ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED
A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY
As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a
personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his
coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasure
to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallentry
to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with an eye
of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words,
which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron
of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces these words--trusting that
he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for those upon
earth to whom high and important authority is delegated--hastens to pay them
that respect which their position demands, and to treat them with all that
duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues,
imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to
introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles,
and elucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong: which could not
fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but
which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, to postpone to
some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on the arrival of which, he will
be prepared to show, that a beadle properly constituted: that is to say, a
parochial beadle, attached to a parochail workhouse, and attending in his
official capacity the parochial church: is, in right and virtue of his office,
possessed of all the excellences and best qualities of humanity; and that to
none of those excellences, can mere companies' beadles, or court-of-law beadles,
or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last, and they in a very lowly and
inferior degree), lay the remotest sustainable claim.
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 horse-hair 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 occured to Mr. Bumble that it would be
an innocent and virtuous way of spending the time, if he were further to allay
his curiousity 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 corner
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 'tenterhooks,' 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. Corney's chair, where it had previously rested,
to Mrs. Corney's aprong-string, round which is 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 allows 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 an 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 chaste nose.
'Such porochial perfection!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. 'You know
that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?'
'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.
'They had better not!' said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. 'Let me see any
man, porochial or extra-porochial, 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 make you feel
uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?'
'It's quite a cruelty,' said Charlotte.
'So it is,' acquiesced Mr. Claypole. 'An't 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 dare 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-doin' 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 to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir?
Kissing!' cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. 'The sin and wickedness of the
lower orders in this 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
inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still lying in
the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.
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