“Well!” said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table,and looking reflectively at the fire;“I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for!A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!”
Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully,as if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not know it;and thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.
How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds!The black teapot, being very small and easily filled,ran over while Mrs. Corney was moralising;and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s hand.
“Drat the pot!” said the worthy matron,setting it down very hastily on the hob;“a little stupid thing,that only holds a couple of cups!What use is it of, to anybody!Except,” said Mrs. Corney, pausing,“except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!”
With these words, the matron dropped into her chair,and, once more resting her elbow on the table,thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot,and the single cup,had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr.Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years);and she was overpowered.
“I shall never get another!” said Mrs. Corney, pettishly;“I shall never get another—like him.”
Whether this remark bore reference to the husband,or the teapot, is uncertain.It might have been the latter; for Mrs.Corney looked at it as she spoke;and took it up afterwards.She had just tasted her first cup,when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.
“Oh, come in with you!” said Mrs. Corney, sharply.“Some of the old women dying, I suppose.They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand there,letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?”
“Nothing, ma’am, nothing,” replied a man’s voice.
“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone,“is that Mr. Bumble?”
“At your service, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble,who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean,and to shake the snow off his coat;and who now made his appearance,bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other.“Shall I shut the door, ma’am?”
The lady modestly hesitated to reply,lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr.Bumble, with closed doors. Mr.Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation,and being very cold himself,shut it without permission.
“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.
“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle.“Anti-porochial weather this, ma’am.We have given away, Mrs. Corney,we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half,this very blessed afternoon;and yet them paupers are not contented.”
“Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?” said the matron, sipping her tea.
“When, indeed, ma’am!” rejoined Mr. Bumble. “Why here’s one man that,in consideration of his wife and large family,has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese,full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am?Is he grateful?Not a copper farthing’s worth of it!What does he do, ma’am, but ask for a few coals;if it’s only a pocket handkerchief full, he says!Coals!What would he do with coals?Toast his cheese with ’em and then come back for more.That’s the way with these people, ma’am;give’em a apron full of coals today,and they’ll come back for another,the day after tomorrow, as brazen as alabaster.”
The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile;and the beadle went on.
“I never,” said Mr. Bumble,“see anything like the pitch it’s got to.The day afore yesterday,a man—you have been a married woman, ma’am,and I may mention it to you—a man,with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs.Corney looked at the floor),goes to our overseer’s door when he has got company coming to dinner;and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney.As he wouldn’t go away,and shocked the company very much,our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. ‘My heart!’ says the ungrateful villain,‘what’s the use of _this_ to me?You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!’ ‘Very good,’ says our overseer, taking ’em away again,‘you won’t get anything else here.’ ‘Then I’ll die in the streets!’ says the vagrant. ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ says our overseer.”
“Ha!ha!That was very good!So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?” interposed the matron. “Well, Mr. Bumble?”
“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the beadle, “he went away;and he _did_ die in the streets.There’s a obstinate pauper for you!”
“It beats anything I could have believed,” observed the matron emphatically.“But don’t you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing,any way, Mr. Bumble?You’re a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come.”
“Mrs. Corney,” said the beadle,smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information,“out-of-door relief, properly managed:properly managed, ma’am: is the porochial safeguard.The great principle of out-of-door relief is,to give the paupers exactly what they don’t want;and then they get tired of coming.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Corney. “Well, that is a good one, too!”
“Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,” returned Mr. Bumble,“that’s the great principle; and that’s the reason why,if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers,you’ll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That’s the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,” said the beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, “these are official secrets, ma’am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma’am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!”
Having held the first bottle up to the light,and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr.Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers;folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped;put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.
“You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble, ” said the matron.
“It blows, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble,turning up his coat-collar,“enough to cut one’s ears off.”
The matron looked, from the little kettle,to the beadle, who was moving towards the door;and as the beadle coughed,preparatory to bidding her good-night,bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t take a cup of tea?
Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again;laid his hat and stick upon a chair;and drew another chair up to the table.As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady.She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr.Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.
Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet.As she sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle;she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea.Again Mr. Bumble coughed—louder this time than he had coughed yet.
“Sweet?Mr. Bumble?” inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.
“Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble.He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this;and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr.Bumble was that beadle at that moment.
The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble,having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.
“You have a cat, ma’am, I see,” said Mr. Bumble,glancing at one who, in the centre of her family,was basking before the fire; “and kittens too, I declare!”