“You are tired.”
“Not at all tired, John dear, but in the humour to write to Lizzie. Good night, dear Pa. Good night, you dear, good, gentle Pa!”
Left to herself she sat down to write, and wrote Lizzie a long letter. She had but completed it and read it over, when her husband came back. “You are just in time, sir,” said Bella; “I am going to give you your first curtain lecture. It shall be a parlour-curtain lecture. You shall take this chair of mine when I have folded my letter, and I will take the stool (though you ought to take it, I can tell you, sir, if it’s the stool of repentance), and you’ll soon find yourself taken to task soundly.”
Her letter folded, sealed, and directed, and her pen wiped, and her middle finger wiped, and her desk locked up and put away, and these transactions performed with an air of severe business sedateness, which the Complete British Housewife might have assumed, and certainly would not have rounded off and broken down in with a musical laugh, as Bella did: she placed her husband in his chair, and placed herself upon her stool.
“Now, sir! To begin at the beginning. What is your name?”
A question more decidedly rushing at the secret he was keeping from her, could not have astounded him. But he kept his countenance and his secret, and answered, “John Rokesmith, my dear.”
“Good boy! Who gave you that name?”
With a returning suspicion that something might have betrayed him to her, he answered, interrogatively, “My godfathers and my godmothers, dear love?”
“Pretty good!” said Bella. “Not goodest good, because you hesitate about it. However, as you know your Catechism fairly, so far, I’ll let you off the rest. Now, I am going to examine you out of my own head. John dear, why did you go back, this evening, to the question you once asked me before—would I like to be rich?”
Again, his secret! He looked down at her as she looked up at him, with her hands folded on his knee, and it was as nearly told as ever secret was.
Having no reply ready, he could do no better than embrace her.
“In short, dear John,” said Bella, “this is the topic of my lecture: I want nothing on Earth, and I want you to believe it.”
“If that’s all, the lecture may be considered over, for I do.”
“It’s not all, John dear,” Bella hesitated. “It’s only Firstly. There’s a dreadful Secondly, and a dreadful Thirdly to come—as I used to say to myself in sermon-time when I was a very small-sized sinner at church.”
“Let them come, my dearest.”
“Are you sure, John dear; are you absolutely certain in your innermost heart of hearts—?”
“Which is not in my keeping,” he rejoined.
“No, John, but the key is.—Are you absolutely certain that down at the bottom of that heart of hearts, which you have given to me as I have given mine to you, there is no remembrance that I was once very mercenary?”
“Why, if there were no remembrance in me of the time you speak of,” he softly asked her with his lips to hers, “could I love you quite as well as I do; could I have in the calendar of my life the brightest of its days; could I whenever I look at your dear face, or hear your dear voice, see and hear my noble champion? It can never have been that which made you serious, darling?”
“No John, it wasn’t that, and still less was it Mrs. Boffin, though I love her. Wait a moment, and I’ll go on with the lecture. Give me a moment, because I like to cry for joy. It’s so delicious, John dear, to cry for joy.”
She did so on his neck, and, still clinging there, laughed a little when she said, “I think I am ready now for Thirdly, John.”
“I am ready for Thirdly,” said John, “whatever it is.”
“I believe, John,” pursued Bella, “that you believe that I believe—”
“My dear child,” cried her husband gaily, “what a quantity of believing!”
“Isn’t there?” said Bella, with another laugh. “I never knew such a quantity! It’s like verbs in an exercise. But I can’t get on with less believing. I’ll try again. I believe, dear John, that you believe that I believe that we have as much money as we require, and that we want for nothing.”
“It is strictly true, Bella.”
“But if our money should by any means be rendered not so much—if we had to stint ourselves a little in purchases that we can afford to make now—would you still have the same confidence in my being quite contented, John?”
“Precisely the same confidence, my soul.”
“Thank you, John dear, thousands upon thousands of times. And I may take it for granted, no doubt,” with a little faltering, “that you would be quite as contented yourself John? But, yes, I know I may. For, knowing that I should be so, how surely I may know that you would be so; you who are so much stronger, and firmer, and more reasonable and more generous, than I am.”
“Hush!” said her husband, “I must not hear that. You are all wrong there, though otherwise as right as can be. And now I am brought to a little piece of news, my dearest, that I might have told you earlier in the evening. I have strong reason for confidently believing that we shall never be in the receipt of a smaller income than our present income.”
She might have shown herself more interested in the intelligence; but she had returned to the investigation of the coat-button that had engaged her attention a few hours before, and scarcely seemed to heed what he said.
“And now we have got to the bottom of it at last,” cried her husband, rallying her, “and this is the thing that made you serious?”
“No dear,” said Bella, twisting the button and shaking her head, “it wasn’t this.”
“Why then, Lord bless this
