‘Yes,’ said Bella, with a long-drawn sigh, ‘since everybody thinks it would be best.’
Everybody did not include Beatrix Harefield. Bella had not consulted—nor did she mean to consult—her old friend and playfellow. She knew quite well that Beatrix would have advised her against a mercenary marriage, and in spite of all her sighs and hesitations, Bella’s sordid little soul languished for the possession of Mr. Piper’s wealth.
Mrs. Dulcimer was delighted at the notion of conducting a new courtship to a triumphant issue. She put on her best bonnet early in the afternoon, and went to pay her visit to the Park, feeling that it behoved her to bring matters to a crisis.
Mr. Piper was at home, seated on a garden chair on his well-kept lawn, basking in the sunshine, after a heavy dinner which went by the name of luncheon. He had a sleek, well-fed look at this stage of his existence, which did not encourage sentimental ideas: but Mrs. Dulcimer looked at the big white house with its Doric portico, the stone vases full of bright scarlet geraniums, the velvet lawn and gaudy flower-beds, the belt of fine old timber, the deer-park across the ha-ha, and thought what a happy woman Bella would be as the mistress of such a domain. She hardly gave one thought to poor Mr. Piper. He was only a something that went with the Park; like a bit of outlying land, which nobody cares about, tacked on to a large estate.
‘I hope your dear children are all well and strong,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer, after she had shaken hands with Mr. Piper, and they had confided to each other their opinions about the weather. ‘I came on purpose to see them.’
‘You shall see them all presently, mum,’ replied Mr. Piper. ‘The schoolroom maid is cleaning ’em up a bit. They’ve been regular Turks all this blessed morning. They’ve lost their gov’ness.’
‘Why, how is that?’ cried the hypocritical Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Bella is so fond of them. She is always talking of her clever little pupils.’
‘She’s left ’em to shift for themselves, for all her fondness,’ said Mr. Piper; and then, being of a candid nature, he freely confided his trouble to the Vicar’s wife.
He told her that he had asked Bella to marry him, and she had said no, and upon that they had parted.
‘It was better for her to go,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t abear the sight of her about the place under the circumstances. I should feel like the fox with the grapes. I should be always hardening my heart against her.’