PICCADILLY.
With her heart full of sore anxiety concerning her loss, out of the
quietude of gloomy and shabby Norfolk Street, Mary had been rapidly
taken by the cab into the roar, the rush, the racket, and the
breathless heat of London, in one of its hottest months, when every
breath of air seems to have passed away, and the sunshades of the
shop windows cast strong dark shadows on the heated pavement.
Guiding his lean horse with marvellous skill, the cabman tore along
between the endless tides of busses, crowded inside and out; drays
and hansoms, splendid equipages, and costermongers' carts, and Mary
felt again as if in a dream; for ages instead of hours seemed to have
elapsed since she had left her sequestered home--the gloomy tower,
the solemn thicket, the pastoral hills, and the months of close
attendance on a sick bed, in a half-darkened and silent room. All,
all seemed to have happened long, long ago; and all to be far, far
away. So far that it seemed incredible to realize the fact, that
little more than ten hours by rail, would set her among the lonely
Lammermuir hills again.
Along all the line that Mary was driven, none of the sordid squalor
peculiar to some of the humbler parts of London was visible. All
savoured of wealth, to be won or wasted, of splendour, and of luxury.
There were stately buildings of vast magnitude; beautiful equipages,
with shining liveries bearing past beauty and fashion: there were
enormous plate-glass windows, glittering with jewellery and gold and
silver vessels; rich dresses and fabrics, and good things of all
kinds, from every portion of the habitable globe, and from the very
waters that wash its furthest shores; everything that fancy can
create or appetite suggest was there, for London is the true
metropolis of the world.
As Mary looked on all this, hope began to spring up in her heart.
Once established as an inmate of Lady Wetherall's house, she would
earnestly and honestly do her duty to her pupils there; and perhaps
elsewhere, in time to come, might, as a teacher, make her voice, so
vaunted at home, the means of further acquisition. She would toil
for money--not that she cared for lucre in itself--but as a means to
an end. That she might relieve the wants of the indigent, and do
good unto others, to people who might be as poor and forlorn as she
herself was then forlorn and poor. She would seek the abodes of
poverty and affliction, and God would reward her for all this by the
blessings that would be poured upon her by grateful hearts. Among
other fond projects for the future, was the erection of a monument to
her parents at home; and as she thought of it, there stole over the
soft face of the pretty daydreamer, weaving her plans even as
Alnaschar wove his of fancied greatness, over the basket of
crystal--a divine smile as she sketched the design in her mind's eye,
and traced the inscription to their beloved memory.
The girl was young, yet it was strange that no thought of a lover or
of marriage ever entered her scheme of the days to come, till the
appearance of a splendid battalion of the Foot Guards marching past
the National Gallery with all their bayonets glittering in the
evening sun, and the crash of their brass band waking the echoes of
peristyle and dome, recalled Cyril to her memory with a keen pang;
and she reflected that it was better to have loved and lost than
never to have loved at all, for their passion had been a sweet one
while it lasted.
"God pity the desolate loving heart, the only star of whose hope is
gone out in utter darkness;" and so thought Mary, as she clasped her
hands in bitterness.
From the Strand, where she had close glimpses of the mighty river,
with its dark forests of masts and rigging, past the great façade of
Somerset House, up the Haymarket, and across Great Jermyn Street, she
had been driven into Piccadilly and along that splendid thoroughfare,
to Mary it seemed that they must have proceeded many miles, when the
cabman suddenly drew up at the number she had given him, and, having
successfully extracted from her double his legal fare, he whipped up
his horse the moment she alighted, and disappeared, leaving her on
the pavement, looking wistfully at the house; for among all the
stately, gay, and brilliantly decorated mansions in Piccadilly, Lady
Wetherall's alone seemed gloomy and deserted, and Mary's heart now
began to palpitate, for it was the first time she had ever found
herself about to face a total stranger in the attitude of a dependant
or a suppliant.
The blinds were all down; the steps and entrance, which stood between
four white pillars, seemed dusty, unswept, and neglected, and hence a
foreboding chill, with a hope that Lady Wedderburn had mistaken the
number, came over Mary's mind. She rang the bell, and had to do so
thrice ere the door was opened by a sharp-featured little woman, who
was dressed in rusty black with a widow's cap of portentous size, and
who eyed Mary somewhat suspiciously and superciliously.
"Is this Lady Wetherall's--or have I made a mistake?" asked the
visitor, timidly.
"Yes; it is Lady Wetherall's 'ouse; but what do you want, Miss?"
"I have a letter for her----"
"Then you must post it, for her ladyship ain't at 'ome," replied the
little woman, in a sharp falsetto voice.
"Not at home?"
"No; nor in England either."
"Where is she?"
"With the family in Paris."
"But when does she return?" asked Mary, clinging still to chances.
"Can't say, Miss; but when the London season will be over, she will
be sure to go down to the country. Can I do anything for you, Miss?"
asked the housekeeper, civilly enough, but gradually closing the door
nevertheless.
"Nothing, thanks," said Mary, in a gasping voice as she turned away,
and the woman watched her with some interest, for her steps seemed to
totter when she reached the pavement. She felt the absolute
necessity of getting out of the stunning and breathless bustle then,
to consider the future. Immediately opposite Lady Wetherall's house
a gate of the Park stood invitingly open, and the shadow of its trees
looked tempting. She soon found a seat, and there, for more than an
hour, Mary sat lost in thought and bewilderment--in fear and
dejection, totally oblivious of the number of men who passed and
repassed; of one or two who seated themselves near and sought to
attract her attention; of the equipages and equestrians pouring past,
and more than all of the policeman, who, perhaps luckily for herself,
"had his eye on her," for to him there seemed something mysterious
about her, and she evidently "didn't seem an every-day young woman;"
for it is one of the peculiarities of London that no person can be
too respectable in aspect, too attractive in face or manner, too
richly or plainly dressed, to be above suspicion; and she frequently
clasped her hands as she said in her heart--
"God help me! What am I to do now; in London, unknown, without
employment, and robbed of all but a few pounds?"
Lady Ernescleugh was in town; she knew that her address was at a
place called--she thought--Cavendish Square; but Mary Lennox felt
that she would rather die by the curbstone than appeal for aid or
patronage to her, at whose table the odious story of Chesterhaugh had
first been mentioned, to render her the victim of local impertinence,
malevolence, and envy.
The sun had set; the shadows in the Park were deepening, and the
appearance of a few lamps twinkling at intervals, brought to Mary's
mind the necessity for seeking the only roof of which she had any
knowledge, kind Mrs. Primer's in Norfolk Street, from whence she
resolved to write without delay to Lady Wedderburn for advice, and to
obtain, perhaps, a letter to some other wealthy friend in London.
Already humbled and crushed by loneliness, by grief and misfortune,
all foolish pride on the score of the Willowdean family had
completely left her heart.
Her cab fare had been so excessive or extortionate that she resolved
to make her way back on foot, trusting to the directions of
strangers. Giving a small coin to a little fellow who had been going
round and round her in wheel-fashion on his hands and feet with
wonderful rapidity, she inquired of him "the way to Norfolk Street in
the Strand."
Whether inspired by mischief, or in mere ignorance, Mary could never
afterwards determine, but this imp of the pavement--one of those
intensely sharp and funny little vagabonds who are so peculiarly of
London growth, a denizen of the streets and gutters, where like
wandering curs they hunt for chance morsels--sent her in exactly the
opposite direction by pointing towards Hyde Park Corner, and telling
her that when there she was to turn to the right and go straight on;
the consequence was, that when darkness set in, and in her serious
alarm she inquired of some one to "direct her to Mrs. Long Primer's,
Norfolk Street, Strand," she was greeted with a rough laugh, and the
inquiry if "she thought the Strand was to be found about Paddington,"
for near that quarter of London she found herself, or supposed she
found herself, misled, weary, and sinking with fatigue.
Never before had she been in the streets of a vast city by night, and
the new scenes and sounds, the brilliant gin palaces, the music from
occasional casinos and dancing-rooms, the strange words that were
said to her, the vivid light at times, the strong dark shadows at
others, all conduced to confuse and terrify her. Once or twice she
received proper directions and wandered on in the desperate hope of
recognising some landmark of her morning drive, such as St. Paul's
dome, the Nelson pillar, or the National Gallery, but sought in vain.
The loss of her handkerchief, which had been filched from
her--deliberately twitched out of her hand, indeed--suggested that
she should take care of her little purse, which she secured in her
bosom. She feared to offer money for a guide lest she should fall
into some perilous snare; more than one man had already addressed her
in bantering terms of endearment, which only terrified, but failed to
excite anger in her heart; and, to avoid one of these who had begun
persistently to follow her, in a pitiable state of irresolution she
unfortunately turned down a quiet street, where she suddenly became
involved in a miserable catastrophe.