THE CONTRAST,

BY THE AUTHOR OF “MATILDA,” “YES AND NO,” &c. &c.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, 1832.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X. CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIV. CHAPTER XV. CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. Transcriber’s Note

CHAPTER I.

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.

CHAPTER II.

Lord Castleton changed his mind very often as to the best preparatory introduction for Lucy to a few select friends. He was convinced that before she was launched into the great world, he ought to provide her with some female companion, under whose auspices she might then make her appearance. For though it might look merely loving and interesting for a bride to appear leaning on her husband’s arm, in that society to which they had both been previously known; yet where she was a stranger, like needlessly backing a bill, it might excite a suspicion as to her being able to stand alone, without his name being thus attached, or his hand thus put to insure her not being discredited. His first intention was to have invited a small party to dinner at his own house. But though this would have insured him the absolute selection of all the individuals to whom Lucy was, in the first instance, to have been introduced; on the other hand, the active duties of a hostess, perhaps in her idea so much more active than he would have thought necessary, were more than he

wished to entail upon her in her probationary trial. Then, as to the lady to whom he was to apply as a sort of chaperon for his inexperienced bride, his thoughts first turned to Lady Gayland; a direction in which, as I am afraid it must be acknowledged, they did turn oftener than he would have chosen to admit. Yet he had a great disinclination to exposing at once to her acute perception any little foibles or deficiencies on Lucy’s part, though he knew that the mere circumstance of any one requiring her assistance, would have disposed her to view them in the most favourable light. Yet there were many little traits of ignorance on Lucy’s part which he was labouring hard to correct, and which he hoped might yet be completely removed, without Lady Gayland’s ever being conscious of them. There were also circumstances of misconception, if not of misunderstanding, connected with his last parting with that lady at Naples, which prevented his feeling authorized in abruptly asking of her a favour.

The difficulties, both with respect to when the introductory dinner was to be given, and the person by whom Lucy was to be chaperoned, were removed at the same time, by his accidentally meeting a cousin of his, Mrs. Tudor, who at once occurred to him as admirably suited to both purposes. She was indeed an excellent woman—Mrs. Tudor. Every one admitted it, no one could deny it. Faultless as she was herself, faultless was her society—faultless were her dinners.

Now why is it, that in this wicked world every one of my readers have associated an idea of insipidity with the description I have just given? There were no words used which seemed at all to make such an interpretation necessary, yet in this particular instance it is certainly the right one. Every thing connected with Mrs. Tudor was essentially insipid. Perhaps when an excellent woman is married to a good kind of man, and such was Tudor, it is too much. It gives one the fidgets at once. But excellent women, particularly if they happen to have house and fortune in proportion to their good qualities, are very apt to have very extensive and very eligible acquaintance; and Castleton could not possibly have made a happier choice of the person who was to smooth the first entrance of Lucy into her new career.

Mrs. Tudor was pleased at the extent of the confidence reposed in her, which Castleton limited to informing her, that his bride was a young person who had been educated in retirement, and consequently was not at all prepared for all the ways of the great world. And though activity was not any part of Mrs. Tudor’s excellence, yet this was just the sort of quiet exertion which only made her fancy herself occupied. She immediately fixed an early day for the Castleton’s to dine with her. Do not let the reader be alarmed with the idea, that that day is going to be made the subject of minute description. Suffice it to say, that good nature had, in this instance, its own reward, in pleasing those whom it was intended to gratify. Faultless was the dinner, faultless were the guests invited, and faultless, with pleasure let us add, was Lucy’s deportment during the whole of that day. Anxious as she had already become as to the impression which her conduct in these different circumstances should make upon Castleton, she was on this occasion re-assured by the kind consideration

with which she was treated by all, and therefore bore her part without discredit or remark on those ordinary topics from which the conversation never soared.

From Castleton’s lavish praises of her as they returned home in the carriage, she felt as if she must have done wonders, and therefore looked forward without much dread, to the engagement she had made with Mrs. Tudor, to accompany her the following night to Lady Delacour’s ball.

That style of beauty which is defined as the beauty of innocence, is sometimes supposed to be but little improved by dress; but such was not the opinion portrayed in the gratified expression of Lord Castleton’s countenance, when he witnessed the successful result of his wife’s toilet on the succeeding evening: for he thought he never saw her look one half so well—which judgment she read at once in his looks, and felt repaid for all she had gone through. The whole affair had been to her a most painful infliction. She had been in turns a victim in the hands of the milliner, the hair-dresser, and her own maid, each of whose successive operations she had at the time thought to be never ending. She bore the sufferings of a martyr with the patience of a saint. But as Castleton, having first sent the landau for the Tudors, that they might go together, in handing her into it, cast one more approving glance by the hall lamp, and pressed her hand encouragingly, she felt as if she was utterly indifferent as to what any one else thought of her. And

though her diffidence so far returned, upon hearing her name shouted from hall to landing-place, and doorway to doorway, as to make an “O pray don’t” half pass her lips, addressed in a supplicatory tone to a peculiarly stentorian callman; yet upon entering the rooms, her admiration at the brilliancy of a scene so much beyond what she had previously conceived possible, gave to her countenance a subdued expression of enjoyment struggling with embarrassment, which to her style of beauty was peculiarly becoming.

As she proceeded, under Mrs. Tudor’s arm, Castleton soon got separated from her by the crowd of acquaintances, who at that moment seemed to have no other object there than to welcome him back to London. After this had a little subsided, whilst jostled by that most fidgetting, unquiet, unaccommodating of all mobs, the hat-tugging, gown-tearing mob of fashion, he was of course subject occasionally to hear remarks which were not meant to meet his ear, but none as yet, which were not on the whole rather flattering than not. “Who is that pretty new girl with Mrs. Tudor?” “Where’s the new beauty—have you seen her?” “Who is that new woman every body is raving about?” It is true, in all these encomiums, the emphasis was on the word new, as if that was the great attraction; but at the same time, this, which seemed to imply most in itself, was always coupled with some favourable adjuncts.