Chapter: Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on
the cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam
proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which
were sent back from its cold and shining surface.  A paper fly-cage
dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in
gloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy
net-work, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy
shadow overspread his countenance.  Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might
be that the insects brought to mind, some painful passage in his own
past life.

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, require 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 relection,
'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 a 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
thereat, 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.  I wish he was, poor man!'

Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the decisive moment had now
arrived, and that a blow struck for the mastership on one side or
other, must necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner heard this
allusion to the dead and gone, than she dropped into a chair, and with
a loud scream that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, fell into a
paroxysm of tears.

But, tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble's soul;
his heart was waterproof.  Like washable beaver hats that improve with
rain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of
tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of
his own power, pleased and exalted him.  He eyed his good lady with
looks of great satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, that
she should cry her hardest:  the exercise being looked upon, by the
faculty, as strongly conducive to health.

'It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and
softens down the temper,' said Mr. Bumble.  'So cry away.'

As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat
from a peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man
might, who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner,
thrust his hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door, with
much ease and waggishness depicted in his whole appearance.

Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because they were less
troublesome than a manual assault; but, she was quite prepared to make
trial of the latter mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in
discovering.

The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a hollow
sound, immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the
opposite end of the room.  This preliminary proceeding laying bare his
head, the expert lady, clasping him tightly round the throat with one
hand, inflicted a shower of blows (dealt with singular vigour and
dexterity) upon it with the other.  This done, she created a little
variety by scratching his face, and tearing his hair; and, having, by
this time, inflicted as much punishment as she deemed necessary for the
offence, she pushed him over a chair, which was luckily well situated
for the purpose:  and defied him to talk about his prerogative again,
if he dared.

'Get up!' said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command.  'And take yourself
away from here, unless you want me to do something desperate.'

Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance:  wondering much what
something desperate might be.  Picking up his hat, he looked towards
the door.

'Are you going?' demanded Mrs. Bumble.

'Certainly, my dear, certainly,' rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker
motion towards the door.  'I didn't intend to--I'm going, my dear!  You
are so very violent, that really I--'

At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the
carpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle.  Mr. Bumble
immediately darted out of the room, without bestowing another thought
on his unfinished sentence:  leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full
possession of the field.

Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten.  He had a
decided propensity for bullying:  derived no inconsiderable pleasure
from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is
needless to say) a coward.  This is by no means a disparagement to his
character; for many official personages, who are held in high respect
and admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities.  The remark is
made, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwise, and with a view of
impressing the reader with a just sense of his qualifications for
office.

But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full.  After making a
tour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws
really were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their
wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be
visited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious
individuals who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some
of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish
linen:  when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded.

'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. 'These
women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo
there!  What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?'

With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very
fierce and angry manner:  which was at once exchanged for a most
humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the
form of his lady wife.

'My dear,' said Mr. Bumble, 'I didn't know you were here.'

'Didn't know I was here!' repeated Mrs. Bumble.  'What do _you_ do
here?'

'I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work
properly, my dear,' replied Mr. Bumble:  glancing distractedly at a
couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of
admiration at the workhouse-master's humility.

'_You_ thought they were talking too much?' said Mrs. Bumble. 'What
business is it of yours?'

'Why, my dear--' urged Mr. Bumble submissively.

'What business is it of yours?' demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.

'It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,' submitted Mr. Bumble;
'but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then.'

'I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,' returned his lady.  'We don't want
any of your interference.  You're a great deal too fond of poking your
nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house
laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a
fool every hour in the day.  Be off; come!'

Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two
old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated
for an instant.  Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught
up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him
instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly
person.

What could Mr. Bumble do?  He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away;
and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a
shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight.  It wanted but this.  He was
degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very
paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to
the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery.

'All in two months!' said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts.
'Two months!  No more than two months ago, I was not only my own
master, but everybody else's, so far as the porochial workhouse was
concerned, and now!--'

It was too much.  Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the
gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and
walked, distractedly, into the street.

He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated
the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made
him thirsty.  He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length
paused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a
hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary
customer.  It began to rain, heavily, at the moment.  This determined
him.  Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he
passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the
street.

The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large
cloak.  He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain
haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to
have travelled some distance.  He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered,
but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his
salutation.

Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the
stranger had been more familiar:  so he drank his gin-and-water in
silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance.

It so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall
into company under such circumstances:  that Mr. Bumble felt, every now
and then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a
look at the stranger:  and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his
eyes, in some confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment
stealing a look at him.  Mr. Bumble's awkwardness was enhanced by the
very remarkable expression of the stranger's eye, which was keen and
bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike
anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold.

When they had encountered each other's glance several times in this
way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.

'Were you looking for me,' he said, 'when you peered in at the window?'

'Not that I am aware of, unless you're Mr.--'  Here Mr. Bumble stopped
short; for he was curious to know the stranger's name, and thought in
his impatience, he might supply the blank.

'I see you were not,' said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm
playing about his mouth; 'or you have known my name.  You don't know
it.  I would recommend you not to ask for it.'

'I meant no harm, young man,' observed Mr. Bumble, majestically.

'And have done none,' said the stranger.

Another silence succeeded this short dialogue:  which was again broken
by the stranger.

'I have seen you before, I think?' said he.  'You were differently
dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should
know you again.  You were beadle here, once; were you not?'

'I was,' said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; 'porochial beadle.'

'Just so,' rejoined the other, nodding his head.  'It was in that
character I saw you.  What are you now?'

'Master of the workhouse,' rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and
impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might
otherwise assume.  'Master of the workhouse, young man!'

'You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I
doubt not?' resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble's
eyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question.

'Don't scruple to answer freely, man.  I know you pretty well, you see.'

'I suppose, a married man,' replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with
his hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident
perplexity, 'is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can,
than a single one.  Porochial officers are not so well paid that they
can afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a
civil and proper manner.'

The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had
not mistaken his man; then rang the bell.

'Fill this glass again,' he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to
the landlord.  'Let it be strong and hot.  You like it so, I suppose?'

'Not too strong,' replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough.

'You understand what that means, landlord!' said the stranger, drily.

The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a
steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr.
Bumble's eyes.

'Now listen to me,' said the stranger, after closing the door and
window.  'I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by
one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends
sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you
were uppermost in my mind.  I want some information from you.  I don't
ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is.  Put up that, to begin
with.'

As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his
companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money
should be heard without.  When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the
coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much
satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on:

'Carry your memory back--let me see--twelve years, last winter.'

'It's a long time,' said Mr. Bumble.  'Very good.  I've done it.'

'The scene, the workhouse.'

'Good!'

'And the time, night.'

'Yes.'

'And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable
drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to
themselves--gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and
hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!'

'The lying-in room, I suppose?' said Mr. Bumble, not quite following
the stranger's excited description.

'Yes,' said the stranger.  'A boy was born there.'

'A many boys,' observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly.

'A murrain on the young devils!' cried the stranger; 'I speak of one; a
meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a
coffin-maker--I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in
it--and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed.

'Why, you mean Oliver!  Young Twist!' said Mr. Bumble; 'I remember him,
of course.  There wasn't a obstinater young rascal--'

'It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him,' said the
stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject
of poor Oliver's vices.  'It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his
mother.  Where is she?'

'Where is she?' said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered
facetious.  'It would be hard to tell.  There's no midwifery there,
whichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment,
anyway.'

'What do you mean?' demanded the stranger, sternly.

'That she died last winter,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.

The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and
although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his
gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in
thought.  For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be
relieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed
more freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great
matter. With that he rose, as if to depart.

But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an
opportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in
the possession of his better half.  He well remembered the night of old
Sally's death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good
reason to recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs.
Corney; and although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure
of which she had been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know
that it related to something that had occurred in the old woman's
attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist.
Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger,
with an air of mystery, that one woman had been closeted with the old
harridan shortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason
to believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry.

'How can I find her?' said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and
plainly showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused
afresh by the intelligence.

'Only through me,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.

'When?' cried the stranger, hastily.

'To-morrow,' rejoined Bumble.

'At nine in the evening,' said the stranger, producing a scrap of
paper, and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side,
in characters that betrayed his agitation; 'at nine in the evening,
bring her to me there.  I needn't tell you to be secret.  It's your
interest.'

With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for
the liquor that had been drunk.  Shortly remarking that their roads
were different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic
repetition of the hour of appointment for the following night.

On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it
contained no name.  The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him
to ask it.

'What do you want?' cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble
touched him on the arm.  'Following me?'

'Only to ask a question,' said the other, pointing to the scrap of
paper.  'What name am I to ask for?'

'Monks!' rejoined the man; and strode hastily, away.



It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening.  The clouds, which had
been threatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of
vapour, already yielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a
violent thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of the
main street of the town, directed their course towards a scattered
little colony of ruinous houses, distant from it some mile and a-half,
or thereabouts, and erected on a low unwholesome swamp, bordering upon
the river.

They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might,
perhaps, serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the
rain, and sheltering them from observation.  The husband carried a
lantern, from which, however, no light yet shone; and trudged on, a few
paces in front, as though--the way being dirty--to give his wife the
benefit of treading in his heavy footprints.  They went on, in profound
silence; every now and then, Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned
his head as if to make sure that his helpmate was following; then,
discovering that she was close at his heels, he mended his rate of
walking, and proceeded, at a considerable increase of speed, towards
their place of destination.

This was far from being a place of doubtful character; for it had long
been known as the residence of none but low ruffians, who, under
various pretences of living by their labour, subsisted chiefly on
plunder and crime.  It was a collection of mere hovels:  some, hastily
built with loose bricks: others, of old worm-eaten ship-timber: jumbled
together without any attempt at order or arrangement, and planted, for
the most part, within a few feet of the river's bank.  A few leaky
boats drawn up on the mud, and made fast to the dwarf wall which
skirted it:  and here and there an oar or coil of rope:  appeared, at
first, to indicate that the inhabitants of these miserable cottages
pursued some avocation on the river; but a glance at the shattered and
useless condition of the articles thus displayed, would have led a
passer-by, without much difficulty, to the conjecture that they were
disposed there, rather for the preservation of appearances, than with
any view to their being actually employed.

In the heart of this cluster of huts; and skirting the river, which its
upper stories overhung; stood a large building, formerly used as a
manufactory of some kind.  It had, in its day, probably furnished
employment to the inhabitants of the surrounding tenements.  But it had
long since gone to ruin.  The rat, the worm, and the action of the
damp, had weakened and rotted the piles on which it stood; and a
considerable portion of the building had already sunk down into the
water; while the remainder, tottering and bending over the dark stream,
seemed to wait a favourable opportunity of following its old companion,
and involving itself in the same fate.

It was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as
the first peal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain
commenced pouring violently down.

'The place should be somewhere here,' said Bumble, consulting a scrap
of paper he held in his hand.

'Halloa there!' cried a voice from above.

Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and descried a man
looking out of a door, breast-high, on the second story.

'Stand still, a minute,' cried the voice; 'I'll be with you directly.'
With which the head disappeared, and the door closed.

'Is that the man?' asked Mr. Bumble's good lady.

Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.

'Then, mind what I told you,' said the matron: 'and be careful to say
as little as you can, or you'll betray us at once.'

Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was
apparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability of
proceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was
prevented by the appearance of Monks: who opened a small door, near
which they stood, and beckoned them inwards.

'Come in!' he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground.
'Don't keep me here!'

The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any
other invitation.  Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag behind,
followed:  obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that
remarkable dignity which was usually his chief characteristic.

'What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?' said
Monks, turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the
door behind them.

'We--we were only cooling ourselves,' stammered Bumble, looking
apprehensively about him.

'Cooling yourselves!' retorted Monks.  'Not all the rain that ever
fell, or ever will fall, will put as much of hell's fire out, as a man
can carry about with him.  You won't cool yourself so easily; don't
think it!'

With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and
bent his gaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was
fain to withdraw her eyes, and turn them towards the ground.

'This is the woman, is it?' demanded Monks.

'Hem!  That is the woman,' replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife's
caution.

'You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?' said the matron,
interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks.

'I know they will always keep _one_ till it's found out,' said Monks.

'And what may that be?' asked the matron.

'The loss of their own good name,' replied Monks.  'So, by the same
rule, if a woman's a party to a secret that might hang or transport
her, I'm not afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I!  Do you
understand, mistress?'

'No,' rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke.

'Of course you don't!' said Monks.  'How should you?'

Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two
companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened
across the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the
roof.  He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder,
leading to another floor of warehouses above:  when a bright flash of
lightning streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed,
which shook the crazy building to its centre.

'Hear it!' he cried, shrinking back.  'Hear it!  Rolling and crashing
on as if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were
hiding from it.  I hate the sound!'

He remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands
suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr.
Bumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured.

'These fits come over me, now and then,' said Monks, observing his
alarm; 'and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don't mind me now; it's
all over for this once.'

Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the
window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which
hung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy
beams in the ceiling:  and which cast a dim light upon an old table and
three chairs that were placed beneath it.

'Now,' said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, 'the
sooner we come to our business, the better for all.  The woman know
what it is, does she?'

The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the
reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it.

'He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died;
and that she told you something--'

'About the mother of the boy you named,' replied the matron
interrupting him.  'Yes.'

'The first question is, of what nature was her communication?' said
Monks.

'That's the second,' observed the woman with much deliberation. 'The
first is, what may the communication be worth?'

'Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?'
asked Monks.

'Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,' answered Mrs. Bumble: who did
not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify.

'Humph!' said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry;
'there may be money's worth to get, eh?'

'Perhaps there may,' was the composed reply.

'Something that was taken from her,' said Monks.  'Something that she
wore.  Something that--'

'You had better bid,' interrupted Mrs. Bumble.  'I have heard enough,
already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to.'

Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any
greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened
to this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes:  which he
directed towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised
astonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded,
what sum was required for the disclosure.

'What's it worth to you?' asked the woman, as collectedly as before.

'It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,' replied Monks. 'Speak
out, and let me know which.'

'Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty
pounds in gold,' said the woman; 'and I'll tell you all I know.  Not
before.'

'Five-and-twenty pounds!' exclaimed Monks, drawing back.

'I spoke as plainly as I could,' replied Mrs. Bumble.  'It's not a
large sum, either.'

'Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it's
told!' cried Monks impatiently; 'and which has been lying dead for
twelve years past or more!'

'Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value
in course of time,' answered the matron, still preserving the resolute
indifference she had assumed.  'As to lying dead, there are those who
will lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for
anything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!'

'What if I pay it for nothing?' asked Monks, hesitating.

'You can easily take it away again,' replied the matron. 'I am but a
woman; alone here; and unprotected.'

'Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither,' submitted Mr. Bumble,
in a voice tremulous with fear: '_I_ am here, my dear. And besides,'
said Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, 'Mr. Monks is too
much of a gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons.  Mr.
Monks is aware that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a
little run to seed, as I may say; bu he has heerd:  I say I have no
doubt Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear:  that I am a very determined
officer, with very uncommon strength, if I'm once roused.  I only want
a little rousing; that's all.'

As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern
with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed
expression of every feature, that he _did_ want a little rousing, and
not a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless,
indeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for
the purpose.

'You are a fool,' said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; 'and had better hold your
tongue.'

'He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can't speak in a
lower tone,' said Monks, grimly.  'So!  He's your husband, eh?'

'He my husband!' tittered the matron, parrying the question.

'I thought as much, when you came in,' rejoined Monks, marking the
angry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke.  'So
much the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people,
when I find that there's only one will between them.  I'm in earnest.
See here!'

He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told
out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the
woman.

'Now,' he said, 'gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder,
which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let's
hear your story.'

The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break
almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from
the table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say.  The
faces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small
table in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to
render her whisper audible.  The sickly rays of the suspended lantern
falling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of
their countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness,
looked ghastly in the extreme.

'When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,' the matron began,
'she and I were alone.'

'Was there no one by?' asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; 'No
sick wretch or idiot in some other bed?  No one who could hear, and
might, by possibility, understand?'

'Not a soul,' replied the woman; 'we were alone.  _I_ stood alone
beside the body when death came over it.'

'Good,' said Monks, regarding her attentively.  'Go on.'

'She spoke of a young creature,' resumed the matron, 'who had brought a
child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room,
but in the same bed, in which she then lay dying.'

'Ay?' said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder,
'Blood!  How things come about!'

'The child was the one you named to him last night,' said the matron,
nodding carelessly towards her husband; 'the mother this nurse had
robbed.'

'In life?' asked Monks.

'In death,' replied the woman, with something like a shudder. 'She
stole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the
dead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the
infant's sake.'

'She sold it,' cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; 'did she sell it?
Where?  When?  To whom?  How long before?'

'As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,' said
the matron, 'she fell back and died.'

'Without saying more?' cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very
suppression, seemed only the more furious.  'It's a lie! I'll not be
played with.  She said more.  I'll tear the life out of you both, but
I'll know what it was.'

'She didn't utter another word,' said the woman, to all appearance
unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's
violence; 'but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which
was partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the
hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper.'

'Which contained--' interposed Monks, stretching forward.

'Nothing,' replied the woman; 'it was a pawnbroker's duplicate.'

'For what?' demanded Monks.

'In good time I'll tell you.' said the woman.  'I judge that she had
kept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better
account; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together
money to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its
running out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be
redeemed.  Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with
the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand.  The time was
out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and
so redeemed the pledge.'

'Where is it now?' asked Monks quickly.

'_There_,' replied the woman.  And, as if glad to be relieved of it,
she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough
for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling
hands.  It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of
hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring.

'It has the word "Agnes" engraved on the inside,' said the woman.

'There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date;
which is within a year before the child was born.  I found out that.'

'And this is all?' said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the
contents of the little packet.

'All,' replied the woman.

Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the
story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty
pounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration
which had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of
the previous dialogue.

'I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at,' said his
wife addressing Monks, after a short silence; 'and I want to know
nothing; for it's safer not.  But I may ask you two questions, may I?'

'You may ask,' said Monks, with some show of surprise; 'but whether I
answer or not is another question.'

'--Which makes three,' observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of
facetiousness.

'Is that what you expected to get from me?' demanded the matron.

'It is,' replied Monks.  'The other question?'

'What do you propose to do with it?  Can it be used against me?'

'Never,' rejoined Monks; 'nor against me either.  See here!  But don't
move a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush.'

With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an
iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened
close at Mr. Bumble's feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several
paces backward, with great precipitation.

'Look down,' said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. 'Don't
fear me.  I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were
seated over it, if that had been my game.'

Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble
himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid
water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all
other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against
the green and slimy piles.  There had once been a water-mill beneath;
the tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments
of machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new
impulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted
to stem its headlong course.

'If you flung a man's body down there, where would it be to-morrow
morning?' said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well.

'Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,' replied
Bumble, recoiling at the thought.

Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly
thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of
some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream.
It fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely
audible splash; and was gone.

The three looking into each other's faces, seemed to breathe more
freely.

'There!' said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back
into its former position.  'If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books
say it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash
among it.  We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant
party.'

'By all means,' observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.

'You'll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?' said Monks, with a
threatening look.  'I am not afraid of your wife.'

'You may depend upon me, young man,' answered Mr. Bumble, bowing
himself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. 'On
everybody's account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.'

'I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,' remarked Monks. 'Light your
lantern!  And get away from here as fast as you can.'

It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr.
Bumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would
infallibly have pitched headlong into the room below.  He lighted his
lantern from that which Monks had detached from the rope, and now
carried in his hand; and making no effort to prolong the discourse,
descended in silence, followed by his wife.  Monks brought up the rear,
after pausing on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other
sounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without, and the
rushing of the water.

They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks
started at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot
above the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a
marvellously light step for a gentleman of his figure:  looking
nervously about him for hidden trap-doors.  The gate at which they had
entered, was softly unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a
nod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into
the wet and darkness outside.

They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an
invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been
hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he
returned to the chamber he had just quitted.

 Mr. Bumble sits gloomily in the workhouse parlor. He has married Mrs. Corney and succeeded to the post of master, but in spite of his elevation, he sorely misses his cocked hat with its connotations of the authority that belongs to the minor parish official known as the beadle. Bumble and the widow have been married for eight weeks. Going over the terms of his marriage dowry, he mutters that he sold himself too cheap. Mrs. Bumble did not catch all of his words but guesses at their meaning. On these grounds, she starts a quarrel. Bumble meets the challenge by employing the forceful gaze that never fails to stop hungry paupers. His defiant spouse laughs derisively and exercises her next weapon: "a paroxysm of tears." This tactic only entertains Bumble. Glowing with victory, he strides toward the door. Mrs. Bumble now resorts to more persuasive methods. She knocks her lord's hat off, grasps him by the throat, and begins to pound him with her fists. After a bit of scratching and hair pulling, she pushes him over a chair and orders the fallen warrior from the room. He picks up his ineffectual hat and retires from the field. Bumble makes a tour of the workhouse. He enters the room where female inmates are laundering and tries to improve his damaged spirits by reprimanding them for talking too loudly. The strict disciplinarian is promptly cowed by the unexpected presence of Mrs. Bumble. To the delight of the pauper women, the workhouse master is driven out under the threat of being doused with "a bowl of soap-suds." Humiliated, Bumble retreats to the street. Bumble visits a pub where there is only one other customer, a tall, dark person wearing a cloak. After sizing each other up, the two begin a conversation. The stranger stresses that his identity is to remain secret, but he reveals that he knows something of Bumble's history. The dark man seeks information from Bumble and makes an advance payment. The inquirer directs Bumble to recall an event of twelve years ago. It becomes clear to the reader that the stranger has reference to the birth of Oliver Twist, but he savagely denies interest in the boy. The woman who nursed the mother is the object of his investigation. When informed that the woman is dead, the man appears to hover between relief and disappointment. Then, saying that the matter is of no importance, he is about to leave. Bumble's greedy instinct senses profit. His spouse has never told him what took place on the night of Sally's death, but he has learned that it concerned Sally's "attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist." So Bumble detains the stranger with the information that he can produce a witness to the old pauper's death. The man's apprehension seems to be revived by this confidence, and he arranges an evening meeting for the next day at some waterside address. The stranger leaves unceremoniously. Bumble notices that he did not write down his name. Overtaking the man, Bumble is curtly told that he is Monks! The next evening, Mr. and Mrs. Bumble walk down to the riverside. The structures in the vicinity are all neglected shacks. Bumble leads the way to a large building, evidently once a factory of some sort but now collapsing into the stream. As the man and woman pause in front of the ruins, a rainstorm commences. Monks hustles them inside, provoked by Bumble's hesitation. It begins to thunder now, and Monks is strangely disordered by the sound. He leads the way to an upper floor and then turns to Bumble with the words, "The woman knows what it is, does she?" But the dauntless matron earlier cautioned her husband to say as little as possible, and she assumes the role of spokesman. She has never confided in her husband about the business in hand. It is obvious that Monks is willing to pay well for information pertaining to Sally's death. Mrs. Bumble negotiates astutely until Monks meets her price of twenty-five pounds. Speaking in a whisper, the woman relates her story. She assures Monks that she was entirely alone with Sally when she died. Mrs. Bumble removed from the corpse's hand a scrap of paper that turned out to be a pawnbroker's ticket. Sally had evidently pawned the object that she got from Oliver's mother, managing to keep up the interest payments. There was time enough for the matron to redeem the pledge, and she did so. Mrs. Bumble now produces a small bag, which Monks eagerly opens. It contains a little locket holding "two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring." The ring has the inscription "Agnes," with a blank for the last name, also a date within the year before Oliver's birth. Monks allows Mrs. Bumble to ask two questions, without committing himself to answer. She first asks, "Is that what you expected to get from me?" and then, "Can it be used against me?" Monks replies affirmatively to the first question and answers "Never" to the second. He then pulls open a trap door at Bumble's feet, exposing the turbulent river below. He ties a weight to his purchase and drops it into the surging waters. Monks warns the married pair to secrecy, to which Bumble agrees. The couple then gladly obey Monks's command to leave speedily.

