Oh, thou dark and gloomy city!
Let me turn my eyes from thee;
Sorrow, sympathy nor pity,
In thy presence seems to be;
Darkness like a pall hath bound thee--
Shadow of thy world within--
With thy drear revealings round me,
Love seems vain, and hope a sin.
L. E. L.
Mary on her arrival in London, went straight to Portman Square, where
she was received with affectionate gladness by her venerable relations.
They, of course, had been amongst the first to be made aware of their
niece's matrimonial prospects, and proud and happy did the intelligence
render the worthy pair. Full and hearty were the congratulations poured
upon the pale and drooping _fiancée_,--to be silenced for the time by
the dejected answer:
"Yes, dear aunt, but for the present our marriage is postponed."
After this first ordeal, there was something not ungenial to Mary's
state of mind in the orderly and quiet monotony of the old-fashioned,
yet comfortable establishment of the Majoribanks. Their daughter was
remarkable for nothing but that indolence of habit and disposition which
a long sojourn in the luxurious East often engenders, and made little
more impression upon Mary's mind, than the costly shawls in which the
orientalized lady at rare intervals appeared enveloped; whilst some
little creatures, chattering in an outlandish tongue, and attended by a
dark-hued ayah, only occasionally excited her present vague, languid
powers of interest and attention.
London in December bears by no means an inviting and exhilarating
aspect; still there are moods and conditions of minds with which at this
season it better assimilates than in its more bright and genial periods.
No glare, or glitter, or display then distracts our spirits. Over the
vast city and its ever-moving myriads, seems to hang one dark, thick,
impenetrable veil, beneath whose dingy folds, joy and misery, innocence
and crime, indigence and wealth, alike hurry on their way,
undistinguishable and indistinct. Men are to our eyes "as trees
walking,"--by faint, uncertain glimpses we alone recognise the face of
friend or foe, who see us not--or, in our turn, are seen, by those we
unconsciously pass by.
Then, and there, in the "dark grey city," more than in "the green
stillness of the country," we can retire into the sanctuary of our own
sad hearts--or beneath this vague and dreamy influence the poet's heart
may wander undisturbed, and as he "hears and feels the throbbing heart
of man," may calmly image forth his destined theme for thought, or song.
"The river of life that flows through streets, tumultuous, bearing along
so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity;--the many homes and
households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its
fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy, and suffering
brought into that narrow compass; and to be in this, and be a part of
this, acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing with his fellow-men."
Poor Mary! she too went forth, and walked, or drove, as beneath one dim,
broad shadow; everything without her and within, vague, dreamy, and
indistinct, except when some pale face or dark eye startled her
momentarily from her trance, by their fancied or seeming similitude to
that loved being, whom some suddenly eclipsing power, like the one now
veiling the wintry sun, had hidden from her aching sight,--but of whom,
each day, she lived in sure but anxious anticipation of receiving
tidings either in person or by letter.
Mary had not written to her brother Arthur on the subject of Eugene's
letter till she came to London, then so lightly did she touch upon the
matter it contained, giving her brother merely to understand that her
marriage was deferred for a short period; that he only in his reply
expressed pleasure at the idea that he was not to lose her quite so
soon, and at the same time mentioned his intention of remaining in
Edinburgh a little longer than he had previously intended, according to
the urgent solicitations of his sister Alice, who had so few
opportunities of enjoying the society of her relations--and at the same
time, for the more interested purpose of reaping as long as he was able
the benefit of his lawyer brother-in-laws' valuable counsel and
assistance on the subject upon which his mind was so keenly set;
affording so excellent a preparation for those regular studies, in
which, after the Christmas vacation, he was to engage as member of the
Middle Temple.
And thus the affectionate brother remained in perfect ignorance that
anything was amiss in the concerns of his favourite sister, during this
protracted absence. But the old couple of course soon began to require
some more defined explanation as to the state of affairs, and an
interview with Mr. de Burgh, when he called one morning to see Mary, did
not tend to throw any very satisfactory light upon the subject. All that
he could inform them concerning the matter was, that some business was
pending, which would prevent the marriage from taking place as soon as
had been intended; that Mrs. de Burgh had heard from her cousin, Mr.
Trevor, who seemed to be considerably distressed by this impediment, and
to shrink from holding any direct communion with his betrothed until
matters had assumed a more favourable aspect; that he announced his
intention of coming up to town as soon as he could possibly leave his
father, who was suffering from another dangerous attack of illness.
Until such time he, Mr. de Burgh, supposed there was nothing to be done,
particularly as Mary's own solicitations were most urgent to that
effect; and she, indeed, poor girl, always professed herself perfectly
satisfied that all was right.
Ah, how could it be otherwise? the bare idea was treason to her
confiding, trustful heart.
Mary did not see a great deal of Mrs. de Burgh after her first arrival.
It is astonishing how great a barrier a few streets and squares of the
metropolis can form against the intercourse of dearest and most
familiar friends. Mrs. de Burgh was ill at first and uncomfortable
herself, and it only distressed her to see Mary under the present
unsatisfactory aspect of affairs. Then her confinement intervened, and
after that she was surrounded by other friends, whose society was
unassociated with the painful feelings, which by that time had occurred
to throw a still greater constraint over her intercourse with the pale,
sad Mary.
How characteristic this is of the general friendship of worldly people.
How warm, how bright, has been the affection showered upon us when we
were gay, glad, or hopeful. But let some cloud arise to dim our aspect,
let our spirits droop, our brow be overcast, then, though they may not
love us less--though they may feel for and pity us, nay, would do much
to restore our happiness, if in their power; yet if that cannot
be--then--"come again when less sad and sorrowful, when your lips once
more can give back smile for smile--when your voice has lost these notes
of deep dejection, _then_, oh, come again, and we will with open arms
receive you, and our love be as fond, as fervent, as unconstrained; but
till then--away! you chide our spirits, you restrain our mirth."
This is the language which seems to breathe from every altered look and
tone of our worldly friends.
* * * * *
Mary went one day to see her cousin. She found Olivia on the sofa,
looking a little delicate, but only the more beautiful from that cause,
as well as from the subdued, softened expression of her countenance.
Her husband sat affectionately by her side, the brightest satisfaction
beaming from his handsome features, gazing upon his lovely wife, and
new-born son, a fine healthy infant, resting on the mother's bosom.
It was altogether a perfect picture of happy family prosperity, and
tears of heartfelt pleasure rose to Mary's eyes at the sight.
She wished and prayed that it might be an earnest of the establishment
of a happier and better state of things between that married pair; that
the long slumbering, or diverted demonstration of affection, now
reawakened or recalled, might never again be put to silence, or lose
their reasserted power. Alas! for the transitory nature of pure and holy
influences like the present, upon the light, inconstant, or the worldly
hearted; influences of time, or circumstances, which like the shaken
blossoms of the spring, the breath of vanity or dissipation can in a
moment dispel and scatter to the ground.
"They never came to fruit, and their sweet lives soon are o'er,
But we lived an hour beneath them, and never dreamed of more."
At least thus we regret to say, it proved with regard to any temporary
influence to which Mrs. de Burgh might have been subjected. For her
convalescence, and the allurements and temptations of the ensuing
season, tended too surely to the overthrow of those hopes and
aspirations, in which poor Mary so rejoiced, in behalf of her cousin
Louis and his beautiful wife. But this is wandering from the regular
progress of our story.