The occasion of Lady Bell’s leaving was the first time that she had contemplated her world with complacence since she came to Trevor Court. Sitting in the travelling chariot by her husband’s side, Lady Bell was faintly conscious that the fine old place, which he leant out to regard so fondly, deserved the love and honour which had not been hers to give. The clustering stacks of chimneys, with their hospitable spirals of blue smoke, the yew terrace, with its deep shade and broad light, were very fair to see.
Lady Bell actually looked round her with interest on the road, as the travellers, at nine miles distance from home, approached the first straggling buildings of Peasmarsh. These were humble enough, but the market-place presented an imposing array of country gentry’s winter houses, an old square-towered Norman church, and a curious town-hall and steeple. There were also, dropped down within its bounds, a thatch-roofed tavern, a dark, cavernous shop, having its gable to the street, with a hanging sign, and a door divided in the middle, a row of coopers’, cobblers’—and booksellers’ stalls, and the jail, with its pair of stocks, yawning for rascally limbs, fixed into the wall.
The market-place of Peasmarsh was gay to the young student of human nature, after Trevor Court in the company of Squire Trevor.
To Lady Bell’s juvenile satisfaction, the Trevors’ lodging was in the market-place, so that she could hope to see all that was going on, and hear constantly the social patter of clogs and pattens on the flags beneath her windows.
Lady Bell was so full of the novelty of the expected gaiety, that as soon as she had thrown off her travelling equipments, and swallowed her two o’clock dinner, she sat down at the window to lose nothing of the sight. She even began to convey the impressions which she received to Mr. Trevor, in a freedom of intercourse which had hardly existed between them before, in the course of their three months’ wedlock. In the meantime he sat swallowing his wine and smoking his pipe, in an interval of repose, ere he sallied forth to meet his supporters.
“They are posting up bills at the corner; a gentleman from the tavern is taking care of the operation. I see in at the open door—there is the company sitting round the table, covered with glasses. Now I am sure they are drinking a toast—one of them has leapt on the table before the door is shut. What a trade they are driving in blue ribands in that shop! Do all the women in Peasmarsh wear knots of blue ribands? Here comes a chair. I vow the lady is going to be set down at the tavern door; no, she has only made one of her chairmen beckon to a person within, and a billet is flung to her from the window. Why, Mr. Trevor, the street lads must know that one of the candidates is arrived in the town, for they are beginning to gather materials for a bonfire.”
“You are easily tickled, my lady, for one who has seen so many fine sights; the town air, even of a hole like Peasmarsh, seems to agree mightily with you, when it sets your tongue a-wagging,” sneered the Squire; yet the man, in the middle of his grudging spite, was not unamused with the girl’s amusement, and was not unwilling that his young wife should be a little happier than she had been; only she had despised him and Trevor Court, and she should not immediately cease to suffer for it.
Lady Bell drew back into her shell, stiffened not stung; she did not care enough for the man who had made himself her husband to be stung by him.
Lady Bell had nothing to do in what followed with the innumerable meetings of influential gentlemen, the speeches, including the bawling of speakers till they were hoarse, the rows, extending to the raising of walking canes and unsheathing of rapiers. All this was echoed by the clamour, the fisticuffing, the brickbatting, the cutlass-wielding of the populace. And the whole was but a small by-play preceding the close canvassing, the show on the hustings, the polling, the proclaiming, and the chairing.
But Lady Bell had her own part to play. She was ordered to drive out all day, and every day, in the streets and lanes of Peasmarsh. At first when she did so, her relish for the town was impaired. Excited tradesmen, and their apprentices, mechanics, drawers from the tavern taps, street-criers, came round her, cheering or hooting. They cried the party cries which were then rending the nation, “Down with Wilkes,” or “Wilkes for ever,” according as they were tory or whig (Squire Trevor was a tory), as if she were Wilkes, or Wilkes’s wife at least.