“I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you
would write to me—say once a fortnight, every alternate
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Monday—to the General Post Office in London. Will you?”
“Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,” exclaimed Oliver,
greatly delighted with the commission.
“I should like to know—how my mother and Miss Maylie are,”
said the young man; “and you can fill up a sheet by telling me
what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she—
they, I mean—seem happy and quite well. You understand me?”
“Oh! quite, sir, quite,” replied Oliver.
“I would rather you did not mention it to them,” said Harry,
hurrying over his words; “because it might make my mother
anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her.
Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me
everything! I depend upon you.”
Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance,
faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his
communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many
assurances of his regard and protection.
The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged,
should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the
women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one
slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage.
“Drive on!” he cried, “hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of
flying will keep pace with me, today.”
“Hallo!” cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great
hurry, and shouting to the postillion; “something very short of
flying will keep pace with me. Do you hear?”
Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise
inaudible, and its progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle
wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust,
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now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as
intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was
not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the
gazers dispersed.
And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed
upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it
was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had
shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the
window, sat Rose herself.
“He seems in high spirits and happy,” she said, at length. “I
feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very,
very glad.”
Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which
coursed down Rose’s face, as she sat pensively at the window, still
gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of
joy.
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Chapter 37
In Which The Reader May Perceive A Contrast, Not
Uncommon In Matrimonial Cases.
Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes
moodily fixed on the cheerless grate, whence, as it was
summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded, than the
reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were sent back
from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled from
the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy
thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy
network, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more
gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was
meditating; it might be that the insects brought to mind some
painful passage in his own past life.
Nor was Mr. Bumble’s gloom the only thing calculated to
awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There
were not wanting other appearances, and those closely connected
with his own person, which announced that a great change had
taken place in the position of his affairs. The laced coat, and the
cocked hat, where were they? He still wore knee-breeches, and
dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were not the
breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respect like the
coat, but, oh, how different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced
by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the
more substantial rewards they offer, acquire peculiar value and
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dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A
field-marshal has his uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor
his silk gown; a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his
apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere
men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more
questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the
workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. On him the
cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended.
“And tomorrow two months it was done!” said Mr. Bumble,
with a sigh. “It seems a age.”
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a
whole existence of happiness into the short space of eight weeks;
but the sigh—there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh.
“I sold myself,” said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of
reflection, “for six tea-spoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and, a milk-
pot; with a small quantity of second-hand furniture and twenty
pound in money. I went very reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!”
“Cheap!” cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear, “you would
have been dear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord
above knows that!”
Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting
consort, who, imperfectly comprehending the few words she had
overheard of his complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at
a venture.
“Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble, with sentimental
sternness.
“Well?” cried the lady.
“Have the goodness to look at me,” said Mr. Bumble, fixing his
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eyes upon her. (“If she stands such a eye as that,” said Mr. Bumble
to himself, “she can stand anything. It is a eye I never knew to fail
with paupers. If it fails with her, my power is gone.”) Whether an
exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell paupers,
who, being lightly fed, are in no very high condition; or whether
the late Mrs. Corney was particularly proof against eagle glances;
are matters of opinion. The matter of fact is, that the matron was
in no way overpowered by Mr. Bumble’s scowl, but, on the
contrary, treated it with great disdain, and even raised a laugh
thereat, which sounded as though it were genuine.
On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked,
first incredulous, and afterwards amazed. He then relapsed into
his former state; nor did he rouse himself until his attention was
again awakened by the voice of his partner.
“Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?” inquired Mrs.
Bumble.
“I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper, ma’am,”
rejoined Mr. Bumble; “and although I was not snoring, I shall
snore, gape, sneeze, laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; such
being my prerogative.
“Your prerogative!” sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable
contempt.
“I said the word, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble. “The prerogative of
a man is to command.”
“And what’s the prerogative of a woman, in the name of
goodness?” cried the relict of Mr. Corney deceased.
“To obey, ma’am,” thundered Mr. Bumble. “Your late
unfortunate husband should have taught it you; and then,
perhaps, he might have been alive now. I wish he was, poor man!”
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Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the decisive moment had
now arrived, and that a blow struck for the mastership on one side
or other, must necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner heard
this allusion to the dead and gone, than she dropped into a chair,
and with a loud scream that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted
brute, fell into a paroxysm of tears.
But tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble’s
soul; his heart was waterproof. they were less troublesome than a
manual assault; but she was quite prepared to make trial of the
latter mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in
discovering.
The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a
hollow sound, immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of
his hat to the opposite end of the room. This preliminary
proceeding lay bare his head, the expert lady, clasping him tightly
round the throat with one hand, inflicted a shower of blows (dealt
with singular vigour and dexterity) upon it with the other. This
done, she created a little variety by scratching his face, and tearing
his hair; and, having by this time inflicted as much punishment as
she deemed necessary for the offence, she pushed him over a
chair, which was luckily well situated for the purpose, and defied
him to talk about his prerogative again, if he dared.
“Get up!” said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. “And take
yourself away from here, unless you want me to do something
desperate.”
Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance—wondering
much what something desperate might be. Picking up his hat, he
looked towards the door.
“Are you going?” demanded Mrs. Bumble.
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“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a
quicker motion towards the door. “I didn’t intend to—I’m going,
my dear! You are so very violent, that really I—”
At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace
the carpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble
immediately darted out of the room, without bestowing another
thought on his unfinished sentence, leaving the late Mrs. Corney
in full possession of the field.
Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He
had a decided propensity for bullying; derived no inconsiderable
pleasure from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was
(it is needless to say) a coward. This is by no means a
disparagement to his character; for many official personages, who
are held in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar
infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour than
otherwise, and with a view of impressing the reader with a just
sense of his qualifications for office.
But the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After
making a tour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that
the poor-laws really were too hard on people; and that men who
ran away from their wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish,
ought, in justice, to be visited with no punishment at all, but rather
rewarded as meritorious individuals who had suffered much, Mr.
Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were
usually employed in washing the parish linen, whence the sound
of voices in conversation, now proceeded.
“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity.
“These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative.
Hollo! hollo, there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?”
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With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in
with a very fierce and angry manner; which was at once
exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes
unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife.
“My dear,” said Mr. Bumble, “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Didn’t know I was here!” repeated Mrs. Bumble. “What do you
do here?”
“I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their
work properly, my dear,” replied Mr. Bumble, glancing
distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were
comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master’s
humility.
“You thought they were talking too much?” said Mrs. Bumble.
“What business is it of yours?”
“Why, my dear—” urged Mr. Bumble submissively.
“What business is it of yours?” demanded Mrs. Bumble again.
“It’s very true, you’re matron here, my dear,” submitted Mr.
Bumble; “but I thought you mightn’t be in the way just then.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,” returned his lady. “We don’t
want any of your interference. You’re a great deal too fond of
poking your nose into things that don’t concern you, making
everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned,
and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off;
come!”
Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings the delights of
the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously,
hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no
delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards
the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the
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contents upon his portly person.
What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and
slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the
paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It
wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste
and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the
height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most
snubbed henpeckery.
“All in two months!” said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal
thoughts. “Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not
only my own master, but everybody else’s, so far as the porochial
workhouse was concerned, and now!”
It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who
opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his
reverie); and walked, distractedly into the street.
He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had
abated the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of
feeling made him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses;
but, at length paused before one in a byway, whose parlour, as he
gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by
one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment.
This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering
something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment
into which he had looked from the street.
The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a
large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain
haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress,
to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he
entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgement
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of his salutation.
Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two, supposing even
that the stranger had been more familiar; so he drank his gin-andwater in silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and
circumstance.
It so happened, however, as it will happen very often, when
men fall into company under such circumstances, that Mr.
Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerful inducement, which
he could not resist, to steal a look at the stranger; and that
whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in some confusion, to
find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him.
Mr. Bumble’s awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable
expression of the stranger’s eye, which was keen and bright, but
shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he
had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold.
When they had encountered each other’s glance several times
in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.
“Were you looking for me,” he said, “when you peered in at the
window?”
“Not that I am aware of, unless you’re Mr.—” Here Mr. Bumble
stopped short; for he was curious to know the Like washable
beaver hats that improve with rain, his nerves were rendered
stouter and more vigorous, by showers of tears, which, being
tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power,
pleased and exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of great
satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, that she
should cry her hardest; the exercise being looked upon, by the
faculty, as strongly conducive to health.
“It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the
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