There passed in review before her, like the shifting scenes of a dream, her London season and its triumphs, the love which had taken her by storm in the middle of the world’s vanities, the declaration of love after the play, the announcement on the Mall of the arrival of Harry Fane’s sailing orders, the visit to Islington, the hasty private marriage, and at last the wrench with which the bridegroom had torn himself from his bride. Could it all have happened to Lady Bell, and was she really a new creature, belonging to another, and bearing another name—his precious name, if the truth were known? Or had she only awakened from a dream? The dream might have passed with the bleakness and storms, which were over and gone, while in their place had come the March of daffodils and bluebells ready to welcome her back to Summerhill. Ah! no, Lady Bell was a new creature. Her heart was at the sea. These land charms had become stale, flat, and unprofitable to her, since he was not there to share them. She would give them all willingly for a taste of the breeze, salt on her lips. Her eyes filled with tears, “idle tears,” at the sight of a flock of curlews hovering over a waste and recalling to her sea-gulls skimming the waves. Her whole being seemed dissolving in yearning and longing for her lover and husband. Existence would not be worth having till he was restored to her. But, in the first place, how was Lady Bell to present herself to her dear Mrs. Sundon?—how account for the transformation in her to those penetrating eyes, and that wise, experienced heart, unless by confiding the truth to Mrs. Sundon? And, in that case, how was she to obtain forgiveness for the march which she had stolen on her friend? Captain Fane had left Lady Bell free to take what friends she chose into the secret. It was on her account, rather than on his, that a secret had been made. Lady Bell had no thought but of telling the story to “Sunny” some time—long before Captain Fane’s return. But there was no question that the telling would call for an effort on Lady Bell’s part, tell when she might. There would be more than a breach of confidence to receive forgiveness—more, even, than the assertion of Lady Bell’s independence—there would be her subjugation to the powerful influence of another, which had superseded Mrs. Sundon’s influence. The deed was done, yet Lady Bell felt more unequal than ever to the sensation that she would create; the remonstrances, useless though they must be, which she would raise, the reflections that might be cast on another, the offence that might be taken by a friend to whom she had not ceased to be warmly attached. In fact, instead of loving her neighbour less, because of the one great central human love, she seemed to grow specially tender to the wrongs and smarts of every human creature, all for one mortal man’s dear sake.