‘How he loves you!’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer to Beatrix one day, in a rapture of admiration for her protégée. ‘I never saw a man so devoted.’
‘Do you really think he is so very fond of me?’ asked Beatrix, gravely.
‘My dear, how sad and distressed you look! as if his love were a thing to be sorry about. Yes, I do think and know so. Can you for a moment doubt it?’
‘I have fancied that our marriage was on both sides rather one of convenience than inclination. He can give me the protection of an honourable name, my fortune can free his estate. We like each other very much, and, I hope, esteem each other. But I don’t think there is much love on either side. He makes pretty speeches, of course. That is a compliment to my sex and my fortune. Don’t you remember Mr. Dulcimer telling us that Solon made it a law that heiresses should be treated with particular respect?’
‘I know nothing about Solon,’ exclaimed the Vicar’s wife, getting angry, ‘but I know that poor young man is passionately in love with you. Why, child, he idolizes you. One can see it with half an eye.’
‘Then I am very sorry for him,’ said Beatrix, and there was an earnestness in her tone that startled the easy-tempered Mrs. Dulcimer.
‘Sorry that your affianced husband is devoted to you! My dear Beatrix, you must be going out of your mind.’
‘I sometimes think I am,’ answered Beatrix, in a low voice.
This conversation occurred about a fortnight before the wedding day. It made Mrs. Dulcimer very uncomfortable, but she said no word about it to anybody, not even to her chosen confidante, Rebecca.
Was it possible, poor Mrs. Dulcimer asked herself, that this match, the crowning glory of all her efforts, was going to turn out ill?