Chapter XXVII

Oliver Twist

by Charles Dickens

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.