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.