Oliver Twist (Barnes & Noble Classics) - Charles Dickens [160]
Nor was Mr. Bumble’s gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his affairs. The laced coat, and the cocked-hat; where were they? He still wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were not the breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respect like the coat, but, oh, how different! The mighty cocked-hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more substantial rewards they offer, acquire peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle his cocked-hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. On him the cocked-hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended.
“And to-morrow two months it was done!” said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. “It seems a age.”
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of happiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh—there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh.
“I sold myself,” said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of reflection, “for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small quantity of second-hand furniture, and twenty pound in money. I went very reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!”
“Cheap!” cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble’s ear: “you would have been dear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows that!”
Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting consort, who, imperfectly comprehending the few words she had overheard of his complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.
“Mrs. Bumble, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble, with sentimental sternness.
“Well!” cried the lady.
“Have the goodness to look at me,” said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon her. (“If she stands such a eye as that,” said Mr. Bumble to himself, “she can stand anything. It is a eye I never knew to fail with paupers. If it fails with her, my power is gone.”)
Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell paupers, who, being lightly fed, are in no very high condition; or whether the late Mrs. Corney was particularly proof against eagle glances; are matters of opinion. The matter of fact is, that the matron was in no way overpowered by Mr. Bumble’s scowl, but, on the contrary, treated it with great disdain, and even raised a laugh there-at, which sounded as though it were genuine.
On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked, first incredulous, and afterwards amazed. He then relapsed into his former state; nor did he rouse himself until his attention was again awakened by the voice of his partner.
“Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?” inquired Mrs. Bumble.
“I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bumble; “and although I was not snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze, laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; such being my prerogative.”
“Your prerogative!” sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable contempt.
“I said the word, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble. “The prerogative of a man is to command.”
“And what’s the prerogative of a woman, in the name of Goodness?” cried the relict of Mr. Corney deceased.
“To obey, ma’am,” thundered Mr. Bumble. “Your late unfortunate husband should have taught it you; and then, perhaps, he might have been alive now.