But between Bella Wilfer and Georgiana Podsnap there was this one difference, among many others, that Bella was in no danger of being captivated by Alfred. She distrusted and disliked him. Indeed, her perception was so quick, and her observation so sharp, that after all she mistrusted his wife too, though with her giddy vanity and wilfulness she squeezed the mistrust away into a corner of her mind, and blocked it up there.
Mrs. Lammle took the friendliest interest in Bella’s making a good match. Mrs. Lammle said, in a sportive way, she really must show her beautiful Bella what kind of wealthy creatures she and Alfred had on hand, who would as one man fall at her feet enslaved. Fitting occasion made, Mrs. Lammle accordingly produced the most passable of those feverish, boastful, and indefinably loose gentlemen who were always lounging in and out of the City on questions of the Bourse and Greek and Spanish and India and Mexican and par and premium and discount and three-quarters and seven-eighths. Who in their agreeable manner did homage to Bella as if she were a compound of fine girl, thoroughbred horse, well-built drag, and remarkable pipe. But without the least effect, though even Mr. Fledgeby’s attractions were cast into the scale.
“I fear, Bella dear,” said Mrs. Lammle one day in the chariot, “that you will be very hard to please.”
“I don’t expect to be pleased, dear,” said Bella, with a languid turn of her eyes.
“Truly, my love,” returned Sophronia, shaking her head, and smiling her best smile, “it would not be very easy to find a man worthy of your attractions.”
“The question is not a man, my dear,” said Bella, coolly, “but an establishment.”
“My love,” returned Mrs. Lammle, “your prudence amazes me—where did you study life so well!—you are right. In such a case as yours, the object is a fitting establishment. You could not descend to an inadequate one from Mr. Boffin’s house, and even if your beauty alone could not command it, it is to be assumed that Mr. and Mrs. Boffin will—”
“Oh! they have already,” Bella interposed.
“No! Have they really?”
A little vexed by a suspicion that she had spoken precipitately, and withal a little defiant of her own vexation, Bella determined not to retreat.
“That is to say,” she explained, “they have told me they mean to portion me as their adopted child, if you mean that. But don’t mention it.”
“Mention it!” replied Mrs. Lammle, as if she were full of awakened feeling at the suggestion of such an impossibility. “Men‑tion it!”
“I don’t mind telling you, Mrs. Lammle—” Bella began again.
“My love, say Sophronia, or I must not say Bella.”
With a little short, petulant “Oh!” Bella complied. “Oh!—Sophronia then—I don’t mind telling you, Sophronia, that I am convinced I have no heart, as people call it; and that I think that sort of thing is nonsense.”
“Brave girl!” murmured Mrs. Lammle.
“And so,” pursued Bella, “as to seeking to please myself, I don’t; except in the one respect I have mentioned. I am indifferent otherwise.”
“But you can’t help pleasing, Bella,” said Mrs. Lammle, rallying her with an arch look and her best smile, “you can’t help making a proud and an admiring husband. You may not care to please yourself, and you may not care to please him, but you are not a free agent as to pleasing: you are forced to do that, in spite of yourself, my dear; so it may be a question whether you may not as well please yourself too, if you can.”
Now, the very grossness of this flattery put Bella upon proving that she actually did please in spite of herself. She had a misgiving that she was doing wrong—though she had an indistinct foreshadowing that some harm might come of it thereafter, she little thought what consequences it would really bring about—but she went on with her confidence.
“Don’t talk of pleasing in spite of one’s self, dear,” said Bella. “I have had enough of that.”
“Ay?” cried Mrs. Lammle. “Am I already corroborated, Bella?”
“Never mind, Sophronia, we will not speak of it any more. Don’t ask me about it.”
This plainly meaning do ask me about it, Mrs. Lammle did as she was requested.
“Tell me, Bella. Come, my dear. What provoking burr has been inconveniently attracted to the charming skirts, and with difficulty shaken off?”
“Provoking indeed,” said Bella, “and no burr to boast of! But don’t ask me.”
“Shall I guess?”
“You would never guess. What would you say to our Secretary?”
“My dear! The hermit Secretary, who creeps up and down the back stairs, and is never seen!”
“I don’t know about his creeping up and down the back stairs,” said Bella, rather contemptuously, “further than knowing that he does no such thing; and as to his never being seen, I should be content never to have seen him, though he is quite as visible as you are. But I pleased him (for my sins) and he had the presumption to tell me so.”
“The man never made a declaration to you, my dear Bella!”
“Are you sure of that, Sophronia?” said Bella. “I am not. In fact, I am sure of the contrary.”
“The man must be mad,” said Mrs. Lammle, with a kind of resignation.
“He appeared to be in his senses,” returned Bella, tossing her head, “and he had plenty to say for himself. I told him my opinion of his declaration and his conduct, and dismissed him. Of course this has all been very inconvenient to me, and very disagreeable. It has remained a secret, however. That word reminds me to observe, Sophronia, that I have glided on into telling you the secret, and that I rely upon you never to mention it.”
“Mention it!” repeated Mrs. Lammle with her former feeling. “Men‑tion it!”
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