Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, his eyes moodily fixed on the cheerless fireplace. As it was summer, no warm glow came from the grate; instead, it merely reflected a few sickly rays of sunlight that struck its cold, shining surface. A paper fly-cage was suspended from the ceiling, towards which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought. As the careless insects hovered around the gaudy mesh, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, and an even darker shadow would overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was deep in contemplation; it was quite possible that the trapped insects reminded him of some painful passage in his own past life.
However, Mr. Bumble’s gloom was not the only thing likely to inspire a feeling of melancholy in a spectator. Other signs, closely connected to his own person, announced that a significant change had taken place in his affairs. Where were the laced coat and the famous cocked hat? He still wore knee-breeches and dark cotton stockings on his lower limbs, but they were not the breeches. His coat had wide skirts and was similar in that respect to his old one, but oh, how different it was in reality! The mighty cocked hat had been replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
There are certain promotions in life which, quite apart from the more substantial rewards they offer, derive a peculiar value and dignity from the uniforms associated with them. A field marshal has his uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a lawyer his silk gown; and a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron or the beadle of his hat and lace, and what are they? They are men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness, are sometimes more a matter of coats and waistcoats than some people might imagine.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney and was now the Master of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. Upon this new official, the cocked hat, the gold-laced coat, and the staff of office had all descended.
"And tomorrow it will be two months since it was done!" said Mr. Bumble with a heavy sigh. "It seems like an age."
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had experienced a lifetime of happiness in those eight weeks, but the sigh—there was a vast amount of meaning in that sigh.
"I sold myself," Mr. Bumble continued, pursuing the same line of thought, "for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk pot, along with a small quantity of second-hand furniture and twenty pounds in cash. I went for a very reasonable price. Cheap, dirt cheap!"
"Cheap!" cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear. "You would have been expensive at any price; and I paid dearly enough for you, Heaven knows!"
Mr. Bumble turned and encountered the face of his interesting wife. Having only partially understood the few words of his complaint she had overheard, she had decided to make this remark as a bold guess.
"Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!" said Mr. Bumble, with a look of sentimental sternness.
"Well!" the lady snapped.
"Have the goodness to look at me," said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon her.
"If she can stand an expression like that," Mr. Bumble said to himself, "she can stand anything. It is a look I never knew to fail with paupers. If it fails with her, my power is gone."
Whether a slight widening of the eyes is sufficient to frighten paupers—who, being poorly fed, are rarely in a high state of spirits—or whether the former Mrs. Corney was particularly resistant to such glances, is a matter of opinion. The fact was that the matron was in no way intimidated by Mr. Bumble’s scowl. On the contrary, she treated it with great disdain and even burst into a laugh that sounded entirely genuine.
Upon hearing this unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked first incredulous and then amazed. He then sank back into his former state of gloom, not rousing himself again until his attention was caught by the voice of his partner.
"Are you going to sit there snoring all day?" Mrs. Bumble inquired.
"I am going to sit here as long as I think proper, ma’am," Mr. Bumble rejoined. "And although I was not snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze, laugh, or cry, as the mood strikes me. Such is my prerogative."
"Your prerogative!" Mrs. Bumble sneered with utter contempt.
"I used the word, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble. "The prerogative of a man is to command."
"And what is the prerogative of a woman, in the name of goodness?" cried the widow of the late Mr. Corney.
"To obey, ma'am," Mr. Bumble thundered. "Your late, unfortunate husband should have taught you that; and then, perhaps, he might still be alive today. I wish he were, poor man!"
Mrs. Bumble saw at a glance that the decisive moment had arrived. She realised that a struggle for dominance must now take place, and the result would be final. As soon as she heard this mention of her deceased husband, she dropped into a chair. Crying out that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, she fell into a fit of tears.
However, tears were not the way to reach Mr. Bumble’s soul; his heart was effectively waterproof. Like certain hats that actually improve in the rain, his nerves were made stronger by showers of tears. Since they were signs of weakness and a silent admission of his own power, they pleased and encouraged him. He watched his lady with great satisfaction and told her to cry as much as she liked, remarking that doctors considered the exercise to be very healthy.
"It opens the lungs, washes the face, exercises the eyes, and softens the temper," said Mr. Bumble. "So, cry away."
After making this joke, Mr. Bumble took his hat from a peg. Putting it on rather stylishly on one side—as a man might do when he feels he has asserted his superiority—he thrust his hands into his pockets and strolled towards the door with an air of great ease.
Now, the former Mrs. Corney had tried tears because they were less effort than a physical attack; however, she was quite prepared to try the latter method, as Mr. Bumble soon discovered.
The first proof he received was a hollow sound, followed immediately by his hat flying to the opposite end of the room. Since his head was now unprotected, the expert lady grabbed him tightly by the throat with one hand and delivered a shower of blows upon him with the other. This done, she added variety by scratching his face and tearing his hair. Having inflicted as much punishment as she felt was necessary, she pushed him over a chair and defied him to talk about his "prerogative" again, if he dared.
"Get up!" said Mrs. Bumble in a commanding voice. "And get out of here, unless you want me to do something desperate."
Mr. Bumble rose with a very miserable expression, wondering what "something desperate" might involve. Picking up his hat, he looked towards the door.
"Are you going?" Mrs. Bumble demanded.
"Certainly, my dear, certainly," Mr. Bumble replied, moving quickly toward the exit. "I didn't intend to—I’m going, my dear! You are so very violent that really I—"
At that moment, Mrs. Bumble stepped forward to straighten the carpet, which had been moved during the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately dashed out of the room without finishing his sentence, leaving his wife in full possession of the battlefield.
Mr. Bumble had been completely taken by surprise and thoroughly beaten. He had a natural tendency for bullying and derived considerable pleasure from petty cruelty; consequently, it goes without saying that he was a coward. This is not necessarily a criticism of his character, for many high-ranking officials are victims of similar weaknesses. Indeed, the remark is made in his favour, to show how well-qualified he was for his office.
But the measure of his humiliation was not yet full. After walking through the house and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws were perhaps too harsh on people, Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were washing the parish linen. He heard the sound of conversation coming from within.
"Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, trying to regain his dignity. "These women, at least, shall respect my authority. Hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?"
With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door and walked in with a fierce, angry manner. This expression was instantly replaced by a look of total submission as his eyes unexpectedly fell upon his wife.
"My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here."
"Didn't know I was here!" Mrs. Bumble repeated. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought they were talking too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," Mr. Bumble replied, glancing nervously at a couple of old women who were watching his humility with great interest.
"You thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?"
"Why, my dear—" Mr. Bumble began submissively.
"What business is it of yours?" Mrs. Bumble demanded again.
"It’s very true that you are the matron here, my dear," Mr. Bumble admitted; "but I thought you might not be nearby at the moment."
"I’ll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," his wife returned. "We don't want any of your interference. You are far too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you. You make everyone in the house laugh the moment your back is turned, and you make yourself look like a fool every hour of the day. Now, get out!"
Mr. Bumble felt excruciating embarrassment as he noticed the delight of the two old paupers, who were giggling together. He hesitated for a second. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience was exhausted, picked up a bowl of soap-suds. Pointing toward the door, she ordered him to leave instantly, or she would throw the contents over him.
What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly around and slunk away. As he reached the door, the giggling of the paupers broke into a loud laugh of irrepressible delight. This was the final straw. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost his status in front of the very people he was supposed to rule. He had fallen from the pomp of being a beadle to the lowest depths of being a hen-pecked husband.
"All in two months!" said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. "No more than two months ago, I was my own master and everyone else’s too, as far as this workhouse was concerned. And now!"
It was too much to bear. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him and walked distractedly into the street.
He walked aimlessly until the exercise had calmed his initial anger; then, he began to feel thirsty. He passed several pubs but finally paused before one in a quiet side-street. Looking over the blinds, he saw that the parlour was empty, except for one solitary customer. At that moment, it began to rain heavily. This decided him. Mr. Bumble stepped inside, ordered a drink at the bar, and entered the room.
The man seated there was tall and dark, wearing a large cloak. He had the appearance of a stranger and looked quite haggard, as if he had travelled a long distance. He looked at Bumble suspiciously as he entered but barely nodded in response to his greeting.
Mr. Bumble had enough dignity for both of them, even if the stranger had been more friendly. Consequently, he drank his gin-and-water in silence and read the newspaper with a great show of importance.
However, as often happens when people are forced together in such circumstances, Mr. Bumble felt a powerful urge to steal a look at the stranger. Every time he did so, he quickly looked away in confusion, finding that the stranger was also watching him. Mr. Bumble’s awkwardness increased due to the remarkable expression in the stranger’s eyes—they were keen and bright, but clouded by a look of distrust and suspicion that was quite repulsive to behold.
When they had caught each other’s gaze several times, the stranger broke the silence in a harsh, deep voice.
"Were you looking for me," he said, "when you peered in at the window?"
"Not that I am aware of, unless you are Mr.—" Here Mr. Bumble stopped, hoping the stranger would provide his name.
"I see you were not," said the stranger, a look of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth; "otherwise you would have known my name. You don’t know it, and I recommend you not to ask for it."
"I meant no harm, young man," Mr. Bumble observed majestically.
"And you have done none," said the stranger.
Another silence followed, which the stranger eventually broke again.
"I think I have seen you before," he said. "You were dressed differently then, and I only passed you in the street, but I recognize you. You were the beadle here once, were you not?"
"I was," said Mr. Bumble in some surprise; "the parochial beadle."
"Exactly," the other replied, nodding. "It was in that role that I saw you. What are you now?"
"Master of the workhouse," Mr. Bumble replied slowly and impressively, hoping to prevent the stranger from becoming too familiar. "Master of the workhouse, young man!"
"I don't doubt that you still look after your own interests as much as you ever did," the stranger continued, looking intensely at Mr. Bumble.
"Don't hesitate to answer me freely. I know you quite well, you see."
"I suppose," Mr. Bumble replied, surveying the stranger from head to foot in perplexity, "that a married man is just as willing to earn an honest penny as a single one. Parochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse a small extra fee, provided it is offered in a polite and proper manner."
The stranger smiled and nodded, as if to say he had not been mistaken about Bumble’s character. He then rang the bell.
"Fill this glass again," he said, handing Mr. Bumble’s empty glass to the landlord. "Make it strong and hot. I assume you like it that way?"
"Not too strong," Mr. Bumble replied with a slight cough.
"You understand what that means, landlord!" said the stranger drily.
The host smiled, disappeared, and returned shortly with a steaming drink. The first gulp brought tears to Mr. Bumble’s eyes.
"Now, listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. "I came to this town today to find you. By a stroke of luck, you walked into the very room where I was sitting while I was thinking of you. I want some information. I don't expect you to give it for nothing. Take this, to begin with."
As he spoke, he pushed two gold coins across the table, doing so carefully so that the clinking of money would not be heard outside. After Mr. Bumble had carefully examined the coins to ensure they were genuine, he put them in his pocket with great satisfaction.
"Think back," the stranger continued, "let me see—twelve years ago, last winter."
"That’s a long time," said Mr. Bumble. "Very well. I’ve done it."
"The scene: the workhouse."
"Good!"
"The time: night."
"Yes."
"And the place: that miserable hole where women gave birth to children for the parish to raise, and then hid their shame in the grave!"
"The lying-in room, I suppose?" said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger’s dramatic description.
"Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there."
"Many boys were born there," Mr. Bumble observed, shaking his head.
"Curse them all!" the stranger cried. "I am talking about one in particular: a pale, meek-looking boy who was apprenticed to a coffin-maker here and who later ran away to London."
"Why, you must mean Oliver! Oliver Twist!" said Mr. Bumble. "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a more stubborn young rascal—"
"I don't want to hear about him; I've heard enough already," the stranger said, stopping Bumble’s complaints. "I want to know about a woman—the old nurse who looked after his mother. Where is she?"
"Where is she?" Mr. Bumble repeated, feeling more cheerful after his drink. "That would be hard to say. There is no need for her services in the place she’s gone to, so I suppose she’s out of work."
"What do you mean?" the stranger demanded sternly.
"I mean that she died last winter," Mr. Bumble replied.
The man looked at him fixedly. His gaze became vacant and he seemed lost in thought. For a moment, it was unclear whether he was relieved or disappointed by the news. At last, he breathed more freely and rose as if to leave, remarking that it didn't really matter.
However, Mr. Bumble was cunning enough to see an opportunity to sell a secret known only to his wife. He remembered the night of old Sally’s death—the same night he had proposed to Mrs. Corney. Although his wife had never shared the details of what she had witnessed, he knew enough to realize it concerned Oliver Twist’s mother.
Acting quickly, he informed the stranger with an air of mystery that another woman had been alone with the old nurse shortly before she died. He believed this woman could provide the information the stranger was looking for.
"How can I find her?" the stranger asked, clearly showing that his interest had been renewed.
"Only through me," Bumble replied.
"When?" the stranger asked hastily.
"Tomorrow," Bumble said.
"At nine in the evening," the stranger said, writing an address on a scrap of paper. It was a location by the riverside. "Bring her to me there. I don't need to tell you to be discreet. It’s in your own interest."
With those words, he paid for the drinks and led the way to the door. He remarked briefly that they were going in different directions and left, after repeating the time of their appointment.
Looking at the address, Bumble noticed there was no name. Since the stranger had not gone far, he hurried after him.
"What do you want?" the man cried, turning quickly as Bumble touched his arm. "Are you following me?"
"Only to ask a question," said Bumble, pointing to the paper. "What name should I ask for?"
"Monks!" the man replied, and strode away into the darkness.