BELLA IN SEARCH OF A MISSION.
WHILE taking charge of Bella Scratchell’s destiny, Mrs. Dulcimer’s
busy mind had not forgotten the interests of her older _protégé_, Sir
Kenrick Culverhouse, whose mortgaged estate was to be set free by means
of Beatrix Harefield’s fortune. She was quite pleased with herself for
the brilliant idea of disposing comfortably of Cyril by handing him
over to Miss Scratchell, and thus leaving Sir Kenrick without a rival
in the field.
‘That foolish husband of mine would have been trying to make a match
between Beatrix and his favourite Cyril,’ she said to herself. ‘But if
I can put it into Cyril’s head that Bella Scratchell is very fond of
him, he is almost sure to fall over head and ears in love with her. Men
always do. I have not forgotten Benedick and Beatrice.’
All Mrs. Dulcimer’s good intents with regard to Sir Kenrick and the
mortgages were suddenly frustrated by a letter from Beatrix, which at
once surprised and puzzled her.
‘DEAREST MRS. DULCIMER,--My father has forbidden me to visit your
pleasant house any more. I am to have no more happy hours in dear Mr.
Dulcimer’s library, or with you in your pretty garden. I cannot tell
you the reason of his harsh conduct. It is nothing that concerns you
or Mr. Dulcimer. It is for a fault of my own that I am henceforward
denied the happiness I found in your friendship and society.
‘Pray think of me kindly, and remember that I shall be always, as
long as I live,
‘Your grateful and affectionate
‘BEATRIX.’
Here was a dead lock. Poor Kenrick’s hopes were nipped in the bud.
Happily Kenrick himself had not yet begun to hope. It was Mrs. Dulcimer
who was disappointed. She would have abandoned herself to despair if
she had not been provided with that other scheme in favour of Cyril and
Bella,--a smaller business, but one that served to occupy her mind.
After Mrs. Dulcimer’s visit to the Scratchell domicile, Bella came very
often to the Vicarage, carrying her neat little leather work-bag, and
spending the afternoon in a friendly way. If she did not come of her
own accord, Mrs. Dulcimer would even go the length of sending Rebecca,
or that useful lad who was a boot, knife, and garden boy in the
morning, and a page in the afternoon, to fetch her. The Vicar’s wife
was glad to have a companion who appreciated her conversation better
than the absent-minded Vicar, whose eyes were always on his books,
and whose answers were too obviously mechanical. So it happened that,
through this skilful contriving of Mrs. Dulcimer’s, Bella found herself
very often in Cyril’s society. Cyril was very fond of Mr. Dulcimer, and
had a good deal of parish work to discuss with him. This brought him to
the Vicarage nearly every evening. He used to drop in at the fag end
of the tea--a substantial meal which was tea and supper combined--and
take his place by Mrs. Dulcimer, at a corner of the tray, just in
time for the last decent cup of tea, as the Vicar’s wife would remark
plaintively.
‘Why don’t you come at seven o’clock, and sit down with us in a
sociable manner,’ she complained, ‘instead of coming in when the teapot
is just exhausted? Bella has been quite anxious about you. “I’m sure
Mr. Culverhouse over-fatigues himself in his devotion to his parish
work,” she said just now.’
Bella blushed, and turned her pretty blue eyes shyly upon the curate.
‘And I am sure you do,’ she said. ‘It’s quite dreadful. You will have a
fever or something. You are so careless about your health.’
Cyril saw neither the blush nor the shy look in the soft blue eyes.
Bella’s eyes wore always that soft look in company, but they could
harden and assume a much keener gaze during the everyday business of
life.
‘I never was ill in my life,’ said Cyril, in a provokingly
matter-of-fact tone, not in the least touched by this feminine interest
in his welfare.
It was very aggravating, but Benedick was so at first, Mrs. Dulcimer
remembered.
‘How much I miss Beatrix Harefield!’ said the Vicar. ‘There is
something original about that girl which always interested me--and
then she has such a mind to appreciate books. I never saw so young
a creature fasten as she does on a great book. She seems to have an
instinct which always leads her to the best.’
‘She is a noble creature,’ said Cyril, quietly.
‘What a wife she would have made for your cousin!’ exclaimed Mrs.
Dulcimer, too eager to be able to mask her batteries altogether.
‘She would make a noble wife--for any man,’ assented Cyril.
‘Of course, but she and your cousin seemed so peculiarly suited to
each other. There is something about both of them so much above the
common herd--a _je ne sais quoi_--a patrician air--an aristocratic way
of thinking. And then, with such a fortune as Miss Harefield’s, your
cousin’s position----’
‘Pray do not let Miss Harefield’s fortune enter into the question,’
cried Cyril, impatiently. ‘Kenrick is not a fortune-hunter, and Miss
Harefield is far too noble a woman for one to tolerate the idea of her
being married for her money.’
‘My dear Cyril, I never had such an idea. You need not take me up so
sharply. Kenrick a fortune-hunter!--of course not. But where these
things combine----However we need not dispute about it. That wretched
Mr. Harefield is resolved to immure his daughter in that dreary old
house of his. She is as badly off as a princess in a fairy tale.’
‘Worse,’ said Bella, ‘for there are no adventurous princes in these
degenerate days.’
‘How does she bear this cruel treatment?’ asked Cyril, looking at Bella
for the first time, since he had shaken hands with her on arriving.
‘You see her often, don’t you, Miss Scratchell?’
‘Two or three times a week. But she is so reserved--even with me,
though we are such old friends. I never quite know what she thinks or
feels. She is all that is nice--and I am devotedly attached to her--but
she never treats me with the same frankness I show to her. She has
looked unhappy since Mr. Harefield put a stop to her visits here--but
she never complains.’
‘I should call at the Water House,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘for I long
to see the dear girl; but I really cannot face that dreadful Mr.
Harefield; and, as he has forbidden Beatrix to come here, I dare say he
would not allow her to see me. I wonder you are allowed to visit her,
Bella.’
‘Oh,’ said Bella, ‘I don’t count. I am only admitted as a humble
companion. Mr. Harefield thinks no more of me than of one of the
servants.’
Tea was over by this time, and the family had retired to the library,
which was Mr. Dulcimer’s favourite evening room. There he had his pet
chair, his reading table and lamp, and could take up a book, or lay
it down as he pleased. Even the backs of his books were dear to him.
In his idler moments he would lean back in his chair and gaze at them
dreamily, in a rapture of content. To him those bindings of various
hues, some sober, some gorgeous, were as familiar faces. There was
Burton yonder, in calf antique, the Oxford edition--there Southey’s
‘Doctor,’ in crimson morocco--there the old dramatists in brown and
gold. Anon came a solid block of histories, from Herodotus to Guizot.
Mrs. Dulcimer established herself at her work table, with Bella by
her side. The curate seated himself by his Vicar and began to talk of
the parish. In her heart Bella hated that parish talk--the rheumatic
old women--the sick children--men who were out of work or down with
fever--the sufferers--the sinners--the cases of all kinds that needed
help.
‘If I were a man I would rather be a chimneysweep than a clergyman,’
she thought. ‘One might get to like sooty chimneys, in time; but I am
sure I could never get to like poor people.’
And yet at that moment Bella was contemplating a step which would bring
her into very close contact with the poor of Little Yafford.
It was a quiet humdrum evening, enlivened only by Mrs. Dulcimer’s
small talk about her neighbours or her needlework, and the indistinct
murmurs of those two men on the other side of the wide old hearth.
But to Bella it was infinitely more agreeable than the noisy evenings
at home--the father’s grumblings and growlings--the squabblings and
snappings of boys and girls--the house-mother’s moaning about the
maid-of-all-work’s misdoings. It was pleasant to sit in this pretty
room, lined with many-coloured volumes, all kept with an exquisite
neatness, which was a feature in Mr. Dulcimer’s love of books. The glow
of the fire, the subdued radiance of the lamps, the rich dark red of
the curtains, made a warm brightness unknown in those bare rooms at
home. And every now and then Bella’s blue eyes shot a glance at the
curate’s earnest face--or, when he was most occupied, dwelt upon it
admiringly for a few moments.
‘Ten o’clock,’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, as the skeleton clock on the
chimney-piece chimed the hour. ‘I wouldn’t make your poor mother uneasy
for the world, Bella dear--Cyril, I know you’ll be kind enough to see
Bella safe home. You pass her door, you know.’
Mr. Culverhouse knew it perfectly.
‘I shall be very happy,’ he said kindly.
He looked with favour on Bella--as a harmless little thing, and
Beatrix’s friend.
Bella slipped away, beaming with smiles, to put on her bonnet. ‘That
girl contrives to look well in everything she wears,’ said Mrs.
Dulcimer. ‘Isn’t she pretty?’
As this was directly addressed to Cyril, he felt himself compelled to
answer.
‘Well, yes,’ he deliberated. ‘I suppose she is the kind of little
person usually called pretty. Pink and white prettiness.’
‘Pink and white!’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘you might say as much as that
of a wax doll. Bella’s complexion is as delicate as Dresden china.’
‘Don’t be angry with me, Mrs. Dulcimer, but I must confess I hate
Dresden china,’ said Cyril, laughing. ‘But I like Miss Scratchell,’ he
added hastily, ‘because she seems good and amiable. She must have a
hard life with all those brothers and sisters.’
‘A hard life,’ echoed Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Ah, you don’t know what an angel
that girl is in her mother’s house. She does everything--cuts out her
sisters dresses even--and with such an eye for fashion.’
‘I can’t fancy an angel cutting out dresses, or having an eye for
fashion.’
‘For shame, Cyril! You young men can’t appreciate domestic virtues.
You would think more of her if I told you that she wanted to go into a
convent, or to chop somebody’s head off, like Judith. That girl will
make a perfect wife.’
‘I have no doubt she will. And I dare say you have already decided on
the happy man who is to be her husband,’ replied Cyril, innocently.
Mrs. Dulcimer actually blushed.
Bella came back in her neat little bonnet, and comfortable shepherd’s
plaid shawl. Those were days in which women still wore bonnets and
shawls. She looked the picture of sweetness and innocence in that
cottage bonnet, tied under her pretty little chin, and surrounding her
face like a halo.
‘I am so sorry to trouble you,’ she said, as she walked away from the
Vicarage, with her hand on Cyril’s arm.
‘It is not the least trouble, but a pleasure to be of use to you.’
‘You are much too good. But I am going to be really troublesome. I want
to make you my father confessor.’
‘About the husband Mrs. Dulcimer has in view,’ thought Cyril, expecting
to be made adviser in a love affair.
‘Indeed,’ he said kindly. ‘I am sure you can have nothing very
appalling to confess. And if my advice can be of any use to you it is
entirely at your service.’
‘How kind you are!’ exclaimed Bella. ‘I wonder sometimes that you can
find so much kindness for every one--that you can sympathize with so
many--that you are never worn out or impatient, or----’
‘I should be very unworthy of my vocation if I could be so easily
wearied,’ said Cyril, stopping this discursive gush of laudation. ‘But
I am waiting to hear your confession.’
‘I hardly know how to begin,’ faltered Bella. ‘But--yes. I must say
so. Your sermons have awakened my conscience. I think it must have
been cold and dead till you came to us. But you have taught me to
consider things more deeply. I see what an empty and useless life I am
leading----’
‘Why, Mrs. Dulcimer has just been praising your usefulness,’ said
Cyril, kindly, a kindness that fluttered Bella’s heart with baseless
hopes. ‘She has been telling me how much you do for your mother and
sisters.’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Bella, carelessly, ‘of course I try to be useful
at home. I work for my own family. But that is such an obvious
duty, and there is a pleasure in doing those things that is almost
self-indulgence.’
What a different story Adolphus and Bertie could have told about
Bella’s black looks when she had to sew on buttons for them!
‘What I should like would be to do some good for the poor, those
wretched creatures for whom you do so much. My mornings are all
occupied in teaching--but I have my afternoons to myself,--and I think
I could spare three afternoons a week, if you would show me how I could
be useful--in visiting and reading, or teaching the children.’
‘You are very good,’ said Cyril, thoughtfully, ‘and I like you for
having such a thought. But I really don’t know what to say. I have
several kind ladies who help me.’
‘Who run after you, you should say,’ thought Bella, savagely. ‘Forward
minxes.’
‘And really I hesitate at the idea of withdrawing you from a home in
which you are so useful. For after all, your mother, with her numerous
family, has as much need of sympathy----’
‘As those horrid rheumatic old women,’ thought Bella. ‘I should think
so, indeed.’
‘In short, my dear Miss Scratchell, your present life seems to me so
usefully and wisely employed, that I can hardly bring myself to propose
any alteration.’
‘Perhaps you think that I should be of no use in the parish work,’
suggested Bella.
‘Believe me, no. Indeed, I think, with your taste and handiness, and
industrious habits, you might be of much use. The poor are often sadly
deficient in taste and neatness, and the power to make the best of
things. If you could go among the younger people, and show them how to
be neat and tasteful in their homes, and in their dress, to make the
best of their small resources, to cultivate the beauty of cleanliness
and tidiness--if you could show them how much beauty there is to be
got out of the simplest things--in a word, if you could elevate their
taste----’ said Mr. Culverhouse, with vague yearnings after sweetness
and light. ‘Yes, I am sure you could be useful, as an apostle of the
beautiful.’
Bella’s face crimsoned with a happy blush. Her whole being thrilled
with triumph. She took this as a compliment to herself. He thought her
beautiful. Mrs. Dulcimer was right. He loved her, and in good time
would tell her of his love.
‘Tell me where to go, and what to do,’ she said, in a voice that
trembled with joyful feeling.
‘I will make out a list of people. I shall not send you among the very
poor, or to those who would pester you for money. I will send you into
homes where there are young people, where sympathy and kindly interest
in small things will be of use.’
‘A thousand thanks,’ cried Bella; ‘I shall feel so much happier when I
know that I have some small share in the work you do so nobly. Here we
are at home. Will you come in and see papa?’
She devoutly hoped that he would decline, knowing too well the general
untidiness of home at this hour.
‘Not to-night; it is too late. But I will call in a day or two.’
Bertie opened the door, keeping himself wedged behind it, as if it had
been opened by a supernatural power.
‘Good night,’ said Bella.
‘Good night,’ said the curate, with a kindness which Bella mistook for
affection.
‘Why, Bella, what have you been painting your cheeks with?’ cried
Adolphus, when Miss Scratchell entered the family parlour, where
the solicitor was sitting by the fire, reading one of the county
papers--about the only literature with which he ever recreated his
mind--while poor Mrs. Scratchell sighed over a basket of stockings,
mostly past mending, or requiring a miracle of ingenuity in the mender.
It was a miserable home to come back to, Bella thought; and again that
vision of an ideal parsonage arose before her mental eye--a paradise
of roses and rosebud chintz, Venetian blinds, and a pony chaise. The
fulfilment of that dream seemed nearer to her to-night than when first
Mrs. Dulcimer conjured up the delightful picture.
‘He seemed pleased with my offer to visit his tiresome poor people,’
thought Bella, as she brushed her soft auburn locks. ‘It will bring
us more together, perhaps; and, if he really cares for me, that will
please him.’