The preceding chapters, relative to affairs at Neverden, were rendered indispensable by the necessity under which we were placed to account for the non-appearance of Robert Darnley in London, to clear up the mystery and explain the cause of the interrupted correspondence. We are now most happy to revert to that part of our narrative which more immediately and directly concerns Penelope Primrose and her father. For this purpose therefore our history goes back a few days.

After the first passionate agitation of meeting had subsided, and Penelope was able to speak collectedly, and Mr Primrose was patient enough to listen to two successive sentences, the young lady explained to her father the situation in which she had been placed by the sudden decease of her uncle, and spoke of the kindness which she had experienced from the Earl and Countess of Smatterton, adding, that they had been so kind as to propose giving her the opportunity of meeting her father in London. She then informed her father that Lord Spoonbill was in the house, and would be happy to see him.

Mr Primrose was too happy at the meeting with his daughter to think anything of the awkward stories which he had heard of the young gentleman’s irregularities. He therefore expressed himself pleased with an opportunity of making his acknowledgments to any part of the family. The young lord therefore soon made his appearance. And such was the frank, gentlemanly aspect and bearing of Mr Primrose, that his lordship was quite delighted with him, and said with great sincerity much which he would otherwise have said with polite formality and hypocrisy.

Penelope exercised a considerable degree of self-command in introducing Lord Spoonbill so composedly to her father. And happy was it at this moment for Mr Primrose, that such was his cheerfulness and hilarity of feeling, that he was only sensible to that which was pleasant and agreeable.

“My Lord Spoonbill,” said he with one of his politest bows, and with the most agreeable intonation of voice that he could command, “I thank you most sincerely, and I beg that you will convey my most cordial and respectful thanks to the Earl and Countess of Smatterton for their kind and generous attention to my dear child.”

Even with similar politeness did Lord Spoonbill profess how truly happy the Earl and Countess had been in affording any accommodation to the neice of their late esteemed friend, the respected rector of Smatterton. By making mention of that good man, Lord Spoonbill brought tears into the eyes of Mr Primrose, who mournfully shook his head and replied:

“Ah, my lord, he was indeed a good man. I lament the loss of him most sincerely. So much kind feeling, blended with such strict integrity, and so high a degree of moral purity, I never have witnessed in any other. I have seen strictness of principle with severity of manners, and I have witnessed kindness of heart with moral carelessness; but the late Dr Greendale had the most finely attempered mind of any man I ever knew. He did, or desired to do, good to everybody, and that must have been a hard heart which he could not soften.”

It was well for Lord Spoonbill at this moment that he was not of so susceptible a temperament as Mr Primrose, or the remark last recorded would have distressed him. It was in another point of view ill for his lordship that he had not a little more sensibility, for if he had he might have been moved to contrition and reflection. His lordship very courteously assented to every compliment which Mr Primrose felt disposed to pay to the late Dr Greendale. And presently his lordship directed the talk to other matters; for though he had not sensibility to be moved, yet he had enough of that kind of feeling which rendered him awkward under reflections and recollections. The hereditary legislator was also especially desirous of knowing what was to be the immediate destination of Miss Primrose and her father; but found, after a long conversation and many indirect hints, that no arrangement of any determinate nature had entered the mind of Mr Primrose, who probably thought, that for the night ensuing, he might take up his abode at the town residence of Lord Smatterton.

At length, Lord Spoonbill, finding that it became time for him to return to dinner, and knowing that it would not be very agreeable to the Countess to take back with him father and daughter too, and suspecting also very strongly and very naturally that the two were not likely to be separated, began to make something like an apology to Mr Primrose for having brought him to an empty house, and offered such accommodation as the house might afford, expressing his great regret that he himself was under the necessity of returning to Lord Smatterton’s suburban villa.

These explanations and apologies roused Mr Primrose to his recollection, and he presently and promptly declined availing himself of his lordship’s kind offer, and expressed his intention of taking up his abode at a hotel, which he named.

Lord Spoonbill was satisfied. He now knew where to find Mr Primrose again; and so long as he was not at a loss where to seek Penelope, his lordship readily took his leave, with a promise that he would very shortly pay his respects again to his good friends.

Mr Primrose and his daughter then went to their hotel, and the overjoyed parent endeavoured to compose himself for the sobriety of narrative and interrogation. Many questions were asked, and multitudinous digressions and recommencements and interruptions rendered their discourse rather less instructive than entertaining. The father of Penelope walked restlessly about the room, and ever and anon would he stop and look with an indescribable earnestness on the face of his child, as if to fill his mind’s eye with her image, or to endeavour to trace her likeness to her departed mother. And from these momentary absorptions he would start into recollection, and utter such thrilling expressions of delight, that his poor child feared that the joy would be too much for him.

Some of the human species have suffered more from joy than from sorrow. Ecstacy has lifted the mind to that height and giddiness as to destroy its self-command, and to precipitate it into the depths and darkness of idiocy. Penelope entertained a fear of this kind for her father. For she had not been accustomed to witness or yield to any very strong emotions. Her uncle, with whom she had lived, had been a very quiet man; and, in his studious retirement, life had passed smoothly and placidly as the waveless current of a subterranean stream. Mrs Greendale had experienced and manifested occasional ebullitions, but they were merely culinary, domestic, common-place, and transitory. As for herself, poor girl, deep as her feelings might have been, and strongly, as in various instances, she might have been moved, these emotions were solitary and soon suppressed.

When therefore she saw her father in this state of agitation, much of her own joy was abated in thoughts and fears for him. But in time the violence of the emotion abated, and the father and daughter sat down together to dinner. This was a relief to them both. When the cloth was removed, Mr Primrose then bethought himself of Robert Darnley. Drawing closer to the fire, he said to Penelope; “Well, but, my dear child, I have not yet said a word about an old acquaintance of yours, whom report says you have not used handsomely. But I don’t mind what report says. Have you quite forgot your old neighbour Robert Darnley?”

Penelope sighed and shook her head, and replied, “Oh, no, my dear father; I have not forgotten him.”

“Then why did you not answer his letters?”

“I answered his letters, but he did not answer mine.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr Primrose; “do you say that he was the person who dropped the correspondence? You are wrong, my dear, you are wrong. Ay, ay, I see how it is—some letters have not been delivered. It is all a misunderstanding; but it will soon be set right. I have seen the young man. He is now at Neverden; and he tells me that you have not answered his letters. But we shall soon see him in town. He would have come with me, but he must needs stay to eat his Christmas dinner at the parsonage, just to please the old folks. That of course is right; and if children did but know how easily parents are pleased, and how happy they are when their children please them, there would not be so many undutiful children in the world.—And so, my dear Penelope, it is all a mere invention that you are attached to Lord Spoonbill?”

Recollecting what had that morning taken place, and from that also calling to mind what before she had not noticed, and what without that event she would have forgotten; thinking again how assiduously and politely attentive Lord Spoonbill had behaved towards her, she began to think that his lordship’s attentive behaviour had been seen and noticed by others when it had not been obvious to herself. And these thoughts confused and perplexed her. Therefore she did not immediately reply to her father’s interrogation. Her silence was observed by her anxious parent, and he hastily said:

“What then, is it true? But it is a great pity. Robert Darnley is a fine spirited young man; and I am sure he did not design to drop the correspondence. Well, well; you are like your father, you are very hasty. But never mind, it cannot be helped now. And what will you say to poor Darnley when he sees you again; for I fully expect him up in town as soon as Christmas is well over? I dare say he will be here in a week, or a little more. I told him that he would find us at this hotel. And has Lord Spoonbill really made proposals to you? And have you accepted his offer?”

The discovery which this talk of her father opened to the mind of Penelope moved her with feelings not describable. There was powerful and oppressive agitation, but whether painful or pleasurable she scarcely knew. Her heart was too full to speak, and her thoughts too hurried for utterance. The colour was in her cheeks, and the tears were silently falling, and presently the quick glancing eye of her father caught the expression of concern and deep feeling, and his impetuosity misinterpreted the emotion. With rapidity of utterance, and with kind tenderness of tone, he exclaimed, grasping her hand:

“Nay, nay, my dear Penelope, do not be so afflicted. You misunderstand me, indeed you do. I am not angry with you. If you are really attached to Lord Spoonbill, and if he has a regard for you, I would not for the world oppose your inclinations. If you are happy, I shall be so. I know comparatively very little of Robert Darnley. As to what I saw of his father, I certainly thought not favourably. The young man appeared not so proud and formal as the old gentleman. But Lord Spoonbill may be a very excellent man, and I am sure he would not be your choice if he were not so. I dare say that all these stories I have heard of his profligacies are not true.”

Hereat the young lady started; and she thought that she had some faint recollection of having heard some obscure hints on that subject; for these matters are not made the topic of explicit discourse in the presence of young ladies. And with this impression she hastened to undeceive her father as to the state of her affections, protesting very calmly and deliberately that there had not been any transfer of her attachment to Lord Spoonbill from Robert Darnley. And, as connectedly and circumstantially as she was able, she narrated the history of her life, from the decease of her worthy uncle to the moment of her meeting with her father.

Mr Primrose made his observations on these events, and expressed himself delighted in having arrived in England time enough to prevent his daughter from publicly exhibiting her musical talents. Now, in the course of Penelope’s narrative, mention had not been made, nor did it seem necessary to state the fact, of Lord Spoonbill’s declaration of devotedness, which his lordship had made that very morning. It was therefore unfortunate, though of no great consequence, that when the poor girl had finished her story, Mr Primrose said:

“And so then after all Lord Spoonbill has not said a word to you on the subject of attachment?”

It became necessary then to acknowledge what had passed in the morning; and the reluctance with which the acknowledgment was made very naturally excited some slight suspicion in the breast of Mr Primrose, that there was something more serious than had been acknowledged. A satisfactory explanation however was made, and all was right again.

This trifling incident would not have been mentioned, but for the illustration which it affords of the value of explicitness and candour, and for the proof which it presents that the purest and most upright mind may, from a false delicacy, involve itself in serious perplexity.