Then came a spirited description of the last skirmish. Beatrix followed the news of the war with attention and anxiety. She sometimes felt that her heart was wickedly calm in this period of danger and uncertainty. Any mail might bring the news of her lover’s death, cut down from a scaling-ladder, or treacherously murdered by the foe. Every letter she received might be the last that strong young hand would pen. Though Kenrick wrote so lightly and gaily of the war, the facts were not less awful. It was an insignificant business in the history of the world, perhaps, but death was as busy there as at Marathon or Waterloo. ‘If I loved him as I ought to love my betrothed husband, I should not have a moment’s peace,’ Beatrix thought, full of self-reproach. Towards the close of the summer, just at the time when Emmanuel Joyce was stricken with cholera, Beatrix’s health began to languish a little, and at Mr. Namby’s advice she went to Whitby with Madame Leonard, intending to remain away some weeks. It was about this time that Bella Scratchell’s life became full of perplexity and excitement. A curious, most unlooked-for event had happened, and had changed the whole colour of the Scratchell existence. Mr. Scratchell declared that Providence, pleased with the Scratchells’ industry, economy, and patience, had at length taken the family under its wing, as directly and obviously as the Jews were taken in hand by the Divine power in the time of Moses. Mr. Scratchell did not absolutely expect that miracles were to be worked for him, that waters were to be turned into blood, or flies to swarm in kings’ chambers; but, short of this, he considered himself a very proper subject for Divine favour. Mr. Piper had fallen in love with Bella, and wished to make her the second Mrs. Piper. Like most men who mourn a first wife with a somewhat exaggerated dolefulness, Mr. Piper had speedily discovered a yearning to take to himself a second. He had not far to look for this second choice. Bella had always appeared to his taste as the prettiest thing he knew. Her round plump beauty, the sunny tints of her hair, her peachy cheeks, and red full lips, her dimples and small round chin, her little white hands and neatly shaped feet, all were after the fashion which in Mr. Piper’s eye seemed the perfection of womanly beauty. A strong-minded woman, beautiful as Venus and grand as Juno, would have had no attraction for him. Mr. Piper had an awful dread of being hen-pecked. He wanted a wife whom he could treat kindly, and govern with a rod of iron. That rod of iron would be nicely swathed in cotton-wool and velvet, of course, but it would be unbending. Mr. Piper had enjoyed life in his own way for the last twenty years, and he meant to go on having his own way so long as his faculties remained to him. Short of being like Dean Swift, and dying ‘first a’top,’ Mr. Piper meant to have his own way, until he drew his last breath.