‘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.