Oliver Twist
IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES
Mr. Bumble sat in the parlour, with his on the grate, whence, as it was time, no proceeded, than the of of the sun, which were sent from its cold and surface. A paper fly-cage from the ceiling, to which he occasionally his in thought; and, as the the net-work, Mr. Bumble would a sigh, while a more his countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might be that the to mind, some painful passage in his own past life.
Nor was Mr. Bumble’s the only thing calculated to a in the of a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances, and those closely with his own person, which that a great had taken place in the position of his affairs. The coat, and the hat; where were they? He still knee-breeches, and dark on his limbs; but they were not the breeches. The was wide-skirted; and in that respect like the coat, but, oh how different! The was replaced by a one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
There are some in life, which, of the more they offer, value and from the and with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a his apron; a his gown; a his hat. Strip the of his apron, or the of his and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and too, sometimes, are more questions of and than some people imagine.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Another had come into power. On him the hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended.
“And to-morrow two months it was done!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. “It a age.”
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had a whole of into the space of eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a of meaning in the sigh.
“I myself,” said Mr. Bumble, the same train of relection, “for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small quantity of second-hand furniture, and twenty in money. I very reasonable. Cheap, cheap!”
“Cheap!” a voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear: “you would have been dear at any price; and dear I paid for you, Lord above that!”
Mr. Bumble turned, and the of his consort, who, the she had of his complaint, had the at a venture.
“Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sternness.
“Well!” the lady.
“Have the to look at me,” said Mr. Bumble, his upon her.
“If she such a as that,” said Mr. Bumble to himself, “she can anything. It is a I to fail with paupers. If it fails with her, my power is gone.”
Whether an small of be to paupers, who, being fed, are in no very high condition; or the late Mrs. Corney was particularly proof against glances; are of opinion. The of fact, is, that the was in no way by Mr. Bumble’s scowl, but, on the contrary, it with great disdain, and a laugh thereat, which as though it were genuine.
On this most sound, Mr. Bumble looked, incredulous, and amazed. He then into his state; did he himself until his attention was again by the voice of his partner.
“Are you going to there, all day?” Mrs. Bumble.
“I am going to here, as long as I think proper, ma’am,” Mr. Bumble; “and although I was not snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze, laugh, or cry, as the me; such being my prerogative.”
“Your prerogative!” Mrs. Bumble, with contempt.
“I said the word, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble. “The of a man is to command.”
“And what’s the of a woman, in the name of Goodness?” the of Mr. Corney deceased.
“To obey, ma’am,” Mr. Bumble. “Your late husband should have it you; and then, perhaps, he might have been alive now. I wish he was, man!”
Mrs. Bumble, at a glance, that the moment had now arrived, and that a for the on one or other, must necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner this to the and gone, than she into a chair, and with a loud that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, into a of tears.
But, were not the to their way to Mr. Bumble’s soul; his was waterproof. Like that with rain, his nerves were and more vigorous, by of tears, which, being of weakness, and so of his own power, pleased and him. He his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, and begged, in an manner, that she should her hardest: the being looked upon, by the faculty, as to health.
“It opens the lungs, the countenance, the eyes, and the temper,” said Mr. Bumble. “So away.”
As he himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his from a peg, and it on, rakishly, on one side, as a man might, who he had his in a manner, his hands into his pockets, and the door, with much and in his whole appearance.
Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had the tears, they were less than a manual assault; but, she was prepared to make trial of the mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in discovering.
The proof he of the fact, was in a sound, succeeded by the off of his to the opposite end of the room. This his head, the expert lady, him the with one hand, a of (dealt with and dexterity) upon it with the other. This done, she a little by his face, and his hair; and, having, by this time, as much as she necessary for the offence, she pushed him over a chair, which was well for the purpose: and him to talk about his again, if he dared.
“Get up!” said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. “And take away from here, unless you want me to do something desperate.”
Mr. Bumble rose with a very countenance: much what something might be. Picking up his hat, he looked the door.
“Are you going?” Mrs. Bumble.
“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” Mr. Bumble, making a motion the door. “I didn’t to—I’m going, my dear! You are so very violent, that I—”
At this instant, Mrs. Bumble to replace the carpet, which had been up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble out of the room, without another on his sentence: the late Mrs. Corney in full of the field.
Mr. Bumble was taken by surprise, and beaten. He had a for bullying: no from the of cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to say) a coward. This is by no means a to his character; for many official personages, who are in high respect and admiration, are the of infirmities. The is made, indeed, in his than otherwise, and with a view of the reader with a just of his for office.
But, the measure of his was not yet full. After making a of the house, and thinking, for the time, that the poor-laws were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, them to the parish, ought, in to be visited with no at all, but as who had much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female were in the linen: when the of voices in conversation, now proceeded.
“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble, up all his native dignity. “These at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! there! What do you by this noise, you hussies?”
With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very and angry manner: which was at once for a most and air, as his rested on the of his lady wife.
“My dear,” said Mr. Bumble, “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Didn’t know I was here!” Mrs. Bumble. “What do you do here?”
“I they were talking too much to be doing their work properly, my dear,” Mr. Bumble: at a of old at the wash-tub, who were notes of at the workhouse-master’s humility.
“You they were talking too much?” said Mrs. Bumble. “What is it of yours?”
“Why, my dear—” Mr. Bumble submissively.
“What is it of yours?” Mrs. Bumble, again.
“It’s very true, you’re here, my dear,” submitted Mr. Bumble; “but I you mightn’t be in the way just then.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,” returned his lady. “We don’t want any of your interference. You’re a great too of your nose into that don’t you, making in the house laugh, the moment your is turned, and making look like a every hour in the day. Be off; come!”
Mr. Bumble, with feelings, the of the two old paupers, who were together most rapturously, for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, patience no delay, up a bowl of soap-suds, and him the door, ordered him to depart, on pain of the upon his person.
What Mr. Bumble do? He looked round, and away; and, as he the door, the of the into a of delight. It wanted but this. He was in their eyes; he had and station the very paupers; he had from all the and of beadleship, to the of the most hen-peckery.
“All in two months!” said Mr. Bumble, with thoughts. “Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but else’s, so as the was concerned, and now!—”
It was too much. Mr. Bumble the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (for he had the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street.
He walked up one street, and another, until had the of his grief; and then the of him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused one in a by-way, parlour, as he from a over the blinds, was deserted, save by one customer. It to rain, heavily, at the moment. This him. Mr. Bumble in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the into which he had looked from the street.
The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a in his look, as well as by the on his dress, to have some distance. He Bumble askance, as he entered, but to his in of his salutation.
Mr. Bumble had for two; that the had been more familiar: so he his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper with great of and circumstance.
It so happened, however: as it will very often, when men into company under such circumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerful inducement, which he not resist, to a look at the stranger: and that he did so, he his eyes, in some confusion, to that the was at that moment a look at him. Mr. Bumble’s was by the very of the stranger’s eye, which was and bright, but by a of and suspicion, anything he had before, and to behold.
When they had each other’s times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, voice, silence.
“Were you looking for me,” he said, “when you in at the window?”
“Not that I am aware of, unless you’re Mr.—” Here Mr. Bumble stopped short; for he was to know the stranger’s name, and in his impatience, he might supply the blank.
“I see you were not,” said the stranger; an of playing about his mouth; “or you have my name. You don’t know it. I would you not to ask for it.”
“I meant no harm, man,” Mr. Bumble, majestically.
“And have done none,” said the stranger.
Another succeeded this dialogue: which was again by the stranger.
“I have you before, I think?” said he. “You were at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were here, once; were you not?”
“I was,” said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; “porochial beadle.”
“Just so,” the other, his head. “It was in that I saw you. What are you now?”
“Master of the workhouse,” Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to check any the might otherwise assume. “Master of the workhouse, man!”
“You have the same to your own interest, that you always had, I not?” the stranger, looking into Mr. Bumble’s eyes, as he them in at the question.
“Don’t to answer freely, man. I know you well, you see.”
“I suppose, a married man,” Mr. Bumble, his with his hand, and the stranger, from to foot, in perplexity, “is not more to an when he can, than a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can to any little fee, when it comes to them in a and proper manner.”
The smiled, and his again: as much to say, he had not his man; then the bell.
“Fill this again,” he said, Mr. Bumble’s empty to the landlord. “Let it be and hot. You like it so, I suppose?”
“Not too strong,” Mr. Bumble, with a cough.
“You what that means, landlord!” said the stranger, drily.
The smiled, disappeared, and returned with a jorum: of which, the the water into Mr. Bumble’s eyes.
“Now to me,” said the stranger, after the door and window. “I came to this place, to-day, to you out; and, by one of those which the in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was in, while you were in my mind. I want some from you. I don’t ask you to give it for nothing, as it is. Put up that, to with.”
As he spoke, he pushed a of across the table to his companion, carefully, as though that the of money should be without. When Mr. Bumble had the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he on:
“Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years, last winter.”
“It’s a long time,” said Mr. Bumble. “Very good. I’ve done it.”
“The scene, the workhouse.”
“Good!”
“And the time, night.”
“Yes.”
“And the place, the hole, it was, in which the life and health so often to themselves—gave birth to children for the to rear; and their shame, ’em in the grave!”
“The lying-in room, I suppose?” said Mr. Bumble, not the stranger’s description.
“Yes,” said the stranger. “A boy was there.”
“A many boys,” Mr. Bumble, his head, despondingly.
“A on the devils!” the stranger; “I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was here, to a coffin-maker—I wish he had his coffin, and his in it—and who ran away to London, as it was supposed.
“Why, you Oliver! Young Twist!” said Mr. Bumble; “I him, of course. There wasn’t a rascal—”
“It’s not of him I want to hear; I’ve of him,” said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the of a on the of Oliver’s vices. “It’s of a woman; the that nursed his mother. Where is she?”
“Where is she?” said Mr. Bumble, the gin-and-water had facetious. “It would be hard to tell. There’s no there, place she’s gone to; so I she’s out of employment, anyway.”
“What do you mean?” the stranger, sternly.
“That she died last winter,” Mr. Bumble.
The man looked at him when he had this information, and although he did not his for some time afterwards, his and abstracted, and he in thought. For some time, he appeared he ought to be or by the intelligence; but at length he more freely; and his eyes, that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart.
But Mr. Bumble was enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened, for the of some in the of his half. He well the night of old Sally’s death, which the of that day had him good to recollect, as the occasion on which he had to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had to him the of which she had been the witness, he had to know that it related to something that had in the old woman’s attendance, as nurse, upon the mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this to mind, he the stranger, with an air of mystery, that one woman had been with the old she died; and that she could, as he had to believe, some light on the of his inquiry.
“How can I her?” said the stranger, off his guard; and that all his (whatever they were) were by the intelligence.
“Only through me,” Mr. Bumble.
“When?” the stranger, hastily.
“To-morrow,” Bumble.
“At nine in the evening,” said the stranger, producing a of paper, and upon it, an address by the water-side, in that his agitation; “at nine in the evening, her to me there. I needn’t tell you to be secret. It’s your interest.”
With these words, he the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the that had been drunk. Shortly that their were different, he departed, without more than an of the hour of for the night.
On at the address, the that it no name. The had not gone far, so he after him to ask it.
“What do you want?” the man, round, as Bumble touched him on the arm. “Following me?”
“Only to ask a question,” said the other, pointing to the of paper. “What name am I to ask for?”
“Monks!” the man; and away.
