Oliver Twist
“Monks!” rejoined the man; and strode hastily away.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND
MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW
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; but 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.