It was a very fine morning when Lord Spoonbill’s gig was brought to the door to convey Penelope to London. The young lady was joyful even to tears. Hers was a joy of such intoxicating and almost bewildering nature, that it became necessary for her to exercise some restraint over herself, lest she should make herself ridiculous by ungoverned prating. Lord Spoonbill was also pleased with the commission which he had given to himself, to conduct the young lady to town. But his pleasure was mingled with thoughtfulness, and alloyed by meditating and contriving. He not been inexperienced in the winning of female affection, but he was conscious that there was in the mind of Penelope something widely different from and far superior to those with whom his former intimacies had been.

Deeply and seriously did he endeavour to revolve in his mind the advice which he had received from his friend Erpingham. But his lordship’s mind was unfortunately too narrow and contracted to afford room for anything to turn round in it. He tried and tried, but all to no purpose, to understand what Erpingham could possibly mean, when he said that a woman is not fit for a wife who can forgive an offer of a different description. His lordship, on the contrary, thought that a woman is not fit for a wife who is of an unforgiving disposition.

So far indeed as his lordship’s own personal feelings were concerned he would have had no objection whatever to offer his hand to Miss Primrose; an offer which he thought of course could not possibly be rejected. But then again he thought of his dignity; and he remembered how very severely he had spoken, and how very contemptibly he had thought, of some titled individuals who had so far compromised their dignity as to marry from the lower orders. Yet there was something so elegant and so naturally noble in Penelope’s look, manner, expression, tone of voice, carriage and person, that nature itself seemed to have ennobled her. She seemed fitted for any station in society. This was all very true; but Lord Spoonbill could not for all this reconcile his mind to the thought of raising Miss Primrose to the exalted rank of the Spoonbill family. He was fearful too that the degradation would break his mother’s heart. All these thoughts, if thoughts they might be called, with myriads more of the same complexion and tendency, passed through the mind, if mind he had any, of the son and heir of the Right Honorable the Earl of Smatterton.

We have said it was a fine morning, and if two of the English nation can on such a morning travel together without talking about the fineness of the weather, when it is really fine, they are two that we have never seen, heard, or read of.

“We have a beautiful morning for our ride, Miss Primrose,” said Lord Spoonbill.

“Beautiful, indeed,” replied Penelope; and she said it with such energy, with such heart-bounding glee, as if the sun had never shewn her its cloudless face before. And never indeed had it shone so brightly before to her. There is something peculiarly and positively beautiful in a fine bright day in the midst of winter. The shortness of its light adds to its intensity and condenses its interest. But when there is sunshine within as well as without, and when the heart is young, pure, hopeful and buoyant, then is there felt a revelry of delight, a wantonness of happiness. So felt Penelope on this bright and brilliant winter’s morning. And when there was added to the joyous feeling within and to the effect of the spirit-stirring anticipation with which she set out on her journey, the bracing and sharpening of an almost frosty air, her fine countenance was suffused with as brilliant a hue as ever graced the human countenance. As far as life excels the art of the sculptor, so far did the countenance of Penelope on this morning’s journey excel in brightness and beauty its ordinary expression. “We are not stocks and stones.” So thought Lord Spoonbill when he gazed on the lovely one who sat beside him. He almost felt the majesty of loveliness, and was almost awed into reverence.

And did not the thought then occur to his lordship, that the scheme which he was meditating must of necessity destroy that peace, that happiness, that purity, which now formed so lovely and interesting a picture? Did not some recollection of beauty prematurely fading, of the burning blushes of self-reproach, of the convulsive throbbings of breaking hearts, of memory burdened and writhing under the agony of thoughts it cannot bear and cannot forget, come into the mind of the Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill? Did he not recollect poor Ellen, lovely in her simplicity, happy in her innocence, the light of her home and the joy of her widowed mother’s heart? And did he not think of that same Ellen dropping the tears of agonizing penitence on that mother’s dying pillow, and wandering now, for aught he knew to the contrary, a houseless, shivering, desolate outcast?

No such thoughts entered his mind. Selfishness and sensuality predominated over, or excluded all other feelings. He used all the art of which he was master to render himself agreeable to his companion during their short journey. He also exerted all his power of observation to see whether any symptoms betrayed an interest in him on the part of Penelope. But in the brightness of her looks, and the joyousness of her features, no other emotions were visible and no other thoughts could be read. His lordship was convinced that he could not possibly live without her, and he resolved that at all events he would make known his admiration by words as well as by looks. Like all the rest of the world, preferring his own judgment to the advice of any other, he determined that the offer of marriage should be reserved till he should ascertain that no other was likely to succeed.

The journey was soon over. They arrived at the Earl of Smatterton’s town mansion full two hours before it was likely that Mr Primrose should be in town. Ten thousand thanks were given by the grateful Penelope for the kindness of his lordship, and unnumbered acknowledgments of the goodness and condescension of the Earl and Countess of Smatterton. Such were the joyous feelings of the young lady, that these thanks and acknowledgments were expressed with unusual earnestness and warmth of manner; and such was the modesty of Lord Spoonbill, that for himself and for his right honorable parents he disclaimed all right and title to such a profusion of thanks.

“I beg, Miss Primrose,” said his modest lordship, “that you will not so overwhelm us with your thanks. We are but too happy in having had it in our power to afford you any little accommodation.”

“Oh my lord, you are very kind, very kind. But I am almost afraid that I have said or done something to offend her ladyship, the Countess; for, when I took my leave last night, her ladyship spoke to me as in anger. I fear I did wrong in so readily accepting the offer to come to town to meet my father.”

To the ear of Lord Spoonbill there was something exceedingly graceful and musical in the tone with which this language was uttered. There is indeed an indescribable beauty in the accents of a grateful mind fearful of having offended its benefactor. His lordship was aware of his mother’s feelings on the subject of the probable loss of Penelope, and his lordship was himself also fearful of losing her. But he did not use the language of harshness under that apprehension, he sought rather to retain her by kindness of expression. Assuming therefore an unusual tenderness and considerateness of manner, he took the young lady’s hand, as if unconsciously, but in truth designedly, and holding the hand with sufficient firmness to prevent it being withdrawn, but not so as to excite suspicion or thought of intentional seriousness, he said:

“I am very sorry that anything which the Countess may have said, has given you uneasiness; but my mother has a peculiar earnestness and hastiness of manner, that you have mistaken for anger. No one can ever be offended with Miss Primrose.”

There was a little pause, during which Lord Spoonbill endeavoured to catch a glance of the expression of Penelope’s countenance, without appearing to make any particular observation; and, in this short pause, Penelope almost sighed. Lovers delight to hear sighs, and Lord Spoonbill was especially pleased at this symptom of emotion in Miss Primrose. Retaining her hand therefore, and softening his tone down to deeper tenderness, he continued:

“The Countess no doubt will be sorry to lose you, if the return of your father necessarily involves that condition. But let us hope that may not be the case.”

Having thus spoken, his lordship pressed the young lady’s hand more emphatically, and sighed. Now, by rights, Penelope should at this have started up, and suddenly withdrawing her hand, knitting her brows, advancing three steps backward and darting a look of indignation at his lordship, should have exclaimed, “Unhand me, my lord; what is the meaning of this language?” But Penelope neither did nor said anything of the kind. For the word ‘unhand’ was not in her dictionary, and she had been too long acquainted with Lord Spoonbill to expect that he should be able to explain the meaning of all he said. There was also another reason why the young lady did not thus express indignation and astonishment; namely, that having no suspicion of the views or intentions of his lordship, she did not observe or rightly interpret his language and his sigh. In addition to this, it may be also supposed that the expectation of her father’s arrival had some influence in rendering her unobservant of everything else.

Emboldened by the unresisting manner in which Penelope listened to his conversation, his lordship proceeded to speak less equivocally, and grasping with both his hands the still unremoved hand of Penelope, and assuming a look and tone of tenderness, he said:

“Pardon me, Miss Primrose, if I seize this first and perhaps last opportunity of avowing how dearly I do love you.”

His lordship was about to say much more on the same interesting topic, but Miss Primrose interrupted him. The manner in which the interruption was given was rather singular, and did not seem at all favorable to his lordship’s hopes. For, instead of looking serious and frowning and attitudinizing, the young lady merely withdrew her hand, and said with a smile:

“My lord, I hope you are only jesting; but my feelings are too much interested with the thought of presently meeting my father, to allow me now even to enter into the humour of a jest.”

Thereupon his lordship rose from his seat, laid his hand upon his heart, and directed to Miss Primrose a look, which would, on the stage, have called down deafening plaudits from the back of the one shilling gallery to the front row of the pit, and with indescribable earnestness exclaimed, “By heavens, Miss Primrose, I am serious!”

To that declaration the young lady replied seriously, “Then, my lord, I am very sorry to hear it.”

Thus speaking, Penelope went towards the window, leaving his lordship to think what he should say next. The enamoured hereditary legislator then, undaunted by the smiles or frowns of Miss Primrose, followed the young lady to the window, and in less impassioned but mildly persuasive tones continued his address, saying:

“Miss Primrose, may I request of you the favor to hear me?”

“Certainly, my lord,” replied Penelope, “if you will hear me first.”

“Most willingly,” replied his lordship.

“Then, my lord,” continued Penelope, “I must be permitted to say that I feel very much hurt and surprised at what you have already said. You have recalled to my mind thoughts that I would willingly have forgotten; this allusion will suffice to let your lordship understand the state of my feelings. I hope you will forbear the unpleasant discussion. Indeed”—here her voice was feebler, and her lip quivered, and the full tear was in her eyes, and her whole frame trembled, but she did not look the less lovely for this emotion; summoning an effort, she continued, “For mercy’s sake, my lord, let me meet my father as composedly as I possibly can. In less than an hour he will be here. Pray do not rob our meeting of its happiness.”

In saying this she threw herself into the nearest chair, and covering her face with her handkerchief she sobbed and wept, and in spite of herself thought of Robert Darnley. The Right Honorable Lord Spoonbill also sat down, and thought of Nick Muggins and the indescribable pony. But his lordship neither wept nor blushed. We record this fact rather for its truth than its beauty. It seems indeed an encouragement to such sparks as, in their transgressions, sometimes feel remorse; for it is as much as to say that, by practice, they will become so familiarized with meanness and cruelty as to cease to feel ashamed of them.

His lordship for a few minutes was silent. But as soon as Penelope was a little more composed, he said; “I am very much concerned, Miss Primrose, for the uneasiness which I have occasioned you, and so far from wishing to interrupt the happiness of your meeting with your father I will retire, that you may compose yourself. Only let me request that I may have the honor of being introduced to Mr Primrose after your first meeting is over.”

This was all very rational and proper, and the kind, considerate manner in which it was spoken pleased Penelope very much, and she made her acknowledgments for the kindness with so much grace as to fascinate his lordship more than ever. He thought he had never seen so lovely and interesting a creature in his life. He apologized for having introduced such a subject so inopportunely, and attributed it solely to the fear that the arrival of her father might preclude him from speaking on the subject at a future time.

When the poor girl was left alone, it was no easy matter for her to arrange her scattered thoughts and to bring herself back to that state of holiday extasy with which she had begun the day. Nor was much time afforded her for the purpose; for, not many minutes after the departure of Lord Spoonbill, the arrival of Mr Primrose was announced. There seemed to Penelope to be scarcely any interval between hearing a carriage stop at the door, and finding herself embraced in the arms of her long lost father.

Over a scene like this all modest dramatists would drop the curtain, knowing that imagination would be rather impeded than assisted by farther exhibition.