Chương Chương 17 · OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON

. OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON

TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION

It is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to

present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as

the layers of red and white in a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks

upon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the

next scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience

with a comic song. We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the

grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in

danger, drawing forth her dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the

other; and just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest

pitch, a whistle is heard, and we are straightway transported to the

great hall of the castle; where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny

chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of

places, from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company,

carolling perpetually.

Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would

seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread

boards to death-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are

not a whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of

passive lookers-on, which makes a vast difference. The actors in the

mimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt

impulses of passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of

mere spectators, are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.

As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place,

are not only sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many

considered as the great art of authorship: an author’s skill in his

craft being, by such critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the

dilemmas in which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter:

this brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed

unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a delicate intimation on the

part of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver

Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are good

and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be

invited to proceed upon such an expedition.

Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked

with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was

in the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were

dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous

tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high;

but this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in

his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant

stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle’s mind, too great for

utterance.

Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and

others who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely

returned their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in

his dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended

the infant paupers with parochial care.

“Drat that beadle!” said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at

the garden-gate. “If it isn’t him at this time in the morning! Lauk,

Mr. Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it _is_ a

pleasure, this is! Come into the parlour, sir, please.”

The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of

delight were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the

garden-gate: and showed him, with great attention and respect, into the

house.

“Mrs. Mann,” said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself

into a seat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself

gradually and slowly down into a chair; “Mrs. Mann, ma’am, good

morning.”

“Well, and good morning to _you_, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann, with many

smiles; “and hoping you find yourself well, sir!”

“So-so, Mrs. Mann,” replied the beadle. “A porochial life is not a bed

of roses, Mrs. Mann.”

“Ah, that it isn’t indeed, Mr. Bumble,” rejoined the lady. And all the

infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety,

if they had heard it.

“A porochial life, ma’am,” continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table

with his cane, “is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but

all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.”

Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her

hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed.

“Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!” said the beadle.

Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the

satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent

smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said,

“Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.”

“Lauk, Mr. Bumble!” cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.

“To London, ma’am,” resumed the inflexible beadle, “by coach. I and two

paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement;

and the board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to dispose to the matter

before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question,”

added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, “whether the Clerkinwell Sessions

will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with

me.”

“Oh! you mustn’t be too hard upon them, sir,” said Mrs. Mann,

coaxingly.

“The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma’am,”

replied Mr. Bumble; “and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they

come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have

only themselves to thank.”

There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing

manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs.

Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said,

“You’re going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them

paupers in carts.”

“That’s when they’re ill, Mrs. Mann,” said the beadle. “We put the sick

paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking

cold.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Mann.

“The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,”

said Mr. Bumble. “They are both in a very low state, and we find it

would come two pound cheaper to move ’em than to bury ’em—that is, if

we can throw ’em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to

do, if they don’t die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!”

When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered

the cocked hat; and he became grave.

“We are forgetting business, ma’am,” said the beadle; “here is your

porochial stipend for the month.”

Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his

pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote.

“It’s very much blotted, sir,” said the farmer of infants; “but it’s

formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much

obliged to you, I’m sure.”

Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann’s curtsey;

and inquired how the children were.

“Bless their dear little hearts!” said Mrs. Mann with emotion, “they’re

as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last

week. And little Dick.”

“Isn’t that boy no better?” inquired Mr. Bumble.

Mrs. Mann shook her head.

“He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,”

said Mr. Bumble angrily. “Where is he?”

“I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann. “Here,

you Dick!”

After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under

the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann’s gown, he was led into the awful

presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.

The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large

and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung

loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like

those of an old man.

Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble’s

glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even

to hear the beadle’s voice.

“Can’t you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?” said Mrs. Mann.

The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble.

“What’s the matter with you, porochial Dick?” inquired Mr. Bumble, with

well-timed jocularity.

“Nothing, sir,” replied the child faintly.

“I should think not,” said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very

much at Mr. Bumble’s humour.

“You want for nothing, I’m sure.”

“I should like—” faltered the child.

“Hey-day!” interposed Mrs. Mann, “I suppose you’re going to say that

you _do_ want for something, now? Why, you little wretch—”

“Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!” said the beadle, raising his hand with a show

of authority. “Like what, sir, eh?”

“I should like,” faltered the child, “if somebody that can write, would

put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and

seal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground.”

“Why, what does the boy mean?” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the

earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression:

accustomed as he was to such things. “What do you mean, sir?”

“I should like,” said the child, “to leave my dear love to poor Oliver

Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to

think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help

him. And I should like to tell him,” said the child pressing his small

hands together, and speaking with great fervour, “that I was glad to

die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man,

and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me,

or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both

children there together.”

Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with

indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said,

“They’re all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had

demogalized them all!”

“I couldn’t have believed it, sir” said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands,

and looking malignantly at Dick. “I never see such a hardened little

wretch!”

“Take him away, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble imperiously. “This must be

stated to the board, Mrs. Mann.”

“I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn’t my fault, sir?”

said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.

“They shall understand that, ma’am; they shall be acquainted with the

true state of the case,” said Mr. Bumble. “There; take him away, I

can’t bear the sight on him.”

Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr.

Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.

At six o’clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: having exchanged his cocked

hat for a round one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a

cape to it: took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by

the criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course

of time, he arrived in London.

He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated

in the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in

shivering, and complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble

declared, caused his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel

quite uncomfortable; although he had a great-coat on.

Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble

sat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a

temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass

of hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the

fire; and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of

discontent and complaining, composed himself to read the paper.

The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble’s eye rested, was the

following advertisement.

“FIVE GUINEAS REWARD

“Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on

Thursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since

been heard of. The above reward will be paid to any person who will

give such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver

Twist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history, in which

the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly interested.”

And then followed a full description of Oliver’s dress, person,

appearance, and disappearance: with the name and address of Mr.

Brownlow at full length.

Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and

carefully, three several times; and in something more than five minutes

was on his way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left

the glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted.

“Is Mr. Brownlow at home?” inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened

the door.

To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive

reply of “I don’t know; where do you come from?”

Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver’s name, in explanation of his

errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door,

hastened into the passage in a breathless state.

“Come in, come in,” said the old lady: “I knew we should hear of him.

Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I

said so all along.”

Having said this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour

again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who

was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now

returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately:

which he did.

He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his

friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter

gentleman at once burst into the exclamation:

“A beadle. A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head.”

“Pray don’t interrupt just now,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Take a seat, will

you?”

Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr.

Grimwig’s manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an

uninterrupted view of the beadle’s countenance; and said, with a little

impatience,

“Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bumble.

“And you _are_ a beadle, are you not?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.

“I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,” rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.

“Of course,” observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, “I knew he was.

A beadle all over!”

Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and

resumed:

“Do you know where this poor boy is now?”

“No more than nobody,” replied Mr. Bumble.

“Well, what _do_ you know of him?” inquired the old gentleman. “Speak

out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What _do_ you know of

him?”

“You don’t happen to know any good of him, do you?” said Mr. Grimwig,

caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble’s features.

Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with

portentous solemnity.

“You see?” said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.

Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble’s pursed-up

countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding

Oliver, in as few words as possible.

Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms;

inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments’

reflection, commenced his story.

It would be tedious if given in the beadle’s words: occupying, as it

did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of

it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents.

That he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than

treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his brief

career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly

attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from

his master’s house. In proof of his really being the person he

represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had

brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow’s

observations.

“I fear it is all too true,” said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after

looking over the papers. “This is not much for your intelligence; but I

would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable

to the boy.”

It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this

information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have

imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too

late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and,

pocketing the five guineas, withdrew.

Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so

much disturbed by the beadle’s tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to

vex him further.

At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.

“Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; “that

boy, Oliver, is an imposter.”

“It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,” said the old lady energetically.

“I tell you he is,” retorted the old gentleman. “What do you mean by

can’t be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and

he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life.”

“I never will believe it, sir,” replied the old lady, firmly. “Never!”

“You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying

story-books,” growled Mr. Grimwig. “I knew it all along. Why didn’t you

take my advice in the beginning; you would if he hadn’t had a fever, I

suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn’t he? Interesting! Bah!” And Mr.

Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish.

“He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,” retorted Mrs. Bedwin,

indignantly. “I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty

years; and people who can’t say the same, shouldn’t say anything about

them. That’s my opinion!”

This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted

nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head,

and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was

stopped by Mr. Brownlow.

“Silence!” said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from

feeling. “Never let me hear the boy’s name again. I rang to tell you

that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs.

Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest.”

There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow’s that night.

Oliver’s heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it

was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it

might have broken outright.