brother, young Hexam, was your real recommendation here,’ said the Secretary, quietly going back to the point; ‘Mr and Mrs Boffin happening to know, through Mr Lightwood, that he was your pupil. Anything that I ask respecting the brother and sister, or either of them, I ask for myself out of my own interest in the subject, and not in my official character, or on Mr Boffin’s behalf. How I come to be interested, I need not explain. You know the father’s connection with the discovery of Mr Harmon’s body.’
‘Sir,’ replied Bradley, very restlessly indeed, ‘I know all the circumstances of that case.’
‘Pray tell me, Mr Headstone,’ said the Secretary. ‘Does the sister suffer under any stigma because of the impossible accusation—groundless would be a better word—that was made against the father, and substantially withdrawn?’
‘No, sir,’ returned Bradley, with a kind of anger.
‘I am very glad to hear it.’
‘The sister,’ said Bradley, separating his words over-carefully, and speaking as if he were repeating them from a book, ‘suffers under no reproach that repels a man of unimpeachable character who had made for himself every step of his way in life, from placing her in his own station. I will not say, raising her to his own station; I say, placing her in it. The sister labours under no reproach, unless she should unfortunately make it for herself. When such a man is not deterred from regarding her as his equal, and when he has convinced himself that there is no blemish on her, I think the fact must be taken to be pretty expressive.’
‘And there is such a man?’ said the Secretary.
Bradley Headstone knotted his brows, and squared his large lower jaw, and fixed his eyes on the ground with an air of determination that seemed unnecessary to the occasion, as he replied: ‘And there is such a man.’
The Secretary had no reason or excuse for prolonging the conversation, and it ended here. Within three hours the oakum-headed apparition once more dived into the Leaving Shop, and that night Rogue Riderhood’s recantation lay in the post office, addressed under cover to Lizzie Hexam at her right address.
All these proceedings occupied John Rokesmith so much, that it was not until the following day that he saw Bella again. It seemed then to be tacitly understood between them that they were to be as distantly easy as they could, without attracting the attention of Mr and Mrs Boffin to any marked change in their manner. The fitting out of old Betty Higden was favourable to this, as keeping Bella engaged and interested, and as occupying the general attention.
‘I think,’ said Rokesmith, when they all stood about her, while she packed her tidy basket—except Bella, who was busily helping on her knees at the chair on which it stood; ‘that at least you might keep a letter in your pocket, Mrs Higden, which I would write for you and date from here, merely stating, in the names of Mr and Mrs Boffin, that they are your friends;—I won’t say patrons, because they wouldn’t like it.’
‘No, no, no,’ said Mr Boffin; ‘no patronizing! Let’s keep out of that, whatever we come to.’
‘There’s more than enough of that about, without us; ain’t there, Noddy?’ said Mrs Boffin.
‘I believe you, old lady!’ returned the Golden Dustman. ‘Overmuch indeed!’
‘But people sometimes like to be patronized; don’t they, sir?’ asked Bella, looking up.
‘I don’t. And if they do, my dear, they ought to learn better,’ said Mr Boffin. ‘Patrons and Patronesses, and Vice-Patrons and Vice-Patronesses, and Deceased Patrons and Deceased Patronesses, and Ex-Vice-Patrons and Ex-Vice-Patronesses, what does it all mean in the books of the Charities that come pouring in on Rokesmith as he sits among ‘em pretty well up to his neck! If Mr Tom Noakes gives his five shillings ain’t he a Patron, and if Mrs Jack Styles gives her five shillings ain’t she a Patroness? What the deuce is it all about? If it ain’t stark staring impudence, what do you call it?’
‘Don’t be warm, Noddy,’ Mrs Boffin urged.
‘Warm!’ cried Mr Boffin. ‘It’s enough to make a man smoking hot. I can’t go anywhere without being Patronized. I don’t want to be Patronized. If I buy a ticket for a Flower Show, or a Music Show, or any sort of Show, and pay pretty heavy for it, why am I to be Patroned and Patronessed as if the Patrons and Patronesses treated me? If there’s a good thing to be done, can’t it be done on its own merits? If there’s a bad thing to be done, can it ever be Patroned and Patronessed right? Yet when a new Institution’s going to be built, it seems to me that the bricks and mortar ain’t made of half so much consequence as the Patrons and Patronesses; no, nor yet the objects. I wish somebody would tell me whether other countries get Patronized to anything like the extent of this one! And as to the Patrons and Patronesses themselves, I wonder they’re not ashamed of themselves. They ain’t Pills, or Hair-Washes, or Invigorating Nervous Essences, to be puffed in that way!’
Having delivered himself of these remarks, Mr Boffin took a trot, according to his usual custom, and trotted back to the spot from which he had started.
‘As to the letter, Rokesmith,’ said Mr Boffin, ‘you’re as right as a trivet. Give her the letter, make her take the letter, put it in her pocket by violence. She might fall sick. You know you might fall sick,’ said Mr Boffin. ‘Don’t deny it, Mrs Higden, in your obstinacy; you know you might.’
Old Betty laughed, and said that she would take the letter and be thankful.
‘That’s right!’ said Mr Boffin. ‘Come! That’s sensible. And don’t be thankful to us (for we never thought of it), but to Mr Rokesmith.’
The letter was written, and read to her, and given to her.
‘Now, how do you feel?’ said Mr Boffin. ‘Do you like it?’
‘The letter, sir?’ said Betty. ‘Ay, it’s a beautiful letter!’
‘No, no, no; not the letter,’ said Mr Boffin; ‘the idea. Are you sure you’re strong enough to carry out the idea?’
‘I shall be stronger, and keep the deadness off better, this way, than any way left open to me, sir.’
‘Don’t say than any way left open, you know,’ urged Mr Boffin; ‘because there are ways without end. A housekeeper would be acceptable over yonder at the Bower, for instance. Wouldn’t you like to see the Bower, and know a retired literary man of the name of Wegg that lives there—with a wooden leg?’
Old Betty was proof even against this temptation, and fell to adjusting her black bonnet and shawl.
‘I wouldn’t let you go, now it comes to this, after all,’ said Mr Boffin, ‘if I didn’t hope that it may make a man and a workman of Sloppy, in as short a time as ever a man and workman was made yet. Why, what have you got there, Betty? Not a doll?’
It was the man in the Guards who had been on duty over Johnny’s bed. The solitary old woman showed what it was, and put it up quietly in her dress. Then, she gratefully took leave of Mrs Boffin, and of Mr Boffin, and of Rokesmith, and then put her old withered arms round Bella’s young and blooming neck, and said, repeating Johnny’s words: ‘A kiss for the boofer lady.’
The Secretary looked on from a doorway at the boofer lady thus encircled, and still looked on at the boofer lady standing alone there, when the determined old figure with its steady bright eyes
