Works of Charles Dickens (200+ Works) The Adventures of Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, A Christmas Carol, A Tale of Two Cities, Bleak House, David Copperfield & more (mobi)

by Charles Dickens

  Now, the very grossness of this flattery put Bella upon proving that she actually did please in spite of herself. She had a misgiving that she was doing wrong--though she had an indistinct foreshadowing that some harm might come of it thereafter, she little thought what consequences it would really bring about--but she went on with her confidence.

  'Don't talk of pleasing in spite of one's self, dear,' said Bella. 'I have had enough of that.'

  'Ay?' cried Mrs Lammle. 'Am I already corroborated, Bella?'

  'Never mind, Sophronia, we will not speak of it any more. Don't ask me about it.'

  This plainly meaning Do ask me about it, Mrs Lammle did as she was requested.

  'Tell me, Bella. Come, my dear. What provoking burr has been inconveniently attracted to the charming skirts, and with difficulty shaken off?'

  'Provoking indeed,' said Bella, 'and no burr to boast of! But don't ask me.'

  'Shall I guess?'

  'You would never guess. What would you say to our Secretary?'

  'My dear! The hermit Secretary, who creeps up and down the back stairs, and is never seen!'

  'I don't know about his creeping up and down the back stairs,' said Bella, rather contemptuously, 'further than knowing that he does no such thing; and as to his never being seen, I should be content never to have seen him, though he is quite as visible as you are. But I pleased HIM (for my sins) and he had the presumption to tell me so.'

  'The man never made a declaration to you, my dear Bella!'

  'Are you sure of that, Sophronia?' said Bella. 'I am not. In fact, I am sure of the contrary.'

  'The man must be mad,' said Mrs Lammle, with a kind of resignation.

  'He appeared to be in his senses,' returned Bella, tossing her head, 'and he had plenty to say for himself. I told him my opinion of his declaration and his conduct, and dismissed him. Of course this has all been very inconvenient to me, and very disagreeable. It has remained a secret, however. That word reminds me to observe, Sophronia, that I have glided on into telling you the secret, and that I rely upon you never to mention it.'

  'Mention it!' repeated Mrs Lammle with her former feeling. 'Men-tion it!'

  This time Sophronia was so much in earnest that she found it necessary to bend forward in the carriage and give Bella a kiss. A Judas order of kiss; for she thought, while she yet pressed Bella's hand after giving it, 'Upon your own showing, you vain heartless girl, puffed up by the doting folly of a dustman, I need have no relenting towards YOU. If my husband, who sends me here, should form any schemes for making YOU a victim, I should certainly not cross him again.' In those very same moments, Bella was thinking, 'Why am I always at war with myself? Why have I told, as if upon compulsion, what I knew all along I ought to have withheld? Why am I making a friend of this woman beside me, in spite of the whispers against her that I hear in my heart?'

  As usual, there was no answer in the looking-glass when she got home and referred these questions to it. Perhaps if she had consulted some better oracle, the result might have been more satisfactory; but she did not, and all things consequent marched the march before them.

  On one point connected with the watch she kept on Mr Boffin, she felt very inquisitive, and that was the question whether the Secretary watched him too, and followed the sure and steady change in him, as she did? Her very limited intercourse with Mr Rokesmith rendered this hard to find out. Their communication now, at no time extended beyond the preservation of commonplace appearances before Mr and Mrs Boffin; and if Bella and the Secretary were ever left alone together by any chance, he immediately withdrew. She consulted his face when she could do so covertly, as she worked or read, and could make nothing of it. He looked subdued; but he had acquired a strong command of feature, and, whenever Mr Boffin spoke to him in Bella's presence, or whatever revelation of himself Mr Boffin made, the Secretary's face changed no more than a wall. A slightly knitted brow, that expressed nothing but an almost mechanical attention, and a compression of the mouth, that might have been a guard against a scornful smile--these she saw from morning to night, from day to day, from week to week, monotonous, unvarying, set, as in a piece of sculpture.

  The worst of the matter was, that it thus fell out insensibly--and most provokingly, as Bella complained to herself, in her impetuous little manner--that her observation of Mr Boffin involved a continual observation of Mr Rokesmith. 'Won't THAT extract a look from him?'--'Can it be possible THAT makes no impression on him?' Such questions Bella would propose to herself, often as many times in a day as there were hours in it. Impossible to know. Always the same fixed face.

  'Can he be so base as to sell his very nature for two hundred a year?' Bella would think. And then, 'But why not? It's a mere question of price with others besides him. I suppose I would sell mine, if I could get enough for it.' And so she would come round again to the war with herself.

  A kind of illegibility, though a different kind, stole over Mr Boffin's face. Its old simplicity of expression got masked by a certain craftiness that assimilated even his good-humour to itself. His very smile was cunning, as if he had been studying smiles among the portraits of his misers. Saving an occasional burst of impatience, or coarse assertion of his mastery, his good-humour remained to him, but it had now a sordid alloy of distrust; and though his eyes should twinkle and all his face should laugh, he would sit holding himself in his own arms, as if he had an inclination to hoard himself up, and must always grudgingly stand on the defensive.

  What with taking heed of these two faces, and what with feeling conscious that the stealthy occupation must set some mark on her own, Bella soon began to think that there was not a candid or a natural face among them all but Mrs Boffin's. None the less because it was far less radiant than of yore, faithfully reflecting in its anxiety and regret every line of change in the Golden Dustman's.

  'Rokesmith,' said Mr Boffin one evening when they were all in his room again, and he and the Secretary had been going over some accounts, 'I am spending too much money. Or leastways, you are spending too much for me.'

  'You are rich, sir.'

  'I am not,' said Mr Boffin.

  The sharpness of the retort was next to telling the Secretary that he lied. But it brought no change of expression into the set face.

  'I tell you I am not rich,' repeated Mr Boffin, 'and I won't have it.'

  'You are not rich, sir?' repeated the Secretary, in measured words.

  'Well,' returned Mr Boffin, 'if I am, that's my business. I am not going to spend at this rate, to please you, or anybody. You wouldn't like it, if it was your money.'

  'Even in that impossible case, sir, I--'

  'Hold your tongue!' said Mr Boffin. 'You oughtn't to like it in any case. There! I didn't mean to be rude, but you put me out so, and after all I'm master. I didn't intend to tell you to hold your tongue. I beg your pardon. Don't hold your tongue. Only, don't contradict. Did you ever come across the life of Mr Elwes?' referring to his favourite subject at last.

  'The miser?'

  'Ah, people called him a miser. People are always calling other people something. Did you ever read about him?'

  'I think so.'

  'He never owned to being rich, and yet he might have bought me twice over. Did you ever hear of Daniel Dancer?'

  'Another miser? Yes.'

  'He was a good 'un,' said Mr Boffin, 'and he had a sister worthy of him. They never called themselves rich neither. If they HAD called themselves rich, most likely they wouldn't have been so.'

  'They lived and died very miserably. Did they not, sir?'

  'No, I don't know that they did,' said Mr Boffin, curtly.

  'Then they are not the Misers I mean. Those abject wretches--'

  'Don't call names, Rokesmith,' said Mr Boffin.

  '--That exemplary brother and sister--lived and died in the foulest and filthiest degradation.'

  'They pleased themselves,' said Mr Boffin, 'and I suppose they could have done no more if they had spent their money. But however, I ai
n't going to fling mine away. Keep the expenses down. The fact is, you ain't enough here, Rokesmith. It wants constant attention in the littlest things. Some of us will be dying in a workhouse next.'

  'As the persons you have cited,' quietly remarked the Secretary, 'thought they would, if I remember, sir.'

  'And very creditable in 'em too,' said Mr Boffin. 'Very independent in 'em! But never mind them just now. Have you given notice to quit your lodgings?'

  'Under your direction, I have, sir.'

  'Then I tell you what,' said Mr Boffin; 'pay the quarter's rent--pay the quarter's rent, it'll be the cheapest thing in the end--and come here at once, so that you may be always on the spot, day and night, and keep the expenses down. You'll charge the quarter's rent to me, and we must try and save it somewhere. You've got some lovely furniture; haven't you?'

  'The furniture in my rooms is my own.'

  'Then we shan't have to buy any for you. In case you was to think it,' said Mr Boffin, with a look of peculiar shrewdness, 'so honourably independent in you as to make it a relief to your mind, to make that furniture over to me in the light of a set-off against the quarter's rent, why ease your mind, ease your mind. I don't ask it, but I won't stand in your way if you should consider it due to yourself. As to your room, choose any empty room at the top of the house.'

  'Any empty room will do for me,' said the Secretary.

  'You can take your pick,' said Mr Boffin, 'and it'll be as good as eight or ten shillings a week added to your income. I won't deduct for it; I look to you to make it up handsomely by keeping the expenses down. Now, if you'll show a light, I'll come to your office-room and dispose of a letter or two.'

  On that clear, generous face of Mrs Boffin's, Bella had seen such traces of a pang at the heart while this dialogue was being held, that she had not the courage to turn her eyes to it when they were left alone. Feigning to be intent on her embroidery, she sat plying her needle until her busy hand was stopped by Mrs Boffin's hand being lightly laid upon it. Yielding to the touch, she felt her hand carried to the good soul's lips, and felt a tear fall on it.

  'Oh, my loved husband!' said Mrs Boffin. 'This is hard to see and hear. But my dear Bella, believe me that in spite of all the change in him, he is the best of men.'

  He came back, at the moment when Bella had taken the hand comfortingly between her own.

  'Eh?' said he, mistrustfully looking in at the door. 'What's she telling you?'

  'She is only praising you, sir,' said Bella.

  'Praising me? You are sure? Not blaming me for standing on my own defence against a crew of plunderers, who could suck me dry by driblets? Not blaming me for getting a little hoard together?'

  He came up to them, and his wife folded her hands upon his shoulder, and shook her head as she laid it on her hands.

  'There, there, there!' urged Mr Boffin, not unkindly. 'Don't take on, old lady.'

  'But I can't bear to see you so, my dear.'

  'Nonsense! Recollect we are not our old selves. Recollect, we must scrunch or be scrunched. Recollect, we must hold our own. Recollect, money makes money. Don't you be uneasy, Bella, my child; don't you be doubtful. The more I save, the more you shall have.'

  Bella thought it was well for his wife that she was musing with her affectionate face on his shoulder; for there was a cunning light in his eyes as he said all this, which seemed to cast a disagreeable illumination on the change in him, and make it morally uglier.

  Chapter 6

  THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN FALLS INTO WORSE COMPANY

  It had come to pass that Mr Silas Wegg now rarely attended the minion of fortune and the worm of the hour, at his (the worm's and minion's) own house, but lay under general instructions to await him within a certain margin of hours at the Bower. Mr Wegg took this arrangement in great dudgeon, because the appointed hours were evening hours, and those he considered precious to the progress of the friendly move. But it was quite in character, he bitterly remarked to Mr Venus, that the upstart who had trampled on those eminent creatures, Miss Elizabeth, Master George, Aunt Jane, and Uncle Parker, should oppress his literary man.

  The Roman Empire having worked out its destruction, Mr Boffin next appeared in a cab with Rollin's Ancient History, which valuable work being found to possess lethargic properties, broke down, at about the period when the whole of the army of Alexander the Macedonian (at that time about forty thousand strong) burst into tears simultaneously, on his being taken with a shivering fit after bathing. The Wars of the Jews, likewise languishing under Mr Wegg's generalship, Mr Boffin arrived in another cab with Plutarch: whose Lives he found in the sequel extremely entertaining, though he hoped Plutarch might not expect him to believe them all. What to believe, in the course of his reading, was Mr Boffin's chief literary difficulty indeed; for some time he was divided in his mind between half, all, or none; at length, when he decided, as a moderate man, to compound with half, the question still remained, which half? And that stumbling-block he never got over.

  One evening, when Silas Wegg had grown accustomed to the arrival of his patron in a cab, accompanied by some profane historian charged with unutterable names of incomprehensible peoples, of impossible descent, waging wars any number of years and syllables long, and carrying illimitable hosts and riches about, with the greatest ease, beyond the confines of geography--one evening the usual time passed by, and no patron appeared. After half an hour's grace, Mr Wegg proceeded to the outer gate, and there executed a whistle, conveying to Mr Venus, if perchance within hearing, the tidings of his being at home and disengaged. Forth from the shelter of a neighbouring wall, Mr Venus then emerged.

  'Brother in arms,' said Mr Wegg, in excellent spirits, 'welcome!'

  In return, Mr Venus gave him a rather dry good evening.

  'Walk in, brother,' said Silas, clapping him on the shoulder, 'and take your seat in my chimley corner; for what says the ballad?

  "No malice to dread, sir, And no falsehood to fear, But truth to delight me, Mr Venus, And I forgot what to cheer. Li toddle de om dee. And something to guide, My ain fireside, sir, My ain fireside."'

  With this quotation (depending for its neatness rather on the spirit than the words), Mr Wegg conducted his guest to his hearth.

  'And you come, brother,' said Mr Wegg, in a hospitable glow, 'you come like I don't know what--exactly like it--I shouldn't know you from it--shedding a halo all around you.'

  'What kind of halo?' asked Mr Venus.

  ''Ope sir,' replied Silas. 'That's YOUR halo.'

  Mr Venus appeared doubtful on the point, and looked rather discontentedly at the fire.

  'We'll devote the evening, brother,' exclaimed Wegg, 'to prosecute our friendly move. And arterwards, crushing a flowing wine-cup--which I allude to brewing rum and water--we'll pledge one another. For what says the Poet?

  "And you needn't Mr Venus be your black bottle, For surely I'll be mine, And we'll take a glass with a slice of lemon in it to which you're partial, For auld lang syne."'

  This flow of quotation and hospitality in Wegg indicated his observation of some little querulousness on the part of Venus.

  'Why, as to the friendly move,' observed the last-named gentleman, rubbing his knees peevishly, 'one of my objections to it is, that it DON'T move.'

  'Rome, brother,' returned Wegg: 'a city which (it may not be generally known) originated in twins and a wolf; and ended in Imperial marble: wasn't built in a day.'

  'Did I say it was?' asked Venus.

  'No, you did not, brother. Well-inquired.'

  'But I do say,' proceeded Venus, 'that I am taken from among my trophies of anatomy, am called upon to exchange my human warious for mere coal-ashes warious, and nothing comes of it. I think I must give up.'

  'No, sir!' remonstrated Wegg, enthusiastically. 'No, Sir!

  "Charge, Chester, charge, On, Mr Venus, on!"

  Never say die, sir! A man of your mark!'

  'It's not so much saying it that I object to,' returned Mr Venus, 'as doing it. And havin
g got to do it whether or no, I can't afford to waste my time on groping for nothing in cinders.'

  'But think how little time you have given to the move, sir, after all,' urged Wegg. 'Add the evenings so occupied together, and what do they come to? And you, sir, harmonizer with myself in opinions, views, and feelings, you with the patience to fit together on wires the whole framework of society--I allude to the human skelinton--you to give in so soon!'

  'I don't like it,' returned Mr Venus moodily, as he put his head between his knees and stuck up his dusty hair. 'And there's no encouragement to go on.'

  'Not them Mounds without,' said Mr Wegg, extending his right hand with an air of solemn reasoning, 'encouragement? Not them Mounds now looking down upon us?'

  'They're too big,' grumbled Venus. 'What's a scratch here and a scrape there, a poke in this place and a dig in the other, to them. Besides; what have we found?'

  'What HAVE we found?' cried Wegg, delighted to be able to acquiesce. 'Ah! There I grant you, comrade. Nothing. But on the contrary, comrade, what MAY we find? There you'll grant me. Anything.'

  'I don't like it,' pettishly returned Venus as before. 'I came into it without enough consideration. And besides again. Isn't your own Mr Boffin well acquainted with the Mounds? And wasn't he well acquainted with the deceased and his ways? And has he ever showed any expectation of finding anything?'

  At that moment wheels were heard.

  'Now, I should be loth,' said Mr Wegg, with an air of patient injury, 'to think so ill of him as to suppose him capable of coming at this time of night. And yet it sounds like him.'

  A ring at the yard bell.

  'It is him,' said Mr Wegg, 'and he is capable of it. I am sorry, because I could have wished to keep up a little lingering fragment of respect for him.'