Our Mutual Friend
husband, ‘and it’s been a pleasant thing to know this many and many a
year!’ It was ruin to Mrs Boffin’s aspirations, but, having so spoken,
they sat side by side, a hopelessly Unfashionable pair.
These two ignorant and unpolished people had guided themselves so far on
in their journey of life, by a religious sense of duty and desire to do
right. Ten thousand weaknesses and absurdities might have been detected
in the breasts of both; ten thousand vanities additional, possibly, in
the breast of the woman. But the hard wrathful and sordid nature that
had wrung as much work out of them as could be got in their best days,
for as little money as could be paid to hurry on their worst, had never
been so warped but that it knew their moral straightness and respected
it. In its own despite, in a constant conflict with itself and them, it
had done so. And this is the eternal law. For, Evil often stops short at
itself and dies with the doer of it; but Good, never.
Through his most inveterate purposes, the dead Jailer of Harmony Jail
had known these two faithful servants to be honest and true. While he
raged at them and reviled them for opposing him with the speech of the
honest and true, it had scratched his stony heart, and he had perceived
the powerlessness of all his wealth to buy them if he had addressed
himself to the attempt. So, even while he was their griping taskmaster
and never gave them a good word, he had written their names down in his
will. So, even while it was his daily declaration that he mistrusted all
mankind—and sorely indeed he did mistrust all who bore any resemblance
to himself—he was as certain that these two people, surviving him,
would be trustworthy in all things from the greatest to the least, as he
was that he must surely die.
Mr and Mrs Boffin, sitting side by side, with Fashion withdrawn to an
immeasurable distance, fell to discussing how they could best find their
orphan. Mrs Boffin suggested advertisement in the newspapers, requesting
orphans answering annexed description to apply at the Bower on a certain
day; but Mr Boffin wisely apprehending obstruction of the neighbouring
thoroughfares by orphan swarms, this course was negatived. Mrs Boffin
next suggested application to their clergyman for a likely orphan. Mr
Boffin thinking better of this scheme, they resolved to call upon the
reverend gentleman at once, and to take the same opportunity of making
acquaintance with Miss Bella Wilfer. In order that these visits might be
visits of state, Mrs Boffin’s equipage was ordered out.
This consisted of a long hammer-headed old horse, formerly used in the
business, attached to a four-wheeled chaise of the same period, which
had long been exclusively used by the Harmony Jail poultry as the
favourite laying-place of several discreet hens. An unwonted application
of corn to the horse, and of paint and varnish to the carriage, when
both fell in as a part of the Boffin legacy, had made what Mr Boffin
considered a neat turn-out of the whole; and a driver being added, in
the person of a long hammer-headed young man who was a very good match
for the horse, left nothing to be desired. He, too, had been formerly
used in the business, but was now entombed by an honest jobbing tailor
of the district in a perfect Sepulchre of coat and gaiters, sealed with
ponderous buttons.
Behind this domestic, Mr and Mrs Boffin took their seats in the back
compartment of the vehicle: which was sufficiently commodious, but had
an undignified and alarming tendency, in getting over a rough crossing,
to hiccup itself away from the front compartment. On their being
descried emerging from the gates of the Bower, the neighbourhood turned
out at door and window to salute the Boffins. Among those who were ever
and again left behind, staring after the equipage, were many youthful
spirits, who hailed it in stentorian tones with such congratulations as
‘Nod-dy Bof-fin!’ ‘Bof-fin’s mon-ey!’ ‘Down with the dust, Bof-fin!’ and
other similar compliments. These, the hammer-headed young man took in
such ill part that he often impaired the majesty of the progress by
pulling up short, and making as though he would alight to exterminate
the offenders; a purpose from which he only allowed himself to be
dissuaded after long and lively arguments with his employers.
At length the Bower district was left behind, and the peaceful dwelling
of the Reverend Frank Milvey was gained. The Reverend Frank Milvey’s
abode was a very modest abode, because his income was a very modest
income. He was officially accessible to every blundering old woman who
had incoherence to bestow upon him, and readily received the Boffins.
He was quite a young man, expensively educated and wretchedly paid, with
quite a young wife and half a dozen quite young children. He was under
the necessity of teaching and translating from the classics, to eke out
his scanty means, yet was generally expected to have more time to spare
than the idlest person in the parish, and more money than the richest.
He accepted the needless inequalities and inconsistencies of his life,
with a kind of conventional submission that was almost slavish; and any
daring layman who would have adjusted such burdens as his, more decently
and graciously, would have had small help from him.
With a ready patient face and manner, and yet with a latent smile that
showed a quick enough observation of Mrs Boffin’s dress, Mr Milvey, in
his little book-room—charged with sounds and cries as though the six
children above were coming down through the ceiling, and the roasting
leg of mutton below were coming up through the floor—listened to Mrs
Boffin’s statement of her want of an orphan.
‘I think,’ said Mr Milvey, ‘that you have never had a child of your own,
Mr and Mrs Boffin?’
Never.
‘But, like the Kings and Queens in the Fairy Tales, I suppose you have
wished for one?’
In a general way, yes.
Mr Milvey smiled again, as he remarked to himself ‘Those kings and
queens were always wishing for children.’ It occurring to him, perhaps,
that if they had been Curates, their wishes might have tended in the
opposite direction.
‘I think,’ he pursued, ‘we had better take Mrs Milvey into our Council.
She is indispensable to me. If you please, I’ll call her.’
So, Mr Milvey called, ‘Margaretta, my dear!’ and Mrs Milvey came down.
A pretty, bright little woman, something worn by anxiety, who had
repressed many pretty tastes and bright fancies, and substituted in
their stead, schools, soup, flannel, coals, and all the week-day cares
and Sunday coughs of a large population, young and old. As gallantly had
Mr Milvey repressed much in himself that naturally belonged to his old
studies and old fellow-students, and taken up among the poor and their
children with the hard crumbs of life.
‘Mr and Mrs Boffin, my dear, whose good fortune you have heard of.’
Mrs Milvey, with the most unaffected grace in the world, congratulated
them, and was glad to see them. Yet her engaging face, being an open as
well as a perceptive one, was not without her husband’s latent smile.
‘Mrs Boffin wishes to adopt a little boy, my dear.’
Mrs Milvey, looking rather alarmed, her husband added:
‘An orphan, my dear.’
‘Oh!’ said Mrs Milvey, reassured for her own little boys.
‘And I was thinking, Margaretta, that perhaps old Mrs Goody’s grandchild
might answer the purpose.
‘Oh my DEAR Frank! I DON’T think that would do!’
‘No?’
‘Oh NO!’
The smiling Mrs Boffin, feeling it incumbent on her to take part in the
conversation, and being charmed with the emphatic little wife and her
ready interest, here offered her acknowledgments and inquired what there
was against him?
‘I DON’T think,’ said Mrs Milvey, glancing at the Reverend Frank, ‘—and
I believe my husband will agree with me when he considers it again—that
you could possibly keep that orphan clean from snuff. Because his
grandmother takes so MANY ounces, and drops it over him.’
‘But he would not be living with his grandmother then, Margaretta,’ said
Mr Milvey.
‘No, Frank, but it would be impossible to keep her from Mrs Boffin’s
house; and the MORE there was to eat and drink there, the oftener she
would go. And she IS an inconvenient woman. I HOPE it’s not uncharitable
to remember that last Christmas Eve she drank eleven cups of tea, and
grumbled all the time. And she is NOT a grateful woman, Frank. You
recollect her addressing a crowd outside this house, about her wrongs,
when, one night after we had gone to bed, she brought back the petticoat
of new flannel that had been given her, because it was too short.’
‘That’s true,’ said Mr Milvey. ‘I don’t think that would do. Would
little Harrison—’
‘Oh, FRANK!’ remonstrated his emphatic wife.
‘He has no grandmother, my dear.’
‘No, but I DON’T think Mrs Boffin would like an orphan who squints so
MUCH.’
‘That’s true again,’ said Mr Milvey, becoming haggard with perplexity.
‘If a little girl would do—’
‘But, my DEAR Frank, Mrs Boffin wants a boy.’
‘That’s true again,’ said Mr Milvey. ‘Tom Bocker is a nice boy’
(thoughtfully).
‘But I DOUBT, Frank,’ Mrs Milvey hinted, after a little hesitation, ‘if
Mrs Boffin wants an orphan QUITE nineteen, who drives a cart and waters
the roads.’
Mr Milvey referred the point to Mrs Boffin in a look; on that smiling
lady’s shaking her black velvet bonnet and bows, he remarked, in lower
spirits, ‘that’s true again.’
‘I am sure,’ said Mrs Boffin, concerned at giving so much trouble, ‘that
if I had known you would have taken so much pains, sir—and you too, ma’
am—I don’t think I would have come.’
‘PRAY don’t say that!’ urged Mrs Milvey.
‘No, don’t say that,’ assented Mr Milvey, ‘because we are so much
obliged to you for giving us the preference.’ Which Mrs Milvey
confirmed; and really the kind, conscientious couple spoke, as if they
kept some profitable orphan warehouse and were personally patronized.
‘But it is a responsible trust,’ added Mr Milvey, ‘and difficult to
discharge. At the same time, we are naturally very unwilling to lose the
chance you so kindly give us, and if you could afford us a day or two
to look about us,—you know, Margaretta, we might carefully examine the
workhouse, and the Infant School, and your District.’
‘To be SURE!’ said the emphatic little wife.
‘We have orphans, I know,’ pursued Mr Milvey, quite with the air as if
he might have added, ‘in stock,’ and quite as anxiously as if there were
great competition in the business and he were afraid of losing an order,
‘over at the clay-pits; but they are employed by relations or friends,
and I am afraid it would come at last to a transaction in the way of
barter. And even if you exchanged blankets for the child—or books
and firing—it would be impossible to prevent their being turned into
liquor.’
Accordingly, it was resolved that Mr and Mrs Milvey should search for
an orphan likely to suit, and as free as possible from the foregoing
objections, and should communicate again with Mrs Boffin. Then, Mr
Boffin took the liberty of mentioning to Mr Milvey that if Mr Milvey
would do him the kindness to be perpetually his banker to the extent
of ‘a twenty-pound note or so,’ to be expended without any reference
to him, he would be heartily obliged. At this, both Mr Milvey and Mrs
Milvey were quite as much pleased as if they had no wants of their own,
but only knew what poverty was, in the persons of other people; and
so the interview terminated with satisfaction and good opinion on all
sides.
‘Now, old lady,’ said Mr Boffin, as they resumed their seats behind the
hammer-headed horse and man: ‘having made a very agreeable visit there,
we’ll try Wilfer’s.’
It appeared, on their drawing up at the family gate, that to try