FOGS AND MISTS.
One evening, after the family had been more than a month in London,
Ernest sat alone in the drawing-room with his book. Mr. and Mrs. Hope
were absent at a dinner party, which the lady was to leave early, in
order to call for the young people, to take them to the long-expected
ball in Grosvenor Square.
Clementina had been up-stairs for more than an hour, engaged in what
was to her one of the most interesting occupations of life—decking out
her little person in all the extravagance of fashion. Ernest sat by the
window, not that the light by which he read was in any way derived from
anything outside it; but it amused him to glance up occasionally from his
page and look out upon what was to him a novel sight—a regular yellow
London fog.
Of the long line of lamps which stretched down the street, only the two
or three nearest were visible at all, and they looked like dim stars
surrounded by a haze. Loud shouts, sometimes mixed with laughter, were
occasionally heard from foot-passengers wishing to give notice of their
presence. Now two lights, like a pair of eyes, would slowly approach,
marking where a carriage moved on its dangerous way; then torches carried
past would throw a strange red glare on the fog, scarcely sufficient to
show who bore them.
“We see something like this in life,” said Ernest to himself. “I think
that fog is the common weather of Vanity Fair. Let me see in how many
points I can find a resemblance between nature’s mists and those raised
by ‘the world.’ Both come not from heaven, but belong to things below;
both shut out the pure light of day—make us in danger of falling—in
danger of striking against others—hardly able to tell friend from foe.
Yet people seem particularly merry in both, as if the very risk were
a pleasure. They light those glaring torches, and walk cheerfully on,
though they can see neither sun, moon, nor stars. Who would wish to pass
all his life in a fog? Yet some choose to live and die amidst the mists
of Vanity Fair.”
“Reading, moralizing, reflecting,” said Charles, in his own lively
manner, as he entered the room. “Who would take you for a young nobleman
going to a ball? It will be your last for a long time, I suspect;
for Parliament, I hear, is dissolved, and if so, there will be a new
election, and back we must fly to Fontonore.”
“I am not sorry for it,” replied Ernest.
“Nor I,” said Charles, more gravely. “I am afraid that this is a
dangerous sort of life for me. You never seem to be in the same peril as
myself; I suppose because you are a better pilgrim.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Ernest; “you cannot look into my heart; but every one
knows his own temptations best. The truth is, that I cannot enjoy society
so much, because I always feel that I am not sufficiently educated, and
am in constant fear of exposing myself, and being laughed at. There is no
possible merit in this.”
“No; if that is all your protection from worldliness, I should call it a
very poor one.”
“Yes; for if it protects me on the one side, it exposes me to danger on
the other. Do you know, Charles, that nothing astonishes me so much in
myself, as the cowardice that I find that I possess.”
“You manage well, for no one finds it out but yourself.”
“I must care for the world, or I should not fear its ridicule. I was
always thought rather courageous before I became a peer; I know that
I used to speak out truth pretty boldly in our cottage; but there is
nothing that I dread so much as the quiet sarcastic smile on well-bred
lips. I sometimes fancy,” he added, laughing, “that I should mind it less
if there were any chance of its being followed by a blow.”
“Well, this much I can say for you, Ernest—I have never yet seen this
fear draw you one step from the narrow path.”
“I could not say as much for myself, dear brother. The world is a
dangerous place.”
“Which would you call the principal temptations of Vanity Fair?” said
Charles.
“Temptations to be insincere, ill-natured, and forgetful of God.”
“Oh, you have not numbered half. Think of all the extravagance, vanity,
love of show, love of fashion, love of dress, love of trifles of all
sorts.”
“Which do not make us happy,” added Ernest.
“Happy! no. They remind me of the beautiful enchanted money in the
Eastern tale, which a man put so carefully by, and which he found, a
short time after, all turned into leaves. Have you seen Clemmy on this
evening of the ball, which she has been looking forward to for so long
with such pleasure?”
“No; is she in very high spirits?”
“She is quite miserable, poor girl. I daresay that she would cry
heartily, did she not know that red eyes are not becoming.”
“What is vexing her so much?”
“She has three terrible troubles, which she knows not how to bear.
Firstly, she fears that Aunt Matilda may not find her way in the fog, so
may never call to take us to the ball; secondly, she fears that even if
we should reach Grosvenor Square, we should find the rooms empty on such
a night as this, and there would be few to admire her and her new dress;
and, thirdly, she is afraid that her pearl ornaments will not come in
time; and this is her worst misery of all.”
“Have they not arrived yet?”
“No; Clemmy has been in a fidget about them all day, starting at the
sound of every bell with a cry of, ‘Oh, I hope that’s the jeweller at
last?’ And since she went up to dress, Mrs. Clayton has been sent down
three times at least to see if the ornaments have come; and as she has
had always to return with the same unsatisfactory answer, Clemmy is
doubtless by this time in a state of grief which might make her an object
of pity to any beggar in the street.”
“Poor Clemmy!” murmured Ernest, with real compassion in his tone.
“You do not pity her, surely, for being unhappy at such trifles?”
“I pity her because such trifles can make her unhappy. Charles, do you
know that my conscience is not quite easy about our cousin?”
“Your conscience! You have nothing to do with her folly.”
“We have a good deal to do with one another. I see more of her than of
any one but yourself; she is one of my nearest relations; and yet I have
never tried in any way to help her on in the right path.”
“I do not believe that she is in it,” replied Charles. “She is constantly
trying to play us off against each other; nothing would delight her so
much as to make us quarrel, all to gratify her selfish vanity.”
“If she is not in the right path, in which must she be? Where will she
find herself if she remains as she is?”
“We cannot help her wanderings; they are no fault of ours.”
“Oh, Charles, we must not act in the spirit of those words, ‘Am I my
brother’s keeper?’ We who meet her so often _must_ have some influence
for evil or good; and think of the rapture of meeting in heaven with one
whom we had been the means of helping to reach it!”
“I can hardly fancy any delight greater,” said Charles; “but I do not
know anything that we could do for Clemmy. It is foolish in me, but when
I look at her, and watch her affected manner, and hear her trifling talk,
I never can realize to myself that she has a soul at all.”
“Yet she has one just as precious as our own.”
“I know that, but I cannot feel it; she seems just like a pretty
plaything, made to be dressed up, admired—or laughed at.”
“Would that she could be raised to something nobler, something better!”
“I do not believe that we can raise her. She only thinks me provoking,
and you tiresome. She never would listen to Mr. Ewart, and I do believe
only goes to church to show off the fashions. I do not see what we could
do for her.”
“We can pray, dear Charles, we can pray earnestly; if we have not done so
before, we have neglected a duty.”
“My neglect has been greater than yours,” said his brother, “since we
have been together for so many years. I have thought it enough if I were
not led to folly by her society; I never dreamed that I had any other
responsibility about her.”
“But now—”
“Now I feel that I have been wrong. I remember, Ernest, that Faithful
roused some to become pilgrims even in Vanity Fair; Hopeful himself was
one of them. Perhaps poor Clemmy—”
“Here she comes; I hear the rustle of her silk down the stairs.”
“Have not the pearls been sent yet? Oh, dear, how vexatious!” exclaimed
the young lady on entering the room, most elegantly dressed. She seated
herself in an affected attitude on the sofa, with a very melancholy
expression on her face, as she played with her feather-tipped fan.
“I do believe they are,” cried Charles, as a loud ring was heard at the
outer bell.
[Illustration: DRESSED FOR THE BALL.]
Clementina sprang up eagerly, and hurried to the door—so eagerly, so
impatiently, that her little feet tripped, and she fell with some
violence to the ground!