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, well-cured bacon. The
hero sinks upon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes;
and, 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 directly 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 on any account.
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 beadleism; his cocked hat and
coat were dazzling in the morning sun, and 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, and 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 shop-keepers 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 a parish care.
“Drat that beadle!” said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known impatient
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 spoken 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 chorused 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 worry, 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 a-going to London.”
“Lauk, Mr. Bumble!” said Mrs. Mann, starting back.
“To London, ma’am,” resumed the inflexible beadle, “by coach; I and two
paupers, Mrs. Mann. A legal action is coming on about a settlement,
and the board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to depose 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.”
Wherewith 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, vicious, 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; and 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 upon 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 exquisite 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 lived to be a man, and
grew 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 has
demoralized 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 gentlemen 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 pompously. “There; take him
away. I can’t bear the sight of him.”
Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar;
and 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, having experienced no other crosses by
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 mantel-piece, he drew his chair to the
fire, and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of
discontent and complaining, he then composed himself comfortably to
read the paper.
The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble’s eyes 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 may 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 on the mantel-piece.
“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 up-stairs 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 eyed him closely, and 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.
His greatcoat is a parochial cut, and he looks 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 caught at the inquiry very quickly, and shook his head with
portentous solemnity.
“You see this?” said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.
Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at 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,
who had from his birth displayed no better qualities than treachery,
ingratitude, and malice, and who 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, and,
folding his arms again, 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 at all improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed with
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 impostor.”
“It can’t be, sir; it cannot be,” said the old lady energetically.
“I tell you he is,” retorted the old gentleman sharply. “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.
“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; but 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 sunk
within him when he thought of his good kind friends; but it was well
for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it would have
broken outright.