the girl. No doubt it was very weak—it always is very weak, some authorities hold—but he loved the girl.
‘I don’t know whether you happen to have read many books of African Travel, Mr Rokesmith?’ said R. W.
‘I have read several.’
‘Well, you know, there’s usually a King George, or a King Boy, or a King Sambo, or a King Bill, or Bull, or Rum, or Junk, or whatever name the sailors may have happened to give him.’
‘Where?’ asked Rokesmith.
‘Anywhere. Anywhere in Africa, I mean. Pretty well everywhere, I may say; for black kings are cheap—and I think’—said R. W., with an apologetic air, ‘nasty’.
‘I am much of your opinion, Mr Wilfer. You were going to say—?’
‘I was going to say, the king is generally dressed in a London hat only, or a Manchester pair of braces, or one epaulette, or an uniform coat with his legs in the sleeves, or something of that kind.’
‘Just so,’ said the Secretary.
‘In confidence, I assure you, Mr Rokesmith,’ observed the cheerful cherub, ‘that when more of my family were at home and to be provided for, I used to remind myself immensely of that king. You have no idea, as a single man, of the difficulty I have had in wearing more than one good article at a time.’
‘I can easily believe it, Mr Wilfer.’
‘I only mention it,’ said R. W. in the warmth of his heart, ‘as a proof of the amiable, delicate, and considerate affection of my daughter Bella. If she had been a little spoilt, I couldn’t have thought so very much of it, under the circumstances. But no, not a bit. And she is so very pretty! I hope you agree with me in finding her very pretty, Mr Rokesmith?’
‘Certainly I do. Every one must.’
‘I hope so,’ said the cherub. ‘Indeed, I have no doubt of it. This is a great advancement for her in life, Mr Rokesmith. A great opening of her prospects?’
‘Miss Wilfer could have no better friends than Mr and Mrs Boffin.’
‘Impossible!’ said the gratified cherub. ‘Really I begin to think things are very well as they are. If Mr John Harmon had lived—’
‘He is better dead,’ said the Secretary.
‘No, I won’t go so far as to say that,’ urged the cherub, a little remonstrant against the very decisive and unpitying tone; ‘but he mightn’t have suited Bella, or Bella mightn’t have suited him, or fifty things, whereas now I hope she can choose for herself.’
‘Has she—as you place the confidence in me of speaking on the subject, you will excuse my asking—has she—perhaps—chosen?’ faltered the Secretary.
‘Oh dear no!’ returned R. W.
‘Young ladies sometimes,’ Rokesmith hinted, ‘choose without mentioning their choice to their fathers.’
‘Not in this case, Mr Rokesmith. Between my daughter Bella and me there is a regular league and covenant of confidence. It was ratified only the other day. The ratification dates from—these,’ said the cherub, giving a little pull at the lappels of his coat and the pockets of his trousers. ‘Oh no, she has not chosen. To be sure, young George Sampson, in the days when Mr John Harmon—’
‘Who I wish had never been born!’ said the Secretary, with a gloomy brow.
R. W. looked at him with surprise, as thinking he had contracted an unaccountable spite against the poor deceased, and continued: ‘In the days when Mr John Harmon was being sought out, young George Sampson certainly was hovering about Bella, and Bella let him hover. But it never was seriously thought of, and it’s still less than ever to be thought of now. For Bella is ambitious, Mr Rokesmith, and I think I may predict will marry fortune. This time, you see, she will have the person and the property before her together, and will be able to make her choice with her eyes open. This is my road. I am very sorry to part company so soon. Good morning, sir!’
The Secretary pursued his way, not very much elevated in spirits by this conversation, and, arriving at the Boffin mansion, found Betty Higden waiting for him.
‘I should thank you kindly, sir,’ said Betty, ‘if I might make so bold as have a word or two wi’ you.’
She should have as many words as she liked, he told her; and took her into his room, and made her sit down.
‘’Tis concerning Sloppy, sir,’ said Betty. ‘And that’s how I come here by myself. Not wishing him to know what I’m a-going to say to you, I got the start of him early and walked up.’
‘You have wonderful energy,’ returned Rokesmith. ‘You are as young as I am.’
Betty Higden gravely shook her head. ‘I am strong for my time of life, sir, but not young, thank the Lord!’
‘Are you thankful for not being young?’
‘Yes, sir. If I was young, it would all have to be gone through again, and the end would be a weary way off, don’t you see? But never mind me; ‘tis concerning Sloppy.’
‘And what about him, Betty?’
‘’Tis just this, sir. It can’t be reasoned out of his head by any powers of mine but what that he can do right by your kind lady and gentleman and do his work for me, both together. Now he can’t. To give himself up to being put in the way of arning a good living and getting on, he must give me up. Well; he won’t.’
‘I respect him for it,’ said Rokesmith.
‘Do ye, sir? I don’t know but what I do myself. Still that don’t make it right to let him have his way. So as he won’t give me up, I’m a-going to give him up.’
‘How, Betty?’
‘I’m a-going to run away from him.’
With an astonished look at the indomitable old face and the bright eyes, the Secretary repeated, ‘Run away from him?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Betty, with one nod. And in the nod and in the firm set of her mouth, there was a vigour of purpose not to be doubted.
‘Come, come!’ said the Secretary. ‘We must talk about this. Let us take our time over it, and try to get at the true sense of the case and the true course, by degrees.’
‘Now, lookee here, by dear,’ returned old Betty—‘asking your excuse for being so familiar, but being of a time of life a’most to be your grandmother twice over. Now, lookee, here. ‘Tis a poor living and a hard as is to be got out of this work that I’m a doing now, and but for Sloppy I don’t know as I should have held to it this long. But it did just keep us on, the two together. Now that I’m alone—with even Johnny gone—I’d far sooner be upon my feet and tiring of myself out, than a sitting folding and folding by the fire. And I’ll tell you why. There’s a deadness steals over me at times, that the kind of life favours and I don’t like. Now, I seem to have Johnny in my arms—now, his mother—now, his mother’s mother—now, I seem to be a child myself, a lying once again in the arms of my own mother—then I get numbed, thought and sense, till I start out of my seat, afeerd that I’m a growing like the poor old people that they brick up in the Unions, as you may sometimes see when they let ‘em out of the four walls to have a warm in the sun, crawling quite scared about the streets. I was a nimble girl, and have always been a active body, as I told your lady, first time ever I see her good face. I can still walk twenty mile if I am put to it. I’d far better be a walking than a getting numbed and dreary. I’m a good fair knitter, and can make many little things to sell. The loan from your lady and gentleman of twenty shillings to fit out a basket with, would be a fortune for me. Trudging round the country and tiring of myself out, I shall keep the deadness off, and get my own bread by my own labour. And what more can I want?’
‘And this is your plan,’ said the Secretary, ‘for running away?’