“Not for the world!” replied Mrs. Corney. “I couldn’t,—oh!The top shelf in the right-hand corner—oh!” Uttering these words, the good lady pointed,distractedly, to the cupboard,and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr.Bumble rushed to the closet; and,snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated,filled a tea-cup with its contents,and held it to the lady’s lips.
“I’m better now,” said Mrs. Corney, falling back,after drinking half of it.
Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness;and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup,lifted it to his nose.
“Peppermint,” exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice,smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. “Try it!There’s a little—a little something else in it.”
Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look;smacked his lips; took another taste;and put the cup down empty.
“It’s very comforting,” said Mrs. Corney.
“Very much so indeed, ma’am,” said the beadle.As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron,and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.
“Nothing,” replied Mrs. Corney. “I am a foolish,excitable, weak creetur.”
“Not weak, ma’am,” retorted Mr. Bumble,drawing his chair a little closer.“Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?”
“We are all weak creeturs,” said Mrs. Corney,laying down a general principle.
“So we are,” said the beadle.
Nothing was said on either side,for a minute or two afterwards.By the expiration of that time, Mr.Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney’s chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney’s apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined.
“We are all weak creeturs,” said Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Corney sighed.
“Don’t sigh, Mrs. Corney,” said Mr. Bumble.
“I can’t help it,” said Mrs. Corney.And she sighed again.
“This is a very comfortable room, ma’am,” said Mr.Bumble looking round. “Another room, and this, ma’am,would be a complete thing.”
“It would be too much for one,” murmured the lady.
“But not for two, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble,in soft accents. “Eh, Mrs. Corney?”
Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this;the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs.Corney’s face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety,turned her head away,and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief;but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble.
“The board allows you coals, don’t they, Mrs. Corney?” inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand.
“And candles,” replied Mrs. Corney,slightly returning the pressure.
“Coals, candles, and house-rent free,” said Mr. Bumble.“Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!”
The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling.She sank into Mr. Bumble’s arms;and that gentleman in his agitation,imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose.
“Such porochial perfection!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. “You know that Mr.Slout is worse tonight, my fascinator?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.
“He can’t live a week, the doctor says,” pursued Mr.Bumble. “He is the master of this establishment;his death will cause a wacancy;that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney,what a prospect this opens!What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!”
Mrs. Corney sobbed.
“The little word?” said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty.“The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?”
“Ye—ye—yes!” sighed out the matron.
“One more,” pursued the beadle;“compose your darling feelings for only one more.When is it to come off?”
Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed.At length summoning up courage,she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble’s neck, and said,it might be as soon as ever he pleased,and that he was “a irresistible duck.”
Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged,the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady’s spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman’s decease.
“Very good,” said that gentleman,sipping his peppermint;“I’ll call at Sowerberry’s as I go home,and tell him to send tomorrow morning.Was it that as frightened you, love?”
“It wasn’t anything particular, dear,” said the lady evasively.
“It must have been something, love,” urged Mr. Bumble.“Won’t you tell your own B.?”
“Not now,” rejoined the lady; “one of these days.After we’re married, dear.”
“After we’re married!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble.“It wasn’t any impudence from any of them male paupers as—”
“No, no, love!” interposed the lady, hastily.
“If I thought it was,” continued Mr. Bumble;“if I thought as any one of ’em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance—”
“They wouldn’t have dared to do it, love,” responded the lady.
“They had better not!” said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist.“Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial,as would presume to do it;and I can tell him that he wouldn’t do it a second time!”
Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation,this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady’s charms;but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures,she was much touched with this proof of his devotion,and protested, with great admiration,that he was indeed a dove.
The dove then turned up his coat-collar,and put on his cocked hat; and,having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner,once again braved the cold wind of the night:merely pausing, for a few minutes,in the male paupers’ ward, to abuse them a little,with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the undertaker.
Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper:and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little surprised.
The cloth was laid for supper;the table was covered with bread and butter,plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle.At the upper end of the table, Mr.Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair,with his legs thrown over one of the arms:an open clasp-knife in one hand,and a mass of buttered bread in the other.Close beside him stood Charlotte,opening oysters from a barrel: which Mr.Claypole condescended to swallow,with remarkable avidity.A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman’s nose,and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye,denoted that he was in a slight degree intoxicated;these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever, could have sufficiently accounted.
“Here’s a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!” said Charlotte; “try him, do; only this one.”
“What a delicious thing is a oyster!” remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had swallowed it.“What a pity it is,a number of ’em should ever make you feel uncomfortable;isn’t it, Charlotte?”
“It’s quite a cruelty,” said Charlotte.
“So it is,” acquiesced Mr. Claypole.“An’t yer fond of oysters?”