CHAPTER XXIII.

WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION

BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHEWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE

MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS.

THE night was bitter cold. The snow lay upon the ground frozen into a

hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways

and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad, which,

as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it

savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies,

scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night

for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank

God they were at home, and for the homeless starving wretch to lay him

down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare

streets at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may,

can hardly open them in a more bitter world.

Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs when Mrs. Corney, the

matron of the workhouse, to which our readers have been already

introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before

a cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced with no small

degree of complacency at a small round table, on which stood a tray of

corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most

grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to

solace herself with a cup of tea: and as she glanced from the table to

the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing

a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently

increased,—so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.

“Well,” said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking

reflectively at the fire, “I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to

be grateful for—a great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!”

Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental

blindness of those paupers who did not know it, and thrusting a silver

spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin

tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.

How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The

black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs.

Corney was moralizing, and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s

hand.

“Drat the pot!” said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on

the hob; “a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What

use is it of to any body?—except,” said Mrs. Corney, pausing,—“except

to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!”

With these words the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more

resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small

teapot and the single cup had awakened in her mind sad recollections

of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years),

and she was overpowered.

“I shall never get another!” said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; “I shall

never get another—like him.”

Whether this remark bore reference to the husband or the teapot is

uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it

as she spoke, and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first

cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.

“Oh, come in with you!” said Mrs. Corney, sharply. “Some of the old

women dying, I suppose;—they always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand

there, letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?”

“Nothing, ma’am, nothing,” replied a man’s voice.

“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, “is that Mr.

Bumble?”

“At your service, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping

outside to rub his shoes clean, and shake the snow off his coat, and

who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked-hat in one hand and a

bundle in the other. “Shall I shut the door, ma’am?”

The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any

impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble with closed doors.

Mr. Bumble, taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold

himself, shut it without farther permission.

“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.

“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle. “Anti-porochial weather

this, ma’am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney,—we have given away a

matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half this very

blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.”

“Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?” said the matron,

sipping her tea.

“When, indeed, ma’am!” rejoined Mr. Bumble. “Why, here’s one man that,

in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and

a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am,—is he

grateful? Not a copper farthing’s worth of it! What does he do, ma’am,

but ask for a few coals, if it’s only a pocket-handkerchief full, he

says! Coals!—what would he do with coals?—Toast his cheese with

’em, and then come back for more. That’s the way with these people,

ma’am;—give ’em a apron full of coals to-day, and they’ll came back

for another the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster.”

The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible

simile, and the beadle went on.

“I never,” said Mr. Bumble, “see anything like the pitch it’s got

to. The day afore yesterday, a man—you have been a married woman,

ma’am, and I may mention it to you—a man, with hardly a rag upon his

back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer’s

door when he has got company coming to dinner, and says, he must be

relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away, and shocked the company

very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half

a pint of oatmeal. ‘My God!’ says the ungrateful villain, ‘what’s

the use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron

spectacles ‘Very good,’ says our overseer, taking ’em away again, ‘you

wont get anything else here.’—‘Then I’ll die in the streets!’ says the

vagrant.—‘Oh no, you wont,’ says our overseer.”

“Ha! ha!—that was very good!—so like Mr. Grannet, wasn’t it?”

interposed the matron. “Well, Mr. Bumble?”

“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the beadle, “he went away and _did_ die in the

streets. There’s a obstinate pauper for you!”

“It beats anything I could have believed,” observed the matron,

emphatically. “But don’t you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing

any way, Mr. Bumble? You’re a gentleman of experience, and ought to

know. Come.”

“Mrs. Corney,” said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are

conscious of superior information, “out-of-door relief, properly

managed,—properly managed, ma’am,—is the porochial safeguard. The

great principle of out-of-door relief is to give the paupers exactly

what they don’t want, and then they get tired of coming.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Corney. “Well, that is a good one, too!”

“Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,” returned Mr. Bumble, “that’s the

great principle; and that’s the reason why, if you look at any cases

that get into them owdacious newspapers, you’ll always observe that

sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That’s the

rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country.—But, however,” said the

beadle, stooping to unpack his bundle, “these are official secrets,

ma’am; not to be spoken of except, as I may say, among the porochial

officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma’am, that the

board ordered for the infirmary,—real, fresh, genuine port wine, only

out of the cask this afternoon,—clear as a bell, and no sediment.”

Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to

test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on the top of a chest

of drawers, folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped,

put it carefully in his pocket, and took up his hat as if to go.

“You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.

“It blows, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar,

“enough to cut one’s ears off.”

The matron looked from the little kettle to the beadle who was moving

towards the door, and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her

good night, bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t take a cup

of tea?

Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again, laid his hat

and stick upon a chair, and drew another chair up to the table. As he

slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon

the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.

Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she

sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle;

she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again

Mr. Bumble coughed,—louder this time than he had coughed yet.

“Sweet? Mr. Bumble,” inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.

“Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on

Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr.

Bumble was that beadle at that moment.

The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread

a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying

the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these

amusements occasionally by fetching a deep sigh, which, however, had no

injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed

to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.

“You have a cat, ma’am, I see,” said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one, who,

in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; “and kittens

too, I declare!”

“I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can’t think,” replied the

matron. “They’re _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that

they are quite companions for me.”

“Very nice animals, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; “so very

domestic.”

“Oh, yes!” rejoined the matron, with enthusiasm; “so fond of their home

too, that it’s quite a pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Mrs. Corney, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time

with his teaspoon, “I mean to say this, ma’am, that any cat or kitten

that could live with you, ma’am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be

a ass, ma’am.”

“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” remonstrated Mrs. Corney.

“It’s no use disguising facts, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly

flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity that made him

doubly impressive; “I would drown it myself with pleasure.”

“Then you’re a cruel man,” said the matron vivaciously, as she held out

her hand for the beadle’s cup, “and a very hard-hearted man besides.”

“Hard-hearted, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, “hard!” Mr. Bumble resigned

his cup without another word, squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger

as she took it, and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced

waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little

morsel farther from the fire.

It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been

sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and

fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from

the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance

between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding some prudent

readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act

of great heroism on Mr. Bumble’s part, he being in some sort tempted

by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft

nothings, which, however well they may become the lips of the light

and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of

the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord-mayors, and

other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the

stateliness and gravity of a beadle, who (as is well known) should be

the sternest and most inflexible among them all.

[Illustration: _Mr. Bumble and Mrs. Corney taking tea._]

Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however,—and no doubt they

were of the best,—whatever they were, it unfortunately, happened,

as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one;

consequently, Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon

began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron, and,

continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his

chair in time close to that in which the matron was seated. Indeed, the

two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped.

Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have

been scorched by the fire, and if to the left, she must have fallen

into Mr. Bumble’s arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt

foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she

was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.

“Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?” said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and

looking up into the matron’s face; “are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs.

Corney?”

“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, “what a very curious question from a

single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?”

The beadle drank his tea to the last drop, finished a piece of toast,

whisked the crumbs off his knees, wiped his lips, and deliberately

kissed the matron.

“Mr. Bumble,” cried that discreet lady in a whisper, for the fright

was so great that she had quite lost her voice, “Mr. Bumble, I shall

scream!” Mr. Bumble made no reply, but in a slow and dignified manner

put his arm round the matron’s waist.

As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would

have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion

was rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door, which

was no sooner heard than Mr. Bumble darted with much agility to the

wine-bottles, and began dusting them with great violence, while the

matron sharply demanded who was there. It is worthy of remark, as a

curious physical instance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise in

counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had quite

recovered all its official asperity.

“If you please, mistress,” said a withered old female pauper, hideously

ugly, putting her head in at the door, “Old Sally is a-going fast.”

“Well, what’s that to me?” angrily demanded the matron. “I can’t keep

her alive, can I?”

“No, no, mistress,” replied the old woman; “nobody can; she’s far

beyond the reach of help. I’ve seen a many people die, little babes

and great strong men, and I know when death’s a-coming well enough.

But she’s troubled in her mind; and when the fits are not on her,—and

that’s not often, for she is dying very hard,—she says she has got

something to tell which you must hear. She’ll never die quiet till you

come, mistress.”

At this intelligence the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of

invectives against old women who couldn’t even die without purposely

annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which

she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stop till she

came back, lest anything particular should occur, and bidding the

messenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs,

followed her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.

Mr. Bumble’s conduct on being left to himself was rather inexplicable.

He opened the closet, counted the tea-spoons, weighed the sugar-tongs,

closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the

genuine metal; and, having satisfied his curiosity upon these points,

put on his cocked-hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity

four distinct times round the table. Having gone through this very

extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked-hat again, and,

spreading himself before the fire with his back towards it, seemed to

be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture.