Beatrix was married early in September, on a day of golden sunshine, which bathed the house, the church, the garden, and the park, in a glow of calm, soft beauty. It was the prettiest country wedding that could be imagined, and one of the gayest. The house, of course, was full from attic to cellar. Beatrix's relations on both sides converged from all quarters of the United Kingdom, and even from Continental holiday resorts, and there was room for a few intimate friends of the family as well. When every corner of the house had been allocated, and still more people whose claims could not be ignored had to be got in somehow, three or four empty bedrooms at the Vicarage were commandeered, and furnished ad hoc. This not providing enough beds, rooms were taken at the inn. More remaining to be arranged for almost at the last minute, Stone Cottage, which had remained empty since Mrs. Walter had left it, was furnished as a dormitory for sundry bachelors. On the night before the wedding between thirty and forty guests, who were staying in the house or its various dependencies, dined there, besides another score or so from Wilborough, and other houses round. The old vaulted refectory of the Abbey, which had remained empty and unused for generations, was the scene of this lively banquet. It was to be used as a ball-room the next night. "We shall want cheering up when you leave us, darling," her father had said to Beatrix. "Your old Daddy will be the gayest of the gay, but his merriment will be hollow and his laugh a mockery."

Only Caroline knew how much of truth there was in this light statement. He had behaved beautifully throughout the somewhat feverish preparations that had had to be made for a marriage at such short notice. Beatrix had rushed to and from London in a state of happy excitement. When she had been at home she had devoted herself entirely to Dick when he had been there, and when he had not been there she had either talked about him or gone away to brood over him. For when once the barriers had been broken down she had succumbed completely. Caroline smiled to herself sometimes as she thought of the doubts she had felt as to Beatrix marrying without love, or with not enough love. She was made to give herself entirely when she did love, and she now loved Dick with an intensity and completeness that raised him to the seventh heaven of bliss, but seemed to leave little room for any other sort of love. Caroline smiled also, but rather ruefully, when she remembered her father's satisfaction over the place that would be left for him in this new adjustment of his beloved child's affections. She invited confidences from him on the subject, but he gave her none. The complaints and resentments he had expressed over the affair with Lassigny had given place to a determination to keep all that he must have been feeling about this new affair to himself, except the incidental satisfaction to be gained from it. He was genial and companionable to Dick, and had his reward there in the liking, which was growing into affection, that the younger man had towards him. He was humourous and chaffing with Beatrix, and made no appeals to her for the solace she now almost entirely withheld from him. Perhaps he had his reward there, too, for she must have enjoyed the conviction that she was greatly pleasing him, although she failed to signify the same in the usual manner. The only comment he permitted himself to make to Caroline about the change of wind was when he said that he should hate losing B, but rather looked forward to settling down again after her departure. But he immediately added that it was a great thing to see the dear child so happy, and with so good a chance before her of happiness for the rest of her life. So even Caroline, his confidant, was not to know the sadness with which he was wrestling on his own account, and the new adjustments he was being forced to make, when he had thought that further need for adjustment was to have been spared him.

Caroline, indeed, was having to make a few adjustments on her own account. The distressed and uncertain Beatrix who had come sobbing to her on the night after her engagement, and had come closer to her sister's heart than ever before, was distressed and uncertain no longer, and had no need of her now, except as a recipient for love's raptures. It was 'Dick, Dick, Dick,' all the time. It spoke well for Dick's quality that Beatrix's family liked him as well at the end of his few weeks' engagement as they had at the beginning. It was he who kept up for them the sense of somebody added to it instead of somebody being taken away. 'Head over ears' as he was, and showed himself to be, he still showed them, whenever Beatrix allowed him the opportunity, that his reception among them added and would further add to the satisfactions of his life. It was not only to be just him and Beatrix, though the bliss to be gained from just him and Beatrix was at present almost beyond his power to grasp. It seemed also to be beyond Beatrix's power to grasp for the time being. She had removed herself from them in spirit, already, and had told Caroline that what she should really like, for the first few years of her marriage, would be for Dick to be ordered to the Pacific, and for herself to inhabit an island to which he could pay occasional visits, leaving her to think about him all alone in the intervals.

Grafton had a moment with her alone just before the ceremony. All the guests were in the church, from which the drone of the organ came across to them, standing in the hall until the clock should strike the hour. The house was empty and strangely quiet. They would have to walk across the few carpeted yards that lay between it and the church between packed masses of neighbourly and intensely sympathetic spectators; but they were waiting just inside the doorway where they could neither see nor be seen.

"Well, I'm going to give you up, my darling," he said. "I shan't have you alone again before I go. Give me one more kiss all to myself."

She lifted her veil carefully, and held up her sweet, happy face for his kiss. "Mind my hair, Dad," she said.

The church clock struck. "Now we'll go over," he said. "You're not nervous, are you?"

She laughed. "Not a bit," she said. But her hand on his arm trembled a little as they got into the crowded church, and walked up the aisle with all the faces turned or half-turned towards them. That was all the emotion she showed, or had shown. It was all pure untroubled happiness with her.

The reception was held in the drawing-room and morning-room, which opened into one another, and both of them into the formal garden. The broad path which ran along this side of the house had been paved with stone some months before, and the whole space available, indoors and outdoors, permitted of free circulation among the guests.

Lady Mansergh, resplendent in mauve silk, with an enormous picture hat surmounting her red-gold hair, came waddling up to Grafton, her fat good-natured face wreathed in smiles. "Well, it's all over now," she said, "and if you're half as pleased as I am, Mr. Grafton, you're very pleased indeed. What a sweet bride! I've never seen one more lovely. If I'd done what I wanted to I should have broken down and cried. I'm not Dick's mother, but I felt like it. Oh, it's a perfect marriage and I wanted it from the very beginning."

"And yet a year ago, you were telling me that I was spoiling the child's life for her because I wouldn't let her marry somebody else," he said with a smile.

"Ah, you knew better than me, after all," she said, tapping him confidentially on the arm. "But you are pleased this time, aren't you? Dick says if he hadn't been as much in love with the sweet child as he is, he'd have liked to marry her all the same, because of her family. Now that's what I call a real compliment. You are a nice family, you know, and I'm sure I don't know how we did without you all here so long. You are pleased, aren't you, Mr. Grafton?"

"My dear lady, I'm absolutely delighted," he said. "It's just the sort of marriage I should like for all my girls; and Dick is one of the best fellows that ever stepped."

Old Sir Alexander also had a word of satisfaction to express. "Always wanted a daughter," he said, "but never expected to get such a pretty one. Lucky fellow, Dick! Arranged for another wedding present for them this morning, Grafton. Given Dick Manor Farm. Want 'em to make their home there, and have the girl near us when she can't be with Dick. Won't have to wait long, I dare say, before they come in for the lot; but it'll be a few years yet if this infernal lumbago doesn't take me."

"Manor Farm! That's the old house right the other end of your property, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's a pity it isn't this end. Then we could have had her between us. Still, it's one of the prettiest houses I've got, and I'm going to put it back to what it was before it was turned into a farmhouse, and make it all nice for 'em. I've told the child, and she's delighted. She knows how to play the daughter, Grafton. She'll make a lot of difference to me in my old age, bless her!"

Grafton had already been bombarded with congratulations from his own and his wife's relations, but they were not over yet, nor would be until the guests had all departed. Lady Grafton, who had remonstrated with him about his refusal to accept Lassigny as the desired husband for Beatrix, had admitted handsomely that this was a far more satisfactory marriage for her, but was never tired of hearing him say so. She came up to him with a glass of champagne in one hand and a piece of wedding cake in the other.

"Well, my dear George," she said. "Here's the first of them gone. I hope you're as pleased about it as you ought to be. You won't like losing the child, but you couldn't expect to keep her with you always, and she's married just the right sort of man."

"Wonderful powers of observation you have, Mary," he said. "I shouldn't like to disappoint you in any way, and I'm glad you're pleased with me."

"Ah now you're being sarcastic, but I'm sure I don't know what for. I'll behave handsomely to you, and admit that you turned out to be right a year ago, and all the rest of us turned out to be wrong, including B herself, apparently. I've never seen a girl more devoted to the man she's going to marry. Perfectly beautiful, I call it. She hasn't got a thought for anybody else. She'll make him a splendid wife, and I must say you deserve a great deal of credit for the way in which you've brought up all your girls. They have learnt to be everything to you, and I expect you've wanted a good deal of humouring, as all men do, though it doesn't show on the surface. If they have been able to manage you so well, they'll know how to manage their husbands, which most of us have to learn after we're married to them. I'm sure the trouble I had first of all with my dear old James, before I got into his ways—"

"Or he got into yours," suggested Grafton.

She allowed herself to be diverted. "Now, George," she said, "that's a thoroughly man's speech. Is James happy or is he not?"

"The Bank Rate is very satisfactory at present," said Grafton. "I think both James and I are as happy as we can expect to be."

Lady Handsworth also admitted handsomely that his opposition to Lassigny had borne good fruit. "This is a more satisfactory marriage than that would have been, even if M. de Lassigny had been everything you could have wished him to be," she said. "I am glad it has come about so quickly, and so naturally, George. I did say to you, I remember, that her first love meant so much to a girl that if she were disappointed in it no other love could be quite the same to her. But you seem to have judged more rightly than I even over that, which is more of a woman's question than a man's. I suppose it is because you have always had such sympathy with your girls. I confess that I should never have expected to come to Beatrix's wedding within a few months and find her so entirely cured of that other affair. She was very deeply in love, I know, and in the nicest sweetest sort of way; but she seems still more deeply in love now."

"Well, you see she's found the right fellow," said Grafton. "He's worth what she gives him. The other fellow wasn't; but I don't think she'd really given him everything; she only thought she had."

"You're a wise man, George. Women have much more to give to those they love than they have any idea of themselves at first. But men don't usually know that. And only the best sort of men bring it out. B is a darling, but it would make a great deal of difference whom she married. I do think now that with Lassigny she would just have developed as a charming delightful woman, but rather of the butterfly order—even if everything had gone right with their married life. But I think Dick will make her. She will show very fine qualities by and bye. He will bring them out."

"I hope he will," said Grafton.

The Bishop, who had performed the ceremony, was standing in a little group with his wife and Prescott and Viola. "Well, my dear friend," he said, "you've provided one of the happiest weddings I've ever taken part in, and I think I may say one of the very sweetest and prettiest of brides."

"What I like about all your girls, Mr. Grafton," said the Bishop's wife, "is that there's not an ounce of nonsense in them anywhere. They show all their feelings, and they fortunately never have any feelings that they would want to hide."

"That's a very handsome tribute," said Grafton. "But I think it's deserved."

"I've never seen anybody look happier than the little bride," she went on. "If all the marriages you have solemnised, my dear, bid fair to turn out so satisfactorily as this one—!"

"Yes," said the Bishop. "Marriage is a blessed state where there's complete love and trust. I think one could say that neither of these two would be complete without it."

"Or without one another," said Viola. "Gerry, dear, I thought we were the most satisfactory couple you could find anywhere, but Dick and B have advantages over us. He is not so harum-scarum as you are, and she is much prettier and nicer than I am."

"Gentle fisher-maiden," sang Prescott. "But she's a sweet thing, and deserves all the happiness she can get. I think she's found the right man to give it her too. His Lordship and I did a very good thing when we spliced them up. I'm all for making everybody happy."

Jimmy Beckley had a word or two of wisdom to impart on the subject of the marriage. He would have liked to impart them to Beatrix herself, but found it impossible, as he had rather feared, to get her apart; so he asked Barbara to come for a stroll with him, and she consented, having a fair idea of what the invitation portended, and expecting to draw amusement from it.

"You know," said Jimmy, when they were out of earshot of the crowd, "a wedding of this sort is a jolly moving thing. I wouldn't say that to everybody, because the general idea is to keep grinning all the time, and advise the young couple to keep clear of squalls. But I believe you can see further into things than most people, Barbara, though I shouldn't have said it of you a year ago."

"I'm glad you've noticed the change in me," said Barbara, with suspicious humility. "Of course I was a child a year ago; now I'm a woman, and better company for people of intelligence."

"That's quite true," said Jimmy. "I can talk to you now about things I should never have thought of mentioning to you last year. I can tell you, Barbara, that this marriage of B's has made me see a good many things in a different light. When you see a girl like that—bright and taking and pretty—pledging herself to a man for life—and doing it before an old Bishop of course makes it all the more jolly—it makes you think that a lot of the business that's talked about love—well, the Johnnies who talk about it don't know as much as they think. That's how it struck me in the church just now, 'specially when the old bird spouted that bit about for richer and poorer, and in sickness and in health and all that. I don't know whether you felt something of the same. I expect you did. You've got a heart; I know that, though everybody might not twig it."

"Thank you, Jimmy," said Barbara. "Yes, I felt much the same as you say you did. It made me think that there was no sense in wasting yourself over a lot of idle fancies. Much better wait till exactly the right man comes along, and give him everything."

"H'm! Well!" said Jimmy, evidently somewhat at a loss. "But you haven't had much time for idle fancies."

"Oh, I don't know," said Barbara. "I wouldn't tell it to everybody, but I know it's safe with you. You understand these things. I— No, I can't after all. Please forget what I said, Jimmy. There is nobody; nobody at all; and if there were, you're the last person I should confess it to."

"My dear child," said Jimmy, "you've said what you have said, and I'm very glad you've said it to me. There's nothing to be ashamed of. I suppose what you mean is that you've taken a fancy to some fellow and don't like to acknowledge it because you think it mayn't be returned."

"Oh, I know it isn't," said Barbara.

"Well, I shouldn't be so sure of that if I were you," said Jimmy. "You're young, and you don't know men. You see them taking fancies to people, but perhaps after all there isn't much in it. This fellow may be thinking a great deal about you all the time; perhaps not liking to show it himself because you haven't given him any encouragement."

"Oh, no. I know he can't possibly care for me at all. Besides, it's all over now. I was rather weak, but I'm not any more."

"If this chap let you see that he was thinking about you, and was very glad to know that you were thinking about him in that way, I suppose it wouldn't be over, would it?"

"I think so, but I couldn't be certain till I got back."

"Got back! What do you mean? Got back where?"

"Why, to Paris. You see, I've had six weeks to get over it."

Jimmy stopped and looked at her sternly. "Do you mean to say, Barbara, that you've fallen in love with some ass of a fellow in Paris?" he asked.

"Oh, he wasn't an ass, Jimmy. He was a splendid-looking man. He was one of the Gardes Municipales who was on duty at the OpÉra. I saw him three times. Before that it was one of the clergy at the English Church. Now I've begun I may as well tell you everything. Before that there was a driver of a fiacre who used to stand in the Place Saint Sulpice, but he was much too old—about sixty-five, I should think, and that didn't last long. Before that—oh, but I can't tell you any more. I'm glad I've made a clean breast of it, though. You understand it all, I know, and can make allowances."

"I can't make allowances for that sort of rotten business," said Jimmy stiffly. "You're the last girl I should have thought would have mucked about like that. If that's the way you behave yourself in Paris, I don't think you ought to be allowed to go back there."

"I don't suppose I should be allowed, if Dad knew. Of course, as I told you, it's all over now; but I don't know what will happen when I get back to Paris. I may see somebody else, and not be able to help myself. There's rather a handsome violin teacher who comes to teach one of the girls—but I mustn't give away other people's secrets, and she has left now. I shall be the only one to learn the violin next term."

"You don't play the violin."

"I asked Dad if I might, and he said I could."

"Barbara!" Jimmy stopped in the path again, with the evident intention of expressing himself with weight and fervour. But he had only got out the sentence. "You will not learn the violin next term," when Young George arrived on the scene.

"What's up?" he asked. "You look as if you were having a row."

"Jimmy objects to my learning the violin," said Barbara. "I'm sure I don't know why."

"You know very well why," said Jimmy. "Do you wish me to tell George the reason why I object?"

"Yes, if you've got one."

"She has taken a fancy to the violin teacher," said Jimmy. "She actually acknowledges it, and says—"

"Why shouldn't I acknowledge it?" interrupted Barbara. "She's a very clever teacher, and took the First Prize at the Conservatoire."

"You can't get out of it like that," said Jimmy hotly. "If there's a woman there's a man too. You said so. And what about the cab-driver, and the bobby, and the curate? It's a good deal too serious for me to keep it to myself, and I shall tell George everything you told me."

"Yes, you tell him all about it, dear," said Barbara. "I can't stay any longer. I must go to B. Good-bye, little man."

The time came for Beatrix to go off. A great crowd had collected in the hall, through which she made her way laughing, and round the carriage that was to take her to the station. Before her husband handed her into it she threw her arm round her father's neck. "Good-bye, my precious old Daddy," she said. "I'll write to you the very first thing."