainly is exposed
to many snares, and does require an unusual share of attention. I hope
you will not neglect to attend church regularly and punctually. It will
assuredly be noticed if you neglect this duty. Many will keep you in
countenance should you be disposed to slight the public ordinances of
religion; but there are also not a few who patronize public musical
performances, and who also attend on religious worship: it is desirable
therefore to let these persons see that you are also attentive to the
duties of religion, I must add, Miss Primrose, that I am concerned
to find you so bent upon this scheme. It would have given me great
pleasure, had all things proceeded rightly, to afford you an asylum in
this house till the return of your father, or till any other change had
rendered such accommodation no longer necessary. But, as circumstances
now are, this cannot be.”
It is easy to conceive what effect such language as this must have had
on the sensitive mind and almost broken heart of Penelope Primrose. It
is very true that, in this address to her, Mr Darnley had no malicious
or cruel intention, though every sentence which he uttered grieved her
to the very soul. Well was it for Penelope that she was partly prepared
for something of this kind, and that her sorrows had crept upon her
gradually. Therefore she bore all this with a most enduring patience,
and never attempted to make any explanation or apology otherwise than
by meekly and calmly replying to the elaborate harangue of Mr Darnley:
“I thank you, sir, for your advice; I hope and trust I shall attend to
it; but I wish you to understand that I am not acting purely according
to my own inclinations in adopting this employment. I am sorry that I
am under the necessity--”
The sentence was unfinished, and the tone in which it was uttered
excited Mr Darnley’s compassion: but he thought it very strange
that Miss Primrose should express any reluctance to engage in a
pursuit which, according to all appearance, she had voluntarily and
unnecessarily adopted. The young ladies also were very sorry for her,
but still they could not help blaming her mentally for her fickleness
towards their brother; for they were sure that he was attached to
her, and they plainly saw, or at least thought they saw, that she
had withdrawn her affections from him. Penelope also was very well
convinced, by this interview with the family, that all her hopes of
Robert Darnley were gone.
To avoid any farther unpleasantness, she then took leave of her late
friends, and, with a very heavy heart, returned to Smatterton to make
immediate preparation for her journey to London. Alas! poor girl, she
was not in a frame of mind favourable to the purposes of festivity
or the notes of gladness. She, in whose heart was no gladness, was
expected to be the means of delighting others. Thus does it happen,
that the tears of one are the smiles of another, and the pleasures of
mankind are founded in each others pains. Never do the burning words
and breathing thoughts of poetry spring with such powerful energy and
sympathy-commanding force, as when they come from a heart that has felt
the bitterness of grief, and that has been agitated even unto bursting.
Our heroine would then have appeared to the greatest advantage, and
would then have commanded the deepest sympathy in those moments of
solitude, which intervened between the last leave-taking and her
departure for a metropolis of which she had seen nothing, heard much,
and thought little. But now her mind was on the rack of thought, and
so deeply and painfully was it impressed, that her feeling was of
the absolute impossibility of effectually answering the designs and
intentions of her friend the Countess. She could not bear to look back
to the days that were past--she felt an indescribable reluctance to
look forward, but her mind was of necessity forced in that direction.
All that spirit of independence and feeling of almost pride, which
formed no small part of her character, seemed now to have taken flight,
and to have left her a humble, destitute, helpless creature. It was a
pretty conceit that came into her head, and though it was sorrowful she
smiled at it; for she thought that her end would be swanlike, and that
her first song would be her last, with which she should expire while
its notes were trembling on her lips.