‘My dear Bella, I hope and trust not.’
’I have hoped and trusted not too, Pa; but every
day he changes for the worse, and for the worse.
Not to me—he is always much the same to
me—but to others about him. Before
my eyes he grows suspicious, capricious, hard, tyrannical,
unjust. If ever a good man were ruined by good
fortune, it is my benefactor. And yet, Pa, think
how terrible the fascination of money is! I see
this, and hate this, and dread this, and don’t
know but that money might make a much worse change
in me. And yet I have money always in my thoughts
and my desires; and the whole life I place before
myself is money, money, money, and what money can make
of life!’
THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN FALLS INTO BAD COMPANY
Were Bella Wilfer’s bright and ready little
wits at fault, or was the Golden Dustman passing through
the furnace of proof and coming out dross? Ill
news travels fast. We shall know full soon.
On that very night of her return from the Happy Return,
something chanced which Bella closely followed with
her eyes and ears. There was an apartment at
the side of the Boffin mansion, known as Mr Boffin’s
room. Far less grand than the rest of the house,
it was far more comfortable, being pervaded by a certain
air of homely snugness, which upholstering despotism
had banished to that spot when it inexorably set its
face against Mr Boffin’s appeals for mercy in
behalf of any other chamber. Thus, although a
room of modest situation—for its windows
gave on Silas Wegg’s old corner—and
of no pretensions to velvet, satin, or gilding, it
had got itself established in a domestic position analogous
to that of an easy dressing-gown or pair of slippers;
and whenever the family wanted to enjoy a particularly
pleasant fireside evening, they enjoyed it, as an
institution that must be, in Mr Boffin’s room.
Mr and Mrs Boffin were reported sitting in this room,
when Bella got back. Entering it, she found the
Secretary there too; in official attendance it would
appear, for he was standing with some papers in his
hand by a table with shaded candles on it, at which
Mr Boffin was seated thrown back in his easy chair.
‘You are busy, sir,’ said Bella, hesitating
at the door.
’Not at all, my dear, not at all. You’re
one of ourselves. We never make company of you.
Come in, come in. Here’s the old lady in
her usual place.’
Mrs Boffin adding her nod and smile of welcome to
Mr Boffin’s words, Bella took her book to a
chair in the fireside corner, by Mrs Boffin’s
work-table. Mr Boffin’s station was on the
opposite side.
‘Now, Rokesmith,’ said the Golden Dustman,
so sharply rapping the table to bespeak his attention
as Bella turned the leaves of her book, that she started;
‘where were we?’
‘You were saying, sir,’ returned the Secretary,
with an air of some reluctance and a glance towards
those others who were present, ’that you considered
the time had come for fixing my salary.’
