LITMIR.BIZ

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for you, perhaps?’

      ‘Perhaps so,’ replied Mr Boffin. ‘Saw me come in, maybe.’

      Bella had closely attended to this short dialogue. Accompanying Mrs Boffin to the gate, she as closely watched what followed.

      ‘How are you, sir, how are you?’ said Mr Boffin. ‘This is Mrs Boffin. Mr Rokesmith, that I told you of; my dear.’

      She gave him good day, and he bestirred himself and helped her to her seat, and the like, with a ready hand.

      ‘Good-bye for the present, Miss Bella,’ said Mrs Boffin, calling out a hearty parting. ‘We shall meet again soon! And then I hope I shall have my little John Harmon to show you.’

      Mr Rokesmith, who was at the wheel adjusting the skirts of her dress, suddenly looked behind him, and around him, and then looked up at her, with a face so pale that Mrs Boffin cried:

      ‘Gracious!’ And after a moment, ‘What’s the matter, sir?’

      ‘How can you show her the Dead?’ returned Mr Rokesmith.

      ‘It’s only an adopted child. One I have told her of. One I’m going to give the name to!’

      ‘You took me by surprise,’ said Mr Rokesmith, ‘and it sounded like an omen, that you should speak of showing the Dead to one so young and blooming.’

      Now, Bella suspected by this time that Mr Rokesmith admired her. Whether the knowledge (for it was rather that than suspicion) caused her to incline to him a little more, or a little less, than she had done at first; whether it rendered her eager to find out more about him, because she sought to establish reason for her distrust, or because she sought to free him from it; was as yet dark to her own heart. But at most times he occupied a great amount of her attention, and she had set her attention closely on this incident.

      That he knew it as well as she, she knew as well as he, when they were left together standing on the path by the garden gate.

      ‘Those are worthy people, Miss Wilfer.’

      ‘Do you know them well?’ asked Bella.

      He smiled, reproaching her, and she coloured, reproaching herself – both, with the knowledge that she had meant to entrap him into an answer not true – when he said ‘I know of them.’

      ‘Truly, he told us he had seen you but once.’

      ‘Truly, I supposed he did.’

      Bella was nervous now, and would have been glad to recall her question.

      ‘You thought it strange that, feeling much interested in you, I should start at what sounded like a proposal to bring you into contact with the murdered man who lies in his grave. I might have known – of course in a moment should have known – that it could not have that meaning. But my interest remains.’

      Re-entering the family-room in a meditative state, Miss Bella was received by the irrepressible Lavinia with:

      ‘There, Bella! At last I hope you have got your wishes realized – by your Boffins. You’ll be rich enough now – with your Boffins. You can have as much flirting as you like – at your Boffins. But you won’t take me to your Boffins, I can tell you – you and your Boffins too!’

      ‘If,’ quoth Mr George Sampson, moodily pulling his stopper out, ‘Miss Bella’s Mr Boffin comes any more of his nonsense to me, I only wish him to understand, as betwixt man and man, that he does it at his per – ’ and was going to say peril; but Miss Lavinia, having no confidence in his mental powers, and feeling his oration to have no definite application to any circumstances, jerked his stopper in again, with a sharpness that made his eyes water.

      And now the worthy Mrs Wilfer, having used her youngest daughter as a lay-figure for the edification of these Boffins, became bland to her, and proceeded to develop her last instance of force of character, which was still in reserve. This was, to illuminate the family with her remarkable powers as a physiognomist; powers that terrified R. W. when ever let loose, as being always fraught with gloom and evil which no inferior prescience was aware of. And this Mrs Wilfer now did, be it observed, in jealousy of these Boffins, in the very same moments when she was already reflecting how she would flourish these very same Boffins and the state they kept, over the heads of her Boffinless friends.

      ‘Of their manners,’ said Mrs Wilfer, ‘I say nothing. Of their appearance, I say nothing. Of the disinterestedness of their intentions towards Bella, I say nothing. But the craft, the secrecy, the dark deep underhanded plotting, written in Mrs Boffin’s countenance, make me shudder.’

      As an incontrovertible proof that those baleful attributes were all there, Mrs Wilfer shuddered on the spot.

      Chapter 10

      A MARRIAGE CONTRACT

      There is excitement in the Veneering mansion. The mature young lady is going to be married (powder and all) to the mature young gentleman, and she is to be married from the Veneering house, and the Veneerings are to give the breakfast. The Analytical, who objects as a matter of principle to everything that occurs on the premises, necessarily objects to the match; but his consent has been dispensed with, and a spring-van is delivering its load of greenhouse plants at the door, in order that to-morrow’s feast may be crowned with flowers.

      The mature young lady is a lady of property. The mature young gentleman is a gentleman of property. He invests his property. He goes, in a condescending amateurish way, into the City, attends meetings of Directors, and has to do with traffic in Shares. As is well known to the wise in their generation, traffic in Shares is the one thing to have to do with in this world. Have no antecedents, no established character, no cultivation, no ideas, no manners; have Shares. Have Shares enough to be on Boards of Direction in capital letters, oscillate on mysterious business between London and Paris, and be great. Where does he come from? Shares. Where is he going to? Shares. What are his tastes? Shares. Has he any principles? Shares. What squeezes him into Parliament? Shares. Perhaps he never of himself achieved success in anything, never originated anything, never produced anything? Sufficient answer to all; Shares. O mighty Shares! To set those blaring images so high, and to cause us smaller vermin, as under the influence of henbane or opium, to cry out, night and day, ‘Relieve us of our money, scatter it for us, buy us and sell us, ruin us, only we beseech ye take rank among the powers of the earth, and fatten on us’!

      While the Loves and Graces have been preparing this torch for Hymen, which is to be kindled to-morrow, Mr Twemlow has suffered much in his mind. It would seem that both the mature young lady and the mature young gentleman must indubitably be Veneering’s oldest friends. Wards of his, perhaps? Yet that can scarcely be, for they are older than himself. Veneering has been in their confidence throughout, and has done much to lure them to the altar. He has mentioned to Twemlow how he said to Mrs Veneering, ‘Anastatia, this must be a match.’ He has mentioned to Twemlow how he regards Sophronia Akershem (the mature young lady) in the light of a sister, and Alfred Lammle (the mature young gentleman) in the light of a brother. Twemlow has asked him whether he went to school as a junior with Alfred? He has answered, ‘Not exactly.’ Whether Sophronia was adopted by his mother? He has answered, ‘Not precisely so.’ Twemlow’s hand has gone to his forehead with a lost air.

      But, two or three weeks ago, Twemlow, sitting over his newspaper, and over his dry-toast and weak tea, and over the stable-yard in Duke Street, St James’s, received a highly-perfumed cocked-hat and monogram from Mrs Veneering, entreating her dearest Mr T., if not particularly engaged that day, to come like a charming soul and make a fourth at dinner with dear Mr Podsnap, for the discussion of an interesting family topic; the last three words doubly underlined and pointed with a note of admiration. And Twemlow replying, ‘Not engaged, and more than delighted,’ goes, and this takes place:

      ‘My dear Twemlow,’ says Veneering, ‘your ready response to Anastatia’s unceremonious invitation is truly kind, and like an old, old friend. You know our dear friend Podsnap?’

      Twemlow ought to know the dear friend Podsnap who covered him with so much confusion, and he says he does know him, and Podsnap reciprocates. Apparently, Podsnap has been so wrought upon in a short time, as to believe that

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