THE
CONTRAST,
BY THE AUTHOR OF “MATILDA,” “YES AND NO,”
&c. &c.
Take but degree away--untune that string,
And hark! what discord follows.
SHAKSPEARE.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
1832.
THE CONTRAST.
CHAPTER I.
Thou art in London, in that pleasant place
Where every kind of mischief’s daily brewing,
Which can await warm youth in its wild race.
BYRON.
She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew,
As seeking not to know it.
SILENT LOVE.
Is there one--the veriest citizen of the world though he may be--who
has not felt a sudden chill seize upon his energies, a blight fall
as it were upon his faculties, when in the varied changes of his
chequered life, he has found himself amid scenes to which he alone
is strange, whilst all around are, as it were, “to the manner born?”
The sense of inferiority can take no more painful shape than the
impossibility of entering into sources of enjoyment, which seem
open to every one else. This impression can only occasionally and
incidentally afflict the man of the world, its repetition is evaded
by shunning the unusual society which caused it, or quitting those
foreign sojourning places where it was found. He therefore could
have no idea of the oppressive sensation of hopeless solitude
which overpowered Lucy when she first found herself dropped in the
midst of the ever busy crowds of London. Your true cockney is apt
to speculate, with no little self satisfaction, upon the first
impression that the largest city in the world must make upon that
foreigner who has only seen Paris or Petersburgh, or that countryman
who has only visited Bath or York; but how could he estimate the
bewilderment of her who had never, till within a short time, strayed
from the solitary shores of Morden Bay? Country girls have no
doubt constantly before come up to London, without any previous
preparation; but then their impressions have been limited by their
own straitened circumstances, and their individual cares for the
coming day have much confined the effects produced on them by the
surrounding grandeur; and the smallness of their own share of the
comforts which they beheld, has limited their admiration of the
marvellous variety which was to be divided among others. On the other
hand, the strange conviction on Lucy’s mind, that she would now
have as large an individual command as any one, of all the varied
luxuries which on all sides bewildered her sight, gave her a painful
consciousness of her own littleness.
For nearly seven miles of suburb, she had been expecting to stop at
every door she passed, thinking it quite impossible the town could
extend any farther. A curious inquiry it would be, and probably
puzzling to more experienced investigators than Lucy, who live in
those houses, which are perpetually building in most out-of-the
way districts? Are the houses built for the inhabitants, or the
inhabitants fitted to the houses?
The carriage at length stopped at Lord Castleton’s door, which was
in one of the _soi-disant_ fashionable squares in the west end of
London. It was still very early in a London spring morning, that is,
it was not above two hours after noon, and Castleton determined to go
out, to collect new gossip from old acquaintance at the clubs, and
Lucy was left alone; and she felt as if she was the first person in
the world who had ever known the most extended signification of that
word _alone_.
The _soignée salon_ in which she had been left, opened, behind its
muslin draperies, upon a balcony and veranda, filled with rare
and sweet plants, and from thence she looked forth upon the scene
beyond, having first stepped out merely to catch the last glimpse
of Castleton as he turned the corner. By one used to the more busy
parts of the metropolis, it would have been styled a quiet situation;
but to Lucy it appeared as if some great event must have collected
an unusual crowd. And there they all hurry on, she thought, whether
on business or pleasure, sent by one person seeking another. And I,
perhaps, of all this moving crowd, am the only creature who knows no
one, and for whom no one cares. Castleton has gone forth, and however
surprised, there is no one of whom I can ask a question; however
pleased, no one to whom I can express my admiration: and whatever may
be the destination of all these ever-moving busy ants below, the only
thing certain is, that their pursuits have no connexion whatever with
me. She envied even the dustman, who through the iron rail of the
area, shook the hand that declined his call. She thought even the old
clothesman looked with an eye of interest on all he passed. She would
have liked to have participated in the anxious care of the nervous
nursery maid, in convoying her unruly six sail over a dangerous
crossing. As the day advanced, she marked with equal certainty
that she could have no interest in their motions; the thundering
notification of the stately coach, which all ended in depositing an
empty card, and the stealthy approach of the gliding _cab_, which
neared the flags, and dropped a more interesting billet, just where a
fair expectant hand awaited it, either for herself or mistress.--Each
succeeding incident, of which she was an unobserved spectator, only
increased her sense of loneliness. Her attention was, at length,
particularly attracted to a gay cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen
who were making the circuit from the other side of the square.
There were in all three ladies, and a superabundant attendance of
cavaliers. But Lucy’s eye was fixed on the lady who rode first,
between two gentlemen, her horse indicating that sort of becoming
impatience which excites fear for a bad horse-woman, and admiration
of a good one. But to Lucy it looked very tremendous, till, upon
nearer approach, she observed that so far from being alarmed, she
was talking gaily, and laughing merrily. Her head was turned towards
the gentleman nearest Lucy, whilst her other companion was anxiously
appearing to be amused with what she was saying.
As they came under the balcony, Lucy clapped her hands with delight,
saying to herself, “O, dear, I’m so happy there is somebody I do
know; that’s the kind lady of Hornscliff Abbey.”
It was impossible, indeed, for any one who had once seen Lady Gayland
to be mistaken. Though the expression of her countenance was now as
different from that which, when Lucy had last beheld her, beamed with
sympathy on her distresses, as the costume which she now wore, or the
occasion on which she was seen. In passing, even whilst continuing
the conversation, without elevating her head, she raised her eyes to
the balcony on which Lucy was standing. Lucy conceived she must have
heard her, but, perhaps, entirely unconnected with her, Lady Gayland
had her own motives for casting one transient glance unobserved
in that direction. Lucy, though, thought otherwise, and hastily
withdrew, imagining that the only impression which her presence there
could cause, on the lady’s mind must be, “What can Lucy Darnell be
doing in that fine house?”
Lucy would hardly have been able to account for her never having
mentioned to Castleton her interview with the Lady of Hornscliff
Abbey; but, perhaps, one reason was, that not till some time after
that event did she see him again. And though she would not have
thought of premeditated concealment from him of any important point,
they had never been upon those terms of easy equality which could
have induced her to volunteer confidence. Latterly, too, she had
observed so much uneasiness and impatience on his part, at any casual
mention of circumstances connected either with the trial or smuggling
transactions, that the fear of annoying him, coupled with her
ignorance of the lady’s name, which left her indeed little to tell,
prevented her, upon his return, from making any mention of the person
she had observed from the window.
Castleton came home in high spirits; he had been much pleased with
the cordial manner in which his re-appearance had been greeted by
all his old acquaintances. It is a pleasing illusion which, on such
an occasion, makes a man appropriate, as indicating a clear sense of
his own merits, those manifestations of delight at his re-appearance,
which have oftener no other foundation than the ebullitions of
selfish satisfaction, at any break or change in the wearisome
monotony of a life of pleasure.
But Castleton was too popular a man for him not to be justified
in attributing to more flattering motives much of the warmth of
his welcome. It was astonishing the deference that was paid to his
opinion upon all matters connected with the arts, literature, or
politics, considering that he had never exerted his own talents
directly in any of these different departments. But perhaps for this
very reason, as he never even drew except that once at Morden Bay,
which was certainly not with a view to extended fame, or wrote,
or spoke himself at all, and was equally devoid of any pretensions
of his own, as either artist, author, or orator, he was the more
readily allowed to decide upon those of others; more particularly
as his manner of conveying his opinions was as mild as the opinions
themselves were valuable. And having established amongst his
acquaintance universally, a character as arbiter of taste, he was not
a little anxious how far that character might be confirmed by the
estimate of his conduct in so important a point as the choice of a
wife; about which he had his own misgivings. The fact is, that in no
point had Castleton more deceived himself than in not perceiving that
that very over refinement in scrutinizing the motives and opinions
of others, which had made him suspect interested inconsistencies in
all women in his own rank in life, would, taking only another shape,
make him even more conscious than another would have been of the
inevitable incongruities of his present partner with that rank of
life to which he had raised her. One of a less morbidly critical
taste, less disposed to analyze below the surface, would have been
satisfied with that favourable impression which beauty and grace
in perfection could not fail to make in the first instance. But he
already began to fear that those mental deficiencies, which he had,
indeed, but lately discovered himself, must at first sight be obvious
to every one else. Still, uncomfortable, indeed, must have been the
forebodings which could not have been chased away, at least for the
time, by the look of confiding devotion with which she received
him upon his return. His first care was to make her, as far as he
could, comfortable in her new habitation. But a sense of comfort is
not a feeling which can at once be transfused, with the will of him
who wishes it. Comfort is so closely connected with habit, that
many things which to others would have contributed to confer it,
were to Lucy, from their strangeness, only additional sources of
embarrassment.
His next anxiety was as to her first introduction into society, or
what is called the world. He was right in thinking that upon this
occasion much depended upon that first impression; but he was wrong
in doubting that in Lucy’s case, the probabilities were much in
favour of that being advantageous. In London, provided a person is
positively pretty and new, their other qualities may be negative;
and as long as they are not obtrusively either awkward or silly,
they may pass muster very well, at least for a time. People have
not either the leisure or the inclination to pick out peccadilloes
in deportment, which they have in a country neighbourhood. If the
same persons were not exposed one half the year to the really severe
ordeal of the one, they would not be so very sensitive in the other.
In the London season, all the little social rubs to which all are
in turn subject, arise much more from an over estimate of their own
importance, than from any intentional depreciation of it on the part
of their associates. It is to the failure of attempts to be what they
are not, rather than to any dispute as to conceding what they are,
that self-inflicted mortifications may be traced. Those who keep one
foot within reach of firm ground, will never get much of a tumble, in
climbing the ladder of fashion.