CHAPTER IV.
Oh, thou dark and gloomy city!
Let me turn my eyes from thee;
Sorrow, sympathy nor pity,
In thy presence seems to be;
Darkness like a pall hath bound thee—
Shadow of thy world within—
With thy drear revealings round me,
Love seems vain, and hope a sin.
L. E. L.
Mary on her arrival in London, went straight to Portman Square, where she was received with affectionate gladness by her venerable relations.
They, of course, had been amongst the first to be made aware of their niece's matrimonial prospects, and proud and happy did the intelligence render the worthy pair. Full and hearty were the congratulations poured upon the pale and drooping fiancée,—to be silenced for the time by the dejected answer:
"Yes, dear aunt, but for the present our marriage is postponed."
After this first ordeal, there was something not ungenial to Mary's state of mind in the orderly and quiet monotony of the old-fashioned, yet comfortable establishment of the Majoribanks. Their daughter was remarkable for nothing but that indolence of habit and disposition which a long sojourn in the luxurious East often engenders, and made little more impression upon Mary's mind, than the costly shawls in which the orientalized lady at rare intervals appeared enveloped; whilst some little creatures, chattering in an outlandish tongue, and attended by a dark-hued ayah, only occasionally excited her present vague, languid powers of interest and attention.
London in December bears by no means an inviting and exhilarating aspect; still there are moods and conditions of minds with which at this season it better assimilates than in its more bright and genial periods. No glare, or glitter, or display then distracts our spirits. Over the vast city and its ever-moving myriads, seems to hang one dark, thick, impenetrable veil, beneath whose dingy folds, joy and misery, innocence and crime, indigence and wealth, alike hurry on their way, undistinguishable and indistinct. Men are to our eyes "as trees walking,"—by faint, uncertain glimpses we alone recognise the face of friend or foe, who see us not—or, in our turn, are seen, by those we unconsciously pass by.