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.