Another morning dawned, and with its opening light there came to the
father of Penelope a feeling of his comparatively destitute situation.
His heart swelled as he thought of it, and he had some difficulty to
preserve composure enough to meet his child. There was however one
drop of consolation in the cup of his affliction, for it was not by
his own fault or folly that his present loss was occasioned. But even
this consolation afflicted him, for it brought to his recollection his
past folly, and reminded him of the patient endurance with which the
mother of his Penelope had borne up, as long as possible, against her
sufferings. He recollected how gradually and slowly she sunk, and how
to the very last moment of life her looks were to him all tenderness
and forgiveness. And he thought that he could also discern in his child
those same moral features which had been the grace and glory of her
departed mother.
Commanding his feelings as well as he could, he commenced the talk
concerning the calamity of the preceding day. His heart was touched by
the cheerful manner in which Penelope referred to the proposal of the
Countess of Smatterton, and he smiled through his tears to hear how
sanguinely the poor girl talked of the certainty of high success. But
as yet all was in uncertainty.
His banker, in whose hands he had placed the greater part of his
property, had certainly stopped payment; but it could not yet be
ascertained when his affairs would be put into a train for settlement,
nor was it likely that one so little acquainted with the City as Mr
Primrose should be able to form any idea of the dividend which might
be paid. He certainly had heard it said that no greater dividend would
be forthcoming, than one shilling in the pound. But people in the City
sometimes tells lies not knowing them to be lies, and sometimes even do
they go so far as to tell lies knowing them to be so.
Mr Primrose was a very hasty man, catching up whatever he heard, and
taking it for granted that all he heard was true. He never thought of
enquiring what was the political party to which his banker belonged,
nor did he know to what party those persons attached themselves who
told him the melancholy story of that banker's inability to pay more
than one shilling in the pound. As for Mr Primrose himself, he, poor
man, knew nothing about party; he was not aware that England contained
two classes of men, one of which is all that is good, and the other
all that is bad. He simply knew that the banker had stopped payment,
and that two very respectable-looking gentlemen had declared it as
their opinion that there would not be a dividend of more than one
shilling in the pound. That story he believed, and on that presumption
was proceeding. His daughter of course could know nothing about the
matter; and as for the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill, he was such a
superfine sort of a gentleman that he hardly knew that there was such a
place as the City; and if he had ever heard of such an animal as a City
Alderman, he took it for some such a creature as the Bonassus.
Now this melancholy intelligence, which Mr Primrose had brought with
him from the City, put a stop of course to those employments in which
he would otherwise have been engaged. He was preparing to look out
for some residence, either in town or country; and for that purpose
he had every morning read with great attention all the advertisements
of desirable residences to be sold or let. It was not very pleasant
to turn from these thoughts to study painfully the means of again
acquiring a maintenance.
It was more especially distressing to him to observe how anxiously his
poor child now supplicated as a favour to be permitted to engage in an
occupation, from which he knew that, under other circumstances, she
would have timidly shrunk. He was afflicted to hear such solicitations;
but he had so much pleasure in his daughter's society, and so little
occasion to go out, that he remained in his hotel the greater part of
the morning, or more properly speaking the day. Towards evening however
it occurred to him, and to any one else it would have occurred much
earlier, that it might be the means of setting his mind a little at
rest, and of giving him some little ground of hope, if he should go
once more into the City and enquire of his agent into the probability
of a settlement or arrangement of his banker's affairs.
While Mr Primrose was gone into the City Penelope was left mournfully
alone. It is indeed very dull to spend a long solitary evening in a
strange place without occupation, and with nothing to think upon but
painful recollections and fearful anticipations.
The room in which the poor girl was left was large and well furnished,
but there were no books in it, and the pictures were but indifferent
engravings in splendid frames. There was a newspaper, but that was soon
exhausted. There were many persons in the house, but Penelope knew none
of them, and none of them cared about her.
It had been very different at Smatterton, and at Neverden; in those two
villages everybody knew her, and everybody loved her more or less; and
there she never felt herself alone, for she knew that her good uncle
was near her, and there is some pleasure in knowing that a good friend
is near us. There, when she heard footsteps and voices, they were
familiar voices and the footsteps of friends; but in the large hotel,
where she sat alone waiting for her father, she heard only the voices
of strangers. And when for the sake of a little variety she drew
aside the drapery of the long windows and looked down upon the lamp
illuminated street, there was something quite melancholy in the dim
appearance and the monotonous sounds. Carriage-wheels seemed to roll
incessantly, and their passing lights were miserably reflected from
myriads of little puddles coldly shining amidst the uneven pavement.
There was a specimen or two to be heard of the London cries; but there
was no music in them, and they fell upon the ear with a strangely
unpleasant effect, intermingled with the occasional sound of a street
organ. Penelope strained her attention to listen to the music, and it
was pleasant to her, though the images which it raised in her mind
were those only of sad regrets. There is more effect produced by those
street organs than people in general are aware of. Shall we be pardoned
the strangeness of the expression, if we say that they sometimes give
a wholesome agitation to the stagnation of the moral atmosphere? And
shall we be still farther pardoned if we digress, for the sake of
illustrating by an anecdote the above singular expression? By such a
digression we are not interrupting our narrative, which is now indeed,
like its pensive heroine, standing still.
A father had lost an affectionate and promising child, over whose
long lingering illness he had watched anxiously but hopelessly. The
poor child had suffered patiently, but had experienced some intervals
of ease, and some sensations even of delight. A popular melody had
caught his fancy, and when the wandering organist of that neighbourhood
played his favourite air, the little sufferer's eyes would brighten,
and his pale transparent hand would beat the time as knowingly as an
amateur. That was a scene for a parent to recollect. And the poor
little one died, and the father, when he had seen the grave closed
upon the child's remains, returned to his home in a state of apathy:
feeling seemed to have perished in him. The organist made his
accustomed round, played the favourite air; the bereaved father was
awakened to the agony of remembrance, and those tears flowed freely and
spontaneously, which told that feeling had not departed.
By the itinerant musicians the feelings of Penelope were awakened; but
she could not help observing how much less emotion she experienced than
formerly, when these well-known melodies brought to her mind thoughts
of the absent and the distant. Her mind was otherwise engaged and her
thoughts otherwise directed. Little did she imagine, when she had been
anxiously expecting and joyfully anticipating her father's return to
England, that so dark a cloud would obscure the first dawn of her
happiness. While she was thus wearing away the slowly moving hours, the
door of the apartment was opened and Lord Spoonbill made his appearance.
It is a great evil that virtuous men should ever make themselves
disagreeable, and it is also a great evil that vicious men should
make themselves agreeable; but the latter is quite as common as the
former, and perhaps more so. He that exercises no reflection, and never
turns his thoughts within, has so much the more attention to give to
the external of manner and address. And so much had Lord Spoonbill
cultivated manner, that although Penelope had reason to suppose him
to be no conjuror, and though she had also reason to think that his
morals were not the most pure, yet he was not altogether offensive and
disagreeable to her. She could not but feel almost grateful to him
for having so readily abstained from urging the topic which he had
mentioned on the day of her meeting with her father. It also appeared
to her highly flattering and complimentary, that a person of his
lordship's rank should deign to pay court to one of inferior station;
for there was not in her mind the slightest or remotest suspicion that
Lord Spoonbill had any other than the most honourable intention in
making a profession of attachment.
When his lordship made his appearance, he was received cordially and
as cheerfully as circumstances would permit. Penelope had now fully
made up her mind to adopt the profession recommended by the Countess
of Smatterton, and as Lord Spoonbill had on the previous day, in
conversation with Mr Primrose, used arguments rather recommendatory
of that step, the young lady could not of course imagine that there
remained in his lordship's mind any intention whatever of pursuing the
subject of his attachment, or renewing any mention of his love and
devotedness.
This thought gave to her manner a much greater ease, and being also
blended with the pensiveness of her present feelings, presented her to
the eye of Lord Spoonbill as more interesting and lovely than ever.
His lordship was a vain man; and to possess so lovely a creature as
Penelope, would be the means of gratifying his vanity. He was cunning
enough however to see that Miss Primrose was quite unsuspicious of his
designs, and that she did not anticipate a revival of that discourse to
which her earnest supplications had put a stop. He felt therefore that
it would not be prudent hastily to recommence a conversation of that
nature, but to endeavour to render himself more agreeable, and to try
to ascertain how far there yet remained in her recollection any tender
thoughts of Robert Darnley.
Such were his lordship's intentions, but they were frustrated by the
manner in which Penelope spoke, and by the decision with which she
proposed to cast herself on the patronage of the Countess, and to adopt
the profession so earnestly recommended by her ladyship. Lord Spoonbill
to this proposal replied, that the Countess would be most happy to
afford Miss Primrose all the assistance in her power; and his lordship
was also pleased to say, that this resolution would contribute very
essentially to increase the attractions of Lady Smatterton's parties.
Penelope sighed and almost shuddered at the thought; but, as the
effort was made for the sake of her father, she subdued or concealed
her reluctance. It was of course understood by his lordship, that this
resolution of the young lady arose from the loss which her father had
experienced; it was therefore very natural that some expressions of
sympathy and concern should be used on the occasion by the hereditary
legislator. These expressions were gratefully received by Penelope,
though her language of acknowledgment was only the language of looks
and imperfectly suppressed tears.
Lord Spoonbill interpreted this emotion as an omen in his favour; and
he was tempted by his evil genius to say something farther in allusion
to the prohibited topic. He was greatly and agreeably surprised to
hear no express and hasty interruption; and fearful lest this silence
should proceed only from abstraction of mind, he went on to speak more
decidedly and less equivocally concerning his attachment to the young
lady. Penelope gave symptoms of understanding his lordship, but shewed
no decided or obvious marks of disapprobation. There seemed to be,
and there certainly was, a strong conflict in her mind. She had not,
indeed, ceased to think tenderly and affectionately of Robert Darnley;
but she had nearly, if not altogether, ceased to hope. The conflict in
her mind was between her affection for her father and her indifference
to Lord Spoonbill. We will not say that her vanity was not flattered by
the apparent offer of so splendid an alliance. It perhaps influenced
her as little as it would influence any one; but when the mind is just
recovering from the pains and mortifications of a first disappointment,
it is mightily indifferent to matters of sentiment. The very loss of a
first love is of itself so great an affliction, that it appears as if
no condition of being could render the affliction greater.
Finding that Penelope returned no answer to his protestations of
attachment, and that she did not withdraw her hand from his grasp, his
lordship proceeded to urge his suit in the common language adapted
for such occasions as the present, and used by such persons as his
lordship. Penelope, fancying that she was about to give her consent
to become Lady Spoonbill, prefaced that consent by expressing her
fears that the Earl and Countess of Smatterton would look down, with
disapprobation at least, on one so humble and portionless. To obviate
this objection his lordship, who did not, or who would not see the
misapprehension of the young lady, observed that the Earl and Countess
need not know anything of the arrangement.
"But how is that possible?" inquired Penelope in the simplicity of her
heart.
In explaining that possibility his lordship also explained the object
which he had in view in making a declaration of his attachment. Now
Penelope, who had been brought up under the roof and instruction of Dr
Greendale, and who knew no more of the world than the world knew of
her, was not able immediately and readily to comprehend his lordship's
meaning, and when she did comprehend it, she was shocked and astonished
at it; her pride also, of which she possessed constitutionally an
abundant share, took alarm at the indignity, and she would, but for the
utter depression of her spirits, have resented the insult loudly and
contemptuously. As it was, her only resource was in a copious flood of
silent tears, and when her paroxysm of anguish was somewhat abated, so
that she could find utterance for words, she said:
"My Lord Spoonbill, let me request you to leave me. My father will soon
return, and if he should learn what has passed, I cannot answer for the
consequences."
The Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill began to discern symptoms of a
horsewhipping, and having acted dishonorably, he looked foolishly. It
was not generous to attempt to take advantage of the misfortunes of Mr
Primrose, and the destitute condition of Penelope. But there was in
his lordship's heart so great a regard for Penelope, that he resolved
at all events to make her his own, and that if marriage was the only
condition, he would offer her marriage. With this view he stammered out
something which he intended as an apology, and endeavoured, as well
as he could, to unsay all that he had said concerning the humiliating
arrangement which he had at first proposed; but Penelope heard him not,
or if hearing, heeded him not.
Hereupon his lordship became more earnest in his solicitations, and
made such clumsy attempts to explain away his first proposal, that the
young lady began to think more contemptuously of him than she had ever
thought before. And now his lordship saw that there was some truth
and justice in the observations which had been thrown out by his
friend Erpingham. Seeing the lady so resolute and obdurate, he thought
it would be the wisest step that he could take to leave her for the
present, in hope that hereafter her indignation might somewhat abate.
When he was gone, the poor, perplexed, and almost desolate one, felt
in some measure relieved by his absence; but, when she began to
reflect, she found that her hopes of the patronage of Lady Smatterton
were now gone; for it would be absolutely impossible for her to
place herself again in a situation where she might be exposed to
the importunities of Lord Spoonbill. And when at a late hour in the
evening her father returned from the City, it was too much for her to
receive him cheerfully, and she could no longer speak sanguinely and
with confidence concerning her prospects under the patronage of Lady
Smatterton.
As for Mr Primrose, no brighter prospect seemed to shine before him;
for he had gained no intelligence. He had found, as he might have
expected, the office of his agent closed, and there was no one in the
house who could give him the slightest information. He was astonished
at the world's apathy; no one seemed to sympathise with him. Everybody
was wrapped up in their own concerns, and the thoughts of all seemed
to be centred in themselves. This is indeed not much to be wondered
at. It is the way of the world, and always has been, and always will,
until some change takes place which we cannot yet anticipate or
conjecture. It was pleasantly observed by a sentimental jockey, who
lost by a considerable length the first race he ever rode, "I'll never
ride another race as long as I live. The riders are the most selfish,
narrow-minded creatures on the face of the earth. They kept riding and
galloping as fast as they could, and never had once the kindness or
civility to stop for me."
In some such state of mind as this was Mr Primrose when he returned
from his fruitless excursion in the City. All the inquiries which
he had made about his agent, as to where he was, and how long the
office had been shut, and what time it would be open tomorrow, and
ten thousand other matters, had been answered with a toil-saving
brevity and a coldness, which intimated that the persons answering the
questions had not so great an interest in them as the person asking
them.