Our Mutual Friend
it, to my engagement to George. It might seem like reminding her of her
having cast herself away. And I hope, Pa, that you will think it equally
right to avoid mentioning George’s rising prospects, when Bella is
present. It might seem like taunting her with her own poor fortunes.
Let me ever remember that I am her younger sister, and ever spare her
painful contrasts, which could not but wound her sharply.’
Mr Sampson expressed his belief that such was the demeanour of Angels.
Miss Lavvy replied with solemnity, ‘No, dearest George, I am but too
well aware that I am merely human.’
Mrs Wilfer, for her part, still further improved the occasion by sitting
with her eyes fastened on her husband, like two great black notes of
interrogation, severely inquiring, Are you looking into your breast? Do
you deserve your blessings? Can you lay your hand upon your heart and
say that you are worthy of so hysterical a daughter? I do not ask you if
you are worthy of such a wife—put Me out of the question—but are
you sufficiently conscious of, and thankful for, the pervading moral
grandeur of the family spectacle on which you are gazing? These
inquiries proved very harassing to R. W. who, besides being a little
disturbed by wine, was in perpetual terror of committing himself by the
utterance of stray words that would betray his guilty foreknowledge.
However, the scene being over, and—all things considered—well over, he
sought refuge in a doze; which gave his lady immense offence.
‘Can you think of your daughter Bella, and sleep?’ she disdainfully
inquired.
To which he mildly answered, ‘Yes, I think I can, my dear.’
‘Then,’ said Mrs Wilfer, with solemn indignation, ‘I would recommend
you, if you have a human feeling, to retire to bed.’
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he replied; ‘I think it IS the best place for me.’
And with these unsympathetic words very gladly withdrew.
Within a few weeks afterwards, the Mendicant’s bride (arm-in-arm with
the Mendicant) came to tea, in fulfilment of an engagement made through
her father. And the way in which the Mendicant’s bride dashed at the
unassailable position so considerately to be held by Miss Lavy, and
scattered the whole of the works in all directions in a moment, was
triumphant.
‘Dearest Ma,’ cried Bella, running into the room with a radiant face,
‘how do you do, dearest Ma?’ And then embraced her, joyously. ‘And Lavvy
darling, how do YOU do, and how’s George Sampson, and how is he getting
on, and when are you going to be married, and how rich are you going
to grow? You must tell me all about it, Lavvy dear, immediately.
John, love, kiss Ma and Lavvy, and then we shall all be at home and
comfortable.’
Mrs Wilfer stared, but was helpless. Miss Lavinia stared, but was
helpless. Apparently with no compunction, and assuredly with no
ceremony, Bella tossed her bonnet away, and sat down to make the tea.
‘Dearest Ma and Lavvy, you both take sugar, I know. And Pa (you good
little Pa), you don’t take milk. John does. I didn’t before I was
married; but I do now, because John does. John dear, did you kiss Ma and
Lavvy? Oh, you did! Quite correct, John dear; but I didn’t see you do
it, so I asked. Cut some bread and butter, John; that’s a love. Ma likes
it doubled. And now you must tell me, dearest Ma and Lavvy, upon your
words and honours! Didn’t you for a moment—just a moment—think I was a
dreadful little wretch when I wrote to say I had run away?’
Before Mrs Wilfer could wave her gloves, the Mendicant’s bride in her
merriest affectionate manner went on again.
‘I think it must have made you rather cross, dear Ma and Lavvy, and I
know I deserved that you should be very cross. But you see I had been
such a heedless, heartless creature, and had led you so to expect that
I should marry for money, and so to make sure that I was incapable of
marrying for love, that I thought you couldn’t believe me. Because, you
see, you didn’t know how much of Good, Good, Good, I had learnt from
John. Well! So I was sly about it, and ashamed of what you supposed me
to be, and fearful that we couldn’t understand one another and might
come to words, which we should all be sorry for afterwards, and so I
said to John that if he liked to take me without any fuss, he might. And
as he did like, I let him. And we were married at Greenwich church in
the presence of nobody—except an unknown individual who dropped in,’
here her eyes sparkled more brightly, ‘and half a pensioner. And now,
isn’t it nice, dearest Ma and Lavvy, to know that no words have been
said which any of us can be sorry for, and that we are all the best of
friends at the pleasantest of teas!’
Having got up and kissed them again, she slipped back to her chair
(after a loop on the road to squeeze her husband round the neck) and
again went on.
‘And now you will naturally want to know, dearest Ma and Lavvy, how
we live, and what we have got to live upon. Well! And so we live on
Blackheath, in the charm—ingest of dolls’ houses, de—lightfully
furnished, and we have a clever little servant who is de—cidedly
pretty, and we are economical and orderly, and do everything by
clockwork, and we have a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and we
have all we want, and more. And lastly, if you would like to know in
confidence, as perhaps you may, what is my opinion of my husband, my
opinion is—that I almost love him!’
‘And if you would like to know in confidence, as perhaps you may,’
said her husband, smiling, as he stood by her side, without her having
detected his approach, ‘my opinion of my wife, my opinion is—.’ But
Bella started up, and put her hand upon his lips.
‘Stop, Sir! No, John, dear! Seriously! Please not yet a while! I want to
be something so much worthier than the doll in the doll’s house.’
‘My darling, are you not?’
‘Not half, not a quarter, so much worthier as I hope you may some
day find me! Try me through some reverse, John—try me through some
trial—and tell them after THAT, what you think of me.’
‘I will, my Life,’ said John. ‘I promise it.’
‘That’s my dear John. And you won’t speak a word now; will you?’
‘And I won’t,’ said John, with a very expressive look of admiration
around him, ‘speak a word now!’
She laid her laughing cheek upon his breast to thank him, and said,
looking at the rest of them sideways out of her bright eyes: ‘I’ll go
further, Pa and Ma and Lavvy. John don’t suspect it—he has no idea of
it—but I quite love him!’
Even Mrs Wilfer relaxed under the influence of her married daughter, and
seemed in a majestic manner to imply remotely that if R. W. had been a
more deserving object, she too might have condescended to come down from
her pedestal for his beguilement. Miss Lavinia, on the other hand, had
strong doubts of the policy of the course of treatment, and whether it
might not spoil Mr Sampson, if experimented on in the case of that young
gentleman. R. W. himself was for his part convinced that he was father
of one of the most charming of girls, and that Rokesmith was the most
favoured of men; which opinion, if propounded to him, Rokesmith would
probably not have contested.
The newly-married pair left early, so that they might walk at leisure to
their starting-place from London, for Greenwich. At first they were
very cheerful and talked much; but after a while, Bella fancied that her
husband was turning somewhat thoughtful. So she asked him:
‘John dear, what’s the matter?’
‘Matter, my love?’
‘Won’t you tell me,’ said Bella, looking up into his face, ‘what you are
thinking of?’
‘There’s not much in the thought, my soul. I was thinking whether you
wouldn’t like me to be rich?’
‘You rich, John?’ repeated Bella, shrinking a little.
‘I mean, really rich. Say, as rich as Mr Boffin. You would like that?’
‘I should be almost afraid to try, John dear. Was he much the better for
his wealth? Was I much the better for the little part I once had in it?’
‘But all people are not the worse for riches, my own.’
‘Most people?’ Bella musingly suggested with raised eyebrows.
‘Nor even most people, it may be hoped. If you were rich, for instance,
you would have a great power of doing good to others.’
‘Yes, sir, for instance,’ Bella playfully rejoined; ‘but should I
exercise the power, for instance? And again, sir, for instance; should
I, at the same time, have a great power of doing harm to myself?’
Laughing and pressing her arm, he retorted: ‘But still, again for
instance; would you exercise that power?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bella, thoughtfully shaking her head. ‘I hope not.
I think not. But it’s so easy to hope not and think not, without the
riches.’
‘Why don’t you say, my darling—instead of that phrase—being poor?’ he
asked, looking earnestly at her.
‘Why don’t I say, being poor! Because I am not poor. Dear John, it’s not
possible that you suppose I think we are poor?’
‘I do, my love.’
‘Oh John!’
‘Understand me, sweetheart. I know that I am rich beyond all wealth in
having you; but I think OF you, and think FOR you. In such a dress as
you are wearing now, you first charmed me, and in no dress could you
ever look, to my thinking, more graceful or more beautiful. But you have
admired many finer dresses this very day; and is it not natural that I
wish I could give them to you?’
‘It’s very nice that you should wish it, John. It brings these tears of
grateful pleasure into my eyes, to hear you say so with such tenderness.
But I don’t want them.’
‘Again,’ he pursued, ‘we are now walking through the muddy streets. I
love those pretty feet so dearly, that I feel as if I could not bear the
dirt to soil the sole of your shoe. Is it not natural that I wish you
could ride in a carriage?’
‘It’s very nice,’ said Bella, glancing downward at the feet in question,
‘to know that you admire them so much, John dear, and since you do, I
am sorry that these shoes are a full size too large. But I don’t want a
carriage, believe me.’
‘You would like one if you could have one, Bella?’
‘I shouldn’t like it for its own sake, half so well as such a wish for
it. Dear John, your wishes are as real to me as the wishes in the Fairy
story, that were all fulfilled as soon as spoken. Wish me everything
that you can wish for the woman you dearly love, and I have as good as
got it, John. I have better than got it, John!’
They were not the less happy for such talk, and home was not the less
home for coming after it. Bella was fast developing a perfect genius
for home. All the loves and graces seemed (her husband thought) to have
taken domestic service with her, and to help her to make home engaging.
Her married life glided happily on. She was alone all day, for, after an
early breakfast her husband repaired every morning to the City, and did
not return until their late dinner hour. He was ‘in a China house,’ he
explained to Bella: which she found quite satisfactory, without pursuing
the China house into minuter details than a wholesale vision of tea,
rice, odd-smelling silks, carved boxes, and tight-eyed people in more
than double-soled shoes, with their pigtails pulling their heads of
hair off, painted on transparent porcelain. She always walked with her
husband to the railroad, and was always there again to meet him; her old
coquettish ways a little sobered down (but not much), and her dress
as daintily managed as if she managed nothing else. But, John gone to
business and Bella returned home, the dress would be laid aside, trim
little wrappers and aprons would be substituted, and Bella, putting back
her hair with both hands, as if she were making the most business-like
arrangements for going dramatically distracted, would enter on the
household affairs of the day. Such weighing and mixing and chopping
and grating, such dusting and washing and polishing, such snipping