CHAPTER XVIII.
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.