A gentleman’s miniature, in which the powdered hair was represented in a queue, tied with a blue riband—the last suiting the effeminate fairness of the complexion, was half drawn from its case. Lady Bell saw at a glance that it was a likeness of Mr. Sundon, which had the place of honour on the table.
She had not done glancing at these details, and starting nervously at every movement, when Mrs. Sundon, in the most charming of white morning gowns and close white caps, like a baby’s cap, came into the room. She stopped short in amazement when she saw who was her visitor.
Mrs. Sundon had supposed that it was some humble solicitor of her patronage, some enterprising daughter of a townsman, catching at a straw’s pretence to enable her to boast that she had seen and spoken privately with the wife of the future member.
“Lady Bell Trevor,” exclaimed Mrs. Sundon; “to what have I the honour”—and then her courtesy and her compassionate liking for the young girl came in full force to qualify the stateliness of the address. “Pray be seated, Lady Bell, I am happy to see you—but have you walked through the streets to-day—walked alone? My dear Lady Bell, excuse me, but I think I am a little older than you, and have seen rather more of the world. Squire Trevor must be extraordinary careless of the charge he has undertaken,” said Mrs. Sundon, in an unmistakable accent of frank disapprobation. “I am sure I am a great deal better able to look after myself than you are, but my husband would not suffer me to step across the door-step alone, in an electioneering town.”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Sundon,” objected Lady Bell shyly, “Mr. Trevor does not know that I am here, or abroad at all.”
“What! you have ventured out without his knowledge?” questioned Mrs. Sundon, still with large-hearted openness, and an integrity equal to her generosity. “But that’s not right, Lady Bell, indeed I must tell you. You are very young, and I am young, too, but I know this much, that it is very hazardous, and treading on unsafe ground, for you to steal a march on your husband, whatever he may be—I mean, however he may provoke you. The younger and more unfriended you are, and the more ill-matched you are—forgive me again—but one sees that written on your face—you ought to be more careful not to give your husband ground of offence, or the bad world—I am frighted it is bad and cruel—cause to talk.”
“At least you ought not to blame me, Mrs. Sundon,” said Lady Bell, turning away her head to hide the tears of mortification running down her cheeks, “for I came to serve you and yours.”
“You came to serve me, poor little angel?” protested Mrs. Sundon, speaking with as indescribable a softness now as she had spoken severely in her youthful righteousness a moment before, and hovering round Lady Bell, attracted by her with the strong, tender attraction which these young women had for each other. “What good deed did you think to do me? I know it was good, for you have an artless, gracious face.”
“It was to bid you to have a care of Mr. Sundon,” Lady Bell hurried to deliver her warning, “and to impress upon him to be mindful, and not venture about the town alone, as you have chid me for doing. Believe me, madam, there is greater risk for a gentleman who has many enemies in the place than for a foolish creature—not an angel—with regard to whom you have spoken truly when you called her unfriended.”
So soon as Mrs. Sundon guessed who was threatened, her whole bearing changed.