Then, and there, in the "dark grey city," more than in "the green stillness of the country," we can retire into the sanctuary of our own sad hearts—or beneath this vague and dreamy influence the poet's heart may wander undisturbed, and as he "hears and feels the throbbing heart of man," may calmly image forth his destined theme for thought, or song. "The river of life that flows through streets, tumultuous, bearing along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity;—the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy, and suffering brought into that narrow compass; and to be in this, and be a part of this, acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing with his fellow-men."
Poor Mary! she too went forth, and walked, or drove, as beneath one dim, broad shadow; everything without her and within, vague, dreamy, and indistinct, except when some pale face or dark eye startled her momentarily from her trance, by their fancied or seeming similitude to that loved being, whom some suddenly eclipsing power, like the one now veiling the wintry sun, had hidden from her aching sight,—but of whom, each day, she lived in sure but anxious anticipation of receiving tidings either in person or by letter.
Mary had not written to her brother Arthur on the subject of Eugene's letter till she came to London, then so lightly did she touch upon the matter it contained, giving her brother merely to understand that her marriage was deferred for a short period; that he only in his reply expressed pleasure at the idea that he was not to lose her quite so soon, and at the same time mentioned his intention of remaining in Edinburgh a little longer than he had previously intended, according to the urgent solicitations of his sister Alice, who had so few opportunities of enjoying the society of her relations—and at the same time, for the more interested purpose of reaping as long as he was able the benefit of his lawyer brother-in-laws' valuable counsel and assistance on the subject upon which his mind was so keenly set; affording so excellent a preparation for those regular studies, in which, after the Christmas vacation, he was to engage as member of the Middle Temple.
And thus the affectionate brother remained in perfect ignorance that anything was amiss in the concerns of his favourite sister, during this protracted absence. But the old couple of course soon began to require some more defined explanation as to the state of affairs, and an interview with Mr. de Burgh, when he called one morning to see Mary, did not tend to throw any very satisfactory light upon the subject. All that he could inform them concerning the matter was, that some business was pending, which would prevent the marriage from taking place as soon as had been intended; that Mrs. de Burgh had heard from her cousin, Mr. Trevor, who seemed to be considerably distressed by this impediment, and to shrink from holding any direct communion with his betrothed until matters had assumed a more favourable aspect; that he announced his intention of coming up to town as soon as he could possibly leave his father, who was suffering from another dangerous attack of illness. Until such time he, Mr. de Burgh, supposed there was nothing to be done, particularly as Mary's own solicitations were most urgent to that effect; and she, indeed, poor girl, always professed herself perfectly satisfied that all was right.
Ah, how could it be otherwise? the bare idea was treason to her confiding, trustful heart.
Mary did not see a great deal of Mrs. de Burgh after her first arrival.
It is astonishing how great a barrier a few streets and squares of the metropolis can form against the intercourse of dearest and most familiar friends. Mrs. de Burgh was ill at first and uncomfortable herself, and it only distressed her to see Mary under the present unsatisfactory aspect of affairs. Then her confinement intervened, and after that she was surrounded by other friends, whose society was unassociated with the painful feelings, which by that time had occurred to throw a still greater constraint over her intercourse with the pale, sad Mary.
How characteristic this is of the general friendship of worldly people. How warm, how bright, has been the affection showered upon us when we were gay, glad, or hopeful. But let some cloud arise to dim our aspect, let our spirits droop, our brow be overcast, then, though they may not love us less—though they may feel for and pity us, nay, would do much to restore our happiness, if in their power; yet if that cannot be—then—"come again when less sad and sorrowful, when your lips once more can give back smile for smile—when your voice has lost these notes of deep dejection, then, oh, come again, and we will with open arms receive you, and our love be as fond, as fervent, as unconstrained; but till then—away! you chide our spirits, you restrain our mirth."
This is the language which seems to breathe from every altered look and tone of our worldly friends.