MR. PIPER IS ACCEPTED.
MRS. DULCIMER’S tea party was a success. Bella appeared in her
prettiest muslin gown--an embroidered Indian muslin that Beatrix had
given her, with a great deal besides, when she went into mourning. She
wore blue ribbons, and was bright with all the colour and freshness
of her young beauty. Mr. Piper felt himself very far gone as he sat
opposite her at tea. He hardly knew what he was eating, though he was a
man who usually considered his meals a serious part of life, and though
Rebecca had surpassed herself in the preparation of a chicken salad.
The evening was lovely, the sunset a study for Turner, and after tea
Mrs. Dulcimer took Mr. Piper into the garden to show him her famous
roses. Once there the worthy manufacturer was trapped. Bella was in
faithful attendance upon the Vicar’s wife, and presently Rebecca came,
flushed and breathless, to say that her mistress was wanted; whereupon,
with many apologies, Mrs. Dulcimer left Mr. Piper and Miss Scratchell
together.
‘Bella can show you the rest of the garden,’ she said as she hurried
off.
‘Take me down by the gooseberry bushes, Bella,’ said Mr. Piper. ‘It’s
shadier and more retired there.’
And in that shady and retired spot, with the rugged old plum trees
and pear trees on the crumbly red wall looking at them, and the happy
snails taking their evening promenades under the thorny gooseberry
bushes, and the luxuriant scarlet runners making a curtain between
these two lovers and the outside world, Mr. Piper--in fewest and
plainest words--repeated his offer, and this time was not refused.
‘Bella,’ he exclaimed, with a little gush of emotion, putting his
betrothed’s small hand under his elephantine arm, ‘I’ll make you the
happiest woman in the three Ridings. You shall have everything that
heart can wish. Poor Maggie never could cotton to her position. My good
fortune came too late for her. She had got into a groove when I was a
struggling man, and in that groove she stuck. She tried hard to play
the lady; but she couldn’t manage it, poor soul. She was always the
anxious hard-working housewife at bottom. There’s no rubbing the spots
out of the leopard’s hide, or whitening the Ethiopian, you see, Bella.
Now you were born a lady.’
Bella simpered and blushed.
‘I shall try not to disgrace your fortune,’ she said, meekly.
‘Disgrace it! Why, you’ll set it off by your prettiness and your nice
little ways. I mean to get you into county society, Bella. I never
tried it on with Mrs. P., for I felt she wasn’t up to it; but I shall
take you slap in among the county folks.’
Bella shuddered. The little she had seen and heard of county people led
her to believe that they were very slow to open their doors to such men
as Mr. Piper.
‘Mrs. P. never had but one hoss and a broom,’ said the widower, walking
his chosen one briskly up and down behind the curtain of scarlet
runners. ‘You shall have a pair. I think you was made for a carriage
and pair. Shall it be a landau or a b’rouche?’
Bella opined, with all modesty, that she would prefer a barouche.
‘You’re right,’ exclaimed Mr. Piper, ‘a woman looks more queenly in a
barouche. And you can have poor Mrs. P.’s brougham done up for night
work. And you shall have a chaise and the prettiest pair of ponies
that can be bought for money, and then you can drive me about on fine
afternoons. I’m getting of an age when a man likes to take his ease,
and there’s nothing nicer to my fancy than sitting behind a handsome
pair of ponies driven by a pretty woman. Can you drive?’
‘I dare say I could if I tried,’ answered Bella.
‘Ah, I’ll have you taught. You’ll have a good deal to learn when you
are Mrs. Piper, but you’re young enough to take kindly to a change in
your circumstances. Poor Moggie wasn’t. Her mind was always in the
bread-pan or the butcher’s book.’
In this practical manner were matters settled between Mr. Piper and
his betrothed. The widower called upon Mr. Scratchell next day, and
obtained that gentleman’s consent to his nuptials. The consent was
granted with a certain air of reluctance which enhanced the favour.
‘As far as my personal respect for you goes, there is no man living I’d
sooner have for a son-in-law,’ said Mr. Scratchell, ‘but you’ll allow
that there is a great disparity of age between you and my daughter.’
Mr. Piper was quite willing to allow this.
‘If I couldn’t marry a pretty girl I wouldn’t marry at all,’ he said.
‘I don’t want a housekeeper. I want some one bright and pleasant to
look at when I come home to dinner. As for the disparity, well, I
shan’t forget that in the settlement I mean to make upon Bella.’
This was exactly what Mr. Scratchell wanted. After this everything was
speedily arranged. Mr. Piper was an impetuous man, and would brook
no delay. He would like to have been married immediately, but he was
persuaded, for decency’s sake, to wait till October. Even this would
be very soon after the late Mrs. Piper’s death; but the indulgent
Mrs. Dulcimer argued that a man in Mr. Piper’s forlorn position, with
a young family running to seed in the custody of servants, might be
excused if he hastened matters.
So Bella set to work to prepare her trousseau which was by far the
most interesting part of the business, especially after Mr. Piper
had slipped a little bundle of bank-notes into her hand one evening
at parting, which bundle was found to amount to five hundred pounds.
Bella spent long afternoons shopping at Great Yafford, attended by
her mother and sisters, who all treated her with a new deference, and
were delighted to hang upon her steps and look on while she made her
purchases. She had already begun to taste the sweets of wealth. Her
betrothed showered gifts upon her, and positively overwhelmed Mrs.
Scratchell with garden stuff and farm produce. It was a time of plenty
which the little Scratchells had never imagined in their wildest
dreams. Mr. Piper tipped them all round every Sunday afternoon. His
pockets were like the silver mines of Mexico. He was a man overflowing
with new half-crowns and fat five shilling pieces--noble-looking coins
that seemed to be worth a great deal more than five meagre shillings.
Beatrix was horrified when she heard of her friend’s engagement.
‘Oh, Bella, how could you?’ she exclaimed. ‘You are sacrificing
yourself for the sake of your family.’
Bella blushed, for in her heart of hearts she knew that the interests
of her family had been very far from her thoughts when she consented to
become the second Mrs. Piper.
‘My father and mother had set their hearts upon it,’ she said.
‘But they had no right to set their hearts upon your marrying such a
man as that.’
‘He is a very good man,’ pleaded Bella.
‘Have you really made up your mind to marry him? Do you really believe
that you can live happily with him?’ asked Beatrix, earnestly.
‘Yes,’ sighed Bella, thinking of the barouche and pair, the pony
carriage, the huge barrack of a house at the end of an avenue of elms,
the dignity and importance that all these things would give her. ‘Yes,
I have quite made up my mind, Beatrix. It will be such a good thing for
my family--and I believe I can be happy.’
‘Then I will not say another word against Mr. Piper. Indeed, I will try
my best to like him.’
‘He has a very good heart,’ said Bella, ‘really a noble heart.’
‘And that is of more consequence than the kind of English a man talks.’
‘And he is very intelligent,’ said Bella, anxious to make the best of
her bargain. ‘You should hear him talk of Jeremy Bentham. Papa says it
is quite wonderful.’
‘And what about his children, Bella? Are they nice? Do you feel that
you can love them?’
Bella involuntarily made a wry face.
‘They are not very nice,’ she answered, ‘but it will be my duty to love
them, and of course I shall do so.’
This conversation took place at the Water House one afternoon at the
beginning of October. Beatrix and her companion, Madame Leonard, had
been away for nearly two months, living quietly at Whitby and other
seaside places, and Beatrix had come back improved in health and
spirits.
Sir Kenrick had been absent six months, and was likely to return at the
end of the year, unless the war continued. He would not care to leave
the army while there was any hard fighting going on, and his regiment
was in the thick of it. Mrs. Dulcimer loudly lamented this Burmese
outbreak, which made it impossible for Kenrick to sell out with a good
grace yet awhile. She was always talking to Beatrix about him, and
entreating to hear little bits of his letters. Lately there had been an
irregularity in the letters. Kenrick’s regiment had been moving about.
He had been off the track of civilization and postal facilities.
One morning in October, just a week before Bella’s wedding day, there
came a startling letter--a letter which Beatrix brought to Mrs.
Dulcimer.
‘Oh, my dear, my dear!’ cried the Vicar’s wife, ‘something dreadful has
happened to Kenrick. I see it in your face. Is he dead?’
This last question was almost a shriek, and it was evident that Mrs.
Dulcimer was prepared to go into hysterics at a moment’s notice.
‘No,’ answered Beatrix, ‘but he has been severely wounded, and he is on
his way home.’
‘Coming home,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘how delightful! But severely
wounded! How dreadful!’
‘He writes in very good spirits, but I think though he hardly admits
as much, that he has been badly hurt, and very ill from the effects of
his wounds,’ said Beatrix. ‘He wishes you and Mr. Dulcimer to go to
Southampton with me to meet him.’
‘Dear boy, how touching! Read me a little of the letter. Do, my love.’
Beatrix complied, and read all her lover’s letter, save those little
gushes of sentiment which she would have considered it a kind of
treason to confide even to Mrs. Dulcimer.
‘It is selfish of me to ask you to take so much trouble, perhaps,’
he wrote, ‘but it would make me very happy if you would come to
Southampton to meet me. I know our good friends the Dulcimers would
bring you, if you expressed a wish to that effect. I want to see you
directly I land, Beatrix. I want your dear face to be the first to
smile upon me when the steamer touches the English shore. The journey
would be interminable if I had to wait till the end of it to see you.
I am not very strong yet, and should be obliged to travel slowly. But
if you will meet me and greet me, I think all my ills will be cured at
once. A week or so at Culverhouse, with you for my daily companion,
will make me as strong as a lion. I am bringing you home a poor little
leaflet of laurel, dear, to lay at your feet. That last skirmish of
ours brought me to the fore. Happy accidents favoured me, and our
chief has said all manner of kind things about my conduct at the
retaking of Pegu. I come back to you a major. I have not said a word
yet about selling out. That shall be as you wish; but I confess that
my own inclination points the other way. This last business has made
me fonder than I used to be of my profession. I have tasted the sweets
of success. What do you think, love? Could you be happy as a soldier’s
wife? I write this at Alexandria. The steamer leaves to-morrow, and
ought to arrive at Southampton on the 7th or 8th of November. Shall I
be so blest as to see you among the eager crowd on the quay when the
boat steams into the famous old docks, whence so many a soldier has
gone to his fate--where there have been such sad partings and joyous
meetings. Come, love, come, and let me think I do not return unlooked
for and unloved.’
‘What do you think I ought to do, Mrs. Dulcimer?’ asked Beatrix, humbly.
‘Do, my love? Why, go, of course. There isn’t a doubt about it. Clement
and I will take you.’
‘You are very good,’ faltered Beatrix. ‘Yes, I will go to meet him.’