Oliver Twist (34 page)

Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, made a closer inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety the exact condition of the furniture, down to the very horsehair seats of the chairs, and had repeated each process full half a dozen times, before he began to think that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets thinking; as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney’s approach, it occurred to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous way of spending the time if he were further to allay his curiosity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney’s chest of drawers.

Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers, which, being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved between two layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender, seemed to yield him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand comer drawer (in which was the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken, gave forth, a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned with a stately walk to the fireplace and, resuming his old attitude, said, with a grave and determined air, “I’ll do it!” He followed up this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a waggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog; and then he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seeming pleasure and interest.

He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey when Mrs. Corney, hurrying into the room. threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by the fireside and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart and gasped for breath.

“Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, “what is this, ma‘am? Has anything happened, ma’am? Pray answer me; I’m on—on—” Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately think of the word “tenter-hooks,” so he said “broken bottles.”

“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” cried the lady, “I have been so dreadfully put out!”

“Put out, ma‘am!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble; “who has dared to—? I know!” said Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, “this is them wicious paupers!”

“It’s dreadful to think of!” said the lady, shuddering.

“Then don’t think of it, ma‘am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble.

“I can’t help it,” whimpered the lady.

“Then take something, ma‘am,” said Mr. Bumble soothingly. “A little of the wine?”

“Not for the world!” replied Mrs. Corney. “I couldn‘t—oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner—oh!” Uttering these words, the good lady pointed distractedly to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents and held it to the lady’s lips.

“I’m better now,” said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it.

Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose.

“Peppermint,” exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. “Try it! There’s a little—a little something else in it.”

Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look, smacked his lips, took another taste, and put the cup down empty.

“It’s very comforting,” said Mrs. Corney.

“Very much so indeed, ma‘am,” said the beadle: As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.

“Nothing,” replied Mrs. Corney. “I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur.”

“Not weak, ma‘am,” retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. “Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?”

“We are all weak creeturs.” said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle.

“So we are,” said the beadle.

Nothing was said, on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Comey’s chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney’s apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined.

“We are all weak creeturs,” said Mr. Bumble.

Mrs. Corney sighed.

“Don’t sigh, Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble.

“I can’t help it,” said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again.

“This is a very comfortable room, ma‘am,” said Mr. Bumble looking round. “Another room, and this, ma’am, would be a complete thing.”

“It would be too much for one,” murmured the lady.

“But not for two, ma‘am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. “Eh, Mrs. Corney?”

Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney’s face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief, but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble.

“The board allow you coals, don’t they, Mrs. Corney?” inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand.

“And candles,” replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure..

“Coals, candles, and house-rent free,” said Mr. Bumble. “Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a Angel you are!”

The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble’s arms; and that gentleman, in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chast nose.

“Such porochial perfection!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. “You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fas cinator?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.

“He can’t live a week, the doctor says,” pursued Mr. Bumble. “He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy: that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!”

Mrs. Corney sobbed.

“The little word?” said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. “The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?”

“Ye—ye—yes!” sighed out the matron.

“One more,” pursued the beadle; “compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?”

Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak, and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble’s neck, and said it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was “a irresistible duck.”

Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture, which was rendered the more necessary by the flutter and agitation of the lady’s spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman’s decease.

“Very good,” said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; “I’ll call at Sowerberry’s as I go home, and tell him to send to morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?”

“It wasn’t anything particular, dear,” said the lady, evasively.

“It must have been something, love,” urged Mr. Bumble. “Won’t you tell your own B.?”

“Not now,” rejoined the lady; “one of these days. After we’re married, dear.”

“After we’re married!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble. “It wasn’t any impudence from any of them male paupers as—”

“No, no, love!” interposed the lady, hastily.

“If I thought it was,” continued Mr. Bumble, “if I thought as any one of ‘em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance—”

“They wouldn’t have dared to do it, love,” responded the lady.

“The
^y
had better not!” said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. “Let me see any man, porochial or extraporochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn’t do it a second time!”

Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady’s charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove.

The dove then turned up his coat-collar and put on his cocked-hat and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night, merely pausing for a few minutes, in the male paupers’ ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart and bright visions of his future promotion, which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker.

Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper, and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised.

The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and butter, plates and glasses, a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair with his legs thrown over one of the arms, an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel, which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman’s nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted.

“Here’s a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!” said Charlotte; “try him, do; only this one.”

“What a delicious thing is a oyster!” remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it. “What a pity it is, a number of ‘em should ever made you feel uncomfortable; isn’t it, Char lotte?”

“It’s quite a cruelty,” said Charlotte.

“So it is,” acquiesced Mr. Claypole. “A‘nt yer fond of oysters?”

“Not overmuch,” replied Charlotte. “I like to see you eat ‘em, Noah dear, better than eating ’em myself”

“Lor‘!” said Noah, reflectively; “how queer!”

“Have another,” said Charlotte. “Here’s one with such a beautiful, delicate beard!”

“I can’t manage any more,” said Noah. “I’m very sorry. Come here, Charlotte, and I’ll kiss yer.”

“What!” said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. “Say that again, sir.”

Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror.

“Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!” said Mr. Bumble. “How dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dear you encourage him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. “Faugh!”

“I didn’t. mean to do it!” said Noah, blubbering. “She’s always a-kissing of me,. whether I like it or not.”

“Oh, Noah,” cried Charlotte, reproachfully.

“Yer are; yer know yer are!” retorted Noah. “She’s always a-doing of it. Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all manner of love!”

“Silence!” cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. “Take yourself downstairs, ma‘am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does. come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman’s shell after breakfast tomorrow morning. Do you hear, sir? Kissing!” cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. “The. sin and wickedness of the lower orders in the porochial district is frightful! If parliament don’t take their abominable courses under consideration, this country’s ruined, and the character of the peasantry gone for ever!” With these words, the beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker’s premises.

And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made all necessary preparations for the old woman’s funeral. let us set on foot a few inquiries after young Oliver Twist and ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.

 

“WOLVES TEAR YOUR THROATS!” MUTTERED SIKES, GRINDING his teeth. “I wish I was among some of you; you’d howl the hoarser for it.”

As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate ferocity that his desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body of the wounded boy across his bended knee, and turned his head for an instant to look back at his pursuers.

There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction.

“Stop, you white-livered hound!” cried the robber, shouting after Toby Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead. “Stop!”

The repetition of the word brought Toby to a dead standstill: For he was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot, and Sikes was in no mood to be played with.

“Bear a hand with the boy,” cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his confederate. “Come back!”

Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly along.