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<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens</title>

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<h2 id="pgepubid00042">
      CHAPTER XXXVI — IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT
      IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A
      SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS
    </h2>
<h3 id="pgepubid00043">
      TIME ARRIVES
    </h3>
<p>
      ‘And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?’ 
      said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the
      breakfast-table. ‘Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two
      half-hours together!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You will tell me a different tale one of these days,’ said Harry,
      colouring without any perceptible reason.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hope I may have good cause to do so,’ replied Mr. Losberne; ‘though I
      confess I don’t think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your
      mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a
      dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going
      to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to
      London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the
      ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here
      is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows
      after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn’t it, Oliver?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr.
      Maylie went away, sir,’ rejoined Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s a fine fellow,’ said the doctor; ‘you shall come and see me when
      you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the
      great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The great nobs,’ replied Harry, ‘under which designation, I presume, you
      include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since
      I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that
      anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among
      them.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘you are a queer fellow. But of course they will
      get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden
      shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There’s
      something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be
      for place, cup, or sweepstakes.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by
      one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but
      he contented himself with saying, ‘We shall see,’ and pursued the subject
      no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and
      Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it
      packed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oliver,’ said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, ‘let me speak a word with
      you.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him;
      much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his
      whole behaviour displayed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You can write well now?’ said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hope so, sir,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would
      write to me—say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the
      General Post Office in London. Will you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,’ exclaimed Oliver, greatly
      delighted with the commission.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I should like to know how—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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh! quite, sir, quite,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Drive on!’ he cried, ‘hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying
      will keep pace with me, to-day.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Halloa!’ 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 <i>me</i>. Do you hear?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and
      its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way
      along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
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</p>
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<a id="link2HCH0037"> </a>
</p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00044">
      CHAPTER XXXVII — IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT
      UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES
    </h2>
<p>
      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 net-work,
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 <i>the</i> breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that
      respect like <i>the</i> coat, but, oh how different! The mighty cocked hat
      was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
    </p>
<p>
      There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more
      substantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And to-morrow two months it was done!’ said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. ‘It
      seems a age.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I sold myself,’ said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of relection,
      ‘for six teaspoons, 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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!’ said Mr. Bumble, with a sentimental sternness.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well!’ cried the lady.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Have the goodness to look at me,’ said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon
      her.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?’ inquired Mrs. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper, ma’am,’ rejoined Mr.
      Bumble; ‘and although I was <i>not</i> snoring, I shall snore, gape,
      sneeze, laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; such being my
      prerogative.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘<i>Your</i> prerogative!’ sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable contempt.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I said the word, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘The prerogative of a man is to
      command.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And what’s the prerogative of a woman, in the name of Goodness?’ cried
      the relict of Mr. Corney deceased.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      But, tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble’s soul; his
      heart was waterproof. 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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and
      softens down the temper,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘So cry away.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat from
      a peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man might,
      who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his
      hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door, with much ease and
      waggishness depicted in his whole appearance.
    </p>
<p>
      Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 laying 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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Get up!’ said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. ‘And take yourself away
      from here, unless you want me to do something desperate.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance: wondering much what
      something desperate might be. Picking up his hat, he looked towards the
      door.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Are you going?’ demanded Mrs. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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: when the sound
      of voices in conversation, now proceeded.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hem!’ said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. ‘These women
      at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there!
      What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?’ 
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
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</div>
<h5>
<a href="1646223070011777107_0194.jpg.id-3732746132122740375.wrap-0.html.html" style="width:100%;" id="id-3732746132122740375" title="linked image"><i>Original</i></a>
</h5>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘My dear,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘I didn’t know you were here.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Didn’t know I was here!’ repeated Mrs. Bumble. ‘What do <i>you</i> do
      here?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘<i>You</i> thought they were talking too much?’ said Mrs. Bumble. ‘What
      business is it of yours?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, my dear—’ urged Mr. Bumble submissively.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What business is it of yours?’ demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight 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 contents upon his portly person.
    </p>
<p>
      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 hen-peckery.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 by-way, 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.
    </p>
<p>
      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 acknowledgment of his salutation.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the
      stranger had been more familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water in silence,
      and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      When they had encountered each other’s glance several times in this way,
      the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Were you looking for me,’ he said, ‘when you peered in at the window?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not that I am aware of, unless you’re Mr.—’ Here Mr. Bumble stopped
      short; for he was curious to know the stranger’s name, and thought in his
      impatience, he might supply the blank.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I see you were not,’ said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm
      playing about his mouth; ‘or you have known my name. You don’t know it. I
      would recommend you not to ask for it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I meant no harm, young man,’ observed Mr. Bumble, majestically.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And have done none,’ said the stranger.
    </p>
<p>
      Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was again broken by
      the stranger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I have seen you before, I think?’ said he. ‘You were differently dressed
      at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you
      again. You were beadle here, once; were you not?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I was,’ said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; ‘porochial beadle.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Just so,’ rejoined the other, nodding his head. ‘It was in that character
      I saw you. What are you now?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Master of the workhouse,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively,
      to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume.
      ‘Master of the workhouse, young man!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I doubt
      not?’ resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble’s eyes, as he
      raised them in astonishment at the question.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Don’t scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I suppose, a married man,’ replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his
      hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident
      perplexity, ‘is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can,
      than a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can
      afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil
      and proper manner.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had not
      mistaken his man; then rang the bell.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Fill this glass again,’ he said, handing Mr. Bumble’s empty tumbler to
      the landlord. ‘Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not too strong,’ replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You understand what that means, landlord!’ said the stranger, drily.
    </p>
<p>
      The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a
      steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr.
      Bumble’s eyes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now listen to me,’ said the stranger, after closing the door and window.
      ‘I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by one of those
      chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you
      walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my
      mind. I want some information from you. I don’t ask you to give it for
      nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his
      companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money
      should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the
      coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much
      satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years, last winter.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s a long time,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Very good. I’ve done it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The scene, the workhouse.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Good!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And the time, night.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs
      brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves—gave
      birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot
      ‘em in the grave!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The lying-in room, I suppose?’ said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the
      stranger’s excited description.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ said the stranger. ‘A boy was born there.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A many boys,’ observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A murrain on the young devils!’ cried the stranger; ‘I speak of one; a
      meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a
      coffin-maker—I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in
      it—and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!’ said Mr. Bumble; ‘I remember him, of
      course. There wasn’t a obstinater young rascal—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s not of him I want to hear; I’ve heard enough of him,’ said the
      stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of
      poor Oliver’s vices. ‘It’s of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother.
      Where is she?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Where is she?’ said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered
      facetious. ‘It would be hard to tell. There’s no midwifery there,
      whichever place she’s gone to; so I suppose she’s out of employment,
      anyway.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What do you mean?’ demanded the stranger, sternly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That she died last winter,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and
      although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze
      gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For
      some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or
      disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely;
      and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that
      he rose, as if to depart.
    </p>
<p>
      But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity
      was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of
      his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally’s death, which
      the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the
      occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady
      had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the
      solitary witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to something
      that had occurred in the old woman’s attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon
      the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to
      mind, he informed the stranger, with an air of mystery, that one woman had
      been closeted with the old harridan shortly before she died; and that she
      could, as he had reason to believe, throw some light on the subject of his
      inquiry.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘How can I find her?’ said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and plainly
      showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh by the
      intelligence.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Only through me,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘When?’ cried the stranger, hastily.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To-morrow,’ rejoined Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘At nine in the evening,’ said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper,
      and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side, in
      characters that betrayed his agitation; ‘at nine in the evening, bring her
      to me there. I needn’t tell you to be secret. It’s your interest.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for
      the liquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were
      different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition
      of the hour of appointment for the following night.
    </p>
<p>
      On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it
      contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him to
      ask it.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What do you want?’ cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble
      touched him on the arm. ‘Following me?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Only to ask a question,’ said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper.
      ‘What name am I to ask for?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Monks!’ rejoined the man; and strode hastily away.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0038"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00045">
      CHAPTER XXXVIII — CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR.
      AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW
    </h2>
<p>
      It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had been
      threatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of vapour,
      already yielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a violent
      thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of the main street of
      the town, directed their course towards a scattered little colony of
      ruinous houses, distant from it some mile and a-half, or thereabouts, and
      erected on a low unwholesome swamp, bordering upon the river.
    </p>
<p>
      They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might,
      perhaps, serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the
      rain, and sheltering them from observation. The husband carried a lantern,
      from which, however, no light yet shone; and trudged on, a few paces in
      front, as though—the way being dirty—to give his wife the
      benefit of treading in his heavy footprints. They went on, in profound
      silence; every now and then, Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned his
      head as if to make sure that his helpmate was following; then, discovering
      that she was close at his heels, he mended his rate of walking, and
      proceeded, at a considerable increase of speed, towards their place of
      destination.
    </p>
<p>
      This was far from being a place of doubtful character; for it had long
      been known as the residence of none but low ruffians, who, under various
      pretences of living by their labour, subsisted chiefly on plunder and
      crime. It was a collection of mere hovels: some, hastily built with loose
      bricks: others, of old worm-eaten ship-timber: jumbled together without
      any attempt at order or arrangement, and planted, for the most part,
      within a few feet of the river’s bank. A few leaky boats drawn up on the
      mud, and made fast to the dwarf wall which skirted it: and here and there
      an oar or coil of rope: appeared, at first, to indicate that the
      inhabitants of these miserable cottages pursued some avocation on the
      river; but a glance at the shattered and useless condition of the articles
      thus displayed, would have led a passer-by, without much difficulty, to
      the conjecture that they were disposed there, rather for the preservation
      of appearances, than with any view to their being actually employed.
    </p>
<p>
      In the heart of this cluster of huts; and skirting the river, which its
      upper stories overhung; stood a large building, formerly used as a
      manufactory of some kind. It had, in its day, probably furnished
      employment to the inhabitants of the surrounding tenements. But it had
      long since gone to ruin. The rat, the worm, and the action of the damp,
      had weakened and rotted the piles on which it stood; and a considerable
      portion of the building had already sunk down into the water; while the
      remainder, tottering and bending over the dark stream, seemed to wait a
      favourable opportunity of following its old companion, and involving
      itself in the same fate.
    </p>
<p>
      It was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as the
      first peal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain
      commenced pouring violently down.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The place should be somewhere here,’ said Bumble, consulting a scrap of
      paper he held in his hand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Halloa there!’ cried a voice from above.
    </p>
<p>
      Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and descried a man looking
      out of a door, breast-high, on the second story.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stand still, a minute,’ cried the voice; ‘I’ll be with you directly.’ 
      With which the head disappeared, and the door closed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is that the man?’ asked Mr. Bumble’s good lady.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then, mind what I told you,’ said the matron: ‘and be careful to say as
      little as you can, or you’ll betray us at once.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was
      apparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability of
      proceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was
      prevented by the appearance of Monks: who opened a small door, near which
      they stood, and beckoned them inwards.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come in!’ he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground. ‘Don’t
      keep me here!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any other
      invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag behind, followed:
      obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that remarkable
      dignity which was usually his chief characteristic.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?’ said Monks,
      turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the door behind
      them.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘We—we were only cooling ourselves,’ stammered Bumble, looking
      apprehensively about him.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Cooling yourselves!’ retorted Monks. ‘Not all the rain that ever fell, or
      ever will fall, will put as much of hell’s fire out, as a man can carry
      about with him. You won’t cool yourself so easily; don’t think it!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and bent
      his gaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was fain to
      withdraw her eyes, and turn them towards the ground.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This is the woman, is it?’ demanded Monks.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hem! That is the woman,’ replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife’s
      caution.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?’ said the matron,
      interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I know they will always keep <i>one</i> till it’s found out,’ said Monks.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And what may that be?’ asked the matron.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The loss of their own good name,’ replied Monks. ‘So, by the same rule,
      if a woman’s a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I’m not
      afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No,’ rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of course you don’t!’ said Monks. ‘How should you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two
      companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened
      across the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the
      roof. He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder,
      leading to another floor of warehouses above: when a bright flash of
      lightning streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed,
      which shook the crazy building to its centre.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hear it!’ he cried, shrinking back. ‘Hear it! Rolling and crashing on as
      if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were hiding from
      it. I hate the sound!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands
      suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr.
      Bumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘These fits come over me, now and then,’ said Monks, observing his alarm;
      ‘and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don’t mind me now; it’s all over
      for this once.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the
      window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung
      at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in
      the ceiling: and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs
      that were placed beneath it.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now,’ said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, ‘the sooner
      we come to our business, the better for all. The woman know what it is,
      does she?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply,
      by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and
      that she told you something—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘About the mother of the boy you named,’ replied the matron interrupting
      him. ‘Yes.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The first question is, of what nature was her communication?’ said Monks.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s the second,’ observed the woman with much deliberation. ‘The first
      is, what may the communication be worth?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?’ asked
      Monks.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,’ answered Mrs. Bumble: who did
      not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Humph!’ said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry;
      ‘there may be money’s worth to get, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Perhaps there may,’ was the composed reply.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Something that was taken from her,’ said Monks. ‘Something that she wore.
      Something that—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You had better bid,’ interrupted Mrs. Bumble. ‘I have heard enough,
      already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any
      greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to
      this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed
      towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment;
      increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded, what sum was
      required for the disclosure.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s it worth to you?’ asked the woman, as collectedly as before.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,’ replied Monks. ‘Speak out,
      and let me know which.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds
      in gold,’ said the woman; ‘and I’ll tell you all I know. Not before.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Five-and-twenty pounds!’ exclaimed Monks, drawing back.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I spoke as plainly as I could,’ replied Mrs. Bumble. ‘It’s not a large
      sum, either.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it’s told!’ 
      cried Monks impatiently; ‘and which has been lying dead for twelve years
      past or more!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value in
      course of time,’ answered the matron, still preserving the resolute
      indifference she had assumed. ‘As to lying dead, there are those who will
      lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for
      anything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What if I pay it for nothing?’ asked Monks, hesitating.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You can easily take it away again,’ replied the matron. ‘I am but a
      woman; alone here; and unprotected.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither,’ submitted Mr. Bumble, in a
      voice tremulous with fear: ‘<i>I</i> am here, my dear. And besides,’ said
      Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, ‘Mr. Monks is too much of a
      gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware
      that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to
      seed, as I may say; bu he has heerd: I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks has
      heerd, my dear: that I am a very determined officer, with very uncommon
      strength, if I’m once roused. I only want a little rousing; that’s all.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern
      with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression
      of every feature, that he <i>did</i> want a little rousing, and not a
      little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless, indeed,
      against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for the purpose.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You are a fool,’ said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; ‘and had better hold your
      tongue.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can’t speak in a
      lower tone,’ said Monks, grimly. ‘So! He’s your husband, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He my husband!’ tittered the matron, parrying the question.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I thought as much, when you came in,’ rejoined Monks, marking the angry
      glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. ‘So much the
      better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find
      that there’s only one will between them. I’m in earnest. See here!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told
      out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the
      woman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now,’ he said, ‘gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder,
      which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let’s hear
      your story.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break
      almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the
      table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of
      the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small table in
      their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to render her
      whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly
      upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances:
      which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the
      extreme.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,’ the matron began, ‘she
      and I were alone.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Was there no one by?’ asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; ‘No sick
      wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by
      possibility, understand?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a soul,’ replied the woman; ‘we were alone. <i>I</i> stood alone
      beside the body when death came over it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Good,’ said Monks, regarding her attentively. ‘Go on.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She spoke of a young creature,’ resumed the matron, ‘who had brought a
      child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but
      in the same bed, in which she then lay dying.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ay?’ said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder,
      ‘Blood! How things come about!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The child was the one you named to him last night,’ said the matron,
      nodding carelessly towards her husband; ‘the mother this nurse had
      robbed.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘In life?’ asked Monks.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘In death,’ replied the woman, with something like a shudder. ‘She stole
      from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead
      mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant’s
      sake.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She sold it,’ cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; ‘did she sell it?
      Where? When? To whom? How long before?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,’ said the
      matron, ‘she fell back and died.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Without saying more?’ cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very
      suppression, seemed only the more furious. ‘It’s a lie! I’ll not be played
      with. She said more. I’ll tear the life out of you both, but I’ll know
      what it was.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She didn’t utter another word,’ said the woman, to all appearance unmoved
      (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man’s violence;
      ‘but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly
      closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by
      force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Which contained—’ interposed Monks, stretching forward.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nothing,’ replied the woman; ‘it was a pawnbroker’s duplicate.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘For what?’ demanded Monks.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘In good time I’ll tell you.’ said the woman. ‘I judge that she had kept
      the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account;
      and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the
      pawnbroker’s interest year by year, and prevent its running out; so that
      if anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of
      it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and
      tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something
      might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Where is it now?’ asked Monks quickly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘<i>There</i>,’ replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it,
      she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for
      a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands.
      It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of hair, and a
      plain gold wedding-ring.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It has the word “Agnes” engraved on the inside,’ said the woman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which
      is within a year before the child was born. I found out that.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And this is all?’ said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the
      contents of the little packet.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘All,’ replied the woman.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story
      was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back
      again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration which had been
      trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous
      dialogue.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at,’ said his wife
      addressing Monks, after a short silence; ‘and I want to know nothing; for
      it’s safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You may ask,’ said Monks, with some show of surprise; ‘but whether I
      answer or not is another question.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘—Which makes three,’ observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of
      facetiousness.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is that what you expected to get from me?’ demanded the matron.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It is,’ replied Monks. ‘The other question?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Never,’ rejoined Monks; ‘nor against me either. See here! But don’t move
      a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron
      ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at
      Mr. Bumble’s feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces
      backward, with great precipitation.
    </p>
</body></html>
