As it would be quite improper for a humble author to keep such an important figure as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire and his coat-tails tucked under his arms, it is only right that we return to him. Furthermore, it would be even less appropriate to neglect the lady on whom that beadle had looked with such affection. The sweet words he had whispered in her ear were enough to thrill the heart of any woman, regardless of her social standing. Therefore, the historian writing these words—knowing his place and respecting those to whom great authority has been delegated—hastens to pay them the respect their positions demand.
Mr. Bumble had already re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, and closely inspected the milk-pot. He had also examined the condition of the furniture, right down to the horse-hair seats of the chairs, repeating this process at least half a dozen times. Finally, he began to think it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. As one thought leads to another, and since there was still no sign of the lady, it occurred to Mr. Bumble that he might pass the time by taking a quick look inside Mrs. Corney's chest of drawers.
After listening at the keyhole to ensure that no one was approaching, Mr. Bumble began at the bottom and familiarized himself with the contents of the three large drawers. These were filled with various garments of good quality and fashion, carefully preserved between layers of old newspapers and dried lavender. This discovery seemed to give him great satisfaction. Eventually, he reached the small corner drawer, which was locked. When he shook it, he heard the pleasant, unmistakable clinking of coins. Mr. Bumble walked back to the fireplace with a dignified air and said firmly to himself, "I'll do it!" He followed this declaration by shaking his head playfully for ten minutes, as if scolding himself for being such a charming fellow, and then took a moment to admire the shape of his own legs with great interest.
He was still calmly occupied with this survey when Mrs. Corney hurried into the room. She was breathless and threw herself into a chair by the fire. Covering her eyes with one hand and placing the other over her heart, she gasped for air.
"Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble, leaning over her, "what is the matter, ma'am? Has something happened? Please answer me; I'm on—on—" In his anxiety, Mr. Bumble could not immediately remember the word "tenterhooks," so he said, "broken bottles."
"Oh, Mr. Bumble!" cried the lady. "I have been so dreadfully upset!"
"Upset, ma'am!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "Who has dared to—? I know!" he said, checking himself with a look of majesty. "It’s those wicked paupers!"
"It's terrible to think about!" said the lady, shuddering.
"Then don't think of it, ma'am," suggested Mr. Bumble.
"I can't help it," she whimpered.
"Then take something to calm yourself, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble soothingly. "A little wine, perhaps?"
"Not for the world!" replied Mrs. Corney. "I couldn't—oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner—oh!" As she spoke, the good lady pointed frantically toward the cupboard and appeared to suffer from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the cupboard and grabbed a green glass bottle from the shelf she had indicated. He filled a teacup with its contents and held it to her lips.
"I'm better now," said Mrs. Corney, leaning back after drinking half of it.
Mr. Bumble raised his eyes thankfully to the ceiling and then brought them down to the rim of the cup, lifting it to his nose to catch the scent.
"Peppermint," whispered Mrs. Corney with a faint smile. "Try it! There's a little—a little something else in it."
Mr. Bumble tasted the mixture with a doubtful look, smacked his lips, took another sip, and then emptied the cup.
"It's very comforting," said Mrs. Corney.
"Very much so indeed, ma'am," agreed the beadle. He drew a chair close to her and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her so much.
"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am just a foolish, excitable, weak creature."
"Not weak, ma'am," argued Mr. Bumble, moving his chair even closer. "Are you really a weak creature, Mrs. Corney?"
"We are all weak creatures," she said, stating a general truth.
"So we are," the beadle agreed.
For a minute or two, neither of them said a word. During that time, Mr. Bumble moved his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair to her waist, where it gradually became wrapped around her.
"We are all weak creatures," repeated Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Corney sighed.
"Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble.
"I can't help it," she replied, and sighed again.
"This is a very comfortable room, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, looking around. "If this room were joined with another, it would be a perfect home."
"It would be too much for one person," murmured the lady.
"But not for two, ma'am," whispered Mr. Bumble softly. "Don't you agree, Mrs. Corney?"
Mrs. Corney looked down, and Mr. Bumble leaned over to see her face. She modestly turned her head away and reached for her handkerchief, but somehow her hand ended up in Mr. Bumble’s.
"The board provides you with coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?" asked the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand.
"And candles," she replied, returning the pressure slightly.
"Coals, candles, and no rent to pay," said Mr. Bumble. "Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an angel you are!"
The lady could not resist this burst of emotion. She sank into Mr. Bumble's arms, and in his excitement, he planted a passionate kiss on her nose.
"Such perfection!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "You know that Mr. Slout is worse tonight, my dear?"
"Yes," replied Mrs. Corney bashfully.
"The doctor says he won't live a week," continued Mr. Bumble. "He is the master of this workhouse; his death will create a vacancy that must be filled. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens up! What an opportunity for the joining of hearts and housekeepings!"
Mrs. Corney began to sob.
"The little word?" said Mr. Bumble, bending over her. "The one little, little word, my blessed Corney?"
"Ye—ye—yes!" she sighed.
"One more thing," the beadle added. "When shall it happen?"
Mrs. Corney tried to speak twice but failed. Finally, she summoned her courage, threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, and told him it could be whenever he pleased, calling him an "irresistible duck."
Once matters were satisfactorily arranged, the agreement was celebrated with another cup of the peppermint mixture. While they drank, she told Mr. Bumble about the old woman’s death.
"Very good," said Mr. Bumble. "I'll stop at the undertaker’s on my way home and tell him to come tomorrow morning. Was that what frightened you, my love?"
"It wasn't anything specific, dear," she replied evasively.
"It must have been something," urged Mr. Bumble. "Won't you tell your own B.?"
"Not now," she said. "One of these days—after we're married, dear."
"After we're married!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "It wasn't some insult from one of those male paupers, was it?"
"No, no, love!" she interrupted quickly.
"If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist, "if I thought any of them had dared to look at your lovely face with their common eyes, I would make sure they never did it again!"
Mrs. Corney was much touched by this show of devotion and declared that he was as gentle as a dove. The "dove" then turned up his coat collar, put on his hat, and after a long embrace, headed back out into the cold night. He paused briefly in the men's ward to shout at the paupers, just to satisfy himself that he was capable of being a strict workhouse master. Confident in his skills, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart.
When he reached the undertaker's shop, he found that Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry were out. Noah Claypole, who was never inclined to work harder than necessary, had not yet closed the shop. Mr. Bumble tapped on the counter with his cane, but when no one answered, he looked through the window of the little back room. He was very surprised by what he saw.
The table was set for supper with bread, butter, plates, glasses, and a bottle of wine. Noah Claypole was sitting comfortably in an easy-chair with his legs over the side, a knife in one hand and a large piece of buttered bread in the other. Beside him stood Charlotte, who was opening oysters for him to eat. Noah’s nose was unusually red, and his eyes looked slightly glassy, suggesting he was a bit drunk.
"Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!" said Charlotte. "Try this one."
"Oysters are delicious," remarked Noah after swallowing it. "It's a pity they sometimes make you feel unwell, isn't it, Charlotte?"
"It's a real shame," she agreed. "Don't you like them?"
"Not much," Charlotte replied. "I like watching you eat them better than eating them myself."
"How strange!" said Noah. "Come here, Charlotte, and I'll kiss you."
"What!" cried Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. "Say that again, sir!"
Charlotte screamed and hid her face, while Noah gazed at the beadle in drunken terror.
"How dare you mention such a thing!" said Mr. Bumble indignantly. "And you, you insolent girl, how dare you encourage him? Kissing her!" Mr. Bumble shouted. "The wickedness of the lower classes in this district is frightful! If Parliament doesn't do something about this behavior, this country is ruined!"
With those words, the beadle walked out of the shop with a gloomy and superior air. And now that the preparations for the old woman’s funeral have been made, let us check on young Oliver Twist and see if he is still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.