CHAPTER XXVI. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER, WHICH DESERTED A LADY MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY.
As it would be by no means seemly in an 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 gallantry, 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 faithful historian whose pen traces these words, trusting that he knows his place, and entertains Mr. Bumble had recounted the tea-spoons, 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; and, 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 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 “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 “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,” explained 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 is 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; and 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 apron-string, round which it gradually became intwined. “We are all weak creeturs,” said Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney sighed. “Dont 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,” “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, and 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 sunk into Mr. Bumble’s arms; “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 joining of hearts and housekeeping!” 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 round Mr. Bumble’s neck, Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another tea-cupful 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. “Wont 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 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 sounded as 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 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, and the table was covered with bread and butter, plates, and Mr. Claypole sitting at table with his feet up with Charlotte beside him “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. “A’n’t yer fond of oysters?” “Not overmuch,” replied Charlotte. “I like to see you eat ’em, Noah dear, better than eating them 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; while 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 vile, 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 “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 down stairs, ma’am. Noah, you shut up the shop, and 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, 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. |