CHAPTER XVIII

The Mysterious Character Reappears

Mr. Bumble, who was now a married man, and master of the workhouse, feeling miserable one day after a little family quarrel with Mrs. Bumble, left the workhouse and walked about the streets. Feeling thirsty, he paused before a public-house whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, except by one solitary customer. It began to rain heavily at the moment. This determined him; he stepped in and, ordering something to drink as he passed the bar, entered the room 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 the dustiness of his clothes to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble sideways as he entered, but scarcely answered his greeting. Mr. Bumble drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper with an air of importance.

It happened, however, as will happen very often, when men fall into company under such circumstances, that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, a strong desire to steal a look, at the stranger. Whenever he did so he found that the stranger was at the same moment stealing a look at him.

When their eyes had met several times in this way the stranger said in a harsh, deep voice:

"Were you looking for me when you looked 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 that he might supply the blank.

"I see you were not," said the stranger, "or you would have known my name. But I know you pretty well. What are you now?"

"Master of the workhouse," answered Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively.

"You have the same eye to your 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.

"I suppose a married man," replied Mr. Bumble, "has no more objection to earning an honest penny than a single man. Workhouse masters are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse any little extra money when it comes to them in the proper manner."

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

"Fill this glass again," he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty glass 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.

The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming glass, of which the first mouthful brought tears into Mr. Bumble's eyes.

"Now listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. "I came down to this place today to find you out. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is."

As he spoke he pushed a couple of gold pounds across the table to his companion. When Mr. Bumble had carefully examined the coins, to see that they were real gold, and put them in his pocket, the stranger 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 miserable room where wretched women gave birth to children for the parish to rear and hid their shame in the grave! A boy was born there."

"Many boys," observed Mr. Bumble.

"I speak of one; a gentle-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."

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

"It's not of him I want to hear," said the stranger, "it's of a woman, the old woman who nursed his mother. Where is she?"

"She died last winter," answered Mr. Bumble.

The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information. For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the information; but at length he observed that it was no great matter, and rose to depart.

But Mr. Bumble saw at once that an opportunity was opened for him to make some money. He remembered that his wife, who had been a nurse in the workhouse before he married her, was in possession of a secret related to that old woman. He informed the stranger that one woman had been alone with the old nurse shortly before she died; and that she could 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 this information aroused his fears again.

"Only through me," replied Mr. Bumble.

"When?" cried the stranger, hastily.

"Tomorrow," replied Mr. Bumble.

"At nine in the evening," said the stranger, producing a piece of paper, and writing down upon it an obscure address by the water-side. "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 got up, paid for the drinks and departed.

On looking at the address Mr. Bumble observed that it contained no name. He ran after the stranger and said: "What name am I to ask for?"

"Monks!" replied the man, and walked hastily away.