Dickens' Women (5 page)

 

‘Dear me! 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.'

‘Hard indeed, ma'am. Anti-parochial 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?'

‘That's the way with these people, ma'am; give 'em a apron full of coals to-day, and they'll come back for another, the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster. Mrs Corney, 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! Well, that is a good one, too!'

Mr Bumble took up his hat and stick, as if to go.

‘You'll have a very cold walk, Mr Bumble.'

‘It blows, ma'am, 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. Mrs Corney applied herself to the task of making his tea.

‘Sweet, Mr Bumble?'

‘Very sweet, indeed, ma'am.'

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.

‘You have a cat, ma'am, I see and kittens too, I declare.'

‘I am so fond of them, Mr Bumble, you can't think. They're so happy, so frolicsome, and so cheerful, that they are quite companions for me.'

‘Very nice animals, ma'am, so very domestic.'

‘Oh, yes! And so fond of their home too, that it's quite a
pleasure
, I'm sure.'

‘Mrs Corney, ma'am, I mean to say this, ma'am, that any cat, or kitten that could live with you, ma'am, and not be fond of its home, must be an ass, ma'am.'

‘Oh, Mr Bumble!'

‘It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am,' said Mr Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; ‘I would drown it myself with pleasure.'

‘Then you're a cruel man and a very hard-hearted man besides.'

‘Hard-hearted, ma'am? Hard?'

Mr Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two
open-handed
slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire.

It was a round table; consequently Mr Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance
between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr Bumble stopped.

Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr Bumble's arms; so being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance she remained where she was, and handed Mr Bumble another cup of tea.

‘Hard-hearted, Mrs Corney? Are you hard-hearted, Mrs Corney?'

‘Dear me! What a very curious question from a single man. What can you want to know for, Mr Bumble?'

The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and
deliberately
kissed the matron.

‘Mr Bumble; Mr Bumble – I shall scream! I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur.'

‘Not weak, ma'am. Are you a weak creetur, Mrs Corney?'

‘We are all weak creeturs, Mr Bumble.'

‘So we are.'

Nothing was said, on either side, for a minute or two
afterwards
.

‘This is a very comfortable room, ma'am. Another room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing.'

‘It would be too much for one.'

‘But not for two, ma'am. Eh, Mrs Corney? The Board allows you coals, don't they Mrs Corney?'

‘And candles.'

‘Coals, candles, and a house rent-free. 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 parochial perfection! You know that Mr Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?'

‘Yes.'

‘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! The little word? The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?'

‘Ye–yes–yes!'

Major Bagstock and Mr Dombey beheld advancing towards them, a wheeled chair, in which a lady was seated, indolently steering her carriage by a kind of rudder in front, while it was propelled by some unseen power in the rear. Although the lady was not young, she was very blooming in the face – quite rosy – and her dress and attitude were perfectly juvenile.

‘Major Bagstock,' drawled the lady in the chair. ‘You false
creature
! Where do you come from? I can't bear you. You perfidious goblin, how long have you been here, bad man? And can you be a day, or even a minute in the garden of what's-its-name – I never can remember those frightful names – without having your whole Soul and Being inspired by the sight of Nature?

‘Mr Dombey is devoted to Nature I trust. I assure you Mr Dombey, Nature intended me for an Aracadian. I am thrown away in society. Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed for, has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows – and china.

Mrs Skewton – Phiz

‘What I want is heart. What I want, is frankness, confidence, less conventionality, and freer play of soul. We are so dreadfully artificial.'

 

Flowers, the Maid, appeared with a pale face to Edith Dombey, saying: ‘If you please, Ma'am, I beg your pardon, but can't do nothing with Missis! She's making faces.'

Edith hurried with her to her mother's room.

Cleopatra was arrayed in full dress, with the diamonds,
short-sleeves
, rouge, curls, teeth, and other juvenility all complete, but Paralysis was not to be deceived, had known her for the object of its errand, and had struck her at her glass, where she lay like a horrible doll that had tumbled down.

 

 

Miss Tox had great experience in Hackney cabs, and her starting in one was generally a work of time as she was systematic in the preparatory arrangements.

‘Have the goodness, if you please Towlinson,' said Miss Tox, ‘first of all to carry out a pen and ink and take his number legibly.'

‘Yes, miss,' said Towlinson.

‘I'll trouble you also, if you please Towlinson,' said Miss Tox, ‘with this card and this shilling. He's to drive to the card and is to
understand
that he will not on any account have more than the shilling.'

‘No, miss,' said Towlinson.

‘And – I am sorry to give you so much trouble, Towlinson,' said Miss Tox, looking at him pensively.

‘Not at all, Miss,' said Towlinson.

‘Mention to the man, then, if you please Towlinson,' said Miss Tox, ‘that the Lady's uncle is a magistrate and that if he gives her any of his impertinence he will be punished terribly. You can pretend to say that, if you please Towlinson, in a friendly way and because you know it was done to another man, who died.'

I looked at the doorway and saw nothing. I was still looking at the doorway, thinking that Miss Mowcher was a long while making her appearance, when, to my infinite astonishment, there came waddling round a sofa which stood between me and it, a pursy dwarf, of about forty or forty-five, with a very large head and face, and a pair of roguish grey eyes.

Miss Mowcher – Sol Eytinge, 1867

‘What! My flower! You're there are you! Oh, you naughty boy, fie for shame, what do you do so far away from home? Up to mischief I'll be bound. Oh, you're a downy fellow, Steerforth, so you are, and I'm another ain't I? Ha, ha, ha!

‘You'd have betted a hundred pound to five, now, that you wouldn't have seen me here, wouldn't you? Bless you, man alive, I'm everywhere.

‘I'm here and there, and where not, like the conjurer's half-crown in the lady's handkercher. Talking of handkerchers – and talking of ladies – what a comfort you are to your blessed mother, ain't you, my dear boy, over one of my shoulders, and I don't say which!

‘Oh my stars and what's-their-names! I'm of too full a habit, that's the fact, Steerforth. After a flight of stairs, it gives me as much trouble to draw every breath I want, as if it was a bucket of water.

‘If you saw me looking out of an upper window, you'd think I was a fine woman, wouldn't you?

‘Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr Copperfield, I'm sure. Face like a peach! Quite tempting! I'm very fond of peaches.

‘What a world of gammon and spinnage it is, though, ain't it!

‘Look here! Scraps of the Russian Prince's nails. I keep his nails in order for him. Twice a week! Fingers and toes. The Prince's nails do more for me in private families of the genteel sort, than all my talents put together.

‘I always carry 'em about. They're the best introduction. If Miss Mowcher cuts the Prince's nails, she must be alright. I give 'em away to the young ladies. They put 'em in albums, I believe.

‘Well, well! this is not business. Come, Steerforth, let's explore the polar regions, and have it over.

‘If either of you saw my ankles say so, and I'll go home and destroy myself. Well then, I'll consent to live. Now ducky, ducky, ducky, come to Mrs Bond and be killed.

‘If Mr Copperfield will take the chair I'll operate on him. And dirt cheap, my chicken. Ain't I volatile, Mr Copperfield?

‘Now, I know I'm going to break your hearts, but I am forced to leave you. You must call up all your fortitude, and try to bear it. Good-bye, Mr Copperfield! Take care of yourself, Jockey of Norfolk!

‘“Bob swore!” – as the Englishman said for “Good night”, when he first learned French, and thought it so like English. “Bob swore”, my ducks! Ain't I volatile?'