“The room door is open, is it?”
“Wide,” replied Toby, after peeping into to satisfy himself.
“That game of that is, that they always leave it open with a catch,
so that the dog, who’s got a bed in here, may walk up and down
the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney ‘ticed him
away tonight. So neat!”
Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and
laughed without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be
silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by first producing his
lantern, and placing it on the ground; and then by planting himself
firmly with his head against the wall beneath the window, and his
hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of his back. This was
no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put Oliver gently
through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of
his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside.
“Take this lantern,” said Sikes, looking into the room. “You see
the stairs afore you?”
Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, “Yes.” Sikes, pointing
to the street door with the pistol barrel, briefly advised him to take
notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered,
he would fall dead that instant.
“It’s done in a minute,” said Sikes, in the same low whisper.
“Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!”
“What’s that?” whispered the other man.
They listened intently.
“Nothing,” said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. “Now!”
In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had
firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he
would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm
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the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but
stealthily.
“Come back!” suddenly cried Sikes aloud. “Back! back!”
Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the
place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern
fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly.
The cry was repeated—a light appeared—a vision of two
terrified, half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his
eyes—a flash—a loud noise—a smoke—a crash somewhere, but
where he knew not—and he staggered back.
Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and
had him by the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired
his own pistol after the men, who were already retreating; and
dragged the boy up.
“Clasp your arm tighter,” said Sikes, as he drew him through
the window. “Give me a shawl here. They’ve hit him. Quick!
Damnation, how the boy bleeds!”
Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of
firearms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried
over uneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew
confused in the distance; and a cold, deadly feeling crept over the
boy’s heart; and he saw or heard no more.
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Chapter 23
Which Contains The Substance Of A Pleasant
Conversation Between Mr. Bumble And A Lady;
And Shows That Even A Beadle May Be
Susceptible On Some Points.
The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on 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.
As she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest
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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 he
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 moralising; 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 anybody! 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
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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 to 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 permission.
“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.
“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle. “Anti-parochial
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
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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 today, and they’ll come back for another, the day after
tomorrow, 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 heart!’ 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 won’t get anything else
here.’ ‘Then I’ll die in the streets!’ says the vagrant. ‘Oh, no, you
won’t, says our overseer.’”
“Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?”
interposed the matron. “Well, Mr. Bumble?”
“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the beadle, “he went away; and he 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, anyway, Mr. Bumble? You’re a gentleman of experience,
and ought to know. Come.”
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“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 parochial 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, stopping to unpack his bundle, “these
are official secrets, ma’am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may
say, among the parochial 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 forenoon; 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 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
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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.”
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“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 of no use disguising facts, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly
flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which
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
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utterance to certain soft nothings, which, however well they may
become the lips of the light and thoughtless, so 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.
Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however (and no
doubt they were of the best), 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 hardhearted, 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
